‘Wouldn’t a little kindness be better?’ she asked in a timid voice. ‘A little kindness all round?’
Another day a man was riding past on a splendid thoroughbred and stopped to watch. After I had been thoroughly beaten he called from the gate, ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘I don’t want any suggestions, I’ve been riding since I was four. I don’t need help from anyone,’ shouted back my master.
‘I just want to say that no animal can jump with his head strapped down like that,’ shouted the stranger. ‘Beating won’t help. He can’t jump like that, poor devil.’
But my master made no answer, so after a moment the stranger rode on.
At last the show-jumping came to an end and we were clipped for the hunting season. My mane was hogged to save trouble and I was hunted in the same dreadful curb and the two martingales. I did my best, but my master was a heavy man. He leaned back over every jump and thirteen stone on your quarters is no help when you have been hunting all day and there are still high fences to be jumped. No one knew me in this part of the country and I doubt whether they would have recognised me if they had, for my coat was a dull black now which no amount of grooming would alter, my mane was gone, and I did not go well any more, but fought and shook my head unceasingly.
My master was for ever jerking at my mouth and shouting, ‘Walk you b . . . horse.’ But I could not walk well with my head strapped towards my chest by two martingales.
That winter was the worst I had suffered. I felt years older when spring came with the first shows. Mr Chambers had been certain that ‘a spot of hunting’ would put me right, but it hadn’t. I was more run down and nervous than ever.
The bandages were put on again with the tin tacks; the hedgehog skins were nailed to the poles. Bert and Mrs Chambers held wire above the fences which they raised as I went over to catch my legs and make me jump higher, but still the slats fell.
I went to the shows with the other horses. Last season I had won too much to be classed a novice any more, so the jumps were higher now. I fought more. I refused to go into the horse box without a fight, I refused to enter the collecting ring.
One day I felt a soft hand on my neck and heard a voice say ‘Velvet’. I was sweating, waiting to go in, dreading every moment which was to follow.
I turned and saw that it was May. She had changed too, she was thinner, sadder. She stroked my neck and said, ‘Do you need two martingales and a curb, Mr Chambers? Once he had a mouth like velvet.’
My master looked down at her. ‘He’s mine now, Mrs Bastable,’ he said. ‘And I will ride him in what I like.’ He dug his spurs into my sides and a moment later we were in the ring. I never saw May again.
I cleared five fences but I could not jump the spread fence that followed. It was four feet high and wider than I had ever jumped before. I came into it far too slowly and stopped. You need speed to jump a spread. I tried again while my master spurred me on holding me at the same time with his hands and I knew I couldn’t do it. The third time I jumped, but landed in the middle of the poles and my master fell into them very slowly. The crowd laughed loudly, while my master stood up his face red with fury and I stood waiting, trembling in every limb.
He remounted and we jumped the last fence and left the ring. He took me to the box and called Bert.
‘Shut up the ramp when he’s in. We’re going to give this one a lesson for all time,’ he said.
‘Do you think it will do any good?’ Bert asked leading me up the ramp.
‘Yes, he’s still fighting. He’s got to be mastered. When he’s mastered, he’ll jump.’
Bert said no more. They threw up the ramp and climbed back into the box and laid into me with whips. My master calling all the while, ‘That will teach you a lesson, you stupid animal. That will teach you to make me a laughing stock.’ I reared up and hit my head. I ran backwards but I couldn’t escape. When they had had enough they left me still in my tack with my girths still tight. Bert came back after a while with the other horse which had come with us. He was a thick-set cob called Gimlet. ‘I told you man is stronger. Why do you go on fighting? You’ll always get the worst of it. Just do your best,’ he said.
‘But I can’t,’ I answered, ‘not in a curb with my head strapped in. I wish I could.’
After that dreadful day, things went from bad to worse. I lost my nerve completely. I started to refuse at every show. Bert and my master beat me unmercifully and one day, when I saw my chance, I fought back. I started to kick. I caught Bert on his arm and my master on his back and then suddenly everything was quiet, the shouting stopped, the whips were still. Then I saw that Bert was holding his arm saying, ‘It’s smashed,’ in a surprised voice. And that my master was lying in a corner of the box without moving.
