My master stopped at the farrier’s and asked him to see what was the matter with me. The man took up my feet one by one and examined them; then, standing up, he said:
‘Your horse has got the thrush, and badly too.’
Not only had I got thrush, but badly, too.
‘If you will send him here tomorrow, I will attend to the hoof.’
The next day I had my feet thoroughly cleansed and stuffed with tow soaked in some strong Harpic, and a very unpleasant business it was.
With this treatment, I soon regained my spirits, and threw my master. Mr Barry was so much disgusted at being twice deceived by his groom that I was therefore sold again. My master poured petrol on Alfred Smirk’s balls and set fire to them.
32
A HORSE FAIR
I had a ‘Horse for Sale’ ticket tied on me
A man called Jim said, ‘I’ll give £23 for thee’
Master said, ‘you will have to up your offer, Jim’
‘Up yours,’ replied Jim
Then he walked away
And has never been seen again to this day.
No doubt, a horse fair is an amusing place to those who have nothing to lose; if they do lose something they just have to go and look for it.
Long strings of young horses out of the country, droves of shaggy little Welsh ponies who all played rugby, and hundreds of cart horses, some of them with their long tails braided up and tied with scarlet cord. Round in the background there were a number of poor things, sadly worn down with hard work as if there was no more pleasure in life for them. They were all, in fact, being sold for dog food. There were some so thin, you could see inside them.
There was a great deal of bargaining; a man pulled open my mouth, and then looked at my eyes. With my mouth open, they could see straight away through to the coast of France. One man came to bid for me. He was very quick with his motions, and I never knew exactly where they were. He had that lovely clean smell of somebody who always used Sunlight soap, as if he had just come from a laundry. He offered £23 pounds for me; but that was refused, and he walked away. I looked after him. A very hard-looking man with acne came; I was very afraid that he would have me, but he walked off. Just then, the grey-eyed man came back again. I could not help reaching out my head towards him.
‘Well, old chap,’ he said, ‘I think we should suit each other. I’ll give twenty-four for him.’
‘Say twenty-five and you shall have him.’
‘Twenty-four ten,’ said my friend, ‘and not another sixpence, yes or no?’
‘Done,’ said the salesman, ‘and you may depend upon it: there’s a monstrous deal of quality in that horse.’
The money was paid on the spot; it was a spot of three inches in diameter. He led me to an inn called The Flat Hedgehog, gave me a good feed of oats, and stood by whilst I ate it, talking to himself, and to a tree. Half-an-hour after, we were on our way to London, through pleasant lanes and flooded roads. Half-an-hour later, we came to the great London thoroughfare on which we travelled steadily until, half-an-hour later, we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already lighted; there were streets to the right, and streets to the left, and streets crossing each other, and streets that went straight up for mile upon mile. I thought the corner to the right went into the Valley of Death, and we should never get to the end of them. At last, charged the gallant six hundred, bravely they rode and well. Passing through one street, we came to a long cab stand, but what was that terrible smell? My rider called out in a cheery voice, ‘Good night, Governor.’ As the Governor lived thirty miles away, he had little chance of hearing it. So rode the gallant six hundred.
‘Halloo,’ cried a voice, ‘have you got a good one?’
‘Yes,’ replied my owner, ‘but I’m not going to show it with all these people.’ And he rode on.
Half-an-hour later, my owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, the cat flew out, followed by a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy. There was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted. The boy stood on his mother’s head, and the little girl on the boy’s head; they were a family of acrobats.
‘Now, then, Harry, my boy, open the gates and mother will bring us the lantern.’
The next minute, they were all standing round me in a small stable yard.
‘Is he gentle, father?’
‘Yes, Dolly, as gentle as your own kitten.’
At once, the little hand was patting about all over my shoulders without fear. How good it felt!
‘Let me get him a bran mash and oysters while you rub him down,’ said the mother.
‘Do, Polly, it’s just what he wants, and I know you’ve got a beautiful mash and oysters ready for me.’
33
A LONDON CAB HORSE
My master’s name was Jeremiah Barker
He was a silly farker
His wife was a tidy woman with a huge bum
Which Jeremiah beat as a drum
Boom — Boom — Boom
It echoes round the room
My new name was Jack
Perfect for a horse who was jet black
Another horse had been in action in the Crimea
And had shrapnel
So it came to pass
He had a sore arse.
My new master’s name was Jeremiah Barker, but everyone called him Jeremiah Barker. Polly, his wife, was just as good a match as a man could have. She was plump and had a moustache, a trim, tidy little woman, with smooth dark hair, dark eyes and a huge bum. The boy was nearly twelve, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad, and an oaf who wanked all day. Little Dorothy was her mother over again, at eight years old with a big bum. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a happy, merry family before, or since.
