Weasels, stoats and such creatures as could swim reached higher ground and for a short time saved their lives. Cattle, which had sought slightly dryer quarters on hillocks, were drowned as they called aloud, piteously, for help. Field-mice, rabbits and moles were suffocated in the rain-sodden earth. Foxes climbed into bushes to await the going down of the waters and were drowned, or starved to death, waiting. This was the year men praised the Lord for directing them to build their towns on hills, for they were thus above the valley floods that poured towards the Connecticut or the lake. But all about their homes the pine-needles and underbrush held the water like a sponge. On one of the very worst nights of the “flood” Samuel Stone set out to help a neighbor rescue his cattle. Stone apologized to Morgan for taking him out on such a night, with thunder and lightning so terrible. “’Tis hard to go out in such weather, Pony, but we must help our neighbors in their troubles, else when we are in straits they will not come to us!” The dense blackness and silence that followed the rapid flashes of orange lightning and roaring thunder--and his natural terror of storms--confused Morgan’s sight and hearing. Fortunately, however, he had never had rheumatism, nor stiffness of any kind, and his reluctance to leave his leaky stable was counteracted by his desire to do his duty bravely. Trusting blindly in his master’s judgment, he cantered off. The wind blew and whistled like evil spirits, the swaying trees bent almost to the ground, but at last they reached the neighbor’s house and succeeded in saving his terrified cattle, though with great difficulty. Afterwards the neighbor besought them to pass the night, but Stone refused, saying that, “by morning the bridges would all be gone and they must be getting home-along before that happened!” Hurriedly partaking of a hot supper in the leaking kitchen, near a sputtering fire, and after giving Morgan a good, warm mash, Stone mounted and rode away into the storm and night. Darkness fell about them like a blanket; there was nothing for the rider to do but leave it to his horse’s instinct and sense of direction to take him home. Not once did Justin Morgan hesitate. Very soon, by the roar of water the horse knew they were near Beaver Creek, a torrent, rising high in the mountains, and gathering strength as it raced and tore to the valley through narrow gorges, was now a raging cataract. In crossing this stream earlier, Morgan had perceived that the bridge could not last much longer; he had felt the timbers tremble under his tread.