Comanche, A Loving Tribute to an Old Warhorse
Comanche
A Loving Tribute to an old Warhorse
By William W. Kelso
The old horse was so tired and sick, but he was comfortable enough as his human friends had always taken good care of him. He had never wanted for anything. He aware of the presence of many of them now, both in or near his stall, and he was also comforted by the smells and sounds of his equine friends and their own concern.
As his memories drifted as he remembered the days of his youth, both the good and bad times, the giddy days of music and parades, the joys and hardships of life on post and on campaign. All the humans and fellow equines he had known and loved, but most of all his rider and partner who had ridden the trail with him for so long, so long ago. He had been so proud of his rider and his herd mates, both human and equine. He had been part of something very special, and he missed that greatly.
He had been with his rider and partner on that hot and terrible day so long ago. He had thrown up his head and neighed in delight when the bugles blew the charge, and he and his rider had led his mates into battle for what was not the first time, but would be the last for so many. But that day their foes had been too many and his human mates had dismounted to fight on foot, sending him and the other horses to the rear for what little safety could be had. He had shied and cried out as friends fell and did not rise, had fought his flight instinct in order to stay by his riders side. As other horses bolted in fear and pain, he had remained steadfast though he had been hurt again and again. He had recoiled in horror from seeming more and more of his old friends fall, and the hot copper scent of fresh blood had terrified him. Then his partner and rider had gone down, only to rise again and keep fighting, trying to save his men and horses, before finally going down for the final time, his riders hands still gripping his reins. The only time he had almost left his riders side was when he heard the final bugle calls to rally on the flag. His instinct was to answer those calls and go to the aid of his mates, but his love for his rider was greater. He had remained by his fallen riders side, fighting off the advances of other humans whom he knew wished to further harm his friend. He had reared and roared a challenge at any who came near, and those humans had honored his bravery and devotion by not molesting him or his fallen rider.
The old groom had looked up, tears in his eyes. "It won't be long now fellows, he's fading fast and ain't nothing we can do for him except keep him company so he don't die alone."
The old horse remembered the terrible lonely days after the great battle, when of all on the field only he had remained alive, keeping vigil and standing sentry over his fallen comrades. He had slowly grown weaker from lack of water and food, but he would not abandon his place by his rider's side, he would not leave his command. Sometime later, he did not know how long, some more humans and horses approached him, and he did not challenge them for he recognized them as his fellows. Though it was the hardest thing he had ever done, he allowed himself to be taken away and cared for, knowing that they were here to take care of his fallen comrades and his beloved friends.
The old groom looked up again, "Not much longer boys, his hearts giving out."
He remembered the days and years after the battle when he had been so well cared for, but he was sad when he was never assigned another rider. He had horribly missed his first friend and rider, but another human had taken his place and he had come to love that human just as much. But when that human had left one day and never came back he was heartbroken, somehow he knew his other friend had fallen in battle as well. And after that he slowly lost his will to live. He was so very very tired.
The old groom began to softly sing:
"Let Bacchus sons be not dismayed But join with me, each jovial blade, Come, drink and sing lend your aid, To help me with the chorus"
And the others standing vigil added their voices to the soft sad lament as they paid fare well to a legend.
"Instead of spa, we'll drink brown ale, And pay the reckoning the nail, No man for debt shall go jail, From Garry Owen in glory"
As he heard the old song the old horse rallied for a few minutes, listening to the old familiar marching tune, and it comforted him as nothing else could. He felt he was young again, riding proudly with his rider and comrades and they passed in review.
Then suddenly he realized he was standing again, and wearing his old saddle and tack! He looked down and saw the body of an old horse, and knew he had died. The old groom who taken care of him for the last few months of his life was grieving, still gently stroking and comforting him even though the groom knew he was gone. He reached his head down and gently blew on the back of the groom's neck, and nuzzled him to say goodbye. For a few seconds the groom raised his head and looked around, then returned to his old friend's body, but somehow the old groom felt strangelycomforted.
Then the horse, who was no longer old or sick, threw up his head and pricked his ears as the familiar old march continued, but this time it came from a band somewhere in the distance. Eagerly he left the stall, and as he neared the stable doors they opened to a shining bright light. He picked up his pace, trotting now as he heard the bugle call "Boots and Saddles". As he exited the barn he came out not into the last post he had been stationed at, but the parade ground of his original post! And lined up on parade were all his old friends, both horse and human! All the riders were on their old mounts except for one! He dashed up to the lone dismounted rider, Whinnying and neighing in delight and joy, and his old friend and partner threw his hands around his neck and hugged him tightly while other riders and horses called to him in friendly greetings. They had been waiting for him all this time!
Then his rider, his friend, his herd mate, put his foot in the stirrup and mounted him again for the first time after all those years! And then he took his place at the head of I Troop where he belonged, falling into formation in his old place, he was home! The a lone rider approached him, and dismounting from his own mount he approached and the old horse was happy to see the second human who had been his friend, and who had taken care of him for so long. His other friend hugged him too, and slipped him one of the sugar cubes he loved so much, and then had addressed his rider. Saluting, he said "Sir! I leave him in your care now!" His rider had reached down and shaken the groom's hand, and thanked him for all his years of love and care. The groom had then remounted his own mount, another old friend, and had ridden off. The horse watched until he disappeared in the haze, but somehow knew he would be seeing him again often.
Then the bugles blew again, and the human who had been the leader of his fellow equines and humans had ridden up and asked his rider "Report, Capt. Keogh!" and his rider had responded "I Troop, all present and accounted for , Col. Custer, Sir!". Then the band began to play again, "Garry Owen" and "The Girl I Left Behind Me", as the command passed in review one final time. Then came familiar commands "Column Move Out!" "Forward HO!" and the command moved out on their final campaign. One in which there would be no more pain or battle, only good weather and sweet grass and eternal comradeship. And as they moved out the column slowly lifted into the air and disappeared into the setting sun. And slowly the strains of Garry Owen faded away.
NOTE: I wrote this short story in honor and memory of all the brave equines and other animals who have over the eons followed their human companions into battle without question, often to give their lives. Sometimes I truly wonder if we are worthy of that selfless love and devotion. To date I have never heard of a monument or memorial dedicated to our brave and loyal friends, except for the one to the sole survivor of that horrible, yet glorious, day at the Little Big Horn when history was made. I can only imagine what it must have been like, and wish I had been there. Maybe I could have helped. Garry Owen in Glory!