He could see into the shed now, see each stall occupied. He grabbed for the lantern, but it was frozen to the peg. He worked it free, then hurried from stall to stall, lighting the face of each animal. A white face. An iron gray. A chestnut, a brown, a bay. A broad-faced ox. Some had white stripes down their noses, and some had tiny snips or stars. But in all the long row there was not a face he knew.
Slowly, dejectedly, he returned the lantern to its peg, and said to the looming shadow that was Ezra, “I must’ve mistook that whinny for . . . ”
There! It came again, the same thin flutter, the same high, trembling note.
Not waiting for the rumbling echo, not stopping for the lantern, Joel ran stumbling to the front of the inn. There, in the light pouring out the windows of the taproom, he saw a team of six horses hitched to a freight wagon. The horses looked all alike—gaunt, and old, and snow-matted. There was not a proud head nor an arched neck among them.
He rubbed his mittened hand across his eyes, trying to wipe away the wind-tears, trying to see more distinctly. He waited for his heart to stop pounding; waited, not knowing for what he waited. And then into the frosty night the high neighing started up again. Joel saw which horse moved, saw the head raise, saw the tiny ears swivel. It was the littlest horse in the team.
“Ezra!” he shouted. “’Tis the wheel horse—the near one!”
In a flash he was holding the horse’s face in his hands. “My poor Little Bub!” he whispered softly. “My poor, shiv’ring, starved Little Bub.” He breathed on the tiny icicles that hung from the whiskers. Then he lifted Bub’s hoofs, and with his fingernails began to dig out the frozen balls of snow, cursing the teamster who let his horses stand out on a night like this. As each ball of snow came loose, Joel stopped to breathe again on the icicles.
The little horse was trembling—not from cold, but from excitement. He tried to nicker, but all he could manage was a low whimper, like a child or a very old person. It seemed that he had spent himself in neighing, and now wanted only to rest his head in the warm, gentle hands. He nuzzled them feebly.
“Look, Joel! Look at the signboard!” cried Ezra, laughing. “These bags of bones have come to the right place.”
The inn’s signboard swung back and forth, creaking on its hinges. The last line, only a few inches above Little Bub, read: GOOD KEEPING FOR HORSES.
Joel’s eyes seemed to strike sparks in the cold. “You ain’t being funny!” he said angrily, as he pried the last ball of snow free. “And ’tain’t easy to make you understand about this little horse. But I knew him when he could trot faster, run faster, and pull heavier logs than any horse in Vermont! ’Tis the Justin Morgan horse, Ezra. ’Tis the Justin Morgan horse, I tell you!”
The young man moved in closer. “This old beast the horse my father rented?” he cried in awe.
“The very one.”
Now Ezra seemed angered, too. With his hand he swept the snow from the horse’s back. “Why, he’s worn a harness so long it’s almost grown on him! What in tunket we waiting for? Let’s go in and tell that teamster a thing or two!”
Covering Little Bub with his coat, Joel gave him a final pat. “Please to let me handle this, Ezra,” he said as he followed the young man into the inn.
At least a dozen men were gathered in the general room, eating and drinking and talking together.
“Gentlemen!” Joel addressed them in a stern voice he scarcely knew as his own. “Who is owner of the six-horse team at the hitching rack?”
“I am!” came a snarl from in front of the fire. “What’s it to ye?”
Joel could see just the back of a chair, a coonskin cap showing above it, and two enormous feet beyond. The feet, in hobnailed boots, were stretched toward the hearth and a blazing fire.
As Joel and Ezra started toward the voice, one man tried to discourage them with a look. Another, older, got up from a bench and tugged at Joel’s sleeve. “Better give him the go-by, feller,” he said. “He’s nasty as a polecat.”
Joel shook his head. “I got this to do,” he said, and strode over to the bulky creature.
The man seemed in a trance. The face was half hidden behind a shag of whiskers, and the yellow-green eyes stared straight ahead like those of an owl. Across the man’s lap lay a bull-hide whip, and in one hand he held a tankard of ale. The arm holding the ale waved the young man away, and the drink spattered and some of it struck the fire with a hiss.
