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Title: Justin Morgan, founder of his race
the romantic history of a horse
Author: Eleanor Waring Burnham
Release date: November 30, 2024 [eBook #74814]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Shakespeare Press
Credits: Carol Brown, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUSTIN MORGAN, FOUNDER OF HIS RACE ***
[Illustration:
Modelled by Roger Noble Burnham.
“… THE FEEL OF HER CHEEK AGAINST HIS!”]
JUSTIN MORGAN
FOUNDER OF HIS RACE
THE ROMANTIC
HISTORY OF A HORSE
BY
ELEANOR WARING BURNHAM
(MRS. ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM)
AUTHOR OF THE “WHITE PATH” AND OTHER STORIES
ILLUSTRATED
FRONTISPIECE BY ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM
[Illustration]
THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS
114-116 E. 28th STREET
NEW YORK
1911
Copyright, 1911, by
Eleanor W. Burnham.
TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER.
[Illustration:
photograph by E. D. Johnston, Savannah.
ANNANDALE HOUSE]
FOREWORD.
The establishment of an historic basis for this little romance was
fraught with many difficulties, owing to the great divergence in
statement and opinions to be found in regard to the life and origin
of JUSTIN MORGAN. The author was obliged to select from a mass of
contradictory material that which most nearly conformed with the
purpose and continuity of the story.
Therefore, if any find the _history_ not to his way of thinking
she begs him to realize that it is, after all, but a detail which
she hopes may be compensated for by the manner in which she has
endeavored to bring out all those noble characteristics for which the
FOUNDER OF HIS RACE was famous.
In the frontispiece, modelled by Roger Noble Burnham, the portrait
of Mistress Lloyd was posed for by Miss Fifi Willis, of Columbia,
Missouri, to whom the author wishes to extend her thanks.
ELEANOR WARING BURNHAM,
(Morgan Horse Club).
MAGNOLIA, MASSACHUSETTS, _September, 1911_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTERS. PAGE.
I. EARLY INFLUENCES 13
II. TRUE IS BROKEN TO HARNESS 24
III. CEPH’S UNHAPPY FATE 32
IV. JUSTIN MORGAN 36
V. TRUE MEETS HIS FATHER 41
VI. TRUE GAZES UPON MISTRESS LLOYD, OF
MARYLAND 46
VII. IN WHICH MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND,
GIVES TRUE HIS FIRST RIBBAND 51
VIII. TRUE GOES TO FOUND HIS RACE 56
IX. TRUE’S FIRST HARD WORK, AND HOW HE
ACCOMPLISHED IT 67
X. IN WHICH “TRUE” BECOMES “JUSTIN
MORGAN” 72
XI. MORGAN TRIES CONCLUSIONS WITH THE
COXCOMB AND HIS FRIENDS 77
XII. OLD GREY TELLS PIONEER TALES 83
XIII. THE MORGAN GOES TO MONTPELIER TO
LIVE 87
XIV. MORGAN MAKES A TRIP TO BOSTON 95
XV. FOR MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND 103
XVI. IN WHICH MORGAN IS KNOWN AS THE
GOSS HORSE 113
XVII. IN THE FLOOD OF 1811 121
XVIII. UNDER CAPTAIN DULANEY 127
XIX. HE MEETS HIS LADY AGAIN 138
XX. THE NAVAL BATTLE 146
XXI. DOWN HILL 152
INTRODUCTION.
The human side of horse-nature may have been touched upon by various
writers who have given us glimpses into this realm of thought, but
it remained for the author of JUSTIN MORGAN, FOUNDER OF HIS RACE,
to introduce us to a real character, as an individual, a horse of
tradition, but whose lay is unsung.
Almost forgotten, this horse’s _origin was wrapt in obscurity_ until
recently, yet he became the sire of the most famous breed of horses
in America.
Only those who have lived with horses, as I have--out of doors and in
my studio--learn to know them as distinct beings, as varied in their
make-up and development as the human kind, affected by the same laws
and influences that stimulate or smother _our_ mental growth.
I dare not tell all I know to be true about the intelligence and
sagacity of our horse friends, for fear of having my balance of mind
subjected to doubt; but I am quite ready to believe all that this
author tells us of equine feelings and faithfulness, for she has been
prompted to relate this little tale of OLD JUSTIN MORGAN through love
and intimate acquaintance with his descendants.
The author’s father was the first to introduce the Morgan horse into
the State of Georgia--in 1858--when he purchased the celebrated
Enterprise, G.G.G.G. son of JUSTIN MORGAN. Later he took out many
others--all of whom made his stock farm, Annandale, famous.
My own inherited associations with Vermont brought me into relation
with Morgan horses in childhood, when I listened to tales of their
wonderful powers of endurance, strength and intelligence, which
maturer years have never made me doubt.
The early Morgan was the best all-round, general-purpose
horse ever produced. They were highly valued, and New England
breeders--especially the Vermonters--kept the blood pure by
breeding in parallel lines and then inbreeding, by which means they
established a fixed type that has and will reproduce itself and
maintain its characteristics for generations.
For a period of sixty years the Vermonters bred nothing but Morgans,
and during the Civil War Vermont was one of the few places where
horses could be obtained. They proved so efficient for cavalry
purposes that the State was almost stripped of them. It is well known
that the best mounted regiments were on Morgan horses.
Their reputation was such that after the war the West Point Academy
was furnished with none but Morgans, until about twenty-five years
ago the Western horse has been supplied as a substitute, greatly to
the detriment of the service.
Following the depletion made in 1861-65 came the popularity of the
Hambletonian horse to lead the Vermonters into untried experiments of
doubtful value. The result was that, by 1890, the pure Morgan horse
was found to be the exception, and the few breeders who realized what
had been lost began to cherish the remnants of an almost lost race,
and prizes were offered for the best Morgans.
Mr. Joseph Battell, upon whose investigations this author has founded
her historic narrative of the first Morgan horse, gathered with
infinite pains all the pedigrees he could find and established The
Morgan Horse Register, which is now accepted as the authority.
In 1907 the Morgan horse-breeding work of the United States
Government received a great impetus when Mr. Battell presented to the
Department of Agriculture four hundred acres of fine land lying two
miles from Middlebury, Vermont, now known as the Morgan Horse Farm,
and equipped with farmhouse, stables, barns, etc., to which were
removed all the horses from the Vermont Agricultural Experimental
Station, near Burlington.
The Morgan horse has always been noted for his longevity, retaining
his spirit and vigor in extreme old age. They are free from almost
every species of disease, showing their soundness of constitution.
They mature early, and are easily kept, because they are very hardy.
To-day they show the traits of OLD JUSTIN MORGAN in their docility
and symmetry of form, and this Founder of his race, according to
Mr. Battell, was but six generations of English breeding from the
original Arab stock, including Byerly Turk and Godolphin Arabian.
The Morgan horse has quietly won all the honors a grateful people can
bestow upon him, and we are glad to greet his embodiment of character
in this form.
H. K. BUSH-BROWN,
(Morgan Horse Club).
WASHINGTON, D. C.
JUSTIN MORGAN
CHAPTER I.
EARLY INFLUENCES.
Once upon a time--but why should I begin this horse-tale as if it
were a mere fairy-tale? It is founded on the story of a real horse
in a setting of incidents related in the histories of the various
localities in which he lived. Where possible, history has been so
closely followed as to use the real names of those vigorous pioneers
who helped to make it.
And so, upon a _certain_ time--
In 1789,[1] when there were but thirteen stars on the American flag,
and George Washington was the newly-made President, near Springfield,
Massachusetts, a colt was born, a colt destined to become the founder
of the finest breed of horses ever known in America.
A wide, lush pasture on the gently-sloping bottom land, through which
the Connecticut River winds its way to the Sound, was the scene of
his earliest gambolling.
Poised at a dizzy height, on wobbly, spindly legs, which showed
little promise of the symmetry and beauty of later years, he romped
near his mother’s protecting heels or rested in her shadow.
His merry, laughing companion was a brook which flowed down to the
river; he played along its willow-fringed banks, racing with the
beckoning waters until out of breath; then, hurrying back to his
mother through the gathering dusk, he would return with her to their
pleasant stable in the barnyard of Silas Whitman.
His developing colt-nature expanded, day by day, to the beauties and
interests about him. He loved the twinkling waters, the overhanging
trees, the ferns spiralling among dark-green shadows; the delicate
scent of violets, peeping between moss-covered stones, delighted his
sensitive nostrils. He loved the birds, fluttering and swaying on
boughs and chirping soft, sweet notes. In response to all Nature his
small-pointed ears pricked and quivered. He blew his warm breath for
fun on butterflies and bees, as they fussed over dew-wet blossoms,
but swerved aside, with trembling nostrils, at the strident cry of a
jay, waiting in the shadow for _his_ chance of a practical joke!
The hoot of an owl, the bark of a fox, the crashing of a squirrel
through the branches overhead, would make him scamper to his mother’s
side, panting and excited.
These were his baby fears; his real and lasting antipathy was to
dogs; the distant howling of one seemed to fill him with terror;
thunderstorms, too, made him nervous and, so impressible was he to
these, he could tell, two days in advance, that one was coming; only
much urging could prevail upon him to leave the security of his
stable when he felt the approach of one.
Gradually his mother taught him all that one good, faithful horse can
teach another, not to show fear, not to shy, not to kick and never
to be taken by surprise. He was happy and care-free then, for he did
not have to wear hard straps, called harness, nor draw heavy loads,
nor wear iron shoes; and his bare, sensitive hoofs soon learned to
tell the difference between safe and dangerous ground. His sense
of smell was singularly acute and standing close to his mother’s
side--that she might better brush the flies from both, with her long,
useful tail--he learned to distinguish poisonous from wholesome weeds.
Master Whitman called him True Briton, 2d, for his celebrated father,
_True Briton_, but the double name was soon shortened to the very
appropriate one of “True.” And, for convenience, we shall speak of
his mother as Gipsey.
Gipsey was one of those mothers, unknown to history, but to whose
early influence her son possibly owed much of his success in later
life. Sometimes it was necessary for her to reprove him; she nipped
him sharply, if he were playful at the wrong time, or kicked too
strongly in fun; but she never had to admonish him twice about
anything on account of his remarkable memory.
One day, when she had to correct him, and was conscious of having
lost her temper, she neighed apologetically.
“Alas, my son, I am no better than a woman!”
This was unjust, as True discovered later, for some of the strongest
friendships of his life were for women; he found them ever generous
with maple sugar and the goodies for which he quickly learned to
whinney at their kitchen windows. They were more appreciative, too,
and did not expect him to perform miracles, as men did who set him
tasks that taxed every nerve and muscle.
Early each morning Silas Whitman came to the barnyard to play with
and train the colt, and from the beginning the little creature showed
marvellous characteristics.
Never did True forget his first sight of Man! At that time--being
quite new-come into the world--he did not know the ways of different
animals, and thought Master Whitman very curious as he walked about
on his hind legs! The small colt wondered if he would have to do the
same when he grew older and his spindly legs grew stronger. He did
not fear the friendly man-creature who played so gently,--little by
little training him to obey and afterwards rewarding him with a bit
of maple sugar. A kind word and a pat was always given to Gipsey,
too, and mother and son very soon began to watch for their master’s
coming, giving him welcome, with little whinneys, and throaty neighs,
when they heard his cheery whistle.
When True’s third molar came he had made the acquaintance of a
halter. Later in life he came to see that the conveniences of a
halter cannot be taught too early. He found out uses for his, all by
himself; one was that he could manage to throw the rein over hay that
was too high in the rack to reach comfortably, and thus pull it down
to an easy height. His mother thought this very ingenious and praised
him, which pleased the little fellow very much.
When the first molar of his permanent teeth came he had been taught
all about a bridle and bit--things he never liked but made the best
of, as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.
When there were errands in the village Silas would hitch Gipsey up
to the “shay” and allow True to trot alongside for exercise and
experience. He enjoyed these little jaunts under the giant elms that
bordered the street, carpeted with a patchwork of sifting sunshine
and cool shadow.
Over garden fences he could see green, succulent box-hedges and one
day, when he found a gate open, he trotted boldly in to get a taste!
Scarcely had he begun to nibble when a dog dashed round the corner of
the house, a boy at his heels. When the latter caught sight of the
intruder he gave a whoop and urged the dog to nip at True’s feet.
The colt, startled, made a quick movement of self-protection with
his hard little heels and struck the dog on the head, effectually
silencing his bark and rolling him over in the dirt.
A rock hit the colt’s side, but he did not tarry; excitedly, he
plunged out of the open gate and raced down the road after his
mother, now full half mile away. The odor of box was ever after
associated, disagreeably, with boys and dogs in his mind.
When he related the incident to his friend, Caesar, the yellow stable
cat, the latter purred conviction and confided that for untold
generations dogs had been the sworn enemies of his family.
“It _may_ be possible for a boy, occasionally, to be polite and
gentle; I do not know,” mewed the cat. “But as for dogs! Well, you
must unsheath your claws and arch your back on sight!”
Caesar was an independent cat of wide experience and had travelled
and lived in many barns; his opinion, therefore, had weight with
True. One day, whilst rubbing against the colt’s leg, in his
affectionate way, he remarked that if it had not been for Gipsey and
True he would long since have returned to his last barn-home, where
the mice had a sweeter flavor on account of a careless housewife who
often left her cheese-box open.
“Besides,” he added, strutting about and waving his tail with
careless dignity, “there is a very nice tortoiseshell pussy waiting
there for me!”
“But, do you know the way back?” asked True, interested and not
failing to admire, and be duly impressed, by Caesar’s swagger and
importance.
“I know the way back well enough,” the cat bragged; but added with
disgust, “In very truth, the jade who put me in the bag forgot to
shake the dust out of it; but such a trifle could not blind _me_!”
A very happy playground was the Whitman barnyard. Beside the horses
there were two little red-and-white calves who romped in a way that
entertained but almost drove Caesar crazy. Before them he would flee,
round and round, instead of getting out of their way at once!
A curly-tailed, twinkling-eyed pig, very fat and funny, shared their
life for a time; but one day he disappeared, noisily, and never
returned.
In those days the memory of the British was fresh in the minds of
all; the War of the Revolution had been over but a short eight years
and the name “Red-Coat” still had an ominous sound. Gipsey, being
an American mother, taught her son to hate the British and told him
war-tales that made him quiver with patriotism.
One day the colt invented a game which he called “Chasing the
Red-Coat,” and fine fun it was, to be sure! With one accord the
calves and True made Caesar the “Red-Coat” because he was such
a fleet runner! That Caesar did not think much of the game was
obvious as he dashed wildly at a tree and running up its trunk sat
spluttering at them, his fur on end, his tail straight in the air.
Being interrupted by Silas,--for daily exercise and practise in
the arts of being bitted and led about--never annoyed the colt.
The calves and Caesar watched these performances, furtively, and
wondered when their turns would come; True always told them the fun
he had and took care to mention the subsequent reward of maple sugar.
For a short time a gentle pigeon came and sat between the young
horse’s ears and cooed, softly, whilst he munched at his manger. This
was agreeable to the sociable colt, but he was puzzled to notice
that the bird did not like his other friend, the cat. True could see
how tactfully Caesar tried to win the affections of the pigeon, even
reaching out a paw to pat him sometimes.
One day his feathered friend did not come to the stable at the usual
time and when the cat sauntered in that afternoon, with a look of
keen content on his face, and a feather in his whiskers, True asked
if he had seen the pigeon.
Caesar had not, of course!
He added, however, as he placidly washed the feather from his face,
that “birds often flew away and did not return!” His expression was
so sincere and sympathetic that the colt was no little comforted.
In spite of this treachery, Caesar was really fond of True, and
brought him, from time to time, tokens of his affection in the
way of delicacies--rats and mice he had caught in his stealthy
rounds--sometimes a chicken’s foot or a fish’s head from the kitchen.
It was difficult for True to refuse these cat-dainties without
hurting Caesar’s feelings, until he hit upon the clever expedient of
pulling out a mouthful of delicious fodder from his rack and offering
it in his turn to the cat!
One day the colt boasted to the cat that he “could see in the dark.”
Caesar purred, contemptuously, washing his face the while.
“That, my friend,” he said, “is a mere trifle, hardly worth bragging
about! Now, if you could but speak the human language, then, indeed,
would I wave my tail and meow, ‘Hail, Master!’”
True was abashed, but said:
“Nay, my mother says speech is but a vain and doubtful good,
especially in women!”
To this sally the cat had no reply, both he and Gipsey had known
women better than the yearling True.
One day Silas brought a black lamb to the pasture, who at once made
friends with the colt. The two romped and played together, much as
human children might. For the timid little creature True came to have
a deep attachment; he liked the feel of the warm little body against
his leg. No doubt they exchanged ideas about things of interest as
they listened to the brook, singing happily of woods and meadows
through which it had run on its way to the river.
This sweet friendship lasted many days, but it was destined to end in
a tragedy--one that must be related as it bore so directly upon the
sudden awakening of some of the traits in the colt’s character.
On the edge of a near-by forest there was a rude hut in which dwelt
a family of outlaws who lived on their neighbors and left honest
dealing to others. Round about the countryside it was whispered they
were “Tories,” and Gipsey told True the evil odor borne on the breeze
from that direction was sufficient assurance that this was so; the
outlaws were, indeed, British, and the wildest crew that ever stole a
horse or fired a haystack!
One day, as True stood wrapt in thought beside the stream, admiring
the courage that made it sing as happily in sunshine as in shadow, on
dark days as on bright, Black Baby, as the lamb was called, came from
the other side of the pasture and rubbed against his leg. Seeing in
a moment that the colt was preoccupied, the lamb whisked away to wait
for the usual whinney of invitation.
The Tory hut showed clear in the morning sunlight and, absently, a
moment later the colt glanced that way. To his astonishment he saw
the youngest boy, a ne’er-do-well who had stolen pumpkins and apples
from his neighbors all his life, unloose a lean, gaunt dog and start
towards the pasture.
This young fiend was, oddly enough, named William Howe, quite enough
in itself to set an American by the ears! True recalled in a flash
all his mother had told him of the British General of the same
name.[2]
“How, now,” he thought, “why comes the young robber this way?”
Black Baby continued to frisk about, trying to divert True from his
serious mood. He sprang into the air and tossed his little head,
cutting all manner of capers, but the colt did not seem inclined to
join him in play.
William Howe climbed to the top of the stone fence and, balancing
himself adroitly, gazed around as if to locate any possible mischief.
The dog sprang nimbly over and, yelping, ran after an innocent rabbit
that bounded across the pasture like an India rubber ball, his short
pennant making an almost unbroken line of white over the green grass
as he fled before his enemy. Luckily he reached the opposite fence in
time and darted behind the protecting stones; baffled, the dog stood
barking, furiously.
Soon the boy put his fingers in his lips and whistled, shrilly.
Time and again True had warned Black Baby of this very dog, but the
lamb, having known only love and kindness all his little life,
forgot, and frolicked gaily towards him!
William Howe cried out in delight, “Sick him, Cornwallis!”
The cosset lamb stood an easy mark for the dog and in an instant lay
gasping on the ground, the blood flowing from a horrid wound in his
throat. His sobbing breath found an echo in True’s heart and for the
first time the colt lost control of himself.
Overcome with a thirst for vengeance, and, screaming as only a horse
does when the strait is desperate, he plunged and reared. With a
well-aimed blow of his hard, very dark, front-feet he knocked the dog
senseless.
This did not satisfy the lamb’s champion; he stamped the body of
the wicked beast into the earth, crushing bones as if they had been
straws! Furiously he bit, and finally caught the limp carcass in his
strong teeth and threw it high in the air. For the moment he was a
demon and sought, savagely, for more ways to wipe the remains out of
existence!
Suddenly he remembered William Howe who stood at a distance, pelting
him with stones. Uttering another fierce cry he turned upon the boy,
baring his teeth hideously between his firm lips.
Howe made for the fence, where the desperate rabbit had sought cover,
and scrambled over, thinking to be safe on the other side; he did not
know the colt was descended from the “birds of the desert!”
True was not even _aware_ of a barrier! As if he had wings he soared
over it, doubling his hind-feet close under his body a little to one
side.
A tree was all that saved the boy’s life. Swinging up by a
low-hanging branch, with the agility of a cat, he found himself out
of breath and out of reach of the colt’s gleaming teeth. From wide,
scarlet nostrils the hot and excited breath of the maddened animal
reached his bare feet.
The Tory scent that came down to True only increased his anger, but
not being able to reach the boy, he resolved that the kicking he owed
him could be postponed--for years, if necessary--but some day, _some
day_, it would be delivered! Furthermore--he would kick nothing until
that day arrived and he met this boy again on level ground!
How he kept his vow we shall see later.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] According to Joseph Battell. Encyclopedia Britannica
says 1793.
[2] In 1776, Sir William Howe commanded an army of 55,000
men in an effort to put down “the wicked rebellion.”
CHAPTER II.
TRUE IS BROKEN TO HARNESS.
Even, pleasant and cheerful was True’s natural disposition, but
besides these traits there were others that went to make up the
peculiar perfection horse-flesh had attained in the twenty-five years
before his birth.
A courage, vitality, and zest seemed to be in the very air of the
world at that period of horse history, and the blend--through his
father--of Arabian, Barb and Turk had produced in him the most ideal
of horse characters.
That Southern strain was, no doubt, stimulated by the clear, bracing
climate of New England, and the combination of circumstances which
developed his muscles and expanded his chest, made him the fit
founder of a race.
About the year he was born Eclipse, his kins-horse, died.
Eclipse was that four-footed bird “behind whom the whirlwind toiled
in vain” and who, in his greatest race, “beat the other horse by two
hundred yards, without urging!”[3]
Since then men have said that Eclipse ran “a mile a minute,” but
Gipsey told her son differently; she knew horses only ran against
each other, not against time.
She also told the colt the part his family had played in the late
War, and how General Washington, himself, had ridden one of them
at Trenton; but she was obliged to confess, with a droop of her
spirited tail, that his father, True Briton had, in his youth, served
a British officer.
So graphic were some of these war-tales that the young horse
quivered, and almost imagined he heard the crack of muskets and smelt
the smoke of battle! He dreamed longingly of a time when he, too,
might serve his country under the saddle of some brave soldier, and
his nostrils grew wide and his eyes fiery at the hope which was so
long afterwards to be realized.
Had she been a woman, and men had seen the workings of her mind as
she instructed her son, Gipsey might have been called a witch and as
such been burned. With pointing ears and ember-like eyes she neighed
softly to him of the Desert; she seemed to hear its call; to see its
trackless wastes, and afar, at its limits, she told him groves of
olive and date, and pools of clear, cool water lay.
One day, with that far-off look in her eyes, she said to him,
prophetically:
“When other horses, now famous, are forgotten, my son, your memory
will live on, your influence will still be felt. Men will still love
you and you will be praised and revered by all who have knowledge of
excellence in horse-flesh. A state will be noted for its horses, and
Allah has chosen you to be the first of this line.”
She told him to be ever brave, gentle, and loving; obedient to his
master, Man; not to falter, not to turn back never mind the cost.
She told him how to anticipate a command, that he might obey,
instantly, and he afterwards became so proficient in this sense that
when he came to be trained to harness he obeyed Silas Whitman’s every
gesture, as if instinctively, often before the words themselves
came. In later life, becoming more experienced, he often took the
initiative in times of danger or peril.[4]
When True was a little over a year old Master Whitman brought a
piebald horse to live in their stable. Poor old Ceph was of low birth
and very stupid.
“In the Desert,” Gipsey told him, “the Arabs say, ‘if piebald, flee
him as the pestilence, for he is own brother to a cow’!”
Ceph turned out to be a “stump-sucker” or “piper,” and the grunts
and groans accompanying his gnawing disturbed the other two horses
intensely. At last when he began on the partition between his stall
and True’s it was too much for the colt to bear in silence and
patience. He determined to cure him in some way, though at first he
did not see how it was to be done.
One day, however, a bit of chain was left hanging on his manger and,
when he pushed it with his nose, it made a jangling noise. Ceph,
always curious, stopped his “cribbing” long enough to listen, dully,
with his flapping ears, and to wonder what it was.
After a short time True found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that
he could lift the chain with his teeth and, as he was now tall enough
for his chin to reach the top of the partition, it occurred to him
he could use the bit of iron to very good advantage.
He laid his plans accordingly and bade Caesar be on hand to see the
fun.
About midnight Ceph began to gnaw.
Quick as wink True had the chain in his teeth and over the wall it
went--crack--right between Ceph’s floppy ears!
Such amazement there never was in any dull horse’s quiet, stupid
mind! He squealed and sprang one side, startled into anger and
affright. But when he recovered himself all was still; no suspicious
noises came from his neighbor’s stall.
