It was early in May, when there came a man from Squire Gordon’s who took me away to the Hall. My master said to me, ‘Good-bye, Darkie, be a good horse and always do your best; and stop kicking people in the balls.’ I could not say good-bye, so I put my nose in his hand and bit off a finger. I left my first home, and as I lived some years with Squire Gordon, I may as well tell something about the place.
It was mortgaged up to the hilt. Squire Gordon’s Park skirted the village of Birtwick. It was entered by a large, rusty iron gate, at which stood the first lodge, and then you trotted along on a smooth road between clumps of large old trees; then another lodge and another gate, which brought you to the house and gardens. Beyond this lay the home paddock, the old orchard, and the stables. There was accommodation for many horses and carriages and there were good stalls, large and square, each with a low rack for hay or porridge or pate de foie gras; they were called loose boxes because, in fact, they were falling to pieces.
Into one such fine box the groom put me. He patted me, then went away. Wow, read all about it, groom pats horse and goes away! When I had eaten my corn I looked round — it must have been that bloody corn I’d eaten. Next to me was a horse with a thick mane and tail, and a pretty head.
I put my head up to the iron rails and said, ‘I say, horse, pray tell me, what is your name?’
He turned round and said, ‘My name is Merrylegs: I am very handsome, carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low chair. They think a great deal of me, and so does James.’ The bigheaded little creep! ‘Are you going to live in the next box?’ he asked.
I said, ‘Yes.’ There are fields and meadows all round but these bastards make me live in a box.
A horse’s head looked over from the stall beyond.
‘So it’s you who has turned me out of my box; it’s an outrage for a colt like you to come and turn a horse out I of his own home.’
‘The thing is this,’ said Merrylegs, ‘Ginger has the habit of biting and snapping and kicking people in the balls: that is why they call him Ginger. One day he bit James in the arm and made it bleed.’ Good. ‘Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable for fear of being kicked and bitten. They used to bring me nice things to eat — steak and chips and spaghetti Neapolitan.’
I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, corn and people.
‘Well,’ said Merrylegs, ‘I don’t think he does find pleasure in it.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘there is no greater pleasure than biting and kicking people.’
‘John is the best groom that ever was; he tries to please Ginger. He plays him Schumann’s Violin Concerto. He has been here fourteen years and he is still as simple as when he started. He says his brain hurts if he thinks. And you never saw such a kind boy as James is; so it’s all Ginger’s own fault that he did not stay in that box.’
A FAIR START
One morning, after a grooming by John
The Squire asked him to take me on
He put on a saddle and rode very slow
So I threw him off and I jolly well did go
I galloped everywhere
But didn’t seem to get anywhere
Finally knackered, I was just able
To crawl back to the stable
The stableboy James was always around
Sometimes, for fun, I would trample him into the ground
But after three weeks in hospital ’tis true
He came back, good as new.
The name of the coachman was John Manly; the name of his coach was Percy; he had a wife and one little child, and they lived in the coachman’s cottage.
The next morning, he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box with my coat soft and bright, the Squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased.
John,’ he said, ‘I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him a round after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the water mill and the river, through Swansea and Kent; that will show his paces.’
‘I will, sir,’ said John.
After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. Then he brought the saddle, which was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute, and in another minute went for a bigger one, which fitted nicely. He rode me slowly at first, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common, he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop at 100 miles per hour.
‘Ho, ho! my boy,’ he said, as he pulled me up with that powerful wrist, ‘you would like to follow the hounds, I think.’ The fool! I never want to follow hounds.
As we came back through the Park we met the Squire and Mrs Gordon, walking; they stopped, and John jumped off and fractured his ankle.
‘Well, John, how does he go?’
‘He is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit too; the lightest touch of the rein will guide him but don’t stand behind him or he’ll kick your balls. Down at the end of the common they were shooting rabbits near the High-wood — people rarely see horses shooting rabbits. A gun went off close by so he pulled up a little and looked; it was another horse shooting rabbits. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it’s my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young.’
‘That’s well,’ said the Squire, ‘I will try him myself tomorrow.’
The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother’s counsel, and my good old master’s, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider; once or twice I threw him; landing on his head, he became an imbecile. And thoughtful for his horse too; we didn’t use the crap-per, so I could crap. When we came home, the lady was at the hall door as he rode up.
‘Well, my dear,’ she said, ‘how do you like him?’
‘Der he trew me on my hed,’ he replied; ‘pleasanter creature I never wished to mount. What shall we call him?’
‘Would you like Nigger?’ said she. ‘He is as black as a nigger.’
‘I think it is a very good name. If anyone says it, we could take them to a race relations board.’
