"Yes."
"How do you like him?"
"He is a magnificent creature."
"Would he let you approach him?"
"I had no trouble in doing so."
None?" He's very vicious, too. Everybody has had trouble with him.
Do you think you could ride him?"
"I have ridden him every day for two weeks."
"Ah! that is how you have kept so fresh." Then, after a pause, "Do
you know how I got him?"
"I heard that he was captured."
"Yes, in the very last fight before the surrender at Appomattox.
I was with Sheridan, you know. We were pursuing the retreating
columns--had been pressing them hotly ever since the break at
Petersburg--on the rear and on both flanks, fighting, worrying,
and watching all the time. On the last day, when the retreat had
become a rout, as it seemed, a stand was made by a body of cavalry
just on the crest of a smoothly-sloping hill. Not anticipating
serious resistance, we did not wait for the artillery to come up
and dislodge them, but deploying a brigade we rode on, jesting and
gay, expecting to see them disperse when we came within range and
join the rabble beyond. We were mistaken. Just when we got within
easy charging distance, down they came, pell-mell, as dashing a
body of dirty veterans as I ever saw. The attack was so unexpected
that for a time we were swept off our feet and fairly carried
backward with surprise. Then we rallied, and there was a sharp,
short struggle.
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