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.
Painted from life by Ford Attwood, N. Y.
ENTERPRISE