little before the appointed time--eight o'clock, but reaching the outer
edge of our camp my horse balked, and in answer to my efforts to move
him began to kick, rear, and plunge. He tried to throw me, and did
nearly everything except roll over. Every time I headed him forward, he
would wheel around and start back for his stable. I coaxed him, then
tried the spur, all to no purpose. I was losing valuable time, besides
having a very uncomfortable kind of a fight on hand. I realized I must
make him obey me or I could never handle him again. An orderly from
General French came galloping over with the expected peremptory message.
One minute's delay with him was almost a capital offence. I could only
return word that I was doing my best to get there. The general and his
staff then rode over to see my performance. He reassured me with the
remark, "Stick to him and make him obey you, or kill him." Well, it took
just about one hour to conquer him, at the end of which time I had
ploughed up several acres of ground, my horse was in a white lather, and
I was in the same condition. When he quit, he did so at once, and went
on as cleverly as though nothing had happened. The cause of this freak I
never understood, he never having done so before, and never did again.

[Illustration: DON AND I

And a glimpse of the camp of Hancock's Division, Second Army Corps, back
of Falmouth, Va., winter of 1862-3. See page 171]

May I digress long enough to speak a little more of this remarkable
horse. Dr. Holland says there is always hope for any man who has heart
enough to love a good horse. Army life was well calculated to develop
the sterling qualities of both man and beast. Hence, I suppose every man
who had a good horse could safely regard him as "most remarkable." How
many such have I heard cavalrymen talk about, descanting on the
"remarkable" qualities of their half-human favorites, whilst the tears
wet their cheeks. I had named this splendid animal "Don Fulano," after
that superb horse in Winthrop's "John Brent," not because he was a
magnificent black charger, etc.; on the contrary, in many respects he
was the opposite of the original Don Fulano. Raised upon an unromantic
farm near Scranton, an unattractive yellow bay, rather too heavy limbed
and too stockily built to be called handsome, yet powerful, courageous,
intelligent (he could almost talk), high spirited, with a heavy, shaggy
mane and forelock, through which gleamed a pair of keen,