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.
