Part 5

During the first part of his term of service, Carlo was very loyal to his Company, marched, messed, and slept with it, but he was not above picking up, here and there, from the mess tents of the other Companies a tid-bit, now and then, which proved acceptable to a well-appointed digestion.

His first tour on guard was performed as a member of the detail from Co. G, and always afterward, in the performance of that duty, he was most faithful. No matter who else might be late, he was ever on time when the call for guard mount was sounded, ready to go out with his own particular squad. At first, he would march back to Company quarters with the old detail, but, as soon as he came to realize the value and importance of guard duty, he made up his mind that his place was at the guard tent and on the patrol beat, where he could be of the greatest service in watching the movements of the enemy. In the performance of his duties as a member of the guard, he was very conscientious and ever on the alert. No stray pig, wandering sheep, or silly calf could pass in front of his part of the line without being investigated by him. It is possible that his vigilance in investigating intruding meats, was sharpened by the hope of substantial recognition in the way of a stray rib extracted from the marauding offender whose ignorance of army customs in time of war had brought their tender “corpuses” too near our lines.

As a rule, Carlo, what with his guard duties and other purely routine items, managed to dispose of the day until dress parade. At that time he appeared at his best, and became the regimental dog. No officer or soldier connected with the command more fully appreciated “The pomp and circumstance of great and glorious war” than he. As the band marched out to take position previous to playing for the Companies to assemble, he would place himself alongside the drum-major, and, when the signal for marching was given, would move off with stately and solemn tread, with head well up, looking straight to the front. Upon those great occasions, he fully realized the dignity of his position, and woe betide any unhappy other dog that happened to get in front of the marching band. When upon the parade field, he became, next to the Colonel, the commanding officer, and ever regarded himself as the regulator of the conduct of those careless and frivolous dogs, that go about the world like the street _gamin_—having no character for respectability or position in society to sustain.

Of those careless ne’er-do-wells the regiment had accumulated a very large following. As a rule, they were harmless and companionable, and, like the inevitable “befo’ de wah” Judge and Major, they were always on hand ready for a free lunch and drink. It was only at dress parade that they made themselves over-officious. Each Company was attended to the parade ground by its particular family of canine companions, and, when all of them had assembled, the second battalion of the regiment would make itself known by a great variety of jumpings, caperings, barks of joy, and cries of delight. To this unseasonable hilarity Carlo seriously objected, and his demeanor plainly told the story of his disgust at the conduct of the silly pates of his race. He usually remained a passive observer until the exercise in the manual of arms, at which particular period in the ceremonies, the caperings and the barkings would become quite unendurable. Our hero would then assume the character of a preserver of the peace. He would make for the nearest group of revellers, and, in as many seconds, give a half a dozen or more of them vigorous shakes, which would set them to howling, and warn the others of the thoughtless tribe of an impending danger. Immediately the offenders would all scamper to another part of the field, and remain quiet until the dress parade was over. This duty was self-imposed and faithfully performed upon many occasions. After the parade was dismissed Carlo would march back to quarters with his own Company, where he would remain until the last daily distribution of rations, whereupon, after having disposed of his share, he would start out upon a tour of regimental inspection, making friendly calls at various Company quarters and by taps turning up at the headquarters of the guard. His duties ended for the day, he would enjoy his well-earned rest until reveille, unless some event of an unusual nature, occurring during the night, disturbed his repose and demanded his attention.

During the first year of his service in the field, Carlo was very fortunate. He had shared in all of the transportations by water, in all the marchings, skirmishes, and battles, without receiving a scratch or having a day’s illness. But his good fortune was soon to end, for it was ordained that, like other brave defenders, he was to suffer in the great cause for which all were risking their lives.

The morning of April 18, 1862, my brigade then stationed at Roanoke Island, embarked upon the Steamer Ocean Wave for an expedition up the Elizabeth River, the object of which was to destroy the locks of the dismal swamp canal in order to prevent several imaginary iron-clads from getting into Albemarle Sound, where we had assembled at that time what was known as a “Pasteboard Fleet,” which the supposed iron-clads were to destroy.

Among the first to embark was the ever ready and faithful Carlo, and the next morning, when his companions disembarked near Elizabeth City, he was one of the first to land, and, during the whole of the long and dreary march of thirty miles to Camden Court House, lasting from three o’clock in the morning until one in the afternoon, he was ever on the alert, but keeping close to his regiment. The field of battle was reached: the engagement, in which his command met with a great loss, commenced and ended, and, when the particulars of the disaster were inventoried, it was ascertained that a cruel Confederate bullet had taken the rudimentary claw from Carlo’s left fore-leg. This was his first wound, and he bore it like a hero without a whine or even a limp. A private of Co. G, who first noticed the wound, exclaimed: “Ah, Carlo, what a pity you are not an officer! If you were, the loss of that claw would give you sixty days leave and a Brigadier-General’s Commission at the end of it.” That was about the time that General’s Commissions had become very plentiful in the Department of North Carolina.

