CHAPTER II
THE MEETING OF GORDON ORME
I had enough to do when it came to mounting my horse Satan. Few cared toride Satan, since it meant a battle each time he was mounted. He was asplendid brute, black and clean, with abundant bone in the head and abrilliant eye--blood all over, that was easy to see. Yet he was amurderer at heart. I have known him to bite the backbone out of ayearling pig that came under his manger, and no other horse on our farmwould stand before him a moment when he came on, mouth open and earslaid back. He would fight man, dog, or devil, and fear was not in him,nor any real submission. He was no harder to sit than many horses I haveridden. I have seen Arabians and Barbary horses and English hunters thatwould buck-jump now and then. Satan contented himself with rearing highand whirling sharply, and lunging with a low head; so that to ride himwas a matter of strength as well as skill. The greatest danger was incoming near his mouth or heels. My father always told me that this horsewas not fit to ride; but since my father rode him--as he would any horsethat offered--nothing would serve me but I must ride Satan also, and soI made him my private saddler on occasion.
I ought to speak of my father, that very brave and kindly gentleman fromwhom I got what daring I ever had, I suppose. He was a clean-cut man,five-eleven in his stockings, and few men in all that country had ahandsomer body. His shoulders sloped--an excellent configuration forstrength--as a study of no less a man than George Washington willprove--his arms were round, his skin white as milk, his hair, like myown, a sandy red, and his eyes blue and very quiet. There was a balancein his nature that I have ever lacked. I rejoice even now in his love ofjustice. Fair play meant with him something more than fair play for thesake of sport--it meant as well fair play for the sake of justice.Temperate to the point of caring always for his body's welfare, asregular in his habits as he was in his promises and their fulfillments,kindling readily enough at any risk, though never boasting--I alwaysadmired him, and trust I may be pardoned for saying so. I fear that atthe time I mention now I admired him most for his strength and courage.
Thus as I swung leg over Satan that morning I resolved to handle him asI had seen my father do, and I felt strong enough for that. Iremembered, in the proud way a boy will have, the time when my fatherand I, riding through the muddy streets of Leesburg town together, saw afarmer's wagon stuck midway of a crossing. "Come, Jack," my fathercalled me, "we must send Bill Yarnley home to his family." Then we twodismounted, and stooping in the mud got our two shoulders under the axleof the wagon, before we were done with it, our blood getting up at thelaughter of the townsfolk. When we heaved together, out came BillYarnley's wagon from the mud, and the laughter ended. It was likehim--he would not stop when once he started. Why, it was so he marriedmy mother, that very sweet Quakeress from the foot of old Catoctin. Hetold me she said him no many times, not liking his wild ways, socontrary to the manner of the Society of Friends; and she onlyconsented after binding him to go with her once each week to the littlestone church at Wallingford village, near our farm, provided he shouldbe at home and able to attend. My mother I think during her life had notmissed a half dozen meetings at the little stone church. Twice a week,and once each Sunday, and once each month, and four times each year, andalso annually, the Society of Friends met there at Wallingford, and havedone so for over one hundred and thirty-five years. Thither went mymother, quiet, brown-haired, gentle, as good a soul as ever lived, andwith her my father, tall, strong as a tree, keeping his promise until atlength by sheer force of this kept promise, he himself became halfQuaker and all gentle, since he saw what it meant to her.
As I have paused in my horsemanship to speak thus of my father, I oughtalso to speak of my mother. It was she who in those troublous times justbefore the Civil War was the first to raise the voice in the QuakerMeeting which said that the Friends ought to free their slaves, law orno law; and so started what was called later the Unionist sentiment inthat part of old Virginia. It was my mother did that. Then she asked myfather to manumit all his slaves; and he thought for an hour, and thenraised his head and said it should be done; after which the servantslived on as before, and gave less in return, at which my father made wryfaces, but said nothing in regret. After us others also set free theirpeople, and presently this part of Virginia was a sort of Mecca forescaped blacks. It was my mother did that; and I believe that it was herinfluence which had much to do with the position of East Virginia on thequestion of the war. And this also in time had much to do with thisstrange story of mine, and much to do with the presence thereabout ofthe man whom I was to meet that very morning; although when I started tomount my horse Satan I did not know that such a man as Gordon Ormeexisted in the world.
When I approached Satan he lunged at me, but I caught him by the cheekstrap of the bridle and swung his head close up, feeling for the saddlefront as he reached for me with open mouth. Then as he reared I swung upwith him into place, and so felt safe, for once I clamped a horse fairthere was an end of his throwing me. I laughed when Miss Grace Sheratoncalled out in alarm, and so wheeled Satan around a few times and rode ondown the road, past the fields where the blacks were busy as blacks everare, and so on to our own red pillared-gates.
Then, since the morning was still young, and since the air seemed to melike wine, and since I wanted something to subdue and Satan offered, Ispurred him back from the gate and rode him hard down towardWallingford. Of course he picked up a stone en route. Two of us held hishead while Billings the blacksmith fished out the stone and tapped theshoe nails tight. After that I had time to look around.
As I did so I saw approaching a gentleman who was looking with interestat my mount. He was one of the most striking men I have ever seen, astranger as I could see, for I knew each family on both sides the BlueRidge as far up the valley as White Sulphur.
"A grand animal you have there, sir," said he, accosting Me. "I did notknow his like existed in this country."
"As well in this as in any country," said I tartly. He smiled at this.
"You know his breeding?"
