'Twas some time during the last hours of that fighting in the dark that I was fast asleep on my four feet--I was that much wore out-- when a cavalry courier arrived, and pretty well fell off'n his horse in his hurry. Before he'd even been picketed, that horse told me Jine-the-Cavalry had been killed. That was what his man had come to tell Marse Robert.
While Marse Robert was telling the rest of the headquarters officers, I could see 'twas as much as he could do to get the words out, and soon as he'd told them he jest turned away and went back into his tent. I asked the horse whether Skylark had been hit, but he didn't know. Cap-in-His-Eyes, I thought, Old Pete, and now Jine-the-Cavalry. What we-all going to do now? What's Marse Robert going to do?
I can't imagine what would have happened to us, Tom, if that fighting had gone on the way it did, but next morning it commenced to pouring with rain and it kept it up for several days. There was running streams every few yards and the roads was jest pools of water, deep. Even the Blue men couldn't do no attacking in that, so we got some rest at last.
I remember one thing that happened either that day or the day after. Marse Robert and me was riding along the rear of our lines together with a bunch of headquarters officers and a general or two-- I forget jest which. Suddenly the enemy guns began firing and shells started dropping round. I was scared silly, like I always was, although I did my best to keep steady. Then a shell burst close and scattered dirt and fragments all over us. Three-four other horses began to get skittish and a few broke away into a gallop, so that our lot was all over the place. Marse Robert didn't like this at all. "Easy, Traveller, easy!" he said to me real sharp, pulling me in hard and holding me up tight. Soon as he had me steady, he made me go on down the lines at a walk. "Do you want them to think we're afraid?" he said, only 'twas in a low, gentle voice that no one else could hear. Then he told General Pendleton--that was the chief artillery officer--that he warn't going to let me do anything that'd make it seem like we might be nervous under fire where the men could see.
A night or two later we left that place and marched all night--and a fine old mess 'twas in the dark and wet. I don't recall the details after all this time, but what I do remember is that I was the first one in the Army, horse or man, to realize that Marse Robert was beginning to fall ill. It must 'a been all the strain and the wet weather; and then, of course, he'd had no proper sleep for nights on end, and I don't reckon his food was hardly better'n what us horses was getting--and that was poor 'nuff. The Blue men, they was still around--plenty of 'em, jest t'other side of a little river not far off--but there warn't no heavy fighting like there'd been in the woods. The Army kept on the move, and Marse Robert rode in a carriage and stopped off at folks' houses where he could lie down and be looked after. I was either led or ridden.
They was terrible hard times: always on the move, night and day. The strain was telling on everyone, horse and man. I couldn't remember when we'd been so long engaged with the enemy. Must 'a been all of a month now, I said one night to Joker, since that morning when I'd first seed the Blue men come out from the thick trees and we'd started the fighting in the wilderness.
"Yes," says Joker, "an' the feed gits shorter every day, don't it? You hungry?"
I sure was, and from the look of 'em, I reckoned the whole of headquarters was, from Marse Robert down. I was glad Lucy'd gone; even if she'd been able to bear the shellfire, she'd never have stood up to the short rations. As for the Blue men, they was like dratted mosquitoes. Whenever we killed one, there'd come another two.
I remember a chilly, wet evening and a rain that lasted all night, and then, jest at dawn, we heared the enemy yelling and firing, way out acrost the bog that the whole durned place had turned into. The yelling stretched right away into the distance. You couldn't see nothing--not from headquarters--but 'twas plain 'nuff they must be attacking all along our lines.
It was jest at that moment I realized for the first time where we'd got to. I seed the shape of some trees on the skyline and caught the smell of a swamp down below. And then I remembered the first battle I'd ever been in, two years before and jest this time of year. We was right on the spot, I recollected, too, how Marse Robert had asked the young Texas general whether he could drive the Blue men out o' the swamp, and how he'd said "I'll try"--and done it. I'd been a young horse then, I thought. I'd seed plenty since, and I felt a lot older-- yeah, more'n two years older by a deal.
All you could see was the battle-smoke hanging over the fields, and the shells a-falling. After a while I seed some of our wounded stumbling back out of the wet haze, but not that many. There was no general retreat and no confusion. We must be holding the Blue men off, I guessed.
