The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol. IV, No. 4, January 1907

“‘Well, how do you like swimming?”

“I reached for my pocket knife to cut his throat, but found I didn’t even have on my drawers, and just then the water gurgled up under my chin and splashed in my ears and that brute winked his left eye as he let out another notch in that old telescopic neck of his and walked along like he was on dress parade. By this time we were half-way across, and nothing but my nose was out. I was just thinking of getting up on his back on my knees, when he stepped in a little washout and my head went under like a cork. I turned loose everything to get air again, and was swept off before I could say ‘Scat.’ I grasped a willow just as I heard the stranger, who had been sitting on a big, sloping-shouldered gray Hal pacer, hello to me to hold on, and his horse soon swam out to the willow as naturally as if he had done it every day for a year. He circled in about forty feet of water before reaching me, and, telling me to catch his horse by the tail, he swam quietly by and I lost no time in doing as he said and getting back to land. I lost my ten-dollar pants, but this was more than offset by the hundred-dollars’ worth of common sense I had tucked away in my head on the different ways in which horses swim.

“And that horse—well, we sat on the bank and watched that head go leisurely across, lengthening out when it struck a washout and contracting on the ridges, with that same ironical grin part—the ugliest mouth I ever saw on a horse. At last he struck the bridge, clambered up, shook himself like a wet dog, looked back to see if I was taking it all in, and struck out to the Major’s on his own hook.

“But the worst was yet to come. Just as I landed I heard a buggy turn a sharp bend in the road, drive up to where the Southerner and his horse were pulling me out and—great Caesar!—there sat in the buggy old Major Blank and the angel of my dreams. The girl shrieked and ducked her head under the lap robe, while I jumped back in that slough to hide the southern half of me, and tried to commit suicide by drowning, but my youthful head was so corky I couldn’t keep it under water long enough. The old Major drove off and started to his home by another route, the kind gentleman fished me out again, more dead than alive and I went home, with my new friend just in time to have a hard chill. I was sick two weeks, during which time I got it pretty straight that my clerking friend had been courting my blue-eyed beauty for six months himself, and I will always believe that he loaned me that horse just to get me out of the way. Anyway, three days afterwards he went down to the Major’s to get the old horse, stayed all night and fixed the wedding day, while I was swimming imaginary sloughs with my pulse at 105½.

“I got back home as quickly as I could, and now, when I go to buy a horse, I never ask, ‘How fast can he go?’ but ‘How far can he swim?’”

And my bachelor friend struck up a whistle which sounded like “After the Ball” and walked off.

* * * * *

“Very few people”, said Capt. Robert D. Smith, of Columbia, Tenn., “know that the late Gen. Wm. B. Bate, who died United States Senator from Tennessee, told one of the most pathetic horse stories of the war. General Bate was here before his death, attending the Confederate reunion, and I reminded him of the incident and got him to relate it again as it happened. I never saw him so much touched as when he told again of the attachment of his horse, Black Hawk, for him, and the animal’s pathetic death at Shiloh. General Bate is very modest and no braver man ever lived; but I was there and saw the incident and can tell you how it was. At the battle of Shiloh General Bate was then colonel of the Second Tennessee. He had two horses which he used; one, an ordinary, everyday horse which he rode on the march and other rough service; the other was a magnificent black stallion—a thoroughbred and Hal horse—black as a crow and as beautiful as you ever saw. He was a very stout horse, not leggy as some thoroughbreds are, but symmetrical and shapely, and as the General always took a lively interest in horses, this one had been selected for him with great care and at a good deal of expense. By the way, General Bate says he has since heard of a number of Black Hawk’s sons and other descendants making most creditable races. This horse was splendidly equipped and used by Colonel Bate only for parades, long marches where stamina was needed and for battle. The night before the battle of Shiloh the commoner horse was stolen, and the next morning at daylight I remember what a superb looking object our colonel presented on this magnificent animal, who looked fit to race for a kingdom or charge over the guns of Balaklava.

