Mistress Fisk quickly set a place for the unexpected guest and nudged her boys to move closer together on their bench to make room for the schoolmaster.
“Have a thigh or a nice breast of gander,” Mister Fisk urged heartily. “Time enough then to unburden your mind.”
Smiling his thanks, the schoolmaster helped himself. He tried to pick at his food, but he was too excited to eat. Suddenly he could pretend no longer. He got up, reached inside his coattail, and presented the letter to Ezra Fisk. Then he sat down again, while every eye around the table focused on the letter. Master Morgan bent his head over his plate, his mind busy with questions. Would Mister Fisk be willing to race Little Bub? Would he let the horse and Evans, too, stop work for nearly a whole day? Could he spare them?
The face of the tall man was a mask as he read, now pursing his lips thoughtfully, now thinning them into a line. He read the letter once, and then to everyone’s dismay began all over again. When he had finished his second reading, he folded and refolded the single sheet of paper, ran his finger over the gold seal, sniffed of the mingled odors, and returned the letter to Master Morgan.
At last his voice rolled out strong. “All right! All right, Morgan! They’ve asked for a whopping and we’re going to give it to ’em!”
“Who, Pa? Who wants a whopping?” cried the older boy.
“Hush, son,” said his mother.
Ezra Fisk picked up the bare drumstick from his plate and brandished it like a club. “Egad!” he trumpeted. “We’ll give these New York gentry a royal run for their money. By all means, man, let us accept the challenge! I shall be more than glad to spare Evans and the horse—for a full half day,” he added.
He signaled now to the schoolmaster to try to eat, and he himself nibbled the gristle at the joint of a drumstick to show how good it was. Then, “Morgan!” he boasted, thumping himself on the chest. “When I rented your little cob, it appears I knew a thing or two about horseflesh. Eh?”
11. High-Duck Dandies
NEWS OF THE coming race traveled like forked lightning. The Gazette in Brookfield and the Journal in Randolph planned to run a full account of the event. Already they were setting type on the now-famous letter, and saving space for the story.
Meanwhile, everyone wanted to help the little Morgan get ready for the big day. It was Joel who asked the important question. “How do they start the horses in big races?” he inquired of Nathan Nye. “Do they just drop a hat, the way you do?”
Mister Nye hemmed and hawed. He was unwilling to admit he had never been to a match where Thoroughbreds ran. Secretly he went around to Mister Fisk’s house and there learned that sometimes a race was started by blast of trumpet or tap of drum, and sometimes a gong rang; but most often a pistol was raised, aimed, and fired—and the horses took off.
Accordingly, Mister Nye acquired a trumpet, a drum, a gong, and a pistol. Then in practice matches he let Joel act as jockey, and he used a different signal each time so that Little Bub would be familiar with them all.
Another thing Nathan Nye did. Instead of the usual quarter-mile race, he made Little Bub turn and run both ways of the track in order to build up to half-mile stamina.
A week before the big race, one of the farmers suggested clipping the Morgan’s coat and trimming his fetlocks and chin whiskers, and even the hairs in his ears, to make him look stylish. But Master Morgan shook his head. “Often the nights be cold,” he said. “Were the creature to take chills and ague, his wind would suffer.”
And so Little Bub kept his shaggy coat, and he continued to work hard every day until the very hour when Evans rode him to Brookfield.
• • •
That day of the race, October 15, 1796, dawned fine and clear. Within a dozen miles of Brookfield everyone—goldsmiths, blacksmiths, barber-surgeons, wigmakers, clock-makers, hatters—made all sorts of excuses to close shop. Master Morgan dismissed school at noon. And Miller Chase, in a burst of generosity, let Joel take the afternoon off.
The boy had never been so excited. The sky was deep and blue, and the clouds had wings to them. He himself felt like some winged creature, having just escaped a dark old cocoon. He raced to the Jenkses’ house, carrying a shabby satchel with holes in the corners where mice had been at work. While Mister Jenks was yoking Nip and Tuck, Joel did a little recon-noitering. Then, with laughter inside him, he climbed into the oxcart and settled himself between Mister Jenks and the schoolmaster.