As it happened, Marse Robert and me was entirely alone in the headquarters field, 'cept for Dave. All our staff officers had been sent off to one place and another. The firing seemed to have been going on for hours. I figured it must be gettin' on to midday, near's I could tell. There was no sun, you see, Tom. 'Twas all foggy an' cloudy, the battle-smoke an' the fog all mixed up together. After a while the firing died down and I guessed the enemy must 'a quit.
'Twas only later that I heared from other horses what had happened. Sure 'nuff, the Blue men had attacked like crazy--everywhere, right along our lines. But we'd stood firm and gone on shooting 'em down till at last it seems the ones who was still waiting to attack had simply refused to go on--refused to obey their orders. They'd lost thousands of men inside an hour. 'Seems that was one of the greatest victories we ever won, that day, only I never seed none of it. And if'n I'd only a-knowed, 'twas to be our last really big battle. But all I seed at the time was the soaking-wet fields in the haze, the creek flowing muddy and thick, and Marse Robert talking to two-three old gentlemen as warn't no soldiers at all--some sort of old fellas that had come a-visiting. One of their horses told me they'd ridden out from the city on purpose to talk to General Lee.
"And if this is bein' a soldier," says this horse, ducking and dancing at every bang of a shell and zip of a bullet, "you can keep it. The quicker me and my master get back to the city the better. I don't care if'n you are the General's horse. I'd rather go on belongin' to old Judge Meredith. He's a sensible man--knows how to keep a horse out of trouble, too."
I was goin' to say something back, but next moment a shell burst 'way acrost the field and this horse was gone like a rocket, judge and all. He took some getting back, too. The old judge was fairly wild. I recollect how he said--
Hey, Tom, listen! Ain't that Miss Life a-calling for you? She'll be wanting to know you're safe and indoors on a sharp night like this. Better run along and jine Baxter by the fire up yonder. And jest you take what's left of that chipmunk out o' here, too. That's the sort of mess that attracts rats, an' you're s'posed to be here to get rid of 'em.
XVIII
You've heared 'bout Ajax, Tom, have you? It's upset me a powerful lot, I can tell you. Poor old Ajax!--to go and kill hisself now, in a silly way like that, after all we've been through together. 'Course, he wouldn't never have noticed nothing 'bout that sharp prong on the gate latch, Ajax wouldn't. I'd seed it. I've knowed for a long time that that prong was dangerous--sharp as a bay'net. I've always took good care to avoid it.
I warn't around in the field when it happened. Lucy told me. 'Seems Ajax ran hisself right full tilt onto the prong--'warn't even looking where he was going, Lucy said. There was blood all over the place and he was laying dead, right there, in a couple of minutes. Stabbed hisself to the heart. I'll lay Marse Robert's real upset. It's a wonder he'd never noticed the prong hisself.
I can't say Ajax and me was ever real close. You couldn't exactly make a friend out of Ajax. He was kind of a loner--warn't really a sociable horse. But we'd been together so long--oh, yeah, must be all of five years, first on campaign and then here. Marse Robert couldn't never really make much use of Ajax--too tall--but he didn't feel he could get rid of him, 'cause he'd been a gift, so Ajax once told me, from some people back home.
I think poor old
Ajax felt it, you know--that he warn't really valued; or at least, that he warn't a lot of use to Marse Robert--though other soldiers rode him, of course. Dave often rode him and he got on well with Dave. And I remember once't Colonel Marshall took him on for quite a few days. He might have worked up a lot of resentment agin me, but he never did. He was a real sober, stolid sort--ready to do what he was told and accept it. I guess he was a kind of a dull fella. I never could get much out of him at all. Never let hisself get bothered by enemy fire, though, nor by short rations nor any of the other hardships we-all went through. He was as good a soldier as any of us. I've often wondered whether he wouldn't have turned out livelier and more chipper if'n it'd jest so happened he'd suited Marse Robert down to the ground. My life would have been different then, too. There'd have been him and me. I guess I've always more or less taken Ajax for granted. But I'm going to miss him now, sure 'nuff. We lost so many--horses and men. I didn't figure we had any more to lose after all this time.