Caesar had been standing on his hind legs, peeping through a hole in
the partition and at sight of Ceph’s bewilderment, he rolled over in
a paroxysm of mirth, as if he did not have a bone in his body, while
True stood motionless, guarding their secret.
Presently, very cautiously, Ceph began to gnaw again on the wood of
his manger.
In his haste to give another lick, True nearly stepped on the
prostrate cat, but, holding his foot poised a moment, Caesar sprang
lightly from under it just as a mighty swing took the chain over the
barrier.
Ceph threw his head into the air, indignantly, but his suspicions
were unconfirmed the silence next door was so intense; then, to add
to his perplexity, he heard Gipsey wake with a groan and a stamp.
“Will we never get any rest!” she neighed, hopelessly.
True whinneyed softly, over her side of his stable, to be of good
cheer, the worst was over. And afterwards the least sound from Ceph
brought a rattling of the mysterious chain which had struck him so
hard on the head.
For a few nights this went on, but finally success crowned the colt’s
efforts and much to the satisfaction of all, Silas included, Ceph
stopped gnawing.
This was not the only time True showed ingenuity. He learned many
useful though not mischievous tricks all by himself, but it is not
to be supposed that Silas thought as much of them as Gipsey. The
colt discovered how to open all the gates, but, as he never thought
to close them, their barn-companions wandered out and never returned
without being sent for though the horses always came home in good
temper after their wanderings in time for the evening meal. At
last locks and keys were put on everything, and this was the first
intimation True had that his pleasant little accomplishment was
not appreciated by his master. As he grew older he eliminated the
unpopular trick from his list.
One day, being thirsty, he began to consider how he could open the
rain barrel, in which Mistress Whitman caught water for her washing.
He tried hard to push the cover to one side, but some clever human
contrivance made it catch, and so, after trying several other ways,
he found the simple and right one of catching the handle in his
strong young teeth and lifting straight upward!
Sometimes when he had done this and drunk all the water he wanted,
he would pick the cat up by the scruff of the neck with his teeth
and hold him over the barrel, meowing desperately, for of all things
Caesar hated water! True was only teasing him, but the cat never knew
that, and a spasm of terror would chill his marrow at thought of
being dropped in.
The death of Black Baby made True more serious and earnest. He went
about his daily tasks with interest and spirit, but he did not romp
so much and listened more attentively to his mother’s teachings.
One day he found himself hitched up in harness with old Piebald,
Ceph. Silas had thought Gipsey too spirited to begin him with, but
True walked so fast, and--though very unsteadily at first--trotted so
much faster than his mate that the next day he was taken out with his
mother.
From her he had learned the Royal Road to Happiness and Success:
“Obedience first, last, and all the time!”
It was, indeed, a proud day for the colt.
Easy it was for a horse to obey Silas Whitman, he was so careful
to explain, and to be sure they understood; he never let them get
fretted trying to find out what he wanted by themselves.
As soon as True found he was not expected to run or gallop in
harness, he settled down to walking or trotting in his nervous brisk
way, and soon the gaits of mother and son were evenly matched.
As time increased True became more and more lovable and people came
for miles to see him; some even wanted to buy him and offered as much
as twenty-five dollars. But Silas refused all offers for his pet.
Very soon he was hitched to the “shay” alone. He stepped out bravely
enough feeling the friendly hand of his master to advise and guide
him. Then again he had a turn under the saddle; this was freer for
there were not so many rules to remember!
When they went on trips of the latter kind, Silas, who was a very
well-informed man, talked to him and told him many interesting things
and gave him much instruction. Sometimes, on their way home over open
fields, grassy knolls and wooded hillsides, Silas would take the
wrong turning and leave True to find out the right way by himself.
That strange sense of direction in horses was singularly acute in
True and they invariably reached home safely, the horse enjoying
this confidence of his rider.
One sunny day when the little horse was nearly two years old, they
were returning from a trip up the river when Silas swooned, it was a
sickness to which he was subject, and, slipping from the saddle to
the road, he rolled into the ditch. True, no little disturbed, stood
thoughtful a moment, wondering what he could do for his unconscious
friend. Finally he caught hold of the Continental collar with his
teeth and drew him gently up on the grassy border of the road, under
the shade of an oak. Looking around he whinneyed for help, but, as no
answer came, he turned and galloped homeward, nor did he go by the
longer way of the road. Over rough, uneven, cleared spaces, he went;
stone fences stretched across his way; here and there strips of dense
woods interfered with but did not retard his speed or intention.
When he neared the house a curl of blue smoke told him where he would
find Mistress Whitman, nor was he mistaken. He trotted straight to
the kitchen window at which he was wont to receive goodies from her
generous hands; there she stood, slender and womanish, beside a pot
of soup, hanging on the crane, whose warm fragrance permeated the air.
True whinneyed sharply. She looked up, and, seeing the empty saddle,
started with anxiety and hastened out. The horse rubbed his nose on
her sleeve and neighed his message, softly.
She seemed to understand the horse-language at once and, leading him
to the horse-block, climbed into the saddle without delay.
And this was True’s first experience of carrying a lady! She was so
light of weight, and she spoke to him so fearlessly, that he drew
much comfort through his bridle-rein. He started off at an even
canter not hesitating at his stable door, though it must have been
hard to pass the appetizing sound of Gipsey and Ceph munching at
their supper.
This time he took the road, in a long smooth gait, and after a short
time reached the strip of woods where Silas had been left.
Master Whitman, thin and very bright of eye, was sitting up now, and
seemed much better, so his good wife aided him to mount the horse and
climbed up behind him; thus they set out toward home, and True had
his first experience of “carrying double.”
What a supper the “pony” had that night!
Oats, dry as pease, corn and carrots, a little flaxseed jelly, and
chopped hay springled with salt.
’Twas a supper fit for Eclipse, himself!
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Eclipse and O’Kelly, page 88; Theodore Andrea Cook, M.
A., F. S. A.
[4] In 1891 President Benj. Harrison attended a meeting of
The Association of Road and Trotting Horse Breeders,
at White River Junction, Vermont. In the course of his
remarks on that occasion he said: “I understand that
it was so arranged that after I had seen the flower
of manhood and womanhood in Vermont I should be given
an exhibition of the next grade in intelligence and
worth in the State--your good horses. I had, recently,
through the intervention of my Secretary of War, the
privilege of coming into possession of a pair of
Vermont horses. They are all I could wish for, and, as
I said the other day at the little village from which
they came, they are of good Morgan stock, of which some
one has said, ‘their greatest characteristic is that
they enter into consultation with the driver, or rider,
whenever there is a difficulty.’”--_The Morgan Horse,
page 27, Joseph Battell._
CHAPTER III.
CEPH’S UNHAPPY FATE.
Never had Ceph been treated kindly by anyone; he’d never had “half a
chance in life,” as Gipsey said. Nobody ever praised him, everybody
blamed him, and he had nothing but blows and hard words for his
portion. Even his food, which always came irregularly, had to be
gobbled, for fear time enough to eat it comfortably would not be
given him! Nobody ever rubbed him down when he was hot and tired, and
his work was harder and more exacting than that of the other two.
For the most part he took it philosophically, with only an occasional
groan until, perhaps, he saw better food measured out for his
neighbors than was measured out for him, then he stamped and grunted
and sometimes bit at them, crossly.
For many years he had been subject to spavin, at times his hock
swelled badly and he went lame and limped painfully. At last Silas
could close his eyes no longer to the fact that unless something were
done for the old horse he would become entirely useless.
In Springfield a horse doctor lived who knew, among other things, how
to “fire” a spavined hock. True had once seen this man thrust a sharp
knife into a horse’s mouth who had lampers; the flow of warm red
blood had made the colt shudder and, remembering this, he was very
sorry when he found out this cruel person was to visit Ceph.
Gipsey recalled that this Dr. Quack had once been sent for to see a
neighbor’s suffering cow; he arrived, looking wise and solemn, and
declared the cow had a disease called “hollow-horn.” He thereupon
split her tail lengthwise and filled the raw opening with salt and
pepper.[5]
The poor cow died, and none but her barn-mates knew the distressing
fact that she had really died of “hollow stomach,” not “hollow horn,”
because their owner was so cruelly economical with food!
It was with no little sorrow that True recognized the coarse, rasping
voice of the “doctor” when he came to see Ceph late one evening.
Through a crack in their darkening stalls True espied the red-hot
crow-bar, and the guttering tallow dip Silas had lighted and brought
from the kitchen.
Piebald Ceph had always been a mild-tempered horse, but scarce
had the firing-iron touched his hock than he sent it--and the
candle--flying into the hayloft, with an unexpected and well-directed
kick.
Before a horse could have whinneyed the place was in flames, the dry
hay dropping in blazing bunches from overhead.
A diabolic scene followed!
Seconds passed like hours.
True jerked his halter loose in terror, snapping the rope sharply;
his heart almost ceased to beat, he was so frightened. Gipsey, locked
in her stall, uttered a scream, as horses sometimes do when overcome
with fear: old Ceph, crowding into the extreme corner of his stable,
groaned pitifully.
It was like a roaring furnace, the heat intense, the smoke
suffocating.
The shouting of the men was drowned in the confused mingling of
horrible sounds as the flames leaped and licked the dry hay and
caught the well-seasoned timbers.
The horrid odor of burnt hair, a sudden silence in Ceph’s stall, told
a heart-rending tale. The echoes of his mother’s cry had hardly died
away when True felt a cool, wet cloth thrown over his eyes and held
tightly; something struck him violently, and a voice spoke to him in
such a tone of command that he forgot everything and, trembling like
a leaf, allowed himself to be led into the outer air.
Then, vaguely at first, he recognized Mistress Whitman’s tones,
soothing now, and tender, albeit very shaky!
“Come, my little pet, there’s naught to fear now!”
And, trusting her, the colt followed tractably enough as she led him
up two stone steps into the kitchen and took the bandage from his
eyes.
Then she hurried out, closing the door tight.
An awful crash, a sudden greater roar, then ominous silence--the barn
roof had fallen in!
“Alas, my poor mother!” groaned True.
The rattling of a tin pan at his side made him turn; to his
everlasting joy he saw Gipsey, safe and sound as himself, shut up in
the kitchen.
Gipsey was an excitable mare, and began to prance about the place
in an unseemly way, switching kettles and pewter pots off the table
with her nervous tail and knocking them to the floor with a monstrous
racket.
Finally she pushed the cover from the swinging pot on the crane.
Luckily the fire had been out some time and the delicious contents
of the pot barely warm, else she would have had her nose burned. The
odor of the mash proved very enticing and she was greedily, or maybe
thoughtlessly, about to drink it all, when True pushed her one side,
as if to remind her of her manners, and finished it himself--little
dreaming, either one of them, it was the Whitman’s frugal supper.
During their feast the uproar outside had subsided, and in a little
while Silas and his wife came in, saying it was all over with poor
old Ceph.
The noses of the two rescued horses were gray and greasy with the
rich mash, but in the thankfulness of their escape the Whitmans cared
nothing for that. Mistress Whitman put her cheek against True’s soupy
face and sobbed in a very womanish way for joy at his being spared to
them.
The young horse submitted patiently to her caresses, though her hair,
looking like dry, crisp hay, smelled mortally of smoke; he saw it was
a comfort to her woman-heart to hang about his neck and murmur softly
in his ear:
“True, dear little horse,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter about
Ceph.”
“There it is again,” thought True. “Nobody cares whether poor old
Ceph is burnt up or not.”
And nobody did, as long as Gipsey and he were saved.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Once a common practice among the negroes of the South.
CHAPTER IV.
JUSTIN MORGAN.
In True’s third year, Master Whitman came one morning, betimes, to
brush him down before taking him out for his usual exercise--so the
“pony” thought. But after a while he was convinced that his master
called him names more loving and tender than usual and that his voice
had a sorrowful ring.
Gipsey and True knew that hard times had come knocking at the
farm-gate and that their kind master was in debt because his crops
had failed the year before. They knew, too, if the worst came to the
worst they might have to be sold to pay these debts.
On this particular morning Master Whitman murmured sadly to his pet
as he continued to polish the sides of his symmetrical body until
they shone like the bosom of the river when the afternoon sunlight
played upon it; and his heavy mane and tail were brushed until they
waved lightly under every passing breeze.
With unfailing intuition the colt saw the future: their happy home,
alas, was about to be broken up. Even Caesar felt the prevailing
gloom; dejectedly, he sat on a beam and washed his face for the fifth
time that morning, though it was but just sunrise.
Gipsey peered over the partition of their stall and whinneyed softly,
but with resignation, for, wise old horse that she was, she knew it
was the lot of horses to be parted, sooner or later--here to-day,
there to-morrow.
Presently the cat sprang nimbly down, and arching his back, rubbed
himself against his master’s leg and purred with sympathy.
In spite of a certain sadness, True himself felt no little
excitement--anticipating adventure, as is the manner of youth
first starting out into the great world. He did not then know the
horrors of homesickness from which affectionate horses suffer so
keenly--suffering that neither sugar nor salt can assuage.
Master Whitman had always made play and pleasure of training, and had
never given True a task he could not perform. For this reason the
horse accepted every order unhesitatingly, with the confidence of
absolute trust. They had become so endeared to one another for these
and sundry other causes that the idea of a parting was inexpressibly
saddening to both.
When, a half hour later, True was hitched to the “shay”--which he now
pulled with such ease and pleasure--he fared forth, sad at heart,
but eager and brisk in gait, as usual. The day had advanced and, as
they travelled, the river glinted gold in the light which the morning
sun threw over the fringe of trees along its banks. Very soon they
arrived at the tavern where already several teams stood waiting.
Throwing the reins loosely on the horse’s back--for he had been
trained to stand without hitching--Silas Whitman sprang from the
“shay” and entered the tavern.
He was gone the best part of an hour, and when he returned he was
not alone. A tall, slender stranger walked beside him, and as they
drew near the colt perceived from the odor of this man that he was a
pleasant-tempered person and friendly to animals.
Indeed, True liked him at once, and ’twas well, for the pale,
scholarly looking man whose name he would one day bear, was none
other than _Justin Morgan_, who had once lived in Springfield, but
had moved to Randolph, Vermont, in 1788, with his family.
As Master Morgan pressed the muscles of the young horse the latter
did not flinch nor draw away. Then the mouth had to be examined and
the feet looked at, one by one. Questions had to be answered and
other investigations made, common among men engaged in a horse deal.
Master Whitman answered the questions, or stood in grave silence,
his eyes moist with the tears he could not entirely hide, as his
acquaintance considered True’s various traits.
“Yes, sir,” the stranger finally said, “this colt, as you say, is
free from natural blemish and is not disfigured by that cruel,
prevailing practice of branding. He seems sound…. You say he is the
son of De Lancey’s True Briton, and his mother a descendant of the
Layton Barb?”
“I repeat it,” replied Silas Whitman, “_these are the facts, to the
best of my belief_.”
He could scarcely trust himself to speak.
“He is remarkably well ribbed-up and firm under the mane, for so
young a horse,” said Master Morgan, “but he is small.”
“He is not yet entirely developed,” was the answer. “You see, he is,
as yet, scarce three years old. But he is a bit over fourteen hands,
and weighs already upwards of nine hundred pounds. I told you he
might be called a pony, except for his characteristics.”
“No doubt he will increase in weight, and maybe a bit in height,”
Master Morgan agreed. “His Arabian ancestry would account for his
size. Not that I am one of those foolish persons who considers size
necessary for _perfection_,” he hastily added. “Since I have seen him
I am willing to take him in place of the twenty-five dollars you owe
me, though twenty-five dollars is a large sum, and I am a poor man.
Shall we call it settled?”
For a moment True thought his old master would surely have one of his
spells of faintness, but when he finally spoke his voice was brave
and steady.
“The pony,” he said, gently, “will be ready for you in the morning.”
He rested his arm across True’s neck, while the stranger looked away
for a moment. “This little horse,” Silas continued, after a pause,
having recovered himself, “has been to me what the ‘steed of the
desert’ is to his Arab master. When I part with him I give you the
best friendship I ever had; the best work of three years, spent in
training and developing the intelligence of this remarkable horse.
And, mark you, he will live to bear out the confidence I have in him.
I have ever treated him as a human being; I have romped with him,
played with him, talked to him as I might have talked to a child--if
Providence had blessed my wife and me with such a treasure--but I
have ever insisted upon _obedience_ and _respect_, as a father should
insist upon these qualities from a child.”
“As I insist upon in mine,” acquiesced Master Morgan, as Silas
hesitated a moment, feeling he was perhaps saying too much.
“There is but one thing more I would add,” went on Silas, feeling a
friendly sympathy from Master Morgan. “Be good to him and he will
be faithful to you, teach him to love you and his willing service
will be to you and yours until the end. He does not know what falter
means, and if you are wise you will never let him find out by asking
him to do impossible things. Ask of him only that which is within his
power and he will never fail you.”
Kind-hearted Master Morgan grasped Whitman’s hand. “I shall not
forget,” he said, deeply touched.
That night Caesar climbed on the rack of True’s stall and dropped
lightly down on the horse’s back, where he purred an undying
affection and sorrow at his friend’s approaching departure. Hoping
to cheer him a little, the cat told many anecdotes of other stables
and barns which he suggested True might some time visit, but the
heavy sadness could not be lifted from their hearts. Gipsey gave him
advice, and at midnight Master Whitman came to see if all were well
with his pet. At cock-crow Mistress Whitman appeared with a most
delicious breakfast as a parting favor.
Silas had just finished rubbing the young horse down when his new
owner came, bringing his own saddle and bridle--and very easy and
comfortable they were, too.
When the sad partings were over, True stepped fearlessly out on his
way to the broad highway of the world, where he was to have so many
sweet and bitter experiences.
CHAPTER V.
TRUE MEETS HIS FATHER.
“‘Oh, ’twas a joyful sound to hear,
Our tribes devoutly say,
Up Israel, to the Temple haste,
And keep your festal day!’”
It was Justin Morgan, singing his favorite hymn, in his light tenor
voice, and True pointed his ears to better hear the agreeable sound.
Master Morgan was not a strong man physically, and his ways were
those of a scholar and student, but he was lovable and staunch and
true, and, lilting the stave of “Mear” he set out on the road to the
southward.
Along the bank of the tranquil river stretched the highway to
Hartford, and it was Master Morgan’s plan to exhibit his new horse at
the great fair so soon to be held in that fine city.
It was near sunset when they arrived, and True stepped out so
smartly, and Justin Morgan, being a great rider, the people paused in
the streets to admire them, as they cantered easily on to the public
stable to rest and refresh themselves.
True’s name was now changed to “Figure,” the name once borne by a
famous horse, dead some years since; and under this name he came
to be known through the columns of that very respected paper, _The
Hartford Courant_.
“Next to his own father, sir,” True heard the hostler say, as he led
him into a stall and snapped the catch of the halter into the ring.
“Now what do you think of that? The horse in the next box, sir, is
Mr. Selah Norton’s Beautiful Bay, him that was True Briton.”
Master Morgan looked in at the splendid animal and said, “Oh, the
De Lancey horse, eh? A fine fellow he is still, I see, in spite of
his age. Well, all I can say is, mine is the ‘worthy son of a worthy
sire’!”
True quivered. Already the great world was offering adventure and
reward. Crowding through his veins the fire of his father’s race
throbbed and surged, his mane shook and he flicked his waving tail
with eager anticipation. His alert ears pointed back and forth
with attention, his eyes glowed and his wide nostrils trembled as
he inhaled the scent of his father for the first time. Proud and
vigorous, he pawed the floor to attract Beautiful Bay; now and then
he glanced with feigned carelessness through a wide crack.
Full soon he was rewarded by a sight of the gleaming eye of his
neighbor at the same aperture.
For a moment they gazed in silence; then True took a step forward,
and raising his nose to the top of the partition met the firm tip of
his father’s.
Without further demonstration an affection sprang up between the two.
In the course of time the hostler came to lead the new horse out, in
the deepening twilight, to show him to some visitors. The interest
True took in the performance, one could be reasonably certain, was
not on account of the visitors, but because he was well aware of his
splendid father’s interest and admiration.
That night when all was quiet the old war-horse said:
“You are like your mother, my son, I remember her well--and a fine,
noble mare she was, to be sure. Her hoof beat music from the path
and she struck the road with the same nervous tread that I see you
have--as a pigeon in full career repulses the air. She scoffed at
hills and mounted them with a dash of spirited flight, as if she
joyed in their difficulties.”
True recalled his mother’s admiration of his father, and his heart
beat gratefully at these words. He, too, remembered Gipsey’s poetic
motion, her rhythmic step, as if she trod an even melody, and her
willingness to take a hill.
* * * * *
“As his name is, so is he,
If you believe not, come and see!”
So _The Hartford Courant_ described Beautiful Bay, and the rhyme was
a by-word about the town--for they were very proud of Beautiful Bay
in Hartford. It was not long before True heard the couplet in the
stables, and right proud was he to be the son of so praised a father.
Beautiful Bay told True many stirring tales in the quiet nights they
spent so close together, for the older horse had ever been a “soldier
of Fortune” and his life one of constant change and excitement.
It was a great boast for a horse to say he had been bred in the De
Lancey stables, for those De Lanceys, like Mahommed, had been lovers
of horses, and their stables and half-mile running track, in the
centre of what was so soon to be the very heart of the great city of
New York, was the finest in the Northern Colonies before the War of
the Revolution.
Gay blades were those De Lanceys, and their rightful inheritance was
the sporting blood of old England, though they were, after all, part
Huguenot, part Dutch, by ancestry.
Colonel De Lancey, True Briton’s first owner, had married a Mistress
Van Courtlandt, whose family had a King and a Bishop at their backs,
and occupied half the important posts under the crown. He was a
rollicking, generous, reckless gentleman, at home alike in drawing
room or on the course, but when, through stress of circumstances,
this British officer had to change his mode of living, there was a
sale of his horses at John Fowler’s Tavern, near the Tea-Water Pump,
in Bowery Lane. All the favorites went but his especial saddle horse,
True Briton--who now frankly admitted to his son his worth and beauty
in those days. Indeed, he seemed to have no _false modesty_ about it
at all, and confessed his superiority over all his stable-mates, even
though among them there were such horses as Lath and Slamerkin.
According to the accounts of the old horse his youth had been spent
in a time the like of which True could never see. He told of the
gaily dressed dandies--waiting on ladies in silks and satins and
waving plumes--at the meets; of the sudden seal of disapproval
Congress had put upon the dissipations and extravagances of the
race-course; of how the Annapolis Jockey Club had set the foolish
fashion of economy by closing its course; of how the grass grew up in
the one-time splendid Centre Course at Philadelphia.
But of all his anecdotes the tale of how True Briton became a true
Patriot interested the young horse most, and ran in this wise:
Colonel De Lancey was stationed at Westchester with his regiment,
which was known far and wide as “The Cow-Boys,” because they stole
cattle from the “Skinners” (a name given the farmers at that time).
At last the latter resolved to appeal to the Colonel-in-command for a
protection of their rights and property. Accordingly, “Skinner Smith”
called upon Colonel De Lancey, a white handkerchief tied to a stick,
to show a peaceful errand, and made complaint of the depredations of
the “Cow-Boys.”
Now the Colonel, ever cool and gay, as became a De Lancey, cried out
with a great laugh:
“These be the chances of war, my lack-beard. If my good soldiers need
cattle, or food of other kind, and you will not give it to them,
egad! they must steal it! Best curb your uncouth tongue and be gone!”
“Then, by my lack of beard!” quoth Skinner Smith, nettled--he was
an impudent young scamp, and feared no one--“‘What is sauce for the
goose, is sauce for the gander!’ If these be the ‘chances of war,’
look well to that fine horse of yours! I warn you fairly, others can
be cattle stealers, too! I warn you fairly--and now wish you a very
good day.”
It chanced that under cover of darkness one night, shortly afterward,
Colonel De Lancey rode to see his mother at some distance and left
True Briton hitched at the door-step.
Young Smith, waiting his “chance of war,” sprang from behind a tree
as the door of the house closed, unhitched the horse, leaped into the
saddle and plunging spurs into True Briton’s sides--who, wide of eye
and red-nostrilled, sprang forward--did not draw rein until he was
well within the American lines.
The amazed and disgusted Colonel raised an alarm and roused his
orderlies, but too late. He never saw his favorite again until one
fine day he found himself incarcerated in the jail at Hartford with
many another “Red-Coat.”
Beautiful Bay, then in the possession of Mr. Selah Norton, was
standing in front of Bull’s Tavern, across Meeting House Green.
