He saw
a horse, fifteen or twenty feet from him, but without rider, bridle or
saddle. It was a black horse of gigantic build like a Percheron, with
feet as large as a half-bushel measure, and a huge rough mane.
The horse saw John and gazed at him out of great, mild, limpid eyes. The
young American thought he beheld fright there and the desire for
companionship. The animal, probably belonging to some farmer who had
fled before the armies, had wandered into the battle area, seeking the
human friends to whom he was so used, and nothing living was more
harmless than he. He reminded John in some ways of those stalwart and
honest peasants who were so ruthlessly made into cannon food by the
gigantic and infinitely more dangerous Tammany that rules the seventy
million Germans.
The horse walked nearer and the look in his eyes became so full of
terror and the need of man's support that for the time he stood as a
human being in John's imagination.
"Poor old horse!" he called, "I'm sorry for you, but your case is no
worse than mine. Here we both are, wishing harm to nobody, but with a
million men shooting over our backs."
The horse, emboldened by the friendly voice, came nearer and nuzzled at
the human friend whom he had found so opportunely, and who, although so
much smaller than himself, was, as he knew, so much more powerful. This
human comrade would show him what to do and protect him from all harm.
But John took alarm.
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