I would not go either if I
could avoid it.
You will remember that not long ago I said that Lieutenant Baldwin was
urging me to ride Tom, his splendid thoroughbred, as soon as he could
be quieted down a little so I could control him. Well, I was to have
ridden him to-day for the first time! Yesterday morning Lieutenant
Baldwin had him out for a long, hard run, but even after that the
horse was nervous when he came in, and danced sideways along the
officers' drive in his usual graceful way. Just as they got opposite
the chaplain's house, two big St. Bernard dogs bounded over the fence
and landed directly under the horse, entangling themselves with his
legs so completely that when he tried to jump away from them he was
thrown down on his knees with great force, and Lieutenant Baldwin was
pitched over the horse's head and along the ground several feet.
He is a tall, muscular man and went down heavily, breaking three ribs
and his collar bone on both sides! He is doing very well, and is as
comfortable to-day as can be expected, except that he is grieving
piteously over his horse, for the poor horse - beautiful Tom - is
utterly ruined! Both knees have been sprung, and he is bandaged almost
as much as his master.
The whole occurrence is most deplorable and distressing. It seems so
dreadful that a strong man should be almost killed and a grand horse
completely ruined by two clumsy, ill-mannered dogs. One belongs to the
chaplain, too, who is expected to set a model example for the rest of
us. Many, many times during the winter I have ridden by the side of
Tom, and had learned to love every one of his pretty ways, from the
working of his expressive ears to the graceful movement of his slender
legs. He was a horse for anyone to be proud of, not only for his
beauty but as a hunter, too, and he was Lieutenant Baldwin's delight
and joy.
It does seem as if everything horrible had come all at once. The order
we have been expecting, of course, as so many rumors have reached us
that we were to go, but all the time there has been hidden away a
little hope that we might be left here another year.
I shall take the greyhound puppy, of course. He is with Blue, his
mother, at Captain Richardson's quarters, but he is brought over every
day for me to see. His coat is brindled, dark brown and black - just
like Magic's - and fine as the softest satin. One foot is white, and
there is a little white tip to his tail, which, it seems, is
considered a mark of great beauty in a greyhound.