“Blood will tell, in men as well as horses,” finished Beautiful Bay.
“When Colonel De Lancey recognized me he threw me a laughing greeting
and a wave of the hand. I could almost hear what his parted lips were
saying: ‘The chance of war, my friend!’”
CHAPTER VI.
TRUE GAZES UPON MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND.
The following day, laughter and talk outside the stable announced
that several persons had come to visit the horses.
It chanced that among them was that brilliant quartette of men, known
as the “Hartford Wits,” with Master Trumbull at their head.
The latter stood chatting with a mere slip of a girl, dark-eyed and
merry. In her hand she carried a fine, thread-lace kerchief--like
gossamer films at dawn--and a pouf of gauze fell away from her
snowy throat. She wore a perriot of flowered taffeta trimmed with
herrisons, and from beneath her petticoat two little slippered feet
peeped shyly. She was the most radiant being True had ever seen.
Enraptured, he followed her with his eyes whichever way she turned.
For all her beauty, she was yet strong and fine in her promise
of fuller womanhood. There was a quick certainty about her every
movement, and a steadiness of eye that showed no indeterminate
character.
Near her stood a Coxcomb, filling the air with odors of musk and
powders, offensive to the nostrils of the little horse who was led
past him. A secret loathing for this popinjay was born in his heart
which he never outgrew.
“Ah, Mistress Lloyd,” said the Coxcomb, drawling his words
disagreeably, and waving a scented lace-bordered handkerchief, “what
say you to Beautiful Bay? Have your kinsmen, Carroll of Carrollton,
or the Hon. Edward Lloyd--or, for the matter of that, the dashing
Tom Dulaney--anything finer at their country-seats in Maryland? Is
there anything in Virginia, or South Carolina, to compare with our
Beautiful Bay?”
Smiling, the maid stepped in front of Beautiful Bay and held out a
slender pink palm--like the petals of wild roses True had seen on
his way from Springfield--on it lay a bit of maple sugar, and right
proudly the old horse arched his neck and ate from her hand, picking
up the crumbs with his firm but flexible lips, that his hard teeth
might not scar the tender flesh.
With her dainty kerchief she flicked his side lightly, replying
evasively:
“We’ve nothing _better groomed_.” Turning to her father she cried
gaily, “Come hither, Daddy, dear, and touch his satin coat!”
Beautiful Bay pranced a little to show his appreciation.
“Have a care, my child,” warned her father.
Her laughter rippled forth as she drew Beautiful Bay’s muzzle down
for a caress.
“It would not bite a maiden’s cheek, would it?” she cooed in his
ready ear, and he trembled with joy at the sound. Young Mistress
Lloyd’s “way with horses” was known from Maryland to Boston.
The Coxcomb flicked his riding boot impatiently with his whip. This
annoyed Beautiful Bay, who, thinking to please the maid, turned
abruptly to him and bared his teeth, flattening his ears.
The popinjay sprang to one side.
“He can’t abide smells!” explained the hostler, apologetically, as he
led the old horse back into his stable.
And this was the first time that True saw Mistress Lloyd, of
Maryland; though she had taken no notice of him, he never forgot it.
Deeply attached did the two horses become to each other, and Old
Worldly-Wise taught Young Innocence much that was afterwards of
use to him. He told him of the city, where men sat, far into the
night, and played cards or other games by the glare of torchlight or
wax candle; of how they danced with or serenaded fair ladies till
cock-crow. It contrasted strangely with True’s former quiet nights
and peaceful days in the Valley of the Connecticut, but it interested
him intensely and awakened longings within him.
He marvelled to see Beautiful Bay active and spirited enough at his
age to clear a five-barred gate like a greyhound, and to see his
bearing under the saddle alike youthful and stylish.
The old horse had a fund of anecdotes to impart about the Desert and
its traditions.
“Arabs,” he said, “think it wicked to change their coursers into
beasts of burden and tillage. Why did Allah make the ox for the
plough and the camel to transport merchandise, if not that the horse
was for the race?”
True had no answer ready, so Beautiful Bay continued:
“If you meet one of the Faithful in the Desert mounted on a
_kochlani_, and he shall say to you, ‘God bless you!’ before you can
say, ‘And God’s blessing be upon you!’ he shall be out of sight.”
True learned how to judge a horse by his color through Arabian
tradition.
“White is for princes, but these do not stand the heat; black brings
good fortune, but fears rocky ground; chestnut is most active--if
one tells you he has seen a horse ‘fly in the air,’ and the horse be
chestnut, believe him!”
There was a pause, during which True anxiously waited to hear what
was said of bays.
Finally he asked.
“They say,” answered his father, with a certain natural pride, “that
‘bay is hardiest and best.’ If one tells you he has seen a horse
‘leap to the bottom of a precipice without hurting himself,’ and if
he say ‘bay,’ believe him!”
And being bay, True was happy.
“The Arab,” continued the father, “who lives with his horse, and
prizes him above his family, as is most meet and proper, learns
to know him well. There are those in the Desert to-day who claim
to trace the lineage of their horses back to those of Mohammed.
These they train to endure hunger, fatigue and thirst to stand the
Desert life. Some are said to be able to travel eighty leagues in
twenty-four hours.”
There were modern incidents in Beautiful Bay’s lore--tales of the
Southern States--so lately colonies--told him by his famous father,
Traveller, who was imported from England and owned by Colonel Tayloe
of Virginia.
“The blood of a thoroughbred flows quicker on the course than on a
hill-side farm,” said the old horse, and related a story of the meet
at Annapolis, when he and Colonel De Lancey went down from New York
to visit The Dulaney of Maryland.
Discussing the merits of the horses stood a group of the famous
horsemen of the day: Tom Lee, of Virginia; Mason, of Gunstan Hall,
and De Lancey, of New York--when The Dulaney joined them.
“’Sdeath, De Lancey!” he cried, in his hearty voice, “and right glad
am I to see you here. These spindling bets of fifty or a hundred
pounds please me not. I want gold, man, gold, I say!” Laughing
carelessly, he flicked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve with a
white linen handkerchief.
“Gold? Egad, so do I!” answered the rollicking De Lancey. “What say
you to a _peck_ of gold? Neither do I deal in quarters and halves.”
“Make it a struck _bushel_ of Spanish dollars, and I will back my
horse against yours or the field!” cried the Southerner.
The bet made was perhaps the most sensational money-bet ever made on
the Annapolis course.
Deafening cheers rent the air as The Dulaney’s horse finished the
one-mile circle a nose ahead.
[Illustration:
From Linsley’s “Morgan Horses”
JUSTIN MORGAN.
“THOU SHALT BE TO MAN A SOURCE OF HAPPINESS AND WEALTH.”--MAHOMET]
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND, GIVES TRUE HIS FIRST RIBBAND.
One sunny September morning, when the weather was clear and fine
and the trees were waving their crisp, gay-tinted leaves over the
grass-bordered roadways leading to the fair-grounds, the horses were
blanketed and led towards the place of exhibition, for this was the
great opening of the Hartford Fair, and many had come from as far
as New York and Boston to attend it. There was much prancing and
side-stepping among the horses after a fine breakfast to put them in
a good humor.
True had been exhibited once at a small fair in Springfield and
knew a little of what was expected of him, but of course this was
a much greater occasion and a sensation of slight nervousness and
anticipation held his heart.
Some of the younger horses were ill-mannered; they bit at their
grooms or snorted and showed their teeth rudely, which astonished
True, for he had been taught to be polite always. Some of them grew
very excited and some knew they might change owners, and receive
prizes for this trait or that. It was a day long to be remembered by
them all.
What a scene met their eyes when, at last, they were in sight of the
Grounds! Early, as it was, there were more men assembled together
than True had ever seen and they made a point of all talking at once,
which confused the horses no little; they shouted at the tops of
their voices, too, as if everybody were stone deaf.
The women, however, stood quietly, and modestly at one side in little
sheltered booths where they displayed in a most becoming manner
their handiwork: quilts, with beautiful and appropriate names, and
wonderful pieces of hand-woven homespun and linen. Farther on True
espied piles of carrots, squashes and other delicious things which
would have made his mouth water had he not been so bewildered by the
noises. Music sounded and set him dancing and showing his remarkable
muscles to advantage.
Even Beautiful Bay, experienced as he must have been in such events,
seemed to be under the influence of the lively atmosphere and curved
his neck with spirit to the admiration and respect of everyone
who knew the old horse. True felt a little anxiety for the result
when Beautiful Bay was led before the Judges, but this was quite
unnecessary; he returned with a blue ribband on his bridle and a very
satisfied look in his eye.
Then the Three-year-olds were called.
True’s temples throbbed; there were many beautiful horses there and,
being modest, he had not guessed that he was the most beautiful and
meritorious of them all.
When they were led out some bared their teeth, kicked at each other,
and misbehaved shockingly. The contrast between True’s breeding and
theirs was very marked. When the Judges approached some of them even
went so far as to whirl for a kick!
True in his turn, however, stepped out briskly and easily, small,
lean head high, heavy black mane and tail waving lightly in the
morning breeze. But, all suddenly, the stupid groom jerked his halter
sharply.
Startled, the young horse flung himself backward.
“Now, you young rascal!” cried the lout, grandly, as if he were
Mahommed himself, “None of your capers with _me_!”
Not being accustomed to rudeness, True backed, indignantly, and
dragged the boy along with him.
At this moment there was a rustle, like leaves in autumn, or the
brush of wings, and the flying figure of a maid seemed poised beside
the little horse, so light and airy was she.
All the odors of aromatic herbs and grasses of Arabia--myrrh,
frankincense and balsam, of which his mother had told him--enveloped
his imagination and delighted his senses. He thrust his large
tremulous nostrils forward, hungry to inhale more deeply of this new
creature. Never had he scented her like before.
“Oh, please, Mr. Judge!” she cried, and as soon as she spoke
True recognized the dulcet tones of Mistress Lloyd, of Maryland.
Thrilling, as she caught his rein, he calmed himself instantly.
“Don’t let them jerk him so! Ah, my Beauty,” she continued, putting
her cheek against his, “here is a piece of sugar for you!” She
extended the rose-leaf palm, from which he had seen his father eat
one day and on which was another bit of maple sugar. “See, he is so
_willing_ to be good, _if you will but let him_!”
When he had lipped her hand all over very gently, to get the last
crumb, True poked his small muzzle into the hollow of her neck and
listened to her voice murmuring in his ear. All the soft breezes and
blue sky of the universe were concentrated in the delicious spell
of her presence, for this young maiden was one of those rare human
beings who possess a mysterious understanding of animals, especially
horses, which gives a power and control over them--almost miraculous.
True stepped carefully, lest his small well-shaped hoofs might tread
upon the marvellously tiny feet half hidden beneath the flowered
petticoat. All the while her voice was saying soft, delightful things
in his listening ear.
When she finally gave up his rein and turned away, the young horse
followed, drawn as by a magnet and dragged the groom with him, scarce
seeming to feel the boy pulling at the halter.
A murmur of polite laughter made Mistress Lloyd look back.
Smiling sweetly, she turned and stroked True’s broad forehead with
her magic hand, and, telling him softly, to “go back and be judged,”
she reminded him he was at a Fair.
Indeed he needed reminding, for so absorbed had he been in her
loveliness that he had forgotten all else!
The groom then gave a gentler tug at the halter and True consented to
be led before the Judges, who had not yet told the people he was the
finest Three-year-old in New England. “The Hartford Wits” and their
friends, the Maryland Lloyds, watched the consultation of Judges,
hoping the ribband would be given to “Figure.”
In a few moments one of the committee came and spoke a few words to
Mistress Lloyd; she smiled with pleasure, and nodded her pretty head
in assent.
In another moment True heard the sound as of leaves in an autumn
forest, and there she was, beside him once more, a fillet of blue in
her hand.
Daintily she reached the headstall of his halter and firmly she tied
it on--all the while talking to him, oh, so sweetly:
“And so ’tis yours! I knew ’twould be, you beauty! You’re far
lovelier than your father, even, and you must always be a good colt
and make everybody love you as you’ve made me!”
Somehow, True did not mind being called a “colt” by her, it seemed
more like a caress than patronage; but had the _Coxcomb_, standing
by, done it he would have been tempted to take a whirl at him.
“Some day,” went on Mistress Lloyd, “my father will buy you for me
and I shall take you down to Maryland--I want Tom Dulaney to see
you!” True could hear by the tones of her voice as she mentioned his
name that this _Tom Dulaney_ must be a personage of consequence. “You
are small, and some might say not lean enough to hunt, but you are
the dearest animal I ever won the love of!” For ’twas ever the habit
of this fair maid to weave her spell over animals, and well aware was
she of their response!
Then, oh, miracle of delights! as she finished tying the strand she
kissed his straight face with lips that looked and smelled like
crimson clover blossoms wet with dew.
This perfumed dream was broken by a disagreeable laugh, and a
well-bred but none the less offensive voice said:
“The brute will bite you, Mistress.”
It was the Coxcomb speaking.
“I am afraid of no horse living, Master Knickerbocker,” she gave
reply, quietly; then looking straight at him, she finished, “horses
are often truer than men.”
She turned quickly and joined her father.
CHAPTER VIII.
TRUE GOES TO FOUND HIS RACE.
Beautiful Bay boasted of having carried the Marquis de Lafayette
to the great banquet the Hartford people gave him at the Bunch of
Grapes Tavern, in 1784. The reference to this made the younger horse
hope, as ever, rather recklessly, that another war might be declared
which would give him such opportunities to distinguish himself as his
father had had.
Sometimes father and son stood beneath the Elm on Main street and
Beautiful Bay told True of the meeting there of Generals Washington,
Hamilton and Knox, in 1780, when they discussed the Yorktown
campaign. The ground under it was trodden hard, as if many others had
stood to tell or listen to the story.
One day True heard the tale of the Charter Oak as they passed it
on their way for a lounge on Sentinel Hill; and he heard, too, the
exciting times accompanying the burning of the State House, in 1783.
Often they passed a queer looking young man; head bent in thought,
hands clasped behind his back, at whom people pointed, saying
with a shrug of understanding, as if to make allowances for the
eccentricities of a scholar.
“There goes No-y Webster!”
Now and again the two horses went over to Mathew Allyn’s mill where
the stones turned corn into delicious meal; or they made trips
under the saddle up Rocky Hill, where men were hanged from a gibbet
over the precipice if they had been wicked--or if men _said_ they
had--which came to the same thing in the end.
Certain days each week were called “Market Days,” and farmers came to
Hartford to sell their produce. The Meeting House bell called them
together and when True was present they often stood near to admire
him and invite him to visit their farms. These were very profitable
experiences to True and his owner, for there was always plenty of
good food and bedding.
It was with no little regret, therefore, that True found one day
Master Morgan was making ready to leave, and he must say good-bye to
his father and friends in that pleasant town.
Nevertheless, when they set out, and turned their faces northward, he
stepped out with a stout heart, remembering his mother’s instruction:
“Duty that we cheerfully do,
Is always quickest through!”
The highway they took was the one they had travelled when on their
way to Hartford, and True’s spirits rose, thinking he might soon see
his dear mother and Caesar. He would have so much to tell them of his
experiences in the great world.
A feeling of keen content and happiness swept over him as he cantered
easily along the banks of the stately Connecticut River, or stopped
to graze on the rich abundant grass bordering the roadway.
’Twas at turn of day he felt a sweet nearness to his old home, and by
a thousand familiar signs and senses he knew they were approaching.
Plucking up all his courage and enthusiasm, he increased his speed
and, almost breathless with joy, stopped at the familiar barn-door
and whinneyed twice in the old way.
There was no response.
His heart sank; a sudden anxiety seized him.
Finally Caesar appeared and purred a soft welcome as he rubbed
against his old friend’s leg. True made hurried enquiries as to his
mother’s welfare, while Master Morgan gave “halloo!” for the inmates
of the house.
“Alas,” mewed the cat, sitting down to wash his face, “things have
changed since you went away. Your mother is sold into the South----”
“Into the South!” interrupted True, but Caesar saw nothing exciting
in that, and continued, placidly:
--“and our master lies ill of the fever, our mistress ever at his
side and no one to notice _me_ at all. The stables are lonely, even
the rats and mice have moved away for lack of food, for the garden
and farm are grown up in weeds.” And he wiped his paw surreptitiously
across his eye, curled himself up on a beam and fell asleep.
The responsive tears filled True’s eyes, and he would have roused the
cat with other questions but at the moment Mistress Whitman opened
the kitchen door. She offered Master Morgan friendly greeting, but
when she caught sight of True she ran quickly out and threw her arms
about his neck. Her old pet was equally glad to see her and thrust
his muzzle into the folds of the white kerchief about her neck and
made little affectionate sounds of greeting in reply.
“Come, True, little pony,” she whispered, “he has almost grieved
himself to death at parting from you. The very sight of you will make
him better.”
Without ado, she led the horse right up the two stone steps and into
the kitchen where once he and his mother had stolen soup out of the
pot which was even now swinging from the crane. As he recalled the
incident he thrust his wide nostrils forward, but, smiling sadly,
Mistress Whitman drew him to the inner door. His shod hoofs made an
unseemly stamping, and a feeble voice from beyond called:
“Nay, wife, there must be something wrong!”
Mistress Whitman opened the door wide and let light into the darkened
room.
“Instead, dear husband, ’tis very right,” she cried, cheerily, “for
here is our precious colt come to visit with you.”
True found himself in a small, bare room, standing beside a cot, and,
as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he recognized his old
master, wasted with illness, lying helpless before him, his cheeks
flushed, his eyes bright with fever. The affectionate little horse
nosed among the quilts, trying to express his joy at seeing his old
friend and at the same time his grief at finding him so weak and ill.
“Wife,” called the sick man, presently, “wife, fetch me some maple
sugar and do go into the barn and give the colt all there is left of
food there.”
“I will pay you well, Mistress,” said Master Morgan, from the doorway.
“Pay us, sir?” said the feeble voice from the cot, “pay us, sir? For
feeding True? Why, bless you, he is one of my own family. I should as
soon think of taking pay for food I might give my good wife, there.
’Twas only misfortune that led me to part with our pet. But you mean
well, sir, and I bear you no ill-will.”
It was thus that True was loved by those who understood his nature.
When at last he was led to the stable he whinneyed twice for Caesar,
with leaping heart.
“Was the one from the South who purchased my mother,” he asked, “a
peerless lily of a maid, with crow-black hair and stars for eyes?
Had she palms like the petals of a wild-rose and did she smell like
clover blossoms after a sudden shower?”
But Caesar had not noticed, he said, as he sat on the edge of the
doorsill, and began his inevitable face-washing.
“Had not noticed! Then indeed, it was not she,” thought True,
impatient with the cat. Even a _cat_ would have noticed Mistress
Lloyd.
He spent a lonely night and was relieved to set out early in the
morning for Randolph, Vermont, where Justin Morgan lived; the old
home was not what it had been and any change was better than the
atmosphere that hung over all at the Whitman farm.
Besides, Justin Morgan was kind to him and they were good friends
enough, and no doubt Randolph was as good a village as Springfield.
He grew philosophic as they started off.
They galloped over fields and through vague roads, or walked under
vast overhanging and dense forests, and in time they came in sight
of the bold, heavily-timbered Green Mountains--“The Footstools
of Allah,” his mother had called them. They gave the young horse
a feeling of strength and confidence; he felt his muscles expand
at sight of their bold outlines and he had no fear of their
difficulties. From the top of one he gazed at the view, entranced,
rearing his fine bony head and breathing deeply of the pure
life-giving air.
According to his mother’s prophecy it would be in the shadow of these
mountains that he, scion of a hundred famous horses, would found the
new race, and at first sight of their high broken sky-line, he made
a resolve to live such an exemplary life that it would be a standard
for that race to come.
Master Morgan was town-clerk, school-teacher, and singing master, and
went daily from place to place with books in his saddle bags; it was
this life True had come to share. There was a comfortable stable but
no stable-mates, and had they not been constantly on the go, True
might have been lonely; he came to look for their trips with much
content and cantered along right willingly from one place to another.
For a time he was hitched outside the schoolhouse door, but when
Master Morgan found he would come at his whistle, he let the little
horse graze at will--the bridle fastened securely to the saddle--and
to make the acquaintance of other horses during school hours. He knew
well True would not abuse this privilege and wander too far.
Thus the first weeks of his stay at Randolph were passed.
As winter set in his sensitive ears detected, high in the air, a
snapping of the cold which disturbed him no little, owing to his fear
of storms. One night, when this sound was more audible than it had
ever been, he pawed and stamped so restlessly that Justin Morgan came
to find out what the matter was.
As the stable door opened there flashed through it a flood of crimson
light. In the North great shafts pierced from the horizon high into
the centre of the heavens. Poor True gave a moan of fright and
crowded into a corner of his stall--it looked so like that awful fire
in which old Piebald Ceph had lost his life.
Master Morgan closed the door hurriedly.
“Why, you poor horse,” he said, kindly, “’tis nothing but the
Northern lights. Steady, now, steady.”
’Twas not so much the words as the tone and the gentle pats on his
shoulder that pacified True. He felt at once that his master would
take care of him and calmed himself like a sensible animal.
When he was quieted Justin Morgan climbed into the hay-loft and down
a ladder on the other side of the barn rather than let the light
shine through the door again, which was very considerate and no doubt
True was proportionately grateful.
Those were wild, unsettled days in Vermont, and tales of Indians
pillaging and burning were so fresh in the minds of the pioneers
that a certain feeling of insecurity remained, ready to be roused
into action any minute. The forests were dense and dark, the farms
scattered and lonely and the life primitive. Neighbors depended
solely upon each other for assistance in times of trouble or danger.
Dame Margery Griswold--daughter of a friendly Indian chief, and
wife of a white settler--was one of the fine and noble characters
of Randolph. Wise in the ways of medicines and herb-teas, she was
constantly called upon to administer to the sick, and never failed to
respond, rain or shine, snow or sleet.
One cold, blustery night there came a need for her to go across the
mountain to see a child lying sick of a fever.
When she called upon her old white mare she was met by a flat
refusal; the poor old nag was crippled with rheumatism and could not
rise from her stable floor where she lay on her bedding of dried
leaves.
Dame Margery therefore consulted Uncle Peter Edson, to whom all
turned for advice, he being the oldest man in the town and a Deacon
in the church.
Not long after this Master Morgan was awakened by a smart rapping on
his door.
“Who’s there?” he called, sleepily.
“Wake, Friend Justin,” cried Uncle Peter, for ’twas he. “Dame Margery
would borrow your horse Figure for the night. She is sent for to
doctor a sick child.”
“’Tis a raw night for the dame, no less my horse,” answered Morgan,
lifting the latch and inviting the old man in out of the cold. The
ever-smouldering back-log kept the fire ready to blow into a blaze
any time and Justin Morgan, not disturbing his family, set about
fanning it with a large, turkey-tail fan. “I do not wish to send my
horse out on such a night. We’ve but just got in ourselves and are
fagged,” he added.
The fire blazed and was soon roaring up the chimney as the lightwood
caught and the pine-knots flamed; then Master Morgan straightened
himself.
“By the Constitution of these United States,” cried the old man,
“’tis not a time to think of brute-beasts. I tell you a _human_ lies
ill and needs the Dame. Come, come, have done, and let me fetch the
horse from the stable!”
But Master Morgan still hesitated, as he hung the turkey-tail back in
place beside the high mantel.
“Come, I say,” thundered the old man, whom everyone obeyed, “get the
horse out, sir, or ’twill be the worse for you when the neighbors
find you consider your animal before a human being.”
Such threats and language could not be withstood, and Master
Morgan, ever willing to be of service to a fellow being, and only
reluctant on account of the tired horse, took his lanthorn from the
mantel-shelf and went out.
As soon as True left the protection of his stable he felt a storm
brewing, not so far away either; he hoped it would not break before
his return, yet not knowing where he was going.
Uncle Peter rode him over to Dame Margery’s, who, when she came out,
was so bundled up in bearskins that had she not spoken at once True
might have been startled. Throwing her bags across the saddle and
bidding Uncle Peter a cheery good-night she set out on her errand.
It was a cruel night, clouds large and low swept over the moon’s
face and piled themselves up along the horizon like banks of snow.
Dame Margery spoke soothingly and blithely to the horse which partly
reconciled him to the dire cold.
When they arrived at their destination Margery went into the hut and
a young man came out to throw a fur square over True’s shivering back
and lead him out of the wind.
Hours passed. Inside the hut a child lay on a pallet on the floor;
Margery knelt beside it. Finally she withdrew her arm from beneath
the little head very gently and rose to her full, lean height.
