Traveller (26 page)

Even Marse Robert seemed sort of struck speechless. He sat where he was in the saddle—he couldn't do nothing else; he'd been forced to a halt in the crowd—and looked round him at his soldiers. Once't or twice't he took the hands of the fellas nearest him. He kept having to pull me in, else I'd have been treading the men down. I did my best to live up to it. I picked up my hooves, arched my neck and tossed my head, and tried all I could to act like a general's horse. I jest wished Skylark had been around to see it.

In the middle of it all, I found myself wondering where they'd taken poor Sorrel, and remembering what he'd said ‘bout a good horse often knowing more'n what his man knowed. And then, all of a sudden, standing there in front of the burning house, up to my fetlocks in the wreckage of the battle, I realized there was something I knowed beyond doubt. I knowed that in the end we
was
going to beat the enemy and there'd be an end to all the killing and the guns and the fear of battle. We was going to make them give up. I'd never thought ‘bout this before, but I knowed it right ‘nuff now. I knowed it jest like poor Sorrel had knowed—or half-knowed—'bout Cap-in-His-Eyes and the men shooting in the dark. I knowed where we was going and how we-all was going to finally come out.

By this time they'd put out part of the fire, and there was a piece of the house and some of the sheds where they'd put the wounded— our fellas and the enemy all together. Marse Robert dismounted and went to see them, like he always did after a battle. I was glad ‘nuff jest to stand round and get a good, long drink. I felt real easy now. There was one thing ‘bout that place, Tom, you know. The smoke kept down the dad-blame flies.

Later that afternoon, Marse Robert had a tent set up ‘longside the road, and talked to the generals—Red Shirt, Jine-the-Cavalry and some more. He'd already ridden me a way through the woods to talk to the Fat General. Marse Robert evidently had some special job for the Fat General, ‘cause I recollect how he saluted and went straight oft to get his men together on the road. When we'd come back, I lay down on the ground right near that little tent and went to sleep as sound as though I'd been in stables.

Well, that was about it, Tom—our great victory. There was some more moving round, and I reckon the Fat General must ‘a done some good fighting, ‘cause I can recall Marse Robert riding up to him and telling him as much. But that's all I can remember, ‘cause Marse Robert realized I was plumb wore out, and for the next two-three days he rode Lucy while I had a good rest. There was a vet. come to look me over, but he couldn't find nothing wrong, ‘ceptin' I was exhausted. Marse Robert found time, too, to come and talk to me. He brung the foreign fella with him. “Ah,” he says to him, stroking my nose, “this is one of the bravest soldiers in my Army.”

And do you know, Tom, that foreign fella, he actually captured some Blue men, too? Yes, he did, all on his own, and brung ‘em back to headquarters! ‘Parently he'd gone to look for something for his horse to eat, and near a farmhouse he come on these here Blue fellas. So he up and spoke to ‘em real sharp—so his horse told me—'said there was a whole bunch of our cavalry coming along, and they'd best jest give theirselves up. And they was so scairt by everything that had happened that day they jest did what he told them. They was what we call demoralized, Tom, you see.

That reminds me of another thing I remember—'bout Jine-the-Cavalry's friend, Vot-you-voz. It was the night after the battle, and Marse Robert, he was a-setting by a little fire, all in among the thick trees. Vot-you-voz was with him, but whatever ‘twas they had to be doing, the firelight was so dim they couldn't see to do it properly. So while Marse Robert was a-talking to someone else, Vot-you-voz slipped off and after a while he come back with a box of candles.

“Major,” says Marse Robert, “I know where you went to get those. It was jest a few yards in front of the enemy lines, wasn't it?”

Vot-you-voz says yes, ‘twas. “You acted wrongly,” says Marse Robert, “to risk your life for that.” And with that he looks at him real straight, to show he meant it.

I could see Vot-you-voz thinking that if it come down to risking lives, Marse Robert could get his nose out'n front of most people; but he never said so. He jest stayed quiet and lit one of the candles from the fire. But I didn't hear no more'n that, ‘cause I fell fast asleep— yeah, even though the woods was full of the crying of wounded men and poor fellas calling out for water.

Two days later, I met Skylark again—Jine-the-Cavalry had ridden in to talk to Marse Robert—and he told me he knowed now that every single one of the Blue men had run back ‘crost the river, ‘ceptin' for the dead and wounded they'd left.

