Spirit of the Horse

by William Shatner

  We talked about mythology earlier, but it’s relevant to mention another figure here. I once saw an illustration of a horse in Norse mythology, Sleipnir, who was eight-legged. Add the two long legs of the rider and you have a lot of latent power. Was that an attempt by the Norse, in their own art, to depict motion? Or was it dramatic license to instill awe and fear of the courage and fortitude of the Norse riders?

  Possibly both, but the feeling I got was of omniscient power. Eight legs: that’s something you can’t stop. It’s something that’s overwhelming. From what I have read, there is some connection between this depiction of Sleipnir and an effort among the Norse to embody the forces of elemental energy.

  The technique of using the reins varies from rider to rider. Some trainers will be very harsh with their hands, jerking on that bit to keep the horse’s head down, or level, or up, depending on what the horse is doing. Others prescribe a very gentle touch, and I’ve had those trainers explain it as, “Think of it as if that bit were in your mouth.” So you very gently waddle that bit, saw back and forth with a delicate touch.

  In either case, the reins are invaluable: they guide the horse left to right, are part of the accelerator and certainly part of the brakes.

  The next important part of guiding a horse is your legs. The rider’s leg on a horse is of equal importance to anything else. The horse is taught to move from the pressure of the leg. And after a while the horse becomes so sensitized that it’s a lover’s touch of your knee or your calf or your heel, depending on the severity of what you’re doing. A feather’s brush is all you’ll need to guide the horse, because his sides have become so sensitive to your legs.

  The third thing is your voice. You communicate with the horse by the way you cant, by the cluck, by the whoa, and everything in between. These help to accelerate and to brake the horse.

  Acquainting the horse with these skills is what anyone must do if they want to become serious equestrians.

  I love reining and I’ve been doing it for many years. But as with any sport, part of the joy is revisiting it day after day to see what new skills you can pick up.

  I have a good friend, a martial artist, who says, “It takes a master to recognize how much more there is to learn.”

  Only the Mare

  by ALFRED E. T. WATSON IN SPORTING SOCIETY; OR, SPORTING CHAT AND SPORTING MEMORIES, VOL. 1, EDITED by FOX RUSSELL (1897)

  Mr. Russell himself wrote prolifically about horses. He explained why in his volume Cross Country Reminiscences: “Pleasant it is for a man whose hand has oftener grasped a hunting crop than a pen, to sit down and try to put a few notes on paper, of some of the good things he has had the luck to participate in, and indulge in some homely-printed chat—to coin an expression—of good horses and good men.”

  When one opens a suspicious-looking envelope and finds something about “Mr Shopley’s respectful compliments” on the inside of the flap, the chances are that Mr Shopley is hungering for what we have Ovid’s authority for terming irritamenta malorum. Not wishing to have my appetite for breakfast spoiled, I did not pursue my researches into a communication of this sort which was amongst my letters on a certain morning in November; but turned over the pile until the familiar caligraphy of Bertie Peyton caught my eye: for Bertie was Nellie’s brother, and Nellie Peyton, it had been decided, would shortly cease to be Nellie Peyton; a transformation for which I was the person chiefly responsible. Bertie’s communication was therefore seized with avidity. It ran as follows:—

  “The Lodge, Holmesdale.

  “MY DEAR CHARLIE,

  “I sincerely hope that you have no important engagements just at present, as I want you down here most particularly.

  “You know that there was a small race-meeting at Bibury the other day. I rode over on Little Lady, and found a lot of the 14th Dragoons there; that conceited young person Blankney amongst the number. Now, although Blankley has a very considerable personal knowledge of the habits and manners of the ass, he doesn’t know much about the horse; and for that reason he saw fit to read us a lecture on breeding and training, pointing his moral and adorning his tale with a reference to my mare—whose pedigree, you know, is above suspicion. After, however, he had kindly informed us what a thoroughbred horse ought to be, he looked at Little Lady and said, ‘Now I shouldn’t think that thing was thoroughbred!’ It ended by my matching her against that great raw-boned chestnut of his: three and a half miles over the steeplechase course, to be run at the Holmesdale Meeting, on the 5th December.

  “As you may guess, I didn’t want to win or lose a lot of money, and when he asked what the match should be for, I suggested ‘£20 a-side.’ ‘Hardly worth while making a fuss for £20!’ he said, rather sneeringly. ‘£120, if you like!’ I answered, rather angrily, hardly meaning what I said; but he pounced on the offer. Of course I couldn’t retract, and so very stupidly, I plunged deeper into the mire, and made several bets with the fellows who were round us. They laid me 3 to 1 against the mare, but I stand to lose nearly £500.

  “You see now what I want. I ride quite 12 stone, as you know; the mare is to carry 11 stone, and you can just manage that nicely. I know you’ll come if you can, and if you telegraph I’ll meet you.

  “Your’s ever,

  Bertie Peyton.

  “P.S.—Nellie sends love, and hopes to see you soon. No one is here, but the aunt is coming shortly.”