“Seems good to be skylarking again, eh, Joel?” Master Morgan said as the wagon wheels whined and the oxen slow-footed ahead. “But why in the world did you bring a satchel? We’ll be back before midnight, you know.”
Joel grinned sheepishly. He turned around, pushing the bag toward the rear of the cart. “It’s a surprise,” he said, a mischief look in his eye.
The trip to Brookfield was uneventful. Up over one ridge and down again, with hills tumbling away to distance, and streams winding close.
“Barrin’ a broken axle,” Mister Jenks remarked, “we ought to be there a spell afore the others.”
But when they entered the public room of the Green Dragon Inn, already there was a great bustle and stir. Tobacco smoke lay heavy on the air. It made Joel’s eyes smart, and it set the schoolmaster to coughing.
Opposite the door and underneath the clock a little ticket counter had been set up. Men with silver dollars jingling in their hands were clustered about it, making their wagers. Joel sidled up to the line, and as he listened, the fun inside him was shot through by little arrows of fear. Nearly everyone who came in after looking at Silvertail and Sweepstakes bet against Little Bub.
Flushing in anger, Joel ran out to the stables behind the inn. Past sheds and troughs and wagons and horses he ran, his voice full of torment, crying: “They can’t hold a candle to Bub. They can’t! They can’t!”
There were stalls for some forty horses in the stable, but only two were hidden by throngs of people. Joel joined the nearest line and made his way forward, borne by the surge of the crowd, until he stood eye to eye with a gray mare. Her forelock and mane were braided with gold and purple ribbons, and over her back she wore a gold and purple body cloth. What little he could see of her neck and legs was a sheen that told of endless currying.
Grudgingly he thought, “You’re something to look at.” But aloud he said, “Beauty is as beauty does.”
“Hey, men!” a gruff voice mocked. “Listen here to the little preacher-boy. ‘Beauty is as beauty does’!”
A roar of laughter went up on all sides. And all at once the day that had seemed so full of fun and frolic clouded over with doubt. Joel turned his back on the mare. He did not want to see her delicate head again. Nor did he care to look at the other Thoroughbred at all. He wanted only to get away from the crowd, to get back to the schoolmaster. But now the tide of men was turning, sweeping and jostling him along. He was caught in the jam like a piece of drift. There was no choice but to inch ahead with the pulsing current of men.
At last the crowd began to fan out against a stone fence enclosing a pasture. And there to Joel’s sudden joy he spied Little Bub calmly scratching his shoulder against a shellbark hickory tree. How hard and tough and courageous he looked! And how frisky and dear! In a flash Joel had leaped the fence.
Now he was hovering over the dusty creature, trying to comb the tangled forelock and mane with his fingers. He was like some fond parent wanting his young one to make as good a showing as any.
Robert Evans turned around from the nearby watering trough where he was scooping water to cool his brow. His face dripping, he strode over to Joel and picked him up by the seat of his pants. “You . . . you tomnoddy!” he bellowed, dropping the boy on the other side of the fence. “Leave the horse be. Scratchin’ and grazin’ will do him a heap more good than all your billin’ and cooin’.”
Red with shame, Joel picked himself up and ran to the inn. He was just in time to hear Mister Jenks call out: “Hey, Morgan! Yon cuckoo crows the hour of five. Where’s that-t
here New York Foppington and his fancy partner?”
All necks craned to look at the clock on the wall. Each time the little bird popped out of its door and uttered its merry call, the crowd grew quieter and quieter until there was nothing to be heard but an echo dying.
Then, suddenly, every nose in the room twitched. An oversweet smell of pomade and lavender water penetrated the tobacco smoke. Again, with a single motion, all heads turned toward the stairway from which the scent came. There, mincing down the steps as lightly as ballet dancers, came the be-wigged gentlemen—Jonathan Foppington and his partner, the Honorable James Montague, Esquire. They wore flowered vests, and coats with long skirts that swayed with every movement. And their pumps were adorned with great silver buckles such as few of the Vermonters had ever seen.
