Hey there, Tom! Did you hear ‘bout my little adventure s’afternoon? It was sort of comical, in a way. Well, anyhow, it showed everyone that me and Marse Robert’s jest ‘bout as close as the bark is to the tree.
You know that young lady that’s been visiting with Marse Robert’s girls? Oh, you sat in her lap, did you? I wonder she let you. I guess that must ‘a been jest out of politeness to Miss Life. Well, you won’t be sitting there no more, ‘cause this afternoon Marse Robert and me rode down to the canal-boat to see her on board for to go back home.
That was where this happened—down on the quay. Marse Robert dismounted and then, while he was a-talking to this young lady, he tied me up to a post. He was so taken up with his good manners, though, that he didn’t do a proper job of it. Anyway, he gives the girl his arm onto the canal-boat and he keeps on a-talking. I was tossing my head some—the flies is awful bad down on the canal, you know—when all of a sudden I realized the reins had slipped and I was loose. I stepped back a ways, and jest then a young fella seed me and made a grab for the bridle. Well, that kind of upset me—reminded me, you know. The fella seemed all nervous and wound up—too snatchy—and I didn’t like that. So I jest took off and lit out past him an’ up the street. Then everything got worse. There seemed to be a whole passel of men and boys jumping out at me and chasing after me, all a-grabbing for the reins and shouting. ‘Didn’t none of ‘em smell right to me, and the way they was carrying on was ‘nuff to bother any horse. So I jest kept on going right up the street, and in no time I’d covered a lot of ground. I figured I’d go home by myself and get out of all that mess. I didn’t feel answerable to that bunch; they’d got me to feeling real mean.
And jest then, Tom, all of a sudden, back behind me, I heared Marse Robert’s voice. He was asking this crowd of folks would they kin’ly keep still and don’t give me no more trouble—and ‘course, seeing who he was, they did stop. Then, soon as things had quieted down some, he gives me our special, low whistle. That’s a kind of a signal we have between us, him and me. It’s jest for me, you know, Tom— ‘tain’t for Lucy or Ajax or any other horse on the place. What it really says is “You’re Traveller and I’m Marse Robert, remember? You can forget all the rest.”
Well, soon’s I heared that whistle, I remembered where we was. And I remembered all I’d done for Marse Robert and how he couldn’t never have taken charge of anything at all without me. I’ll confess I thought there might be a piece of sugar in it somewheres, too. Anyway, I jest turned and trotted back to him nice and easy-Iike. All the folks standing around was saying “Oh, my!” and “Did you ever?” But me and Marse Robert, we didn’t have no truck with none o’ them. We jest picked up right where we’d left off. I gave him a bit of a whinny as I came up and he patted me and praised me and then he hitched me up again. Some fella standing by says, “Well, I’d never have believed that, sir, if’n I hadn’t ‘a seed it myself!” All Marse Robert said was that he didn’t see how any man could ride a horse for any length of time less’n a perfect understanding growed up between ‘em.
I spent the evening grazing out on the lawn. There’s one thing to be said for having been a soldier, Tom, you know: when you’ve been hungry—no use saying you’ve ever been hungry, ‘cause you ain’t, not really—it makes you ‘preciate a nice, steady feed on good, fresh grass. That cold spell I was telling you ‘bout—we was sure hungry then. Every horse in the Army was hungry. How can any horse work good when he’s gone hungry for days? That cold spell, I seed plenty of artillery horses couldn’t hardly pull the guns, a-slipping and sliding in the frozen mud. And it warn’t scarcely no better for the men—there warn’t much coming up on the railcars for horse nor man, neither. I remember riding down the whole length of the cars with Marse Robert one day, and he kept on saying, “Is that all? Is that all? Do they expect my soldiers to fight on that?’
‘Course, very often the soldiers used to take matters into their own hands. Warn’t no use to leave a pig or a sheep on the loose—not if you was a farmer. That’d be gone and not a whisker to show where. That’s why I’m always saying, Tom, as you should ‘a jined the Texans. Good cat’s always a good thief, ain’t he? You’d ‘a been right at home. I remember Marse Robert, one evening, talking to that young general— the one that cleared the Blue men out o’ the swamp. “General Hood,” says he, “I ain’t saying your men are thieves,” says he. “All I’m saying is that when you Texans come round, the chickens have to roost mighty high.”
‘Course, as I’ve told you, Marse Robert believed in living real plain. I reckon he didn’t want the men to think he lived any better’n what they did theirselves. But in headquarters we all figured that now and then he overdid it some—he often lived worsen they did! I seed ‘nuff to know that a good soldier’s going to make hisself jest as comfortable as he can. But Marse Robert—-well, now, Tom, I’ll tell you a little story. One evening, when headquarters had spent a long day on the move, Marse Robert was seeing to the camps and looking out for any tricks the Blue men might be up to, and so he asked one of our officers— Colonel Long, ‘twas—to find a place to camp for the night. ‘Course, Colonel Long knowed Marse Robert wouldn’t never go into a house— leastways, real seldom. He thought he ought to camp jest like the men. So the Colonel asked these here farm people if’n we-all could use the farmyard—not the house—and ‘course they was delighted, seeing that it was the General. But Marse Robert, he wouldn’t even have the farmyard! He told Colonel Long to find someplace else. So Colonel Long, he got mad at this—so his horse told me—and off he goes and chooses a field that was jest ram-jam full of the biggest stones you ever seed. They was so big and so thick there was scarcely no place to pitch the tents, let alone picket the horses. He figures he’d give Marse Robert a taste of what could be done to outsmart obstinate generals. But when Marse Robert gets there, he jest looks round at the stones and then he smiles and says, “Mighty fine! We won’t be disturbing any farm folks here.” You should jest ‘a seed the Colonel’s face!
