Captain had been trained as an army horse for a young officer of the cavalry. In those days he was a dark, dappled grey and very handsome. He enjoyed the training with the other horses, and his master, a cheerful young gentleman, loved him and treated him with the greatest care.
“I thought an army horse had a very pleasant life,” he said, “until they sent us over the sea in a great ship. That part was dreadful! They lifted us off our feet with straps and swung us through the air onto the ship, and for a long time we stood in small, close stalls and never saw the sky. How glad we were to feel firm ground under our feet again!”
“But what about the fighting?” I asked. “Wasn’t that worse?”
“I hardly know,” he said. “As long as we felt our rider firm in the saddle and his hand steady on the rein, not one of us was afraid. I saw horses and men shot down, and we left many dead or dying on the field, but I don’t think I was afraid for myself. My master’s cheerful voice made me feel that he and I could not be killed. I never felt real terror until one dreadful day.”
Here old Captain stopped and took a long breath. I waited, and he went on.
“It was an autumn morning. When it grew light, we heard the enemy’s guns, and in a second every man was in his saddle. My master and I were at the front of the line. As we waited, he took a little piece of my mane that had fallen to the wrong side, laid it over to the right side and smoothed it down. Then he patted my neck and said, ‘We shall have a hard day today, Bayard, my beauty, but we’ll do our duty as we always have.’ He stroked my neck that morning more than ever before, as if he were thinking of something else.
“Our last charge was across a valley, straight at the enemy’s guns. Shot and shells came at us from the right, from the left and from the front. Many brave men went down, and many horses fell, but no one turned back, and our gallop became faster and faster.
“My master was cheering on his men, his right arm raised high, when a cannon ball flew close past my head and struck him. I felt him shake, though he did not cry out. His sword dropped, the rein fell loose, and he fell backwards out of the saddle. The other horses swept past, and I was carried along with them.
“Now I was alone, without a master or a friend, and fear took hold of me. I shook as I had never shaken before. Then a soldier whose horse had been killed caught my bridle and jumped on my back, and we went forward again. But few of us came back from that fight. Some horses were so badly hurt that they could hardly move; others were trying to walk on three legs.”
“And the wounded horses?” I said. “Were they left to die?”
“No. After the battle men went over the field and shot all the horses that could not be saved. Only about one horse in four from our stables came back. I never saw my dear master again, and I never loved another master so well.”
“I have heard people talk about war as if it was a very fine thing,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, “I don’t think they ever saw it. It is very fine when it is only exercise and parades. But when thousands of good, brave men and horses are killed, it looks very different.”
“Do you know what they fought about?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “that is more than a horse can understand. But the enemy must have been terribly wicked people, if it was right to go all that way over the sea just to kill them.”