"Sh-oo-oo-oot me, or stop the hor-or-or-orse!"

John Hartwell

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From: Down in Dixie: life in a cavalry regiment in the war days, from the Wilderness to Appomattox, (1893), by Stanton P. Allen, private, 1st Massachusetts Cavalry. [pp.441-3]

For most of the final year of the war, Companies C and D of the 1st Mass. Cavalry served as escort guard at Army of the Potomac headquarters. This often entailed carrying messages or dispatches. In December 1864, Pvt. Allen had just delivered such a missive to the headquarters of Fifth Corps commander Gen. Gouverneur Warren.

It was very dark when I started from the bivouac of Warren's troops on my return to Meade's headquarters in front of Petersburg. I trusted entirely to my horse to keep the right road. After riding a few miles I heard the sound of a horse at full gallop behind me. My first thought was of rebels, and I examined my revolver to see that it was in working order. I reined my horse to one side of the road and waited for developments. The. horse slackened his speed as he approached and stopped alongside my charger. The horse was saddled and bridled and the saddle was packed with a cavalry- man's outfit. His rider had probably been shot on the picket line, or the horse had broken away from the bivouac. I had no time to take the animal back to Warren's line, and I concluded to lead him to our camp at Meade's headquarters.
"Who comes there?"
I was startled by the challenge which came to me out of the darkness ahead. I heard the "click" as the challenger drew back the hammer of his musket.
"A friend."
"Dismount, advance and give the countersign!"
"I can't dismount very well, as I have an extra horse."
"Well, are you Yank or rebel?"
"I'm a Yank."
I knew that a Confederate picket would not be apt to use the word "rebel."
"Then it's all right. Where are you going?"
"To Meade's headquarters."
"I'm going back to our camp near Globe Tavern, and I'm glad to have company."
"All right. Jump on to the extra horse and I'll take you along."
The doughboy — for the stranger proved to be an infantry soldier — had no little trouble in climbing into the saddle. He was in heavy marching order with his knapsack and full outfit. Finally he got on and we continued the journey.
Rattle-te-bang-bang! went the doughboy's canteen, tin cup and frying-pan as they jostled against the saddle equipments. The horse was not used to such a racket, and began to prance around, much to the terror of his rider.
"Whoa, horsey! whoa!" shouted the infantryman.
"We'll take up the gallop — that'll quiet him," I said. "Come on!"
My horse responded to a touch of the spur and the other animal kept close alongside. The doughboy was riding his horse all over, I should say, for he was first out on the pommel of the saddle on the horse's neck, and then back behind the saddle. And the way he shouted "Whoa!" and "Murder!" and all that, did much to relieve the monotony of the ride. Finally he yelled in despair, as he bobbed up and down and back and forth:
"Sh-oo-oo-oot me, or stop the hor-or-or-orse!"
"Keep your feet in the stirrups, but let your weight rest evenly in the saddle."
"Murder! Oh! stop him! stop him! I'll go back to my company. I’d rather be shot by rebels than to be murdered this way!"
I reined in my horse and we came to a halt.
"So you're a runaway, are you?"
"I was tired out and had lost the command. There was nothing for me to do but to go back to camp."
The doughboy "climbed down" off the horse and crawled into the bushes by the roadside. He declined my invitation to ride on to Globe Tavern.
"You're outside the lines, and if you don't turn around and go out and join your regiment before daylight, you will be gobbled up by the bushwhackers in the morning."
"I'd rather be shot than to ride that horse another rod. Take the horse with you, I don't want him."
"Well, good-by."
"Good-by."
 
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