Jeremiah Barker had a cab of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal, called Captain; he had him when he was a Private. He was old now, but when he was young he must have been splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He told me that in his early youth he went off to the Crimean War. Bravely they rode and well, into the valley of hell. He belonged to an officer in the cavalry, and rode with the gallant six hundred. Their’s is not to reason why, their’s is but to do and die.’ I will tell more of this hereafter; if there is a hereafter.
The next morning, when I was well groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me, and make friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, standing on his head.
‘We’ll call him Jack,’ said Jeremiah, ‘after the old one — shall we, Polly?’
‘Do,’ she said, ‘for I like to keep a good name going.’ So, from Black Beauty, to Nigger, to Black Auster, and now Jack. What would it be next — Dick?
After driving through the side street, we came to a large cab stand. On one side of this wide street was an old church and old churchyard, surrounded by old iron palisades. Why? No one inside wanted to get out, and no one outside wanted to get in. We pulled up at the rank. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their remarks.
‘Good for a funeral,’ said one — the bastard!
‘Too smart-looking,’ said another, shaking his head which rattled. ‘You’ll find out something wrong one of these fine mornings, or my name isn’t Jones.’ His name wasn’t Jones; it was Starbruckenborg.
The first week of my life as a cab horse was very trying; I tried to be a cab horse. Even when we were standing still on the spot.
In a short time, I and my master understood each other as well as a horse and man could do. Sometimes, he would let me wear one of his shirts. Even in the stable he did everything he could for our comfort. He put in an armchair and a bar. He took off our halters and put the bars up the windows, and thus we could turn about or stand, whichever way we pleased. I used to go clockwi
se. He always gave us plenty of clean water, which he allowed to stand beside us both night and day. Yes, we slept with water standing beside us — big deal!
34
AN OLD WAR HORSE
Captain was in the charge of the light brigade
Cannons to the right of them
Cannons to the left of them
Cannons underneath them
Cannons over the top of them
While horse and hero fell
What was that terrible smell
Bravely they rode well
But what was that terrible smell
They charged the Russian guns
Which gave some of them the runs
Some of the Russians went spare
Looking for clean underwear
They charged into the mouth of hell
They flashed the sabres bare
Nobody at home seemed to care
Thru shot and shell
But what was that terrible smell
It was the gallant six hundred.
Captain had been broken in and trained for an army horse, but he started as a private. He told me he thought the life of an army horse was very pleasant, but when he came to be sent abroad:
‘That part of it,’ he said, ‘was dreadful! Of course we could not walk into the ship. We were lifted off our legs and swung to the deck of the great vessel. Then we were placed in small close stalls, and never for a long time saw the sky, or were able to stretch our legs. Somehow I managed to stretch mine an extra three inches. The ship sometimes rolled about in high winds, and we were knocked about. Many horses were sick and felt bad. I felt myself, and I felt bad.
‘We soon found that the country we had come to was very different from our own. The men were so fond of their horses, they did everything they could to make them comfortable, in spite of snow. They all let us sleep in their beds with them.’
‘But what about the fighting?’ I asked, ‘Was that not worse than anything else?’
‘Well,’ said he, ‘I hardly know. We always liked to hear the trumpets sounding. We were impatient to start off, for sometimes we had to stand for hours, so we would sit down. And when the word was given; we used to spring forward as gaily and eagerly as if there were no cannon balls, bayonets, or bullets. I believe that so long as we felt our rider firm in the saddle, and his hand steady on the bridle, not one of us gave way to fear.
‘I, with my noble master, went through many actions without a wound, though I saw horses shot down with bullets, pierced through with lances, and gashed with fearful sabre-cuts — and pay cuts; though we left them, dead men in the field, or dying in agony of their wounds, some lingered on long enough to draw their pay. My master’s cheery voice encouraged his men: “Go on! Kill! Kill! Kill!” I saw many brave men cut down, many fall mortally wounded from their saddles. I heard the cries and groans of the dying. “Ohh, help, arghh, ouch, yaroo!” I had cantered over ground slippery with blood, mud and custard, and frequently had to turn aside to avoid trampling on wounded man or horse or custard.
‘But one dreadful day, we heard the firing of the Russian guns. “Bangski! Bangski! Bangski! Bangski!” One of the officers rode up and gave the word for the men to mount, and in a second every man was in a saddle. Some were so quick, they had squashed knackers.
‘My master said, “We shall have a day of it, Bayard, my beauty.” I cannot tell you all that happened that day, but I will tell of the last charge we made in front of the enemy’s cannon. “Bangski! Bangski! Bangski! Bangski!” went the Russian guns. Many a brave man went down; some went up; some went sideways. Many a horse without a rider ran wildly through the ranks, and many a rider without a horse ran wildly through the ranks. Our pace and gallop became faster and faster, and as we neared the cannon, we were doing 150 miles per hour.
‘My dear master was cheering on his comrades with his right arm raised on high when a cannon ball blew his head off. I tried to check my speed. The sword dropped from his hand; he did a backward somersault and fell to earth. I was driven from the spot where he fell. It was a tiny spot, three inches in diameter.