The white-faced, dry-eyed mother stood near--undemonstrative as
Vermont women are apt to be but none the less grateful for all their
stillness.
She followed Margery to the door as the latter stepped out into the
bitter night.
“Looks like a storm,” Margery said, over her shoulder. “See that you
don’t forget the pleurisy-root tea--and have it piping hot!”
“Best tarry the night,” urged the woman, hospitably, from the door
where she stood, screening a sputtering dip from the wind with her
hand.
“Nay, nay, yet I give you thanks,” answered Margery, gaily. “I am not
afraid of storms; I was born in one and brought up in a wigwam!”
She pulled the covering from True’s back and mounted.
They started just as a veil of blinding snow fell full in their
faces--and it fell so fast the ground was soon white.
The vicious wind, like an unchained demon, caught True’s thick black
mane and blew it upwards, giving him a spasm of cold on his neck. He
shivered. A moan swept through the hemlock boughs, they bent before
the wind. Margery moistened the end of her finger and held it up, a
thin skin of ice formed on its front.
Beaten by the wind and blinded by the snow his old storm-terror came
over the horse, he wheeled and let the biting blast beat against his
haunches--head down and heavy black tail against the on coming snow
and numbing cold.
Once or twice he sniffed, as if in consultation with his rider, but
as she offered no advice, he sprang to the shelter of a clump of firs
and the harsh wind whistled fiercely on.
Margery slid from the saddle and with stiff but deft hands she caught
True’s foot and threw him, Indian-fashion, to the ground. Then she
broke huge branches of hemlock and piled them up as a brake against
the snow, crouching close to the willing body of the now motionless
horse. The wind, making a grating sound, pressed hard against their
brake but it did not give, and trembling with cold the two waited
for the storm to pass. The snow fell and fell; like knives the icy
splinters lashed their eyelids and swirled on, tossing wave upon wave
of snow on their protection of boughs and mounding it almost over
them.
A large branch, heavy with the weight of ice and sleet, snapped from
a tree near by and crashed to the ground, but they did not stir.
Angry mutterings came to them through the evergreen branches and
shrieked off over the mountains like wind-tossed spirits. Through the
long hours they made hardly a movement.
At last the darkness was over and from out the place where it went
the sun came, flashing long rays of gold on trees draped with
icicles and a world carpeted with snow, sparkling and gleaming,
dazzling their eyes with its glitter.
A strange calm had fallen on the wind-swept scene when they rose and
shook themselves, stiff with cold, to set off homeward. Over all the
glistening landscape hung a deep-blue sky, calm, serene.
It was his hardihood that saved the little horse, but good Dame
Margery Griswold caught her death that night while the child she
braved the storm to save lived on to bless her name.
CHAPTER IX.
TRUE’S FIRST HARD WORK, AND HOW HE ACCOMPLISHED IT.
Upon a hill at Randolph Centre perched a little store where the
farmers gathered in cold weather to warm themselves with Medford rum,
a common enough drink in those days, to express lavish opinions as to
political affairs of the young nation, so lately separated from her
Mother Country, or to discuss more intimate local business.
Master Morgan drank little, being more inclined to quiet study than
sociability, but his way led past the store and he often stopped to
hear the news. There were no newspapers in those days, and all news
came by letter or word-of-mouth of the stage-drivers.
Whilst waiting outside for his owner True made pleasant acquaintances
among the horses who also stood awaiting their riders.
A grey mare, very old, very wise and very strong in her convictions,
whom he often met, told him many mane-raising stories of Indian
days--so recently passed through--and the more his wide-set ears
pointed and the more his dark prominent eyes grew eager the better
the old pioneer liked it.
One of her strange tales was how she discovered her master,
Experience Davis, after he returned from his two years’ captivity
with the Indians.
One day, she told True, as she stood quietly near Davis’ hut,
nibbling lazily among the stumps and stones of the new-cleared field
to get the last blades of grass and weeds, she heard a frightful
sound approaching.
She thrilled with horror!
Davis, hoeing, hard by, also heard and dashed frantically into
his hut, closing the door and barring it securely--right well
did everyone of the time know what those dreadful war-whoops and
blood-curdling yells foreboded!
Old Grey threw back her head and sniffed for a better scent with
red, comprehending nostrils. Then, as a band of painted, half-naked
savages, brandishing their tomahawks, rushed from the forest, she
snorted and fled--her sparse tail high in the air, her heart stricken
with fear.
On an eminence afar, she stopped and saw the wretches burst open the
hut-door and drag her struggling master out. Binding him tightly, and
securing everything that might be of use, they set fire to the hut
and disappeared into the forest with war-whoops, taking Davis with
them.
Old Grey waited sadly on the river-bank until hunger and loneliness
induced her to return. Alas, the ruin that met her eyes!
A neighbor who had escaped the massacre of that day found her,
wandering about in despair, and, thinking his friend Experience must
have been burned in his hut or scalped, took the old mare to share
such life as the pioneers of that day had to endure. When he went to
live in Hanover, Old Grey went along, too.
One fine sunny day two years later, as she stood hitched in the old
Meeting House yard, she felt a thrill, her heart began suddenly to
beat faster, she looked around, disturbed in spirit for some strange,
unknown reason.
At last she saw a man crossing the yard, and a moment later
recognized her old friend Experience Davis!
Fearing he would pass without seeing her, she whinneyed,
once-and-a-half, as had been her wont.
Davis stopped, glanced about, mystified, and was going on when she
repeated her greeting, anxiously. At that he looked at her, sharply
and curiously. Involuntarily he answered, with his old familiar
whistle.
At sound of this Old Grey was so overcome with joy that she snapped
her hitch-rein with a quick jerk, and trotted right up to him!
He was so pale and thin from long captivity that she would hardly
have known him by sight, alone; it was his scent that convinced her
infallible nostrils that he was really her once ruddy and strong
master.
Davis took her back to the old place where he had just rebuilt the
hut and stable and there they had lived happily together ever since.
* * * * *
On the Highway from Boston to Canada, stood Benedict’s Tavern, and
here True often met distinguished horses on their way to or from the
race course on The Plains of Abraham, in Quebec, where men sent their
horses from great distances to test their speed against other horses.
There were then, in the United States of America, no race-courses.
It was at this stage-house, no doubt, that in True was first born
that racing spirit, of which nothing came for a long time.
In the late winter of his first year at Randolph, Master Morgan fell
ill with lung-trouble; he had to give up his teaching and singing
and, finding he could not afford to keep a horse, hired True out to
one Robert Evans, a farmer and hunter, solid as granite, and kindly,
to clear fifteen acres of heavy-timbered land.
For this task Evans agreed to pay Morgan fifteen dollars and to feed
the horse.
Evans, big chinned and grey eyed, was a lean and sinewy frontiersman,
poor and hard-working, with a large family, and True knew,
intuitively, that his days of pleasant jaunting about the country
under the saddle were over. However, with that indomitable courage,
which characterizes his descendants to this day, he set about the
difficult task and by the first of June it was finished, without help
from any other horse.[6]
He never regretted this work for it developed his chest and leg
muscles early in life, muscles, the like of which had not been known
before in a horse of his size.
The setting of many of True’s most interesting experiences and
exciting adventures at this period of his life, was Chase’s Mill.
This busy spot was situated on the wooded bank of the White River,
as pretty a bit of Vermont as one could find in a day’s journey. The
river sparkled and laughed between green banks and leaped merrily
over the mill-wheel; spruce and firs thrust thirsty feet deep down
in the water and reared tall heads high into the upper air to catch
the sun’s rays; perfume of wild flowers loaded the breeze; birds sang
all day, and white stemmed birches guarded the nearby forest like
soldiers standing in a row, straight and firm.
Miller Chase plied an honest trade in Medford rum while the farmers
waited for the wobbly stones to grind their corn or the saws to saw
their logs. Horses and oxen grazed at hand, taking the opportunity to
enjoy the delicious grass growing so abundantly in the rich, fertile
valley.
One day True chanced to remark upon this grass to his friend Old
Grey.
“Know you not,” she asked, astonished at his youthful ignorance, “how
it came to be broadcast here?”
“Not I!” whinneyed True. Suffice it that he was enjoying its
satisfying plentifulness to the fullest after his hard day in the
plow.
And she told him.
After the massacre, in which her master, Experience Davis, had been
captured, in plundering Zadock Steele’s hut, before burning it,
an Indian found a sack of valuable grass-seed. He put it over his
shoulder and started off down the valley.
After a while he noticed, vaguely, that his load, unlike the usual
manner of loads, became lighter the farther he travelled, but he
stupidly did not think to glance over his shoulder at his burden.
When he reached Dog River there was not a grass-seed left in the sack!
Through a tiny hole in the bag he had, unintentionally, sown this
wonderful seed all the way from Randolph, and for years it grew up,
unmowed, uneaten, and almost man-high, to make the White River Valley
famous, and supply grass and hay for farmers and horses.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 136.
CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH “TRUE” BECOMES “JUSTIN MORGAN.”
Once or twice a week it was the custom among the farmers, waiting
at Chase’s Mill, to pass the time testing their strength or that of
their horses. It was healthful sport and kept them and their beasts
in trim.
Many were the jugs of Medford rum consumed on these occasions, and
anyone having a horse to try, or a new test of strength for the men,
was welcomed.
Running their horses short distances for small stakes came to be very
popular.[7] A course of eighty rods was measured, starting at the
mill and extending along the highway; a line was drawn across the
road, called a “scratch,” the horses were ranged in a row, and at the
drop of a hat away they went, cheered by the crowd.
It so happened that Evans and True, who never finished their work
until dusk, were rarely at these tests. Evans, himself, was too tired
to join in the sports, but True often thought he would like to try
his strength against the larger, heavier horses.
One day, coming along the River Road to the mill, his heavy
farm-harness and tug-chains still dangling on True, they passed
Master Justin Morgan--he stood under a maple tree and was lilting an
old French song learned from the Canadian lumbermen, called “A la
Claire Fontaine.” True and Evans paused to listen. Everyone liked
Master Morgan for his sweet voice and gentle manners.
When the song was finished Evans gave the singer neighborly greeting
and strode on to the mill, True following him, more like a dog than a
horse.
The sun was gone and the evening shadows were beginning to fall, but
there were still lingering along the horizon long streaks of crimson
and gold that tinged the river with color.
In evident discussion, near a log at the mill, stood a group of
farmers.
Evans and True approached.
Nathan Nye, friendly and jovial, whittling a birch stick, looked up
as Evans said: “How be ye all?”
“Why not give Bob’s horse a show?” he asked, a twinkle in his keen
blue eyes, a smile brightening his genial face.
Horses and oxen were hitched to the limbs of trees or grazed near at
hand, quite without interest in whatever was taking place. Sledges
and wagons rested their shafts on the ground, seeming to wait
patiently.
“Is it a pulling bee?” asked Evans, leaning against True’s side.
“Yaas, but I guess it’s abeout over, now,” drawled a lank youth,
coming out of the mill with a sack of meal on his shoulder.
“Anybody but you in a hurry to be going home-along?” questioned Nye,
crushingly.
The youth did not answer, but went on to his sledge.
“There’s a jug of Medford rum in the store for the owner of the horse
that can get that there log on my runway this evening,” explained
Miller Chase to Evans.
“Now I want to know!” exclaimed Evans, carelessly, “Why didn’t you
say so before? You seem to be making quite a chore of a very simple
thing; I’ll just have my little horse do it for you in a jiffy!”
A shout of derisive laughter greeted his remark.
“Now do tell!” cried Hiram Sage, sarcastically.
“That pony pull a log my Jim refused?” scoffed another.
“My ‘pony,’ as you call him,” laughed Evans, good-naturedly, “has
never refused me yet.” He placed his arm over True’s neck; the horse
rattled his chains musically, and reached for a low-handing bough.
“Work is play for this animal,” Evans went on. “We’ve been in the
logging-field all day, but that don’t make a mite o’ difference to
the Morgan horse. Come, show us your log!”
True shook himself again and went on chewing leaves.
“Why, that beast’s naught but a colt!” said Jim’s owner, scornfully.
“Colt or no, he’s the finest bit o’ horse-flesh this side of The
Plains of Abraham!” Evans contended, hotly. “Give him his head and
he goes like a shot and doesn’t pull an ounce, and as for drawing a
load--when this horse starts, _something’s_ got to come! That is,” he
added with a laugh, “as long as the tugs last!”
“Well, stop your bragging,” said the sarcastic Hiram; “actions speak
louder than words. Hitch him up that there ‘something’ and let us see
it ‘come’.”
Miller Chase stepped forward, hospitably.
“First come in, men, and fix up your bets over a mug,” he said.
They went inside the shop, all talking at once, and left True
nibbling among the grasses and weeds. When they had disappeared he
glanced at the log which the other horses had “refused”--horses much
larger and heavier than he. The opportunity he had hoped for had come!
“But can I do it?” he asked himself.
The answer was, he _could_, and _would_.
He was spurred to the greatest effort of his life by the taunt that
he was a “pony.” At any rate he was over fourteen hands and weighed
nine hundred and fifty pounds!
“As I understand it,” Evans was saying, as the men came out of the
shop, “the agreement is that my horse has got to pull that big log
ten rods onto the logway, _in three pulls_, or I lose?”
“That’s the idea, exactly,” assented Miller Chase.
Evans took hold of True’s bridle confidently, and led him to the
enormous log, where he fastened the tugs properly. Then he stepped
one side and looked the young horse straight in the eye.
True returned his look--they might almost have been said to have
exchanged a wink.
At this thought, Evans shouted with laughter.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when he could speak seriously, “I am ashamed to
ask my horse to pull a little weight like that _on a test_--couldn’t
two or three of you get on and ride?”
Then Evans was _sure_ he saw a twinkle in True’s eye.
A loud laugh greeted the proposal.
“But, man, that there’s a dead lift!” expostulated the miller.
“Well, mine’s a live horse,” Evans cried, with a grin. “Get on there!
Justin Morgan’s waitin’ for to take you to drive!”
From this day the young horse was called _Justin Morgan’s_. It was an
easy transition to drop the possessive “s,” after a while, and call
him “Justin Morgan.”
With much hilarity three men climbed up on the log.
By this time darkness had fallen and Master Chase ran to get his
lanthorn, swinging it back and forth, as he returned.
“Mind you don’t fall off,” Evans warned the men. “‘Something’ is
about to ‘come’.”
And “something” did!
Justin Morgan’s horse gathered himself together, almost crouching,
and waited for the word to start. When it was given, his
chest-muscles strained, his wide nostrils were scarlet and dilated,
and this scion of Arabia’s proud breed moved off as if inspired by
Allah himself for an almost miraculous feat.
The bystanders, craning their necks to see, ran alongside; the men,
perched on the log, fell off as it rocked from side to side, and then
the young horse paused for breath--or to recover his strength.
Utter silence was over all. There was no jeering now.
The second pull landed the log on the logway, and the amazed men
broke into the wildest cheers ever heard at Chase’s Mill.[8]
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 133.
[8] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.
CHAPTER XI.
MORGAN TRIES CONCLUSIONS WITH THE COXCOMB AND HIS FRIENDS.
After his triumph at Chase’s Mill, the Morgan and Evans often stopped
there on their way home from work.
A welcome more cordial than usual greeted them one sweet and tranquil
afternoon. Cowbells tinkled in the distance, coming home along the
River Road for the milking hour, and the chains of Morgan’s harness
jangled an echo from his sides. The leather parts of this harness
were mended here and there with bits of white string, and his usually
glossy, short hair was rough and lacked care. He was not pretty, but
always bold and fearless in his style of movement.
As was his custom, Nathan Nye sat whittling his birch stick into
useless shavings.
“Let the Morgan see if it’s _in him to do it_!” he cried to Evans.
“What’s the game to-day?” asked Evans, cheerfully.
With a backward nod and a frown Nye indicated three strangers
standing in the doorway of the little shop.
“Travellers from over to Benedict’s,” he explained, in an undertone.
“They heard about our horse and have come to try out against him.
I’ve got a sneaking idea that we can take the starch out o’ their
biled shirts for ’em!” He shut his knife with a determined click and
rose. “_They_ claim size is necessary for speed and endurance,” he
went on; “they are just from The Plains of Abraham; on their way back
to New York; came yesterday and hearing at the stage-house that we
had something of a horse in these parts staid over to-day to satisfy
their curiosity.”
“We’ll satisfy it!” laughed Evans, confidently.
Three strange horses stood hitched near by, and Evans went to take a
look at them, as if casually. The Morgan followed, as a faithful dog
might, extending his nostrils as he caught sight of a cloak thrown
over one of the saddles. He caught the scent and blew his breath on
it in a disgusted way. He had recognized the odor of the Coxcomb,
Master Knickerbocker!
Nye had also followed Evans.
“I’d just like to show these New York dandies the sort of horses we
can raise in Vermont,” he said, apparently oblivious of the fact
that the best and first part of True’s raising had been done in
Massachusetts. “Even if we can’t afford to use all that ody cologne,
and wear frills on our shirt fronts. They say these two horses were
bred on the Winooski at the Ethan Allen farm, but this one”--he
indicated the horses as he spoke--“is from down New York way.”
Evans walked around and looked at them critically.
“Good horses, all of them,” he remarked, with appreciation, “and
fresh.”
“Rested all night at the Inn,” Nye corroborated, resentfully.
The Morgan was working himself up over the scent of the cloak--any
test for him against the horse on whose saddle it lay was as good
as won already. He had an intuition that Mistress Lloyd would like
him to defeat the Coxcomb, whose horse was a fretful, vicious
animal--handsome enough, it was true, and with many races to his
credit--but he was too full of conceit and self-confidence to please
Morgan.
The Ethan Allen horses were quieter and gave the impression of
reserve power. All three were stylish and well cared for, while
Morgan was ungroomed and neglected; there were a few burrs in his
heavy black tail, too, which seemed to strike the New Yorkers as
extremely amusing. The Morgan, himself, however, had never seen
anything very comical about a mere cockle-burr, and was nettled at
their foolish remarks and jeers.
“Yes,” repeated Nye, “fresh as flowers, and fed to the top-notch.
Those men have a fine plan to take us down a peg or two.”
“Is it a clean, fair race, think you?” asked Evans, under his breath.
“It’s no clean and no fair race,” Nye gave reply, indignantly, and in
the same low, resentful tone he added,[9] “they want our horse to run
three separate races, one after the other, and him all tuckered out
with a day’s plowing.”
“It ain’t fair,” agreed Evans, vehemently. “My horse ain’t only
tired, but my saddle and bridle, that I left over here t’other day,
ain’t light and easy like theirs. It ain’t reasonable…. Not but what
Morgan can do it,” he added, quickly, “but it’s hard on him.”
“Of course he can do it,” assented Nye, confidently. “They say we’ve
got to show ’em--or shut up our bragging over to Benedict’s--with the
word being passed on from North to South, as never was!”
“All right,” said Evans. “We’ll show ’em. As long as Morgan’s alive
we ain’t got no cause to shut up bragging.”
“Every man to ride his own horse,” Nye further explained.
“My legs are a leetle mite too long to be pretty,” laughed Evans.
“But if Morgan can stand it, I can.”
True heard all this as he stood cropping grass near at hand. When
they ceased speaking he came and rubbed his nose on Evans’ shoulder
reassuringly, as he often did in his affectionate, demonstrative way.
At this moment the strangers joined them, and True recognized
the Coxcomb as he swaggered forward, tapping his tall boots with
a beautiful riding whip. Spurs gleamed on his heels and his
insolent manner was in strong contrast to the simple bearing of the
straightforward farmer’s.
At a glance, Morgan had seen it would be no great feat to beat the
Ethan Allen horses, but he also saw with the same quick glance
that the New York horse was to be reckoned with; he was evidently
accustomed to successes on the course.
When the races were arranged, Evans removed the dangling plow-harness
from True’s back. At sight of him without it the strangers seemed to
be more amused than ever. Their contemptuous remarks affronted Evans.
“Fix up your bets,” he called out a moment later, impatiently, seeing
how uncomfortable True was with his cumbersome saddle and coarse bit.
“I want to get home-along.”
He spoke as if he were so sure of winning that it was but the
question of a moment or so.
His tone irritated the Coxcomb. He came forward.
“Odd brute that,” he sneered, “to put against horses that have won on
The Plains of Abraham. But I suppose the _fun_ of the races will make
up to you for your losses. Why, this is nothing but a Canadian scrub!”
True shook himself in disgust. To be called a striding Canadian. A
horse who travels with purposed exertion, while he glided over the
ground with scarce an effort. A Canadian scrub, indeed, a horse whose
thick nostrils speak of low birth and whose flat sides and thick
hair seem made for much cold and beating; and _he_, with the blood of
the South in his veins!
It was too much for Evans.
“This is no Canadian,” he contradicted, shortly; “this horse is a
Thoroughbred.”
The Coxcomb laughed derisively, and flicked his boot.
“None the less, the brute would answer to the order ‘_Marches
donc!_’… Not so, my friend?” He struck True on the side with his keen
whip, making him spring forward.
“What said I?” he scoffed with a shrug. “The _horse_ does not lie
about his pedigree.”
Ignoring the insulting inference, Evans quieted Morgan with a caress
and cried:
“For shame, sir! Would you have me strike _your_ horse thus?”
But Master Knickerbocker had moved away, laughing insolently.
The course was measured, the scratch drawn and Nathan Nye stood
ready to drop the hat. Several of the men went to the finish-line to
witness and testify to the result of the three races.
The course faced the east, so that the eyes of the horses and their
riders were turned from the sunset glow which was then illumining
the world. The road was smooth, and a recent rain had laid the dust;
the conditions were better than usual. The pungent odor of new-sawn
lumber filled the air and the chirping of birds from the nearby
forest made sweet music.
One of the Ethan Allen horses walked briskly forward under his rider,
while the Morgan joined him in the friendly way which was his natural
manner towards all animals. They waited pleasantly, yet spiritedly,
for the drop of the hat.
When the signal was given they ran neck and neck for a short
distance--then with a sudden and unexpected spurt the Morgan dashed
in a length ahead.
His friends cheered Morgan lustily; the other faction were too
astonished to other than gasp slightly, and were silent. Evans
himself was expressionless--if anything, he, as well as Morgan,
looked a little bored at the easy victory, and cantered back to the
starting point for the next race with a sort of indifference.
The second was twin to the first. Morgan seemed just waking up, as
he sprang forward perfunctorily at the finish, winning with ease. He
moved as if he knew not fatigue, even after the hard day’s work. It
was the Desert training of his ancestors within him, their marvellous
staying qualities.
When they returned the second time the Coxcomb was waiting, his
restive horse trembling in anticipation of a victory.
One or two false starts, and they were off.
The Morgan was away toward the goal like an arrow from an Indian’s
bow--his small extended muzzle and deep wide chest seemed to cut the
air. In the short length of the course he thought of Flying Childers
winning his historic race against the runner Fox, about seventy-five
years before, of which his father told him. Perhaps this memory and
the strain of this great ancestor awakened possibilities within
him--the road ran past, his small, well shaped black feet spurned the
earth, and before he knew it he was at the finish almost a length
ahead of the horse who had won so many races on The Plains of Abraham.
The chagrin of his antagonist’s rider was not lessened by the laughs
and cheers of the farmers, as they clustered about Morgan and patted
his round, deep body and oblique shoulders.
The Coxcomb took his defeat ungracefully and having settled his bets
rode impatiently away with his friends.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.
CHAPTER XII.
OLD GREY TELLS PIONEER TALES.
Many events similar to the one related in the last chapter spread
the Morgan’s fame throughout the Valley, and when Evans finished his
clearing Justin Morgan once more took possession of the horse, for
his health was sufficiently restored to take up school-teaching again.
The change from hard farm-work was very agreeable to True, and they
cantered from place to place right gaily, albeit the horse missed
the sweet singing of Master Morgan, who coughed now incessantly, and
often had to dismount and rest in the shade of an oak on the roadside.
He was scarce forty years old, but seemed much more on account of his
grievous malady.
Regularly they went to Royalton, some ten miles to the southward,
and True grazed about until school let out. Through the window he
sometimes saw the gentle, delicate face of the teacher at his desk,
his Continental coat slightly open at the throat, showing a bit of
fresh white linen, his queue, in the fashion of the day, tied with a
stiff bow of black ribband.
He was a master of whom any horse might have been proud.
One day, while waiting for his owner, True wandered into the woods
to escape the flies and dust of the highway, and there he met his
friend, Old Grey, who told him how the Indians had burned Royalton in
1780; and among the anecdotes relating to this time there was one
which amused the young horse no little.
