X.

THE BLACK STALLION’S STORY.

The children were anxious to hear the rest of the story at once, but they were compelled to wait. The White Pig had told all he knew, and Aaron was on the other side of the plantation. So Buster John and Sweetest Susan amused themselves by wondering whether the Teacher was hanged or whether he was rescued. As for Drusilla, she very plainly said that she didn’t much care. It was all past and gone anyhow. Break a pumpkin, she said, and nobody in the world can mend it, not even if people were to come and cry over it.

But Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought it made all the difference whether a man was hanged or saved. They talked about it a good deal, and when they went to the house they asked their grandfather the name of the man who had come from a far country to teach their Uncle Crotchet. The old gentleman leaned back in his chair and looked at the youngsters. He smiled a little, and then closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking. The question had carried him back to the past.

“Have you forgotten his name, Grandfather?” asked Sweetest Susan, after a while.

“Forgotten his name!” exclaimed the grandfather. “Oh, no! No, indeed! His name was Hudspeth—Richard Hudspeth. I remember him as well as if he had been here only yesterday. At bottom, he was a fine character. He came here from Massachusetts, and he went back there.”

The grandfather paused and drummed gently on the arms of his easy chair. Then—

“Yes; he went back there. He is a big man now. He was elected to Congress some time ago. We have had some correspondence. He is a very able man. I wonder if he remembers his adventures here?”

“He is a bitter abolitionist,” said the children’s father.

“He was always that,” said the grandfather. “But I shall always love him on account of Little Crotchet. The two were devoted to each other.”

“Grandfather,” said Sweetest Susan, after a while, “what is a bitter abolitionist? Isn’t that what papa said?” she asked, seeing her grandfather laugh.

“My darling child, you wouldn’t know now if I were to tell you. Run along with Drusilla. I’ll think it over, and tell you about it some other time.”

Sweetest Susan and Drusilla joined Buster John in the yard, and there they discussed the matter, without coming to any conclusion. Buster John knew that the abolitionists wanted to free the negro slaves, but that was all.

That night they went to Aaron’s house and asked him whether the Teacher had been hanged or rescued, but Aaron said he was too tired to sit up and talk. He said he would be around the lot all day the next day, and then they could go and see Timoleon, who could tell all about it. This satisfied the children, and they went to bed happy in the expectation of visiting the Black Stallion.

The children were up bright and early the next morning, which was something unusual, for they were very fond of sleeping late. As soon as Drusilla had eaten her breakfast—she waited on the children, at the table, and was allowed to eat as soon as they had finished—all three went hunting for Aaron. They found him right where they wanted to find him, in the lot where Timoleon’s stable stood. So they went to him, and he lost no time in opening the door of the stable.

The Black Stallion did not have fresh air and exercise every day, and so he sprung through the open door and went galloping madly about the field, sending forth a screaming challenge to the whole plantation. He galloped about the field as far as the limits of the high fence would permit, and paid no attention to either Aaron or the children.

“He has forgotten us,” said Sweetest Susan in some alarm.

Aaron laughed. “Folks forget,” said he, “but my brothers that run on four legs never forget.”

When the Black Stallion had taken his exercise, he walked slowly back to the stable, sometimes pausing to crop the grass or to hold his head high in the air.

“Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron, “you have forgotten your friends.”

“I am the forgotten one, Son of Ben Ali,” replied Timoleon, “my feed is chucked into the trough, the door is shut, and I am left to chew my cud. Am I a cow, that I should be chewing my cud? Am I a hog, that I should be fastened in a pen?”

“Whose fault, Grandson of Abdallah? You will have no one to feed you but me, and I—well, what I have to do I must do. The grandchildren of the White-haired Master are here.”

“I thought they had forgotten me, Son of Ben Ali. I am glad they are here. But what of it? I go in my pen, and the door is closed; what matters it to me whether they are here or yonder?”

“No, Grandson of Abdallah. In the pasture here the morning sun shines, the grass is green, the air is cool. Here for a little while you may stay with these grandchildren of the White-haired Master. Your stable is to be cleaned.”

For answer, the Black Stallion sought out a soft place in the grass, held his head close to the ground, walked in a small circle that constantly grew smaller until his knees bent under him, and then he keeled over on his side and began to wallow. This finished, he rose and began to graze close to the children, apparently as gentle as any horse could be.

“Do you remember the night the White-haired Master rode you to Harmony?” asked Aaron from inside the stable.

The Grandson of Abdallah raised his head and went to the stable door, his mouth half full of grass. Some of the grass must have tickled his nose, for he snorted twice in quick succession.

“Do I remember it, Son of Ben Ali? How could I forget it? It was a little while before the big race at Lexington. That was the night I learned how to put my nose at a horse’s flank and run the breath out of him.”

“The children of the White-haired Master would like to hear of that,” said Aaron.

“It was at night,” remarked the Black Stallion, threshing at a perverse fly with his tail. “What time, I know not, but I had been dozing, and just before that I had heard the chickens crow. There was no moon. The big white star was glittering where the sun rises, and there was frost in the air. Suddenly I heard some one tugging at my stable door and the voice of the Son of Ben Ali calling.

