ON PLEASANT evenings now the cares and labors of the day were forgotten in the sport of racing. The most respected member of the community, the preacher, encouraged the fun by his mere presence. He knew that good fellowship made tomorrow’s tasks easier for his hard-working flock.
Even Mistress Chase approved all the hullaballoo of the race matches. To her it meant the spectators would yell their throats dry, and call for freshening tankards of cider, along with her famous caraway cakes.
As for Joel, he lived all the day for a sight of the Morgan horse, his Little Bub, flying down the track to victory.
The horse himself took the sport in stride, just as he took work. He set his own record for speed, then broke it and set a new one. He became the most talked-about horse in the whole countryside. “That Morgan stallion’s a torpedo!” men said. “He’s partner to the wind.” “ ’Tis the fastest goer in all Vermont.” Wherever men gathered—around the cracker and pickle barrels at the general store, or at the inn, or in the churchyard after Sunday meeting—they wagged their heads and chuckled over the doings of the pint-sized stallion. His every characteristic was admired.
“Beats me how he bugles a tune when he neighs.”
“Mebbe it’s ’cause he belongs to the singin’ master!”
Then the men would burst into hearty laughter, each one adding his own observation.
“Beats me how he abominates dawgs; it’s like they all had the hydrophoby.”
“Beats me how he disrelishes sorghum, but is sweet on maple sugar.”
“Beats me how he can roll over, even on a uphill slant.”
At last the talk flew beyond the state. One day the mail coach from Albany, New York, drew up to a stop in front of the old log schoolhouse. The driver, a smiling young fellow, jumped down and presented himself to the singing master, who came out to greet him.
“Be ye Justin Morgan?”
The schoolmaster nodded his Yes.
“A wealthy gentleman,” the driver said, as he fished a letter from his boot, “give me this with sharp instruction to see you got it personal.” With a flourish he held out the letter. It was sealed with a splotch of wax and stamped with an elaborate coat of arms, and it smelled strongly of leather and snuff.
The worry lines of Master Morgan’s brow deepened as he accepted the letter. He did not open it at once, but stood with his hand on the door latch. He watched the messenger climb onto his box and the coach-and-four lurch down the lane like some hunchbacked bug.
From inside the schoolhouse came the deep voices of the older boys and the high chatter of the girls. The schoolmaster turned now and went in. A hush fell over the room as he said, “You are dismissed for the day.” He closed his song-book, put the pitch pipe away in the drawer of his desk, and began looking for his spectacles.
One of the pupils laughed on his way out. “They’re on your head,” he said, pointing. Then he sobered as he saw the master’s frown.
Some of the children were eager to leave, wanting to run and catch the mail coach; and some shuffled out slowly, curious to learn what the letter held. Master Morgan hurried the slow ones along. He had not received a letter since his sister Eunice’s husband had died, and if this one brought bad news, too, he wanted to be alone to read it.
In the silence of the empty schoolroom he slid a penknife under the seal and with trembling fingers unfolded the fine white paper. The handwriting, too, was fine, feather-fine. He pulled his spectacles down from his forehead, but even then he had to step to the light of the window and bring the letter up close. Sniffing again the odors of leather and snuff, he at last forced himself to read the words.
September 30, 1796
New York
Dear Sir:
It has come to my ears, through my erstwhile friend, Ezra Fisk, that the beast rented by him is owned by you. He also informs me that in spite of the scrubby size of said animal, it has some ability to run.
Now it so happens that my partner (the Honorable James Montague, Esquire) & I have business to attend in Brookfield, Vermont, a fortnight hence. We are the proud possessors of two elegant Thoroughbreds known as Silvertail and Sweepstakes. For stamina & speed, for form & symmetry, they are not surpassed by any creature, either in Europe (where they were bred) or in America.
Hence what we propose is this: We challenge your work horse to run against our celebrated racers. The purpose being not for divertisement (amusement) but to prove, for once & all, the superiority of the Thorough-bred as against the mongrel-bred.
My partner & I know of the paltry salaries paid to schoolmasters (some, we hear, receiving but sixty-seven cents per week). Therefore, you will owe us nothing if your beast lose. Should he win, howsomever, we stand ready to pay to you the full purse of fifty dollars.
As our jockeys are hefty men, we stipulate that Fisk’s hired man act as jockey for your beast, and not any flyweight boy.
For your edification, there is a beaver pond just beyond the Green Dragon Inn at Brookfield. A race course has been built around this pond, & I understand it measures a half mile & provides footing as good as may be expected in your backwoods country.
In fine, unless we hear from you to the contrary, let us meet with our horses at the Green Dragon Inn, Brookfield, on the fifteenth day of October at the hour of five.
I have the honour to be, et cetera,
Jonathan Toppington
Master Morgan’s face turned dark red in anger. With a show of vehemence, he creased the letter in its original folds and thrust it into the tail of his coat. The words scoured his mind. “Your mongrel-bred!” “Our elegant Thoroughbreds!” “Your work horse!” “Our celebrated racers!”
Of a sudden Master Morgan’s world was all action. He hurried outside, locked the schoolhouse door, and began running down the lane toward the village. He heard the letter crackle as his coattails floated and flapped in the wind, and it made him run all the faster. Halfway there, he overtook Mister Jenks driving his ox team.
“Justin! What’s wrong?” Mister Jenks’s voice was full of concern as he noted the flushed face of the schoolmaster.
“I’m all right. Just riled.”
“You had me scairt, man. I swear I thought the schoolhouse was afire or the hull class murdered by Injuns. Climb aboard! Me and Nip and Tuck’ll take you wherever ’twas you was goin’.”
It struck the schoolmaster that whenever he needed help in a hurry, God sent Mister Jenks. He smiled now at the sunburnt face with its white lashes and brows. “If it please you, Jenks, would you be so kind as to drop me off at Ezra Fisk’s house in Randolph? And whilst we’re jogging along, I’ve an epistle to read you . . . soon as I catch my wind.”
• • •
Ezra Fisk lived in a comfortable, rented cottage while he waited for his land to be cleared and his own house to be built. When the schoolmaster arrived, the family was seated at the table, eating cold gander and hot bread.
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?”
