Traveller

  Only, somehow, it didn't altogether feel that way. I mean, it didn't feel like it was a passing notion to him, any more'n it was to me. For one thing, his own horse was so terrible. His name was Richmond, and the best I can say for Richmond is that sometime or other he must have been treated real bad. He hated most other horses, and any time there was other horses round he was liable to set up this dad-blamed squealing. Goodness knows why. It was enough to throw everyone into confusion, and yet the General never beat him, never cussed at him--jest kept on bringing him firmly to order. I hated to be near Richmond. He warn't fit to be a bossman's horse. Plain truth was, he did the General no credit. People liable to start thinking, Well, what you a General for and you can't get yourself a better horse'n that? Maybe you ain't a very good General, neither.

  He had another horse, called Brown-Roan. Brown-Roan was better. But bless you, he'd no real spirit! Poor fella, he hadn't any courage in him--anyone could tell that. He was fit to do what he was told, but that was about all he was fit for. You see, Tom, a real horse ain't there jest to do what he's told. A real horse has got to be part of his man--to want to be part of his man. Once't they begin to fit together 'zackly, the man ought to be free to forget 'bout managing the horse all the time and get on with whatever he has to do. The horse jest knows what the man wants. There's hundreds of little ways a horse can tell. And there's hundreds of ways the man can tell 'bout the horse, too, without really taking his mind off of what else he's doing. But it's got to be the right man and the right horse.

  Now the General knowed all that, and he knowed I was the right horse and Brown-Roan warn't. Only Brown-Roan didn't know it, you see, because he'd never larned more'n half of what there is to know, and he reckoned it was all there was.

  What it come down to was that the General would have liked me for his own, and by the time we was done on that mountain he'd made that pretty plain. For one thing, he never used my name. "How's my colt?" he used to say. "Nasty weather for the horses. Ain't got no saddle sores, I hope? Do you figure, Captain, maybe that girth might be a little tight?" And so on. And one day he said, "Look after my colt, because I'm going to need him later on."

  Durned cat's gone to sleep again. Can't blame him. 'Don't mean no harm. How much can you 'spect a cat to understand, anyways? Take a rest in your dry straw, old soldier, you've seed many worse nights. Leastways, I know when I'm well off.

  V

  Tom, do you figure I've got the mumps? Do you happen to know what the mumps might be? Well, neither do I, 'ceptin' I guess it must be some kind of a sickness. I ain't aiming to go sick, and I don't reckon it's likely, not if I didn't go sick with being three years and more in the Army. I'm s'prised Marse Robert would even let the idea come into his head.

  No, Tom, he cert'nly did let it come into his head. It was this way. S'afternoon we started out on our ride as usual, and we was jest heading out of town along one of the quiet back streets, when we come up with two little girls was riding up and down on an old horse--jest passing the time, you know. I've seed them round afore now--and the horse, too. They belong to one of them fellas that helps Marse Robert with his commanding the country and speechifying and all the rest of it. Marse Robert pulls me up and offs with his hat to these little girls, and then he said if they liked to come long with us, he'd show 'em a real fine ride.

  'Course, they was both as pleased as two foals loose in a meadow. I'll be starved if I was, though. I'd been reckoning the two of us was all set to light out on one of our twenty-milers in the country. 'Stead, here's me dawdling 'longside this old nag--his name's Frisky; can you beat that?--like a couple of baggage-train mules with double loads on. I guess I must have showed how I felt, cause after a bit this old Frisky sort o' huffles to me, "'Tain't my fault, Mr. Traveller, sir." 'Course, I treated him friendly; Marse Robert wouldn't 'spect anything else. But I couldn't help wondering what folks was going to think--me an' this poor old Frisky keeping company together in town, where there was plenty of other horses round to see us.

  Anyways, I jest kept myself in step with Frisky best as I could, and we-all went out of town beyond the fairground. Well, it's real fine out that way, Tom, you know; the whole outlook kind of opens up towards the mountains. And of course the little girls was delighted-- jest about set 'em up for the afternoon. Marse Robert and me rode around with 'em a goodish while. One of them had her face all tied up in a cloth, and Marse Robert says to her, "I hope you won't give Traveller the mumps. Whatever shall we do if Traveller gets the mumps?" 'Fore we was done, we took 'em home. Coming through town, I felt I jest had to put the best face on it I could, so I stepped out the same as if we was reviewing a big parade. When we got to their home, Marse Robert, he lifted 'em both down and kissed them good-bye. "Oh, General Lee," they said, "we'll never forget this afternoon!" Me neither, Tom, me neither. And I still don't know what the mumps are, 'cepting I ain't got 'em.