Joel gazed at the whip and blurted out, “That wheel horse, the near one—what’ll you take for him?”
The yellow-green eyes narrowed until they were no more than slits. Could this Simple Simon have meant the littlest horse?
Ezra, impatient with the delay, was stamping snow from his feet, and it made Joel think of the snowballs packed in Bub’s hoofs. He repeated the question. Louder this time.
It was all the teamster could do not to laugh outright. For days he had been wondering how soon he would have to replace every horse in the hitch. And now someone wanted to buy the littlest one of all! He hunched forward in his chair, placed the tankard on the floor, and began flicking his whip, narrowly missing Joel’s legs.
“Look-a-here, feller,” his surly voice sounded out, “that little beast pulls better than the hull kit and caboodle. I wouldn’t hear o’ selling him. No-wise! Why, only a fortnight ago a man offered twenty dollar for him.”
There was a shuffling of feet as everyone in the room gathered about. Joel turned away from the teamster. Breaking through the ring of men, he found Miller Chase. “Sir,” he whispered earnestly, “the Morgan horse—he’s right here at our hitching rack! That teamster owns him, and if I don’t buy him tonight, sir, he may be dead in the morning. I got to have twenty-five dollars!”
Miller Chase was breaking a stick of cinnamon into a bowl of punch. He spooned it, thinking quickly and carefully before replying. At last he said, “Joel, lad, you are buying into my business, and you may be white-haired and old when it’s all paid for. Times is hard. What’s the sense getting deeper in debt on a nearly dead beast?” He looked up with kindliness in his eyes. “The Morgan must have considerable age on him, and don’t you know he’s liable to be rheumaticky and die soon?”
“Yes, yes, I know!” Joel spoke impatiently now. “But it’s different with Little Bub, sir. He’s a friend, and you don’t turn down a friend just because he’s old.”
The miller smiled. And then as he caught sight of Mistress Chase sailing into the room, he lowered his voice. “All right, son, I’ll loan you whatever it takes,” he said, opening the cash box beneath the counter.
Joel felt the rough, gnarled hands close around his, felt the moneybag tucked into his palm. He tried to speak, but a choking filled his throat. Instead, he gripped the miller’s hand in a clasp so hard it made the man wince. Then he went back to the teamster, who was slyly glancing around, wondering if he had lost his serious-eyed customer.
“I can offer you twenty-five dollars,” Joel said, praying under his breath that it would be enough.
The huge man’s eyes lighted greedily. “The crowbait’s yours!” he laughed as he pocketed the money and picked up his tankard of ale.
And so, at long last, Little Bub belonged to Joel.
18. Justin Morgan and the President
JOEL HAD never known such warm and glowing happiness. He worked on Little Bub not only with hands and mind, but with heart and soul. While Little Bub slept, he walked around on tiptoe so as not to rouse him. Then he could hardly endure the waiting for him to wake up.
No human patient ever received more tender care. To coax his appetite Joel prepared steaming mashes of oats. And he thinned them with linseed tea for quick strength. He ground corn in his own gristmill, flavoring it with slices of crunchy carrots or rutabagas. He put a chunk of rock salt in his oat box, where Bub could lick a dozen times a day if he had a mind to.
At first the horse only lipped the food that Joel prepared and let it dribble from his mouth. But in a matter of days he was eat
ing because he could not help himself. The soft mashes were so delicious and they required scarcely any chewing. He was like an invalid who wanted to make up for lost time. He ate and ate, while Joel looked on in delight.
As for drinking water, Little Bub could not seem to get enough of that, either. The teamster had expected him to eat snow or to break ice in a stream. But Joel warmed the bucket of water by the fire and enriched it with oatmeal.