It ran as follows:
For some unaccountable reason the Indians had failed to burn the hut
of one Jones, who had a wife known far and wide as a scold and a
shrew. To get a day’s rest from her abuse, poor Jones oft-times had
to go hunting or trapping, and when he saw an especially bad tantrum
coming he would snatch his gun from the mantel-shelf and, calling his
dog, rush forth into the forest, a storm of reviling in his wake.
Sometimes he remained away for days.
Nobody ever remembered having seen Jones smile.
One day, his wife’s temper and tongue being worse than usual, he
found it expedient to go hunting, and stayed away over night. There
are times when a silent dog is sweet company and the peaceful forest
a haven of refuge.
On the second afternoon, thinking it might be safe to return, Jones
approached his home cautiously. Stranger sounds than usual greeted
his listening ear.
He paused, alert and intent, silencing his intelligent dog with a
gesture. Creeping stealthily forward under the shadow of the trees,
he beheld a small band of Indians in the act of breaking open his
hut-door. He waited tensely, to see them drag his wife out and scalp
her.
Instead, from inside came her familiar voice raised in vituperation
and upbraiding. Jones could scarcely believe his ears, and for the
first time since his marriage he grinned.
“This time those red imps have met their match,” he murmured to his
dog with an audible chuckle.
Hardly had he spoken when out came half a dozen Indians dragging the
shrew between them. Not for one moment, however, did she cease her
abuse, terrified though she surely must have been.
Jones, standing at the edge of the forest, watched--fearfully at
first, then with curious interest. Finally he sat down on the ground
and gave way to uncontrollable mirth.
The Indians had paused on the river bank in consultation.
Suddenly, without warning apparently, two of them gathered the scold
in their arms and sprang into the chill water. The others stood on
the bank and whooped mad encouragement, fiendishly, as only Indians
can.
Mistress Jones’ green homespun petticoat filled quickly with air and
swelled around her like an enormous squash, out of which her scarlet
face glowed furiously.
The savages on the bank yelled and danced. Those in the water ducked
their victim up and down, howling with glee, cracking her over the
head as she rose.
“And there be some who say an Indian can’t see a joke,” spluttered
Jones, under his breath, holding his sides. The dog looked at his
master with suspicion--he thought the man was choking.
But Jones soon saw that the savages merely meant to discipline his
wife and give her a bath. An interruption from him might disturb
these laudable intentions, so he remained quietly in the background.
When they had finished to their entire satisfaction they lifted the
woman out of the river and flung her, gasping and shivering, among
the tree-roots on the bank. She looked like a huge wet log. Yelling,
they swam the river and disappeared in the dense woods beyond.
Trembling, Jones drew near--his mirth turned to seemly gravity; but
he found a very subdued person. Cautiously Mistress Jones opened her
eyes, one at a time, first peering carefully between the lids to see
if the approaching footsteps were those of her tormenters returning.
When she saw her husband she groaned feebly.
“Have they gone?” she whispered.
“Yes,” replied Jones, with becoming seriousness.
Mistress Jones rose heavily, and squeezed the water from her skirts,
shaking, humble and sobered.
“It served me right, husband dear,” she wailed at last. “I have ever
been what those savages called me, ‘a dirty blouze of a thing,’ but
from now on I am a changed woman and will be a better wife to you.
The Indians said they would teach me a lesson--and they have!”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MORGAN GOES TO MONTPELIER TO LIVE.
Sometimes Justin Morgan rode his horse to Williston to visit his
friend, the Hon. Lemuel Bottom, who was a lover of good horses;
sometimes they went to Hinesburgh, a short distance from Burlington.
They were constantly on the go from one town to another, meeting new
people and horses and having fresh experiences.
Hinesburgh was a quiet little village, and, although there were two
saw-mills, they did not have “bees” as they did at Randolph; the
scenery was beautiful, and the bedding so good that Morgan enjoyed
his trips in spite of the lack of excitement which he had grown to
love at Chase’s Mill.
His first military experience was when he took his place under an
empty saddle in the procession that conducted the body of Col. Israel
Converse to his grave. Colonel Converse had been a brave soldier and
greatly beloved by his townspeople; over his open grave Morgan heard
for the first time a military salute and smelled the acrid odor of
gunpowder. For a long time he was thrilled by the memory.
As time increased Master Morgan’s health declined rapidly; in 1795-96
he grew too weak to work, and sold his horse to one William Rice,
of Woodstock, who in turn sold him to Jonathan Shepard, a sturdy
blacksmith living in the little town of Montpelier.
Shepard was also landlord of the Farmer’s Inn, which stood within a
doughnut’s toss of his forge. He was an energetic, thrifty man, and
Colonel Davis engaged him to do some clearing on his farm, seeing
that he now had a good strong young horse. Thus Morgan once more
became a farm-horse, but as Shepard was well to do and kind, he fared
well in his new home.
His dinner in a pail, and oats in a sack for the Morgan, Shepard
would go out for a day’s plowing or clearing the while Mistress
Shepard remained at home to serve customers at the Inn.
A “halloo” from the forge would make the blacksmith hurry back to
aid a passing traveller whose horse had cast a shoe or whose wagon
or “shay” needed mending. He would leave the Morgan in the care of
Maximus Fabius Davis, the son of Colonel Davis, who--as boys went,
in Morgan’s estimation--was pleasant enough. Morgan was ever fond of
men and women, already grown, but the stage of childhood, required to
develop them into such, did not seem to interest him.
Now and again Maxy would ride him home in the evening, and if there
chanced to be a horse at the forge anxious for a test, there would
be a race or some trial at pulling. Tales of his speed and strength
spread for miles around, and all who called at the Inn or the forge
were anxious to see him. But they always said afterward it was a
shame to turn such a fine animal into a mere farm-horse. Shepard had
his answer ready, that he “was but a farmer himself, and needed a
good plow-horse--not a racer eating its head off in his stable.”
Through honesty and that thrift for which the Vermonter is famous
Shepard soon acquired considerable wealth, and wanting a larger place
he exchanged the Morgan, his smithy, and the Farmers’ Inn for the
large farm on Dog River, belonging to James Hawkins. Thus, Morgan
changed owners, but not homes, for Hawkins came to Montpelier to
live. The horse was glad of this, for he liked the musical ring of
the hammer on the anvil and the glare of the forge as the handle of
the bellows was raised and lowered.
Montpelier, organized in 1793, was a village of little consequence,
but one of its citizens was a man of parts, staunch and true, and
destined to rise to the high position of Secretary of State. His name
was David Wing, Jr., and he often borrowed the Morgan from Hawkins
for as much as a week at a time. Under the comfortable saddle of
Master Wing, Morgan first saw the beautiful Winooski, with its sweep
of eddies and currents, its foaming rapids and singing falls. David
loved nature and good scenery as much as Morgan and their trips were
sweet and pleasant through lovely, fertile valleys and across densely
wooded hills; along frequented highways or vague trails through the
forests.
Sometimes they went as far as Burlington and Morgan had to cross many
streams and wade through foaming, circling water, which, when very
deep, gave him a sense of adventure. He was always ready to swim if
the need came, and would have hesitated at nothing his rider set him
to do, such confidence did he feel in Man-wisdom.
If they were not in a hurry David would allow him to play along the
way, knowing well enough the horse would not abuse the privilege.
He rode with a loose rein, and on the way home would let the Morgan
choose his own gait and trail. The firm touch on the bridle was as
light as a woman’s, but Morgan was not fooled by it. He well knew
this was a rider who would brook no impertinence, and it kept him
steady and respectful, even while he took advantage of the permission
to frolic a little.
These two saw many strange sights in their wanderings--sights that
later history proved were the making of a fine and sturdy race of men
and horses.
Ofttimes, in bitter winter weather, they passed little bare-foot
children on their way to school, carrying their shoes in their cold
hands, to put on, in a very elegant manner, at the school-house door;
to _walk_ in them would have been _wilful extravagance_, though their
toes were blue with cold! If, by chance, they found a cow lying down,
chewing on her morning cud, they would disturb her rudely and make
her get up, that they might put their bare feet on the spot she had
so nicely warmed for her own comfort.
But better and more prosperous times were coming, and it was not
long before shoes were looked upon as a necessity for children, not
an extravagance, though they were ever evil-smelling things--the
leather being home-tanned and home-cured and needing much greasing at
night to keep it soft enough to make the shoes wearable. They made
an unseemly clumping on the floor, and were very ugly, but their aim
being use, not beauty, this was no drawback.
* * * * *
Sometimes kind and gentle Mistress Hannah Wing rode the Morgan to a
quilting bee, or meeting, or to such entertainments as ladies saw
fit to attend. She was good to him and made his visits to their barn
most pleasant. In the mornings she would come tripping out, her arms
full of dew-wet clover or grass, just cut, or she would have a dish
of goodies from the kitchen--some carrots or turnips. ’Twas no wonder
the horse loved her and called to her, as she drew near, with his
affectionate little neigh. He always hoped David might buy him from
Hawkins; he loved the Wings and they returned his friendship. And a
horse never knows when he may change owners. He can only hope his
next one may be the one of his choosing, which does sometimes happen.
The minds of the Vermonters in those days dwelt on higher things than
fashions, especially with the men, and the wearing of beavers was
not common, unless perhaps the hat was inherited. Hats were so much
better made then, and so expensive, that a beaver lasted from thirty
to forty years, and was passed on from father to son. In this way it
had come to be looked on as frivolous and extravagant to be seen in
a new one; if any man had the courage to buy such, he left it out in
the weather a few nights to “_take that new look off_” before he wore
it in public.
At this time David Wing was town-clerk, and one day on his return
from a trip to Boston, by stage, he brought home something in what
was unmistakably a hatbox.
Gossip concerning so important a man soon flew about, and the box
became town-talk before the day was over. Women folks came, on one
pretext or another, to call on Mistress Wing. Some asked her rule for
wheaten cake, others how she made her cheeses, and so on. But it did
not take their clever hostess long to find out the true aim of their
calls, and being right proud of the hat herself, she took it out of
the box and showed it to them all. ’Twas very tall and glossy, and
shaped liked the rain barrel; the brim was so low in front it would
hide its wearer’s nose completely; suddenly it curved sharply at the
sides in the manner of a drawn bow; and, all told, it was an elegant
bit of the latest Boston fashion.
’Twas to be worn, Mistress Wing informed her callers, for the first
time at meeting the next Sabbath.
Many were the exclamations of “Land sakes!” and “Do tells!” that the
sight of the hat provoked, and much pleased was Mistress Hannah to
be able to awaken so much admiration for her husband’s taste.
Unfortunately David did not wait until the Sabbath to wear his new
hat; had he done so history, in all likelihood, would never have
recorded the fact that he had owned a beaver.
The very next morning he came swinging out of the house looking most
gentlemanly in his high stock, ruffled shirt and shining boots. On
his head sat, most jauntily, the new hat.
David was off for a town meeting.
Down the road cantered Morgan, meeting many acquaintances who paused
in speechless admiration until they passed out of sight. Some with
envy, alack; some with criticism of the extravagance, but others with
friendly nod of greeting and approval.
The sun shone, the crisp air was fragrant with pine needles, and
birds chirped in the trees that fringed the highway. Morgan champed
his bit and curvetted from one side of the road to the other, his
heart full of the morning freshness.
Suddenly a yellow dog came in sight, and the horse, full of fun
and spirit, lowered his head and made a dash at him, remembering
his colt-days and the game of “Red-Coats.” The dog tucked his tail
between his hind legs and made off down the road at lightning speed.
This was enough to rouse Morgan; even though he did not like dogs, he
thought it might be a race. Helter, skelter, he started; ever fleet
in running, he was soon gaining slowly, but surely, on the dog, who
was little more than a yellowish brown streak on the landscape.
Morgan heard David say, good-naturedly:
“Go it, my boy, stop when you get good and ready; I am having as much
fun as you.”
Once, as the dog glanced hurriedly back over his shoulder, the horse
saw his tongue hanging out--he looked almost winded, but his pace
was long and even, like Morgan’s, and his flapping ears responded
rhythmically to his gait.
Morgan tossed his head and made a movement with his tail as much as
to indicate he had just begun to race. The rapid clatter of his own
hoofs on the hard road was music to him.
Seconds passed. Then the dog disappeared at a sharp bend in the road.
Losing sight of him for a moment nerved Morgan to a sudden spurt.
With all his power impelling him he, too, rounded the corner--and
ran headlong into two horsemen who had been jogging peacefully and
unsuspectingly along the quiet and seemingly deserted highway.
What a reckoning there was! Never was such confusion! Lawyer Buckley
slid from the back of his pony and his books broke from the strap and
were scattered over the road; Dr. Pierce’s saddle bags burst open
and pills and bandages fell out as if to offer their help in the
emergency.
Morgan, realizing he had caused all the trouble, kept his presence of
mind admirably, and stood firm and motionless where his front feet
had plowed into the earth at his sudden halt. David did not lose
his seat, but the stop, without any warning, almost threw him over
Morgan’s head.
When things had steadied a bit, and explanations and apologies made,
David noticed for the first time, as he put his hand up to remove his
hat, and wipe the perspiration from his brow, that his beaver was
missing.
Under the very feet of Dr. Pierce’s nag, who stood still snorting her
expostulations, it was found. Lawyer Buckley picked it up, shaking
his head with ill-concealed satisfaction.
“’Tis but a crushed and torn rag,” he said, brushing it the wrong way
with the sleeve of his coat; “but you have that young Morgan to thank
for the prank.”
At these words Morgan was more mortified than ever, though he could
not help glancing furtively about for the dog and pricking his ears
back and forth for sounds. Soon he espied and heard him a short
way ahead, yelping from the cover of his owner’s hut, surrounded
by a protecting and gaping crowd of small bare-foot children who
had assembled from the other side of the house to find out what the
matter was.
It is not necessary to relate with what fallen crest Morgan bore his
rider home after the day closed in. The hat, so lately the envy of
the whole town, hidden under his rider’s coat, to be laid away until
Mistress Hannah could restore it to some of its first magnificence.
CHAPTER XIV.
MORGAN MAKES A TRIP TO BOSTON.
For several days Morgan showed his regret at the fate of the beaver
by neither romping nor playing. When David and himself were on their
way from place to place and resting at noon, he cropped grass in a
very staid and dignified manner, whilst David sat in the shade and
ate his luncheon of light wheaten cakes and cheese, the two things
for which Mistress Hannah was famous.
On these trips they sometimes met the Boston-Canada stage coaches,
carrying the mail, and they would stand one side and watch the
horses running at full speed over the rough roads; the horn winding
a lusty warning to private coach, curricle or rider, that might be
approaching from the other direction round a sharp bend in the way.
Again they would pass lazy oxen, drawing their sleds slowly to
market, or coming home from mill, their loads creaking behind them as
they swayed awkwardly from side to side, responding reluctantly to
the goad-sticks in their drivers’ hands.
These pioneer teams drew the products of the outlying farms--maple
sugar, and potash and “black salts”--(gathered by thrifty farmers
from the ashes of winter fires or logging heaps)--to the towns.
The forests of Vermont at first were gloomy and almost impenetrable,
tending, some claimed, to make the people grave and serious, but
already the lumber industry had begun the destruction of the
beautiful woods of hemlock, birch, white pine, ash, chestnut and
stately oak. Saw-mills whirred and sang busily on river banks, whose
falls afforded such marvellous water-power for their wheels, and
comfortable houses soon took the place of pioneer huts in many places.
In spite of his faithful service to the Wings, they did not buy the
Morgan, and Hawkins after a while sold him to the same Robert Evans,
at Randolph, for whom he had once done such good service.
Randolph had a newspaper now, called _The Weekly Wanderer_, and this
praised the Morgan so highly that for a while, out of pride, Evans
had to keep him in good condition. But unfortunately this pride
lasted but a short time, Evans being too busy at his farm work and
trapping, earning a living for his family.
On the day of his return to Randolph, Morgan heard that Master Justin
Morgan had gone on to “lie in green pastures, beside still waters.”
So sweet a sound had this to the lonely horse, separated from his
good friends in Montpelier, that he sometimes wandered away from the
Evans’ primitive barn, looking for that “Valley of the Shadow” of
which men spoke when referring to the kindly school-master. The heat
of the mid-summer days sometimes oppressed the little horse, and he
grew thin and weary at the plow, but there was no “Valley of the
Shadow” for him--no other valley could he find than his work-a-day
one along the banks of the sparkling White River in full sunshine.
In the weary battling against the uncongenial farm life, he was no
little cheered by the memory of what his father told him of his
high-crested ancestor, the Godolphin Arabian--that he, in all his
greatness and beauty, had once pulled a water cart in France.
In a year the brave little horse was unrecognizable; his once
glossy, soft coat had coarsened, and often he was humiliated by the
knowledge that there were burrs in his tail and in the bit of dark
hair that grew above his fetlocks.
Chase’s Mill was still the centre of the town’s gaiety; occasionally
there were races, but rarely were the horses worth Morgan’s effort.
In spring, when the world was full of flowers, and orchids and blue
flags hung their banners out to tempt the Evans children into the
woods, Morgan would go with them to gather these or the more useful
medicinal herbs for times of sickness--pleurisy-root, marshmallow or
ginseng. In summer he went with them to pick berries of all sorts or
wild grapes, and when the autumn came, with its glory of beech and
maple, turning to copper and scarlet, he would bring home their bags
of nuts across his round back.
In winter his coat grew long and thick; and Evans himself rode him to
distant traps set in the forest for bear, musk-rat and foxes, which
supplied food or clothing for the family. The horse grew accustomed
after a while to the monotony of his life and tried to make the best
of it.
One cold, clear day Evans cleaned him so very carefully Morgan felt
sure something was about to happen, but did not try to guess what;
he had learned the futility of that long ago, for things never came
about as he guessed or planned they should.
In the course of time, however, he found himself cantering along the
stage-road to Boston. It was a trip he had long wanted to take, so
many horses had told him what a beautiful and gay city it was.
The day being severely cold, he was glad enough of the long legs and
homespun woolen breeches of his rider which covered so much of his
sides. As for Evans, he had his muskrat cap pulled well over his ears
and his home-made boots of calf-skin (smelling horribly of grease),
with the heavy breeches tucked well inside, were warm and comfortable
to his feet.
But they must have cut a sorry figure when they reached Boston and
went along Summer Street; that lovely, fashionable thoroughfare, with
its stately trees, beautiful flower gardens and splendid mansions.
It was dusk when they stopped in Corn Court, at the Braser Inn--the
famous hostelry opened by Samuel Cole, in 1634, where Miantonomah’s
painted Indians--envoys to Sir Harry Vane--had been entertained;
where the French Premier, Talleyrand, had so lately stayed; where so
many other events of history had taken place.
As Evans was hitching his horse to a post near the side door of the
tavern, Morgan heard a familiar, bantering voice; the odor of musk
came to his nostrils faintly, and glancing about, he saw--as he knew
he should--the Coxcomb.
No fop of the King’s court could have looked more elegant; his
Continental coat, cocked hat and high shining boots were of the
latest cut--not less offensive to the simple taste of the horse was
his insolent swagger.
Master Knickerbocker, of course, did not notice Morgan, but cried to
Evans persuadingly:
“Tarry the night, my Green Mountain Giant, we can show you rare sport
at cards if you’ve money in your purse.”
Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Mountains would have
towered over Beacon Hill. He gazed down at him with contempt,
vaguely, yet not definitely, recognizing his one-time antagonist in a
race, as Morgan had.
“I have no money to lose to you, my young sir,” he made reply,
ungraciously. “I am but a simple farmer, and I play with none but
my own kind. I do not know the rules by which such as you handle the
cards!”
“Then join us in a glass of Medford rum--such as you Vermonters know
so well how to appreciate--’tis cold outside and the landlord will
mull us a bowl. Come, I say!”
He clapped the farmer hospitably on the shoulder in friendly fashion,
and led the way into the tavern.
A kind bar-maid came out and threw a fur square over Morgan’s
shivering back and give him a warm mash, which comforted him greatly.
He acknowledged her friendliness, by nipping her sleeve gently with
his lip; and as she was fond of horses, this pleased her, and she
further brought him joy by patting his face gently and murmuring
little love-talk in his ears.
Many hours later the side door opened and the Coxcomb came out. He
was talking to himself as he closed the door behind him, blotting
out the sudden radiance from the great, roaring fire inside the
tavern. He did not notice Morgan, though he almost touched him in the
darkness as he paced to and fro.
“Egad!” he cried, under his breath; “the fellow had money--but he has
it not. Let him go back where he belongs, to his land of hemlock and
frost-bitten, half-civilized race…. Yet,” and he almost sighed--not
quite, “even _I_ awakened to a slight feeling of compunction when he
turned out the toe of a woman’s stocking and confessed it was his
last shilling--money, he remembered too late, his wife had given him
to buy a calico gown…. Ha! Calico, at the trifle of three shillings
the yard! Mistress Lloyd”--here Morgan pricked his ears back and
forth--“Mistress Lloyd wears silks and satins, and her laces are like
cobwebs…. Oddsbodikins! _There_ is a maid to turn a man’s head--even
mine! ’Twill not be long now before my suit prospers…. I have won
everything from her father but his daughter, and I shall bide my time
till I win her. I have made up my mind--I, and not Dulaney, will live
‘Where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall!’”
Almost under Morgan’s nose he drew from his satin waistcoat-pocket
a snuff-box wrought in gold by a master craftsman. With the tips
of his delicate fingers he daintily pinched a few grains of the
evil-smelling powder and placed it to his nostrils.
Morgan sneezed.
The Coxcomb stepped hurriedly aside with a prodigious oath as the
door of the Inn swung open.
Robert Evans stalked out into the night, his cap pulled over his
ears, his fur cape wrapped tight about his shoulders. The Coxcomb
greeted him with a condescending smile and extended his snuff-box.
The giant waved it aside with a gesture of dignity and scorn.
“No, sir,” he said, shortly; “if the good Lord had intended my nose
for a dirt-box, he would have put it on upside down!”
Master Knickerbocker laughed, though Evans had not intended to be
funny.
“Egad! A very good sally!” he drawled. “Yet I but tried to show my
friendliness.”
“’Tis a pity you had not tried to show it earlier in the evening,”
returned Evans, gruffly, as he mounted his horse and rode away.
Good Dame Evans would have no calico gown from Boston, that was sure,
and ’twas money she’d saved for years from her cheese and butter
sales, and kept in an old bee-hive in the attic, saying no word to
anyone of it.
Now her sacrifices had gone to purchase snuff and perfume for the
Coxcomb.
[Illustration:
From a photograph.
“‘WHERE THE GREAT LLOYD SETS HIS HALL’!”]
Morgan had often seen Dame Evans give the traditional Vermont
“beech seal” to her sons--and he would not deny they needed it; and
he had seen her dash scalding water on a prowling Indian; he guessed
Robert Evans’ greeting, when they reached home, would not be an
affectionate one.
On the way back to Randolph, Evans was in a temper and swore
grievously. Morgan had caught a cold and coughed constantly. The
journey was withal a trying one; ’twas not to be wondered at that the
horse’s memories of Boston were neither beautiful nor gay, and that
he never had a desire to repeat his trip.
It was dark when they reached home, but Mistress Evans, who had been
on the lookout, threw open the kitchen door as they entered the gate,
and the barnyard was flooded with the warm glow of the firelight from
within. Her head was tied up in a fustian square and a fur was thrown
over her shoulders. She ran out to greet them, a lanthorn in her hand.
“Welcome, home, Husband, dear!” she cried, cheerily. “Give me the
purchases. I would see my calico frock without delay. Yes, and get to
work on it, for ’tis no short task to stitch those long seams--with
chores to do besides!”
She held out her hand eagerly.
“Go into the house directly, Wife, out of the cold!” evaded Evans,
taking the lanthorn from her. “I will be in presently--when I have
bedded down the Morgan,” he added.
And she, being an obedient, womanly and faithful wife, suspecting
nothing, went in to sing over the final preparations of supper.
In spite of the cold and fatigue of his owner, Morgan never got a
better rubbing-down nor a finer meal.
“Well, Morgan,” Evans murmured, at last, “I guess I can’t put it off
any longer.”
He dragged his reluctant feet slowly toward the house, where Dame
Evans was waiting for him with steaming hulled corn, fried pork and
maybe something else--when she found out his secret!
CHAPTER XV.
FOR MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND.
In 1803 Morgan went to pass a week with his old friends, the Wings,
and the visit was one long to be remembered.
The talk of the village was Mistress Hannah’s new silken gown--the
first ever brought to Montpelier, so the town history tells. David
Wing was now Judge and Secretary of State, and his wife had to wear
fine clothes, as befitted her station, for many were the calls on her
to entertain distinguished guests.