A little later some men came and let down the ramp and carried away my master. Still later Bert returned with his arm in a sling, and took off my tack. ‘I always knew it would end like this,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘’Im and his temper, and all that drink as well.’
A strange man drove the box home. Another man came to help Bert with us horses. The next day I learned that I had broken my master’s back and that he would never ride again. We were all to be sold at once, I with my reputation in ruins.
8
I’M SOLD AGAIN
WE WERE SENT to a sale. There was much interest in the other jumpers, but news travelled and no one would look at me for a jumper.
I felt very dejected though Bert stood up for me as best he could saying, ‘He’s not a bad horse. It was the master’s temper which did it. He’s not a vicious animal . . .’
Finally a man with a hook nose and blue veins on his face opened my mouth and said, ‘He’s quite a young horse though his legs have been banged about.’
‘That’s jumping,’ replied Bert quickly. ‘It isn’t work that’s done it. If you want a cheap horse, he won’t fetch much and there’s plenty of work still in him.’
The man ran his hands down my legs and looked into my eyes.
‘I don’t like blacks myself,’ he muttered.
Later he bid for me standing firmly in the crowd with his legs far apart, one thumb in his waistcoat pocket. There was only one other bidder and I was sold to Mr Smith for the small sum of thirty pounds. Soon afterwards he mounted a bicycle from which he led me home.
My new owner lived five miles from a town and ran a hiring stable.
His stables were dilapidated; built of packing cases and corrugated iron; they leaned lopsided against a bank. There were no windows and what air there was came through the gaps in the walls. There were horses standing in stalls but none of them raised their heads when I entered; they were all too busy picking up wisps of musty hay from the floor.
My stall was at the end. I was offered water from a trough; then tied to a ring in the wall. There was a pile of musty hay in a corner. I was accustomed to wearing a rug; to moving about a loosebox, but at least here there were no tin tacks or hedgehog skins. The whole place smelt damp and dirty. I heard my master shut a door and latch it. All was total darkness now.
An ugly horse showing much white in his eye raised his head and sniffed. ‘And who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Black Velvet, a show jumper.’
‘You won’t show jump here,’ he answered.
I felt very miserable. I knew I was going down in the world. There was damp sawdust under my feet and the hay was hard and tasted damp.
‘You’ll catch lice,’ said another voice. ‘We all have lice.’
‘Don’t talk, please don’t talk. I’m so tired and tomorrow is Saturday,’ said a plaintive voice from the other end of the stable.
‘And what happens on Saturday?’ I asked.
‘You’ll soon know,’ replied the ugly horse next to me. ‘Don’t talk any more. We must rest.’
I spent a restless night, racked by hunger and thirst. In the morning I could see the other horses better. There were not many of us, and the others looked
a motley crowd. Their ribs stood out, their quarters had deep poverty marks; their poor necks were thin and looked as scraggy as a crow’s neck. Most of their hoofs needed shoeing; their eyes were dull and listless.
We were all offered stagnant water from the trough; then more hay was brought and dumped on the floor of our stalls.
The ugly horse next to me said, ‘You look fat enough, young fellow. But you won’t stay that way long.’
A small pony nickered. ‘Here come the potato peelings.’
‘I’m Major, that’s Silver,’ said the ugly horse.
The potato peelings were tipped into our mangers, which smelt rancid, our master shouting all the time, ‘Get over will you. Stand up, or I’ll teach you a lesson.’
He was very rough with me, jerking at my head muttering, ‘And if you so much as lift a hoof you’re for it.’
After that we were brushed with an assortment of worn-out brushes and then a strange collection of saddles were brought in. Most of them needed stuffing. Major had an old piece of blanket put under his and wads of cotton wool stuffed under his girth. He stood resting a foreleg, his old head hanging, deep hollows above his eyes.
