THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Ted Barrett
 
 "Books that you may carry 
 to the fire, and bold readily 
 in your band, are the most 
 useful after all " 
 
 JOHNSON
 
 STORIES OF 
 THE ARMY
 
 STORIES FROM SCRIBNER 
 
 t 
 
 STORIES OF 
 
 THE ARMY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1893
 
 Copyright, 1893, by 
 Charles Scribner's Sons
 
 UN. 
 
 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 MEMORIES 
 BY BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 
 
 BY JOHN HEARD, JR. 
 
 SERGEANT GORE 
 BY LEROY ARMSTRONG 
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 
 BY CHARLES C. NOTT 
 
 682681
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 BY BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 With Illustrations by Theodore Hampe
 
 HEN Christmas broke 
 over the fort in the 
 far Northwest where 
 
 Wiy Lieutenant Robert 
 Douglas, U.S. A., was 
 stationed, the wind 
 was blowing gently 
 from the southeast. There had been a 
 light snowfall during the night, and as the 
 sun arose there was a faint suggestion of 
 warmth in the beams that glistened across 
 the crystalline flakes. It seemed as though 
 the cold had loosened its grip for a while. 
 All through the morning the weather was 
 mild for the season and for the place, and 
 by noon there was even a vague hint of 
 a possible thaw. The mail -rider who 
 brought the weekly bag of letters and 
 newspapers had trotted his broncho into
 
 the quadrangle a 
 little before one 
 o'clock, exactly 
 on time. No rail- 
 road and no tele- 
 graph line linked Fort Roosevelt with the 
 rest of the world, and only once in seven 
 days did the soldiers who were stationed 
 on the outpost of civilization get news 
 from its headquarters. Time was when 
 the troopers quartered there had fought 
 the Indians of the border ; but the rotting 
 stockade had been torn down long since, 
 and Fort Roosevelt was now a fort in name 
 only. Its narrow, low buildings, made of 
 logs, shacked sometimes, and sometimes 
 squared and more regularly joined, still
 
 MEMORIES 13 
 
 sheltered brave men, but they no longer 
 needed to do battle with redskins ; they 
 had to confront a white enemy only, and 
 they found cold winter a fiercer foe and 
 more unrelenting than the Sioux. Its as- 
 sault was harder to withstand, for, al- 
 though the Indian is now armed with the 
 repeating rifle his armory is not exhaust- 
 less and nature's is. Outside of the gov- 
 ernment reservation there was no house 
 within fifty miles, save the tumble-down 
 cabin of a Missouri squatter four or five 
 furlongs away at the bend of the river. 
 No friendly smoke curling hospitably up- 
 ward comforted the eye that might inter- 
 rogate the horizon. 
 
 It was about two o'clock when the bliz- 
 zard began. At noon a solemn stillness 
 filled the air, after the wind from the 
 southeast had died away early in the day. 
 Then, all at once, there was a black cloud 
 in the northwest, swelling forward boldly 
 on the plains of the West, as on the
 
 14 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 coasts of the East, the most dangerous 
 northwester is wont to come butt-end first. 
 Lieutenant Douglas saw the signal and 
 knew its significance. He looked at his 
 watch ; there would be time for the troop- 
 er to return before the storm was upon 
 them. Two of the lank and sallow chil- 
 dren of Pike County Pete lay sick of a 
 fever in the wretched cabin by the elbow 
 of the river ; they were attended by the 
 surgeon of the post, and they had been 
 nursed by the doctor's daughter, Lucy. 
 It was to them that the officer had sent a 
 mounted messenger with a few delicacies 
 from his scant store, such as the doctor 
 had suggested. Douglas stood for a mo- 
 ment at the corner of the parade between 
 the storehouse of the commissary and the 
 long single-story stables. He was a young 
 man still, despite the grizzled mustache 
 which curved over his resolute mouth, 
 and the touch of gray in. his hair. His eye 
 was sharp and his figure straight and
 
 MEMORIES 15 
 
 sturdy. As he gazed the black cloud up- 
 rose and spread wide, and the blizzard 
 broke. He caught the first breath of the 
 icy simoom which came sweeping across 
 the Sahara of arid snow, and he went 
 back into the stables to give a few words 
 of warning and advice to his men. 
 
 When he came out a little later to cross 
 the quadrangle to the officers' quarters, 
 the breeze had freshened and quickened 
 until it blew a gale. The velocity of the 
 wind was increasing, and it was already 
 thirty miles an hour. Within sixty min- 
 utes the temperature fell as many degrees. 
 The atmosphere, thick with flying snow, 
 as fine as sand and as sharp as a needle, 
 began to darken as though it were already 
 nightfall. The lieutenant strode through 
 the storm, which for the most part was 
 steady and unswerving, although now and 
 again a gust swept sideways, and for a few 
 seconds there might be an eddy. But the 
 break was for a moment only. Then the
 
 l6 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 wind gathered its strength and again 
 rushed ahead, irresistible and pitiless. A 
 fine shower of icy particles, frozen snow-' 
 dust, and solid rain-drops, made Douglas's 
 passage from the stable to his own door 
 almost impossible, sheltered as was the 
 little square within the buildings of the 
 fort. Out in the open no one can make 
 headway against the ice-blast for long, 
 and only the most experienced plainsman 
 can hold his own. 
 
 The stout log-house in which the officers 
 had their quarters shook with the fury of 
 the gale as Robert Douglas entered the 
 sitting-room he shared with his fellow-sub- 
 altern, Paulding Van Dyke. The mail 
 had been distributed, and the servant had 
 laid on the table the letters and papers 
 of the two officers. For Van Dyke there 
 were at least a dozen envelopes, besides 
 two or three packets presents, no doubt, 
 thought Douglas, as he took up his single 
 letter from a tidy heap of newspapers on
 
 which it rested. It was Christmas after- 
 noon, and probably Van Dyke was at the 
 doctor's little house talking to Lucy, 
 whom he was to marry in the spring and 
 that was why he was now neglecting the 
 many Christmas greetings the mail- rider 
 had brought him. 
 Douglas tore open his 
 own letter, and as he 
 read it his face bright- 
 ened and his eyes lost 
 a little of their sever- 
 ity. It was a brief note 
 from the editor of an 
 important review in 
 New York, declaring 
 that he had great 
 pleasure in accepting 
 Mr. Douglas's thoughtful and admirable 
 essay, " How to Train the Indian for 
 Citizenship," and he hoped to find room 
 for it in an early number. The officer 
 had taken the letter to the light to read ;
 
 18 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 and having put the editorial communi- 
 cation into his pocket he stood at the 
 window, silent in thought. On the level 
 ground before his door the fantasy of the 
 wind had heaped a grave-like mound of 
 snow, as though some frozen giant had 
 been buried there. Douglas's eyes fell 
 on it unwittingly, and the sorrowful shriek- 
 ing of the wind, as though demons were 
 'chanting a dirge, struck chill on his ear, 
 and he shivered. 
 
 He turned away and threw another 
 cotton-wood stick on the fire, which was 
 waning with the weariness of ashen age. 
 Then he set a chair between the light and 
 the heat, and gathering up his heap of 
 newspapers he sat down. He broke the 
 wrappers and arranged the papers in 
 Order ; they were a week's issue of the 
 Gotham Gazette, for it was by taking a New 
 York daily journal that he kept touch of 
 the world. He began to read the earliest 
 in date, in which the freshest news was
 
 MEMORIES 19 
 
 then a fortnight stale. Rumors of wars 
 there were a plenty, and the young soldier, 
 immured in a wooden house in a vast lone- 
 liness, was almost ready to wish himself a 
 Russian that his blood might be tingling 
 with the ardor of impending battle. There 
 followed an account of a grand ball in 
 London, and a description of a new play 
 in Paris ; but for Robert Douglas these 
 items of intelligence lacked interest. Yet 
 with the persistence of one whose reading 
 matter is rationed, he perused diligently 
 the long column of cable despatches from 
 Europe. Suddenly, as he read, his face 
 flushed, and then blanched. His grasp 
 on the paper tightened and his eyes 
 travelled swiftly till he came to the end of 
 the paragraph. Then an unconscious sigh 
 broke from him. He lowered the news- 
 paper and sat still, staring at the blank 
 wall before him. 
 
 Outside, the blizzard blew with untiring 
 swiftness, but the thoughts of the lonely
 
 20 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 man within were quicker yet. These bore 
 him far away, across time and space, back 
 to his childhood. He saw himself again a 
 boy of ten, passing his grievous first day 
 at a military academy in a little town in 
 New York, on the banks of the Hudson. 
 It was a winter morning and there was 
 snow in the air when he was brought be- 
 fore the principal, an old West Pointer,
 
 MEMORIES 21 
 
 kindly in intent, strict in discipline. On 
 the principal's knee sat a little girl, his 
 niece, a year or two older than the new- 
 comer. Bright golden hair fell in ring- 
 lets about her beautiful head, and she 
 had a bright smile for the diffident boy. 
 The scene arose before him again, and he 
 knew that his life had been changed by 
 that smile. Without an effort he recalled 
 all the incidents of his first few months 
 at boarding-school. He saw the house it- 
 self with the right-angled piazza., and the 
 huge snow-heap in the bend below, fallen 
 from the two roofs meeting above it a 
 snow - heap into which he had suddenly 
 been tossed, neck and crop, as he came 
 out on the piazza during the recess of 
 that first day at school a snow - heap 
 from the feathery mass of which he had 
 to flounder as best he could though it 
 rose high above his head. He saw again, 
 as plainly as though a score of years had 
 not parsed, the level parade-ground where
 
 22 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 the boys built an Eskimo hut out of snow, 
 a regular igloo, with its tunnel-like en- 
 trance through which they crawled on 
 hands and knees to crouch around the fire 
 within to eat doughnuts and crullers and 
 other Dutch goodies. He saw again the 
 long hill down which the boys "went 
 belly-whoppers," coasting into the village. 
 He saw the shop, half-way down, where 
 one might buy the surreptitious dime 
 novel in its yellow cover with the figure of 
 ati Indian on the warpath, and where only 
 might be procured a certain sort of lolli- 
 pop, an unforgetable joy of boyhood 
 never elsewhere discoverable saccharine 
 globes, brown and striped, and impaled, 
 three or four of them, on the branches of a 
 sassafras twig. He saw again the frozen 
 pond in the woods where he first skated. 
 He heard again the sharp roll of the drum 
 which aroused half a hundred youths to 
 breakfast before their sleep was half com- 
 plete. He felt again the blows he took
 
 MEMORIES 23 
 
 and gave in the weekly fights in which 
 the larger boys made the younger engage 
 every Sunday morning under the gallery 
 of the gymnasium, during the long dull 
 interval between breakfast and church. 
 But what he could most readily recall 
 was the little girl, dark-eyed and golden- 
 haired, imperious and roguish, adored by 
 all the boys, petted by all, and joining in 
 their gentler sports once in a while. Was 
 it not on his sled that she had been pulled 
 to the top of the hill ? Was it not with 
 him that she had coasted more often than 
 with any other lad ? 
 
 Then.the winter went, and summer came 
 and was gone, and another winter also ; 
 and as Robert Douglas sat silent and star- 
 ing, the memory of yet another summer 
 passed him, and again he felt the heat of 
 that Fourth-of-July morning. No longer 
 was he at school in a little town on the 
 Hudson he was at Saratoga, in the am- 
 ple park of an old hotel since burnt to
 
 24 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 the ground. As he alighted from the 
 train and came forward under the noble 
 trees which arched high above his head, 
 and through which the sun played in 
 patches on the cool broad paths, he found 
 before him, just within the wide gates, 
 the little girl on a visit there to her aunt. 
 He was turned of eleven then, and she 
 was not thirteen, as she stood before 
 him with the sunlight sifting through the 
 branches and gilding the refined gold of 
 her hair. His cheeks flamed again as he 
 remembered the shy hesitancy with which 
 he obeyed her aunt's behest and kissed 
 her. The little maid was haughty even 
 then, and she knew her power already ; 
 but she was affable, and led him away to 
 show him over the grounds, to point out 
 the tree which she had chosen as her own 
 and to share his torpedoes and fire- 
 crackers. All day long they played to- 
 gether, making many a delightful ex- 
 plosion faint echoes only of the mighty
 
 MEMORIES 25 
 
 battle which had been a-fighting in the 
 next State for three days. Little boy as 
 he was, the news from the field of Get- 
 tysburg stirred him, as despatch after 
 despatch was posted on the door of the 
 telegraph-office, where a dense ring of rest- 
 less men and women were gathered, eager 
 even for the wildest rumors ; although of 
 course he did not then know that the tick- 
 ing instrument was telling the fate of a 
 nation. When night settled down at last, 
 and the stars came out after he and Mir- 
 iam had played together all day joyously, 
 there was good news from the front, and 
 cheer after cheer broke from the strained 
 throats of the throng. Then fireworks of 
 surpassing splendor were set off in the 
 grounds among the tall trees. A youth- 
 ful voice from the piazza started the stal- 
 wart chant of "John Brown's Body," and 
 it was taken up instantly by the compact 
 hundreds of men and women. Conscious 
 of excitement and emboldened by the
 
 26 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 confusion and the darkness, he tried again 
 to kiss the little girl, but she slipped 
 through his hands and slapped his face. 
 As the man sat alone in his quarters, with 
 the newspaper clinched in his hand, he 
 felt once more the blow which had fallen 
 on the boy's cheek. It was a sweet 
 memory: and a lad's affection feeds on 
 struggle and rebuff. Douglas knew that 
 his love for Miriam had grown with the 
 years, as the boy grew to be a youth. 
 
 The days sped and the months ; and it 
 was years before Robert and Miriam met 
 again in friendly intimacy. They were in 
 Rome ; he was a boy of fifteen, tall enough 
 to think himself well-nigh a man. She was 
 almost seventeen ; her aunt's friends had 
 ceased calling her Miriam she was now 
 Miss De Ruyter. She had been a very 
 pretty child and she had become a beauti- 
 ful girl ; and she delighted in the exercise 
 of her power. Toward Douglas her de- 
 meanor varied : more often than not it
 
 was as imperious as might become a 
 young lady who tolerated an awkward 
 boy. Sometimes she gave no heed to him 
 as she rode her pony to the meet on the 
 Campagna, sitting erect in her saddle, her 
 lithe figure revealed by the tight black 
 habit. Sometimes she was glad to have 
 him with her, and the two young Ameri- 
 cans would go forth together to see the 
 wonders of old Rome, rambling through 
 the ruined baths of Caracalla, where the 
 broken walls, 
 steeped in wintry 
 sunshine, were 
 joyous with the 
 echoing laughter 
 of unthinking 
 youth ; or clam- 
 bering to the top 
 of the mighty 
 dome of St. Pe- 
 ter's, where they 
 brushed against
 
 28 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Papal Zouaves, servants of the church mil- 
 itant, and heard the bugle-calls of the 
 French cavalry who were there to protect 
 the person of Saint Peter's successor. 
 
 The last day of the carnival was her last 
 in Rome ; it was Shrove-Tuesday ; and 
 that evening, after the final race of the 
 riderless horses from the grand-stand in 
 the Piazza del Popolo, came the sport of 
 mocoletti. The Corso was dotted with 
 flaring tapers, which came and went like 
 fire-flies. The game was to puff out your 
 neighbor's while keeping your own alight. 
 With a Yankee boy's ingenuity Robert 
 Douglas had made ready a thin rope, 
 tipped by a grapnel, and this he threw up 
 to the side of the balcony where Miriam 
 De Ruyter was talking with old Prince 
 Castellamare. Up the rope he climbed, 
 hand over hand, with bis tall taper stuck 
 in his hat, and when his foot was firm on 
 the rail she had not seen him yet. A light 
 puff of his breath over her shoulder, and
 
 her candle wa 
 out. She turned 
 with a start and he 
 handed her his taper to 
 replace the one he had 
 extinguished. Mrs. De 
 Ruyter asked him to join 
 them, and from the high 
 balcony he could see far lf *B 
 up and down the Corso I miil 
 where the lights were ^'\ \ 
 
 fewer already and wan- T H 
 
 ing away. The moon had ~'~ I <*^P 
 risen, and it flooded the f ** 
 
 street wi\th its molten silver. Robert heard 
 the old Prince tell Mrs. De Ruyter that if
 
 30 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 she wished ever again to return to Rome 
 she must go that night to the Fountain of 
 Trevi and drink of the running water by 
 the moonlight. The old lady asked Rob- 
 ert to go with them ; and so it was that 
 the boy, who was not yet a man, and the 
 girl, who was almost a woman, stood side 
 by side before the broad basin where the 
 fountain of promise was flashing in the 
 moonbeams, and together they drank the 
 water held in the hollow of their hands. 
 It was then that he had said to her with 
 boyish frankness, "When I am twenty- 
 one, of course, I shall ask you to marry 
 me." She turned sharply and faced him 
 as he stood before her in the moonlight 
 by the trembling water ; but she made no 
 reply. The enigmatic look she gave him 
 he could never forget, and for years he 
 pondered its meaning *n vain. Before he 
 could speak again, her aunt called her and 
 they drove back to the hotel, and in the 
 morning she was gone. As Robert Doug-
 
 MEMORIES 31 
 
 las recalled every incident of that happy 
 evening of youth and hope, he thought 
 that for one of them at least the promise 
 of the Fountain of Trevi had been kept ; 
 although he knew he should never return 
 to Rome she had gone back again to the 
 Eternal City, for joy and for sorrow and 
 for the last time. 
 