It was at a meeting in their new barn that Mistress Wing first wore
the wonderful silk. All the other ladies present had on homespun and
linen--silk would have been called “flunk and flummux” on them.
The Judge that day wore his Indian cotton shirt with the
frills--hemmed and tucked. It made a brave show, for cotton was three
shillings the yard at that time.
I mention these historic facts merely to show that Morgan played his
part with the Quality of the times, as well as at the plow, and to
occupy a stall in the Judge’s grand new barn was no small privilege
to a horse!
But the greatest pleasure of all was when he heard that Colonel Lloyd
of Maryland, and his daughter had come a’visiting the Judge and his
lady.
The Wings and the Lloyds had met in New York the winter before
and the Judge had unwoven some legal tangles for the Colonel. A
friendship had resulted and now the Southerners had come all the way
from Maryland in their coach to enjoy the cool, summer breezes of
Vermont under the hospitable roof of their New England friends.
When the Judge brought them out to see his new barn Morgan recognized
the swish of her petticoats at once, as Mistress Lloyd drew near the
stable.
Knowing how they loved good horses their host threw open Morgan’s
door.
There was an instant’s pause, then:
“Why, I _know_ this horse!” cried Mistress Lloyd. “_I_ gave him his
first blue ribband!”
Oh, the melody of her voice, and the feel of her cheek against his!
At last, after years of parting, they met--and she had not forgotten
him. Oh, wondrous memory of such a woman as she!
Morgan was glad the Judge’s hired man had groomed him so carefully
that morning, and that not long before, the stable floor had been
strewn with fresh, sweet sawdust.
“What a noble animal you’ve grown to be!” she whispered in his
waiting ear. “I predicted it full ten years agone!”
So it had been ten years since he had seen her last, yet he had
cherished her, and she him, in memory, all that long time of busy
scenes apart.
He pushed his small muzzle in and out among the laces and gauzes of
her neck so gently they were not disarranged, and she pressed her
cheek close to his. Something in the tones of her voice told him she
was not happy, and as the delicious odor of her hair entered his
nostrils he whinneyed a question, softly.
As if understanding, she answered, murmuring near his ear,
“Dear Little Horse,” there was a catch in her voice, “I cannot buy
you, even now, for our money is all gone! Daddy is no manager;
he has ever been what they call a ‘gentleman’ and our family
mansion--‘where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall’--is to be sold to pay
a most unjust ‘debt of honor’--I call it a debt of _dis_honor, for
’twas made at the gaming table; and though Judge Wing be ever so
clever, he can do nothing now for my father and me!”
She leaned against Morgan; he heard a sob in her throat as she
clasped his arched neck.
He whinneyed his tenderest sympathy, and maybe she would have told
him more, but there came a sound of voices through the open door.
“Ah, here you are, my daughter!” It was the Colonel speaking. “Come
and greet our friend who has ridden all the way from Boston to see
us. He says he has a plan whereby we may save our home!” Colonel
Lloyd spoke hopefully, if a little doubtfully.
Mistress Lloyd turned her face, flushed with emotion, and saw the
Coxcomb, of whom Morgan had just caught scent.
“A plan?” she questioned him, after a cold greeting. “You mean a
price! ’Tis the same old one,” she said wearily, “I do not need to be
told!”
“My price,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders, “is offered out of
friendship for your father and--”
“You need not say!” she interrupted him, contemptuously. “’Tis not
for _friendship_ you do kindnesses!”
“You know my price,” he said, with calm insolence. “I have waited
long,” he added, under his breath.
“I will never pay it!” she replied with steady scorn, but so firmly
Master Knickerbocker could not but believe her.
The truth was, he wanted her to be his wife, and she, knowing what
manner of man he was, had withstood his importunities for years. She
would none of him.
She held her head high.
He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.
“As you will, Mistress! In one week more you and your father will
be beggars, and living on the charity of your friends--unless?” He
flicked his riding boot with his whip and looked at her with defiance.
There was a short silence during which the lady grew very haughty,
and then began to move away.
“Come,” the Coxcomb spoke again, in a different tone, following after
her. “You love a good race--you’re a Southerner--what say you to a
_race_--_yourself and your home_ the stake? If you win I will cancel
all these notes I hold against your father and accept your refusal to
marry me as final. If I win, ah----”
Mistress Lloyd silenced him with a movement; she was no longer the
slip of a girl True knew at Hartford. Here was a mature character
of spirit and dignity, yet not lacking in the sweetness of perfect
womanhood.
“I understand--you need not put the rest in words. I will _ride_ your
race, _on this very horse_--and you?”
“I have Silvertail with me,” he answered, and in an undertone added,
“You will not have the ghost of a chance!”
If Mistress Lloyd did not hear this, Morgan did, and switched his
tail with satisfaction, moving his ears to and fro, to miss nothing.
Silvertail! If horses could laugh aloud, Morgan would have laughed.
He recalled a race six years before against Silvertail and it seemed
almost a miracle that he should meet him again--of all the other
horses in America--in so important an event.
“I am not afraid of Silvertail,” came Mistress Lloyd’s brave reply.
The Coxcomb looked at Morgan scornfully, not remembering how he,
too, had been defeated by him years ago, at Chase’s Mill!
“Then ’tis settled,” he said, confidently.
“Nay, not settled!” cried the lady, with well-feigned gaiety. “We’ve
yet to put the matter in writing, all in due form with the Judge to
advise.” For Mistress Lloyd was no careless person, when it came to
business, nor no mean reader of men.
She placed her hand for a moment under Morgan’s jaw and felt his
pulses surge in response to her touch; then she drew herself erect,
reassured--as if the race were already won!
They left the stable making their plans.
An hour later, Judge Wing and the Colonel came into the Morgan’s
stall.
“My dear sir,” the Colonel was saying, “the folly of it! My
daughter--and to ride for such a stake! But you know the girl. She
has set her heart on it--I can do nothing. She winds me about her
finger as if I were a piece of string, since her dear mother died.
Our trouble is all my fault, what with mortgages and debts of honor,
I am well paid for my follies--and, after all, this race is better
than seeing her married to the author of all our unhappiness. Yet if
she should not win!”
“No need to worry over that, my friend,” the Judge said. “Morgan has
already beaten this Silvertail horse.”
“You don’t tell me!”
“I recall the circumstances perfectly,” continued the Judge.
“Silvertail[10] is a horse with a reputation; he was bred in St.
Lawrence County, New York, and the Morgan once won a stake of fifty
dollars in a race against him. It was in the life-time of Justin
Morgan himself, and Master Morgan, sir, offered Silvertail two
chances to redeem himself afterwards, in either walking or running,
but the offer was declined. The world doesn’t know Morgan, but I do,
and our race is already won!”
The horse arched his crest at these words of praise.
“Then all is said!” cried the Colonel, in a tone of relief. “My
daughter is the finest horse-woman in Maryland, and that is no mean
praise.”
He came to Morgan and placed his hand lightly on the horse’s broad
forehead, and seeing the Judge had turned away, spoke softly near the
pricking ear.
“Save her, Little Horse, and I will never touch another card!”
Already Morgan could feel the finish of that race and see the
flaxen-maned Silvertail toiling behind. He had little regard for a
horse with light points (but which do well enough for mere beauty);
deep in his heart his respect was for dark points, at once indicating
possibilities of strength, docility and endurance--he had _proven_
these qualities and knew!
That afternoon, the sun still high, he was led out to be exercised
and prepared for the race.
Then She came, and, mounting him, rode easily and gaily down the
stretch of road to the blacksmith shop where the course, as usual,
was marked out along the highway.
In the fashion of the day her purple habit almost swept the ground
as she sat her saddle with firm confidence; her wide hat and plume
falling to her shoulders, framed her high-bred face. Her eyes
sparkled--for the moment she almost seemed to have forgotten the
nature of the stake! Hers was the embodiment of that Southern spirit
of which Beautiful Bay had so often told True.
Her grasp of the bridle rein was as gentle as a caress, but as firm
as steel--showing, well, she would brook no foolishness from a horse.
Against the sky the Green Mountains reared their heads, the
pastureland on their sloping sides was patched here and there with
cloud-shadows, and, where the sun’s rays slanted on the Winooski it
glittered like a silver line in the valley. No wind, and a late rain,
made the condition of the road perfect.
Loitering about the smithy were a few men who roused themselves at
sight of the Morgan cantering up with a lady on his back.
Across the way, on the Inn porch, the sound of voices rose and fell
in argument over the policies of Thomas Jefferson, the “Farmer”
President; the purchase of Louisiana from the French, and such topics
of the time. The idle men to whom the voices belonged sat in a row,
their chairs tilted against the wall, but when they saw the Coxcomb
swagger forth, they brought them down to the floor, simultaneously,
and stared curiously.
Silvertail was led up and the slender New Yorker swung himself
lightly into the saddle.
The idlers rose, gazed after the retreating horseman a moment, then
strode with one accord down the Inn steps and on to the smithy, just
in time to see the Coxcomb give Mistress Lloyd a grand sweep of his
hat, as he said gallantly:
“’Tis hard to beat so fair an antagonist, but the stake is one I must
win!”
“The race is yet to be run!” the lady made reply, smiling, securely.
She released the fastenings of her plumed hat and tossed it to her
father.
“Catch, Daddy, dear! I ride with no frills and furbelows to-day! I
wish I were that light Francis Buckle. Do you recall, Father, how he
won last year at Epsom on Tyrant, the very worst horse that ever won
a Derby?”
“My daughter is almost as light as Buckle and the Morgan a better
horse. We have nothing to fear!” So spoke Colonel Lloyd, bravely,
and, patting Morgan’s long shoulder, he raised his hat with courtly
grace and bade his daughter, “God-speed!” right gaily.
And Mistress Lloyd? She laughed serenely--that same brook-like laugh
of long ago; her lip did not quiver nor her voice tremble. With such
spirit do men go into battle. She gathered the reins in her slim,
bare hands--no gloves should come between her and Morgan’s mouth that
day--and smiled at her antagonist, as if to say:
“Morgan and I do not fear you and Silvertail!”
When Silvertail recognized Morgan, which he did at once, he began
to fret and prance. Morgan, however, made no false motions; he was
saving every fibre of energy. With eager nostrils and arching crest
he waited the signal to start.
The Coxcomb sat his horse with consummate grace, but his eyes
glittered cruelly, in a way that boded ill for Silvertail. In his
hand he carried a silver-mounted whip, on his heels spurs shone.
Mistress Lloyd, on the other hand, had neither whip nor spur; she
ever depended on the tones of her voice for success with horses;
sitting like a model for an Amazon, she waited, calm, serene.
A furtive backward glance from Silvertail’s eye said plainly enough,
“For less than a carrot I’d bolt, to get out of this race!”
Once Morgan quivered as he remembered what his father had told him of
Eclipse: “Eclipse first, the rest nowhere!”
To-day it should be “Morgan first, Silvertail nowhere!” The breeze
blew lightly at his mane, his eyes glowed, his neck strained as the
signal was given.
Morgan leaped forward. They were off!
Swift, as one of a race divine who flies, rather than treads the
earth, Morgan’s deep, wide chest cleaved the air.
Pressing close came Silvertail, breathing heavily.
Mistress Lloyd had given Morgan his head, with intimate trust and
understanding. He would win--in his own way--and she knew it. She was
low in the saddle, leaning close to his extended neck, pressing her
knees against his side. In a tender, restrained voice she whispered,
almost in his ear:
“Win, my beauty! Win me my soldier at West Point! Win me my love, my
home, my father, and my freedom from the persecutions of this man!
Fly on! Fly on, you ‘Bird of the Desert’! Win, and Allah will bless
you!”
She was stretched like an Indian along the back of her running horse.
Then--there they were at the end of the course, Morgan a full length
ahead of Silvertail!
In an instant she was off and had buried her face in Morgan’s mane;
she was sobbing and laughing all at once, with her arms close about
the horse’s neck, as if she would never let him go!
Silvertail came up, a small spot of blood showing on his side where
the cruel spur had wounded him.
Master Knickerbocker drew from his pocket a packet of papers, taking
his defeat outwardly in better part than might have been expected.
“You have won, ma’am,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, for he had
much to do to control himself. “You have won, and that right fairly.
I could have wished it otherwise, nor do I _yet_ see how ’twas done!
Your horse was better than mine, I suppose; and now I shall bid you
good-bye, forever.”
Mistress Lloyd took the packet in her trembling fingers; with her
face still screened behind the Morgan, she said gently,
“Nay, but I must thank you for these----”
But she was interrupted, brusquely:
“There is naught to thank me for,” he said, with truth. “Thank that
Canadian scrub of yours. Since the race is over methinks I have
tried conclusions with him before, many years back when we were both
younger; I shall look to it that I am not deceived into competing
with him again! That horse ought to be on The Plains of Abraham; he
is wasted here!”
Mistress Lloyd extended her hand across the Morgan’s neck, and Master
Knickerbocker raised it to his lips with his usual grace; then he
swung himself into his saddle and galloped out of sight.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 134.
CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH MORGAN IS KNOWN AS THE GOSS HORSE.
Soon after his race with Silvertail, Morgan’s reputation, having
spread so far, he was bought by Colonel John Goss, who, not caring to
have the trouble of a horse himself, rode him over to St. Johnsbury,
and loaned him to David Goss.
When they arrived it was the eve of Training Day, the second of June,
and many farmers were gathered and making merry at the tavern. Having
all heard of the Morgan, a great sensation was created as Colonel
Goss rode him up to the porch of the Inn to show him off after Abel
Shorey had trimmed and rubbed him down.
He had cantered gaily up--mane and tail waving, wide nostrils
tremulous at new scents, alert ears pricking for new sounds.
Later he was ridden to his stable in David Goss’s barn. The Goss
place was a fine one, with large farmhouse, barn and outbuildings,
the whole being surrounded by tall and stately trees.
It was a beautiful home for a horse to claim, and it was to be
Morgan’s for a long time. Here his name was changed again, and he
became known as the Goss Horse, and was valued at one hundred dollars.
Under David’s saddle he travelled more than ever to near-by towns
and farms; he went to East Bethel, Williamstown, Greensboro and
Claremont. In all of these places he was made welcome and, for a
hundred years and more, men have been telling of these visits.
Sometimes David rode him to “raising parties,” where he stood one
side and watched strong young men lift the ponderous bents for the
barn or house about to be built. They used pike-poles, and shouted
loudly, lifting the bents one by one till the tenons sank into place
in the sill-mortises; then, some dare-devil afraid-of-nothing, went
up the new-hoisted bents like a squirrel and drove the pins into
place.
While men worked this way, or at the plow, women sat at home and
dipped candles or spun and wove flax and wool, and made them into
clothes.
Those were grand days in Vermont--when neighbors were neighbors, and
the world was full of hope and kindliness.
At this time Samuel Goss owned a newspaper called _The Montpelier
Watchman_, and in its columns could be found notices of the
endurance, beauty and gentleness of the Goss--but far from turning
his level head, it only made him strive harder to deserve the praise.
Modestly and cheerfully he went his way as farm-horse, saddle-horse,
carriage-horse: always endearing himself to every one associated with
him. It was his perfect training and his willingness to obey that was
ever the secret of success of Justin Morgan.[11]
By this time Montpelier was growing so prosperous, being made the
capital in 1808, that people began to think more of pleasure parties,
and bees of all sorts were held. History gives the credit to Mistress
Debbie Daphne Davis for inventing pumpkin pies, without a goodly
supply of which no company was considered complete. Even Goss had
his share of these, for every one paid him attentions when he waited
outside a house for his rider. He found the pies very palatable,
for at the kitchen windows of his women friends he had learned to
appreciate many concoctions not usually known to horses.
Sometimes a lady rode him to meeting in St. Johnsbury.[12] The
meeting house was little larger than his stall, and from where he
waited he could hear the preacher shouting forth healthy doctrine in
liberal measure with a strong flavor of brimstone. After this the
congregation would rise, noisily, as with relief, and sing a hymn
at the tops of their voices. Sometimes they sang “Mear,” which ever
reminded Morgan of the Randolph singing-teacher who had been his good
friend, and whose name he once bore.
Vermonters were real Christians in those days and regulations
regarding the keeping of the Holy Sabbath were enforced by
tithing-men who walked among the people during Meeting to see
that they behaved themselves in a seemly manner. If any one was
caught asleep or inattentive, and a Christian whack over the head
with a hymn-book did not waken him to a fitting sense of his
responsibilities, a committee of Selectmen “waited” upon him the next
day with results entirely satisfactory.
Such visits, however, were uncommon. The pioneers of Vermont were a
law-abiding people, honest, thrifty, religious and possessing all the
virtues that go to make up a strong, fine race.
That same year, 1808, Goss found himself in Burlington for a time,
and had an adventure known in the history of Vermont, although his
name has never before been recorded in connection with it.
One evening he went, under the saddle of a revenue officer, bent on a
secret mission, to the mouth of the Winooski.
Chill and darkness settled on the forest, stars came out and they
tarried at the farm of Ira Allen, at Rocky Point, until the great
yellow moon swam into sight and other officers joined them.
Leaves rustled softly as they started out through the woods, an owl
hooted solemnly, and from somewhere far off a whippoorwill called.
A short ride brought them to rugged rocks and rude cliffs overhanging
the river, in the then almost untouched forest, where Goss was left
behind a sheltering boulder.
In a few moments he distinctly saw a boat floating on the quiet
bosom of the water. The far-flung sound of men’s voices came to him
borne on the slight wind that sighed in the treetops. It was an
inexpressibly lonely spot, and Goss shuddered once with a feeling of
impending tragedy.
Having heard much talk of the Smuggler--“Black Snake”--for which the
Government had been watching so long--with rum, brandy, and wines on
board--it was not hard for him to guess why the officers were here.
As the vessel hove to, shadowy figures dropped from her side and
began unloading kegs and indistinguishable objects. For a time
deathly stillness reigned. Ever responsive to influences, Goss
breathed softly, and did not sneeze. The officers stepped as lightly
as cats, bracing themselves.
Suddenly there was the crackle of a musket from the bank, followed by
others, then the boat answered, shot for shot. The woods blazed--the
echoes woke. Bullets whistled through the trees above the horse, but
he neither flinched nor whinneyed as the scattered leaves fell about
him. After a while, quivering with subdued excitement, he strained
his neck forward with dilating nostrils--he hoped it was a battle!
And it was--in a small way.
A man, poised on the deck of the “Black Snake,” swayed and pitched
head-first into the river and sank beneath the dark water. There were
oaths and cries, then the “Black Snake” gathered sail and sped before
the rising wind down the river and out of sight, followed by a volley
of musketry.
This was but one of the many episodes of that border State, Vermont,
which gave her an atmosphere of adventure and filled her young men
with courage and her women with that quality of coolness which faces
life and its cares unflinchingly.
A little later Goss saw several men advancing, tired, silent and
grim. They were mountain men and stern, they had not much to say, but
they bore between them the lifeless body of the officer who had so
lately been the horse’s pleasant rider.
Goss shivered as they placed their burden across his back.
As they set out wearily toward Burlington between crag and tree
the dawn showed, coming over the mountain, spreading long shafts
of crimson on the placid lake. Tahawas, towering above the former
domains of the Iroquois Indians, reared his lofty head dimly in the
distance through the dispersing mists.
Slowly they went through the forest over thick pine needles which
deadened their steps, through vague shadowy dells where ferns grew
rank and cool streams trickled; on through the pathless woods until
finally they reached a farm-clearing, in the centre of which, set in
a frame of apples trees, stood a long, low house. Reverently the men
lifted the burden from the horse’s back, and, with lowered heads and
measured tread, they bore it into the house.
Goss waited patiently. He heard a robin singing in an apple tree
among the rustling leaves. He watched a hairy woodpecker run up the
side of a tree, using his bill as a pick-axe and scaling off bits of
bark sideways as he ran, disturbing a squirrel who sprang nimbly from
limb to limb. A meadow-lark dipped across the sky over level fields
of delicious beans, maize and squashes; a partridge called from the
distance and fleecy clouds floated across the now full-risen sun
casting long shadows on the lake, like the spirit of Hiawatha’s white
canoe--to the southward grim Regiohne, gloomy sentinel of rock, kept
guard. Around all the fine frame of mountains ranged.
In the golden morning sunshine Nature glowed with happiness. Then
all at once a low sound came to Goss’s pricking ears, the sound of a
woman weeping, and a shadow fell across the doorway, as of an angel’s
wing.
* * * * *
The Goss horse played his part, too, in many fine affairs. The
following year at the inauguration of the Preacher-Governor, Jonas
Galusha, he had the honor of carrying the newly-elected Chief
Magistrate in the grand parade. Crowds shouted and cheered as they
passed, drums were beaten and guns fired. Goss was almost as much
noticed as the Governor himself!
The Executive spoke in the town hall, outside which the horse waited.
Goss could hear the applause now and then, and when the speech was
finished a wag cried out:
“Now let’s sing ‘Mear’!”
Every one knew that “Mear” was the Governor’s favorite hymn, but
instead of singing, as Goss hoped they would, an outburst of laughter
greeted the suggestion, and the crowd poured noisily out into the
street once more.
Goss had a good time that day prancing to the music and showing off.
His enjoyment of such gay doings always made him popular with the
men, yet so gentle was he that women constantly borrowed him to ride
to meetings, quiltings, bees, or funerals.
At Burlington in this same year, 1809, the launching of the steamboat
“Vermont” (of which they had talked so long) took place. The
“Vermont” had been built _second_ to the “Clermont” (launched on the
Hudson, about two years before), but an unavoidable delay made her
the _fifth_ steamboat to be launched.
At great expense this passenger steamer had been built and was to run
from White Hall to St. Johns in twenty-four hours! It was almost too
much to ask the people to believe, said the newspapers! One and all
they predicted failure. Steamboats in those days occupied much the
same place in the estimation of the people as airships did a hundred
years later. Many called it a foolish waste of money, and dangerous
withal, but John Winans, who made the boat, was confident it would
mark an epoch in history.
Larger and finer than the “Clermont,” the success of the “Vermont” on
Lake Champlain does not concern our hero.
The streets were crowded with passengers from the mail coaches; the
Foote House was taxed to capacity; four-, six- and eight-horse teams,
with now and then a Canadian spike-team, blocked the thoroughfares.
Into this atmosphere of excitement and interest David and Goss
cantered early that morning, and put up at the house of Mr. Loomis.
This historic house had sheltered His Royal Highness, Edward, Duke
of Kent, who, in the year 1793, was travelling with his suite in
sleighs from Boston to Canada. It was built of logs hewn out with
a broad-axe and made a most warm and fitting place for so great a
personage to tarry in, not less comfortable did our two more humble
friends find it sixteen years later.
Nothing eventful occurred after the launching of the boat except that
Goss met a horse from Maryland, who gave him news of Mistress Lloyd,
now married to an army officer, known as the dashing Lieutenant Tom
Dulaney.
The Southern horse told him also of the lately opened Baltimore
course and of the great race there between Mr. Ogle’s Oscar and First
Consul, and how Oscar ran the second heat in the extraordinary time
of 7:40, a speed that had never been exceeded for the same distance,
and which seemed almost a miracle!
FOOTNOTES:
[11] “In the relations, duties, and pleasures of
the road--and family-horse the Morgan has never
had an equal in this country, no matter what his
blood.”--_John Wallace, Wallace’s Monthly._
[12] “I have always admired the Morgans. I believe
that no family of horses has ever been produced which
possesses in a high degree so many valuable qualities
which go to make up an ideal gentleman’s roadster, a
family, or all-purpose horse, as the family founded by
Justin Morgan.”--_S. W. Parlin, Editor, American Horse
Breeder._
CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE FLOOD OF 1811.
In 1811 Samuel Stone bought the little horse and changed his name
back to Morgan. Once more he went to live in Randolph, which had been
the scene of his early triumphs.
There had been many changes in the town, and nearly all his old
friends had moved away or outgrown their interest in tests of
strength and speed. Only one of them was left, James Kelsey, and he,
being fond of horses, often rode Morgan from place to place for Stone.
Kelsey was called the village “cut-up,” though he was no longer
a boy, but he had a kind heart and was the friend of every one.
Sometimes he rode the Morgan alongside the stage-coaches and thrilled
the passengers with stories of pioneer times; of bears, and Indians.
One day, as they were nearing Tunbridge, Kelsey told them of the
burning of that place by three hundred Indians, who swept down from
the north under the command of a British soldier, Lieutenant Horton.
This reference to the British reminded Morgan of his old enemy, the
Tory boy, whose dog had killed Black Baby. The boy must now have
reached man’s estate, and Morgan wondered if he would recognize him
if he saw him, and if Allah was planning an opportunity for him to
give his promised kick. In all these years he had never forgotten his
vow.