“Men may talk about Gettysburg, Franklin and other battles of the war, but I want to see no stubborner or bloodier fight than we had down there amid the woods, around that little church and on the banks of the Tennessee. You may know what kind of company we had to entertain us, when I say that we struck Sherman’s line first. Time and again we drove them back and as often they reformed and stubbornly contested every foot of the way. The usual position of a colonel is thirty feet to the rear of his regiment, and it was in that position that Colonel Bate first went into the fight. The enemy gave way after the first hard fight—in fact, I will always think we took them a little unawares, though I know that both Generals Sherman and Grant did not think so, probably owing to the fact that they were not at the front when we began the fight, not having anticipated it to begin so soon—but arriving soon after they heard the guns. At the next stand they gave it to us hot, and it was here our lines were nearly broken and it was here that Colonel Bate had to put himself in front of his regiment before they would charge with enough determination to drive the boys in blue again. All this time the battle was raging everywhere. We had driven the Federal army past Shiloh church, and towards the river, where they finally made the desperate stand that stopped us the next day after Buell’s arrival.

“Time and again Colonel Bate led us against Sherman’s brave boys—that thoroughbred horse and rider always in front. Once he made us a short speech just before we had to charge again, having been repulsed at the first attempt. He said he wanted us only to follow him and he would not take us where he would not go himself. This last fight was terrible. Before we struck the enemy Colonel Bate was shot out of the saddle, the men fell around us right and left and we charged on leaving all as they fell.

“Now the remarkable thing was that horse. When Colonel Bate fell the horse seemed to be at a loss what to do. But as the regiment swept on, he quickly fell into his place just in the rear of the regiment and followed us on into battle. We must have fought on for a half mile after that, and it was a strange sight to see that horse following the regiment as stately as if on dress parade, and it touched every man to see him riderless.

“At the first opportunity an ambulance was sent back to find the colonel and take him to the field hospital, some three miles in the rear. In the confusion no one had thought of Black Hawk, but it seemed he had not forgotten his brave rider, for he actually followed the path made by his colonel, or rather those who carried him to the hospital—almost tracking him by his blood—straight up to the hospital tent, and to the surprise of Colonel Bate, who had been badly but not seriously wounded in two places, one ball going through his shoulder, he poked his head in the tent door and affectionately whinnied to his master while the surgeon was dressing his wound. The next instant he walked a few paces in the weeds, staggered and fell down dead. An examination showed what no one had noticed: he had been badly wounded in several places, one of which proved fatal. General Bate says he can still see that almost human look Black Hawk gave him and that last pathetic whinny as he walked off to fall down and die.”

[Trotwood has heard Senator Bate relate this incident himself and the last time he met the old warrior at dinner at the Maxwell House, Nashville, Senator Bate related the above incident and discussed very fondly the pedigree and value of the Southern breed of horses that could produce such intelligent animals as Black Hawk.]

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

By John Trotwood Moore

[NOTE.—This story was begun in the November number of _Trotwood’s Monthly_. It opened with a pioneer horse race at the Hermitage, in Tennessee, in which Jack Trevellian, General Jackson and others had entered their horses. Trevellian was a young captain who had been in the Creek wars with General Jackson, and whom the old soldier loved very much. Trevellian was in love with Juliette Templeton, a guest of General Jackson. She had not promised to marry him, but was in love with him. She came to the race accompanied by Colonel Bristow, also in love with her. In the very graphic account of the race, the horse of an unknown boy, the son of an outcast woman, won, for which he was about to be beaten by those who had bet on the other horses, when Trevellian came to his rescue, claiming the boy was a Trevellian. “It is his son!” said someone to Juliette Templeton, and almost fainting she rode away from the field.]

CHAPTER V

An hour afterwards there was a halloo at the lower gate. It was answered by the dogs, who rushed out, barring the way, and stopping the newcomer at the entrance. According to pioneer custom, he sat on his horse till the dogs had been called in by their master.

At a word from Trevellian they slunk back to their kennels.

“Good evening, Jack—you were not expecting me, eh?”

“I am just as glad to see you, General—ride in,” and he opened the gate with a quick, nervous jerk. “I was just about to have the blues,” he added—“yes, we all have them at times.”

The older man seemed to have guessed this, for he had dismounted and hitched his horse, and, arm in arm, they walked up the path to the house.

“I promised Mrs. Jackson I’d not stay long, Jack, but as much as we love them, boy, there are times when a man must talk to a man. Nothing else will do,” and he slapped the other affectionately on the shoulder.

Both, for a while, were constrained, and each knew it. Trevellian knew what the older man had come for, and the other knew that Trevellian had guessed.