 It was in Paris that Robert Douglas 
 next met Miriam it was in Paris, on the 
 day when the empty empire came to 
 nought on the evening of September 4, 
 1870. He was standing idle and impas- 
 sive in the Place Vendome, where the col- 
 umn of the great Napoleon towered high 
 over the mob which had just spurned forth 
 Napoleon the Little, when he was swept 
 along by the tumult of men and boys, arm 
 in arm, harshly chanting the " Marseil- 
 laise," and exultingly shouting forth the 
 chorus* of a popular song of the hour, " Si 
 c'est de la canaille, eh bien, j'en suis ! " 
 In the main the mob was good-natured
 
 32 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 enough, although the ground-swell of 
 brutal destruction was to be detected 
 even then. After nightfall he stepped al- 
 most into the midst of a band of singers 
 on the Boulevard Montmartre, rougher 
 than most of those that had gone before, 
 and more boisterous. The men in blouses 
 were swarming about an open carriage in 
 which sat a frightened old woman and a 
 girl as calm as she was beautiful. Robert 
 knew them at a glance, and he sprang for- 
 ward to the wheel of the vehicle. " Criez 
 done 'Vive la Republique ! '" yelled a 
 hoarse-throated and bulky brute almost 
 in the old lady's ear. She sank back on 
 the cushions, trembling violently and with 
 her hands raised to her head. " Mais, 
 certainement ! " cried Robert, jumping on 
 the step of the carriage ; " we are friends 
 of France we are Americans of the 
 United States Vive la Republique!" 
 Then he gave the driver a sharp word of 
 command, and as the crowd shouted in
 
 MEMORIES 33 
 
 response to his cry, the horses plunged 
 ahead and they were clear of the throng. 
 In a moment more they turned into the 
 peace and quiet of a side street. Mrs. De 
 Ruyter was profuse and incoherent in her 
 thanks. Miriam held out her hand, and the 
 pressure of her fingers tingled to his heart. 
 "The curs!" she said; "they did not 
 dare to rise against the Emperor until he 
 was defeated by the Germans." All day 
 had Douglas been rejoicing at the down- 
 fall of the crowned impostor, but none the 
 less did he feel the heat of this speech. 
 Miriam had shown no sign of trepidation 
 when the violent ruffians were surging 
 about the carriage. With perfect self- 
 possession she had been trying vainly to 
 sustain her aunt and to transfer to the old 
 lady a little of her own fire and strength. 
 Now, as she spoke, there came into her 
 face a^ look of regal scorn ; she had an ex- 
 pression like that of the fair aristocrats as 
 they were going to the guillotine in 1793.
 
 34 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Two days later Robert Douglas aided 
 Mrs. De Ruyter and her niece to quit 
 Paris, and he went with them on one of 
 the last trains to leave the unfortunate 
 city before it was beleaguered by the 
 Prussians. Since then he had not seen 
 Miriam at all and only twice had he 
 heard from her. When his father, too 
 feeble to battle longer with misfortune, 
 gave up the struggle and laid him 
 down and died, she wrote him first, from 
 London ; and hers was no barren epistle 
 of condolence, but a womanly letter, full 
 of feeling, abounding with sympathy. 
 She clasped his hand across the Atlantic. 
 There was a frankness about the letter 
 which was almost affectionate. The words 
 were simple, but behind them there was 
 almost an invitation to speak out. Then, 
 at least, Robert had no wight to speak so 
 he thought. He was poor, and there were 
 debts that he must pay by his labor. She 
 was rich, and used to the society of dukes
 
 MEMORIES 35 
 
 and princes. He felt that it would be 
 wrong and selfish for him to ask her to 
 share his garret and his crust. If fortune 
 should smile on him, as he was determined 
 that it must, then he would speak out and 
 empty his heart and lay bare his soul 
 before her. They were young he was 
 barely twenty-three ; they could wait 
 they must wait. At that time it was sim- 
 ply impossible for him to say a word. So 
 he held his peace ; he answered her letter, 
 and there the correspondence rested. 
 
 For a year or two he did not hear from 
 her again, but he heard about her unceas- 
 ingly. The newspapers were frequent in 
 praise of her beauty, and they were loud 
 in reporting her success in English so- 
 ciety. London correspondents of the 
 American newspapers gave brilliant pen- 
 portraits of her. Her photographs, even, 
 were to be purchased at a shop in Broad- 
 way ; Robert Douglas, seeing one in the 
 window, had gone in indignantly and
 
 36 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 bought them all. One Sunday morning a 
 cable-message in the Gotham Gazette an- 
 nounced that she was to marry an English 
 duke: then Robert came near writing 
 again. But before he had made up his mind 
 there followed an authoritative denial 
 After all, he asked himself, what warrant 
 had he to question ? He had no home to 
 offer her. His struggles were as hard as 
 ever, and they were no nearer a triumph- 
 ant termination. His heart was full of 
 her ; he could recall every word of their 
 brief interviews in the past ten years ; she 
 beamed on him at the end of his vista of 
 hope. But he said nothing there was 
 nothing for him to say. 
 
 Then, suddenly, one summer day, 
 there came the announcement of her ap- 
 proaching marriage to the young Prince 
 Castellamare, the eldesf s'on of the Prince 
 Castellamare with whom she had been 
 talking on the balcony of the Corso on 
 the night of Shrove-Tuesday, 1867, when
 
 MEMORIES 37 
 
 Robert Douglas climbed up to blow out 
 her taper and to offer her his own. As he 
 sat silent in his quarters in the fort in 
 the Far West, with the storm wailing out- 
 side, he remembered his effort to disbe- 
 lieve this rumor and to expect that it 
 would be denied like its predecessors. 
 But by the chill in his heart he knew bet- 
 ter. Hope stiffened and froze, as private 
 letters to friends in New York from friends 
 in Europe soon confirmed the public re- 
 port. The day when Robert first felt the 
 conviction of the truth of the announce- 
 ment he could not forget it was a day of 
 torrid heat in the very centre of a New 
 York mid-summer, yet he shivered and 
 his skin shrank as no mid-winter blizzard 
 in the West had ever affected him since. 
 And he burned also on that day as Sahara 
 would not scorch him ; and he reeled 
 under the blow like a man with a sun- 
 stroke. By that time he had paid off his 
 father's debts, and it was but a question
 
 38 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 of months before he might feel the ground 
 firm under his feet ; all at once the earth 
 trembled under him and opened as if 
 to swallow him up ; of a sudden his in- 
 centive was gone ; he had labored for 
 nought. 
 
 The newspapers described the beauty 
 of the American bride and extolled the 
 lineage of the Italian bridegroom ; it was 
 a love-match, they said, and not the sordid 
 bargain in which the woman's money was 
 bartered for the man's title. Prince Cas- 
 tellamare was as wealthy as Miss De 
 Ruyter; he had no need to sell himself; 
 if he married an American girl it was be- 
 cause he loved her. And if she married 
 him, no doubt, it was because she loved 
 him ; she had had offers as good in Eng- 
 land and in Germany, and she had refused 
 them ; she had chosen "well, they said 
 moreover, for the prince was a handsome 
 fellow, honest, open-hearted, and charm- 
 ing as only an Italian nobleman may be
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 39 
 
 nowadays. In due season the wedding- 
 day was fixed and the date was tele- 
 graphed under the Atlantic to America, 
 with detailed descriptions of the trous- 
 seau and the corbeille, Robert Douglas 
 sought out a wedding gift : he had a 
 jeweller copy, in gold, the brass button of 
 the military school where first he met her, 
 and in this there was cunningly contrived 
 a space for a tiny watch of exquisite 
 workmanship. He sent her this trinket 
 with a brief wish for her happiness. Then 
 for a few weeks he went about his daily 
 task with a stab at his heart and a hatred 
 of each day as it dawned. 
 
 A fortnight after the wedding there 
 came a letter to thank him for the gift, 
 so beautiful and so aptly chosen, and to 
 tell him that she had not forgotten her 
 friends in America, although some of them 
 had almost forgotten her, to judge by their 
 prolonged silence. In conclusion, she 
 wrote to him that, should he ever come to
 
 40 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Rome, she would be very glad to see him 
 and so would the prince, with whom she 
 had often talked about Mr. Douglas, and 
 who knew that Robert had gone with her 
 when she drank of the waters of the Foun- 
 tain of Trevi, which had brought her 
 back to Rome. 
 
 When he had read this final letter an 
 overwhelming sense of loneliness swept 
 over him. The light had gone out of his 
 life the hope for which he had lived was 
 dead. There was no use in repining ; a 
 strong man does not die of a broken heart. 
 Work there is in plenty in the world 
 for a man to do, if he be but willing. A 
 chance came in his way to steady employ- 
 ment at hard labor with the risk of death 
 and he snatched at it greedily. The 
 President of the United States had just 
 then the right to appoint a certain number 
 of extra second lieutenants, and by the 
 aid of an old friend of his father's, who 
 was also an old friend of the President's,
 
 MEMORIES 41 
 
 Robert Douglas secured one of the com- 
 missions. That was why this Christmas 
 found him at Fort Roosevelt, on the plains, 
 in a blizzard. And these were the memo- 
 ries that passed before him as he sat in 
 front of the fire, upright and rigid. 
 
 At last he raised the newspaper, still 
 clinched tightly in his fingers, and again 
 he read the paragraph. It was a tele- 
 gram from Rome, and it told the startling 
 shock given to Italian society by the 
 sudden death of the young Princess Cas- 
 tellamare, formerly Miss Miriam De 
 Ruyter, of New York, one of the many 
 noted beauties of the New World who had 
 married nobles of the Old World. The 
 telegram continued with the assertion that 
 the match between Miss de Ruyter and 
 Prince Castellamare had turned out more 
 happily than most of the international al- 
 liances between youth and beauty on one 
 side, and an old title on the other. The 
 Prince and Princess were notoriously de-
 
 42 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 voted to each other. The Prince is now 
 inconsolable. The Princess died very un- 
 expectedly. She had been ailing a little 
 for a day or two, but she persisted in go- 
 ing to the costume ball at the Quirinal, 
 where she represented "America," re- 
 splendent with diamonds and radiant with 
 youth and beauty. She was forced to go 
 home before the ball was over and in 
 less than twenty-four hours she lay cold in 
 death. She left no child. Her memory 
 will be pleasantly cherished in the Ameri- 
 can colony in Rome, where there is abun- 
 dant testimony to her untiring affability 
 and to her unfailing generosity. 
 
 When Robert Douglas had finished re- 
 reading this paragraph of the cable de- 
 spatch he drew a long breath. Then he 
 folded the newspaper carefully. For a 
 moment he sat with trie flat roll in his 
 hand. At last he arose and walked to 
 a corner in the room where a travelling- 
 desk lay on the top of a rough board
 
 MEMORIES 43 
 
 table. Lifting the lid of the desk, he put 
 away the newspaper by the side of a 
 little bundle of letters and a packet of 
 photographs. Then he turned away and 
 stood by the window looking out into the 
 welter of the tempest. The mournful 
 moan of the wind sounded in his ears like 
 a solemn requiem. The house shook with 
 the stress of the storm and he rejoiced 
 at it. This war of the elements was in 
 consonance with his feelings. 
 
 How long he stood there at the window 
 staring at the storm and marvelling at its 
 might if, indeed, he saw it at all he did 
 not know. But he was roused from his 
 reverie by the sudden inroad of the com- 
 rade who shared his quarters. 
 
 As x Paulding Van Dyke broke into the 
 room he cried : 
 
 " If that tenderfoot who didn't know the 
 difference between a Montana chinook 
 and a Dakota blizzard were here now he 
 would find out to-day, pretty dern quick ! "
 
 44 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Robert Douglas turned slowly, like one 
 awakened from sleep. 
 
 "Are you ready?" Van Dyke asked, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " Ready for what?" inquired Douglas. 
 
 "Don't you know?" returned Van 
 Dyke. "Two of Pike County Pete's 
 kids are out somewhere in the storm. We 
 must get them in at once, or the poor little 
 devils may be frozen to death." 
 
 "How do you know they are lost ?" 
 was the question Douglas asked, as he 
 put on his heavy overcoat and placed a 
 flask of brandy in one of its pockets. 
 
 "The man you sent down to the cabin 
 this morning with those things you offered, 
 when Lucy told you about the scantiness 
 of their supplies " 
 
 " George Gordon? " 
 
 " Yes he's just back no*w. It has taken 
 him two hours to get here through the 
 blizzard. And he brings word that Pike 
 County Pete's old woman is almost wild
 
 MEMORIES 45 
 
 with fear because the two kids strayed 
 out before the storm began " 
 
 "Then there's no time to lose," Douglas 
 interrupted. ' ' Have you called the men ? " 
 
 " I asked for volunteers, and there will 
 be a dozen or more of the boys ready 
 as soon as we are. I told them to get 
 on all their extra coats this blizzard cuts 
 like a sand-blast." 
 
 Robert Douglas opened the case of a 
 compass, examined it hastily and then put 
 it in the pocket of his great-coat. He 
 lighted two lanterns and gave one to Van 
 Dyke. From the wall he took down a 
 coil of rope, a hundred feet long, with a 
 loop at every ten feet. 
 
 Then Douglas and Van Dyke passed 
 out into the quadrangle, where they found 
 a group of soldiers awaiting them. The 
 officers chose nine men. Taking the oppo- 
 site ends of the rope themselves, they bade 
 the nine men each take a loop. Thus fast- 
 ened together in a line a hundred feet
 
 
 long, so that they might sweep the plain, 
 they went forth into the night to rescue 
 two little children. 
 
 And as they left the fort behind them, 
 and bore down toward the bank of the 
 river, the storm howled and roared like 
 a strange wild beast starved and resist- 
 less with hunger.
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 
 
 BY JOHN HEARD, JR. 
 With Illustrations by L. Marchetti
 
 I. 
 
 DURING his stay in the United States 
 Maurice de Saint Brissac was a great 
 favorite among women ; among men he 
 was correspondingly disliked. The for- 
 mer believed that the mask represented 
 the man, a kind of man they did not often 
 meet among homespun Americans, and 
 to the more romantic he seemed to be 
 a grand seigneur of the race Vandyck 
 painted so well, and who had stepped 
 down from his frame in some national 
 gallery to criticise the progress of the 
 world since his day. The latter envied 
 his success, and, because of it, resented 
 the superiority evinced in many ways by 
 this man who was so different from them- 
 selves. In a way it soothed their wounded
 
 50 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 pride to call him a prig. But he was bet- 
 ter than that. He did not believe in the 
 stage business of his time. It was anti- 
 quated and often ridiculous. It was 
 insincere. It was very largely "pose." 
 At the same time family traditions, the 
 " honor of the name," the prestige of no- 
 bility, combined with wealth, demanded 
 this sacrifice, against which all the finer 
 instincts of the man rebelled. For Saint 
 Brissac was a good man, as good men go 
 nowadays, and a good deal of a man. 
 Had he belonged to the family of Smith, 
 Jones, or Robinson, and been compelled 
 to work for his living, he might have 
 achieved even more than were enough to 
 satisfy himself, and make him one of the 
 few Smiths, Joneses, or Robinsons whose 
 success has proved an incentive to sub- 
 sequent generations of* that name. Un- 
 fortunately he was reared as a hot-house 
 plant, and he respected the responsibili- 
 ties of his position too highly to sacrifice
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 51 
 
 them to a better sense of right and wrong, 
 inherited, at second hand, from a New- 
 England grandmother. Indeed there was 
 in his composition just enough of the old 
 Puritan granite to leaven the enjoyment 
 which might have followed his apparently 
 easy successes in more than one field. 
 
 The life of such men is certainly not an 
 enviable one. Their ego counts for naught 
 until they are released from the bondage 
 of training, and then it is too late for the 
 natural and healthy development of the 
 man that might have been. Saint Bris- 
 sac's father admired the type of which M. 
 de Camors is the literary exponent, and, 
 coute que coute, his son should be such a 
 parfait gentilhomme. 
 
 Maurice was nearly twenty-two when 
 the old gentleman retired from this stage, 
 and the prison-door was open. He looked 
 out, and to his amazement looked out 
 upon a world of men and women a 
 species to which he would fain belong,
 
 52 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 yet one whose life was incompatible with 
 his training. 
 
 "It is a crime," he said to himself; 
 " and I feel like a Chinese woman whose 
 feet have been so long compressed that she 
 cannot walk. I have been brought up for 
 a world that ceased to exist in '89. Shall 
 I go on ? Can I go back? " 
 
 In his milieu it was impossible to go 
 back, so he drifted along, taking infinite 
 pains to accomplish, in the most correct 
 manner, many things which he despised. 
 It was nineteenth century to be bad, and 
 he made people believe that he was bad. 
 After his emancipation he travelled 
 through Europe and learned something, 
 viz. , that the perfection at which his father 
 aimed, and to which he had endeavored to 
 educate his son, was a very second-rate 
 perfection, entirely out of date, and more 
 often to be condemned than praised. One 
 day this conviction became enough of a 
 certainty to warrant immediate action.
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 53 
 
 Several young men were writing a col- 
 lective letter of invitation at the club, 
 and there arose some slight discussion 
 as to the use of the subjunctive. 
 
 " I may be wrong, trdscher," said his 
 contestant, " but Musset's apology is 
 good enough for me. A gentleman should 
 never write French well enough to be mis- 
 taken for a professional " 
 
 "Our code of honor is written in 
 French," retorted Saint Brissac. " Per- 
 haps you think a gentleman has the same 
 inherited privilege of ignorance in that 
 field." 
 
 "The grammar of honor is written in 
 blood, not in ink. Heraldry, sir, is a fine 
 science," replied his opponent. 
 
 " Then, if it meet your pleasure," Saint 
 Brissac answered, bowing low, " we will 
 compare arms on a field vert, under a 
 bend azur." 
 
 " What nonsense, what nonsense ! " he 
 said to himself, as he left the club. " And
 
 54 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 to think that for such absolute inanities 
 two human beings must stand against one 
 another, sword in hand, and each en- 
 deavor, as a duty, to cut the other's throat. 
 Pshaw ! " 
 
 The next step was obvious, with the 
 result that Saint Brissac, though one of 
 the best swordsmen in Paris, blundered 
 to the extent of fatally wounding his ad- 
 versary. Publicly he could not afford to 
 be more than annoyed at his careless- 
 ness; at bottom, however, he was sin- 
 cerely grieved, and made a vow never 
 again to use weapons except in self-de- 
 fence or in the service of his country ; and 
 he then resolved to visit America, where a 
 discussion about spelling did not neces- 
 sarily involve a funeral. 
 
 At the club, as in society, the decision 
 was received with consternation. Maurice 
 made pretty speeches ; the Figaro re- 
 peated them and quoted the admiring 
 answers and comments of that exceed-
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 55 
 
 ingly self-complacent coterie commonly 
 called Tout Paris, an epithet which, in 
 their ignorance of foreign idioms, they 
 fondly believe to mean the whole intel- 
 lectual world. There were farewell din- 
 ners of course ; the most brilliant being 
 that given by the Junior Jockey, where 
 Saint Brissac made his last and best 
 speech. To an audience of a certain char- 
 acter the occasion was an impressive one. 
 The majority of the guests still thought 
 of America as their ancestors had thought 
 of Louisiana, and to them Saint Bris- 
 sac was a modern La Salle. They toast- 
 ed him, bespeeched him, cheered him, 
 mourned him ; and so prone are we to al- 
 low our desires the gratification of prettily 
 worded well-wishes run amuck, that he was 
 really moved, despite the more sane criti- 
 cism of his reason. He went away early, 
 and one of the guests of the evening, a 
 young American, named Joe Sargent, 
 overtook him on the stairs. The men
 
 56 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 knew each other slightly, and sauntered 
 together down the rue de Rivoli. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear friend," the Frenchman 
 said, with a sigh, " it is very hard to say 
 good-by without showing one's emo- 
 tions ! " 
 
 There was an amused look in Sargent's 
 eyes, and for a moment he checked him- 
 self. Then turning suddenly, as though 
 the temptation were too great to resist : 
 
 " I should think so," he answered, smil- 
 ing. " But it seems impossible to do so 
 without creating the impression of being 
 either a damned fool or a humbug at 
 least according to our ideas." 
 