Kelsey was a very skillful rider, and could do wonderful things from
a horse’s back, which Morgan enjoyed, for it showed off his smooth
and easy gaits. Sometimes, after slipping off his heavy boots and
tying them to his stirrup, he would spring to his feet on the horse’s
back, and stand balancing himself while Morgan glided evenly along
under him; or, riding hard, he would stoop and pick up a stone or
stick; or, if there chanced to be a pretty flower beside the road, he
would set the horse running and lean swiftly down, pluck the flower,
and wait for the coach to catch up, that he might hand it to some
lady passenger, with a bow and sweep of his hat.
One of his anecdotes, which always brought a laugh from the
passengers--especially if they were from New York--was how the tract
of land, now known as Vermont, was granted to Dominie Dillius, of
Albany, in 1696, for the “annuall rente of one racoon skinne.”
“The New York legislature,” Kelsey always finished, “later called
this ‘rente’ _excessive_!”
During that spring there came a scourge of locusts. They ate up the
trees and all green things. Wise old women declared them a sign of
coming disaster--disaster enough they were of themselves! With their
strident cries they drowned the prayers of the Righteous who sat in
meeting praying to be delivered from them and their consequences.
One day at noon a darkness fell over everything; cocks crew; pigs
squealed; cows came home, lowing; dogs howled, dismally; and cats
mewed, distressingly.
Morgan, sensitive to all influences, shivered and moaned, softly.
One of the most fearsome calamities in the history of Vermont was,
indeed, about to descend.
Masses of clouds rose and blotted out the sun; the storm came closer;
thunder crashed; the wind howled; rain began to fall.
Day after day lightning flashed, thunder jarred the earth, and the
rain fell unceasingly. There seemed no end to it!
Creek and river beds lost all identity; mountains were obscured in
the downpour. In lowlands, beaver meadows and swampy places the water
rose, and kept rising. Mountain streams became torrents, creeks
became rivers.
It was a deluge!
Birds, drenched through their feathers, starved and fell to the
earth, chilled to death; insects were washed out of the air;
late-hatched broods of wild ducks were drowned and the eggs of
wild-fowl floated on the surface of the waters.
Weasels, stoats and such creatures as could swim reached higher
ground and for a short time saved their lives. Cattle, which had
sought slightly dryer quarters on hillocks, were drowned as they
called aloud, piteously, for help. Field-mice, rabbits and moles were
suffocated in the rain-sodden earth. Foxes climbed into bushes to
await the going down of the waters and were drowned, or starved to
death, waiting.
This was the year men praised the Lord for directing them to build
their towns on hills, for they were thus above the valley floods that
poured towards the Connecticut or the lake. But all about their homes
the pine-needles and underbrush held the water like a sponge.
On one of the very worst nights of the “flood” Samuel Stone set out
to help a neighbor rescue his cattle.
Stone apologized to Morgan for taking him out on such a night, with
thunder and lightning so terrible.
“’Tis hard to go out in such weather, Pony, but we must help our
neighbors in their troubles, else when we are in straits they will
not come to us!”
The dense blackness and silence that followed the rapid flashes of
orange lightning and roaring thunder--and his natural terror of
storms--confused Morgan’s sight and hearing.
Fortunately, however, he had never had rheumatism, nor stiffness
of any kind, and his reluctance to leave his leaky stable was
counteracted by his desire to do his duty bravely.
Trusting blindly in his master’s judgment, he cantered off.
The wind blew and whistled like evil spirits, the swaying trees bent
almost to the ground, but at last they reached the neighbor’s house
and succeeded in saving his terrified cattle, though with great
difficulty. Afterwards the neighbor besought them to pass the night,
but Stone refused, saying that, “by morning the bridges would all be
gone and they must be getting home-along before that happened!”
Hurriedly partaking of a hot supper in the leaking kitchen, near a
sputtering fire, and after giving Morgan a good, warm mash, Stone
mounted and rode away into the storm and night.
Darkness fell about them like a blanket; there was nothing for
the rider to do but leave it to his horse’s instinct and sense of
direction to take him home.
Not once did Justin Morgan hesitate.
Very soon, by the roar of water the horse knew they were near Beaver
Creek, a torrent, rising high in the mountains, and gathering
strength as it raced and tore to the valley through narrow gorges,
was now a raging cataract. In crossing this stream earlier, Morgan
had perceived that the bridge could not last much longer; he had felt
the timbers tremble under his tread.
Now, several hours later, he could hear the current, more angry than
before, whirling its mass of foam and _débris_ against the banks. As
they reached the place where the bridge ought to have been not a ray
of starlight showed Stone it was no longer there. But involuntarily,
he refrained from guiding or suggesting to the horse any course of
action. The reins lay loose even when Morgan paused at the brink of
the torrent.
Leaning forward, Stone patted the horse’s neck gently, and said in a
soothing voice:
“Steady, Boy, steady!”
Morgan responded.
He could see with his keen eyes, the white, turbid water, below the
very place where the bridge had been--one stringer alone of the
structure remained, and this was scarce above the violent current!
The rushing, churning water swirled against the banks impetuously.
Cautiously, the horse tried the wide beam with one foot. Feeling it
secure, he tried another; in the inky darkness, he pushed his feet
along gently, lest he step on an upstanding nail.
Steadily, firmly, without wavering, without--above all--interference
from his rider, he went on over the spinning foam on his narrow
foot-bridge.
At last he put his foot on solid ground and, with a slight, throaty
sound of relief, he cantered briskly off toward home.
As they neared the house he whinneyed, as was his custom, and
Mistress Stone threw open the door and stood silhouetted against the
radiance from within. The glow of firelight penetrated the darkness,
and from a guttering candle, held high above her head, a tiny beam of
welcome went out to her good man.
“Oh, Samuel,” she cried, right joyfully, “’tis a great comfort to
hear your voice again! By what road came you back?”
“By Beaver Creek Road, wife,” he made answer.
“But, look you, the bridge is gone--how crossed you the creek?”
“By the bridge, all the same--’twas not gone five minutes ago.”
“But, indeed, ’tis washed away a long time since,” his wife cried,
in amazement, “for James Kelsey came by these two hours agone and
told me he had but just crossed in time. Scarce had he landed on this
side when there was a great crashing and grinding of timbers and the
whole thing was swept away before his very eyes! He saw by a flash
of lightning--all went but one stringer which was wedged against the
rocks at either end!”
And, marvelling together, they fed the “pony” as befitted a hero,
though Morgan looked upon it as but an incident in the day’s work
and went about his delicious supper with placid forgetfulness of all
else.
CHAPTER XVIII.
UNDER CAPTAIN DULANEY.
Then one day the sun rose clear and bright, the waters sank and the
mountains showed clean-cut against the fleckless sky--but no bees
buzzed, no sweet odors filled the air, no wild flowers carpeted the
woods, no butterflies fluttered, no birds sang.
Vermont tasted that year the bitter cup of desolation.
A dire scourge of spotted fever, or “plague,” the doctors called it,
broke out, severest in Montpelier. Consternation was great among the
Sabbath-abiding folk who claimed solemnly that the affliction was due
to the worldly ways and “flunk and flummux” of the “foreigners” who
came from other states to pass the summer in the Green Mountains.
Even the women of Vermont, themselves, had taken to wearing laces,
ribbands, frills and furbelows--most unbecoming in God-fearing
females!
Stagnant water stood in pools, here and there, houses were damp,
there were no crops, and all food was mouldy and unwholesome, for
lack of sunshine.
In Montpelier men went from house to house, carrying long bathing
vessels, and such of the women as had not yet been attacked with the
“plague” bathed the stricken ones in an infusion of hemlock boughs.
Doctors bled them and dosed them with teas more or less harmful made
of ginseng, pleurisy-root and marshmallow. Fresh air, sunshine and
pure water with proper nourishment would have been better, but in
those days bleeding and herb-teas were the two panaceas for all ills.
In Williston, Dame Susannah Wells, who had reached the ripe age of
one hundred and four years and seen her descendants die year after
year of old age--without warning fell ill with the plague and died.
Had it not been for this her acquaintances had long since come to
the conclusion she would have lived forever. Children and babies
were mowed down with equal impartiality by the Reaper; men and women
succumbed; but Morgan’s hardihood saved him from any ill effects of
the long, wet season.
Events in his life, following 1811, were not of great importance and
may be passed over until Stone put him up for sale in Burlington,
at the stable of the Rev. Daniel Clark Sanders, President of the
fine College on the hill. There he stayed for a long time, as he
was growing old, they said, and no one wanted to buy him. President
Sanders was quite willing, for he had the use and care of him all
that while. Now and then Stone came to the stable with a prospective
buyer, but a trade was never consummated.
As a convenient dooryard Ira Allen had given a space of fifty acres
around the College, called The Green. It was still full of stumps and
piles of brush, but made a delightful place for the cows and horses
of the town to graze, and here Morgan had many agreeable experiences.
The merry students, passing by, gave him friendly greeting always
and a dainty of some kind from their lunches; he learned to know the
whistle of many and whinneyed to them as they ran toward him.
Often, as he stood nibbling grass he saw a strange looking youth
limp across the Green with never a nod or greeting for him or any
one else. Absorbed, stern of expression, and morose, this lad was
destined to rise to prominence, the like of which could not be
foreseen in one without influence, the son of a poor, hard working
widow. This lame boy was none other than young Thaddeus Stevens, who,
by industry and perseverance, gained his book-learning in Burlington
and later graduated at Dartmouth College.
Burlington was now a very different place from the logging camp
Morgan first remembered. The old wharf, made of a few logs fastened
together, at the foot of King’s Street, had given way to a fine new
one; houses had taken the place of camps and were scattered as far as
the Winooski.
The College on the Hill, commanding the lake, gave distinction to
the town, seeming to crown it with a cap of learning; Ira Allen’s
iron foundries, mills and forges gave work to many, and linen, woolen
and cotton mills had been built; an immense quantity of liquor was
distilled. It was a busy and prosperous town, having grown greatly in
importance since Ira Allen launched his first schooner, “Liberty,” a
long while before.
One day Stone brought to the stable an army officer. The military
hat was set well upon the handsome head of the stranger, a cloak was
flung with careless grace about his shoulder; spurs shone on his
heels and a sword clanked, musically, at his side.
Intuitively, Morgan liked this man. It was easy to see he was a fine,
brave American soldier, with a cool and level head. His uniform was
grand and inspiring to the horse, who still looked upon soldiers and
the idea of war with quivering anticipation.
“So this is the horse, eh?” the officer asked Stone, and Morgan knew
by his soft tone and speech that he came from the same state as
Mistress Lloyd--there was no mistaking a Marylander! As the stranger
caught the halter his touch was so firm and friendly the horse knew
instantly that here was his _master_. He arched his crest, pawed the
ground prettily, and thrust his large, sensitive nostrils forward.
Stone led him out into the bright sunshine; the officer examined him
thoroughly--an operation Morgan had long since grown accustomed to,
as he had changed owners so often.
A flame of friendship sprang up between the two.
“I can scarce credit his age to be twenty-two!” said the stranger.
“He has such suppleness of joint, he moves with the action of a
five-year-old!”
Stone was pleased and proud of his horse; he said:
“Those are his characteristics, Captain Dulaney!”
Dulaney? Morgan’s memory awoke, vaguely.
“And from what stock, did you say?” the officer enquired.
Stone let him know all that was said concerning Morgan’s parentage.
Then he continued:
“He has worked hard at the plow, most of his life, and he is not
known in horse-books, but we Vermonters don’t take much interest in
pedigrees. We say, ‘pretty is as pretty does’ and present merit is
what we go by, Captain--not what his _ancestors_ did!”
The Maryland gentleman laughed, seeing the point.
“Blood speaks for itself, right here,” Captain Dulaney said. “I will
wager my new sword that this horse has thoroughbred blood! So you see
your argument about pedigree does not hold!”
Morgan waved his tail slightly, in acknowledgment.
“I like the animal,” added the Captain, in his quiet, pleasant way.
“I would mount him, sir.”
In ten minutes Morgan was accoutred in the military trappings and
saddle of an officer of the United States Army. It was with a thrill
that he felt the Captain throw his fine-dressed leg across his back
and slip his cavalry-booted feet into the stirrups--all the while
holding the reins in his masterful hand. A mutual confidence was
awakened between the two that was to last always.
Morgan, feeling as young as he did ten years before, cantered
smoothly off, side-stepping just enough to give his rider something
to do.
Down the hill they went, the horse as sure-footed as a goat, feeling
that he had never carried so dashing and gallant a rider nor so
congenial a spirit, and right glad was he to respond to every gentle
pressure of the bit or motion of the rein.
At the turn of the trail they came to a stone fence. At his rider’s
suggestion Morgan paused slightly, pulled himself together, rose in
the air and cleared it. Over a rushing little stream he went in the
same confident, bird-like way, galloping easily off as he touched the
ground on the other side.
The blue sky was reflected in the lake, and the mountains in New York
pierced it, in reality, or reflection, with peaks of green and brown.
The air was still and pure and the cool scent of the pines was strong
in their nostrils. The haze of the morning had given place to a
crystal clearness and Juniper Island was like a spot of precious jade
set in a field of turquoise.
They were on the way to the Falls at a smart gallop now, and what his
rider intimated to the horse along the bridle-rein gave him courage
and love combined with perfect understanding. At a convenient spot
they stopped, and Captain Dulaney spoke aloud.
“Ah, my fine fellow!” Morgan flicked his tail in reply, and tossed
his mane slightly--with an up and down motion once or twice of his
crest as was his habit when spoken to, directly--“Ah, my fine fellow,
this air makes one breathe deeply. There’s no climate like it. No
wonder these Vermonters are giants morally and physically. No wonder
the Green Mountain Boys could take Ticonderoga! A handful of men
bred in this air are worth all the city-bred officers in the British
Army. And forsooth, they proved it! Ha! Ha! If it comes to an attack
by water from Canada on the lake, here, we have a superabundance of
trained officers and men.”
He dismounted and spread a map on the ground, weighting the corners
with pink and red fragments of stones picked up at random. Had he
known it, these were pieces of marble, later to make that locality
famous, when the quarries were discovered.
In silence he studied the map, the bridle rein hanging across his
arm. Then he folded it, sprang suddenly into the saddle and continued
his thinking aloud as they started off:
“Now if we could be sure of the Vermonters in this war, but they seem
to think fighting foolish--and in this they may be right, eh, Morgan?
New England is in a ferment, but we’ve got to stick by the President
and fight it out. Although they call it ‘Mr. Madison’s War,’ that
poor man is the most unwilling participant in it! The thing is to
find which way the cat will jump here; that’s my business. These
secret emissaries from England and Canada may be right here now,
rousing the Vermonters to join Canada. But may be the sight of a good
old Continental uniform--God bless it!--may bring them our way!”
The lake glinted blue in the sunshine, the birds twittered in the
forest, as they passed on slowly.
Suddenly Captain Dulaney addressed the horse gaily:
“Look at that view, Morgan. Shall we let a king wrest it from us? No,
I swear it! This air is like wine. Who would live in towns, say I,
with houses crowding, one upon the other, peeping over each other’s
heads to see the narrow streets that lie between? Not I, for one.
Give me trees and sky, rivers and fields, and the green country down
in Maryland, ‘Where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall.’”
Morgan started. He turned his straight, intelligent face full round
and looked at his rider. A smile, quick and magnetic, met his dark,
prominent eye. Then a light flooded his horse mind. No wonder he
loved this officer! Had he not won him for Mistress Lloyd so long
ago? He remembered all now. From the tip of his tail to his fine,
sharp ears he quivered with happiness. Maybe after a life-time of
waiting he would see her again!
Overhead the sky was cloudless, but suddenly across its face came
sweeping into view, over-shadowing the woods for a moment, a dense
flock of wild pigeons. The Captain leaned forward and patted Morgan’s
neck.
“Just pigeons, old man! Is that why you shivered? Or is there
something you want to say?”
But Morgan could not answer in words, he could only hope and serve.
He did wish, however, that Captain Dulaney would not call him “old”!
He had years of usefulness before him yet!
“I wish my sweet wife were here now to enjoy this view with us!”
Morgan replied with a toss of his head.
“But she is coming!”
Morgan whinneyed, softly, and trembled all over.
“God bless her!” went on the Captain, his blue eyes deepening to a
light, wholly tender, “She would scarce consent to my coming up here
without her. She argued with me, the witch, that Mistress Washington
had passed the winter at Valley Forge, and she did not love her
General any more than my wife loved her Captain! It was a clinching
argument, Morgan, my friend, and I had to promise that she should
come when all was ready--and there she is waiting in Boston until I
send for her.”
Morgan tossed his head, and his tail waved slightly.
“She shall ride you, little horse, for, by my sword, there never was
a more delightful, under the saddle. My mind is made up, I shall buy
you, old as you are!”
There it was again--“As old as you are.” Age! what has age to do with
it if the heart and spirit are young?
“As for these Vermonters,” the Captain continued, thinking aloud, and
riding on, “they are brave, fine men and they will stand by Ethan
Allen’s ideals; if war comes they will be with us. I’ve felt the
pulse of Vermont from North to South, and I believe in them in spite
of their reserve and non-committal attitude.”
They galloped on over rocky, new-cleared spaces, across streams and
fences, and pushed their way slowly through underbrush. When they
stopped, Dulaney pulled Morgan’s lean head round and caught his
bright, pleasant eye. The Captain winked at him with a chuckle.
“We’ll win this war yet----”
So there was to be a war! Morgan’s pupils dilated, his nostrils
spread.
“Yes, we’ll win this war, as we did the other,” and the officer
nodded his head with conviction. “I was but a lad of ten, Morgan,
when we heard of Cornwallis’ surrender, in 1781. ’Twas a crisp autumn
day and I well recall the shouting and hurrahing, the patriotic
acclamations and glowing ardor of the Americans.
“To-day we have no Washington, no Hamilton, no La Fayette. We can but
wait and see. But to me it seems a foregone conclusion. We have the
larger ships, the heavier ordnance, and we are superior in seamanship
and gunnery. Our vessels are few, but equipped thoroughly. Right
will prevail--and we are right, aren’t we, Morgan?”
Having finished his somewhat whimsical remarks, he wheeled his
horse once more, and galloped toward Rocky Point where he stopped
long--taking further observations of lake and country, turning in his
saddle and gazing with thoughtful brow in every direction, scanning
the horizon line, the lake, the streams, the roads.
Before the day was done they had skirted the rugged coast and crossed
the sand-bar to La Grande Isle. So great was the number of salmon in
those days that, as Morgan waded knee-deep in the water among them,
they splashed away from his feet, as if in play.
Squirrels ran over the ground on the island and chattered down at
them from the boughs. Clear and deep the blue lake lay, the woods
coming to the very edge where poplars trembled in the clear light and
tall, straight white-pines towered like sentinels.
From Island Point they could see Plattsburg Harbor, and here Captain
Dulaney again sat for a long time buried in thought, looking across
the wild, dark forest and lake.
At dusk they bent their faces homeward, both horse and rider absorbed
in his own meditations until they reached College Hill.
Early next morning Samuel Stone came to bid the Morgan good-bye,
telling him he had been bought by Captain Dulaney, and that he “was
a very lucky horse!” Morgan knew this far better than Stone--wasn’t
Mistress Dulaney coming, and would he not have the happiness of
cantering under her saddle once more?
But she did not come at once. During the fall and winter of 1812
and 1813, the United States troops arrived and were settled in the
College buildings, now called United States Barracks for the winter.
Captain Dulaney rode Morgan daily and taught him to be a true cavalry
horse and to obey bugle calls. So obedient did he become and so
conscientious was he, that, one day when he was attached to a “shay”
at the foot of the hill, he heard the bugle sound “Charge.” He obeyed
instantly on the impulse, snapping his hitch rein sharply. Up the
hill he “charged” at full speed, the shay rattling on behind! ’Twas
not his fault that it was not shaken into bits! From a colt it had
been his instinct to obey without question, and certainly, at last,
in the service of his country he did not hesitate!
Soldiers, off duty, lounging idly in the shade, roused themselves
with a great roar of laughter as the old horse charged toward them.
An orderly sprang forward and caught the bit. Not a strap, not a tug
was broken! Every one cheered heartily, for “Old Justin Morgan” had
come to be a character at the post and was loved by all, men as well
as officers.
Time passed and still Mistress Dulaney did not come, though every day
Morgan looked for the one great, human love of his life. He wondered
if she remembered him--if she recalled the part he had played in
freeing her from the Coxcomb, and winning her the man she loved.
In the spring of 1813, when the ice broke up, a fleet was fitted out.
Oak timbers, cut on the Winooski, were sawed at the mills, nails and
bolts were fashioned out of hot iron at the forges where even the
bellows breathed patriotism. Masts and spars were tapered and sails
made. Liberty poles were set up on eminences--the higher the pole the
stronger the patriotism. Everything indicated war.
Commodore Macdonough took command of the lake and naval stores and
ammunition arrived from the South. All seemed waiting for the call
to arms when an epidemic of lung-fever broke out among the troops
stationed at the barracks.
Captain Dulaney was stricken, and lay ill unto death at his quarters.
Morgan missed him and pined for his company.
A letter was dispatched to Mistress Dulaney, but the distance to
Boston was so great that a man might die before the stage went and
returned to Burlington. At last when the coach rattled up, with a
great noise and hurly-burly, to the officer’s quarters and stopped,
all knew that Mistress Dulaney was inside, and it chanced that Morgan
stood hitched near-by. The steps were quickly let down and right
quickly did she descend.
Morgan recognized her at once; he whinneyed a note of welcome, but
she neither saw nor heard him; she was in such stress of anxiety.
She was all his memory held her: not so young, but more sweet, more
beautiful and a light as of a halo surrounded her face as they told
her the Captain was better. Morgan saw all before she put her little
foot to the ground.
But as she hurried into the house the horse felt old, a sudden
darkness fell upon the world, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.
She had not even _seen_ him!
He hung his head and tears filled his dear, longing eyes. After all
these years of waiting and loving--and she had not even seen him!
CHAPTER XIX.
MORGAN MEETS HIS LADY AGAIN.
But Captain Dulaney did not die of the “lung fever,” as so many did.
He was made for a nobler end and had work yet to do.
The mutterings of war came ever nearer and nearer to Lake Champlain
and crowded out all other thoughts and interests.
Morgan waited two weeks for a sight of his Lady. Nobody came to tell
him the news, so he could only hope the Captain would recover and
need to go for an airing after a while.
One day the orderly, a mannerly youth whom horses liked, groomed him
so carefully that the old horse guessed the airing he had looked
forward to was about to take place.
He was scarcely able to control his impatience as he stood at the
step waiting. He was sure she would see him this time, and he
trembled with longing, and the hope that she had not forgotten him.
* * * * *
She came down the steps slowly, the Captain, a little weak still,
leaning on her arm, yet not entirely for support--a little for the
joy of laying his thin, white hand on her strong, steady one.
At last, as her husband spoke, she raised her eyes.
“This is the horse I’ve written you so much about, my Hollyhock!”
She knew him at once!
“Why, my dear! ’Tis the very horse that won you for me!” she cried,
joyfully; she might forget a person--his lady--but never a horse.
“Why did you not tell me so before? I have asked so often about him,
and ’twould have brought me to Vermont before this!”
The Captain smiled.
“I shall be jealous of my charger,” he said, tenderly.
Morgan rubbed his muzzle on Mistress Dulaney’s sleeve and in the
laces at her neck, thinking her soft Southern voice the sweetest he
had ever heard, even more sweet than when she was a maid.
“Ah, dear husband, but for this horse I should be the most unhappy
of women instead of the happiest! ’Twas he who won that race so many
years ago and gave you to me. I have ever wanted to call him my own!”
“Then you may call him so now, sweet Wife. From to-day Morgan is
yours.”
At last, at last! Oh, the years of waiting and longing. Oh, the weary
hopelessness of some of them at the plow-among men who could not
understand and did not try. At last! He arched his crest and pawed
the earth with joy.
“I shall lend him to you sometimes.” She looked at her lord, archly
lifting her sweet face to his as they stood very close together. At a
soft, sweet sound Morgan showed more spirit.
“‘He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth
forth to meet the armed men,’” Mistress Dulaney quoted, mockingly,
her hand resting on the horse’s face, her cheek against his.
Presently the Captain mounted, lighter by several pounds than was his
wont, and Morgan glided off.
“Take good care of him, Little Horse,” were her parting words.
* * * * *
Early that summer, when the feeling of victory was running high,
the American Sloop of War, “Growler,” was captured by the British
gun-boats on the Upper Lake. The Americans equipped a small fleet and
drove the enemy back into Canada.