“The door was barred, but he broke the bar. The stable was dark, but he found the bridle, blanket, and saddle. He cried:—

“‘Steady, Son of Abdallah! There is work for us this night!’

“I bit at him in play, and took a piece of his coat off, but he made no pause until saddle and bridle were on. Then he ran through the door, crying ‘Come, Son of Abdallah! Come! There is work for us to-night! Steady! You will have play enough before the night is over.’

“I liked nothing better than that, so I sprang through the door, and went galloping after the Son of Ben Ali. He ran to the house, and there I saw the Gray Mare, my sister, standing. She was bridled, but the saddle was missing.

“‘Stand here!’ said the Son of Ben Ali. He placed his hand on the yard fence and sprang over, though the gate was near. He ran to the big tree near the corner of the house, and began to walk upward. This was new to me, so I started back in some surprise. But the Son of Ben Ali called to me to be quiet, and in a minute he had disappeared in the little window that juts from the roof.

“Then I heard the voice of the Little Master crying ‘Take me down stairs!’

“In a little while the Son of Ben Ali came down the tree and stood at the door, which was presently opened by the White-haired Master. His speech was short and quick:—

“‘Where are the horses?’

“‘Here, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, who came running toward me. ‘Mount here, Master.’

“‘Show me the way!’ said the White-haired Master.

“The Son of Ben Ali flung himself on the Gray Mare, my sister. The gates were all open, and we went through them in a hurry. I felt the White-haired Master settle himself in the saddle and try the stirrups. Then his knees pressed a little closer to the saddle, and I thought, ‘Here is a rider—a little heavy, but more helpful than a lighter man who has never learned to fit himself to the curve of the saddle, and to move as the horse moves.’ He reached his right arm forward to feel of the play of my shoulders, and gave me a gentle pat by way of praise.

“The Gray Mare, my sister, was trained for racing, while I was raw and untried, waiting for my turn, that came afterward, and she tripped along ahead of me as lightly as a rabbit that has just been frightened from its bed.

“We cleared the gates and the narrow lane, and presently struck into the big road.

“‘Are we going to Harmony?’ asked the White-haired Master.

“‘Yes, Master.’

“‘We shall have to ride, then.’

“At that the Gray Mare, my sister, seemed to glide away from me. The Son of Ben Ali had slapped her with his open hand. I went after her with a little rush that never moved the White-haired Master in his saddle. I felt my blood tingling. Whatever the Gray Mare, my sister, was doing, I knew I was going at only half speed, and I longed to show the White-haired Master what I could do.

“I said as we galloped, ‘My sister, this night you will see which of us has the swiftest feet.’ The answer she made was a loud snort, and again she tried to glide away, but I kept my muzzle at the Son of Ben Ali’s knee.

“‘Not now,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Wait! Wait till we cross the bridge.’

“‘Are we riding or playing?’ asked the White-haired Master. Man, we’ll be too late!’

“‘When we cross the bridge, we’ll go, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.

“Yet the ground was firm and springy, and the road level. I was so fretted that I bit at the Son of Ben Ali’s leg. ‘You won’t play when you come to your journey’s end, Grandson of Abdallah,’ he said. I knew then that we would go fast enough after awhile, and so I fell back a little and settled down to a swift, steady gallop. My easy movements must have pleased the White-haired Master, for he reached forward and gave me a love-lick, saying, ‘Good horse!’

“So in a little while we came to the bridge, a small affair, but rickety. On the other side the Son of Ben Ali leaned forward a little, saying, ‘Now, Master!’ The Gray Mare, my sister, leaped away from me with a snort. I threw my head forward as the White-haired Master gave me the length of the rein, and the Gray Mare, my sister, soon found that she would not have the road to herself.

[Illustration: THE GRAY MARE LEAPED AWAY FROM ME]

“Within a quarter of a mile, I was running with my nose at her flank, and I kept it there. I could have run past her, but I knew the White-haired Master would give the word for that, and so I kept my place. Yet, I could feel that the Gray Mare, my sister, was trying her best to get away from me.

“The sound of our feet on the hard road must have made a terrible clatter. I could hear it flung back at us from the woods on either side. Once, as we were passing a house by the roadside, a pack of curs came trooping out at us. This was my chance. The Gray Mare, my sister, shied, while I ran right through the pack, knocking them right and left. The White-haired Master touched me again, saying, ‘Good horse!’ and shook the reins just a little, but it was enough. Before the dog I had crippled could yelp twice, I had taken the road away from the Gray Mare, my sister. I could hear her coming behind me. I could hear the Son of Ben Ali slap her first with his open hand, and then with the slack of the bridle rein.

“But it did no good. I loved to listen to the clatter of my feet on the hard clay in the road. I was proud to feel that I was not running at full speed. I was proud to know that the White-haired Master had grown young again, and to feel him holding the reins just steady enough to catch me should I chance to stumble. I was proud to feel him sitting in the saddle, balancing himself to all my movements so as not to worry me with his weight.