Further down a mare called Mouse wore a new saddle which looked as though it had never been cleaned. Her withers were high, her poor back very thin from lack of food. She looked very weak. ‘I shan’t last much longer. I know I shan’t,’ she said.
‘She used to pull a cab by the seaside,’ said Major without raising his head. ‘She has been here some time, about five years she thinks. She was here when I came.’
Silver wore a felt saddle. He must have been a pretty pony once, but now his tail was stained yellow, and his eyes had a dull, hopeless look about them.
‘What is this place?’ I said to Major.
‘A hiring stable they call it. People come here from the town to ride us; it’s fashionable you see among the town folk. They don’t know anything of course; if they did, they wouldn’t come, would they?’
‘Yes they would,’ replied Silver. ‘They wouldn’t care. They couldn’t ride us if we were well; we would be too lively for them.’
‘I will never be lively again,’ said Mouse.
‘Nor I,’ agreed a large grey, white with age. ‘I find it hard to trot. I’m always stumbling; one day I shall fall and won’t have the strength to get up again.’
‘That’s old Twilight. He carried a master of hounds when he was young. He’s never forgotten it.’
An old hunting saddle was put on my back and then two bits were forced into my mouth, a curb and bridoon. The curb had a port and a curb chain.
‘That’s it then, Jake,’ said my new master. ‘You just behave yourself and you’ll be all right.’
We were all ready now and presently our riders started to arrive. They wore all sorts of clothes. Some carried hunting whips, others sticks cut from hedges, one man came in boots and spurs and a young lady even rode in shorts.
They came in droves, all day long with hardly a break. We always went the same way – up a lane across three fields, through a wood and back down the lane again. Most of the riders knew nothing, though I was given the best. They didn’t consider us and we were forced to canter along the rough lane, and often to gallop through the fields however tired and blown we were.
Twilight was given all the heavy riders. They sat far back in the saddle and many couldn’t so much as rise, but hung on by the reins. He looked very tired and dejected and stumbled constantly. Mouse was given the ladies to carry; they were lighter, but they sat anyhow and talked and smoked and kicked her incessantly with unsuitable shoes. As the day wore on, her poor neck seemed to grow thinner and several times she stopped to cough.
I felt very dejected. I wanted to do my best, but carrying one heavy-handed rider after another took every ounce of pleasure away. As I have said, I was given the best riders, but they rode me hard. By evening the soles of my hoofs were bruised from the stones in the lane and my back ached.
Work ended with darkness. Our master collected his last few miserable shillings and led us to our stalls. Our saddles were removed. Our bridles taken away. We stood patiently, waiting without moving; too tired to protest at anything. Twilight lay down. Outside there was a dark sky and a rising moon, inside it was humid with an overpowering smell of horse dung.
After a time we were watered and given hay; then the door was shut and the day was over. Though we were hungry, we ate slowly. A rat ran from manger to manger. Mice squeaked around our hoofs.
Presently Mouse lay down. There was no sound from Twilight’s box.
‘Sunday is worse than Saturday,’ said Major. ‘My off fore is very painful tonight.’
‘I’ve lost a shoe,’ said Silver.
‘If it rains they won’t come, no one will come,’ said Major.
Twilight was dead in the morning; his poor grey head pathetic on the dirty yellow sawdust. Our master said it was old age which killed him, but we knew differently.
‘I shall be the next,’ Mouse said. ‘I keep coughing. I hope it will be soon.’
They tied ropes round Twilight’s thin fetlocks and dragged him away. We were very sad.
‘You will carry all the heavyweights now,’ Major told me. He knew Twilight wouldn’t last much longer.
Sunday was worse than Saturday. People kept asking where the old grey was.
‘Died in the night,’ our master said. ‘It was very sad. He must have had a weak heart.’
‘Poor old thing, what a shame,’ said our riders. ‘We shall miss him. There’s nothing like a white horse.’
Mouse looked very dejected. It was a dry warm day with a cloudless blue sky. The wood was full of flies; the ground in the fields was hard and unyielding to our tired legs.
Men rode me in ancient hunting boots, in shiny black shoes, in trousers, in plus fours. ‘He’s terrific,’ they said. ‘Can I have him next week? He’s very fast.’
