It was a curious fact, but the gentlemen from New York did not try to buy Little Bub. “He’s a freak,” they smiled thinly. “Bound to break down any day.” They paid the schoolmaster the fifty-dollar purse, and as quickly as they could, disappeared into the inn. It was plain to see they wished only to get away from the gay and happy crowd, especially from that gleeful young apprentice boy.
• • •
On their way home in the starlight, Joel and the schoolmaster and Mister Jenks were too tired for much talk. They jounced along, each tasting his own memories. The little hound-dog snored contentedly in Joel’s lap, the worries of the day forgotten.
When almost home, the schoolmaster reached out and tucked ten silver dollars into the boy’s hand. “Five are for you, lad, and five for Evans. You’ll be seeing him before I do.”
Joel felt of the big coins in wonder, tracing his finger over the woman’s head with her hair flying—like Little Bub’s mane. He had seen plenty of silver dollars at the inn, but these were the first he had held for his own.
“Do you know?” he said with a little sigh of happiness. “I reckon now I can buy Little Bub when my term is done and I’m free. Miller Chase has promised to give me a new suit of clothes then, but I aim to ask for the money instead. And with these dollars besides, why, I’ll be able to buy Bub as easy as anything!”
“He’ll be old then, lad, and you’ll be man-grown.”
Joel only half heard. It never occurred to him that Little Bub would some day be an old horse. The years ahead seemed like nothing. Nothing at all. In just a short time he would own the fastest horse in Vermont! A shiver of joy passed through him. “Master Morgan,” he said with a fierce gladness, “things be working out just fine!” And he patted the little hound-dog because he felt good toward the whole wide world.
“Things are working out fine for me, too, Joel! I can pay off my debts now, and it seems I can almost hear our new harpsichord sounding out in the schoolhouse.”
They rode on in silence, the schoolmaster and the boy each remembering that early morning when Little Bub turned out of Farmer Beane’s gate and came along, uninvited.
13. Bub Travels the Singing Circuit
BY AUTUMN Little Bub’s term of rental was up, and scarcely had Robert Evans returned him to Master Morgan when horse traders came knocking at the schoolhouse door. They were greedy for the little horse, and one afternoon the talk drifting out the windows sounded as if an auction were going on.
The schoolmaster could not help smiling, but he shook his head to everyone. Now he had need for a horse. Instead of teaching in Randolph only, he was to be a traveling singing master for all the schools in mid-Vermont.
Even to Horse-Trader Hawkes, who made the best offer of all, he said No. “I do not need the money now,” he explained. “We have a nice harpsichord in the school, and my debts are all paid up, except to a lad named Joel Goss. If I use the horse gently, he may live long enough to pay that debt too. Meanwhile, Bub can carry me around on my singing circuit.”
Thus began for Little Bub a whole new life—a life of joyful ease. Justin Morgan weighed only half as much as Robert Evans, and as he rode from school to school, he allowed Bub to set his own pace—walk or trot or canter, as it pleased him. By and by he trusted Bub so completely that he would drop the reins, write a few bars of music and lustily sing the tune as he jogged along.
Then while Master Morgan gave his singing lessons, Bub was not even tied to a hitching post. The schoolyard was his! He could kick his heels or roll in the grass with all the freedom of a colt. Sometimes white dandelion blowballs or milkweed fluff got into his nostrils, tickling the hairs until he snorted and sneezed them away. But when the wind was still, he lay still, too, just dozing in the warm sunshine and listening to the children sing their do-re-mi’s.
The moment that he heard the scuffling of feet in the cloakroom, he was up in a flash, waiting at the schoolhouse door. As the children came tumbling out, he was there to greet them, pawing the air with a forefoot as if to say, “I’m here! I’m here! You knew I’d be here!”
He seemed to have a special liking for tow-headed boys, nosing them over as if they pulled some trigger in his mind. But boys and girls both clamored to pet him and to feed him apples and horehound candy.
Little Bub thrived on his new way of life. His days were all the same, and all were good. There were grass and hay aplenty, and cooling streams in which to splash, and sun-dappled roads to travel, and music the livelong day. It was a good life, this life on the singing circuit.