 Saint Brissac stopped and looked up 
 with a puzzled frown into the honest, 
 laughing face a few inches above his own. 
 
 " Well," he said, after a pause, and 
 holding out his hand, '"if is a new sen- 
 sation to have the truth told one in that 
 way ; but I believe you meant it right. 
 Indeed I believe you are right. I am
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 57 
 
 going to your country, and it is well I 
 should become accustomed to your ways. 
 I suppose," he continued, interrogatively, 
 " that I shall often hear the truth as frank- 
 ly expressed? " 
 
 " Why," Sargent replied, laughing, " if 
 you are going to the Rocky Mountains, as 
 you said this evening, you will probably 
 hear plenty of plain talk if that's what 
 you mean. I am on my way there myself 
 for a couple of months' shooting," he 
 added, after a few reflective puffs at his 
 cigar. "Won't you join our party? I 
 might put you up to a thing or two and, 
 frankly, I think you need it." 
 
 To all outward appearances two more 
 dissimilar men never shook hands, yet this 
 dissimilarity was largely one of manner. 
 At bottom they had much in common. 
 Both were men ; both were gentlemen, 
 and both believed that whatever a gentle- 
 man attempted he should carry out well, 
 and without evident effort. There was
 
 58 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 much in the behavior of the one that as- 
 tonished the other and delighted his sense 
 of humor. But, after all, if the Saxon did 
 occasionally laugh at the Latin, and vice 
 versa, they were merely doing as individ- 
 uals what their respective races had done 
 for centuries, and this did not in any way 
 prevent them from becoming close friends 
 as they came to know each other better. 
 
 II. 
 
 A YEAR later, in July, 1870, Joe Sar- 
 gent was seated before the black, empty 
 fireplace in his New York rooms, gloomily 
 pulling at his pipe. The last comic papers 
 and a couple of railroad novels littered the 
 floor around his chair, and before him a 
 large map of Mexico, half on his knees, 
 half on the carpet, concealed a pile of 
 crumpled papers chiefly notes written on 
 dainty sheets of various tints. It was dusk 
 already, and through the open screened
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 59 
 
 windows the vulgar noises of the city came 
 up more softly, in jerks, like the last lap- 
 ping of an ebb-tide ; for the hours of busi- 
 ness were over, and the city business of 
 pleasure is dull at midsummer. 
 
 In the square below, an Italian organ- 
 grinder was massacring " Santa Lucia" 
 for the twentieth time, and a weary, per- 
 functory sort of an execution it was. But 
 of all this Sargent was oblivious, as he 
 had been of the more angry, irritating, 
 noon-day street sounds ; and he continued 
 to pull at his brier mechanically, as though 
 it were still alight. In his left hand, that 
 hung over the arm of the chair, he held a 
 flat, Russia-leather case, perhaps a photo- 
 graph-frame, which he quietly slipped into 
 his pocket as his bell rang. 
 
 " Come in ! " he cried out, jumping up 
 and moving a few steps toward the door. 
 "Ah! Maurice, is it you? I am glad to 
 see you." 
 
 " Ce cher Joe!" the other answered,
 
 60 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 running up and embracing him. " I have 
 only just arrived in town, this noon in 
 fact, and heard at the club that you were 
 here. I came at once, as you see ; to say 
 bonjour first, amuse you for half an hour, 
 and bid you good - by probably for- 
 ever. " 
 
 " Probably forever ? " 
 
 "Yes; Napoleon has declared war 
 against Bismarck ; the news is not known 
 yet, but I have been privately advised, 
 and sail by the next steamer. Joe, what 
 I am going to say will sound very foolish, 
 even unmanly, to you. I know that a 
 great many men come back from the war, 
 but not as many as go into it except per- 
 haps on the pension-lists ; and I have a 
 feeling that I shall be buried on my first 
 battle-field. Don't laugh at me for the 
 presentiment Under othe"r circumstances 
 I know it would not sound well. But 
 father and son for many generations, in 
 fact, from Agincourt to Inkermann, every
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 6l 
 
 Saint Brissac has died in the field gen- 
 erally in his first engagement, always in his 
 first campaign." 
 
 " Well, that's a fine record," hjs friend 
 interrupted. " Dulce et decorum, . ." 
 
 " To be sure! " the other answered, in 
 his usual trenchant way. "It is an emi- 
 nently correct sentiment, and proves that 
 the gay poet was a gentleman as well as a 
 philosopher. Give me a cigar, will you, 
 Joe? To tell you the honest truth, man 
 ami," he continued, after a short pause, 
 and walking slowly from one end of the 
 room to the other, " I am more deeply 
 moved by the news of this war than I can 
 express to you in words. I have lived in 
 Germany, as you know, and have looked 
 into their military resources superfi- 
 cially, of course, as an amateur like my- 
 self naturally would. But I saw enough 
 to make me feel that France is going to 
 be overwhelmed by one of the most ap- 
 palling disasters ever recorded in history.
 
 62 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 It is that conviction that takes me over 
 there ; for, it goes without saying, I have 
 no great sympathy with the Bonapartists. 
 We owe them nothing. But France will 
 need every arm in the Empire, mine 
 among the rest. I tell you, Joe, this dec- 
 laration of war is the most stupendous 
 of all the follies that have distinguished 
 this glorious Second Empire. It is Napo- 
 leon le Petit, whose glory is a little moon- 
 shine reflected from the sun of Austerlitz, 
 against Bismarck the Great. I wish all 
 Frenchmen had studied and remembered 
 the meaning of Sadowa as well as I have ! 
 However, Joe," he continued, resuming 
 his lighter manner, " all this interests you 
 only as an outsider, and it is puerile of 
 me to talk in this strain. My place is a 
 horse's length ahead of my men. I will 
 not say good-by now, for y6u must come 
 and see me off day after to-morrow, at 
 ten in the morning the Provence. Au 
 revoir, then."
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 63 
 
 After his friend's departure Sargent 
 lighted another pipe and sat down to 
 think. Once or twice he glanced inquir- 
 ingly at the little leather case, but without 
 opening it. When the pipe was smoked 
 out, he rose with a jump, swept all his 
 letters into a drawer, threw the leather 
 case on top of them all, and turned the 
 key. He glanced at the clock. " By 
 Jove!" he exclaimed, "after nine. I 
 must get a bite of something." 
 
 At the club, and while waiting for his 
 dinner, he scribbled down memoranda on 
 the back of the bill of fare, an occupation 
 which he kept up between courses and 
 while smoking his cigar over his coffee. 
 Someone looked in at the door and called 
 out to him. 
 
 "Hello, Sargent! Will you join us 
 to-night?" and he made a gesture as 
 though dealing cards. 
 
 " Come over here a minute, Durand," 
 he answered. " No, I shall not join you
 
 64 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 to-night. I have lots to do. But I'll 
 match you for a dollar. " 
 
 The coins spun and Sargent lost 
 
 " I thought so! " he said aloud as he 
 stared at the silver piece. " Well, Du- 
 rand, old man, the devil always get his 
 due one way or another." He rose, 
 slapped him on the shoulder and laughed 
 bitterly as he left the room while the other 
 said to himself : 
 
 ' ' I never saw Sargent drunk before. 
 Something must have gone wrong, surely. 
 I wonder what it was." 
 
 A few hours later the big steamer swung 
 clear of the dock, and Saint Brissac stood 
 at the rail scanning the line of waving 
 handkerchiefs through his single eyeglass. 
 Sargent had not appeared, and his friend 
 felt deeply disappointed. Joe was his 
 only American friend the only person in 
 fact to whom he had confided his inten- 
 tion of sailing. In the promiscuous mob 
 of travellers he seemed to be the sole one
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 65 
 
 whom nobody had come to bid " God- 
 speed," and he felt both lonely and de- 
 pressed. 
 
 They were in mid-stream now, headed 
 for the ocean, and the Palisades of the 
 Hudson, half-screened by a veil of golden 
 mist, receded gradually into the horizon. 
 The harbor, alive with screaming tugs 
 and ferry-boats, looked its loveliest The 
 slow quivering of the floating city, freshly 
 painted, and gleaming red, white, black, 
 and gold, in the wet sunlight, lulled one 
 agreeably into a state of poetic contem- 
 plation. But on Saint Brissac these 
 soothing influences were lost, and he said 
 to himself, bitterly : 
 
 " C'est toujours la meme rengaine / 
 And friendship is the same the world over 
 a matter of convenience or opportunity 
 just as love is a matter of juxtaposition. 
 This fellow whom . . ." 
 
 Someone touched him on the shoulder, 
 and he turned to look into the pleas-
 
 66 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 ant smiling face of the man he was revil- 
 ing. 
 
 "Joe ! " he cried out, joyfully, " Cest 
 toi ! " And somewhat to the edification 
 of the surrounding groups of passengers 
 he embraced him joyfully. 
 
 ' ' You were late and got left ? " he 
 asked, as they sat down on the wet rail- 
 bench. 
 
 Sargent shook his head and held out 
 his brawny right arm. " For France ! " 
 he said, smiling. 
 
 " Do you really mean it ? " 
 
 "Why not, Maurice? You said France 
 needed every arm she could get. Well, 
 here is one. What on earth have I got to 
 do in the world ? A man cannot always 
 be hunting, or fishing, or travelling, din- 
 ing at the club, and going to the theatre." 
 
 "Or into society?" 
 
 41 Isn't it much the same thing? " 
 
 It was so unlike Sargent to make a re- 
 mark that smacked ever so little of bitter-
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 
 
 67 
 
 ness that Saint Brissac looked up quickly, 
 and before his sharp, intelligent scrutiny 
 the other turned away with an awkward 
 smile. After a moment of silence the 
 Frenchman laid his hand on Sargent's arm, 
 and said, very gently, in a voice that ex- 
 pressed his sympathy more perfectly than 
 could any words : 
 
 "An arm for France, . . . Joe? 
 France is sometimes typified by an eagle, 
 sometimes by a flag, and sometimes by a 
 goddess. There is always a woman in the 
 case." 
 
 Sargent made no answer, and neither 
 again alluded to the subject. 
 
 A FEW weeks later, on the morning of 
 the famous 6th of August, the two friends 
 were riding side by side through the cool, 
 green shade of the Haguenau forest. In 
 their search for General Duhesme they
 
 68 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 had passed around the extreme right of 
 the French army and were continuing 
 their quest in a somewhat aimless way 
 through a country already occupied by 
 the enemy. Now and then, as they peered 
 into the green depths of foliage, they 
 caught the glint of a rifle-barrel and a 
 glimpse of z.franc-tireurs blouse. Some- 
 times the color of their amaranth breeches, 
 for they wore undress staff uniform, 
 seemed to reassure their would-be slayer, 
 and he stepped on to the road to ask what 
 might be the news of the day ; and in turn 
 they asked information as to their way. 
 Positive advice they never received. " It 
 might be this, it might be that, . . 
 but again " and everywhere they were 
 confronted by the fatal ignorance of facts 
 and places, which corutributed as much as 
 any other cause to the misfortunes culmi- 
 nating at Sedan. 
 
 The shadow of impending disaster lay 
 heavy on the land, and the nearer they
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 69 
 
 approached the seat of war, the darker it 
 grew. 
 
 In Paris all was confusion. A hundred 
 conflicting despatches were received daily 
 at the War Department, but only the most 
 encouraging were sent out for publication. 
 The probability of an invasion had never 
 been contemplated, and all the plans of 
 the French were drawn up on the basis of 
 a march to Berlin. A defensive campaign 
 was such an improbability that the French 
 had never considered it as a possible con- 
 tingency. The classes in Paris knew 
 enough to be anxious, but the masses in- 
 terpreted such news as was doled out to 
 them according to their own desires, and 
 studied the map of Germany with pathetic 
 ignorance. Many a concierge and his wife 
 invested a few laboriously saved francs 
 in a large map of Prussia, and planted red- 
 headed pins where they believed their son 
 ought now to be. Wissembourg had not 
 been fought, and in the story of the first
 
 70 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 skirmishes the facts had been colored with 
 more than poetical license. ' The axiom 
 of the day was simply that France was in- 
 vincible. Hence, if a battle had been 
 fought, the enemy must have been rout- 
 ed ; if not routed, at least defeated ; if not 
 defeated, and this interpretation of the 
 news was improbably conservative, the 
 Prussians had been checked. Such a neu- 
 tral result aroused the contempt of the 
 disputatious plebs. In the cafes, in the 
 brasseries, on extemporized platforms, the 
 long down-trampled hydra of republican- 
 ism raised its heads, snarled loudly, an- 
 grily, at the evident degeneracy of the 
 French army, and predicted nay, clam- 
 ored for the fall of the Empire. And 
 they builded better than they knew, for 
 the degringolade was at hand. 
 
 Arriving in the midst of such confusion, 
 Saint Brissac had experienced no difficulty 
 in securing a pass for his friend Sargent's 
 American weapons and ammunition ; still
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 7* 
 
 less in obtaining for both a staff appoint- 
 ment at large, which would allow them to 
 choose their own fighting ground. This 
 was totally at variance with any existing 
 army regulations, but Saint Brissac had 
 such influential friends that the favors he 
 requested were conferred with a celerity 
 that implied a fear of non-acceptance on 
 his part. Good men seemed suddenly to- 
 have become scarce in France. 
 
 On the eve of their departure from Paris. 
 Saint Brissac went up to Sargent's room 
 and brought him his uniform. Joe looked 
 up from the map he was studying and no- 
 ticed that his friend was very pale. 
 
 " Any news ? " he asked, in his charac- 
 teristically careless way. 
 
 "Yes; we start at eight in the morn- 
 ing; staff officers. I'll tell you about it 
 on the way," Saint Brissac answered. 
 Then he added, after a pause, during 
 which he nervously paced the room : 
 " The enemy is in France. But, Joe, I
 
 72 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 suppose you cannot understand what that 
 means to me." 
 
 Sargent replied phlegmatically : "Well, 
 if the enemy is in France, the next thing to 
 do is to drive him out." As he raised his 
 eyes he was struck with the expression of 
 anguish on Saint Brissac's face. " Come, 
 Maurice," he said, rising and laying his 
 hand on his friend's shoulder, " things al- 
 ways seem worse on the day before. 
 When we are out there and get to work, 
 you'll see everything in a different light. 
 Brace up, old man ! If it comes to the 
 worst, why, we can continue this little trip 
 together, shoulder to shoulder, away into 
 the happy hunting-grounds." 
 
 " What a blessing you are, Joe," the 
 other answered, suddenly smiling and 
 looking up at the square, rugged face of 
 his companion. " The 'indifference and 
 carelessness which we learn to assume are 
 perfectly natural to you ; and what a dif- 
 ference there is between the genuine and
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 
 
 73 
 
 the imitation article ! I assure you it does 
 me more good to listen to you for five 
 minutes than to spend an hour at the 
 War Department and hear the I suppose 
 you would call it hurrahing of a lot of 
 men, clever men too, who are trying to 
 hide the truth behind a screen of tradi- 
 tional conventionalities and phrases. Have 
 you ever seen any fighting, Joe ? " 
 
 " You would hardly call it fighting, I 
 suppose," Sargent answered, laughing. 
 " I served through a couple of Apache 
 campaigns, for the fun of it, and so I do 
 know what a bullet sounds like when it 
 passes an inch or two away and that is a 
 trick those Apache bullets have. I guess 
 I'll do well enough, Maurice, because," 
 he continued, with a drop in his voice, 
 " because as far as I am concerned I don't 
 
 care a d how it all turns out. In a 
 
 tight corner it helps a man to know that 
 he has no family responsibilities ; no let- 
 ters to read over at the last minute, and
 
 74 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 all that sort of thing. Johnny Steens, 
 who, by the way, was killed in one of our 
 brushes with the Indians, used to say that 
 he should prefer to start out as a found- 
 ling, with just money enough to make a 
 start as a Gil Bias or some such picaro. I 
 guess there is something in that. A fel- 
 low could afford to take big chances then 
 and have lots of fun. Well, you say 
 we're off in the morning, eh? Suppose, 
 then, we quit swapping lies and get 
 ready." 
 
 Their journey from Paris to the front 
 was a horrible nightmare to Saint Bris- 
 sac ; a stern disillusion to Sargent. For, 
 though he modestly alluded to his cam- 
 paigns in Arizona and Sonora as mere 
 hunting trips, he had there received such 
 training and such correct critical insight 
 as well-organized campa'gns often fail to 
 give. It was apparent to him that dis- 
 order was everywhere the order of the 
 day ; confusion and ignorance the watch-
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 75 
 
 words. Saint Brissac bit his mustache in 
 despair. Joe smoked grimly ; but neither 
 spoke. They understood each other and 
 there was nothing to say. 
 
 The morning was well-nigh noon before 
 they found the old general, seated under 
 a tree on a knoll overlooking a part of the 
 battle-field. In a little hollow behind, the 
 Eighth and Ninth Cuirassiers stood dis- 
 mounted by their horses, and still further 
 back two squadrons of the Sixth Lancers 
 halted at ease. A mile and a half away 
 the picturesque little village of Mors- 
 bronn lay across the plain, like a brown 
 lizard, quivering in the intense heat. To 
 the left the deep booming of the artillery 
 alternated with the sharp, snarling tattoo 
 of the musketry. The distant clumps of 
 woods were cushioned with rounded 
 clouds of smoke that dissolved slowly, and 
 hung in shreds across the tree-tops. Here 
 and there, through the fields of hops, 
 broken black lines advanced and patches
 
 76 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 of red receded. Fifty thousand French- 
 men were losing a battle against one hun- 
 dred and eighty thousand Germans. But 
 the fight was yet only at its height, and, 
 though the result was a foregone conclu- 
 sion, the defeated were not yet beaten, nor 
 the conquerors victorious. 
 
 Just outside of the circle of staff officers 
 Saint Brissac and Sargent dismounted, 
 threw their reins to an orderly, and 
 stepped up to where the general stood. 
 
 "Do you bring orders?" he asked, 
 without taking his field-glass from his 
 eyes. 
 
