Where was I? Oh, yeah: first thing that happened after that day was we-all moved out of the city. I was right glad bout that. As I told you, I'd never liked living in the city--no grass, lots of smoke in the air and Marse Robert 'parently too busy to ride. But now that was all going to change. Marse Robert hisself rode me out to this here farm place, a mile or so out of town, on the same road where we'd talked to the President. We lived there best part of a month, I figure. The house was very plain and trim, jest like t'other used to be when we was down south. When we got there, I remember, Perry and Meredith and the other fella--a white fella, Bryan he was called--they was all bustling round, getting the place ready and talking to the farm lady--Miss Dabbs, they called her. Us three horses was given a nice stable, warm an' dry. There was a plenty of other horses around, course, but the General's horses had their own stable.
It needed to be warm an' dry, too. My ears and tail, didn't it rain 'bout then? You never seed nothing like it. Rained like it was never going to stop. My chief recollection of them days at old Miss Dabbs's is the everlasting rain. You'd 'a drowned for sure. Do you know, Tom, I more'n once seed horses mired knee-deep? True.
The funny thing was Marse Robert, he seemed real pleased. More it rained, better he liked it. "Aha, Traveller," he says to me one day, jest as we was setting out in a real downpour, "this'll keep 'em quiet! Couldn't be better, could it?" My oats! I thought; I don't see how it could be much worse. Still, if it pleased Marse Robert, that was all right with me; he must have his reasons. 'Nother day, Marse Taylor looks up at the sky and says to him, "Strikes me, sir, Little Mac's going to need his mac today," and then they both bust out laughing like to split. They was real happy. Blest if I was.
And nor was the soldiers. You should have heared 'em swearing and cussing. 'Cause Marse Robert, he had 'em on the same as before digging! All in the rain--I can see 'em still--the long, long lines of men, soaking wet, cussing up a storm and the shovels shining in the rain and the pits half-full of water, plop-plop-plop as fast they was dug.
"Hey, Gin'ral!" A fella calls out to Marse Robert one day, real sassy, "Hey, Gin'ral! We-all didn't jine up to do nigger work! We-all jined up to fight!"
"We've got to protect Richmond first, my man," answers Marse Robert. "Then we'll fight, sure 'nuff."
I didn't rightly know what he meant, or why we had to protect Richmond. Of all the cussed, ornery horses I ever met, Richmond was jest about the worst. I really got to hate him, and he took care I did, too. I don't know what had been done to him when he was a colt, but that horse hated jest 'bout everybody and everything. He was a big bay stallion, and one way or 'nother he was never tired of saying so. He was full of hisself, Richmond was. "You ball-less gray brute," he said to me one day, "do you reckon Marse Robert's going to get any use out o' you? Why, he only took you to do your master a favor." He'd never use my right name, neither. He always called me Greenbrier, jest 'cause he knowed I didn't like it. "Oh, here comes Greenbrier" he'd say to Brown-Roan when I come in streaming wet from a long day on the trenches with Marse Robert. "He wouldn't know what to do with a mare if he had a field-full to choose from!" He hated all other horses, and if he had to go near any he didn't know, he'd commence to squealing. As time went on, he got to know sure 'nuff that Marse Robert preferred me to hisself, and that made him still madder. I never used to answer him back; I didn't have to, after all. I'd jest toss my head and eat my hay.
Brown-Roan was another matter. I liked Brown-Roan. He was what's knowed as "a nice, quiet horse." He never did no one any harm in his life. Trouble was the poor fella was jest too quiet. He hadn't got the keep-going or the spunk you needed to be one of Marse Robert's horses. There's awful big demands on a general's horse, Tom, you see; it's not like reg'lar work. You might go thirty mile in a day, and then, jest when you figure you're going into stable, the general suddenly needs another five mile or more out of you. You've got to love your man to be up to that--you've got to feel what he feels. You've got to be part of your man. Poor Brown-Roan was never that.
"Oh, I wish I'd 'a never jined up with Marse Robert," he says to me one evening when he'd come in soaked through. "I warn't made for this!"
"Why," I says to him--one of our soldiers was rubbing him down at the time--"you've got to look at it different. You couldn't have a better horseman for a master. And you're a general's horse. That ought to make you mighty proud."