“Suddenly I felt him turn in the saddle and look back. Then his firm hand checked me, and I knew that the Gray Mare, my sister, had been more than matched. As I settled down into a steadier gallop the White-haired Master said:—

“‘Another racehorse here, boy—the greatest of all.’

“‘Yes, Master,’ replied the Son of Ben Ali, ‘he is the grandson of Abdallah.’

“It was well that the White-haired Master drew rein when he did, for we still had two miles to go, and the Gray Mare, my sister, was beginning to blow a little. But we rested ourselves by going easily. Presently I saw firelight shining through the trees half a mile ahead.

“‘That’s the place!’ cried the White-haired Master.

“He leaned forward in the saddle, and I took that for a signal to go. It was a level road, and I stretched myself out for a run that would please and surprise the White-haired Master. As I ran I wondered what the people at the fire would think as they heard us thundering down the road.

“Nobody knows to this day what they thought. We were upon them before they could gather their wits about them. We were upon them before they could get out of the way. The torches glimmering through the trees blinded the eyes of the White-haired Master, so that he drew rein a little too late to stop me near the group of men standing there. One of them, the son of the man called Old Grizzly, tried to dodge out of the way, but as he dodged I swerved to one side, and so struck him fairly on the shoulder. He went down as if a tree had fallen on him. As I turned again I caught the arm of one of them in my teeth, and carried him with me, screaming like a woman. From that day to this I have been called the Man-eater; but as to eating a man—Blibbelibbel—it makes me sick to think of it!

“I was still jumping, but trying to come to a halt, when the White-haired Master drove his heels at me, and whirled me around on my hind feet as on a pivot. As I turned I saw why. The man called the Teacher had been sitting on a horse, his arms tied, and a rope around his neck, one end fastened to the limb of a tree. As we came up, some of the men had given the horse a cut with a hickory, and he had jumped away, leaving the Teacher swinging by the neck.

“With one stroke of a knife he carried, the White-haired Master cut the rope, and then he leaped nimbly from my back and lifted the man called the Teacher to his feet, cutting the rope from his arms and from his neck.

“The man called the Teacher was neither much hurt nor frightened, but he was weak. So he leaned against me as I stood panting for breath. There the White-haired Master left him and turned his attention to the men who were standing around. He called them murderers and assassins and cowards, but they made little or no reply. The Son of Old Grizzly, who was rubbing his shoulder, made some kind of excuse. He said he thought anybody had a right to hang anybody else who was trying to make the negroes rise and kill their masters.

[Illustration: THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER CUT THE ROPE]

“But the man called the Teacher hit the saddle he was leaning against so hard with his fist that it made me jump, and said it was a lie. He declared that he had told the negroes to be patient, that thousands of good people were praying for them, and that the time would come when they would be free.

“‘What do I care what he told the negroes?’ cried the White-haired Master, turning upon the men. ‘Don’t you know, you cowardly wretches, that I will protect whoever lives under my roof with my life? Take yourselves off, and be glad that you have escaped so lightly. I know all of you, and I’ll have an eye on you hereafter.’ So said the White-haired Master; and the men, making what excuses they could think of, slunk away to where they had left their horses tied.

“Seeing the Gray Mare, my sister, standing near, I looked around for the Son of Ben Ali, but he was nowhere to be seen. I knew he was not far off. He was waiting till the men should get out of sight. Then he came forth from the bushes, and in the dark, lifted the man called the Teacher to the back of the Gray Mare, my sister.

“And so we went back home, going slowly, the man called the Teacher riding the Gray Mare, my sister, and the Son of Ben Ali walking alongside to hold him in place should his strength fail.

“That is all. I saw no more of the Son of Ben Ali until after the big fire.”

“When the house was burned?” asked Buster John.

“The big house—yes,” replied the Black Stallion.

“That was the time you broke down your stable door,” suggested Aaron, who was working away inside the stable.

“And came near catching the son of Old Grizzly, as he went over the fence,” said the Black Stallion.

“Mr. George Gossett?” exclaimed Buster John. “Why, he’s an old man.”

“He’s older than he’s good,” remarked Aaron.

“I heard a great noise,” said the Black Stallion—“the cows asking the mules what the trouble was, the mules asking the horses, and the geese screaming and flying about—and so I broke down my stable door. Just then I saw some one running through the field away from the house, and I tried to catch him. He was too near the fence, but I saw it was the son of Old Grizzly.”

“Why was he running through the field?” inquired Buster John.

“Well,” said Aaron, “there was a fire burning the house, and there was this George Gossett running away. You can put the two together, if you want to, or you can leave them just as the Grandson of Abdallah saw them—one burning the house and the other running away.”

“Huh! he sot dat house afire!” exclaimed Drusilla; “kaze I hear my mammy an’ ol’ Aunt Free Polly sesso.”

All this made Sweetest Susan open her eyes in amazement, and they were very bright and beautiful eyes.

“Oh, how could he be so cruel?” she cried.

“He thought the White-haired Master rode him down that night on purpose,” said Aaron, “and he had a good many other thoughts.”

The Black Stallion galloped to another part of the field, and Aaron said it was time for the children to go to the house and fix for dinner. So they went running along.