 "No, sir; we come to take them," 
 Saint Brissac answered, as he handed a 
 letter to the general. 
 
 " Why, Maurice, is it you?" the old 
 gentleman exclaimed as he wrung the 
 soldier's hand. " How gfad I am to see 
 you ! What can I do for you ? " 
 
 " My friend Mr. Sargent and I, gen- 
 eral, crave the honor of acharge with you."
 
 78 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 "Charge?" the old soldier answered, 
 testily. "Who the devil told you we 
 were going to charge ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, general. What else were 
 cuirassiers made for ? " 
 
 " Quite right, my boy, quite right. It 
 was so up to Waterloo ; but everything 
 seems to be wrong to-day. Later, perhaps 
 we may have the pleasure of doing our 
 duty." Then calling to his chief staff 
 officer he said to him, " These gentlemen 
 will ride with the Eighth." 
 
 " In what capacity, general ? " 
 
 " Privates," answered Saint Brissac, 
 promptly. 
 
 The general waved his hand in acqui- 
 escence and said kindly: " A'ous nous 
 rev err on s peut-etre ! " 
 
 As they were about to move away a 
 couple of bullets sang through the trees 
 above them, and their attention was 
 drawn to a group of Prussians emerging 
 from an apple orchard about six hundred
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 79 
 
 yards away. A mounted officer, a few 
 steps ahead of his men, examined the 
 French through his glasses and directed 
 the fire of the sharpshooters. Somewhat 
 to the contemptuous astonishment of the 
 French officers Sargent had dropped be- 
 hind a rock as the first bullet pinged above 
 him, and a second later the sharp, sting- 
 ing report of his 45-90 rang out twice. 
 When the smoke had cleared they saw a 
 riderless horse galloping away, and before 
 the suddenly deserted orchard wall two 
 dark things lying on the road. Sargent 
 had raised himself on one knee and was 
 quietly replacing his two spent cartridges. 
 
 "Matin! Monsieur Sargent," the gen- 
 eral exclaimed. " You do not speak of- 
 ten, but, when you do, your words are to 
 the point! " 
 
 Joe laughed as he straightened himself, 
 still cautiously scanning the woods ahead. 
 " If those fellows had been Apaches, gen- 
 eral," he said in his frank, familiar way,
 
 80 STORIES OF THB ARMY 
 
 " you would be snug behind that tree- 
 trunk, or a dead man in front of it, and I 
 wouldn't be such a fool as to stand out of 
 the shadow of that rock for better than 
 half an hour." 
 
 " Voyez-vous cela!" exclaimed one of 
 the officers. " Ces Americains sont impay- 
 ables!" 
 
 "I bet, general," interrupted Saint 
 Brissac, "you thought he was afraid 
 when he dropped like the ace of clubs be- 
 hind that rock. 'Pon my honor, if I hadn't 
 seen him at work after big game I'd have 
 thought so myself." 
 
 Duhesme was looking approvingly at 
 Sargent's large, careless figure. " I shall 
 never think so again," he said, quietly. 
 " Now, gentlemen, to your posts! Mon- 
 sieur de Satory will look after you. Ah ! 
 Satory ! one moment, please," he added, 
 as they moved away. " Put that young 
 Goliath somewhere near the flag." 
 
 In the little ravine below, the men were
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 8l 
 
 listening anxiously to the rumbling of the 
 battle. Half-way between them and the 
 group of staff officers an old bugler, erect 
 on his white horse, waited eagerly for 
 orders. Now and then a lost shell dropped 
 among the compact crowd and created a 
 momentary confusion. Then the wounded 
 were carried away, and the dead laid 
 against the green bank, face upward, gaz- 
 ing, with sightless eyes at the blue eter- 
 nity above. On the edge of the road a 
 few frightened peasants leaned on their 
 shovels and gaped, open-mouthed, at the 
 magnificent soldiers before them. As long 
 as there remained such men to fight for 
 her, France and they must be safe. 
 
 From time to time a false alarm caused 
 a passing flurry in this mass of iron-clad 
 men, as would a breeze rippling through 
 a grove of poplars. The troopers cursed 
 under their breath, the officers grumbled, 
 and then all dropped back again into a 
 semblance of apathy. But nevertheless
 
 82 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 the suspense was intolerable, and even 
 the steadiest trembled with suppressed 
 excitement- 
 
 As de Satory, Saint Brissac, and Sar- 
 gent came toward them the soldiers 
 moved nearer to their horses, ready to 
 mount, and a couple of officers rode for- 
 ward to meet them. 
 
 " Well, at last ? " they cried out. 
 
 "No, there is nothing!" Satory an- 
 swered, curtly. "Here, put those dead 
 men underground, with each a sword- 
 handle for a cross. Take off their armor. 
 These gentlemen will charge with the 
 Eighth and need accoutrements. Get 
 those peasants to work, and sent Captain 
 Moirac to me at once. Captain," he 
 continued, as that officer rode up, " I pre- 
 sent you Mr. Sargent, ^an American, and 
 the Comte de Saint Brissac. They will 
 ride next to the flag-bearer. The general 
 requests that they be properly armed." 
 
 " Saint Brissac here ! " the captain ex-
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 83 
 
 claimed, holding out his hand. " I thought 
 you were in America. It is delightful to 
 see you again . . . gambling as usual ; 
 . . . it is rouge et noir this deal, pre- 
 ceded by a little picquet, . . ." 
 
 " Parbleu!" answered Maurice, in the 
 same light - hearted tone; "we lead 
 hearts ! " 
 
 ' ' Good ! against the clubs of Prussia 
 and the diamonds of Bavaria." 
 
 " But black will take the stake," broke 
 in de Satory. " Mark my words, gentle- 
 men, spades will cover hearts and di- 
 amonds and clubs alike ; spades will be 
 trumps this evening," he repeated, riding 
 away. 
 
 " Our friend is lugubrious," cried Saint 
 Brissac, laughing, as he watched the other 
 moving off. 
 
 "And no wonder," remarked a young 
 lieutenant who had joined the party ; " we 
 have not had a decent bottle of wine for 
 ten days."
 
 84 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Accoutred in dead men's armor the 
 friends waited in the saddle on either 
 side of the stalwart flag-bearer. The 
 lines were not very straight, and when- 
 ever a shell dropped among them they 
 swung to and fro, or fronted about to 
 make room for the dismal processions of 
 dead or wounded that passed between 
 them to the rear. The horses fretted and 
 champed their bits ; the men played with 
 their swords and cursed at their enforced 
 inactivity. All around, the deafening din 
 of the battle swayed back and forth, now 
 fainter, now louder, as the breeze blew this 
 way or that ; and yet no news, no orders, 
 reached them. Then suddenly the firing 
 seemed to grow more brisk on the right. 
 
 Saint Brissac leaned forward and lis- 
 tened. " It will be our turn soon," he 
 said, and, leaning over, he held out a 
 blank sealed package to Sargent. " If I 
 don't come back, Joe," he asked, "will 
 you deliver this in person ? "
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 85 
 
 Sargent nodded, and put the envelope 
 away. In the nervous, excited throng he 
 was the coolest man present. His training 
 in the desert, where, of all places, patience 
 is a virtue, now stood him in good stead. 
 While other men jumped on and off their 
 horses, he sat so perfectly still and ap- 
 parently unmoved that the veteran flag- 
 bearer said to him : 
 
 "You have seen much service, mon- 
 sieur? " 
 
 "It is my first battle," Joe answered, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Well, young man," the other replied, 
 "my compliments to you! You will go 
 far. It seems hardly right to intrust the 
 flag to a foreigner, but, if I fall, you take 
 it. There isn't a man of your size in the 
 regiment." 
 
 Suddenly, shrill and clear, the bugle 
 sounded the Garde a vous, and a tremor 
 shook the two regiments. The swearing 
 and grumbling ceased, and a dead silence
 
 86 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 seemed to fall on the ranks. The men 
 swung themselves into the saddle, reined 
 their horses into line, and waited. A few 
 officers galloped along the front, an order 
 passed down the line, and the mounted 
 iron-breasted mass moved forward out of 
 the shadow into the sun. As of their own 
 accord the squadrons deployed and again 
 waited. A staff officer rode down the front 
 and waved his kepi. 
 
 " Boys ! " he cried, " the country needs 
 you. You are going to charge. Ahead 
 of you are ten thousand bayonets, glory, 
 and death. Behind you, our shattered 
 right wing. You must save them, cost 
 what it may. Good-by, boys ! Go it as 
 your fathers did at Waterloo ! " 
 
 A voice answered from the ranks, ' ' All 
 right, general ! We haven't forgotten how 
 the old fellows charged." The next mo- 
 ment the hoarse cry of Vive la France! 
 rang from twelve hundred throats. 
 
 And then again there was a pause.
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 87 
 
 Several horsemen wheeled into place in 
 their respective positions. A half-intel- 
 ligible order rippled through the ranks. 
 The bugle sounded. The lines oscillated, 
 and instinctively the squadrons chose their 
 ground. The front moved ahead, and the 
 long diagonal shrank into column. Then 
 again they halted for a moment, and the 
 first bullets, fired from too great a distance 
 to do any harm, rang against the steel 
 cuirasses with a dull, swinging, melan- 
 choly sound. 
 
 Saint Brissac reached over and shook 
 Sargent's hand and they were off. 
 Twelve hundred swords flashed from their 
 scabbards and cast a bar sinister of shadow 
 across the golden shield of the burnished 
 cuirasses ; and the long horse-tails stream- 
 ed out behind the star of light that sat 
 upon each man's helmet. 
 
 The ground was very bad sunken 
 roads between high embankments ; stone 
 walls, orchards, and hop fields, crowded
 
 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 with sharpshooters. But more terrible 
 than all were the eight batteries of 
 Gunstett sending their irresistible death- 
 ploughs through the gallant, galloping 
 mass of cannon-meat. From the right, 
 from the left, from the front, sheets of 
 leaden hail swirled, and whisked, and 
 whistled, and shrieked at them, sinking 
 into the quivering flesh with a dull, sod- 
 den sound, puncturing helmet and cuirass 
 alike to deliver their direct death-message ; 
 or, coming aslant, brushing over the keen 
 blades, were shattered into angry, fluid 
 fragments against the bright armor that 
 gave forth a curiously muffled ring. The 
 ranks opened and closed again with that 
 ghastly lozenge-shaped motion that means 
 death or suffering, a tomb or a wound, for 
 each divergence. And, strange to say, 
 not a human, not a living* sound was heard. 
 The rumble of the clattering hoofs, the 
 sombre drumming accompaniment of the 
 musketry, the harsh clang -clanging of
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 89 
 
 the lead pouring in fierce gusts on the ad- 
 vancing line of steel, the deep bass rolling 
 of the heavy guns, drowned all animate 
 sounds. No death-cries were heard ; the 
 wounded fell dumb ; no horses neighed ; 
 no riders yelled. Twelve hundred started ; 
 eleven ten eight six four hundred 
 reached the village. Into it, into it, flags 
 ahead ! like a human torrent, the quarters 
 of the horses dancing a staccato death- 
 dance cadence like the crested flow of a 
 rushing stream, rising and falling and dis- 
 appearing ; rising and falling again, and 
 falling, as a torrent, smoothing itself out 
 into a bank of rapids. And at the end of 
 the long, crooked street, suddenly, a barri- 
 cade and a human whirlpool ! From above, 
 from every roof and window and balcony 
 and shutter the death-hail rattles down. 
 And again a lull ; a vision of dismounted 
 men tearing away at the dam ; and once 
 more released the stream rushes on with a 
 bound into the great orchard beyond.
 
 90 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 In such a race there are no incidents, 
 no personalities. A man is as a drop of 
 water, a human atom whirled along by 
 a rushing current and emptied out be- 
 yond, dizzy and half-stunned. Four hun- 
 dred had reached the village ; sixty rode 
 out of it. In his left hand Saint Brissac 
 grasped the flag, in his right a broken 
 sword. Beside him Sargent, whose hel- 
 met had been shot off, was binding a 
 handkerchief around his forehead. Six 
 cuirassiers, panting and mostly wounded, 
 sat on their horses behind them ; and 
 that was all. The main body had di- 
 verged to the south and left these eight 
 men stranded on a little knoll, a stone's 
 throw from the road. How they reached 
 it, why they remained on it, not one of 
 them understood. 
 
 Sargent looked arourfd' and laughed 
 hysterically. " I feel as though I had been 
 through the rapids at Niagara," he said. 
 " How long do you suppose that business
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 91 
 
 lasted, Maurice ! Hullo ! where did you 
 get that flag? " 
 
 " I'm sure I couldn't tell you, Joe. Are 
 you hurt? " 
 
 " Not to speak of. By Jove ! here is my 
 flask, full and unbroken. Here's luck 
 for you ! Let's have a nip all around ; I 
 guess we've earned it. There, that's 
 good ; now, what's the next thing to do ? " 
 
 " Ma foi, mon capitaine" cried out 
 one of the men, "just look around you ! 
 there's nothing left but to die! " 
 
 " Well," Sargent answered, good-hu- 
 moredly, "after what we have been 
 through that don't seem quite as easy as 
 it looks. Come ; jump off your horses, 
 boys, and unsling your carbines. There 
 are a couple of dead fellows in that ditch 
 who'll fix us out with cartridges. Why, 
 Maurice, old man, you look played out ; 
 what's the matter? There's plenty of 
 fight in us yet. Cheer up, boys ! If we've 
 got to die, let us die like good men ! "
 
 92 STORIES OF THB ARMY 
 
 And here the difference of character of 
 the two men showed itself. In the attack 
 the reckless, dashing young Frenchman 
 led the way, fearless, undaunted, always 
 in the front rank. But now that the battle 
 was lost, and the fight had become a pure- 
 ly defensive one a pushing way of death 
 as it were his grip was gone, and the 
 solid, staying qualities of the New Eng- 
 lander came out in strong contrast. The 
 men at once recognized him as their 
 leader, and whether by influence of the 
 brandy, or of his cheeriness, they buckled 
 heartily to the task before them. Sargent 
 understood this as well as they, and acted 
 accordingly. 
 
 "Tear the silk off that staff, Maurice, 
 and put it inside your jacket. We must 
 not lose the flag. Now, boys, look to 
 your arms again ; it is tinrfefor those pork- 
 eaters to be at us and here they come, 
 sure enough ! Lie low, boys, and aim 
 quietly, each mark his man ! "
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 
 
 93 
 
 A moment later a volley crashed over 
 them. 
 
 " On to your horses and charge ! " Sar- 
 gent yelled and it seemed that his words 
 had barely died away before they were 
 back again three men, Saint Brissac, 
 and Sargent. " My God, Maurice," the 
 latter said, " I haven't a cartridge left." 
 
 " Nor I," the other answered, dogged- 
 ly. The men shared with them and they 
 waited. They were too weak to charge 
 again, but stood gallantly at bay. Three 
 times the little band repulsed their assail- 
 ants until all their ammunition was ex- 
 hausted ; and again they waited. The 
 black uniforms were all around them. 
 
 Then some hussars came forward and 
 Sargent rode out alone, a bloody hand- 
 kerchief around his forehead, and his long, 
 straight blade before him. The German 
 officer advanced and gruffly demanded 
 their surrender. 
 
 "Come and take us!" was the quiet
 
 94 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 answer ; and Joe urged his horse onward. 
 The soldier laughed and cocked his pistol. 
 " Another step, my friend, and you are 
 carrion." But Sargent still moved toward 
 him. Sabre and pistol flashed at the same 
 moment ; and Joe disengaged himself 
 from his fallen horse, the hussar dropped 
 out of his saddle on to the grass, and the 
 little band cheered, as even desperate 
 men will do when they see a brave deed 
 nobly done. Even the Germans seemed 
 ashamed to attack again. After a few 
 moments of deliberation another officer 
 rode forward, with a handkerchief on the 
 end of his sword, and Sargent met him 
 half-way. 
 
 " Will you surrender? " he asked, cour- 
 teously. "You have done all that brave 
 men can do. You know the laws of war 
 we shall have to close In on you, and if 
 you do not surrender, . . . well, you 
 know what must happen as well as I do. 
 . Think on it a moment, sir. You
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 95 
 
 have no ammunition, no chance of escape. 
 You are alone in the midst of our army. 
 Surrender is the only course open to 
 you." 
 
 Sargent glanced around, and, to his 
 amazement, he saw the four cuirassiers 
 mounted, and in line, erect as on parade. 
 Three of them held their broken swords, 
 presenting arms. A step to the front, his 
 shattered right arm limp by his side, with 
 head thrown back and chest expanded, 
 the bugler was playing the grand old 
 
 hymn : 
 
 Mourir pour la patrie, 
 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 
 Le plus digne d'envie. . . . 
 
 And as the notes sprang from the 
 dented instrument, pathetically broken 
 and husky, the men straightened them- 
 selves in their saddles. "Perfectly in- 
 sane!" Sargent said to himself; "but it 
 is devilish fine all the same ; " and turning 
 to the Prussian officer he added, with a
 
 96 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 wave of the hand toward the little group 
 he commanded : 
 
 " You see, sir, surrender is out of the 
 question. I must go back to them." The 
 officer raised his cap in token of admira- 
 tion, and Sargent walked slowly back to 
 his men. 
 
 For a moment the enemy seemed em- 
 barrassed. Had they been Anglo-Saxons 
 they would have given those five heroes a 
 rousing cheer ; but being merely Saxons 
 the folly of the action outweighted its 
 grandeur. Before the generous officer 
 could prevent it, a last volley was poured 
 into the little clump of human wreckage 
 that had drifted and hung on that fatal 
 knoll. It seemed more like an execution 
 than a fight, and for a few seconds the as- 
 sailants held back waiting for the smoke 
 to clear. 
 
 By some miracle Sargent had not been 
 touched. Looming up through the mist 
 of smoke they saw his giant figure rise
 
 98 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 from the grass, on to which he had flung 
 himself, saw him snap his sword across 
 his knee and hurl the fragments at them, 
 watched him bend over the body of his 
 dying friend and raise it with tender care 
 in his mighty arms, as a mother might 
 bear her child, and slowly walk down 
 toward them with his burden, their bloody 
 work. 
 
 On either side the ranks parted in 
 solemn silence as he passed between 
 them, and so great was the prestige that 
 enmantled the solitary survivor that in- 
 stinctively the officers saluted as he walked 
 down the line to the road. There, uncon- 
 scious of his surroundings, he turned 
 toward the village. A large body of staff 
 officers had gathered on a little eminence 
 near by, whence they had watched the 
 last phases of the fight, and as the big 
 cuirassier passed, bearing in his arms the 
 body of his comrade the commanding 
 general rode forward.
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 99 
 
 Without realizing to whom he was 
 speaking, Sargent looked up and asked, 
 in his simple, quiet way : " Can you tell 
 me, sir, where I shall find some water ? 
 I am afraid my friend is dying." 
 