But just when Bub had learned the way to all the towns and knew all the children, his easy days came to a sudden end. One morning at Woodstock, Vermont, Master Morgan felt too ill to teach. He barely reached the home of his friend, Sheriff Rice, when he had to be helped out of the saddle and carried into the house.
Even though the schoolmaster was well up in years, the Rices cared for him and his horse as if they were both children in need. They saw to the master’s peace of mind, too. They sent word to all of his schools, and to the boy at Chase’s Inn.
It was a traveling peddler, carrying clocks and firearms, that brought the news to Joel. “Mister Rice says to tell ye the schoolmaster has the lung fever, but he’ll be writing ye a letter almost any day.” And he laid a kind hand on the blond head when he saw the boy struggling with an inner tumult of tears.
From that time forward Joel always ran out to meet the mail coach as it swung into the yard every fortnight. But in the small bundle of letters that the driver held out, there was never one for him. He waited months to hear, and then, all of a sudden, the letter appeared in Mistress Chase’s hands. She was holding it against the candlelight early one morning when he came down to kindle the fire.
“Never knew a letter to bring good news,” she snapped, “and bad news means sloven work—or none at all. Time enough to read this when your chores be done.”
Then she tossed the letter onto the bar counter, and sat down at her spinning wheel, eyeing the boy like a cat waiting for a mouse to make a false move.
A wordless fear hung over Joel as he did his work. He scoured the pewter, seeing in the shine of it the schoolmaster’s tired face and Little Bub’s frisky one. And he pounded a patch over the worn spot in the porridge kettle, hearing hoofbeats in the sound of the hammer. Then he worked on dully-scrubbing the floor, sanding it, chopping firewood, bringing in water—trying not to think as he worked.
Now at last he was done. Now, as on other days, he should be at the sawmill. He took a step toward the counter. “Now, ma’am?” he asked.
Mistress Chase looked up from her spinning. “Whittle me a new butter paddle first. Then ye can read that letter, and if’n ye got any cryin’ to do, ye can do it at the sawmill.”
Obediently Joel set to work, but his mind could not be controlled. He tried to shut out all the terrors and troubles that the letter might hold—the schoolmaster worse, Little Bub fallen sick . . .
“Oh, drat it!” Mistress Chase broke into his thoughts. “Likely the paddle’d be no-account anyway. Fergit it, boy. I don’t know what makes me so cantankerous. Go read yer letter and tell me what’s in it.”
Joel’s hands swooped for the letter. Then two at a time he climbed the ladder steps, and in the quiet of the little garret room he opened it up and pored over each word.
Woodstock, Vermont
23 April 1798
Joel, lad:
The Rice family here in Woodstock have been nursing me these many months. Now once again I am in debt—to the doctor for visits and bloodlettings, and to the chemist shop for pills and physics and blisters.
I could, of course, sell Little Bub and have enough and more to pay up all I owe, for he is a valuable stallion now, and his colts much sought after. But he has become dear to my heart, too. Moreover, you will be happier, I know, if I leave him to the Rices, who have been so kindly to him, and to me. They, in return, will pay my bills. Mister Rice is Sheriff of Woodstock and can use a horse
to good purpose in apprehending thieves and miscreants.
Our Bub is in fine fettle, lad—sound of barrel, glossy of coat, and flashy of eye.
When you are freed of your apprenticeship, you will then find a way to take care of him. I pray that day may come soon, for as Farmer Beane would say, you and Bub fit together snug as two teaspoons. Even Mister Rice has told me full many a time as he fed me a gruel or a pudding that whosoever gentled the creature had done a most able job.
When some traveler from here is headed Randolph way, Mister Rice will ask him to take to you my song-books and whatever of my clothes are still wearable.
Do not feel sorrow for me, lad. I welcome rest and peace. If my final pilgrimage be as pleasant as our junket with the colts, I shall be happy.
Good-night, dear Joel, and God bless you.
I am,
Your friend,
Justin Morgan
Joel tried to read the letter again, but the words began to weave and blur into each other, and then he couldn’t see them at all.