"I know it makes me tired," says he, stamping his nearside rear hoof. "I believe I've strained a muscle." He was forever believing he'd strained a muscle.
You couldn't dislike Brown-Roan. He was always pleasant in his temper, and he was no quitter, neither. 'Best he could, he gave what he had, but he jest hadn't got 'nuff; the shame was no one--not even Marse Robert--found out in time. I only wish they had.
But Marse Robert was terrible busy in them days! He had a whole lot on his mind. I haven't given you no idea, Tom. Very often we'd be out all day, up and down them gun pits and trenches, and mostly in the rain. Even Marse Taylor told him one day that he figured he'd surely done 'nuff, and he'd wear hisself out. "I can't ask those men to stand anything I won't stand myself," he answered. "How can I expect them to keep working in that rain if'n they don't see me out there with 'em?"
Sure 'nuff, pretty soon I could see the soldiers was getting more chipper, and the reason was they was trustful of Marse Robert. He was forever praising them and telling them their work was the best he'd ever seed. He made 'em dig like they was to bury a pack of horses, but he'd always remember to put in a joke or a good word. After a bit the grumbling stopped, and when we come round it'd be "Howdy, General!" or "Come and have a look at this, General!" Now and then someone'd say, "How's your horse today, General?" And he'd say, "Fine--couldn't want for a better." 'Course, for all I know he may have said that when he was on Richmond, too. Some of them fellas couldn't tell a dad-burn horse from a bucket. They was only young boys for the most part, you know, Tom--lot of 'em younger'n the boys you can see round here now.
As the days went by, I gradually got to know most of the people who came to see the General. There was one afternoon in particular comes back to me now. It jest happened to be hot and sunny for a change, and I was hitched to the rails in front of the house when a young fella comes riding up on a real fine brown horse. Now this young fella, he was what you might call a sight to see. First of all, he'd strike anyone as an uncommon robust and vigorous kind of a man. He warn't tall out o' the ordinary, but he was powerful and broad-shouldered, and there was a kinda go and dash 'bout him, so's you felt he'd be ready to jump his horse over the house if'n anyone dared him to. The way he was turned out, smart warn't no word for it. He had gold spurs on his boots. His hat was sorta looped up with a gold-colored brooch and there was a great, floating black plume stuck in it. His jacket was covered with gold braid and all the buttons was bright gold, too. His gloves, which looked new, came up to his elbows and he had a yellow silk sash tied round his waist. On 'count of the day being hot, he'd throwed back his cape, and you could see it was all lined with some sorta very fine, shining-smooth stuff, bright scarlet. Although he had a huge, curling mustache and a big brown beard--biggest I ever seed, I reckon--the way he was acting he'd put anyone in mind not so much of a general as of some young fella riding out for a whole load of fun. I 'member there was some red roses stuck in his horse's headstall, and as he come riding up he was a-singin'--jest out of high spirits, so I figured.
As for his horse, he made me feel like I was some kinda smalltime cob. And I'm telling you, Tom, I've never been in the habit of calling other horses real fine. That's what's knowed as self-respect. But this here horse, he had a very quiet, superior kind of a manner, like he knowed everyone knowed he was so good there was no need even to be mentioning it. All his movements was very refined and confident, an' he'd been groomed so he shone glossy all over. But his appearance warn't the end of it--not by a long piece. I sorta got an uncomfortable notion that he might jest be able to give me a considerable run ove
r twenty mile. Anyone could see he had quality from his nose to his hooves.
I nickered to him and he nickered back. Nothing quarrelsome; nothing wrong there. His master dismounted, hitched him 'longside and took a good look at me.
Jest then Perry come out of the house, toting a bucket of garbage.
"Hey!" calls out the young fella, putting his hand on my nose. "What horse is this?"
"Dat's Traveller, General, sah," answers Perry. "General Lee's horse."
"Howdy there, Traveller!" says he. "Why, you look too good to stand fretting on a rail. If you want to have a good time, jine the cavalry! Jine the cavalry!"