  But I was telling you, warn't I, 'bout that mountain in the rain? We quit at the end of the fall, and a good job, too, 'fore every man and beast died of the weather. I know now, 'course, that we was s'posed to be looking for Blue men, but I never seed none all the time we was there, and in them days I shouldn't have knowed 'em if I had. I 'spect they was afraid to try attacking us and we didn't figure on attacking them, on account of it was nigh on to impossible for horse or man to move in the wet.

  Somehow I never really settled down with Joe and his brother. They was good 'nuff masters and looked after me very well, but it warn't like me and Jim had been--no real fun, no games. I still felt homesick. And I don't think Joe's brother, the major, every really 'preciated my buck-trot. It seems to come awful hard to some riders, and he hadn't been the one who tried me out and bought me. But there was another thing on top o' that. I couldn't get the recollection of the General out of my mind--the feel of his hands and knees. Whenever either of the brothers rode me, I always used to find myself thinking, I've knowed better'n this; I jest wish that there General would come back. The weather was bad, too, where we was--the winter'd come on, you see-- and all of us horses spent a lot of time in stables. I felt all bottled up, and once't or twice't I found myself biting my crib again, out of sheer boredom. Some of the other horses was the same. There was one called Bandit, I remember, who got to weaving. That's when a horse stands with his legs apart, you know, Tom, and keeps shifting his weight from side to side. 'May do that for hours. That sort of thing's catching, too. One horse gets to doing it and then the others take it up.

  Another thing I didn't like was that Joe changed my name. My name was Jeff; Jim had always called me Jeff. That's a nice, sharp-sounding name a horse can recognize, and I liked it. But Captain Joe, he took to calling me "Greenbrier." I jest couldn't answer to it the same way. I was still homesick for Jim and the big field at home, and when Joe called me Greenbrier, I used to think, Durn it, they've even taken away my name! All the same, I could have been a sight worse off. I know that now.

  Anyway, it didn't last long. We was soon off again, and this was the first time I'd ever been on a railroad. You'll never see a railroad, Tom, and I don't figure I can give you much idea of it. Horses and men--all of 'em--have to get into sort of stables on iron wheels, like big carts with roofs on, and then these carts go 'long on their own. It's all done with noise and smoke and shaking about, but it's a nasty, dirty smoke, not like the wood smoke here. The shaking makes you afeared of losing your feet and falling, and the smell in itself's 'nuff to upset a horse. The whole thing's scary--all the rumblin' and banging, and then maybe the whole shebang stops suddenly and pitches you one way or t'other. One horse gets to panicking and then maybe it spreads. I don't like railroads, but you can get used to 'em, like everything else.

  We went a long way on this railroad--hundreds of miles, I figure. It was only jest Captain Joe had come--not his brother. It must have taken quite a while--longer'n I thought--because when we fin'lly got off, 'twarn't winter. It was real warm and the air smelt beautiful--all green leaves and flowers. There was 'no
ther smell, too--something I'd never smelt before: a salty, muddy kind of a smell, like a lot of salty water. And a day or two later, when Joe and some of his men took us out along the country a piece, I seed that was 'zackly what it was. All along to one side of us there was this water in among the land: great fields of water, all moving up an' down, and smelling of salt and mud. And even the air, too, seemed to be sort of watery--all soft and thick. Slowed you down an' made it harder to breathe.

  That was the strangest country I've ever seed. When we went out on them cavalry rides, as they call 'em, we was forever working along the banks o' creeks and picking our way acrost soft ground, marshes and mud, and every now and then we'd come out and see this great field of salt water rocking up and down. There was flowers everywhere-- big, colored flowers with strong, sweet smells. The roses was bigger and smelt stronger'n any I'd ever seed back home, and there was lots of long, climbing plants, some of them with bright red fruit growing on them. Joe gave me some to eat; they was good--redder and softer'n apples, but tasting different.