His feet found the ladder and took him down, and for want of his mother he sobbed unashamedly on Mistress Chase’s bosom.
14. The Auction Block
NO ONE knew quite how it happened, but after Justin Morgan died, his full name was given to the little horse. When Joel heard about it, he was glad. “The schoolmaster’d be proud to fasten his name on Bub!” he said.
The slow seasons wore on. Summer and the high sun making shimmers of heat along the fields. Winter with indigo shadows riding across the snow. Spring moving in, with pale blossoms and wild bees humming. Then summer again. Around and around went the seasons, while the schoolmaster’s horse served the Sheriff of Woodstock. Then one day Robert Evans went to the Sheriff, wanting to buy the little stallion. To Evans’ astonishment, Mister Rice nodded.
“My days as sheriff will be done, come July,” he said, “and a horse be a luxury I can no longer afford. Besides, the critter actually grows stronger as I grow weaker—fer a fact, man! My bones is getting too old and creaky to go galloping over the countryside on a spunky stallion like him.”
• • •
Robert Evans had land of his own now, and Justin Morgan was soon back in harness, working the sun up and working it down. What amazed Joel, and everyone else, was that instead of growing thin and poor with work, he grew stout and sturdy. He seemed to work for the fun of it, as if he enjoyed the very sounds and smells of work—tug chains going jingle-jangle, sledge runners squeaking over frozen snow, and the misty-moisty fragrance of freshly turned earth.
He took each morning as it came. And at twilight, when he should have been bedded down for the night, he was used by one or the other of Mister Evans’ family. Often Mistress Evans with a tiny baby on her lap drove him to a quilting party. Then he stepped along ever so carefully. He seemed to know she was a timorous soul.
But if Amantha, the eldest daughter and a natural-born horsewoman, rode him to town, he galloped fast and bold, like some high-mettled Thoroughbred.
Neighbors, admiring these qualities in Justin Morgan, now brought their mares to him to be bred. The colts he fathered sometimes took on the color of the dam, but there all likeness to her stopped. The bold eye, the closely-coupled body, the easy gaits, the honest disposition were all Justin Morgan’s.
In spite of the horse’s help, Robert Evans failed to make his farm pay. And one day Justin Morgan was up for sale in front of the Sheriff’s office in Randolph.
Joel was helping a journeyman saddle his horse behind the inn when he heard the news.
“Fer land’s sake, boy, is the horse anything to ye?” the man asked as he saw Joel turn pale.
“Aye, sir. ’Twas me who gentled him. And ’tis me who wants to buy him.”
“You don’t say! Well, come along, lad. We can ride double, and I’ll drop ye off at the auction block.”
Joel ran quickly into the inn and came out clutching his five silver dollars. This was the first time he had ever left without his master’s permission. But there was not a moment to lose. Once Little Bub was his, he thought as he climbed up behind the journeyman, Miller Chase would be glad! He could help in the logging and in ever so many ways. “Please, sir,” Joel urged, “could you jiggle the lines and hurry your mare along?”
The journeyman clucked, and the old mare responded with a listless trot. “You figure the miller’ll let you keep a horse?” came the friendly question.
“Yes, sir.” Joel gulped. “That is . . . I’m pretty sure, sir.”
The Sheriff himself was leading Bub onto the auction block when Joel arrived.
In the front row of a big gathering a moon-faced man waddled forward. “One silver dollar’s my offer,” he said in a rough, croaking voice.
“I have one dollar. I have one dollar,” the Sheriff’s voice intoned. “Who’ll make it two? Who’ll make it two?”
“I’ll make it two!” came Joel’s quick cry. In his mind he saw the big man astride, weighting Little Bub down until his back went sag and ugly.
The Sheriff’s jaw fell open. “Wal . . . wal!” he exclaimed. “A bound boy makes it two dollars. I have two dollars. I have two dollars. Who’ll make it ten?”
The moon-faced man raised three fat fingers.
“Three dollars I’m offered. I have three dollars. Who’ll make it . . . ”
“Three dollars and a half.” Joel’s voice had eagerness in it now. No one else seemed to be bidding, and he still had money left.