He'd plainly taken a liking to me, and I found myself feeling the same way 'bout him. I even felt that if Marse Robert hadn't 'a been my master, maybe it wouldn't be so bad belonging to this young fella. For one thing, you could tell at a glance that he was a natchral-born horseman like no one else in the world. He was the only other man 'sides Marse Robert who ever made me feel that he was a kind of horse hisself. The way he looked me over, I figured he understood every last thing 'bout me. And yet it didn't make me fidgety or nervous, on account of it was a sympathetic sort of understanding.
Jest then Marse Robert came out of the house hisself. The young fella saluted him and then they shook hands and walked away together, talking. Marse Robert 'peared to regard him as an old friend.
"Who's your master?" I asked the brown horse.
Now you gotta know, Tom, that ever since I jined up with Marse Robert, I'd got into the habit of considering myself as good as any other horse, and better'n most; an' they mostly went along with this and acted according. But now I found myself being looked at by this horse--well, sort of judicious-like, as you might say.
"You don't know?" he says at length, and then he don't say no more, so in the end I had to say, "No, I don't."
"That's General Jeb Stuart," he says, "commanding the cavalry in this here Army."
This made me feel so small I almost mouthed at him, like I was a colt again. I began to explain that Marse Robert and me hadn't been all that long in command. That was all right, though; this horse--Skylark, he told me he was called--had all the good manners of someone that knows his own worth.
"Glad to know you, Traveller," he says. "Dare say you'll be seeing a good deal of us--that's to say, when we're around. There's quite a passel of us belonging to General Stuart--Star of the East's a particular friend of mine. And 'sides him, there's Lady Margaret and Lily of the Valley. Only, we spend a lot of our time riding round behind the Blue men, you know, finding things out."
"The Blue men?" I says. "Who are they?"
Even that didn't shake him out of his manners: "Why, the enemy," he says.
I didn't even rightly know what that meant, Tom, any more'n you do. But before he could go on, Marse Robert and "Jine-the-Cavalry" came back, and Marse Robert called out to two soldiers to lead us over into the shade and give Skylark a feed. We fetched up in different places, so that was all I seed of him that time. But he was right. We did come to see a lot of each other, and I got to know Jine-the-Cavalry very well, too.
I had my own names for the people Marse Robert seed the most of: it come easier. For one thing, as far as I could make out they was mostly called General Hill. Well, leastways, two of 'em was. Don't ask me why. How can we understand half the crazy things men do? Anyways, I came to think of them two Hills as "Red Shirt" and "the Little General." I say I had my own names; like one of 'em, General Pickett-- a youngish fella--I called "Ringlets," on account of his long, scented hair--but there was one that all the soldiers called the same's I did, an' that was "Old Pete"--General Longstreet. I never entirely liked Old Pete. Hard to say 'zackly why, but somehow I got the notion that he didn't really respect Marse Robert or like the idea of Marse Robert being his boss. 'Course, I couldn't understand a lot of their talk, but very often, as we went along, I could tell jest from the sound of their voices that he was argufying with Marse Robert and kinda telling him what he ought to do. And Marse Robert, Tom, you see, he was always so kind and gentlemanly to everybody, he never could bring hisself to tell this here Pete to go and jump in the ditch, like he oughta. I knowed Marse Robert jest couldn't do that to save his life, but quite often I used to feel like kicking Old Pete myself. Jest the sound of his voice worried me. Still, he was a soldier sure 'nuff, and a lot braver under fire'n what I was, as I found out later on. But in them days I'm speaking of now, I didn't know what we was in for n'more'n if I'd been old Miss Dabbs's cat.
I knowed there was something in the wind, though. Us horses are always sensitive to any kind of uneasiness or tenseness, Tom, you know, and that time I could feel the stress kinda building up all over, day by day. One day, 'stead of 'tending to the digging, Marse Robert and Colonel Long--Ginger, his horse was called; nice fella--rode us out five or six mile north and acrost a bit of a river. Marse Robert and me stopped on a slope t'other side of this here river, and he held up a pair of bottles to his eyes. What? No, 'course I don't understand why. But he was forever holding up them bottles.
"Now, Colonel Long," he says, pointing out over the country, "how can we get at those people? What ought we to do?"
I wonder how many times I've heared Marse Robert say that since. I come to know jest rightly what it meant--trouble, always. When he said that to someone, like it might be Jine-the-Cavalry or Red Shirt or Colonel Long, he didn't really want them to answer him back. Sometimes they did and sometimes they didn't. It was a kind of game with Marse Robert. He already knowed what he was going to do. Colonel Long knowed that, so he didn't say nothing.