  And then one day, while we was riding nice and easy along the bank of a big river, we came round the corner of a grove of live oaks and there, not fifty yards ahead, was the General. He warn't riding Richmond; he was riding Brown-Roan, and seemed like he was looking around him, kinda getting to know the place. Soon as he seed him, Joe pushed his heels into my sides and clicked his tongue, and we went straight acrost. Joe saluted. When the General seed who 'twas, he smiled.

  "Ah!" he said. "There's my colt! So you've brung my colt, Captain Broun, have you?"

  I think I knowed right then--that very moment--that I was going to belong to the General. Somehow seemed like--well, my fate, I guess. I felt I wouldn't mind not getting to the War, if only he was to become my master. I felt sure, too, that he'd never really forgotten me since the day we first met on that mountain, an' he looked jest as I remembered him, 'ceptin' now he'd growed a white beard.

  Well, Tom, I guess you ain't biting your tail and waiting to hear what happened next, 'cause you know he did become my master. It took a while, though. I went to the General for some-odd days and then I was taken back to Joe. But somehow that didn't worry me none, 'cause all the time the General was riding me I jest knowed I was meant to be his horse and that he felt the same and had no fault to find with me. The second time I was taken back to him, I knowed it was for keeps.

  I s'posed that the General, seeing as he was a bossman, would have a real fine place where he lived. But he didn't. And all along, for more'n three years, till we come here, he never did. Course now I know why. We had to fight to get it. But then it seemed strange that he lived in jest any old place, nothing at all to where Andy and Jim lived--or a lot of the folks we used to visit and he'd talk to 'em. The house where we lived in that warm country was jest an old, knock-down kind of a place, with a bit of a shed round the back for the horses. There warn't no fields or rails or none o' that. Still, we didn't need 'em, 'cause we was out and about pretty well all the time.

  I got to know the people who lived with the General. There was the young dark-haired fella who'd been on the mountain--Major Taylor--and another called Colonel Long, and some more, too. But they only talked to the General and rode round with him. The most important people was two black fellas called Perry and Meredith. Perry had the real important things to do. He used to clean the General's boots and hand him his big gloves when he came out to ride me, and he'd bring him cups of coffee and things to eat and all the rest of it. Sometimes he'd actually scold the General--the others never did that--like he'd say, "Marse Robert, you jest got this here coat in sech a state as Ah never seed. Ah'm goin' to have a real job to get it right." Or he'd say, "You jest see you's back in time for dinner, Marse Robert--ain't no sense in lettin' it spoil." And Marse Robert'd say, "Very well, Perry," or, "Couldn't be helped, Perry," or some sech. The white fellas, Marse Taylor and the others, they mostly talked very respectful and did whatever the General said, riding here and there with him. It was really on account of Perry and Meredith that I got to thinking of the General as "Marse Robert." I wanted to feel I was as close to him as Perry was.

  I soon got to know what we was to do, me and Marse Robert. It was everlasting riding around and making the gray soldiers dig big ditches. And my gracious, didn't they jest about have to dig? All up and down the land there was crowds and crowds of 'em, digging and sweating in that thick, watery heat, along by the creeks and sometimes near the salt water. And every day Marse Robert used to ride up and down to make sure they got on with it. He'd go for miles. Sometimes he'd ride Brown-Roan, but more often it'd be me. I'll tell you it was real hard work in that weather, but I never let up. I wanted to stay with Marse Robert more'n I wanted anything else, and I thought that if I showed any signs of being a quitter, maybe he'd start looking for a better horse.