The State Militia, stationed at Plattsburg, was ordered home in
November, by Governor Chittenden, but most of the officers remained.
The privates--from the first, unwilling to enlist--were glad enough
to return to their families who needed them sorely. They would much
rather chop and dig at home, they said, having found nothing to do in
Plattsburg but repair the barracks.
Every day Captain or Mistress Dulaney rode Morgan out for exercise,
and he enjoyed the easy, pleasant life with its military atmosphere.
His lady visited him every morning early and gave him many delicious
morsels of food, and the old horse seemed to grow younger day by day.
She talked to him of all sorts of interesting things in tones, so
wonderfully sweet, the birds in the Green Mountains would have died
of envy, could they have heard them.
Sometimes errands with Captain Dulaney were of great secrecy and
importance. One night quite late they went away toward the North and
passed the night at a barn, watching a suspicious locality. As they
were about to start homeward, the Captain searched carefully and
found a furled flag, lying on a beam. He took it down and unrolled
it, looking for secret signs, but the flag was right enough. It was
made of the finest linen, home-spun, and was fifteen feet long by
four wide. In its centre was an eagle perched on a rock, bearing in
its talons a shield with thirteen stripes and some arrows. In his
beak was a pine sprig, and over the eagle was painted “Independence
Forever.” The word “Swanton” was painted on it in another hand.
As Captain Dulaney noticed the last word he said to himself, with
relief:
“’Tis well! We’ve nothing to fear. Lieutenant Van Sicklen was right.
The people in this locality are patriots. He will return this way,
perhaps, so I shall put the flag back with my private mark.”[13]
He made a certain distinguishing mark and laid the flag back on the
sill.
A strange event occurred on their way home through the darkness.
Suddenly there was a hissing, as of red hot iron thrust into water,
a familiar sound to Morgan who had lived so long near a forge, and
then there came a violent explosion. The earth fairly shook, and the
horse felt his rider start in the saddle. He himself was so taken by
surprise that he stopped so sharply his hoofs plowed great furrows in
the ground.
Then Captain Dulaney spoke, and the sound of his steady voice quieted
him.
“’Tis but a mass of iron fallen from space, old fellow--a meteor,
they call it--a rare and interesting sight if one happens to be far
enough away! Any nearer for us might have made Mistress Dulaney a
widow without a riding horse!” He laughed reassuringly. “We will show
the British a few stars like that at shorter range, pretty soon. What
say you?”
Morgan waved his tail.
Next day folk went from everywhere to see the “fallen star,” and wise
old women--who infested every community at that time--said it was an
ill-omen, and meant victory for the British!
In the spring of 1814, the American Squadron lay in Otter Creek,
which, flowing gently toward the lake, afforded safe anchorage for
the vessels. In May as they were about to quit port, the enemy
approached off the mouth of the creek with a well-matured plan to
“bottle them up” by sinking two sloops filled with stones in the
channel. But the Americans fired and frightened them off before they
had played their clever trick.
In the middle of August the “Eagle” was launched and the murmur
arose, “the British are gathering on the frontier.”
On September third began the real excitement. Before cock-crow the
whole place was astir. Morgan, feeling the influence, was scarcely
able to eat his breakfast. But when he finally finished, and was
led out, the barracks were alive with soldiers and officers. Morgan
champed his bit--ready to be gone on any errand that was needed.
Seconds passed slowly, he was so eager to be off! In a few moments
Lieutenant Van Sicklen sprang out of a near-by door, and gathering
the reins in his hands swung himself into the saddle.
The old horse was off like a shot toward the goal, wherever it was,
his rider close to his neck, talking to him as a lady-love might,
whispering words of encouragement and affection.
They dashed down the hill at such speed that an old cow, lying
comfortably in the road, chewing her morning cud, had the experience
of acting as a hurdle. Seeing she could not possibly rise in time,
the young officer gave Morgan the signal and over her they went!
When she had recovered her stupid senses they were out of sight.
At last the hopes of the old horse were realized. He was serving
his country and very soon understood the errand on which they were
bent. He spurned the earth; stone fences stretched across his way;
streams had to be forded; now and then a steep declivity appeared,
but he was a “Bay,” and he remembered what they say of a bay in the
Desert; rough fields, retarding forests, and wide stretches of valley
did not discourage him. Hurrying on he found naught but broad, fine
happiness. He was serving his country!
White with foam he reached Hinesburg and Lieut. Van Sicklen shouted:
“The British are coming!”
Then over his shoulder:
“They have invaded Plattsburg and volunteers are wanted! On to
Burlington!”
Every mouth took up the cry.
“On to Burlington, the British are coming!”
Morgan’s nostrils showed red--but he was just beginning this
wonderful experience, for which he had waited so long. On, on, to
serve his country!
They left the people hurrying into their houses for their muskets.
Men snatched them from the high mantel-shelves and started out
leaving their plows stuck in the earth. The women did not weep--they,
too, set out, some doggedly, some eager; they begged extra guns and
went along leaving their kitchen doors open and their pots hanging
from the cranes; they had not forgotten the Indians--and that other
cry: “The British are coming!”
These were living memories to many. Even the children pleaded to go
along, for was not the American spirit born in them?
And on Morgan and his rider went.
“The British are coming!”
The cry rose and fell and echoed through the mountains and valleys of
Vermont.
At last they reached Montpelier where they were to rest the night at
the Farmer’s Inn, where Morgan used to live. But he was so tired he
could not revive memories of his youth, and lay down on the clean
straw to rest, almost at once.
He did not know how long he had been sleeping when his keen ears were
penetrated by the whisper of men outside the stable door. He sprang
to his four feet, suspiciously.
“’Tis the fleetest horse in the state,” said one voice. “Have him out
and you will signal General Prevost from the Upper Lake to-morrow
night!”
“Prevost! a Red-Coat General!” thought Morgan. “They must be spies!”
The door was opened softly a moment later, and a man crept in.
On the instant a rush of air from without swept into Morgan’s
nostrils the unforgotten odor of the Tory Boy whose dog had killed
Black Baby, the lamb. No longer a boy, he no doubt deserved the kick
in accordance with his increased age and wickedness.
Here surely was the opportunity Allah had been preparing all these
years.
Morgan had been standing with his face to the door, but, on
recognizing the intruder, he wheeled suddenly, and with a cry, almost
human, he delivered the kick of a lifetime!
Lieutenant Van Sicklen, sleeping near at hand and ever on the alert,
had been roused by Morgan’s first movement and rushed out with drawn
sword. He reached the open door just in time to receive in his arms
the limp form of the Tory spy.
The American officer was not too surprised to grasp him by the collar:
“How, now, sirrah! You would steal my horse, would you? We will soon
quiet you and your kind!” Still holding him firmly--though the man
was unconscious and unable to stand--he called, “What, ho! Within! I
have no time to deal with spies or horse thieves! Come out and punish
this fellow, if he is alive, according to your Vermont laws before
you go to fight his peers!”
Nor did he and Morgan remain to see the fate of the Tory spy. It
sufficed them to know he was to be dealt with according to his
deserts.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] In December, 1907, a furled flag, covered with
dust and dirt, and exactly answering the description
of the flag examined by Captain Dulaney, was
discovered on the sill of an old barn on what is now
known as the _Jed Mack Farm_, at Swanton Junction,
Vermont. The flag was old--even in 1814--for there
were but thirteen stripes on it, and had been made
before Vermont was admitted to the Union.
The finding of the flag nearly a century later proves
that Lieut. Van Sicklen did not return that way
and accounts for the discovery of the flag so long
afterwards.
CHAPTER XX.
THE NAVAL BATTLE.
From Montpelier other messengers were sent in all directions to warn
the farmers, and Lieut. Van Sicklen pushed on to Randolph, Morgan’s
old home. His former friends along the way would never have believed
it, had they not known his age. Full twenty-five years old, he was
yet eager, and, hard as the riding had been, not once had he faltered.
Whilst he waited in Randolph, Lieut. Van Sicklen, amidst roars of
applause, roused the people to rally round the flag, and made such a
patriotic speech from the porch of Dr. Timothy Baylies’ Tavern, that
the assembled crowd was carried away by his enthusiasm and shouted,
wildly:
“Down with the British!”
It was a fire of patriotism burning high and clear, lighting the
state from North to South.
Presently, on foot, on horseback, in wagons and in “shays,” they
swept out into the winding highways and headed toward Montpelier,
where the Government arms were stored, with a great cracking of whips
and cheering.
Eighty-five volunteers went from Randolph, with Captain Egerton
Lebbins in command. In a fine fever of enthusiasm they were as
splendid a set of men as Morgan had come across in his journey,
showing much heroism and ardor, but their clothes were odd to see,
goodness knows! One thing and another thrown on at random; but
not once did it occur to any of them to doubt the propriety of the
strange costumes.
Fortunate ones had entire buff and blue Continental uniforms,
inherited from father or grandfather or once worn by themselves--which
was a proud boast--some were stained darkly, telling the tale of
another war. Others had brass buttons hastily sewn on their everyday
coats. Still others had but one button--a sort of badge--but these
were great treasures, for did they not bear the inscription, “Long
live our President,” and did they not have his initials--G. W.--on
them?
Their arms, when they started out, were as varied as their coats.
Hunting knives, long muskets, spears made at the forge, of scraps of
iron tied to oak staffs with raw hide, Indian arrow heads stuck into
short hickory handles, and such like.
But after all, the wonder was that they could get together any sort
of suggestive garb, or cared to--New England being in such a fever of
dissatisfaction over the war.
Their mission completed, Lieut. Van Sicklen and Morgan returned to
Burlington, and the day following this, Captain Dulaney rode his
horse down to the wharf and, with many other officers, boarded the
boat for Plattsburg.
The leaky old sloop, used to convey Captain Lebbins’ “heroes” across,
was washed up on Juniper Island in a storm of rain, and great was
the anxiety concerning the brave fellows. A life boat was hurriedly
manned and sent to their rescue--instead of finding the soldiers
_perishing properly_, in true shipwreck fashion, the life-saving
party found them celebrating their patriotism with Medford rum, high
and dry on the island! “The wreck of Juniper Island” was the subject
of many a song and story for long years in Randolph.
Commodore Macdonough’s fleet was anchored off Plattsburg with
fourteen vessels and eighty-six guns. On shore could be heard from
the deck of his flagship, “Saratoga,” the Commodore giving orders,
in that cool, calm voice--so loved by Decatur and Bainbridge--the
voice that indicated at once courage, humanity and confidence. Nor
were these qualities at all disturbed by the rumor that a “host was
advancing down the lake to crush the Yankees!”
The “host” was Captain George Downie, on his flagship, “Confiance,”
with a flotilla of sixteen vessels carrying ninety-two guns.
It was now the eve of a great naval engagement--the tenth of
September, eighteen hundred and fourteen--the story of which has been
told over and over for generations.
Near Captain Dulaney’s headquarters, Morgan slept little that night;
across the lake Burlington throbbed with flaring lights, and the
town about him was wide awake. He dreamed waking dreams of his
ancestor, the Turk, ridden by Captain Byerly, in King William’s wars,
one hundred and twenty-five years before--the Byerly Turk, he was
called--who had seen the glories of Londonderry and Enniskillan.
Of another ancestor, too, he dreamed, the White Turk, ridden by
Oliver Cromwell; and now he, Morgan, was taking part in a war under
the saddle of his Lady’s soldier--for this reason an even greater
personage than Captain Byerly or Oliver Cromwell!
Long before dawn on the eleventh, his owner rode him out to watch the
maneuvers on the lake from an eminence, for it now seemed that Morgan
was not to take an active part in this battle.
Commodore Macdonough had drawn his fleet up in two lines, forty yards
apart, and as daylight came, and the morning advanced, the force
weighed anchor and moved forward in a body. The wind was fair and at
eight bells all was ready for the approaching enemy--not more than a
league away.
As the British ships came nearer the Americans swung their broadsides
to bear--an intense stillness fell whose influence extended to the
watchers on land.
The “Saratoga” was silent--waiting--every man at his post, every
nerve at the highest tension--some in fear, some in restraint, some
in suspense--but every ear astrain against the rending of that awful
silence.
And suddenly it was rent!
A cock, escaped from a coop, having mounted a gun-slide, on the
“Saratoga,” stretched his neck, flapped his wings, and crowed!
His defiance of the British was answered with a rousing cheer--the
strain was broken--the depressed revived!
It was an omen presaging Victory, the Americans said.
Commodore Macdonough, himself, fired the first gun from the flagship.
Death shrieked through the air, ugly and resistless; the ball fairly
mowed down the men as it whizzed the entire deck-length of the
“Confiance.”
The men on the Saratoga shivered as the smoke lifted and they saw the
devastation and the gallant enemy advance, without reply. Then at the
distance of a quarter of a mile Captain Downie anchored and the other
British vessels came to.
The Americans continued to pound away--still the “Confiance” did not
respond until secured. Then, with startling suddenness she seemed
to point all her guns at the “Saratoga” and become a solid sheet of
flame. The air rocked with the blazing of the cannon.
This broadside, from point-blank range, carried destruction to its
target. It came terribly, and in turn sang its death-song to the
Americans through the morning air.
When the eddying smoke cleared it seemed to Commodore Macdonough that
he saw half his crew lying on the deck, stunned, wounded or killed
by this one discharge--forty was the actual number, out of his two
hundred and twelve men. Hammocks were cut to pieces in the netting
and bodies cumbered the deck. But presently the “Saratoga” recovered
and resumed her animated fire, steady as ever.
Fifteen minutes after the enemy anchored an English vessel was
captured, and on Crab Island where there was a hospital and a battery
of one gun, the “invalids” took a second.
Sometimes the galleys of the two navies would lie within a boat’s
hook of each other and the sailors, not liking such close quarters,
would rise from the sweeps, ready to spring into the water. It was
close and hot--this little naval battle--but gradually, as the guns
were injured, the cannonading ceased.
Morgan and Captain Dulaney galloped from place to place for a better
view, the old horse prancing at the terrific sound of the firing,
never having seemed so full of spirit; constantly he raised his
head to sniff the smoke of battle-as if it were a call from his
kins-steeds. The clatter of his own hoofs beat loud in his ears; his
heart was like to burst with patriotic ardor at the flying flags, the
quick orders of the officers, the martial noises, and the sense of
peril. He was mad with excitement.
Suddenly from the men on shore burst a cheer, loud and high in
exultation; the feeling of pride ran hot in Morgan’s veins, he tasted
all the sweets of conquest, and raising his head high, added his
voice to theirs in a great cry of triumph.
And this was Victory! It was worth--that one moment--his whole long
life of hard work and painful partings!
CHAPTER XXI.
DOWN HILL.
For days after the naval battle Morgan seemed rejuvenated, ready to
begin life all over; life, with its changes of owners, its partings,
its hard work--but withal, its friendships, its moments of supreme
joy and exaltation.
It might be well to end the story of old Justin Morgan as he stood
there--so fine in his spirit and ambition--watching the fight from
the hill commanding the lake; but one or two more incidents remain
to be related which will show still greater powers of endurance and
patience in his long, hard, but nevertheless, noble life.
On the heels of the American victory came the news that the Dulaneys
had been ordered back to West Point, and would not take Morgan with
them. It was a bitter parting for the old horse and need not be dwelt
upon. All three realized fully, they should never meet again.
* * * * *
From Burlington Morgan was sold to Joel Goss and Joseph Rogers, and
taken to Claremont, New Hampshire. Here his stable was at the ferry,
on the Connecticut River, and the sight of the stream recalled his
youth.
He dreamed sweet dreams of colthood; visions of his mother, of
Caesar, of Black Baby, came to him and he was content.
But, alas, this pleasant, peaceful life ended full soon, and, in
1816 he was sold to a man by the name of Langmaid, who drove the
freight-stage from Windsor to Chelsea, a distance of nearly two
hundred miles. Thus the brave old animal, at twenty-seven years of
age, was ignominiously thrust into harness company with five other
lazy, ill-bred brutes, who dawdled along the road with slack tugs and
made the patient Morgan do most of the pulling.
For the first time in his long life the ambitious horse admitted
a feeling of discouragement into his heart; he was ill-fed, never
rubbed down, and life seemed utterly hopeless.[14]
That was the year men called “Eighteen-hundred-and-starved-to-death,”
and throughout the entire summer there was not one warm, sunshiny day.
Growing wet with their intolerably toilsome exertions over the
slippery, tumbling roads, with the wind howling and the trees bending
low about them, the horses would become chilled to the bone, with
often nothing but hemlock boughs to eat. They panted and strained
as they climbed, and the lumbering stage, with its heavy load of
freight, had to be hauled over the tops of the almost perpendicular
hills and mountains, at the crack of a long, keen whip in the hands
of a merciless driver; every moment they were in danger of crashing
over an embankment. It took steady nerve to do this, and poor, proud
Morgan, who had never before felt a whip, chafed under the treatment
and the remarks of people who had known him in his prime.
He almost fretted himself to death, he was heartsick, and a leaden
weariness of battling came over him; he was in a pitiable plight.
That year crops were all killed, famine threatened, and once more
Vermont drank the cup of desolation to its dregs. Good church people,
with their children starving, cursed their God.
On one occasion the stage passed the farm of a man driven to
desperation by the conditions--no crops--no food. He did not hear
the stage coming--the horses’ feet fell noiselessly on the soundless
road, knee-deep--the heavy wheels half hidden--in mud. There he
stood, his Bible in his hand, and in a loud voice he poured forth a
torrent of threats “to burn the Book if his crops were killed by the
threatening frost.”
Mother Nature had made her plans, and did not change them for such
impious railings.
When the stage passed, a few days later, neighbors’ tongues buzzed
with Diah Brewster’s blasphemy, for he had kept his word!
No one could suggest a punishment to fit the crime, although there
were stocks and branding for lesser misdemeanors, such as drunkenness
and lying.
Unfortunately, the stage had to go on before the driver found out
what decision the Selectmen arrived at as to proper and appropriate
penalty.
Soon after this Joseph Rogers chanced to be in Chelsea when the
stage coach drew up. Hearing his familiar voice, Morgan--wretchedly
miserable and homesick--gave a friendly and anxious whinney. Rogers
would never have recognized him otherwise, but as he looked into the
horse’s kind, gentle face he knew it was his old friend. He started
in surprise at the forlorn appearance of the once beautiful horse,
now friendless and forgotten.
That evening Morgan was bought back by Joel Goss and Joseph Rogers,
who took him again to Claremont, where he soon regained strength and
flesh. His coat took on such a gloss that after a while they began to
“spruce” him up for the Randolph Fair. And at twenty-eight years of
age!
The fair proved to be a very fine one and there were bread-stuffs,
pies and quilts of every description, linen and woolen woven by the
women, and the men exhibited their fine horses, cows and pigs.
Morgan’s stable was as popular as ever and pretty soon the judges
gave him a blue ribband, though there were many younger horses in his
class who arched their necks and attracted attention.
The chief topic of conversation at the fair was the approaching visit
of President James Monroe, who was coming to view the scene of the
great naval battle at Burlington. Morgan heard the talk outside his
stall.
“They tell me the Morgan goes up to Burlington for the President to
ride in the big parade,” said a stable boy.
“Yes,” some one replied, “Joel Goss wants to sell the horse and
thinks with the reputation of having been ridden by a President he’ll
get a better price!”
“That sounds reasonable--if Morgan was younger.”
“Younger? Why, man, this horse’ll never grow old! Wait and take a
look at him.”
The “old” horse was led out, bold and ambitious, his eyes bright,
his ears pointing, his spirit fresh as ever! He stepped smartly
about, supple and sound as a horse of ten, at the most. It is the
spirit that makes the horse and there was a springiness of youth
in his gait. Well had he known--this wise animal--that every trait
and characteristic he developed in himself would be his gift to
posterity! His feeling of responsibility to future generations was
great.[15]
A week later the Morgan was led to the Tavern entrance in Burlington.
He stepped nobly, and understood all the paces and evolutions of a
showy parade-horse.
At the door of the Tavern appeared a man, noticeable for that
dignified and courtly bearing that marked the Colonial gentleman.
He was attired in a costume of the latest cut--somewhat new to the
Vermonters.
He raised his hat and bowed to the right and left as cheer after
cheer rose from the people who recognized their President.
Accompanied by General Joseph G. Swift, he started down the steps.
Suddenly over the face of President James Monroe there passed a look
of keen interest, followed by one of intense admiration.
He had caught sight of Morgan, and his eye, unerring in its judgment
of horseflesh, was arrested at once by his vigorous and fearless
style. He turned to a group of officials.
“I see, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone of genuine appreciation, “that
Vermont can produce a horse worthy of her heroes!”
A moment later and he had thrown his leg over the back of the
proudest horse in America!
THE END.
Morgan passed the remainder of his life in the kind care of Mr. Bean,
of Chelsea. He died from the effects of a kick from another horse, in
1821, at the advanced age of thirty-two years.
[Illustration:
Painted from life by Ford Attwood, N. Y.
ENTERPRISE]
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Editor American Horse Breeder:--I am an old
man, eighty-three, this month, and seeing an article
in your last in praise of the Morgan Horse, I want
to add a word of gratitude for their noble service
done me as a stage-proprietor on the Fourth New
Hampshire Town-pike; as livery man and farmer…. For
endurance, intelligence and as trappy drivers, the
Morgans have no equals. To handle six or eight horses
on a stage-coach over hills--without accident--looks
to me wonderful now, for brakes were not known in
those days. I sometimes think it could not have
been done without the Morgan horses, for their
superior intelligence was often displayed in cases
of danger--like running on icy, sidling roads, where
every tug was needed, and the horses on the run, to
prevent the coach from falling off the bank! I have
often done this and seen others do it, and accidents
were few. These horses seemed to know what was wanted
and understood the danger as well as the driver.
It was sometimes no easy matter to carry the mails
through blinding sleet and heavy drifts, but I never
had a Morgan horse look back to refuse me. They always
faced the blast. If a double trip had to be made
the _Morgans_ always did it and the long-jointed,
over-reaching, interfering span of some other breed
was kept in the barn.
Yours,
J. C. CREMER, Hanover, N. H.
_American Horse Breeder_, 1892.
[15] “I see horses every day with, perhaps, a
thirty-second part of the blood of Old Justin Morgan,
but there it is, still predominating; there is the
_Morgan_ still to be seen plainly. Every close
observer, every discerning judge of horses always
admits this tendency of his blood.”--_From an article
by James D. Ladd, Wallace’s Monthly, July, 1882._
POSTWORD.
The stable of the late George Houstoun Waring, of Savannah, at
Annandale Stock Farm, where the first Georgia Morgans were raised,
consisted of four Morgans brought from Vermont and New Hampshire.
They were, ENTERPRISE, No. 423, chestnut with flaxen mane and tail;
PARAGON BLACK HAWK, the handsomest horse I ever saw, black with
white star, very showy in tandem; CLIVE, beyond compare in Morgan
perfection, for whom, at four years of age Mr. Waring refused $4,000;
BAY COMET, perfect in form and disposition, dark with black points.
There were fifty mares, nearly all Morgans. The finest of these was
ROSALIE MORGAN, from Vermont. She was exhibited many years at the
Georgia State Fairs, and at each would take the prizes for the best
brood mare, best mare with colt at her side, and best trotting mare.
When she appeared in these three classes no other mare stood any
chance. Finally she was ruled out. She had nineteen colts, two of
which I know sold for $600 each. Rosalie died at thirty-two years of
age.
I bought from Mr. Waring a Bay Comet colt, daughter of AMANDA MORGAN,
and named her JEANNIE DEAN. Jeannie was like a member of my family
for thirty-one years. She was the perfect type in character and form.
FRANK, a grandson of ENTERPRISE, one of the later and best known
Morgans was owned and trotted by William Henry Stiles, in 2:18¼; he
inherited all the fine traits of “OLD JUSTIN MORGAN.”
ANNANDALE had a half-mile track, and every equipment for the care and
comfort of this transplanted race.
The farm was situated in Habersham Co., in a luxuriant rolling valley
of the beautiful mountainous section of Northeast Georgia; a section
almost exclusively occupied by the summer estates of the wealthy rice
and cotton planters of the Low Country.
J. W. BRYAN.
DILLON, GEORGIA, September, 1911.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as reversed order,
missing or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were not changed.
Five misspelled words were corrected:
“confusel” to “confused”
“again” to “against”
“afterenoon” to “afternoon”
“corroberated” to “corroborated”
“laugher” to “laughter”
The following were changed:
“them” to “him” … as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.
“be” to “he” … Scarcely had he begun …
Added word “to” … push the cover to one side …
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