When they reached the landing, both men stopped. Like actors in a play, each took a jeweled snuffbox from his waistcoat. Then, giving the lid a light tap, each opened his box, dipped into the snuff with a thumb and a forefinger, and carried a dainty pinch to his nostrils. “Ah-aah,” they gasped, trying to encourage a sneeze. But no sound came. Only a sigh like that made by bellows.
For a stunned moment the onlookers were as still as figures in a painting. Then clay pipes began puffing violently to rout the perfume smell, and everyone began murmuring at once.
Joel caught only scraps of talk. But the remark he liked the best was Seth Toothaker’s. “High-duck dandies I calls ’em—them and their horses, too!”
Nor did the New Yorkers try to hide their feelings. They looked down their noses at the Vermonters in rough homespun. And later, when they went out to the pasture and saw Evans saddling up, they laughed until they had to mop their tears with lace-edged handkerchiefs.
“Hmph!” they snorted. “Is this the runty little thing we’ve been hearing about? ’Tis an insult to match our blooded horses against him.” Then in a stage whisper meant for everyone’s ears, Jonathan Foppington said, “Tis a well-known fact that horses with short necks can’t run.”
This was too much for Abel Hooper. He shook a long, horny finger at the New Yorkers and bawled out, “It may s’prise you gentlemen to know that this-here horse ain’t a-goin’ to run with his neck! I and my mare, Nanny Luddy, can testify to that!”
The crowd burst into a fit of laughter. It was Vermont against New York now, and the men were all for Bub in spite of their wagers.
12. Out of the Satchel
BEAVER POND was as oval as an egg, and the margin of track around it was covered with fine turf. When the owners of the entries and their followers arrived at the track, they found it completely hemmed in by a great throng. A few seats were arranged, secure from danger, for the ladies. And at the starting line, which was also the finish, a small stage had been erected for the judges and the dandies from New York, and other prominent gentry. These included the famous Lightning Rod, Jr., grandson of Benjamin Franklin; and Samuel Adams, publisher of a journal in Boston; as well as a legislator, a councilor, and several other dignitaries.
After a whispered conference among the judges, Schoolmaster Morgan was also invited to sit on the stage.
Never had the Beaver Pond track known such excitement! The ladies were betting their gloves and copper half-cents, while the men wagered quarters and dollars, five to one against Little Bub.
Stealthily now Joel edged around behind the judges’ stand. It wouldn’t do to let the schoolmaster see him. His heart beating light and quick in his throat, he hurried to the oxcart, caught up the satchel, tucked it under one arm, and came running back to the starting line.
On either side of the stand there was a solid press of people. Joel had to get down on his knees and crawl between legs to reach the track. Two horses were approaching the starting post. At sight of them the men began to laugh and murmur. From his crouched position Joel looked out between a pair of dusty boots and saw why. It was a strange match indeed! One tall, satiny mare bearing a jockey in purple silks against a rough-coated work horse with a burly farmer on his back.
Joel’s eyes flashed in indignation. Where was the other blooded horse? Did Little Bub have to race them one at a time? Did he have to run two races? “’Tain’t fair!” he shouted, but his voice was lost in the din.
Now the starter came forward with a drum, and Joel smiled in spite of himself. Bub was not afraid of drums! For a full moment the starter, drumsticks upraised, looked to the judge, waiting. At last the judge nodded for the tap. And at that self-same instant, Joel tore open his satchel, jerked out a little hound-dog, and did something he had never done before. He pinched the dog’s tail as hard as he could and tossed him onto the course just as the tap of the drum sounded.
Like a streak of light the creature flew down the track, his yelpings lost in the cry: “They’re off!”
Together the two horses sprang forward, but Morgan’s horse shot ahead with a squeal. He was not in a race; he was hot in pursuit of his howling, noisy enemy, the Jenkses’ hound! With every stride he drew his hind legs under him until they leaped ahead of his forelegs. He ran like whipcord, determined to get within striking distance, to rout the pesky nuisance.