My mouth was sore now and bleeding at the corners. They gave me lumps of sugar and said that I should be called Highwayman.
They came and went pressing shillings into our master’s hand, until at last darkness came like a welcoming blanket to shield us from work.
We lumbered exhausted into our stalls. Twilight’s was empty reminding us that our turn might not be long in coming.
‘They could ride bicycles. Why must they ride us?’ asked Silver.
‘It’s fun,’ replied Major bitterly.
We were given old cabbage leaves mixed with chaff and a handful of oats. Our master was in a hurry because he wanted to spend some of what we had earned at the pub. He didn’t wait for us to drink our fill of water. Ten minutes after the last saddle was taken off, the doors were shut.
Major was resting his off fore again. ‘It’s Monday tomorrow. We’ll have more of a rest.’
Mouse was coughing; after a time she lay down. We were all afraid she would die in the night, but in the morning she was still there.
Soon I had lice like the other horses. They sucked my blood and my skin itched and I felt ill tempered. A little powder would have killed them, but our master either didn’t know or didn’t care.
Day followed day. I grew thinner. My feet had thrush in them. My eyes smarted from a combination of sawdust and ammonia. I began to tire easily. I was popular with the customers and one day one of my regular riders asked to take me hunting.
‘Hounds are meeting just over the hill. I’d like to take my young lady as well. She’s never been hunting before,’ he said.
I could see our master hesitating. He knew how badly fed we were; no doubt he was wondering whether I could stand up to a day’s hunting.
But the young man was persistent. ‘My young lady would like Mouse,’ he said. ‘And we’ll pay a pound for each. We won’t go fast.’
He took two pound notes from his wallet and held them in one hand.
There was a short silence. ‘Make it two pounds ten shillings,’ said our master, his eyes shining at the sight of money.
‘Fair enough.’
‘What time do you want them?’
‘The meet is at eleven at The Horse and Groom. So ten o’clock will do. We’ll want a drink at the meet,’ said the young man lighting a cigarette.
9
THE HUNT
NEXT DAY AND the day after, Mouse and I were fed oats. We were groomed with extra care and on the third day we were fed early and had our tails bandaged and our hoofs oiled.
Then we were led outside to stand in the yard waiting the arrival of our riders. It was a misty morning with dewy cobwebs still festooning the hedgerows. Poor Mouse stood with drooping head and straggling legs. I felt better for the oats. The air felt fresh and I longed for the cry of hounds.
Presently the young man, who was called Dick, and his girlfriend Jane arrived. They both wore bowler hats. Jane wore an ordinary tie, checked coat, breeches and wellington boots. Dick wore a white cravat, a black coat with tails, white breeches, black boots with spurs attached. They were soon mounted and riding away laughing and talking together. Mouse had not my long stride and found it difficult to keep up. She coughed twice and kept trying to turn back towards the stables. We met a few cars on the road and a great many bicycles with people on their way to the meet.
Quite soon we saw hounds and a collection of horses outside a pub. Our riders pushed us on. Mouse coughed again, while Jane bumped up and down on her back, sometimes rising sometimes not.
Outside the pub all was merriment. Dick fetched drinks and they sat on our backs laughing, smoking and drinking calling the hounds ‘dogs’, and everyone in a pink coat a huntsman. People looked at us curiously. Someone said, ‘That mealy mare over there looks poor doesn’t she, nothing but skin and bone?’ But Dick and Jane did not hear, or if they did they pretended otherwise. Presently we moved off, Dick and Jane talking all the while and bouncing up and down on our poor backs like balls on a tennis court.
Hounds drew a copse. Dick lit a cigarette. Mouse hung her head. Soon there was a holla from the far side and I, intoxicated as usual by the sound of the horn and the cry of hounds, forgot poor Mouse and galloped wildly across a field in the wake of fifty horses. But Dick yelled over his shoulder, ‘Come on, Jane. We’re getting left. Use your crop dammit.’
Black Beauty's Family Page 19