In every move of Joel’s there was life-giving warmth—in the rubdowns with his woolen mittens, in the flannel bandages that he wrapped about Bub’s legs, in the melted sheep’s fat with which he bathed the cracked hoofs. And there was coziness, too, in the way Joel tucked a fleecy blanket about him, pinning it in place close under the chin and belly.
It was like magic the way the little horse began to be himself again. His eyes livened, and his coat lost its harshness and took on a kind of luster. In time even the ribby look disappeared, and the hollow places at his flanks filled out. All Randolph began to notice the change. “I declare!” men said. “Justin Morgan is spry as a grasshopper!”
One early morning, some six months after he had found Little Bub, Joel cornered Mister Chase between piles of lumber in the millyard. “What I feel about Justin Morgan . . . ” he said, and then he could not go on.
“What is it, son?”
Joel reached out and peeled off a splinter of wood, shredding it with his fingers. “What I feel,” he burst out, “is that he ought to march in the big parade when the President of the United States comes to Vermont.”
The miller laughed. “Well, you and me ain’t going to argify about that. When’s it to be?”
“A fortnight away—on the twenty-fourth, sir.”
“Where at?”
“Burlington.”
“Burlington!” The miller took off his hat and scratched his head. “Why, that’s way up on Lake Champlain. Must be a good fifty mile, as the crow flies.”
“That ain’t no distance for a stout-hearted critter, sir. He can do it easy.”
Mister Chase smiled at Joel. “’Course he can. The Morgan’s fine and fit as any horse in his prime. Anyways, I reckon you can decide, son. He’s all yours.”
Joel’s laugh was deep and happy. “Why, so he be!” Then he added, “All the riflemen who served at Plattsburg will be there, too.”
“And mebbe Joel hankers to polish up his buttons and be among ’em. Eh?”
“Mebbe so! But, sir, can you spare me?”
“By the great horn spoon, I ain’t no Methuselah. You go, son. What’s more, you see to it that Justin Morgan is spang up there in front where President Monroe kin see a horse what is a horse.”
Two weeks later—on that sunlit morning of July twenty-fourth—there was a special kind of excitement in the air. In a pasture in Burlington, Joel was currying Little Bub as if his very life depended on it. Never before had Bub been groomed this carefully. It made his skin tingle and his blood race with well-being.
When his fetlocks had been trimmed, and the hairs in his ears and the whiskers about his chin, Joel stood back in admiration. “There!” he said with a final pat. “You even look like a parade horse. Do you know,” he gazed into the liquid brown eyes, “you’ve just naturally growed young. Your heart be young, and so be you. In all the nineteen states I bet there ain’t a finer horse! Now you graze, feller, whilst I suds myself in the creek behind the willows.”
Joel’s bath took far less time than the horse’s. Then on with the green coat and the white breeches, which had been washed and patched until they looked almost as good as new.
Now they were both ready. Now it was precisely eleven o’clock. Precisely the time to set out for Courthouse Square. As Joel rode up to the meeting place, his troop of cavalry was already gathering.
A shrill whistle pierced the air. Then, “Column of twos!” the Marshal of the Day shouted as he pumped his arm twice and held up two fingers.
Joel turned to look at the soldier beside him and broke into a grin. It was none other than the shoeing smith! As the columns moved forward, it seemed to Joel that all Burlington had turned out to watch the parade. A solid sea of people lined the streets from the courthouse to the college green. They began cheering the colors, cheering the soldiers, and they kept on cheering because they felt big and good inside.
Joel, too, swelled out in his chest as if this were more happiness than he could hold, for his Little Bub was surely the finest parade horse in the world. He acted as if he had been bred and born to parade. He answered the slightest pressure of Joel’s knees. He kept in line obediently. On command, he walked backward; he walked sideways. And always his feet kept time to the beat of the drums.
Now they were approaching the President’s stand, and from the church tower, bells began ringing—all softly solemn at first, then wild and merry until they sang up to heaven itself.
President Monroe, tall and erect, stepped forward on the stand, while a salute of guns shook the very earth. Many of the horses tried to wheel or bolt, but Justin Morgan did not flinch.