The Command re-embarked, and reached Roanoke Island the morning after the engagement, in time for the regulation “Hospital or Sick Call,” which that day brought together an unusual number of patients, and among them Carlo, who was asked to join the waiting line by one of the wounded men. When his turn came to be inspected by the attending surgeon, he was told to hold up the wounded leg, which he readily did, and then followed the washing, the application of simple cerate, and the bandaging, with a considerable show of interest and probable satisfaction. Thereafter, there was no occasion to extend to him an invitation to attend the Surgeon’s inspection. Each morning, as soon as the bugle call was sounded, he would take his place in line with the other patients, advance to his turn, and receive the usual treatment. This habit continued until the wound was healed. Always, after this, to every friendly greeting, he would respond by holding up the wounded leg for inspection, and he acted as though he thought that everybody was interested in the honorable scar that told the story of patriotic duty faithfully performed.

Later on, for some reason known to himself, Carlo transferred his special allegiance to Co. K, and maintained close connection with that Company until the end of his term of service. He was regarded by its members as a member of the Company mess, and was treated as one of them. But, notwithstanding his special attachments, there can be no reasonable doubt about his having considered himself a member of the regiment, clothed with certain powers and responsibilities. At the end of his term, he was fitted with a uniform—trousers, jacket, and fez, and, thus apparalled, marched up Broadway, immediately behind the band. He was soon after mustered out of the service, and received an honorable discharge, not signed with written characters, but attested by the good-will of every member of the regiment.

If alive to-day, he must be very old and decrepit; and I am sure that if he is, in his honorable old age his honest traits of character have not forsaken him. No doubt, he takes a just pride in the good service he rendered to his country in the years of its great trials, and it is fortunate that his having four legs has placed him beyond the temptation to join the ranks of the Grand Army of treasury looters, who have traded off the honorable name of soldier for that of the pensioned mercenary.

JEFF, THE INQUISITIVE

Among the gunboats doing duty on the inland waters of North Carolina, in the early Spring of 1862, which composed what Commodore Goldsborough designated his “Pasteboard Fleet,” was the Louisiana, commanded by Commander Alexander Murray, who was noted for his efficiency and good nature. His treatment of his crew made him one of the most popular officers in the whole fleet. He entered into all of their sports, and sympathized with the discomforts of forecastle life. He was fond of animal pets, and always welcomed the arrival of a new one. At the time of which I am writing, his ship carried quite a collection of tame birds and four-footed favorites.

Among them was a singular little character known as “Jeff.” He was a perfectly black pig of the “Racer Razor Back” order, which, at that time, were plentiful in the coast sections of the more southern of the slave-holding States. They were called “racers” because of their long legs, slender bodies, and great capacity for running; and “Razor Backs” on account of the prominence of the spinal column. The origin of this particular species of the porcine tribe is unknown, but there is a tradition to the effect that their progenitors were a part of the drove that came to the coast of Florida with De Soto when he started on the march which ended with the discovery of the Mississippi River. History records the fact that a large number of animals were brought from Spain for food, and that a considerable number of them succeeded in getting away from the expedition soon after the landing was effected.

Our particular specimen of this wandering tribe of natural marauders was captured by a boat’s crew of the Louisiana in one of the swamps adjacent to Currituck Sound, when he was a wee bit of an orphaned waif not much larger than an ostrich-egg. He was an ill-conditioned little mite that had probably been abandoned by a heartless mother, possibly while escaping from the prospective mess-kettle of a Confederate picket. In those days Confederate pickets were not very particular as to quality or kind of food, and I have a suspicion that even a “Razor Back” would have been a welcome addition to their _menu_.