Come to think of it, I remember Marse Robert taking Ajax one day, jest after the battle in the wet and mist that I was telling you 'bout--the time the old judge's horse bolted acrost the field. But that was 'cause I was being shod. Marse Robert was always real particular 'bout that, even at times when you'd have thought he'd have been far too busy with the fighting. Shoeing, girths, throatbands--all that kind of thing he'd see to personally. He generally used to fold my blanket hisself. And one thing in particular I always remember: he was a great one for dismounting so's I could get a rest. He dismounted as often as he could--and that was more'n Old Pete did, I noticed. People used to be astonished that I stayed so fresh all day. I'd be fresh after sixteen mile or more. Well, 'twas partly me--I don't say it warn't. But a lot of it was on 'count of Marse Robert's habit of dismounting whenever he could.
'Twas jest after that battle that Marse Robert recovered 'nuff to be able to ride again. He felt the men must have missed seeing him round, I guess, 'cause during all the maneuvering that followed that battle (and my land, warn't it hot weather, too! 'Never been so thirsty on a day's work), he took particular care to get out 'mong the men and talk to 'em plenty. I enjoyed it. Thanks to Dave, I was always well groomed and shining, and the men liked to see me and gather round. There was no sugar goin'--nobody had none--but plenty of nose-stroking and praise and all that. I remember one day, when we was riding past a company that was fallen out beside the road, a fella gets up, waves his hand to Marse Robert and calls out, "Howdy do, Dad!" Anyone could see he was gone part crazy, standing blinkin' there in his old rags in the sunshine. "Howdy do, my man!" answers Marse Robert right away, gives him a smile and on we went. I don't reckon Marse Robert recognized the fella, but I remembered him all right. Marse Robert had spoken to him that night of the battle in the woods, same night as Cap-in-His-Eyes was hit; he'd been toting ammunition out of a wagon, 'long with three-four other soldiers. He hadn't been crazy then. He must have had 'nuff to make him, since. There was beginning to be more and more like that. 'Twas the short rations and the hard marches--that and the continual fear. And besides, you know, Tom, there was sickness everywhere. I didn't feel so good myself sometimes. I found myself getting confused and didn't always understand what was going on as clear as I used to. 'Twas like everyone was living in a kind of daze from the hunger and the fear.
Another thing comes back to me now. One time when we was out by ourselves, and Marse Robert'd dismounted to take a quick nap under a tree by the road, I was hitched to a post, jest quietly grazing around. After a while I could hear a marching column coming nearer, making a fair lot of noise--you know, laughing and calling out to one another, 'coutrements clattering and all the rest. Then two or three of the men caught sight of Marse Robert, and word went round quick as lightning. They all went by quiet as a bunch of snails; they jest about tiptoed past where we was, not to interrupt Marse Robert's nap.
Mid-June, 1864. General Grant, having during the previous month repeatedly failed, with more than twice their numbers, to defeat the Army of Northern Virginia in the field and finally suffered a severe reverse at Old Cold Harbor, has broken contact, marched across the peninsula east of Richmond and made use of transport boats to throw his army across the James River to the southern bank. From here he has advanced upon the city of Petersburg, twenty miles south of Richmond, but his assault has been halted by the determined resolution of General Beauregard, with no more than two or three thousand men. General Lee, having reached the city with his army on June 18th, has immediately put in hand the necessary dispositions and works to withstand the siege by superior numbers that is now inevitable. This siege, which will extend to include Richmond, is to last for nine and a half months, until the beginning of April, 1865.
I forget, Tom. I forget sech a lot after all this while. But I do remember, 'bout two weeks or so after that battle we won--'time the judge's horse bolted--how we-all rode into the city in the hot sunshine, with all the people out on the streets, a-waving and a-cheering. Of all the things that come your way when you're a soldier, there's nothing more encouraging than marching into a town and seeing all the women and children turn out to holler for you and treat you like a lot of heroes. They was waiting for our fellas at their gates with food and water and flowers to stick in their caps--yeah, and shaking their hands and kissing them, all sweating and dirty as they was from the march. Every now and then some man would dash out of the column and run up the steps of a house to fling his arms round a lady's neck--you know, his mother or his sister--his wife, maybe. 'Twas plain 'nuff to me that the enemy warn't going to be able to get us out of this here city in a hurry. Maybe this was where we'd finally beat them. I'd always knowed we'd do that.