"Klingwalla out of Bonnie Waters."
"No wonder he's vicious," said the stranger, calmly.
"Ah, you know something of the English strains," said I. He shrugged hisshoulders. "As much as that," he commented indifferently.
There was something about him I did not fancy, a sort of condescension,as though he were better than those about him. They say that weVirginians have a way of reserving that right to ourselves; and Isuppose that a family of clean strain may perhaps become proud aftergenerations of independence and comfort and freedom from care. None theless I was forced to admit this newcomer to the class of gentlemen. Hestood as a gentleman, with no resting or bracing with an arm, orcrossing of legs or hitching about, but balanced on his legseasily--like a fencer or boxer or fighting man, or gentleman, in short.His face, as I now perceived, was long and thin, his chin square,although somewhat narrow. His mouth, too, was narrow, and his teeth werenarrow, one of the upper teeth at each side like the tooth of acarnivore, longer than its fellows. His hair was thick and close cut tohis head, dark, and if the least bit gray about the edges, requiringclose scrutiny to prove it so. In color his skin was dark, sunburnedbeyond tan, almost to parchment dryness. His eyes were gray, the mostremarkable eyes that I have ever seen--calm, emotionless, direct, themost fearless eyes I have ever seen in mortal head, and I have lookedinto many men's eyes in my time. He was taller than most men, I thinkabove the six feet line. His figure was thin, his limbs thin, his handsand feet slender. He did not look one-tenth his strength. He was simplydressed, dressed indeed as a gentleman. He stood as one, spoke as one,and assumed that all the world accepted him as one. His voice was warmerin accent than even our Virginia speech. I saw him to be an Englishman.
"He is a bit nasty, that one"; he nodded his head toward Satan.
I grinned. "I know of only two men in Fairfax County I'd back to ridehim."
"Yourself and--"
"My father."
"By Jove! How o
ld is your father, my good fellow?"
"Sixty, my good fellow," I replied. He laughed.
"Well," said he, "there's a third in Fairfax can ride him."
"Meaning yourself?"
He nodded carelessly. I did not share his confidence. "He's not asaddler in any sense," said I. "We keep him for the farms."
"Oh, I say, my friend," he rejoined--"my name's Orme, Gordon Orme--I'mjust stopping here at the inn for a time, and I'm deucedly bored. I'venot had leg over a decent mount since I've been here, and if I mightride this beggar, I'd be awfully obliged."
My jaw may have dropped at his words; I am not sure. It was not that hecalled our little tavern an "inn." It was the name he gave me whichcaused me to start.
"Orme," said I, "Mr. Gordon Orme? That was the name of the speaker theother evening here at the church of the Methodists."
He nodded, smiling. "Don't let that trouble you," said he.
None the less it did trouble me; for the truth was that word had goneabout to the effect that a new minister from some place not stated hadspoken from the pulpit on that evening upon no less a topic than theever present one of Southern slavery. Now, I could not clear it to mymind how a minister of the gospel might take so keen and swift aninterest in a stranger in the street, and that stranger's horse. Iexpressed to him something of my surprise.
"It's of no importance," said he again. "What seems to me of mostimportance just at present is that here's a son of old Klingwalla, andthat I want to ride him."
"Just for the sake of saying you have done so?" I inquired.
His face changed swiftly as he answered: "We owned Klingwalla ourselvesback home. He broke a leg for my father, and was near killing him."
"Sir," I said to him, catching his thought quickly, "we could not affordto have the horse injured, but if you wish to ride him fair or be beatenby him fair, you are welcome to the chance."
His eye kindled at this. "You're a sportsman, sir," he exclaimed, and headvanced at once toward Satan.
I saw in him something which awakened a responsive chord in my nature.He was a man to take a risk and welcome it for the risk's sake.Moreover, he was a horseman; as I saw by his quick glance over Satan'sfurniture. He caught the cheek strap of the bridle, and motioned us awayas we would have helped him at the horse's head. Then ensued as pretty afight between man and horse as one could ask to see. The black brutereared and fairly took him from the ground, fairly chased him about thestreet, as a great dog would a rat. But never did the iron hold on thebridle loosen, and the man was light on his feet as a boy. Finally hehad his chance, and with the lightest spring I ever saw at a saddleskirt, up he went and nailed old Satan fair, with a grip which ridgedhis legs out. I saw then that he was a rider. His head was bare, his hathaving fallen off; his hair was tumbled, but his color scarcelyheightened. As the horse lunged and bolted about the street, Orme sathim in perfect confidence. He kept his hands low, his knees a littlemore up and forward than we use in our style of riding, and his weight atrifle further back; but I saw from the lines of his limbs that he hadthe horse in a steel grip. He gazed down contemplatively, with a halfserious look, master of himself and of the horse as well. Then presentlyhe turned him up the road and went off at a gallop, with the brute underperfect control. I do not know what art he used; all I can say is thatin a half hour he brought Satan back in a canter.
This was my first acquaintance with Gordon Orme, that strangepersonality with whom I was later to have much to do. This was my firstwitnessing of that half uncanny power by which he seemed to win allthings to his purposes. I admired him, yet did not like him, when heswung carelessly down and handed me the reins.
"He's a grand one," he said easily, "but not so difficult to ride as oldKlingwalla. Not that I would discount your own skill in riding him, sir,for I doubt not you have taken a lot out of him before now."
At least this was generous, and as I later learned, it was like him togive full credit to the performance of any able adversary.