Traveller (7 page)

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 ‘nother 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.

During them warm days down south, we used to see hundreds of horses. Like I was saying, we often rode alone and Marse Robert would go into any stables where we fetched up, jest to look at the horses and make sure they was being prop'ly cared for. But he did it all so quiet and homey—none of this here “I'm the General: jest you stand up straight!” stuff—that a lot of the soldiers never even knowed who he was. One day he stopped to talk to two fellas driving a team of horses, but one of ‘em was deaf, and as we was moving on, this deaf fella said to the other, real loud, “Who is that durned ol' fool? He's always a-pokin' round my horses as if he meant to steal one of ‘em!”

‘Seems like quite a while since you been in here to see me, Tom. You killed that many rats early on this summer, I s'pose you've no particular reason to come and sit in here nights. ‘Met the goat, have you? That's Sandy. Marse Robert's put him in here for company, seeing as how Ajax is down in the other shed. And powerful good company he is, too. Sandy, this is Tom the Nipper, Marse Robert's commander of ratcatchers. He has the most refined manners of any cat I've met.

Y'know, one thing I like ‘bout this here place is that even though we're pretty far on with summer now, the flies ain't all that bad. Why, I've knowed ‘em worse this time of year when we was up north. But ‘course, any Army draws flies—the crowds of men and horses natcherly breed ‘em. It's different here. Well, for one thing it's cooler, an' ‘tain't a lot o' horses, neither. S'afternoon, when me and Marse Robert was riding over to Rockbridge, he stopped off once't or twice't, like he gen'rally does, to talk with folks ‘long the way. He's that friendly, they've all got to know him real well. He was talking to this old fella quite a spell—'bout his corn crop, I figure, from the way they was both looking at the plants. I was hitched to the gate an' hardly a fly come round. Jest had to twitch my skin and stamp some; that was ‘nuff to fix ‘em.