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!