In endeavoring to be natural, the General was slightly embarrassed, a thing so unnatural with him that he worried more as he recognized it. But it convinced him how deeply interested he was in the affair before him—how much he cared for the future of the young man at his side.

“That tobacco they raised at the Hermitage while I was away this year is not the best in the world, Jack,” he said, passing his buckskin pouch to the other, “but it will help us out.”

The two were soon smoking. It was plain that the older man had plans, and that he would soon unfold them. Under any other circumstances his talk would have been different—the day’s racing, the banterings, the jokes, the oft-repeated tales of it, the speculation on this and that event, the praise or condemnation of horse or jockey.

To-night it was different. They smoked in silence, and after a while the General said:

“I heard from Washington to-day.”

Trevellian looked up quickly—expectantly.

“Not about Pensacola,” went on the other, “but the treaty with the Creeks. I am directed by the Secretary of War to conclude it, and I will soon meet them at Ft. Jackson. I’ll want you to go with me—of course—and the First Regiment.” He stopped and tapped the young man lightly on the arm:

“And that’s not all the troops I’ll slip into that vicinity. I’ve a good excuse—there has been no reply to my letter concerning the landing of British troops at Pensacola, and the treachery of Spain in permitting it, and I’ll take silence for consent, and with the troops in the forts and on the frontier I’ll order your regiment in and hold all in good striking distance of that nest of Spanish snakes. And we’ll strike, Jack—we’ll strike!”

He arose and began to pace the room.

“I’ll not stay tethered while Spain permits our enemy to use her harbor to shelter them. What do they know at Washington, a thousand miles away, with their ears sealed for fear they’ll have another war on their hands? The government—all governments are abstract things, at best. It is the men in them that count—the concrete agents who carry out the things to be done, and there are things every man is called on to solve for himself, both in war and in life—there are times when the general is the government, and if he fails to rise to the occasion he is a flunk and a failure.”

He was still walking around the room, talking more to himself than to Jack.

“Now, the situation is this: I know. The government doesn’t want to know. It’s my business to fight and whip the foes of my country. It’s my government’s to keep out of more than one fight at a time. That’s all right—but when I can kill two bears with one ball, it’s better than killing one of them and wounding the other. The British are swarming in Pensacola. They are our enemy, and once securely entrenched there they will entrench from the Rio Grande to Mobile Bay. Then it will be too late. In driving them from Pensacola I’ll drive out Spain at the same time and hold it so securely that Spain may bluff for a while, but will finally give in—and Florida will be ours.”

And so he smoked and walked, planning it all out, and in an hour it was arranged, and the General grew calmer and sat down again.

“Now, while we are gone, the election will come off. To-day you had Bristow beat—”

“_You_ had him beat, General,” the younger man smiled for the first time.

The General gave his first chuckle. The ice was broken.

“But now—” began the General.

“I am out of the race, sir,” said Trevellian, rising. “I shall so announce it to-morrow. I am going with you and fight,” he added.

The General arose quickly: “No, you are not out of it, Jack—not while I am about.”

“What do you mean, General?” He came over and stood face to face with the older man.

“Let us be seated,” said the other. “I will go into detail. Bristow remained with us for supper to-night—”

The younger man was still silent.

“But first, Jack, shall I tell you all?”

Jack nodded.

“It was a little thing—perhaps I should not speak of it. Mrs. Jackson says”—and he smiled—“that for an old Indian fighter I am taking on a lot of romance since I returned, and that you two have caused it. Well, my heart is in this thing, and you know it. But I loved Templeton and I love you, my boy.”

The other bowed his head reverently.

“The girl loves you, Jack; I know it. I know when a woman loves. She is wretched to-night. Why, didn’t I see her when she came home—in spite of Bristow, everybody—everything—with her face set like a flint monument in grief. To-night she was weeping in her room. Mrs. Jackson told me—by God, but you have broken her heart, and you must tell me, Jack.”

Jack arose hastily and walked the room in silent agitation. At last he stopped and stood before the other.

“I cannot, my General—my God, I cannot! Blame me, cut me off from your esteem and friendship as I am already cut off from hers. This thing is between me and my Maker.

“No man,” said the General, rising, “has the right to ask of you things which are between you and your God. I do not want to know—and this —is—”

“And I cannot tell you anything, my friend—my more than friend.”