Well, that was when we started what they call the siege. A siege ain't like a battle, you see, Tom, though there's liable to be battles mixed up with it here and there. A siege is when you and the enemy is faced up opposite each other in lines that stretch for miles--lines of trenches dug in the ground--and there's very little moving and no fighting 'cept for the shells and the musket fire. But that don't come all the time. It breaks out more or less like rain, often jest when you're least expecting it. A siege goes on for months--well, that's what this here siege did, anyways. It went on till I'd more or less forgotten there'd ever been anything else.
During that long spell of hot weather after we'd marched into the city, 'twas back to the digging again, jest like two years before, when Marse Robert and me had first took over command of the Army. Day after day, up and down the lines we went, Marse Robert giving orders for what had to be done--revetting, gun emplacements and all the rest of it. I can see it all now--the dust clouding the air, the flies everywhere, the lines of men stripped to the waist, sweating and cussing as they kept on with the digging in the hot sun. There was one way it warn't like two years before, though. They'd used to grumble then, but now they was crazy to get into the ground as fast as they could, 'cause of the enemy shells that was likely to come over 'most any time, day or night. The enemy, they was digging in, too, and they warn't hardly no distance off. By the time we was done, Tom, there was more'n twenty mile of trenches and pits and holes and banks--what we call earthworks--facing each other, ours and the enemy's.
I can't give you no idea of the dirt and mess and the change in the whole country that that siege made. It plumb tore the whole place to ruins, and that's the truth. The fields, the woods, the hedges, the fences, the barns--everything disappeared under that digging and them trenches. All that was left was jest the bare earth dug up into these great ditches and ridges, with our men a-standin' in them, waiting and watching for the chance to fire at the enemy. They lived like rats. There was trenches behind trenches, and trenches running up to jine other trenches like roads, and deep holes the fellas went down when the enemy shells started coming over. Our guns was sited in pits along the lines, and every so often they'd start firing back. The shells did as much as the digging to turn the whole place--miles an' miles--into one great, broken-up mudflat of bare earth an
d nothin' else.
Our fellas built up the sides of the trenches with logs and posts, to stop 'em falling in. And out in front they often put sort of crisscross fences made of sharp wooden spikes, to hold up the Blue men if they tried to attack. And then all along the lines, in special places, there was what they call sharpshooters--fellas who jest kept watching all the time for the chance to fire at any Blue man who showed above ground. He only had to show hisself for jest a moment and that'd be 'nuff. 'Course, the enemy had their sharpshooters, too. There was lots of fellas killed that way. 'Twarn't safe to be above ground nohow.
During the first weeks it was hot, with dust everywhere, but after that it commenced to raining. It rained day after day, till everything was mud and all the trenches was flooded. I've seed men standing waist-deep in water, soaked through and no shelter nowhere. There was any amount of sickness. The horses went sick as much as the men. They was wet through, you see--no shelter--and starved. There was plenty of horses simply couldn't pull the guns no more, what with the mud and with being so weak. You should jest have seed some of them trenches, Tom: the bottoms full of stinking water, and worse'n water; old shelters--if'n you could call 'em shelters--made of boards all falling to pieces; piles of rubbish, tangles of tree roots sticking out of the sides; and a bullet waiting for anyone who showed his head over the top. But still the Blue men didn't try no more attacks. They'd larned what they could expect from us, I reckon.
'Most every day Marse Robert and me would ride the whole length of the lines, more'n twenty mile. Course, we mostly kept back behind the worst places, but even so 'twas hard going and I was often stumbling and having a hard job to pick my way and guess where to put my hooves down. If there's one thing frightens any horse, it's bad going underfoot. All the same, Marse Robert didn't really have to pay all that much attention to me. We understood each other so well that I always knowed what he wanted and what I had to do.