Lieutenant Soltau’s pet dog

I have a set of Perry Miniatures’ plastic British Infantry in Afghanistan and Sudan 1877–85, and have been thinking about a way of using Bobby, the small dog. While reading around my current subject I discovered an account of an officer serving with the Berkshire Regiment in the Sudan who had a small dog with him.

Lieutenant Soltau was killed during the battle of Ginnis, 30 December 1885; the animal was probably a black Toy Spaniel, so I modified the miniature’s ears (see a previous post), and took some licence with its coat. I have now added the little chap to the Berkshire’s officer’s base.

The sad story of this little dog is told by Lt-Gen Sir William Butler in his autobiography Sir William Butler: An Autobiography:

We lost only one officer killed—Lieutenant Soltau of the Berkshire Regiment. He was shot through the head a minute or two after we gained the razor-back ridge. He was a splendid specimen of youthful manhood as he stood behind the men of his company, who were lying against the top of the ridge ; nor did he look one whit less splendid when, a moment later, he lay stretched on his back on the rocky desert with his sword still held firm in his hand. We buried him in the desert outside Ginniss. A touching thing happened at that simple funeral. Soltau had a pet dog, which he took with him wherever he went. It was a tiny thing, of the toy spaniel type, but, small as that animal was, it had the biggest heart of any dog I had ever seen. This was what happened. The body of the dead officer was carried on a stretcher behind the Berkshire Regiment as we marched from the ridge, and the stretcher, covered by a Union Jack, was put in a tent for a couple of hours while a grave was being dug in the desert. When all was ready, we followed the body to its last rest. The stretcher was laid on the ground a few feet from the grave, and the Union Jack lifted. The body, still in uniform, was then raised by four men and lowered into the grave ; but, cowering on one side of the blood-stained stretcher, in smaller shape than ever before, was the tiny dog. I have never forgotten the way in which that black atom dragged itself, crouching, from the stretcher along the few feet of sand to the edge of the pit, and lay there with its head hanging down into the grave. When some one lifted it away, it hung like a little dead thing, a sight sufficient to make strong men turn aside.

Lieutenant Soltau, perhaps, and the little dog.