 There was something so gentle, so ab- 
 solutely oblivious of self, in the stalwart 
 young fellow's manner that the veteran's 
 eyes suddenly filled with tears. 
 
 " Your poor boy," he said, kindly, "he 
 is not dying he is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 At that moment a burly Rittmeister 
 rushed from the ranks and hit Sargent on 
 
 the shoulder. " You French dog of 
 
 a prisoner," he said, "how dare you 
 speak to a general. Come off here with 
 your carrion." 
 
 " Kreuz Grana ten Donner Keilf" the 
 old general fairly yelled, as he smote the 
 brute across the back with the flat of his 
 sword. "Get back to the ranks, you 
 hound ! "
 
 100 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Sargent had not even noticed the inci- 
 dent. " Are you sure, sir, that he is 
 dead ? " he asked, in a hopeless, cruelly 
 quiet voice. 
 
 The other merely nodded, and side by 
 side they went down the road a little way, 
 without apparent object, while the men 
 made way for them to right and left. 
 Presently they passed a group of sappers, 
 and the sight of their picks and shovels 
 seemed to rouse Sargent from his apathy. 
 He stopped and looked up again. 
 
 " May I bury him, sir? " he asked, in 
 the same dull voice. 
 
 The general gave some orders, and a 
 few men fell to digging a hole under a 
 gnarled old apple-tree. When they were 
 done, Sargent bent forward and laid his 
 friend down ; and they covered him in si- 
 lence. After it was over he planted the 
 broken sword above his head and kneeled 
 by the rough little mound. He was 
 vaguely conscious of the necessity of a
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE IOI 
 
 prayer* but for all his efforts he could 
 think of none but the little jingle we have 
 all babbled as children at our mother's 
 bedside. So, folding his hands, he re- 
 peated, slowly, the old familiar verses : 
 
 Now I lay me down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 
 
 Then his voice broke, and he stopped. 
 The white-haired old general removed his 
 cap and muttered between his teeth, as 
 the other officers present uncovered at his 
 example, "A strong hand and a tender 
 heart. If my Fritz had lived I wish he had 
 grown to be like you ! " Then there was 
 a long, awkward silence. Sargent rose 
 and looked around. For the first time 
 since the last volley was fired he realized 
 where he was, and recognized the rank of 
 the officer beside him. By way of apology 
 for the liberties he felt he must have 
 taken, he bowed low, then drew himself 
 up.
 
 102 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 "General," he said, quietly, "where 
 shall I join my fellow-prisoners ? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 A FEW months later Sargent arrived 
 in New York. The long, dreary period 
 of captivity was over, and once more he 
 was a free man ; for although he might 
 have availed himself of his commission as 
 staff officer, and been liberated on parole, 
 he preferred to take his full punishment 
 alongside of the men with whom, as a 
 private, he had ridden, verily, into the 
 jaws of death. At the frontier he opened 
 the sealed package intrusted to him by 
 Saint Brissac just before the charge, and 
 his heart stood still as he read the address 
 of the enclosed letter : T< To Miss Edith 
 Thomas." She was the girl he loved, the 
 girl who had rejected him. It was all 
 clear to him then ; she had loved Saint 
 Brissac possibly they were engaged
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 103 
 
 and of all men in the world he had been 
 chosen for the solemn duty of breaking 
 the news of his friend's death to her. For, 
 of course, the official despatches had 
 never mentioned the names of the two 
 volunteers. " Poor girl," he said to him- 
 self, and laughed. "She wrecked my 
 happiness, and now I am obliged to do 
 the same to her. It is indeed a bitter 
 world." 
 
 The steamer arrived in the morning, 
 and he called in the afternoon. As he 
 walked up Fifth Avenue none of his for- 
 mer friends recognized him, for indeed he 
 had grown very brown and gaunt during 
 the long months of privation when he 
 worked as a day-laborer in the German 
 prison. Then the broad scar across his 
 forehead had changed the frank, boyish 
 expression of his face, so that, although 
 many stared at him in an undecided sort 
 of way, as he made no sign of recognition 
 no one spoke to him.
 
 104 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Miss Thomas was alone, for he had 
 come early, and in the somewhat gloomy, 
 conventional room, furnished according 
 to the most expensive New York taste, 
 Sargent felt ill at ease. It was as though 
 the prison walls he had barely left again 
 enclosed him. They shook hands rather 
 stiffly, and Joe retreated to the mantel- 
 piece ; from there he could retreat no 
 further and must advance. 
 
 " And where have you been, pray, 
 during the last year, Mr. Sargent? " she 
 asked, with an assumption of light-heart- 
 edness. 
 
 " On a serious errand, Miss Thomas," 
 he answered, much embarrassed. " I was 
 in France with M. de Saint Brissac dur- 
 ing the campaign ; and and afterward, 
 alone, ... in Germany, a prisoner. 
 And . . . please take this ; . . . 
 he gave it to me just before the charge 
 where . . . where we were all killed 
 . . I mean " Then he handed
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 105 
 
 the letter to her, strode to the window, 
 and mopped his forehead with his hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 A few minutes passed in silence be- 
 fore she called to him. 
 
 Apparently she had not moved ; he 
 glanced up furtively at her face and saw 
 that she had been weeping. 
 
 " Tell me about it," she said, gently, 
 holding the letter in her clasped hands. 
 And the poor boy did. He told how 
 Saint Brissac had left at once for France 
 on receipt of the bad news ; of his energy 
 in Paris ; of his suffering at the disaster 
 which he felt must overwhelm his country ; 
 of his valiant charge, always in the front 
 rank ; of his gay and gallant behavior 
 throughout ; of his brave death ; of his glo- 
 riously simple funeral before the enemy's 
 host. He glorified his friend, and in do- 
 ing so before the woman he believed that 
 friend had loved, he grew enthusiastic and 
 eloquent. While he talked he did not
 
 106 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 dare look up at her, but he heard her 
 sobbing softly and his heart yearned with 
 sympathy for her and bled with grief for his 
 brilliant friend for he remembered now 
 ah so distinctly ! that last glimpse of him, 
 erect and undaunted in the face of death. 
 
 But when he had finished a horrible 
 feeling of nothingness came over him. 
 His last duty was done, and life seemed 
 to him like a deserted race-course. 
 
 "Well," he said, rising, after a pause, 
 " I think I must go," and he looked up. 
 
 The girl had also risen from her chair 
 and was holding Maurice's letter toward 
 him. 
 
 " Am I to read it ? " he asked. " Thank 
 you." 
 
 It was short, but characteristic, and ran 
 thus: 
 
 " MADEMOISELLE : I regret that our 
 very slight and formal acquaintance com- 
 pels me to apologize for the liberty of
 
 A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 107 
 
 addressing you. Nor would I dare, 
 mademoiselle, to do so were it not for the 
 knowledge that if this letter reaches your 
 hands I shall no longer be of this world. 
 I intrust it to one of the bravest, the no- 
 blest, the most unselfish, the most loving 
 of men my friend Joe Sargent. Ah, 
 mademoiselle, can I say more ? May 
 your noble heart teach you to read 
 between the lines of your admiring and 
 devoted servant, 
 
 "CHARLES MAURICE, 
 
 Comte de Saint Brissac." 
 
 "Why, ... but what does it all 
 mean?" Sargent exclaimed as he looked 
 up from the paper at the graceful girl 
 before him. I thought he ... 
 you. . . ." 
 
 "Ah, Joe," she interrupted, blushing 
 bewitchingly, and smiling at him through 
 her tears. "Joe, can't you read between 
 the lines ? "
 
 SERGEANT GORE 
 
 BY LEROY ARMSTRONG 
 With Illustrations by W. L. Metcalf
 
 ENLISTED men in the regular army do 
 not indulge in much courting of any kind. 
 These sons of Mars who hold the outworks 
 of the realm are not often afforded an op- 
 portunity to court even danger. Fame, 
 that is supposed to lurk in cannons' 
 mouths, there to be sought by aspiring 
 young gentlemen who make a living by 
 the extinguishment of other aspiring 
 young gentlemen, is a thing so rarely 
 heard about in the army of the United 
 States that sluggish blood, tamed by some 
 drill and much fatigue, is never moved to 
 deeds of daring. Fortune is, if possible, 
 farther away than promotion, for the le- 
 gions are not munificently rewarded, and 
 the soldier who can loan money is a per- 
 sonage certain of distinction. 
 
 And as for courtship which involves a
 
 112 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 gentler, fairer sex, that is quite out of the 
 question. At their quarters, in the tedi- 
 um of walking post, and on the long rides 
 down the valley when "mounted pass" 
 rewards good conduct, some of the men 
 may cherish these dreams of fair women, 
 but they always set the season of their 
 felicity far in the future when captivity 
 shall have been turned to freedom. 
 
 But now and then even the ignoble re- 
 cruit in the regular army finds an object 
 about which he may moan and dream. It 
 may not be a face or figure that would in- 
 spire great deeds in those who have more 
 frequent views of women ; but beauty is a 
 matter of comparisons. The " handsom- 
 est woman in the valley " wears a diadem 
 as dear to her as that which graces the 
 " loveliest lady in the city." 
 
 Fort Bidwell had but'o'ne unmarried 
 woman in the whole confines of the reser- 
 vation, and she was a half-Spanish maiden 
 who attended the commanding officer's
 
 114 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 children. Her father had been an army 
 officer, who consoled himself for assign- 
 ment to Fort Yuma by marrying the belle 
 of the region a territory that is even yet 
 far more Castilian than Saxon. Judged 
 by all canons of beauty Terita was not 
 handsome. She was short and dark, low- 
 browed, and gifted with a mouth of most 
 generous extent ; but then, she was young, 
 her hands and feet were small and shape- 
 ly, her eyes were deep and dark, and she 
 had her mother's very witchery of dress. 
 Seen beside the wives of the officers, Te- 
 rita suffered somewhat ; but then no sol- 
 dier ever saw her there. To them she was 
 ever alone and unshamed by compari- 
 sons. 
 
 When she wheeled the colonel's chil- 
 dren down the esplanade of an afternoon 
 the time of all times when an American 
 camp is lazy the men would vie with 
 each other in attentions. True, they 
 could not do much, and the first man at
 
 SERGEANT GORE 115 
 
 her side, if not dislodged by Terita's 
 frowns, was master of the situation. 
 
 But the sun shone brightly on the es- 
 planade all the afternoon, while just across 
 the creek which formed one boundary of 
 the parade-ground was a level stretch of 
 grass that lay like a carpet right up to the 
 foot of a massive, towering wall of granite. 
 The time-honored excuse for accosting 
 the maid was to assist her and the chil- 
 dren across this brook on a series of step- 
 ping-stones so much more desirable 
 than any bridge could have been. Once 
 over, the commonest kind of courtesy de- 
 manded that Terita permit her adorer to 
 walk up and down with her, to fill the ad- 
 miring, envious eyes of all the garrison, 
 and to win the colonel's graces no less 
 than the girl's, by preventing any of the 
 little blunderers from falling in the brook. 
 
 It was, indeed, to the rank and file, 
 " the shadow of a great rock in a weary 
 land."
 
 Il6 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Of course, all this implied a well- 
 dressed soldier, the patient buffing of 
 buttons, the polishing of shoes, and the 
 tact to simply happen on the esplanade 
 not rush there as though this were the 
 one thing which could make a man tidy 
 and agreeable. And while four out of 
 every five men in the fort would have giv- 
 en a month's pay any time to walk and 
 talk with her, to touch her hand at chance 
 intervals, and to wake that merry South- 
 ern laugh, not nearly that proportion 
 cared to give the time and trouble neces- 
 sary ; and a still smaller number was pre- 
 pared to march out there and run the risk 
 of impalement on that keen glance, not to 
 mention the ridicule such a fate would 
 involve when one returned to the squad- 
 room. 
 
 Yet the strife for hr' smiles was warm 
 enough, and several shared with some ap- 
 proach to equality the honor of attending 
 Terita, though not one of them could ex-
 
 SERGEANT GORE 117 
 
 pect she would dismiss the others, and 
 keep herself for him only. But the girl 
 was rapidly developing a stronger liking 
 for Sergeant Gore than for anybody else. 
 He was so handsome, so at ease ; his blue 
 eyes shone with such a light, and his soft, 
 white hands were so caressingly tender 
 when they touched her own. 
 
 He was so faultlessly dressed, and was 
 so plainly accustomed some time in the 
 past to even better company than hers, 
 that Terita always greeted him with a 
 surer welcome, walked with him longer, 
 and was plainly happier with him than 
 with the other men. And so it came to 
 pass when rival admirers outwitted Ser- 
 geant Gore and gained the coveted posi- 
 tion, she grew to inquiring about that 
 young man ; grew to speak of his dress, his 
 learning, his better past. All this was gall 
 and wormwood to the gallants who heard 
 it, and one by one they read dismissal in 
 the queries, and left the field to Gore.
 
 Il8 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 He was not the only man of good fam- 
 ily whom Dame Fortune, in a perverse 
 mood, had sent to the ranks of the reg- 
 ular army ; he was one of many. But 
 his face and figure, no less than his fam- 
 ily-tree, were his title-deeds of nobility. 
 Sergeant Gore's weekly letter from his 
 Philadelphia home had long been one of 
 the events at the squad-rooms in Bidwell. 
 A chosen few might listen to some pas- 
 sages. A somewhat larger circle had seen 
 the photographs of mother and sisters, 
 and knew the home-life of the Gores was 
 one to envy. They paid him their highest 
 compliment by being interested in that 
 fairer half of life, and asking respectfully, 
 when the quarters were stillest, about 
 those from whom his honor kept him 
 alien. 
 
 During the Modoc 'war young Billy 
 Somers, just out of a civilian college at 
 the East, dared the rigors of a campaign 
 in the lava beds, quartering himself on
 
 SERGEANT GORE 119 
 
 his brother, the first lieutenant of Com- 
 pany G, First Cavalry. When Captain 
 Jack and his three unclean abettors were 
 hanged at Klamath for defying the flag 
 and slaying the men who bore it, young 
 William asked for a commission in the 
 army. The officers in general endorsed 
 his application, for he was an uncommon- 
 ly agreeable fellow, and all declared his 
 deserts firmly grounded on "brave and 
 meritorious conduct in the Modoc war." 
 
 Pending the action of the Secretary 
 of War the young man paid a visit to 
 his friends in San Francisco, and then, 
 as the unfruitful months vanished, he 
 came to Bidwell and again accepted the 
 hospitality of his brother. He found a 
 comfortable seat on the broad balcony 
 of Lieutenant Somers's quarters, and 
 there smoked good "conchas " and watch- 
 ed the golden afternoons drift by. 
 
 He saw Terita, and being almost an 
 officer, if not already crowned with a com-
 
 mission, he needed no introduction, and, 
 indeed, very little formality of any kind, 
 to claim her acquaintance. The girl was 
 flattered by his attentions, although the 
 more surely he was an officer the smaller 
 the chance for any union. But he found 
 many pretexts for being with her. When 
 his commission should come he might be
 
 SERGEANT GORE 121 
 
 assigned to some post in the South, and 
 his Spanish was in woful need of dressing. 
 And she well, she was a woman, and not 
 averse to compliment. 
 
 The children were seldom lifted across 
 the creek now. Terita said the esplanade 
 was good enough. And she could not en- 
 courage Sergeant Gore to walk with her 
 there, where every turn brought them 
 under Lieutenant Somers's balcony. Yet 
 she did love him. She wept in secret 
 many times, vexed that fate gave her a 
 choice so grievous; and she was often 
 very good to Gore, though he, poor fel- 
 low, would come back to quarters with 
 not enough of reason left to distinguish 
 between a daily detail and a death sen- 
 tence. 
 
 But at last the commons triumphed. 
 Billy Somers's commission didn't come ; 
 maybe it never would. She fed the hope 
 and let her heart follow its stronger bend- 
 ing. Gore was in ecstasies. He had less
 
 122 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 than a year to serve, and then an honor- 
 able discharge would restore him, some- 
 what like the prodigal son, to a father's 
 house where there was plenty. 
 
 Terita slipped from her room one night 
 and met her lover on the grassy walk 
 beyond the creek. They strolled up and 
 down there in the moonlight, busy with 
 pictures that are never unveiled but once 
 in all the world. Gore wore his finest uni- 
 form, and strapped to his side, lifted from 
 clanking against his spurs, was his bur- 
 nished sabre, for he was sergeant of the 
 guard to-day. 
 
 Why will a woman love the tools of 
 war? What is there in a sword to fire 
 her with devotion for the wight who 
 carries it? No one knows, yet that has 
 been her weakness since JEneas won the 
 heart of Dido. * 
 
 The mail had arrived to-day, and its 
 chief treasure, his letter from home, was 
 recited at length to the fairy by his side.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 123 
 
 Terita listened and clung to this hand- 
 some fellow ; she stroked his massive 
 arm, she touched his face, she sang him 
 songs of love in the soft Spanish of her 
 mother-tongue and she turned like a 
 panther when a man came quickly around 
 the base of the great rock and approached 
 her lover threateningly. 
 
 It was Billy Somers. 
 
 "Go to the guard-house, Gore," he 
 said. " You have no business here." 
 
 But the sergeant knew his footing. He 
 was trespassing on regulations ; he was well 
 aware of that, but between him and any 
 citizen he was the better armed just now. 
 
 ' ' I don't know why I should take orders 
 from you," he said, calmly and firmly ; 
 then he added, "Mr. Somers," with a 
 possible emphasis on the title. 
 
 " You are sergeant of the guard. Go 
 to your post, or I will have your belts off 
 in ten minutes." 
 
 " You go slow, or I will have you in
 
 124 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 the bottom of the creek in ten seconds," 
 came in anger from the soldier. Then he 
 added again, as thrust, reminder, taunt- 
 ing all in one " Mr. Somers." 
 
 " Lieutenant Somers," corrected the 
 other, with an undoubted emphasis on 
 the title. 
 
 "Lieutenant?" cried the girl, with an 
 inflection of inquiry. 
 
 "Lieutenant!" echoed Gore, in deep 
 derision. He did not believe the Secre- 
 tary of War would ever make that man 
 an officer. 
 
 " Yes, lieutenant," said Somers, sharply. 
 " My commission came to-day." 
 