  * * *

  I was naturally anxious to oblige him, and luckily had nothing to keep me in town; so that afternoon saw me rapidly speeding southwards, and the evening, comfortably domiciled at The Lodge.

  Bertie, who resided there with his sister, was not a rich man. £500 was a good deal more than he could afford to lose, and poor little Nellie was in a great flutter of anxiety and excitement in consequence of her brother’s rashness. As for the mare, she could gallop and jump; and though we had no means of ascertaining the abilities of Blankney’s chestnut, we had sufficient faith in our Little Lady to enable us to “come up to the scratch smiling;” and great hopes that we should be enabled to laugh at the result in strict accordance with the permission given in the old adage, “Let those laugh who win.”

  It was not very pleasant to rise at an abnormal hour every morning, and arrayed in great-coats and comforters sufficient for six people, to rush rapidly about the country; but it was necessary. I was a little too heavy, and we could not afford to throw away any weight, nor did I wish to have my saddle reduced to the size of a cheese-plate, as would have been my fate had I been unable to reduce myself. Breakfast, presided over by Nellie, compensated for all matutinal discomforts; and then she came round to the stables to give the mare an encouraging pat and a few words of advice and endearment which I verily believe the gallant little mare understood, for it rubbed its nose against her shoulder as though it would say, “Just you leave it in my hands—or, rather, to my feet—and I’ll make it all right!” Then we started for our gallop, Bertie riding a steady old iron-grey hunter.

  The fourth of December arrived, and the mare’s condition was splendid. “As fit as a fiddle,” was the verdict of Smithers, a veterinary surgeon who had done a good deal of training in his time, and who superintended our champion’s preparation; and though we were ignorant of the precise degree of fitness to which fiddles usually attain, he seemed pleased, and so, consequently, were we. Unfortunately on this morning Bertie’s old hunter proved to be very lame, so I was forced to take my last gallop by myself; and with visions of success on the morrow, I passed rapidly through the keen air over the now familiar way; for the course was within a couple of miles of the house, and so we had the great advantage of being able to accustom the mare to the very journey she would have to take.

  Bertie was in a field at the back of the stables when I neared home again. “Come on!” he shouted, pointing to a nasty hog-backed stile, which separated us. I gave Little Lady her head, and she cantered up to it, lighting on the other side like a very bird! Bertie didn’t speak as I trotted up to him
, but he looked up into my face with a triumphant smile more eloquent than words.

  “You’ve given her enough, haven’t you?” he remarked, patting her neck, as I dismounted in the yard.

  “You’ve given her enough,” usually signifies “you’ve given her too much.” But I opined not, and we walked round to the house tolerably well convinced that the approaching banking transactions would be on the right side of the book.

  Despite a walk with Nellie, and the arrival of a pile of music from town, the afternoon passed rather slowly; perhaps we were too anxious to be cheerful. To make matters worse, dinner was to be postponed till past eight, for the aunt was coming, and Nellie was afraid the visitor would be offended if they did not wait for her.

  “You look very bored and tired, sir!” said Nellie pouting prettily; “I believe you’d yawn if it wasn’t rude!”

  I assured her that I could not, under any circumstances, be guilty of such an enormity.

  “It’s just a quarter past seven. We’ll go and meet the carriage, and then perhaps you’ll be able to keep awake until dinner-time!” and so with a look of dignity which would have been very effective if the merry smile in her eyes had been less apparent, the little lady swept out of the room; to return shortly arrayed in furs, and a most coquettish-looking hat, and the smallest and neatest possible pair of boots, which in their efforts to appear strong and sturdy only made their extreme delicacy more decided.

  “Come, sleepy boy!” said she, holding out a grey-gloved hand. I rose submissively, and followed her out of the snug drawing-room to the open air.

  Bertie was outside, smoking.

  “We are going to meet the aunt, dear,” explained Nellie. “I’m afraid she’ll be cross, because it’s so cold.”

  “She’s not quite so inconsequent as that, I should fancy; but it is cold, and isn’t the ground hard!” I said.

  “It is hard!” cried Bertie, stamping vigorously. “By Jove! I hope it’s not going to freeze!” and afflicted by the notion—for a hard frost would have rendered it necessary to postpone the races—he hurried off to the stables, to consult one of the men who was weather-wise.

  Some stone steps led from the terrace in front of the house to the lawn; at either end of the top-step was a large globe of stone, and on to one of these thoughtless little Nellie climbed. I stretched out my hand, fearing that the weather had made it slippery, but before I could reach her she slipped and fell.

  “You rash little person!” I said, expecting that she would spring up lightly.

  “Oh! my foot!” she moaned; and gave a little shriek of pain as she put it to the ground.

  I took her in my arms, and summoning her maid, carried her to the drawing-room.

  “Take off her boot,” I said to the girl, but Nellie could not bear to have her foot touched, and feebly moaned that her arm hurt her.