“I do hope everything went all right with you in the battle, Traveller?” says Skylark, like he was inquiring after my nose bag.

“Hadn't, I shouldn't be here,” I answered.

“That's fine! You're not too tired, then?” he persisted. “Very little to eat jest now, ain't there? I hope you don't feel it too bad?”

If anyone'd been in three battles, one after t'other, Skylark's manners'd still have been ‘nuff to make him feel small. Jest the same, he was a horse you couldn't dislike. The way
he
acted, anyone'd think he'd spent the last five days in a green meadow. He was hiding a limp, and I noticed that one of his ears had been nicked by a bullet—or by something, anyways.

Well, I guess now you sure are a well-washed cat, Tom. Why don't you hop up in the manger and go to sleep in the hay? Scares the mice away, that does—jest the smell of a cat.

Hey, there, Tom! For goodness' sakes, how long is it since we seed each other? ‘Must be ‘least two months! I seed you asleep on the brick wall s'afternoon when we come riding in, but I didn't figure on you laming so soon that we was back home. Well, ‘course you'd know Marse Robert was back, so I guess you could reckon I was. I take it real kind you dropping in the first night I'm here. I hope you've been enjoying the summer weather while we've been away. Me, I'm glad to have it a mite cooler. ‘Won't be long till fall now. I'm glad to be back. Mind you, stables have been real good everywhere we've been and we've had some great rides—best ever—but it's still good to be home. I reckon no one puts up a bran mash like good old Isaiah.

‘Course, Isaiah was looking after things while we was gone, warn't he? There was Miss Agnes, and Miss Life and Mr. Custis came with us, and that young fella, Captain White, him that was in the Army long o' Marse Robert. General Pendleton's daughter come along, too. She's quite a friend of Miss Agnes, you know. Maybe they felt she could help with looking after the old lady. Well, the old lady's pretty well infirm now, Tom, you know. Can't hardly get out of that rolling chair of hers.

It was a real fine morning when we started out. Marse Robert and me was riding, and Captain White along with us. I like his mare. She's a real nice young filly—good goer, too—name of Bluebird. We jest took it nice and easy for a thirty-mile day—finished up at a small town in the mountains; good stables. We met up with the others there. They'd come by coaches and the railroad, you see.

Now here's what I've got to tell you, Tom, and this is really something. You know what? We set out the next day, and when we started coming down out of the mountains on t'other side, I suddenly realized that I more or less knowed where I was! I hadn't ‘zackly been over that particular chunk of road before, but jest the same I knowed them mountains and that there country—jest the smell of it! It was them same wooded mountains where I'd first met up with Marse Robert, years ago! Jest the smell of that durned ground laurel brung it back to me, even though it warn't raining and the day was nice and sunny. ‘Course, we was traveling on a good road now—not a cloud in the sky, plenty of food inside and a good night's sleep behind me, but jest the same I couldn't help but recall something of that bad fall in the rain, with all the men sick and the wagons axle-deep in the mud. If'n I'm any judge, we warn't so far away from that very same mountain, and we was back on the main pike to that town where I took the prize and Jim rode me into the tent. Made me feel jest like a colt again! But I was a durn sight happier to feel Marse Robert on my back than Captain Joe—yeah, or even Jim, even if'n he was sech a nice young fella and trained me so well. I thought of them days, and how far me and Marse Robert had come since then. I can say this to
you
, Tom—maybe you're the only one I
can
say it to: it's something to be not only Marse Robert's horse, but to know that you're Marse Robert's horse ‘cause you've come through thick and thin with him and he never wanted another, never once't.

When we set off next morning, we very soon left the coach people behind, and it might have been—oh, maybe twenty mile to this here place we was heading to. We took it easy, you know—stopped for a bite round the middle of the day; and we got in and finished up pretty early on in the afternoon.

It was quite a place, Tom. Only a small town—oh, yeah, lots smaller'n here—but jest the same there was a power of people stopping at this one big house: old fellas like Marse Robert, ‘long with their wives; lots of young ladies and gentlemen—all sorts—some of ‘em had brung their own black folks along; and, ‘course, a heap of horses, all in good stables round a fine, big yard. How I figured it, from the way they was all behaving and the high spirits they mostly seemed to be in, they'd all a-come together to have a high old time. So many horses and people, it was almost like being back in camp—'ceptin' for the girls: more girls'n men, near'bouts. And this sure warn't no camp. It was even grander and more showy'n them big houses where Marse Robert sometimes used to stay when we was on campaign.