The two of em rode round a while, Marse Robert sometimes talking and pointing, and then again holding them bottles up to his eyes. The reason it puzzled me was that there was no soldiers digging--no one there at all 'cepting him and Marse Long.
When we got back to old Miss Dabbs's, first person we seed outside was Old Pete. "Ah, General Longstreet," says Marse Robert; and him and Old Pete got to talking right there in the yard. Marse Robert was scratching in the dust with a stick, and pointing here and there. They was at it a long time.
Over the next few days lots of people came and went--Red Shirt, the Little General--yeah, and the President, too. And somehow I got the idea they was all in some kind of secret together. I couldn't bottom it out; and you see, there warn't no other horse I could ask. I'd never ask Richmond nothing, and all Brown-Roan knowed was that he didn't like the mounting feeling of strain. Well, neither did I--and yet, Tom, do you know? I felt, too, that I didn't want to be left out of it, whatever it was.
One afternoon, not long after that ride acrost the river, I was grazing in the meadow, right 'longside the yard outside the house. I knowed Marse Robert was inside, and I couldn't help wondering what he could be a-doing all that time. You see, Tom, we'd growed that close I sometimes used to feel a mite jealous and grudging on days when he was a long time indoors and we warn't together. It was fine weather for a change, and suddenly I seed the dust of horsemen quite a ways off. Turned out there was two of 'em, riding up to the house. First thing, I could see the horses was all tuckered out. They was sweating, frothing at their bits and panting. I didn't envy them. Wherever they'd come from, they'd come far and they'd come fast. One of the men dismounted very slow and stiff, and gave his horse to the other. Then he walked up to the door, and Perry came and spoke with him a piece. Then he came back and jest leant over agin the fence, with his head dropped down on his chest and his cap pulled right down over his eyes like he didn't want no one to know who he was. I could smell his sweat from where I was standing. And that was the first time I ever seed Cap-in-His-Eyes--General Stonewall Jackson, to give him his right name.
T'other man who'd come in with him had taken the horses round to the stable yard back o' the house, and so there was no one around 'cepting me and this man leaning hard on the fence, with his head down on his chest. He was covered with dust, and the sweat had made long streaks on his face. I figured he must be some soldier who'd be
en sent to deliver a message. But what struck me most 'bout him, jest at that moment, was the way he seemed perfectly content to do nothing at all. I mean, Tom, you know what men are like, don't you? 'Cepting when they're asleep, they're very seldom doing nothing at all. Either they're talking, or they're eating or drinking, or mending this or cleaning that. This man jest simply stayed put, like now he'd got his journey over he warn't aiming to do nothing else. He put me in mind of a tree; that's to say, he 'peared like he was doing all he had to do jest standing there and nothing was going to shift him. And yet somehow he made me feel he was friendly. I sorta sidled along the fence till I was close up to him, and at that he looked round and spoke to me and stroked my nose, but all the time 'twas plain he was a-thinking 'bout something else. He was a tall, gaunt, awkward-looking kind of a fella, and his clothes worn all anyhow. I wondered why he didn't go and ask for somethin' to eat and drink. I remember, too, that as I went back to grazing, he suddenly throwed both his hands up in the air. 'Looked real strange. I couldn't make him out at all.
Jest then who should come riding up the road but the Little General, and when he seed Cap-in-His-Eyes leaning on the fence, he called out to him like he was real s'prised. "Why, Jackson," he says, "what the devil are you doing here?" "Ah, Hill!" answers the other fella. And then the Little General got down and shook hands jest like Cap-in-His-Eyes was his oldest friend. As they stood there talking together, I realized that this awkward-looking soldier must be another general, and a pretty important one, too. Well, actually I only reckoned this a bit later on, 'cause what happened then was they both went in the house together, and soon after, Red Shirt and Old Pete turned up. So then I knowed that all these here generals must 'a come to hear what Marse Robert had got to say to em. They stayed a long time, too, 'cause they hadn't come out by sunset, when I was taken back to stables. I felt Marse Robert had left me real flat, that time.
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