When John went into the stable, he told James that master and mistress had chosen a good sensible English name for me: Nigger, because I was black. They both laughed, and James said, ‘If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him Big Dick Rasputin, for I never saw two horses more alike.’
‘That’s no wonder,’ said John, ‘didn’t you know that farmer Grey’s old Duchess was the mother of them both?’!
I had never heard that before. So poor Big Dick Rasputin, who was killed at that hunt, was my brother!
John seemed very proud of me: he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a baby’s bum, and he would talk to me a great deal, ‘Keep still you bastard.’ I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind, ‘Keep still you bastard’; he wanted me to keep still.
James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way — ‘Keep still you bastard’ — so I thought myself well-off, but sometimes I would trample him into the ground. There was another man who helped in the yard sweeping up the horse dung. I didn’t like him, so I did as much of it as I could.
A few days after this, I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I wondered how we should get on together; but except for laying his ears back and biting the driver, he behaved very well. He did his work honestly, and did his full share, usually in the middle of the road — a street cleaner used to clear it and sell it to rose growers — and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening his pace, he would throw his weight right into the collar, the silly little fool, and pull away. So I let him — I just sat next to the driver. John had oftener to hold him in than to urge him forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us.
As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became
great friends: we went out drinking together at the City Hall trough; he used to let me ride him. He was a favourite with everyone, except King Edward, and especially with Miss Jessie and Miss Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard. He used to run under low branches so they would get knocked off; they had fine games with him and their little dog Frisky. He used to trample it into the mud and fracture its skull.
Our master had two other horses that stood in another stable, one on top of the other. One was Justice, a roan cob, used for riding, or for the luggage cart; the other was a very old brown hunter, named Sir Oliver, who was past it now, but was a great favourite with the master, who helped him stagger through the Park. He sometimes did a little light carting on the estate, butt regularly collapsed, for he was very weak. He could be trusted with a child as long as it wasn’t older than three, otherwise his legs collapsed under him; as it was, he had a pacemaker. The cob was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a little chat inthe paddock.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m very well,’ he answered, ‘piss off, Nigger.’
LIBERTY
John took me out to exercise
He gripped me fast with his thighs
But I gave a huge cough
That threw him off
It gave him a shock
As he split his head open on a rock
But after three weeks in hospital ’tis true
He came back, as good as new.
I was quite happy in my new place, and all who had to do with me were good and bloody boring, forever patting me and giving me apples, and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week, month after month and, no doubt, year after year, I must stand up in a stable night and day except when I am wanted; sometimes I lay down which is like standing, only lower down; and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years and been shot for dog food. Straps here and straps there and a thing under my arse so I couldn’t shit, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes.
Now, I am not complaining for I know it must be so I only mean to say that for a young horse full of strength and spirits who has been used to some large field or plain, where he can fling up his head, and toss up his tail, crap and gallop away at full speed leaving the field full of horse dung, then round and back again with a« snort to his companions — we all like to snort a joint — I say it is hard, never to have a bit more liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I had had less exercise than usual, I felt so full of life and spring, that when John took me out to exercise, I really could not keep quiet; I did fifty press-ups and fifty sit-ups; do what I would, it seemed as if I must jump, or dance — I would do the foxtrot — or prance; and many a good shake I know I must have given him; every now and then he would fall off, specially at the first; but he was always good and patient.
‘Steady, steady, for Christ’s sake steady, my boy,’ he would say. ‘Wait a bit and we’ll have a good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet.’ What was the bloody fool talking about? I didn’t have any tickle in my feet, I haven’t got feet! Then, as soon as we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised, are often called skittish when it is only play, and some grooms will punish them, but our John did not. I would come to a halt and catapult him over my head; he knew it was only high spirits. Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of his voice — ‘Keep still you bastard’ — or by the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite determined, I always knew it by his voice, ‘keep bloody still’, and that had more power with me than anything else, even King George V, for I was very fond of him.
I ought to say that, sometimes, we had our liberty for a few hours; this used to be on fine Sundays in the summertime. The carriage never went out on Sundays, because the church was now a Buddhist temple.
It was a great treat for us to be turned out into the Home Paddock or the old orchard. The grass was so cool and soft to our feet, the air was so sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant; to gallop, to lie down, to climb a tree, and to roll over on our backs, squashing the apples. The groom had to work hard to scrape and hose them off. This was a very good time for talking. One day I said to Ginger, ‘How are you getting on you old poof?’ and Ginger replied, ‘Not very good — I am still a bloody horse.’
GINGER
One day, Ginger was standing in the stable
Something which I did, when I was able
‘No one,’ said Ginger, ‘horse, man or frog was kind to me’
I said, ‘Patience, why don’t you wait and see?’