‘I wanted to keep my place by his side, but under the rush of horses’ feet, it was in vain. When they had finished, he was flat, flat as a piece of cardboard, and they rolled him up, took him off the battlefield, and posted him back to his widow.
‘Other noble creatures were trying on three legs, and some on two, to drag themselves along; others were struggling to rise on their fore feet, as their hind legs had been shattered by shot, shit and shell. There were their groans, “Ohh, help, arghh, ouch, yaroo!” After the battle the wounded were brought in, and the dead were buried. Sometimes the wounded were buried by mistake.
‘I never saw my master again because they buried him. I went into many other engagements — 1 did a week at the Palladium.’
I said, ‘I have heard people talk about the war as if it was a very fine thing. They only say it before they go through hell.’
‘Do you know what they fought about?’ enquired a civilian.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they fought about two years.’
I wondered if it was right to go all that way over the sea, on purpose, to kill Russians, and in return get killed yourselves.
Briefly they rode into the mouth of hell. But what was that terrible smell? It was the gallant six hundred.
35
JERRY BARKER
My new master wore a wig
It looked like a crow’s nest made from bits of twig
One day a crow tried to lay eggs in the nest
To Hatch the eggs, she tried her best
Alas, the nest was found by a pussy-cat
And that was that
My stable boy was always jolly
He wanted to do what he could, so he did it to Dolly.
Jerry Barker had tried to shoo the crow away with a catapult, but he rendered the crow unconscious just as an RSPCA crow warden came by who reported it to the police. He was charged with cruelty to a crow, fined five shillings, and sent for life to Van Demon’s Land.
I never knew a better man than my new master; he was kind and good, and as strong for the right as John Manly; and so good-tempered and merry that few people could pick a quarrel with him. He was very fond of making up little songs and singing them to himself:
Come, father and mother,
And sister and brother,
Take all your clothes off
And do one another
Harry was as clever at stablework as a much older boy, 1 and always wanted to do what he could. He did it to I Dolly. Dolly and Polly used to come in the morning to — help with the cab — to brush and beat the cushions, and rub the glass, while Jeremiah Barker was giving us a cleaning in the yard and Harry was rubbing the harness. » Jeremiah Barker would say:
If you in the morning
Throw minutes away
You can’t pick them up
In the course of the day.
You may hurry and scurry,
And flurry and worry,
You’ve lost them for ever,
For ever and aye.
It was poetry, but bloody dreadful.
He could not bear any careless loitering, and waste of time — very much like Mrs Doris Wretch of 22 Gabriel Street, Honor Oak Park — and nothing was so near making him angry as to find people who were always late, I wanting a cab horse to be driven hard, to make up for their lateness.
One day, two wild-looking young men called, ‘Hey cabbie, look sharp, we are rather late; put on the steam, will you, and take us to Victoria in time for the one I o’clock train? You shall have a shilling extra.’
Larry’s cab was standing next to ours; the bastard flung open the door and said, ‘I’m your man, gentlemen! Take my cab, my horse will get you there all right,’ and he shut them in, with a wink towards Jeremiah Barker. Then, slashing his jaded horse, he set off as hard as he could. Jerry patted me on the neck — ‘No, Jack, a shilling would not pay for that sort of thing, would i
t, old boy?’ Although Jeremiah Barker was determinedly set against hard driving to please late people, still they used to walk to their work, often being killed under horses and carriage.
I well remember one morning, as we were on the stand waiting for a fare: he did not know why a young man, carrying a portmanteau, tripped over a banana skin (that Jeremiah had specially placed there) and fell down with great force, with the portmanteau on top of him.
Jeremiah Barker was the first to run and lift him up, and led him into a shop. He came back to the stand, but in ten minutes one of the shop men called him, so he drew up.
‘Can you take me to the South-Eastern Railway?’ said the young man. ‘I fear it is of great importance that I should not lose the twelve o’clock train.’
‘You can’t lose a train,’ said Jeremiah, ‘it’s too big.’
‘If you could get me there in time, I will gladly pay you extra.’
‘I’ll do my very best,’ said Jeremiah Barker, heartily, ‘if you think you are well enough, sir.’
‘Now, then, Jack, my boy,’ said Jeremiah Barker, ‘spin along; we’ll show them how we can get over the ground.’
On Jeremiah Barker’s return to the rank, there was a good deal of laughing, highland dancing and chaffing at him for driving hard to the train.
‘Gammon!’ said one. (He meant Mammon, the ignorant bastard.)
‘If you ever do get rich,’ said Governor Gray, looking over his shoulder across the top of his cab, ‘you’ll deserve it, Jerry. As for you, Larry, you’ll die poor, you spend too much in whipcord.’
‘Well,’ said Larry, ‘what is a fellow to do if his horse won’t go without it?’
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