When the guns quieted and the bells stilled, the people, too, fell silent, waiting. The President removed his hat and held it across his heart. His eyes looked straight ahead to a platform across the street. There, two hundred children in crisp pinafores and calico suits were on their tiptoes, ready to sing the new song, “The Star Spangled Banner.” Now into all that great quiet, a pitch pipe sounded, and at a signal from the teacher, two hundred treble voices sang out:
“O say, can you see,
By the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight’s last gleaming? . . . ”
The President beamed all during the anthem, and when it was over, he bowed and clapped at the fine performance of the school children. Then, mounting a horse held in readiness, he rode between the columns of cavalrymen. Halfway down the line, the horse suddenly ducked his head between his legs. A bee had flown into his ear and was driving him frantic. He snaked his head along the ground and he reached up with a hind foot to scratch the buzzing thing away. It was all the President could do to dismount. A foot soldier had to lead the half-maddened horse away.
“Take my mount,” a colonel offered.
“Take mine! Take mine!” voices went up on all sides.
The President smiled, and shook his head. He let his gaze travel up and down the columns as if he would continue his inspection afoot. But then his eye fell upon Justin Morgan and stopped there. He looked at the bright, intelligent face, and motioned to Joel to ride him out of line.
For one awful instant Joel could not cluck, or tighten his legs, or jiggle the reins. Every muscle seemed frozen. But at a good-humored nod from the President, his fright was gone. He leaped to the ground, and while a little murmur of surprise rippled down the columns, he presented Justin Morgan to James Monroe, President of the United States.
At first the little horse eyed the man in the tall hat as if he were the one to do the approving. Then, apparently satisfied, he bugled through his nose, those high quavering notes followed by a deep snorty rumble. It was almost as if he had said, “I am glad to meet you, sir!”
How the people roared in delight! It was like a storybook the way the Morgan seemed to understand the greatness of the occasion. He stretched so that the President could mount with ease. Then with Joel walking proudly behind, he moved on with lofty, cadenced action.
When the procession reached the college green, the President rode to a little knoll. It faced a natural amphitheater which was already filled with people sitting, and now with the followers of the parade, standing.
Colonel Totten, mounted on a white horse, was on the knoll, too. He raised his hand for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” his voiced boomed slow and strong, “the President of the United States!”
A great hush fell. It was so still and respectful that a feeling of admiration for these people welled up in James Monroe. He was fingering the sheaf of notes in his pocket. But s
uddenly he changed his mind. This was no time for talking from notes; this was a time for talking from the heart. With one hand holding the reins and the other resting lightly on the Morgan’s crest, he began:
“Fellow citizens! This picturesque scene is associated in every bosom with the highest honor of our country. The gallant action on your Lake Champlain bound the Union together by ties as strong as bands of steel.”
A burst of applause filled in the little moment while the President took a breath.
“No nation has a richer treasure than liberty, and I am proud of the way American liberty was defended by the Green Mountain Boys. You citizens of Vermont are as firm as the mountains that gave you birth. May the bravery shown here ever animate your children to follow the glorious example of their forefathers!”
A thousand Vermonters cheered and threw their hats into the air. This was a speech they liked—crisp and to the point, with no big-sounding words. The President smiled and bowed. He could not remember when he had been greeted with more hurrahs.
In the midst of all the rejoicing, Justin Morgan took it into his head to bow, too, and now the crowd went wild. It was hard to tell whether the Morgan or the President was the hero of the day!
Then the President dismounted, gave Justin Morgan a friendly pat, smiled his thanks to Joel, and handed him the reins.
Half the throng now followed the President down to the shore of Lake Champlain, where a steamboat waited to take him to Plattsburg. But the other half swarmed around Joel and Justin Morgan. There were professors from the college, and tradesmen, and all kinds of soldiers, and old ladies and young, and boys and girls, who now fumbled in pockets for good things to eat. They all wanted to go home and say, “I eenamost touched the President of the United States, but I really did feed the horse he swung up on!”