 That settled it. He was clearly master 
 here. But Gore was game. He took 
 Terita's hand and led her across the brook 
 on the stepping-stones that long had 
 paved the way from earth, to paradise 
 stones that memory would bind about his 
 neck hereafter, while he struggled in the 
 infinite sea of despair.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 125 
 
 But he would have given a sixth year of 
 service in the barracks for just one hour 
 at the hay corral with that subaltern. 
 
 " Good-night, Terita," he said, as he 
 reached her door. There was no attempt 
 at hushing his voice as became a plebeian 
 on the borders of patrician realms. He 
 lifted his cap with perfect grace, bowed 
 low and went away, proud as a gentleman. 
 
 All the officers and their families, sitting 
 the evening out upon their balconies, saw 
 the episode ; but they had not seen that 
 brief passage at arms across the creek. 
 The officer of the day only knew that here 
 was a sergeant of the guard gallanting a 
 girl when he should have been at his post. 
 He put on his hat and called to the retreat- 
 ing figure, while Terita wrung her hands 
 in an agony for Gore, then pressed them 
 in rejoicing for Somers's good fortune. 
 
 The two men met half-way across the 
 parade-ground. 
 
 " What are you doing, sergeant ? "
 
 126 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 " Disobeying orders, I fear, sir," an- 
 swered the culprit, saluting. 
 
 "Go to your post. I shall report you 
 in the morning." 
 
 They saluted again and parted. That 
 night Sergeant Gore was Upton personi- 
 fied in his strict adherence to regulations. 
 Next morning he was relieved before 
 guard mount, and the corporal turned 
 over " the fort and all its stores " to the 
 succeeding detail. 
 
 " Lieutenant William Somers says you 
 insulted him last night," said the com- 
 manding officer, sternly, when he had 
 summoned Gore before him. The non- 
 commissioned man told the whole story 
 just as it was. 
 
 " Go back to your quarters, and never 
 let .such conduct occur again." 
 
 Gore was out of it easier than he had 
 expected. He was not even reduced to 
 the ranks. Surely that grim old colonel 
 saw more than the surface of things.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 127 
 
 But Terita ? Well, she grew very chill- 
 ing. Young Lieutenant Somers honored 
 her with a horseback ride down the valley, 
 though his conduct met stern disapproval 
 from the other officers and their wives. It 
 was one thing for Terita to be courted by 
 an enlisted man soon to leave the service ; 
 it was quite another for an officer to show 
 her favors and she a waiting-maid ! 
 
 Sergeant Gore was not reduced to the 
 ranks, but he might have been for all he 
 cared. He was hopelessly smitten by that 
 little girl. He could not wake his pride 
 and dismiss all thought of her. He grew 
 less tidy, and his springing gait became a 
 painful drag. He did his duty in a slip- 
 shod way, and only roused to interest 
 when the squad-rooms were agog with 
 speculation as to where " Lieutenant 
 Billy " would be assigned for service. He 
 only listened to their chatter when the 
 men recounted some new freak of that 
 late-fledged lieutenant. His arrogance,
 
 128 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 his tyranny, his petty spite, won him a 
 place of singular dislike. Gore hoped, yet 
 dreaded, that the time would come when 
 he could wreak his anger on that upstart. 
 He did much violence to his blood and 
 training as he pictured some possible col- 
 lision. He thought of Achilles, who was 
 bereft by a baser, not a better, soldier 
 and smiled at the stupendous vanity pent 
 in the simile. 
 
 A month went by. The new lieutenant 
 had an open field for Terita, so far as 
 rivals went, but he still found rough sail- 
 ing in the social waters. At last, in self- 
 defence, he announced his intention to 
 marry the girl as soon as he was assigned 
 to duty, and said, in a burst of heroics, 
 that he would be proud to take her with 
 him as his wife wherever he might go. 
 And from that time - his wooing was 
 frowned on less hardly than before. 
 
 But that assignment to duty ! It 
 troubled him far more than anyone else.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 129 
 
 Until it came that Spanish damsel held 
 him at a most tantalizing arm's length. It 
 was very provoking. He prayed for the 
 Presidio, near San Francisco ; he dreaded 
 Fort Yuma or St. Francis. 
 
 Sergeant Gore lay half-asleep on a 
 bench in front of the quarters, and gazed 
 at that point of rocks across the parade- 
 ground. The October wind lifted his 
 blond hair and blew it about, shaming 
 him for neglecting the barber. It oc- 
 curred to him that the mail-coach was due 
 to-day, and he was not so tidy as he 
 should be when his letter came. He 
 glanced down at his uniform, at his dusty 
 boots ; he passed his palm across a very 
 stubble-field of cheek. He waked to the 
 consciousness that all this was unmanly, 
 not to say unsoldier-like, no matter what 
 the provocation, and he drew himself to- 
 gether with a quick resolve to be more 
 worthy of that distant home where he was 
 waited with such patient love.
 
 130 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 As he set his face toward the rather 
 humble house of tonsure some quality in 
 the rising wind attracted him. An arrow 
 of cold, like an icy needle, shot its warn- 
 ing through the warmer air. In the north- 
 west, hovering on the ragged peaks of 
 Shasta, were banks of leaden clouds, 
 while just overhead, with lowering press- 
 ure, swept the fleecy vanguard of the 
 storm. 
 
 " Blizzard to-night," said Gore, senten- 
 tiously, to the barber ; and then, in a tone 
 more life-like than they had known in 
 weeks, he added: " One shave, one hair- 
 cut, one waxed mustache, "and clambered 
 in the chair. 
 
 When he left the place an hour later he 
 was the Gore of other days. Not a fleck 
 of dust stained the dark blue of his gar- 
 ments ; not a touch of soil dimmed the 
 lustre of his shoes, while buttons, linen, 
 sunny locks and all, marked the model 
 soldier.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 13! 
 
 Just before him a little heap of leaves 
 and grasses woke in confusion and scam- 
 pered up the spiral staircase of the wind. 
 Over in the great corral swine were bor- 
 rowing trouble with loud, incisive cries, 
 and carrying wisps of hay into the lee of 
 heavy walls. The army of clouds that 
 stood on Shasta when he passed before 
 had advanced a score of miles, and gusts 
 of cold, like scouts, were trying the pas- 
 sages of canon and hill. Light flakes of 
 snow shot by, fell in a group on the porch 
 at the quarters, and whirled in a waltz 
 to the sharp whistling of the storm. 
 
 "Put on your overcoats," said the 
 sergeant of the guard to the relief. In- 
 side the squad-room some men were 
 kindling a fire. Gore watched them 
 through the window, then walked briskly 
 to and fro the length of the building. He 
 was erect, clear-brained, deep-breathing, 
 exultant. His vigor was wakened by the 
 tonic of frost.
 
 132 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 Snow drifted in long, loose ridges across 
 the parade-ground, as the sundown roll 
 was called. At tattoo the blast had grown 
 so bitter that the men stood close in the 
 shelter of the buildings, as in midwinter ; 
 while the officer of the day, in top-boots 
 and field-cloak, was buried to the knees 
 in the gathering drifts. Taps, the final 
 bugle-call of the day, was drowned in the 
 louder trumpetings of the hurricane. 
 
 Gore thought of his horse, and stole 
 from the barracks to make sure of the 
 animal's comfort. The storm was raging. 
 Winds, like moistened lashes, whipped 
 his face. He bent his head and ran, 
 stumbling over unfamiliar things, trip- 
 ping, recovering, and chafing his freezing 
 wrists. Surely he had gone far enough. 
 He was bewildered. He turned his back 
 and tried to find the outlines of the build- 
 ings or the hills. Vision could not pierce 
 beyond that mad, tempestuous whirl of 
 sleety snow.
 
 SERGEANT GORE 133 
 
 He was lost ! 
 
 But under the chilling paralysis of that 
 moment, when life and death contended 
 with just lengthened lances, the heart of 
 the man rose with a throb of defiance. 
 He would not be frozen. Where was the 
 corral ? the quarters ? where was he ? 
 One moment of confusion meant a panic 
 and the end. One moment of calmness 
 might save him. He shouted aloud, but 
 the vicious demon of the storm snatched 
 the message and shattered it scattered it 
 to all the winds at once. He knew it 
 could not be heard ten yards away. But 
 he called again, and just as calmly. 
 Somewhere in that hurrying blast was 
 surely a breeze that would carry the cry 
 to willing ears. He tried again. 
 
 Then, behind him just a little way, rose 
 an answer. He turned and called quick- 
 ly. Quicker still came a response. But 
 this new voice was one of beseeching. It 
 was a plea for help. Gore struggled to-
 
 134 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 ward it, guided by its rising, waking, 
 hopeful repetition. He stumbled blindly 
 against a fence and knew his bearings in 
 an instant. 
 
 There to his right, buried in the drift, 
 battling feebly to escape, crouched " Lieu- 
 tenant Billy." 
 
 Gore gazed on him in silence just one 
 moment ; but in that little lapse of time 
 his bosom was a battle-field of tempests as 
 fierce as that without. How easy to end 
 it all just here ! No need to touch him ; 
 no need to speak. No one on earth would 
 ever know he stood above those epaulets 
 and took receipt in full for slavery. 
 
 Just one moment, and then a breath 
 from that good home in far-off Philadel- 
 phia flashed past the leagues that lay be- 
 tween, and stirred his heart to manhood. 
 
 "Hello there, Lieutenant!" he shout- 
 ed, grasping a numbed arm with one 
 hand, while with the other he held to the 
 fence as to a life-line that could bear them
 
 SERGEANT GORE 135 
 
 both to safety. " Hello, there ! Get up ! 
 You're freezing." 
 
 The bewildered man rose stiffly, grasp- 
 ing wildly for support. He could not 
 walk ; he could not stand. He fell full 
 length and helpless in the snow. 
 
 Gore stooped and wrapped his strong 
 arms about the prostrate body ; he raised 
 it to his shoulder and then crowded along 
 against the fence till it led him to the 
 quarters. 
 
 A month of fairest weather followed, 
 and not a vestige of the storm-wrought 
 ruin could be seen in the valley. Ser- 
 geant Gore was discipline again. He 
 didn't care about Terita, and he was quits 
 with Somers. His arms shone resplen- 
 dent, his uniform was a model of beauty, 
 his conduct was all tnat a soldier could 
 desire. He declined with dignity the 
 lieutenant's invitation to come to the offi- 
 cers' quarters and be ^hanked.
 
 136 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 41 Tell him," he said to the orderly, 
 "' that I saved him just as I would a steer 
 or a pony. I don't care a copper whether 
 he gets well or not." 
 
 This was far from true ; but the brute 
 in man is sometimes so strong that it de- 
 mands concessions, and they must be 
 made. He could not forget, and it was 
 still more impossible to forgive. 
 
 He was strolling past the esplanade one 
 day, upright, defiant. The mail had just 
 brought him a letter from home. It raised 
 him visibly above all things in Bidwell. It 
 warmed and comforted it satisfied him. 
 
 Terita leaned from the colonel's bal- 
 cony and accosted him. 
 
 "So glad to see you," she said. "I 
 have wanted to talk with you. Let us walk 
 on the grass beyond the creek to-night." 
 
 "What will Somers s'ay ? " 
 
 How perverse he was. But even as he 
 watched for the effect of his thrust, his 
 heart leaped wildly. Oh, those little
 
 SERGEANT GORE 137 
 
 hands, that gladsome face, those ripe, red 
 lips! 
 " Why," with a laugh, " what do I care ? " 
 
 Plainly the new commission had lost its 
 charms. 
 
 "I'll come," said Gore, not quite so 
 heartily as he once had done, but with a 
 vein of independence that was worth much 
 to him. 
 
 That night they crossed the creek, 
 treading those blessed stepping-stones, and 
 walked in the moonlight again. The even- 
 ings were chilling now, and Terita wore 
 a true Castilian mantilla. They talked 
 of everything but one. She sang the 
 old songs, she laughed and flattered him ; 
 she won him utterly, and then she said : 
 
 "You were so good to save 'Lieuten- 
 ant Billy. ' Poor fellow, he is so grateful 
 to you." 
 
 Gore sniffed his contempt. 
 
 "He has been assigned to duty at I 
 can't remember."
 
 138 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 "The Presidio?" with fear and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 "No oh, my, no. At Fort Buford, in 
 Northern Dakota. His orders came to- 
 day." 
 
 Talk of anything now. She has spread 
 her net, has secured her prize ; here she 
 transfixed him. When he left her that 
 night Sergeant Gore trod on zephyrs. He 
 was too happy to lie in bed even after 
 taps, and stole away beyond the boiling 
 springs to walk alone and fashion castles 
 in the air castles that in these later days 
 he has peopled with the fairies of love re- 
 quited, the genii of manhood's strength 
 and woman's blessing. 
 
 And Terita? Why, time has given 
 stature, rarest comeliness, and unswerv- 
 ing truth to her. She is prouder of her 
 home, her handsome htfsband, and her 
 pretty children, than ever was the wife of 
 a grandee in Spain.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN 
 HORSE 
 
 BY CHARLES C. NOTT
 
 HORSES are like babies chiefly inter- 
 esting to their owners. Occasionally they 
 emerge from the enclosure of home life, 
 and become interesting to other people. 
 One in a million may find his way into 
 print, but most rare are the horses whose 
 characters are worthy of record. The one 
 of which I write comes a step nearer to
 
 142 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 humanity in this, that a shadow of mystery 
 falls upon his life and end.* 
 
 He belonged to the Fremont Hussars ; 
 but how he came into the regiment no 
 man could tell. It was in September, 
 1861, and the regiment, not yet equipped, 
 was in camp near St. Louis. Newly built 
 sheds for horses and newly pitched tents 
 for men lay in parallel lines, and around 
 the encampment ran the high fence of 
 the "Abbey Race Track." In this, the 
 
 * The story here printed is not fiction, although, 
 as the reader will perceive, it is as improbable a 
 story of a horse as was ever written. All of the 
 facts actually occurred ; the most improbable 
 event in the narrative was duly substantiated 
 by legal evidence at the time, and this evidence 
 has been submitted to the editor. The author 
 is one of the seniors of our Federal judges ; the 
 commanding officer of the regiment first referred 
 to was Colonel George E.^ \Varing, the well- 
 known sanitary engineer; and another witness of 
 the incidents narrated was Colonel James F. 
 Dwight, recently one of the assignees in bank- 
 ruptcy and a well-known member of the New 
 York bar.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 143 
 
 first flush of war, recruits poured in, a 
 daily stream ; and another stream, the 
 troopers' horses, came flowing from the 
 Government corrals. These two streams, 
 however, did not flow in evenly together ; 
 sometimes the men were in excess, some- 
 times the horses. But whenever there 
 was a surplus of the latter, although the 
 mass would remain the same, there would 
 be a strange disintegration of the parti- 
 cles. Sixty horses the officer in charge 
 would leave under guard at nightfall, 
 and sixty horses would be found under 
 guard at daybreak ; yet how changed ! 
 So many sick ! so many lame ! such a 
 noticeable decrease in size and spirit ! 
 For the Fremont Hussars consisted large- 
 ly of German veterans who knew a thing 
 or two of soldiering and horses, and 
 who held that the best of troopers would 
 be useless to the cause of freedom un- 
 less he were well mounted. Wherefore, 
 as the "reserve mounts" grew nightly
 
 144 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 worse, the six mounted companies ap- 
 peared daily better. Such fine horses they 
 rode ; all so healthy and sound. ' ' Vhy 
 are our horses so goot? Vhy, pecause 
 ve take so goot care of tern." One could 
 not help liking these kind-hearted Dutch- 
 men. 
 
 But when the seventh company came 
 to be mounted out of the " reserve 
 mounts," then there was awful swearing 
 to be heard in the land storms of harsh 
 consonants cataracts of Dutch oaths. 
 And then the men already mounted, like 
 disinterested patriots seeking to throw oil 
 on the troubled waters, would address 
 the to-be-mounted in calm and sooth- 
 ing words which pointed toward future 
 arrivals of horses for future recruits, and 
 intimated that at such fortunate epochs it 
 could be made "allricht" Whereupon, 
 the exasperated, with glances thrown to- 
 ward the distant Government corral, and 
 an ominous Germanic jerk of the head ex-
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 145 
 
 pressive of much inward resolve, would 
 say to all concerned, "Never mindt, 
 never mindt." 
 
 In this state of equine affairs a newly 
 mustered captain of the regiment await- 
 ing the arrival of his own private horses, 
 and needing a temporary mount, looked 
 despondingly through the reserve, and 
 found no horse which it would become 
 "an officer and gentleman" to ride. As 
 he stood negotiating the purchase of a 
 cheap animal from a brother officer, a 
 sergeant came up, and said that there 
 was a well-appearing horse in the ninth 
 shed, a horse that no one seemed to own. 
 The party walked around to the shed, 
 and at one end of it, with three or four 
 of the rejected "rats" of the regiment, 
 found a large chestnut sorrel, in appear- 
 ance much above the average of troop- 
 ers' horses. How so good-looking an 
 animal came to be standing there, in- 
 stead of in some of the six companies'
 
 146 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 stables, was the first question. The ser- 
 geant had observed him there for three 
 days past or more ; one man believed he 
 had been rejected by a Prussian veteran 
 as too rough a trotter ; another that he 
 had thrown his rider; but no one really 
 knew anything about him. The inspect- 
 ing officers of the regiment chanced to be 
 lounging near, and they averred that they 
 had never inspected the horse. But he 
 bore the regimental brand and stood in 
 the regimental stables. 
 
 As the party approached the horse the 
 captain was struck with his breadth of 
 forehead and dark, sinister eye. The 
 sergeant also noticed the latter, for he 
 immediately said, " That's a wicked eye 
 he has." The horse quickly turned his 
 head toward the sergeant and looked at 
 him steadily with a mild, contemplative 
 expression ; the remainder of the party 
 said they saw nothing wicked about him. 
 As they waited for a saddle to be brought
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 147 
 
 the horse yawned, stretching his deep 
 mouth wide, and disclosing a tongue that 
 had been half cut off, i.e., about mid- 
 way in the tongue were the remains of 
 a deep gash which had nearly severed 
 it in two, and now left the lower half of 
 a peninsula connected only by a narrow 
 isthmus with the main continent. 
 