“Four and a half!” laughed the moon-faced man.
“Five . . . please.” The thin voice sank.
And now all around Joel other voices were raised—brisk, confident voices, making big fine bids. The boy looked down at the five dollars in his hand, and they seemed to shrink and shrivel, like bacon over a hot fire. He tried to pinch off the tears that grew out of his disappointment. He folded his pocket handkerchief—the one the schoolmaster had left him—around the dollars and put them inside his shirt. Then he made his way over to the auction block, where the little horse stood, small and brave.
“Feller,” he said low-voiced, “reckon you can’t understand why I don’t buy you. Eh?”
The Morgan funneled his ears toward Joel. Then he reached out with his nose to gather in the boy’s scent. A whicker of recognition escaped him.
“Listen, feller,” Joel whispered, while the bidding went higher and higher, “next time I’ll have a pocketful of money. See if I don’t! And I’ll give you a green meadow with a creek snakin’ through it. And I’ll give you a fine stable with a thick bed of straw. And I’ll give you sweet hay, and all the corn and oats you should eat. And I’ll give you a blanket in winter. And I’ll rub you proper night and morning.”
When he could think of nothing more to give, he ran his strong hands over the horse’s muscles, and then felt of his own. “Hard as flint,” he nodded. “Yes, ’tis just as I said! You and me’s growing big together . . . well, almost together,” he added with a twisted smile.
“Joel!”
The boy turned around to face Miller Chase.
“Knew I’d find ye here. We both got to hyper on home now, or the missus’ll want a lot o’ explainin’.”
“But the bidding,” Joel said. “’Taint over. We got to know who buys Little Bub!”
“We’ll know all right, son. Bein’ landlord of an inn has got advantages. ’Tain’t nothing we don’t hear—sometimes afore it happens!”
Miller Chase was right. That evening the inn was lively as an anthill with comings and goings.
“Ye should’ve heard the bidding!” Nathan Nye said, thumping a new arrival on the back. “It waxed a-hotter and a-hotter until a carpenter laid down sixty-five dollars in hard money and led the horse away.”
But what Mister Nye did not know was that in walking Justin Morgan home, the carpenter was stopped by a dark-eyed stranger. With a few glib words, the man forced twelve gold pieces worth ten dollars each into the carpenter’s hands. Then quick as a wink, he unhook
ed the halter, bridled the Morgan, and rode off, bareback, into the red ball of the sun.
The carpenter, mouth agape, stood all alone on the road, stood holding the gold pieces in one hand and a limp rope in the other.
15. Little Bub Lost
IT WAS unbelievable, this thing that had happened.
Justin Morgan dropped out of Joel’s life as completely as if he had been swallowed by quicksand. No one seemed to have any knowledge of his whereabouts.
In desperation the boy stopped every traveler who came to Chase’s Inn, and carefully described the horse. “Reddish brown,” he would say, “without any white markings at all. And his ears be extra small but pricked sharp. And he’s less’n fourteen hands high, but he’s big for his size,” he would add pridefully.
Always the answer was the same. “Sorry, young feller, I call to mind big beasts aplenty, but no little critter like you describe.”
Almost daily Joel questioned Robert Evans and the carpenter, until both men hid behind any convenient object to avoid the boy’s eyes. He pestered Nathan Nye, too, and Mister Jenks and Mister Fisk. He even wrote to Jonathan Fop pington in New York, but no answer came.
Months passed, and only garbled stories reached the inn: Justin Morgan was in the hands of a kindly blacksmith in Burlington, a cruel bricklayer at Montpelier, a horse breeder at Ryegate. However, by the time the rumors were traced, the little horse had always moved on again, leaving only his colts behind.
Several times, in tracking down clues, Joel was asked if he wouldn’t like to buy one of these colts instead. At Ryegate he was tempted by an especially appealing foal with the Morgan look so strong in him that it made Joel catch his breath. Then the little one neighed, a kind of weak flutter, and Joel found himself thinking back to Bub’s vigorous bugling, and he found himself living over again the long trip home from Springfield, and the night after night when he rode Bub over the hills, and the weeks and the months of gentling.