Silvertail galloped hard to keep up, but the little horse had taken the lead from the start and there was never a duel between them. Even on the turns the Morgan held his lead. Now they were coming down the stretch with Silvertail fading. Horse sense must have told her she had no chance. The Morgan was increasing his lead . . . by two lengths . . . by three lengths . . . by five. Now he and the yellow dog were crossing the finish line together! It was all Evans could do to pull him up. Three times he had to call “Whoa!”
Doubled over in joy, Joel thought he would never stop laughing. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he shouted breathlessly, “Bub wins! He wins!”
The roar of the crowd sounded like thunder in the mountain. The men who lost their bets clapped and cheered just as loud as those who won. “Did you notice?” they whooped. “He just riz up and was off like a spring freshet!”
From the corner of his eye Joel saw Master Morgan starting toward him, and his laughter stopped short.
“Son!” the schoolmaster said as he drew close.
“Yes?”
“Was that the Jenkses’ little yellow dog?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If that was your surprise, I do not think much of it. Round him up at once and put him back in your bag.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joel moved off, almost bumping into Jonathan Foppington and Mister Montague. They brushed him roughly aside and grabbed the schoolmaster’s arm.
“That yellow hound!” they raged, forgetting their fine manners. “Of all the mean, low-down, disgraceful, despicable, dastardly, scheming tricks!”
Master Morgan spoke soothingly. “I am sorry, gentlemen.”
“Hark to the man!” James Montague turned to the crowd and mimicked the schoolmaster. “‘I am sorry,’ the man says!”
“Aye. That I am, truthfully. And see? The boy Joel has caught the bewildered pup and is putting him away in the satchel. He will not interfere in the next race, I promise it.”
Mister Montague snorted loudly into his handkerchief. “Come, Foppington, let us not consort with a trickster. Sweepstakes is a faster horse than Silvertail. The next race will be quite different.”
The next race was different—even the start was different. The owners afoot—Jonathan Foppington and Justin Morgan—had the honor of leading their horses, mounted by their riders, out onto the track. Side by side they marched twenty paces behind the starting line. Then, as a pistol barked, they let go their hold and the two jockeys swung the horses around, applied their heels, and the race was on!
Sweepstakes, a shiny, long-legged black, and the Morgan got away to a fast start. For a dozen rods they ran neck and neck, the Morgan taking almost two strides to the black’s one.
On the sidelines Joel bounced up and down, clucking to Bub, calling to him, coaxing him. “Come on, Bub! Do it double quick. Go it! Go it!??
?
And then at the first turn, just when the little horse was nosing for the lead, he threw a front shoe. Like some pin-wheel it went arcing into the air, barely missing the white-wigged dandies. A big man ran back to capture it for a souvenir, while all the Vermonters groaned and suffered as if their own shoes had suddenly been wrenched off.
Joel’s stomach churned. He started to shield his eyes, not wanting to look at Little Bub limping out the race, not wanting to see him stumble and fall behind.
But Little Bub was not limping! Joel could hardly believe what he saw. The Morgan had lost stride, had lost ground, but right there at the turn he seemed to know that he must take the lead again, now or never! It was as if the world were too small for them both and he knew it. Without help from Evans, he caught his stride and turned handily, making the Thoroughbred look clumsy as a camel. Bub’s whole way of going said: “Hoofs were made before shoes. Weren’t they!”
He began gaining on the big black as with one foot bare he flung himself forward like some wild thing, his short legs pumping so fast they blurred. Ears laced back, he inched up on Sweepstakes. Faster, faster, faster. The goal just ahead now.
“Come on, Bub!” Joel yelled.
And in the stand the schoolmaster was clapping Lightning Rod, Jr., on the back, crying, “Look at Bub! He’s a blue streak of wind!”
A roar went up from the crowd as the little horse crossed the finish line, the winner by half a length.
Sweepstakes, winded and lathered, was led back to the stables. He looked like a defeated horse. The Morgan, however, acted almost joyful. He arched his stocky neck, swiveled his ears, and calmly gazed at the waving, yelling throng. He seemed to know the cheers were for him, and unashamedly he enjoyed them.
“Grit!” shouted Nathan Nye. “That’s what he’s got. Why, he run two races to their one. Them high-duck horses was all pampered like hothouse flowers. They didn’t have a chance.”