When “Jeff” was brought on board, his pitiful condition excited the active sympathy of all, from the commander down to the smallest powder monkey, and numerous were the suggestions made as to the course of treatment for the new patient. The doctor was consulted, and, after a careful diagnosis, decided there was no organic disease: want of parental care, want of nourishment, and exposure, were held responsible for “Jeff’s” unfavorable condition. It was decided to put him on a light diet of milk, which proved an immediate success, for, within forty-eight hours after his first meal, the patient became as lively as possible. As days and weeks went on, there appeared an improvement of appetite that was quite phenomenal, but no accumulation of flesh. His legs and body grew longer; and, with this lengthening of parts, there came a development of intellectual acuteness that was particularly surprising. He attached himself to each individual of the ship. He had no favorites, but was hail-fellow-well-met with all. He developed all the playful qualities of a puppy, and reasoned out a considerable number of problems in his own way, without the aid of books or schoolmaster. His particular admirers declared that he learned the meaning of the different whistles of the boatswain: that he knew when the meal pennant was hoisted to the peak, could tell when the crew was beat to quarters for drill, and often proved the correctness of this knowledge by scampering off to take his place by one particular gun division which seemed to have taken his fancy.

I can testify personally to only one item in the schedule of his intellectual achievements. It is a custom in the navy for the commander of a ship to receive any officer of rank of either branch of the service at the gangway of the ship. In this act of courtesy he is always accompanied by the officer of the deck, and often by others that may happen to be at hand. After the advent of “Jeff,” whenever I went on board the Louisiana he was always at the gangway, and seemingly was deeply interested in the event. It may be said of him, generally, that he was overflowing with spirits, and took an active interest in all the daily routine work of his ship. He had a most pertinacious way of poking his nose into all sorts of affairs, not at all after the manner of the usual pig, but more like a village gossip who wants to know about everything that is going on in the neighborhood.

In the gradual development of “Jeff’s” character, it was discovered that he had none of the usual well-known traits of the pig. He was more like a petted and pampered dog, was playful, good-natured, and expressed pleasure, pain, anger, and desire, with various squeals and grunts, delivered with a variety of intonations that were very easily interpreted. He was never so happy as when in the lap of one of the sailors, having his back stroked. His pleasure upon those occasions was evinced by the emission of frequent good-natured grunts and looking up into the face of the friendly stroker. When on shore, he followed like a dog, and was never known to root. Except in speech and appearance, he was the counterpart of a happy, good-natured, and well-cared-for household dog—possibly, however, rather more intelligent than the average canine pet.

The Fourth of July, 1862, was a gala day at Roanoke Island. The camps of the island and the vessels in the harbor were _en grande fête_. Colors were flying, bands playing, drums beating, patriotic steam was up to high pressure, and a goodly number of glasses of “commissary” were consumed in wishing success to the cause. The good old day, so dear to the hearts of Americans, was made more glorious by the exchange of camp hospitalities and an indulgence in such simple hilarity as the occasion seemed to require; but “Jeff” was not forgotten. Early in the morning, he was bathed and scrubbed, more than to his heart’s content, and then patriotically decorated. In his right ear was a red ribbon, in his left a white one; around his neck another of blue, and at his mizzen, or, in other words, his tail, he carried a small Confederate flag. Thus adorned he was brought on shore to pay me a visit, and, as he came through my door, he appeared to be filled with the pride of patriotism and a realization of the greatness of the occasion. His reward for this unusual demonstration was instantaneous, and consisted of some apples and a toothsome dessert of sugar. Afterward he made the round of the camps with a special escort of warrant officers and devoted Jack Tars. From after accounts it appeared that he had been so well received that his escort experienced much difficulty in finding their way back to the ship.

During this triumphant march over the island an incident occurred which developed the slumbering instinct of the swamp “racer.” In a second, as it were, and seemingly without cause, “Jeff” was seen to move off at a tremendous pace at right angles with the line of march. He was seen, after he had run a few yards, to make a great jump, and then remain in his tracks. The pursuing party found him actively engaged in demolishing a moccasin, which he had crushed by jumping and landing with his feet upon its head and back. Hogs of this particular kind are famous snake-killers. A big rattler or a garter snake is all the same to them. They advance to the attack with the greatest impetuosity, and a feast upon snake is the usual reward of exceptional bravery.

In his habits of eating, “Jeff” was a confirmed and persistent _gourmand_, and in time paid the usual penalty for over-indulgence of a very piggish sort of appetite. While the meal pennant was up, it was his habit to go from one forecastle mess to another, and to insist upon having rather more than his share of the choice morsels from each. In a short time he came to the repair shop very much the worse for wear, with an impaired digestion and a cuticle that showed unmistakable evidence of scurvy. For the first, he was put upon short rations; for the second, sand baths on shore were prescribed. Under this treatment poor “Jeff” lost all his buoyancy of spirits and his habitual friskiness, and became sad and dejected, but bore his troubles with becoming patience. He took to the cool sand baths at once, and gave forth many disgruntled grunts when lifted out of them.