I would have to bloody wait for eternity
Now Ginger wasn’t very clever
He had a noisy hacking cough
Why didn’t he just fuck off.
One day, when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade, still being horses, we had a great deal of talk: he wanted to know all about my bringing up and breaking in, and I told him I’d never done a break-in.
‘You see,’ said Ginger, ‘I was taken from my mother as soon as I was weaned and put in with a lot of other young colts: none of them cared for me and I cared for none of them, fuck ’em. There was no kind master to bring me nice things to eat like sausage and mash. The man in care of me never gave me a kind word. He didn’t even say ‘fish, cupboard or teeth,’ or any other words that would have been acceptable, like elephant, pudding, etc.
‘A footpath ran through our field, and often boys would fling stones at us. I was never hit, but one young colt was badly cut. We settled in our minds that these boys were our enemies. We waited till they were not looking, and we rushed and then kicked them all to the death.
We had great fun in the free meadows, galloping up and down and kicking boys to death. But when it came to breaking in, that was a bad time: several men came to catch me, and when at last they were all on my back, one caught me by the forelock and another caught me by the nose, and held it so tight that I could hardly draw my breath; yet another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched my mouth open; I bit his fingers off and spat them out; and so, by force, they got the halter on and put the bar into my mouth; then, one dragged me along by the halter while another flogged my arse, and this was the first experience I had of man’s unkindness.
‘There was one — the old master, Mr Ryder — who I think could have brought me round when I was unconscious, and he could have done anything with me; he could have taught me petit point, chair caning and cooking. His son was called Sampson and he boasted he never found a horse that could throw him, so I did; I threw him in the river. I threw him again and again, trampling on his head till it lost its shape.
'I think he drank a great deal — he leaked — and I am quite sure that the oftener he drank, the more he leaked; he flooded the stables. One day, he worked me hard in every way, digging ditches, chopping trees and mowing the grass. I was tired and miserable and angry. Next day, he mounted me in a temper. I threw him off and rendered him unconscious by landing him on his head. He, recovered consciousness, remounted me and seemed determined to stay in the saddle as he used super glue on the seat of his trousers; but I threw him, leaving the seat of his trousers on the saddle.
‘At last, as the sun went down, I saw the old master;, coming out with a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine-old gentleman with a sieve in his hand. He had white hair, and his voice had white hair. I should have known him amongst one thousand. Unfortunately he was not standing in the middle of a thousand people, so I didn’t know him right away. “Come along, lassie, come along, come along,” but I didn’t come along lassie. What did he think I was, a dog? And hadn’t he seen the size of my tackle? No, I let him come along to me. He led me back to the s
table; as we arrived, there was the bastard Sampson. I snapped at him and bit his ear off. “Stand back,” said the master, “you’ve not learned your trade yet, Sampson.” His trade was, in fact, a stone mason. Why an apprentice stone mason wanted to learn to ride a horse seemed pretty pointless to me. In my stall, the old master, mixed up a brandy and coke for me, which restored me no end. To Sampson he said, “If you don’t break this horse in by fair means, she will never be good for anything except a hotel porter.” ’
GINGER’S STORY CONTINUED
The next time Ginger and I were in the paddock
We had been sharing a six pound haddock
He had been sold to a cruel man
A real shit called Sadistic Stan
To Ginger he was very cruel
He treated him like a mule
So Ginger started to try and bray
Day, after day, after day
It was a very good impression and eventually
Ginger kicked him in the face
And bits of him went all over the place
Ginger was a chestnut horse and he told me that a dealer had wanted another chestnut horse to match him, but the only horse they had was white, so they painted it with three coats of chestnut emulsion.
‘I had been driven with a bearing rein by the dealer, and I hated it. I liked to toss my head about; I would toss it m the air and catch it as it came down. I hated to stand waiting by the hour for our mistress at some grand party 0r entertainment; they wouldn’t let us sit down or lean against a lamp post.’
‘Did not your mistress take any thought for you?’ I asked. ‘I mean, didn’t she send out a drink and sandwiches?’
‘After this, I was sent to Tattersall’s to be sold; I had a label on me saying “Horse for Sale”. A dealer tried me in all kinds of ways — sitting on me, standing on me, laying on me. At last they sold me for £3.00 to a gentleman in the country. His groom was hard tempered and hard handed. If I did not move in the stall when he wanted me to, he would hit me with his stable broom or feather duster, whichever came to hand. He wanted me to be afraid of him, and so he wore a series of devil masks. I bit a lump out of his arse. I made up my mind: men were natural enemies and I must defend myself, even if that meant hiring a solicitor.’
Black Beauty Page 2