The middle of this here place was a great, rambling building—real huge, Tom; I guess it'd need a hundred cats, a place like that—and it was all made of wood, painted white. They call it “The White,” one of the horses there was telling me—and this was where most of the folks stayed, amusing theirselves. It had big white columns and long, wide porches—a bit like Marse Robert's house here, only lots bigger. And then a little ways off there was rows of cottages, and folks living in them, too. Marse Robert and the old lady had one of ‘em, with a black girl to look after them. There was whole crowds of folks came to call on them—oh, every evening, near as I could make out. Of course, Marse Robert always likes meeting different kinds of folks and talking to them. What I came to conclude after a day or two was that seeing who he is now, nearly all them folks had come there ‘specially to see him and pay their respects. Well, it's only natchral, ain't it?

Marse Robert soon began enjoying hisself. I could tell that from the whole feel of him and the way he was acting and talking. Whenever he came to my stable, he'd like as not have another man with him, or maybe two, and he'd kind of introduce them to me. “This here's Traveller,” he'd say, and then they'd pat me and ask him questions, and say had I really been his one horse in all those battles, and so on. Sometimes girls came, too. There was lots of sugar in it, and I ain't never been too proud to take a piece of sugar, Tom, you know, ‘cause I remember all them times when there warn't none. I felt Marse Robert was more at ease with the girls than the fellas—I reckon ‘cause they warn't wanting to talk ‘bout soldiering and fighting all the time. He's got ‘nuff of that on his mind, you know, without being made to talk ‘bout it.

But I don't want you to think Marse Robert had gone all that way jest to walk round among those folks and say howdy and be treated like the commander. No, sir. He'd come to get away and be alone with
me
— more'n he can be here. Those summer days are long—getting shorter already now, ain't they?—and most of the time—mornings and afternoons, too—he'd spend alone with me in the mountains. There's some real wild, high, lonely mountains there, you know—higher'n you can imagine, Tom—and in the mornings we'd ride off and get up there for hours at a stretch—maybe not see a soul, ‘cepting now and then. You can't imagine the enjoyment of jest trotting easy ‘long those tracks, under the sycamores and the white oaks all green and shady, and never a signal needed from either of us, ‘cause each of us knows jest what t'other wants—well, we ain't separate, not really—and nary a thought of battle-smoke, and no soldiers a-sweating and a-cussing—jest living your life without having to think ‘bout it none. I came to know them mountains for miles around. I got to know jest where the creeks was. I got to know the best patches of grass, and when we came to one I'd stop off and begin grazing and Marse Robert, he'd jest sit easy and look out acrost the ravines below and the valleys full of trees. Up there you could see for miles. We was both doing jest what we wanted, and we didn't want to be doing nothing else, neither. Marse Robert needs to be alone—alone with me, I mean. Well, for him that
is
alone. What he needs is solitude, and that's what them mountains have got. But without me he couldn't have it, you see.

He's often real sad in his thoughts, Tom, you know—and can you wonder? He's bound to be thinking of all them dead fellas. And the wounded, too—once't you've heared them cry you don't forget it, I'll tell you. I remember a horse I seed once when we was under fire. This horse had lost his lower jaw. Every breath he was blowing blood. That kind of thing you don't forget. But in the mountains—well, them mountains must ‘a been there an awful long time. When I'd taken a good long breather—a gallop up one of them hill tracks—then I'd feel Marse Robert's heartsickness and bad memories all lifting like a mist and blowing away. It's important, Tom, you know, to do things without thinking ‘bout ‘em. That's the only way a horse and a man can really work together, but it takes a proper good man. There's too many men think horses was jest meant to be like plows or carts. Now Marse Robert, he'd really like to
be
a horse. “So, Traveller,” he says out loud to me one day when we was in a rough place up in them mountains. “So, Traveller, what ought we to do?” ‘Course, he had a pretty fair idea hisself what we ought to do: it jest happened to be the same's I had. When a horse and a man respect each other, that's the way it works out.