 The saddle came and an Austrian of- 
 ficer mounted. He was a noble of the 
 " blue blood," on leave of absence, and a 
 captain of the Hussars. He rode with 
 the stiff, straight leg of a Continental 
 cavalry officer, erect and commanding 
 above the saddle ; awkward and unbe- 
 coming below an unyielding seat, ex- 
 acting and wearisome to man and beast. 
 But, like all of the Prussian and Austri- 
 an officers, he understood his business 
 thoroughly, and when a trooper could 
 not manage his horse on drill, it was his 
 way to order the man to dismount and 
 ride the refractory animal for him. Un-
 
 148 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 der his easy hand the horse he was now 
 trying appeared much better than when 
 in the stable, moving off in a free, bold 
 trot, with head and ears erect, like those 
 hunters which English painters love to 
 sketch trotting to the " meet," the red 
 coat bending forward and rising in the 
 stirrups with every stride. His trot was, 
 indeed, a trifle too high and rough for 
 a McClellan saddle and a "hard-riding" 
 seat ; but nothing to reject a good horse 
 for ; and there was a superior gallop with 
 long and steady stride, and hoof-beats fall- 
 ing regular as clock-work. There was 
 no shying, starting, or stumbling ; he was 
 neither restive nor lazy ; he moved quietly 
 and freely ; he was just the horse that 
 an officer would choose for the daily 
 drill ; and the only Qbjection that appear- 
 ed was that he was not an easy horse 
 " to ride hard." 
 
 "To ride hard" doubtless means, to 
 many an American, to ride furiously. In
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 149 
 
 fact, it is the distinguishing term between 
 the rising and falling, easy seat of the 
 English gentleman, and the fixed, im- 
 movable seat of the English officer. 
 When the Duke of Wellington was ask- 
 ed : " How long is a man fit to be a 
 general ? " he answered : " As long as he 
 is able to see to everything himself and 
 ride hard." In this topsy-turvy world of 
 ours there is a wonderful compliance of 
 things to their conditions. All men have 
 " builded better than they knew," if they 
 have but built at all. It may be laid 
 down as a general law of transportation, 
 that whenever good carriage-ways are 
 built the horseman dismounts. He mounts 
 again for parade or pleasure, for exer- 
 cise or excitement; but his transpor- 
 tation business he evermore will do on 
 wheels. The English are an exception 
 to the rule. They travel in the saddle, 
 they ride to market, to Parliament, to 
 their counting-houses, to their hunting
 
 150 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 meets. They ride twenty miles to lunch, 
 and twenty back to dinner ; and they 
 ride upon hard highways and smooth 
 macadam roads. Generations of experi- 
 ence have taught them that the steady 
 trot and shifting seat are the movements 
 of the united horse and man, .which yield 
 to both, upon solid stone roads, the 
 largest amount of ease with the least 
 degree of strain. The trooper with his 
 sabre, and the cow-boy with his lasso, 
 cannot surrender the free activity of body 
 and arm. They must always be in the 
 saddle. In the deep prairie grass the 
 trotter loses his feet ; so the cow-boy rides 
 upon an easy lope. The trooper must 
 ride at all gaits, and hence he must al- 
 ways "ride hard." 
 
 The Austrian dismounted and spoke 
 well of the horse. So did the small 
 crowd of horse-critics, officers and men, 
 that gathered round him. For your horse 
 is a leveller in society ; and in the stable
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 151 
 
 gentlemen and jockey grow familiar, with- 
 out contempt, in a common enthusiasm ; 
 and in the cavalry camp officers and men 
 mingle around the leveller, whose best 
 judge, for the time, is the best man the 
 authority of highest rank. So this horse, 
 which had been dozing for days amid six 
 hundred sharp-eyed horsemen each in 
 want of a better horse than he had 
 seemed suddenly to awake and arouse the 
 interest of all who saw bim. 
 
 The horse had not been bitted ; he was 
 not " bridle-wise," and he knew but one 
 meaning in his rider's spur. And there 
 was no time to train him, for the " De- 
 partment of the West" was a bee-hive 
 then, without drones. The untaught offi- 
 cers from civil life's quiet ignorance had 
 not time to train themselves. There was 
 drilling of men, inspecting of horses, be- 
 seeching ordnance officers for arms, im- 
 ploring quarter - masters for clothing. 
 Matchless was the zeal and the industry
 
 152 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 that reigned in every camp during " Fre- 
 mont's hundred days." Yet in the turmoil 
 of the time this horse seemed to learn by 
 looking on, and, at the end of a week, to 
 know everything. The slightest touch of 
 the rein upon his neck, the mere motion 
 of the rider's hand, the gentlest pressure 
 of the leg, would wheel him without the 
 use of bit or bridle. So imperceptible 
 were the means employed, that some who 
 watched him thought that he understood 
 the commands, and made his "right- 
 wheel" or "left turn" at the mere 
 word. 
 
 It was observed that this horse seemed 
 to delight in drilling in drilling, not be- 
 ing drilled. It was as the captain's horse, 
 out of the ranks and viewing the unhappy 
 condition of his kind, that he was happy. 
 For, as the "coach" oT'a boat's crew is 
 properly on the outside of the boat, so the 
 instructor of cavalry is always on the out- 
 side of his squad. He moves but little,
 
 THE TALB OF A GOBLIN HORSE 153 
 
 and the men in their evolutions revolve 
 around him. Occasionally he changes his 
 position, but then halts to command, and 
 explain, and criticise. When the captain 
 thus halted, and the reins were dropped, 
 and the new horses in the ranks were 
 crowding, and kicking, and fretting, and 
 sweating, then would this one's sinister 
 eye glow with Satanic joy. When the 
 squadron passed before him on the gallop, 
 and dull horses were being pricked up by 
 spurs, and fiery colts wrenched back by 
 curbs, then would he stand placid as the 
 Indian summer sky, and plant his fore- 
 feet well in front and stretch his legs, and 
 body, and long neck, and deep jaws, with 
 such exquisite enjoyment as the sight of 
 misery might give the animal with the 
 cloven hoof and tail, from the stable be- 
 low. If it were regimental drill, and he 
 was denied the sweets of contemplation, 
 then would he take his place in front of 
 the line or beside the column, and move
 
 154 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 with the regularity of a machine, indiffer- 
 ent to the existence of all other horses. 
 He never became excited ; he never 
 showed the ineradicable desire of his 
 kind to race ; he led down deep descents 
 with no increase of speed, and up sharp 
 acclivities without " losing distance ; " he 
 did not swerve a hair's-breadth for a huge 
 heap of broken stones, but mounted and 
 traversed it at his measured trot. Yet 
 when the hours of drill were over, and 
 sounding bugles, and shouting drill-offi- 
 cers, and charging squadrons were gone, 
 and the prairie was deserted and still, and 
 any other horse would look toward the 
 stable and seek to follow his mates, then 
 a wild excitement would sometimes fall 
 upon this one, and he would" rear, and 
 plunge, and kick, and gallop around and 
 around like an escaping celt. 
 
 The horse was not long in acquiring a 
 name. At first he was known as "The 
 Drill Sergeant," but there was soon a
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 155 
 
 new development of character in which, 
 as has been the case with many notable 
 characters, he succeeded in making a 
 name for himself. The afternoon drill 
 was over, the October sun was sinking 
 through the golden haze, and the captain, 
 with his friend D. , was sauntering from 
 the drill-ground to their quarters. It 
 chanced that they came upon a young 
 officer trying to force his newly bought 
 horse up to some bloody hides that hung 
 upon a fence beside the road. They vol- 
 unteered a precept or two as they passed ; 
 but precepts are mere blank cartridges, 
 worth nothing without the projectile of 
 example. The young officer understood 
 the fact, if not the philosophy, and he inti- 
 mated a wish that the "Drill Sergeant" 
 might be ridden up to the fence, and he 
 and his colt be shown, not told, how to do 
 it. D. had dismounted then and sent his 
 horse to the stable, but he applauded the 
 lieutenant's sentiment, and said that it
 
 156 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 was perfectly fair ; nothing, he thought, 
 could be more reasonable, and he really 
 hoped it would not be passed by unno- 
 ticed. The captain touched the "Drill 
 Sergeant's " neck slightly with the rein, 
 who with veteran-like gravity turned and 
 advahced toward the fence. The captain 
 was sitting loungingly in the saddle, with 
 an air of easy listlessness, one foot playing 
 with the stirrup, the reins hanging loose 
 upon the pommel. He was thinking that 
 the " Drill Sergeant " would march on 
 until his breast touched the fence, and he 
 was intending to say that if young officers 
 would train their colts first, and acquire a 
 moral control over them, they might ride 
 them up to bloody hides also. He was 
 indeed just turning in his saddle to give 
 utterance to the precept, when there was 
 a bolt which seemed to hfrri a small earth- 
 quake a bolt rearward, roundward, up- 
 ward, downward, and he found himself 
 some thirty feet distant, and the " Drill
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 157 
 
 Sergeant " standing placidly again in the 
 middle of the road. The rider was not 
 unhorsed, as he confessed he deserved to 
 have been. Without knowing how, he 
 had kept himself on the " Drill Ser- 
 geant's " back, who was now, as has been 
 said, standing placidly in the road. The 
 young officer promptly seized his oppor- 
 tunity and said, sarcastically, that he had 
 expected to be shown how to do it he 
 added seriously that the captain had bet- 
 ter not try it again, for that horse was a 
 wicked one, and the " rock road," with its 
 loose, broken stone, a bad place for a fall. 
 D. blandly interposed, and thought differ- 
 ently. He thought the captain had better 
 try it again when surprised, he had not 
 been thrown, and now that he was on his 
 guard there could be no danger. D. 
 added that there was nothing more de- 
 lightful than to witness a contest between 
 the intelligence of man and the power of 
 a brute. It did him good, he said. Be-
 
 158 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 sides, we cavalry officers should not mind 
 a fall ; we must get used to them. 
 
 The captain righted himself in the sad- 
 dle and gathered up the reins. He had 
 been preaching that with horses things 
 should be done slowly and persistently : 
 but as mutiny in officers is worse than 
 mutiny in privates, even so, bolting by a 
 trained and sedate horse is worse than 
 bolting by an impulsive colt, and must be 
 dealt with summarily. The captain turned 
 the " Drill Sergeant " again toward the 
 fence ; again he advanced freely, and 
 again, before the rider could find time or 
 excuse for driving the spurs into him, 
 there was the same rearward, roundward 
 bolt, and they were standing in the middle 
 of the road. D. applauded highly, and 
 said that, if desired, he would " certify on 
 honor " that no horse ever did turn around 
 so quickly in this world. He added that he 
 honestly thought that the captain had bet- 
 ter try it again ; it was so very entertaining.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 159 
 
 The captain and the horse, externally, 
 were calm ; but their two wills had crossed. 
 As the horse turned for the third time to- 
 ward the fence, a philosopher looking on 
 would have asked whether in that brute 
 body there was not some predeterminate 
 resolve ; whether the mouth with the bit 
 in it was not more tightly shut, and the 
 mane-covered forehead was not contracted 
 and knit ; whether the angry light that be- 
 gan to break from the eyes was not ra- 
 diant from some angry soul within. But 
 here the cunning of the human intellect 
 appeared and took its part in the game 
 that cunning which, when applied to the 
 movements of contending armies, we call 
 strategy that covert ally which the brute 
 did not possess. As the horse moved for- 
 ward to the fence, but ere the bolting 
 point was reached, the rider's spurs came 
 biting fiercely upon his flanks, driving him 
 forward, and the reins held him face to 
 face with the spectre on the fence whither
 
 160 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 he would not go. Then the horse became 
 a fury, and his dark, sinister eyes turned 
 bloody red. The rider's knees gripped 
 the saddle more closely, and his arms 
 grew stronger to bend the strong neck of 
 the animal and to rein around his defiant 
 head ; but as the fight grew hot his cun- 
 ning ally fled the field and the contest be- 
 came more equal strategy no longer took 
 a part in the struggle ; it was skill and 
 strength against strength and skill the 
 sharp sting of the spurs, the iron hoofs 
 beating on rocks and stones each creat- 
 ure intuitively knowing and resisting every 
 act of the other, neither of them gaining 
 or losing an inch the one no nearer his 
 goal, the other unable to fling off his war- 
 ring burden. 
 
 But it was a battle without result ; the 
 bugle sounded the "retreat;" the king 
 of the tournament dropped his warder ; 
 the heralds proclaimed a truce. D. said 
 it was delightful, charming, but that we
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE l6l 
 
 must go to the roll-call and get ready for 
 dinner, and have it out in the morning. 
 
 That evening, at the mess dinner-table, 
 the battle was discussed. D. was glow- 
 ing in his description and declared that 
 the "Drill Sergeant" should be named 
 " Tarquinius Superbus." The majority 
 thought differently and named him " Ani- 
 mus Furiosus," and after that they called 
 him "Animus " for short. 
 
 The following morning promised to be 
 fateful, but the battle was not renewed. 
 It is the unexpected that happens in war. 
 On the one hand, the hides were gone ; 
 on the other, Animus walked serenely up 
 to the fence, rested his neck upon it, 
 looked blandly over with ears inquiringly 
 erect, and eyes, for the moment, as inno- 
 cent as a dove's. 
 
 Innocent he continued to appear, oblig- 
 ing, sensible, and grave, but in his heart 
 of hearts was brewing a storm of resent- 
 ment and revenge. A week or two passed
 
 162 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 in peace, and then came a day whereon 
 the company to which Animus belonged 
 was to be mustered into the service of the 
 United States. Animus led the column 
 to the mustering officer's official abode, 
 he (and the mustering officer) alone un- 
 ruffled, unexcited. His rider proud and 
 exultant whenever he glanced back at the 
 ninety splendid young fellows who rode 
 behind. A splendid company it was, 
 splendidly mounted, and as the tramping 
 hoofs resounded through the streets of 
 St. Louis, the two sets of hearts beat fast- 
 er, and troopers and steeds seemed 
 equally elate. There is an earthly satis- 
 faction in the human beast that none but 
 the trooper knows ; when the cavalry cap 
 works itself jauntily over, inclining toward 
 the right ear with a saucy pitch forward 
 toward the right eye, requiring the head 
 to be held a little back, and the chin to be 
 drawn a little in, and the chest to be 
 thrown a little out ; when the clattering
 
 THE TALK OF A GOBLIN HORSE 163 
 
 scabbard, the jingling spurs, the champed 
 bit, unite forces with the prancing, sym- 
 pathetic vanity of the horse ; when the 
 eyes that won't stay "front," "right" 
 and "left" up at second-story windows, 
 not in rude civilian stares, but in gay, 
 half-audacious, half-deferential glances ! 
 Oh, reader, when you see the troopers in 
 Washington swaggering about the Army 
 headquarters, envy them, for you know 
 not (unless you have been a trooper) 
 "how good" that swagger makes them 
 feel. 
 
 Through the streets of St. Louis, Ani- 
 mus led, profoundly indifferent to the 
 citizens around him ; coolly disdainful of 
 the ninety fretting, fuming steeds behind. 
 The "fours" formed platoons, and the 
 platoons wheeled into line, with a preci- 
 sion that must have made the calloused 
 mustering officer think himself back at 
 West Point. And then there came two 
 girls, pretty and young, with smiling,
 
 164 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 sympathetic loyal faces, in whom the 
 trooper's saucy airs took the form of pretty 
 timidity; and they stopped and hesitated, 
 and almost came forward, and partly 
 turned back, and seemed to say that their 
 important business did really require them 
 to go immediately straight onward down 
 the street, but that they positively could 
 never dare to pass so near to so many men 
 and such terrible horses ; and then the 
 captain of the company as became the 
 captain of such a company sought to 
 move himself a trifle farther from the side- 
 walk and throw a chivalrous yard or two 
 of safety to the timorous damsels ; and 
 then Animus flared up. 
 
 He had a crooked Roman nose, had 
 Animus, and a forehead that receded and 
 rounded toward the oats; he was good- 
 looking in a horseman's, and not in a la- 
 dy's, sense of the term ; and when his eyes 
 turned red and his lips opened and showed 
 white frothy teeth, I have no doubt but
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 165 
 
 that this head of his looked much like 
 a wild eagle's head on a horse's body. 
 The two girls screamed and beat a retreat 
 without any more pretty hesitation, and 
 the rider's blood boiled up at the excuse- 
 less conduct, and he rowelled the horse 
 with his burnished spurs and beat him 
 with the flat of his polished sabre. 
 
 The horse seemed frantic ; he dashed 
 against the brick walls of the houses ; 
 he knocked the alignment of the com- 
 pany to pieces in a trice ; he banged 
 against front-steps and lamp-posts, and 
 sent an aged cobbler fleeing through the 
 back door of his poor, little shop ; and he 
 plunged and beat his hoofs upon the cel- 
 lar-door as if he meant immediately to go 
 by that route to the place below. Then 
 he stopped suddenly instantaneously 
 not quenched or quailing, but as if the 
 fight then and there were but ammunition 
 wasted, and he had better save the cap- 
 tain for a better opportunity. And after
 
 l66 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 the affair was over, there came a strong 
 conviction in the rider's mind that the 
 horse might have done more, but would 
 not ; and friends began to advise that he 
 should not keep that beast for ser- 
 vice; for, they said, if one of his wild 
 moods should come in action, it would be 
 certain death to the man who rode him. 
 
 Again Animus lapsed into quiet work- 
 ing ways, biding his time to throw con- 
 tempt at men and things. An opportu- 
 nity came one fine Sunday, when there was 
 a grand review at Benton Barracks. It 
 was the first time the young soldiers had 
 seen a field of thousands, and to them the 
 pageant seemed magnificent. If now, 
 when artillery was thundering, and infan- 
 try presenting arms, and a dozen regi- 
 mental bands were playing their loudest, 
 this horse should rear "and pitch as half 
 the horses in the line were doing, it would 
 not be unreasonable, and indeed would 
 be attributed to commendable high spirit.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 167 
 
 The captain was thinking more of his 
 company than of his horse, and indeed 
 gave him no thought, till the general and 
 his staff came down the line. Then, as 
 the important moment approached when 
 each individual volunteer knew that he 
 must look his best, and all eyes were " to 
 the front," and every man sitting erect, 
 then he glanced down to see how Animus 
 would take it, and in his astonishment 
 whispered to D. (who was next on the 
 officers' line), and nodded at the horse. 
 D. looked out of the corners of his eyes 
 (his nose being straight to the front, his 
 head erect, and his sabre at a carry), and 
 then he turned red as though he were 
 choking, and shook with laughter as if he 
 might fall off his horse ; for then, as the 
 gorgeous staff swept by, and the regimen- 
 tal bands blew their loudest blasts, and 
 everybody was all excitement and other 
 horses were well-nigh crazed then Ani- 
 mus had composedly crossed his fore-legs
 
 168 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 like unto the legs of a saw-buck, and had 
 dropped his ears back upon his neck like 
 the ears of a rabbit, and had calmly shut 
 his eyes and serenely sunk into counter- 
 feit slumber. 
 
