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!