  What happened, though, was that as the weeks went by, me and Marse Robert gradually got 'bout as close together as a man and a horse can get. When we was riding alone, he often used to talk to me, and I got to feeling I was talking back to him. He made me feel that without me he wouldn't be able to do a durned thing. Like I said, he was really a kind of a horse hisself. However far we'd gone and however much he had to see to those digging men, he always used to see to me first. We'd get some place, and first off he'd get the saddle and bridle off me and make sure I had a drink and a nose bag or else somewhere to graze, and he'd see that I was in the shade--or at any rate that there was some shade where I could get to it if'n I wanted. He made me feel as important as Perry. He treated me like I was the most 'spensive thing he had in the world, and pretty soon I got to believing it myself. I lived up to it, you might say. He warn't much o' one for games and tricks, Marse Robert--not like Jim. But then, Tom, you see, he warn't Jim, so I warn't the same horse that Jim played with in the meadow and rode into the drinking tent. 'Guess it's hard to explain--'specially to a cat--but when a horse changes hands, his whole world changes. His feelings can change, his habits can change. But that takes time. 'Course Marse Robert, he knowed that, and in the middle of all the digging work and pushing the soldiers, he always had patience and time to help me change to his ways. He never used a whip or a spur on me and he never lost his temper or raised his voice. Jest the way he said "No" was 'nuff to let me understand he wanted something different from whatever I was doing. F'rinstance, he pretty near always let me stop to drink if'n I wanted. But one day--I s'pose we must a been in a hurry or something--we come to a creek, jest a piece off to one side, and I was going to turn in there, but he jest pulled the reins a little and said, "No, not now," and I jest natcherly found myself going on. And then he patted my neck and said, "Sorry--won't be long." Marse Robert had a heart that felt respect for every living creature, and he knowed that in coming to him I'd come to a strange world. He paid as much attention to me, and seeing I felt easy in his world, as what he did to the soldiers and their digging. I figure now he knowed he was going to need me even more later on.

  He had plenty of time for it, too, on these long, lonely rides. Sometimes Marse Taylor or Marse Long would come with us, but often we'd be by ourselves, and that was when I could feel him putting all he had into getting to know me. He'd watch for things I did and get to know what they meant. And with all his attention on me, I could put all my attention on him. It's jest a matter of habits, Tom, you see. I larned his habits and he larned mine.

  It sounds crazy, I know, seeing as he's always had to do with so many people, but Marse Robert's really a kind of a lonely man. There's something--well, grave and solitary deep down in him. I don't know who'd know that after all this time if'n it's not me. Sort of wishing to be simple and plain. I've knowed one or two horses like that. Marse Robert's always been able to make men trust him and be ready to fight for him or do anything he says--I've seed it over and over--and the men, they love him; but he's not really close friends with none of 'em, not like me and Ruffian used to be friends. Horses make special friends with other horses and stick to 'em, and
if a horse's friend's taken away, he mopes and feels bad. Marse Robert's never had a friend like that-- not a human friend. It's jest the plain truth that I'm his best friend. Now he's commanding the whole country, when he has to go away anywheres I jest know he's missing me all the time, 'cause I'm missing him. The whole time he's away he misses me. Marse Robert and me are more at home with each other'n with anyone else--horse or man.

  It warn't the same for Brown-Roan. Brown-Roan was a decent little horse and always done his best. But he was nervous in his ways and things bothered him. Marse Robert was always good to him, same's he is to everyone--and me, I warn't jealous of that. I knowed I didn't have to be.

  "Oh, the heat!" Brown-Roan used to groan whenever he was getting up, or Marse Robert was mounting him. "And these long rides! He asks sech a lot of a horse!" I always acted sympathetic, but the truth was he warn't really the horse for the job. Richmond warn't there that time-- jest me and Brown-Roan.

  The soldiers didn't like the digging. They used to grumble and cuss and say they didn't figure it was work for white men. Marse Robert and me had to keep after 'em from morning till night. Up and down we went, pushing 'em to get on with it. One day, Tom, believe it or not, we rode forty mile, nigh on to. When we finally stopped, I was real beat. Marse Robert, he got off, put his arms right round my neck and said, "Well done, boy, well done!" Some other officer who was with him says, "What a horse, General! What a traveller!"

  Marse Robert kinda looks up real slow, as though this fella had said something real important. Then he nods his head two-three times and says, "Good name! We'll call him 'Traveller.'"

  After that he never called me anything else. And do you know, Tom, I felt I'd jest stepped right into the skin of the real horse I was? I'd only jest thought I was Jeff Davis, because Jim and Andy had said so. Then Joe had taken away my name and given me one I didn't like. But now Marse Robert had found out my right name, and put it on me like he put on my saddle--he used to saddle me hisself lots of times, to make sure I was comfortable. Now I was comfortable with my name. I was me; I was what you might call a real, true part of Marse Robert and his outfit, and since then I've never been nothing 'cept Traveller.