Our headquarters was like most any other part of the camp, Tom. I wish you’d ‘a been there; you’d have had some good hunting. There’d be a few pole tents, with their backs to a fence, maybe, in amongst rocky ground and near a stream of clean water. Three-four Army wagons drawn up any which way, and us horses, like as not, jest turned loose in the field to graze—if there was any grazing, that is. Some of our people used to sleep in the wagons or get under ‘em. Perry and Meredith always did that—Bryan, too. They preferred it, I reckon. A lot of our stuff—tents and wagons; horses, too—had been lifted off’n the Blue men. When they first come, you could smell that, but it soon wore off. Marse Taylor, Major Talcott and the others, they slept two-three to each tent. They carried very little stuff and neither did Marse Robert. I remember a lady come to visit our camp saying to Marse Robert—she was feeding me some bread, that’s why I was by— “Why, General,” she says, “this seems a rocky, uncomfortable kind of a place for your camp.” “Yes, ma’am,” says Marse Robert, smiling. “Colonel Long has put me here in revenge for my refusing to go to the farm.” He seemed real delighted.
Did I ever tell you ‘bout Jine-the-Cavalry and his music fella Sweeny? This Sweeny, he was one of Jine-the-Cavalry’s men, and he was always kept round ‘cause he could play music. He had a banjo, and he’d sit there and make it go pilly willy winky pinky pop, sometimes for the whole evening, and the fellas’d all get to singing, an’ Jine-the-Cavalry’d fill up a big brown jug and laugh and tell Sweeny to play some more. What with the firelight dancing round, it was real cheerful and pretty, and they’d all get to drinking and larking up. I remember once Marse Robert come out of his tent when all this here plunka lunka lunka lunk was going on, and he peers down into the jug and then he says, “Gentlemen, am I to thank General Stuart or the jug for this fine music?” Then they all lifted up their pots and cups and shouted, “Marse Robert! Marse Robert!” “Gentlemen,” he says, “this is a case of serious indiscipline! I shall postpone action until the morning, when you will each receive a headache!” Well, it was never dull, Tom, you know, when Jine-the-Cavalry was around with that Sweeny fella a-plunking away at night.
But jest the same, it was a hard winter, and in spite of building shelters the men was cold, and hungry, too. What’s that you said? Warn’t it strange going so many different places? No, it warn’t, ‘cause all them places was really the same. Same rough old tents, same people, same horses, same Marse Robert, same noises and smells of the camp. And ‘bove all, I knowed Marse Robert would always treat me the same. Different sounds and smells have different meanings, but as long as each meaning stays the same, then a horse knows where he is. Us horses like to feel settled, you know, Tom, and know for sure what’s wanted of us. Then we can do our best without getting all scary and strung-up. In the end I got almost to liking a rocky field and poor grass. Anything else, and I’d be wondering why it had been changed and what was wrong. As for cold, I don’t so much mind a dry cold. But that winter there was too much wind and too much rain. Makes a horse nervy and irritable. Sure does.
That there hen I was telling you ‘bout—the one they didn’t kill on ‘count of she laid eggs so good—she was a reg’lar part of camp, you know. ‘Most every day she laid an egg; and she had some sense, ‘cause she was jest ‘nother one of us to get to larn Marse Robert was fond of animals and birds. Do you know, every day she always used to lay her egg right in Marse Robert’s tent and nowhere else? Under his bed, I ‘member hearing Perry say. She became as much a soldier as any of us. The guns upset her—she couldn’t lay if’n the guns was firing. I remember once, when we was told to get on the move, the wagons was all loaded and everyone was ready, and then they couldn’t find that there hen! So we was held up. Everyone was looking for the durned hen—yeah, even Marse Robert, he was hunting for her, too. In the end Meredith come on her: she was a-sitting on a baggage wagon and ready to go! Can you beat that?
Digging, digging, dirt a-flying and everyone waiting for an end to the winter. It put me in mind of that time when we was down south, the year before. Only difference was, now no one grumbled when Marse Robert said they had to dig. Why, they thought so much of him, they’d ‘a jumped in the river if he’d ‘a said so! Food running short, horses often too starved to pull the wagons, everyone bitter cold and a long, long winter, but no one lost their faith in Marse Robert. I knowed we was going to finish the Blue men in the end, and he knowed it, too. I could hear it in his voice and feel it in his hands. The way he talked to the men, too; easy and kind. I recollect, f’rinstance, one day when he was looking me over, he happened to see a fella standin’ round near the tent. “Come in, Captain,” says Marse Robert. “Come in and take a seat.”
“I’m no captain, General,” says this man. “I’m jest a private, sir.”
“Come in, sir,” says Marse Robert. “Take a seat. You ought to be a captain, sir!”
I knowed Marse Robert so well—the whole feel of him—that I was the first one, along towards the end of that winter, to realize he was sick. One morning, when he mounted me and rode out of camp in the cold, I could feel his—well, his whole balance was wrong. All of a sudden he reined me in, stopped and gave a kind o’ groan. The signals coming from him was all of pain and discomfort. There was something awkward ‘bout the feel of his arms and the set of his back. His pulse was wrong—I could feel the beat of his blood was different. It made me nervous and jumpy.
“Come on, Traveller,” he said at last, stroking my neck. “We’ll turn around.”
Perry put him to bed—and if’n Perry said he had to go to bed, even Marse Robert couldn’t say no. But the weather was that bad I guess even he figured he was in the best place. Finally they moved him out of camp altogether, somewheres where ‘twas warm. So maybe all of this here living like the men warn’t sech a good idea after all—not at his age. And I’ll tell you now, Tom—and if’n I don’t know it, no one does—he’s never been entirely right since—not the beat of his blood ain’t, from that day to this. He’s been an off-an’-on sick man.