The professor took the reins from the groom and led the horse to Canon. He handed over the lines.
“I am not surprised by your generosity, sir,” he said, “but I am greatly pleased. This horse is for you. His name is Old Scratch.”
It was Canon’s turn to be flustered. Spurred by the gift and several secret juleps, Canon did his best in a short speech to be as gracious as he had found the people of Lexington.
He refused to believe the professor, who claimed ever after that Canon said he looked forward to riding the turkey and was glad he was able to shoot the horse.
4
On the second day of the new year 1861, Canon took in one last gigantic example of what Mary Anna called a “Canon breakfast.” Classes were about to resume at VMI, and Mountain Eagle had written that preparations were under way for spring planting. It was time to return to the plantation, though Canon was reluctant to leave.
The professor walked Canon to the train station. The train for Montgomery was not scheduled for departure until noon, but the two wanted a long stroll and a talk. They had spoken rarely of the prospects of war and they were sick of hearing braggarts yearn for it.
In November, the lanky compromise Republican candidate from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln, had been elected president of the United States. He was to take office in March. Until then, said the professor, no one would know what the man really stood for. Earlier in his political life, Lincoln had spoken in favor of the abolition of slavery. Now he had moderated his views. Let slave states remain slave states if it will keep the union together, Lincoln said. Let there be more power in state’s rights. But he said the union must remain inviolate.
James Buchanan, the lame duck president, had in early December argued against secession but expressed doubt of the constitutional power of Congress to make war upon a state.
South Carolina took him at his word and on December 20 became the first state to secede from the Union. The professor felt that all Southern states would secede, then use their secession as bargaining power to re-enter the Union on a basis of stronger state’s rights. Still he believed there could be no war.
“War is a great and terrible thing, Rabe,” he said. “I’m glad mine is behind me. It is my belief and my greatest wish that there is not one awaiting you.”
“What if there is war, professor?”
“There will be no war.”
“But what if war comes?”
“There will be no war.”
A light snow had dusted the ground New Year’s Day but evaporated with only a bit of mud left in its wake. The day was dry and chill. A west wind scudded high white clouds across a background of blue. Against it, both men wore heavy wool coats.
The black Arabian stallion named for the professor’s late nemesis had already been taken to the stable car by a groom.
Canon shook hands with the professor, who thanked Canon for the visit and wished him well. Promising to write, and extracting a promise from Canon to return in the summer for another visit, the professor bid him farewell.
He had been home five days when news flashed across the nation that Confederates had fired on the Union ship Star of the West as it tried to slip soldiers and supplies to relieve Fort Sumter.
Canon attempted to downplay the incident. He told Buck and Mountain Eagle of the professor’s doubts on the possibility of war. But the two men had shaken their heads, unconvinced.
Canon slipped easily back into the rituals of preparing for spring cotton planting. Gear was mended. Equipment was checked. Plow animals were put on rich feed and exercise. Old Scratch was enrolled in the Mountain Eagle school of obedience.
It was a dicey moment when Scratch came into the corral with Hammer. Canon and Mountain Eagle had tried to familiarize the huge horses with each other, holding them under rein as they sniffed and snorted. But sooner or later the two had to be by themselves in the big corral.
That day, had their natures ruled, the horses would have fought until one was defeated, likely dead. But the palomino had learned to love and trust his master, just as Scratch would learn. They faced each other, nostrils flaring, flanks quivering. Stamping and pawing, the gold and the black pealed out war cries to each other as the men cooed soothing words to them.
Love for the humans triumphed over Hammer’s nature. The horse spurned millennia of instinct when he turned his back on Scratch and trotted away. It took weeks for the animals to truly accept one another, but love and patience finally led the stallions into a friendship as fast as those developed by draught horses that pull side by side for years.
Scratch would learn from Hammer, as well as his trainers, and Hammer’s training was as complete as the three men could make it.
As a youth, Canon had seen circus horses perform tricks and feats of apparent intelligence he could hardly believe. He saw what animals could accomplish, and the idea was reinforced by the cunning of the Old Scratch turkey.
Mountain Eagle told tales of his time on the plains where he had seen Indian ponies perform in an almost magical manner.
An Indian’s war pony would on command stand stone still for hours at a time, refusing food or water, until released by his owner. At a touch, or even a signal, a war pony would drop to the ground either to hide or to act as a shield for his master. Like circus ponies, they would prance, rear, buck or circle on command.
All this and more had been taught Hammer. Hour upon hour, since Canon had brought the horse home, Hammer learned through a system of reward and withholding of rewards. He learned to respond only to commands from his masters. For the sheer joy of it, he had also been taught to respond to hand signals, code words and pressure signals transmitted by his rider through knee or hand.
But if given a certain code word or signal by any of his trio of trainers, Hammer would perform for anyone who gave commands. He would allow only the three on his back unless another code word or signal gave permission for another rider.
When the men thought Hammer ready, they gave a summer barbecue at Mulberry so they could put the big horse through his paces. The Canons and Mountain Eagle delighted in remembrances of the day.
Canon had walked through the crowd on the manicured back lawn, a rigless Hammer heeling like a hunting dog. On command, he pranced, danced, rolled over, reared. He counted for the crowd, pawing the tended lawn to the precise number of strokes called out by Canon. He fetched a lady her bonnet, then took the same bonnet from her head and circled the crowd left, then right, before returning it. He knelt to allow Canon easy access to his broad back, then rose so gently that a reclining Canon was never in danger of falling.
After that day, Hammer and Canon became the highlight of many a barbecue and rodeo.
On his return to Mulberry from Lexington, Canon set out to give Scratch the same training. But he was surprised by the intensity that Buck and Mountain Eagle put into it. Where they had worked three hours with Hammer, they worked six with Scratch. Canon put in his time, too, but Buck let plantation duties go in order to spend more time training Scratch.
He wondered about it, but the explanation came on the evening of the day they learned shots were fired on the Star of the West.
Canon knew at dinner that something was going on. Buck and Mountain Eagle, his two fathers, were strangely silent and preoccupied throughout the meal. When Buck invited Canon into the library for a drink, he knew by the grave demeanor of the men that he was about to learn whatever it was that troubled them.
In the library, on a corner study table, were two large wrapped packages. Buck sat in an easy chair near the window and motioned for Canon to take the seat next to the study table. Mountain Eagle