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.