He stood before his father’s picture—the Trevellian portrait that hung above them on the wall. He bowed his head in the agony of it all.

“I have never kept anything from you before, and you know how hard it is for me to do this, but—”

The other man was walking the room. He turned and said:

“Well, then, I will tell you what happened. Bristow has said enough for me to challenge him—said it at my table,” and his face flushed with the purpling rage which could so quickly mount to it. “My friends’ fights are my own, Jack—you know that—”

“You have not challenged him, General?” and Jack paled suddenly.

“I will to-morrow—as soon as Patton Anderson can take him a note. I’ll challenge him, and I’ll kill him.” He came up closer to Jack.

“It’s not you and what he said I’m thinking of. You only give me the chance. I’ve been wanting to kill him ever since that cowardly night.”

“You could not prove it before a court-martial, General.”

“No, d—n him—no—I wish I could. But there are things a man knows he cannot prove by the red-tape letter of the law which—no—no—he is too smart to be caught. But I know it and you know, and every man of sense, that he treacherously instigated and led the mutiny of those starved and homesick troops in the Creek wilderness. When—ha, Jack, you know it was he!”

The General was getting hot.

“But you—you stopped it,” smiled the other.

“Yes—with a rifle in their path, and I wish I had shot him then. No, I am not fighting your battles, young man. You may take care of yourself, as I said to him—I am going to kill him for instigating that mutiny when the life of the army and the fate of the war hung on our fighting it to a finish.”

“But you will not challenge him, General—you must promise me you will not.”

The General turned purple with anger—his eyes flashed indignantly into those of the younger man. He stuck his bony finger in Jack’s face and fairly shrieked:

“D—n you, Jack, and your sissy, foolish silence! Yes, sir, I will, unless you tell me you are guilty—that you are not worth Juliette’s love—that the boy is your son. And if you are silent, why then—”

“And if I am silent, General, why then you will believe I am guilty and let this thing pass?”

The General nodded.

“General, I must—I must—I cannot—I must be silent.”

The General looked up.

Jack’s eyes were wet. The General grasped his hand silently.

“By God, you are not guilty, Jack—you will tell me in your own time. I said I’d kill him, but—well, you’ve spoiled my plans. I’ll let him go for your sake.”

“For my sake, General, and I swear to you you shall one day know. Let him have the office—let him have the girl. I’ll have my sacred promise to the dead and my manhood left—that I’ll never part with.”

[_To be continued_]

[Illustration: MEN OF AFFAIRS]

It is quite fitting that the author of _Makers of Virginia History_ should be chosen as Director of the Division of History, Education and Social Economy of the Jamestown Exposition. Mr. Julian Alvin Carroll Chandler brings to his work also an experience of more than thirteen years’ work in the educational field, having been instructor at William and Mary College, Richmond College, Morgan College, Baltimore, and president of the Woman’s College, Richmond. Mr. Chandler holds degrees from William and Mary, Richmond College and Johns Hopkins and has long been an authority on Southern history, being an active member of the Virginia Historical Society, American Historical Association and Society for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities; and having written _Representation in Virginia_, _History of Suffrage in Virginia_, _Makers of Virginia History_ and _Makers of American History_ (joint author). Since the year 1904 he has been editor for the publishing house of Silver, Burdett & Co.—the only Southern man who is editor of a New York publishing house.

[Illustration: J. A. C. CHANDLER]

Mr. Chandler’s interest in the work of the Jamestown Exposition and his thorough knowledge of the ground and departments covered led to his being asked to take charge of a special department and he received a year’s leave of absence from his publishing house in order to accept the position. His plans include a splendid historical exhibit of the sources of history as shown in rare documents and letters, valuable relics, oil paintings and statuary relating to the beginnings of our country; an educational exhibit, showing the best in our schools throughout the country, with especial stress upon the schools of the South. Consolidation of schools; grading of rural schools; the establishment of county high schools and county agricultural schools, teaching of manual training and domestic science will be fully brought out in this exhibit and will contain much of practical assistance to teachers in all parts of the country. Mr. Chandler’s indefatigable efforts and tireless energy will make this department a thoroughly interesting one. He is a young man, having been born in Guineys, Virginia, in 1872.