The last time I saw “Jeff,” July 10, 1862, he was buried up to his ears in the cool sands of the Roanoke Island shore, with eyes upturned and looking like a very sad pig, but I fear none the wiser for his offences against the rights of a well-regulated digestion.

This account has not been written for the only purpose of glorifying the one particular pig, or pigs in general, but rather to call attention to the fact that this universally despised animal, by associating with human beings and receiving gentle treatment, may develop interesting traits of character, which would otherwise remain unknown; and also to prove that kindness bestowed upon lower animals may be appreciated and reciprocated in a manner which the upper animal, man, who boasts of his superiority, would do well to imitate.

TOBY, THE WISE

The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black, middle-aged bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but nevertheless a notable specimen of the crow family.

In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers, grievously hurt and wounded full sore, and particularly so in the left wing. He was so badly disabled that he had to forego the pleasure of flying through the air, and was obliged to content himself as best he could with trudging about on the rough surface of our common mother earth.

In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully along, he chanced to pass the window of a _sanctum_ belonging to and occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a perfect example of the old school, learned, benevolent, and very fond of animals and feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it was that brought the unhappy and wounded young rook to the window of this good man. But possibly it was a real inspiration on the part of the young bird. Toby was wet, weary, wounded, and hungry, and as he looked in upon the cheerful wood fire and the kindly face of the master of the house, his longing expression was met with a raising of the window and an invitation to walk in to a breakfast of corn and meal that had been hastily prepared for him. He gazed and thought, and thought and gazed, upon the joys within and still he doubted; but, finally, appetite and curiosity got the better of his discretion, and, as he walked cautiously in, the window was closed behind him. So the wounded waif entered upon a new life.

At first he was a little shy and cautious, and it took considerable time for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend. After a few weeks, however, he realized the value of his new position, and consented to the establishment of intimate relations. In fact, Toby became so attached to his master, and so affectionate, that he was not happy out of his presence.

During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an opportunity to unite, and during most of that time he would walk by his master’s side, cawing and looking up into his face as if asking for recognition. When the wing got well, and his ability to fly was re-established, he would anticipate the direction of the promenades by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting and awaiting the arrival of his master.

The most singular part of Toby’s domestication was his exclusive loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of other members of the household, but when strangers appeared he was decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.

Three times a day Toby is decidedly funny, and goes through a comical performance. In his master’s _sanctum_ there is a contrivance which, on a small scale, resembles the old New England well-pole. At one end, which rests upon the floor, Toby commences his ascent with a great flapping of wings and uproarious cawing. When he arrives at the upper end of the pole, some eight or nine feet from the floor, it falls and lands him upon a platform, beside a plate containing his food. This climbing up the pole precedes each meal, and takes place punctually at the same hour and minute of each day.

In the spring of 1890 Toby was tempted from his loyalty, and flew off with a marauding flock of his kind. He remained away all summer. He was missed but not mourned, for his master felt certain he would return; and, sure enough, one bleak, cold morning in November, Toby was found looking longingly into the room where he had first seen his good master. The window was opened, he walked in and mounted his pole, and after him came a companion, a meek, modest, and timid young rook, more confiding than Toby, and differing from him in many other respects. He, too, was duly adopted, and was christened Jocko. He was easily domesticated, and soon became a part of the _entourage_ of one of the finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes.

With age Toby has taken on quite an amount of dignity. He is neither so noisy nor so companionable as formerly, but is more staid and useful. One of his favorite resting places, where he enjoys his after breakfast contemplations and his afternoon siestas, is among the branches of a fine old English oak, whose protecting shades, in the far-off past, were the scene of the stolen love-meetings of Amy Wentworth and the profligate Duke of Monmouth.

Neither of these knowing birds has been able to understand the mystery of a looking-glass. They spend many hours of patient investigation before a mirror in their master’s room, but all to no purpose, for the puzzle seems to remain as great as ever. They usually walk directly up to it, and betray great surprise when they find two other rooks advancing to meet them. For a while they remain silent and motionless, looking at the strangers, and waiting, apparently, for some sign of recognition. Then they go through a considerable flapping of wings and indulge in numerous caws, but after long waiting for an audible response they give up the useless effort, only to return next day as eager as ever to solve the mystery.

The older bird and his admiring junior are perfectly contented with their home, and never leave it. They often look out from their perches upon various wandering flocks of vagrant rooks, but are never tempted to new adventures. The old fellow is very wise. Like a fat old office-holder, he knows enough to appreciate a sinecure in which the emoluments are liberal and the service nominal. His devoted follower never falters in his dutiful imitation of his benefactor.