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!