 But malice still reigned in the heart of 
 Animus, and while he did his work with a 
 gravity above horses, he never let slip an 
 opportunity to do damage. One gloomy 
 morning after the company had been 
 moved from the Abbey Track into Benton 
 Barracks, when rain had been falling and 
 freezing all night, and none but a sharp- 
 shod horse could keep his feet, Animus 
 was brought up to the quarters. The or- 
 derly had not dared to bring both horses 
 together over the slippery ground, and 
 when he went back he hitched Animus to 
 a post of the piazza.. Animus did not mind 
 being hitched ; he had-been hitched to 
 that post a hundred times, where he 
 would shut his eyes and doze by the 
 hour. Around the corner of another
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 169 
 
 range of barracks stood an infantry regi- 
 ment in line, and the sergeants could be 
 heard calling their rolls. Nothing dis- 
 turbed the horse, for nobody was stirring 
 that morning, but the instant the orderly 
 was out of sight he began to pull violent- 
 ly at the halter. The red eyes were upon 
 him, and the piazza post to which he was 
 hitched was a contending foe. It gave 
 way at the roof and broke off at the floor. 
 It was a stout 4 by 5 inch joist, twelve feet 
 long, and as an anchor it would have 
 brought an ordinary horse round "head 
 to the wind ; " and an ordinary horse 
 breaking loose on a cold rainy day, if he 
 had made off with it in tow, would have 
 headed for his stable. Animus turned in 
 the opposite direction, and, holding his 
 head on one side and his nose near to the 
 ground, scoured off as fast as he could go, 
 the joist skimming like a sled over the icy 
 glare. He headed for the barracks, be- 
 hind which was the infantry regiment, and
 
 170 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 all who saw him prayed devoutly that 
 when he should turn the corner he would 
 lose his footing, and fall and break his 
 infernal neck. He did not, and as the 
 heavy joist swung from centrifugal force 
 almost up to an alignment with the horse, 
 everyone thought that the infernal ma- 
 chine, like a Roman chariot with scythes 
 on the axles, must mow down at least 
 twenty men. But the infantry, when the 
 tornado of horse and timber came rushing 
 around the corner, broke ranks faster than 
 the " double quick," and the joist merely 
 grazed a number of heroic shins. Then 
 Animus, seeing that he had failed in his 
 diabolical, or rebel design, halted, was 
 caught and brought back, looking both 
 innocent and unconcerned. 
 
 But we must omit some of the inci- 
 dents of his life and pass-to his mysterious 
 taking off. In the dreariness of winter and 
 of barrack-life among strangers and sick 
 and home-sick men, the greatest of bless-
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 171 
 
 ings was a day's escape from the camp. 
 It came occasionally in the guise of some 
 duty to be done in the city, and one lucky 
 morning, a coveted "pass" reached the 
 captain's quarters. The orderly brought 
 up the horses, and his own happening to 
 be lame, he rode Animus. A merry, ac- 
 tive, light-hearted German boy was the 
 orderly ; familiar, yet never presumptu- 
 ous ; scrupulous and rigid in the punctili- 
 ous respect he always paid to his captain. 
 None but a German could unite so much 
 familiar ease with so much ceremonious 
 deference. Unbidden, he held bit and 
 stirrup as the officer mounted ; untaught, 
 he " took distance " behind him and never 
 varied from his respectful place. If the 
 captain's horse trotted, his trotted ; if the 
 captain's galloped, his galloped; and 
 never had the captain given the orderly 
 command or hint. He had been quick to 
 find out from old Prussian soldiers the 
 respect which he should ceremoniously
 
 172 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 pay his officer, and was proud to pay it. 
 But suddenly there came from the order- 
 ly a. blast of Dutch execration ; he was al- 
 most out of the saddle, and Animus about 
 to finish the job. The captain sung out 
 sharply to the horse, who stopped in- 
 stantly, and the orderly climbed back and 
 recovered his seat. For more than three 
 months had the orderly taken care of Ani- 
 mus, and more than three hundred times 
 had he ridden him bare-back to water. 
 He could not account for this freak now 
 " Tee horse go quiet I no do anything, 
 and then he throw me oft" most;" and 
 there came mingling terms of indignation 
 and reproach addressed privately to Ani- 
 mus in smothered German. 
 
 The city, after the camp, seemed civil- 
 ization, cleanliness, decency, comfort ; 
 a warm bath and an afm-chair luxuries 
 too great for times of war. The captain 
 entered Barnum's Hotel with such a lov- 
 ing feeling as no hotel can kindle again.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 173 
 
 And the cheery proprietors, Messrs. Bar- 
 num & Fogg many a wounded and 
 home-sick officer's blessing rests upon 
 them they seemed angels in disguise, 
 with the difference that, instead of seeking 
 entertainment, they entertained. 
 
 The captain found a friend at the hotel 
 and they dined together in the ladies' ordi- 
 nary ; and the ladies appeared divinely 
 graceful after one had seen, for weeks, 
 nothing but men in stiff Quaker coats, 
 dyed blue, with a row of brass buttons 
 down the front. And after dinner the two 
 friends smoked and talked, and felt so at 
 ease, by their two selves, with no dense 
 throng around them ; but part they must, 
 for the lieutenant had been ill lucky dog 
 and had a week's leave, and was not to 
 go back to the barracks that night. 
 
 When eight o'clock came the captain 
 pulled on his overcoat, bade good-night, 
 and with slow, reluctant steps, went down 
 into the street. The orderly, true to a
 
 174 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 minute, was coming with the horses, rid- 
 ing the captain's mare, to keep the saddle 
 dry ; for the weather had changed and the 
 cold north wind was blowing a gale and 
 snow beating fiercely down. The captain 
 pulled up his coat-collar and mounted ; 
 the orderly swung himself into his own 
 saddle, and off they went through deserted 
 streets, and dark, bleak suburbs. 
 
 "But as they passed from the lights of 
 the town into the gloom beyond, Animus 
 again made one of his savage bolts, and 
 again the orderly was half out of the 
 saddle and clinging by the mane. The 
 captain sung out to the horse as before, 
 and the horse, as before, obeyed and 
 stopped. They rode fast, they rode slowly, 
 but again and again and again this per- 
 formance was repeated^; J:he orderly never 
 quite unhorsed, the horse always stopping 
 the instant he was commanded. 
 
 At length they reached the camp. As 
 the captain dismounted at his quarters,
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 175 
 
 he gave a reluctant, a delicate intimation 
 to the orderly that it would be wise to dis- 
 mount and lead the horses to the stable. 
 The orderly, who was well-nigh in tears 
 at Animus's ungrateful conduct, regarded 
 the proposition as extraordinary, which it 
 was ; and he pleaded, with German vehe- 
 mence, that the whole company would 
 laugh at him and " the boys " would shout 
 whenever they saw him: "Where's the 
 man who couldn't ride his own horse to 
 the barn?" which they would. He also 
 urged that he could ride any horse in the 
 world, and that no horse in the world 
 would " cut up" at the end of a day's 
 work, when his accustomed groom was 
 taking him to his accustomed stable. The 
 last argument seemed reasonable, and 
 indeed the original suggestion began to 
 appear absurd. The captain, in unspoken 
 words, yielded the point ; the orderly 
 wheeled the horses and moved off, riding 
 the one and leading the other. A shadowy
 
 176 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 sense of coming catastrophe kept the cap- 
 tain at his door, watching them until he 
 saw horses and horseman turn the corner 
 of the barracks and disappear. Then he 
 unpadlocked the door and lighted his 
 candle. A small room roughly boarded 
 off from the men's quarters, an army cot 
 covered with a couple of rough army 
 blankets, a " mess-chest table," a camp 
 chair, a spare saddle, and horse-trappings, 
 a fireless stove, an atmosphere laden with 
 the dust and noise and stale tobacco- 
 smoke of the men's quarters. The captain 
 and his company were then the victims 
 of a combination between unscrupulous 
 political selfishness, on the one side, and 
 arbitrary military power, on the other a 
 doubly dangerous union ; for military 
 power is bad enough alone, and needs to 
 be restrained and guided by honor and 
 impartiality. The company had been 
 stolen from the regiment in which all had 
 enlisted, and been taken to help make up
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 177 
 
 a new command for somebody's son-hi- 
 law. Hence, at this time, the captain was 
 friendless and alone. 
 
 He did not unbutton his overcoat nor 
 kindle his fire, but paced up and down 
 the narrow room, thinking at first of the 
 horse, and then of Barnum's, and then of 
 home. He thought and walked, and 
 walked and thought until, unexpectedly, 
 the door opened and the orderly ap- 
 peared. Pain and mortification and truth- 
 ful resolve struggled in the lines of his 
 face. " Cap-e-tan, the horse trow me ; he 
 run away in the Fair Grounds, he jump 
 over a pile of wood. I hav look-ed, and 
 look-ed, and can no find him." 
 
 What infernal imp had possessed this 
 strange animal ? The orderly was a good 
 rider, a good groom, possessed of great 
 power over horses. Others would follow 
 him without bridles, like dogs. Why had 
 this brute flung him off on the instant that 
 he turned toward his own stable, and then
 
 178 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 galloped off into the darkness and the 
 storm? When the orderly shot out of the 
 saddle, the captain's mare had gone 
 straight to her own stall in the stable. 
 
 The orderly got a lantern and led the 
 way to the place where he was unhorsed, 
 at the end of the barracks thence and 
 across the wide expanse of the parade, 
 and into the Fair Grounds and to a pile of 
 corded wood, five feet at least in height 
 and four in thickness. What horse would 
 choose to rush at such a leap on a dark 
 night and with slippery, snowy footing 
 at such a needless leap? But by the light 
 of the lantern could be seen a horse's 
 trail which led up to the wood-pile, broke 
 off, and reappeared on the other side. 
 They resumed the search. The trail led 
 through the grove of the Fair Grounds, 
 and at last was lost" in the deepening 
 snow. As the searchers stopped, the storm 
 roared through the swaying branches 
 above them as if the powers of the air
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 179 
 
 were on the blast, and the horse had gone 
 to meet them. The captain and the or- 
 derly came hack into the encampment, 
 where a soldier, plodding through the 
 snow, told them that he had just seen a 
 horse near by. They resumed their quest, 
 and soon found Animus standing within 
 the shelter of an empty tent. But on the 
 snowy floor beneath him \ras a small red 
 pool, and on his right flank, between the 
 body and the leg, was a frightful gash 
 the gash you cut in carving the leg of a 
 fowl a "clean cut," and large enough 
 for one to lay in it his hand, wide-spread. 
 Animus looked morose and stern not 
 sad or repentant. 
 
 He was led to his stable and the regi- 
 mental farrier came, who brought other 
 regimental farriers in consultation, just 
 as humanity's farriers come and consult 
 over human victims. " Extraordinary," 
 they all pronounced the wound, and with- 
 out a precedent ; and they all vouchsafed
 
 l8o STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 theories, but agreed on none ; and finally 
 they all concluded that nothing could be 
 done the patient must be abandoned to 
 nature and cooling washes, and his 
 " chances." 
 
 A fortnight later, when the wound was 
 at its worst, and the horse was standing, 
 day and night, upon three legs, great 
 news came roaring, and yelling, and hur- 
 rahing through Camp Benton news of 
 victory of the first decisive victory of the 
 war; that Foote had taken Fort Henry 
 with his "Tin-Clads," that the river was 
 open, and the Stars and Stripes flying in 
 Tennessee. An hour later came more 
 significant news for some " The Fifth 
 Iowa Cavalry will march instantly." 
 
 It takes a new regiment in barracks at 
 least twelve hours to ^inarch instantly." 
 Rations to be cooked, tents to be over- 
 hauled (the guys gnawed by suspected 
 mice, the pegs burnt by unsuspected 
 criminals), men swearing that their horses
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE l8l 
 
 must be shod, blacksmiths swearing that 
 their forges must be packed, mules sedi- 
 tiously kicking the harness to pieces the 
 moment they hear that they are to be put 
 to some practical purpose ; every man 
 suddenly discovering that somebody has 
 jayhawked his boots or his blanket ; and 
 the quarter-sergeant discovering that the 
 boots are packed and loaded, and the 
 blankets too few to go round ; lieutenants 
 and sergeants, corporals and men excit- 
 edly rushing to their captain in their in- 
 dividual perplexity ; the captain for a 
 time the unhappy mother of a distracted 
 family, that wants everything and doesn't 
 know what it doesn't want ; finally, the 
 sergeant-major of the regiment, com- 
 ing round every hour to say to every 
 company that every other company in 
 the regiment is ready and waiting for 
 this one, and that the colonel wants to 
 know how much longer they must wait, 
 etc., etc.
 
 l82 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 The turmoil lasted during the night, but 
 as the sun came up o'er the smoky city 
 the column moved ; and the hoof-beats 
 on the frozen ground and rumbling bag- 
 gage-wagons rolled out a farewell to Ben- 
 ton Barracks. The captain, then a mem- 
 ber of a court-martial sitting at the Bar- 
 racks, could not march with his men, and 
 had to remain until the formal order 
 should come dissolving the court With 
 an impatient heart he stood watching 
 the long-drawn column wind around the 
 parade and pass through the gateway of 
 the camp, and saw, last of all, the order- 
 ly disappear leading his own blanketed 
 horses. Then he turned and handed a 
 "pass" to his servant, and gave him di- 
 rections to lead Animus slowly to the 
 "sick stable." 
 
 The "company stable" was but a 
 stone's throw distant from where they 
 stood, and only a few minutes had passed 
 since " Boots and Saddles " had sound-
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 183 
 
 ed and the company horses had been 
 led out, leaving the wounded horse the 
 only tenant of the long shed. Mood- 
 ily he had continued to gaze at his man- 
 ger, giving to his departing mates barely 
 a glance, but neither whinny nor regret. 
 The man took the "pass" and went 
 directly to the shed. In the first moment, 
 when all eyes were withdrawn, Animus 
 had disappeared. 
 
 "Disappeared but not lost," everyone 
 said; for barracks and stables were en- 
 closed by a wooden wall twelve feet high, 
 and guarded by sentinels, and through 
 the only exit no one could go without 
 a "pass," and the guards at the gate 
 were notified to stop him, thief and all. 
 Moreover, the horse had not set his lame 
 leg to the ground for a fortnight, and it 
 was doubted whether he could hobble 
 on three legs to the sick stable. Besides, 
 who would want a disabled animal, not fit 
 for service now, nor for months to come ;
 
 184 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 and was not a man leading a desperately 
 lame horse in broad daylight a noticeable 
 object that a thousand men would see 
 and remember? The camp was searched 
 searched for two days through every 
 stable, tent, and shed that could hold a 
 horse. The case was stated to every 
 cavalry commander, and his word of honor 
 pledged that, if the horse were " hidden 
 away" by any one of "his boys," no 
 matter what their genius for hiding horses 
 away might be, he should nevertheless 
 be found and given up. A reward was 
 offered, and Animus was described by his 
 peculiar regimental brand and tongue 
 and wound; and the advertisement was 
 posted in every quarter-master's office, 
 and corral, and livery-stable. Finally a 
 shrewd, quiet man was set at work as 
 detective ; and, six morrths later, the cap- 
 tain, piqued by all his failures, went back 
 to St. Louis and himself tried to find a 
 clew to the mystery. No clew was found.
 
 THE TALE OF A GOBLIN HORSE 185 
 
 Animus had disappeared ; that was what 
 was said at first, and all that could be said 
 at last; he had disappeared. Indeed it 
 might be sung of him as of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, 
 
 " And ne'er in haunts of living men 
 Again was Thomas seen." 
 
 At this point, doubtless, there will be 
 expected an explanation such as comes 
 at the end of a novel. But the tale is 
 true. The mysteries of truth are often 
 lacking in the explanations of fiction. 
 The case was laid before D. , who had 
 been a United States District Attorney 
 before he became a captain of volunteers, 
 and was versed in the ways of "working 
 up a case " against counterfeiters on land 
 or pirates at sea. He wrote back a letter 
 a beautiful letter expressing in charm- 
 ing terms his regret, his very great regret, 
 that so interesting a character as his friend 
 Animus should have withdrawn from the 
 sphere of human observation. But when
 
 l86 STORIES OF THE ARMY 
 
 he came to the explanation his profes- 
 sional experience and legal acumen were 
 futile ; and he had to fall back (evasive- 
 ly) upon the supernatural ; Animus was 
 clearly a fiend an emissary of the Devil 
 or J. Davis (it made very little difference 
 which, he said), who had marked the 
 captain for his peculiar prey. On the 
 day of his wound (which need not be 
 accounted for), fearing that he was to 
 become the orderly's horse and that the 
 captain would thereby escape his toils, he 
 resorted to strategy ; and, like all fiends 
 resorting to strategy, overacted his part ; 
 whereby vice is defeated and virtue 
 escapes. Finding his schemes subverted 
 and his efforts brought to nought, and 
 disbelieving that he was to be the object 
 of humanitarian care or Christian charity 
 the latter, moreover: being justly offen- 
 sive to him he seized upon the first 
 moment when unseen by mortal or equine 
 eye to vanish in a puff of smoke.
 
 STORIES FROM SCRIBNER 
 
 STORIES OF 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1893 
 
 In this series of little books, issued under the 
 general tide " Stories from Scribner," the purpose 
 has been to gather together some of the best and 
 most entertaining short stories written for Scrib- 
 ner's Magazine during the past few years, and to 
 preserve them in dainty volumes grouped under 
 attractive subjects and decorated by a few illus- 
 trations to brighten the pages. 
 
 The set as arranged consists of six volumes, the
 
 first two appearing together and the other four 
 at intervals of about a month, as follows : 
 
 Stories of New York. 
 Stories of the Railway. 
 Stories of the South. 
 Stories of the Sea. 
 Stories of Italy. 
 Stories of the Army. 
 
 The books are furnished in three bindings, the 
 paper being the same in all. Each edition is pre- 
 pared with great care, and every effort has been 
 made to secure an example of book-making as 
 dainty and perfect as possible. 
 
 The paper edition is enclosed in a transparent 
 wrapper, fastened by a gold seal which shouid re- 
 main unbroken until the book reaches the hands 
 of the reader. Price, 50 cents a volume. 
 
 The cloth edition has gilt top and rough edges. 
 Price, 75 cents a volume. 
 
 The half calf edition is bound in the best leather 
 and in two colors blue and claret gilt top. 
 Price, $ 1.50 a volume. 
 
 Orders for the entire set may be sent to the 
 publishers or to any bookseller. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S^SJONS, New York.
 
 This booK is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 NIK
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 B 000 005 985 7 
 
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