Recollections and Letters | Page 6

which he
had bought in Texas on his way out to Mexico, her owner having died
on the march out. She was with him during the entire campaign, and
was shot seven times; at least, as a little fellow I used to brag about that
number of bullets being in her, and since I could point out the scars of
each one, I presume it was so. My father was very much attached to her
and proud of her, always petting her and talking to her in a loving way,
when he rode her or went to see her in her stall. Of her he wrote on his
return home:
"I only arrived yesterday, after a long journey up the Mississippi, which
route I was induced to take, for the better accommodation of my horse,
as I wished to spare her as much annoyance and fatigue as possible, she
already having undergone so much suffering in my service. I landed her
at Wheeling and left her to come over with Jim."
Santa Anna was found lying cold and dead in the park at Arlington one
morning in the winter of '60-'61. Grace Darling was taken in the spring
of '62 from the White House [My brother's place on the Pamunkey
River, where the mare had been sent for save keeping."] by some
Federal quartermaster, when McClellan occupied that place as his base
of supplies during his attack on Richmond. When we lived in Baltimore,
I was greatly struck one day by hearing two ladies who were visiting us
saying:

"Everybody and everything--his family, his friends, his horse, and his
dog--loves Colonel Lee."
The dog referred to was a black-and-tan terrier named "Spec," very
bright and intelligent and really a member of the family, respected and
beloved by ourselves and well known to all who knew us. My father
picked up his mother in the "Narrows" while crossing from Fort
Hamilton to the fortifications opposite on Staten Island. She had
doubtless fallen overboard from some passing vessel and had drifted
out of sight before her absence had been discovered. He rescued her
and took her home, where she was welcomed by his children an made
much of. She was a handsome little thing, with cropped ears and a short
tail. My father named her "Dart." She was a fine ratter, and with the
assistance of a Maltese cat, also a member of the family, the many rats
which infested the house and stables were driven away or destroyed.
She and the cat were fed out of the same plate, but Dart was not
allowed to begin the meal until the cat had finished.
Spec was born at Fort Hamilton and was the joy of us children, our pet
and companion. My father would not allow his tail and ears to be
cropped. When he grew up, he accompanied us everywhere and was in
the habit of going into church with the family. As some of the little
ones allowed their devotions to be disturbed by Spec's presence, my
father determined to leave him at home on those occasions. So the next
Sunday morning, he was sent up to the front room of the second story.
After the family had left for church he contented himself for awhile
looking out of the window, which was open, it being summer time.
Presently impatience overcame his judgement and he jumped to the
ground, landed safely notwithstanding the distance, joined the family
just as they reached the church, and went in with them as usual, much
to the joy of the children. After that he was allowed to go to church
whenever he wished. My father was very fond of him, and loved to talk
to him and about him as if he were really one of us. In a letter to my
mother, dated Fort Hamilton, January 18, 1846, when she and her
children were on a visit to Arlington, he thus speaks of him:
"...I am very solitary, and my only company is my dogs and cats. But

'Spec' has become so jealous now that he will hardly let me look at the
cats. He seems to be afraid that I am going off from him, and never lets
me stir without him. Lies down in the office from eight to four without
moving, and turns himself before the fire as the side from it becomes
cold. I catch him sometimes sitting up looking at me so intently that I
am for a moment startled..."
In a letter from Mexico written a year later--December 25, '46, to my
mother, he says:
"...Can't you cure poor 'Spec.' Cheer him up--take him to walk with you
and tell the children to cheer him up..."
In another letter from Mexico to his eldest boy, just after the capture