  “Oh! pray send for a doctor, sir!” implored the maid, while Nellie only breathed heavily, with half-closed eyes; and horribly frightened, I rushed off, hardly waiting to say a word to the poor little sufferer.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Bertie cried, as I burst into the harness-room.

  “Where’s the doctor?” I replied, hastily. “Nellie’s hurt herself—sprained her ankle, and hurt her arm—broken it, perhaps!”

  “How? When?” he asked.

  “There’s no time to explain. She slipped down. Where’s the doctor?”

  “Our doctor is ill, and has no substitute. There’s no one nearer than Lawson, at Oakley, and that’s twelve miles, very nearly.”

  “Then I must ride at once,” I reply.

  “Saddle my horse as quickly as possible,” said Bertie to the groom.

  “He’s lame, sir, can’t move!” the man replied, and I remembered that it was so.

  “Put a saddle on one of the carriage horses—anything so long as there’s no delay.”

  “They’re out, sir! Gone to the station. There’s nothing in the stable—only the mare; and to gallop her to Oakley over the ground as it is to-night, will pretty well do for her chance to-morrow—to say nothing of the twelve miles back again. The carriage will be home in less than an hour, sir,” the man remonstrated.

  “It may be, you don’t know, the trains are so horridly unpunctual. Saddle the mare, Jarvis, as quickly as you can—every minute may be of the utmost value!” As Bertie spoke the faintest look of regret showed itself on his face for a second; for of course he knew that such a journey would very materially affect, if it did not entirely destroy, the mare’s chance.

  Jarvis, who I think had been speculating, very reluctantly took down the saddle and bridle from their pegs, but I snatched them from his arms, and assisted by Bertie, was leading her out of the stable in a very few seconds.

  “Hurry on! Never mind the mare—good thing she’s in condition,” said Bertie, who only thought now of his sister. “I’ll go and see the girl.”

  “I can cut across the fields, can’t I, by the cross roads?” I asked, settling in the saddle.

  “No! no! Keep to the highway; it’s safer at night. Go on!” I heard him call as I went at a gallop down the cruelly hard road.

  The ground rang under the mare’s feet, and in spite of all my anxiety for Nellie I could not help feeling one pang of regret for Little Lady, whose free, bounding action, augured well for what her chances would have been on the morrow—chances which I felt were rapidly dying out; for if this journey didn’t lame her nothing would. Stones had just been put down as a matter of course; but there was no time for picking the way, and taking tight hold of her head we sped on.

  About a mile from the Lodge I came to the crossroads. Before me was a long vista of stone—regular rocks, so imperfectly were they broken: to the right was the smoother and softer pathway over the fields—perfect going in comparison to the road. Just over this fence, a hedge, and with hardly another jump I should come again into the highway, saving quite two miles by the cut. Bertie had said “Don’t,” but probably he had spoken thoughtlessly, and it was evidently the best thing to do, for the time I saved might be of the greatest value to poor little suffering Nellie! I pulled up, and drew the mare back to the opposite hedge. She knew her work thoroughly. Three bounds took her across the road: she rose—the next moment I was on my back, shot some distance into the field, and she was struggling up from the ground. There had been a post and rail whose existence I had not suspected, placed some six feet from the hedge on the landing side. She sprang up, no legs were broken; and I, a good deal shaken and confused, rose to my feet, wondering what to do next. I had not had time to collect my thoughts when I heard the rattle of a trap on the road; it speedily approached, and the moonlight revealed the jolly features of old Tom Heathfield, a friendly farmer.

  “Accident, sir?” he asked, pulling up. “What! Mr Vaughan!” as he caught sight of my face. “What’s the____why! that ain’t the mare, sure-lie?”

  All the neighbourhood was in a ferment of excitement about the races, and the sight of Little Lady in such a place at such a time struck horror to the honest old farmer.

  “Yes, it is—I’m sorry to say. Miss Peyton has met with an accident. I was going for the doctor, and unfortunately there was nothing else in the stable.”

  “You was going to Oakley, I s’pose, sir? It’ll be ruination to the mare. Miss Peyton hurt herself! I’ll bowl over, sir; it won’t take long; this little horse o’ mine can trot a good ’un; and I can bring the doctor with me. The fences, there, is mended with wire. You’d cut the mare to pieces.”

  “I can’t say how obliged to you I am____”

  “Glad of the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton, sir; she’s a real lady!” He was just starting when he checked himself. “There’s a little public house about a hundred yards further on; if you don’t mind waiting there I’ll send Smithers to look at the mare. I pass his house. All right, sir.”

  His rough little cob started off at a pace for which I had not given it credit; and I slowly followed, leading the mare towards
the glimmering light which Heathfield had pointed out. My charge stepped out well, and I didn’t think that there was anything wrong, though glad, of course, to have a professional opinion.

  A man was hanging about the entrance to the public house, and with his assistance the mare was bestowed in a kind of shed, half cow-house, half stable; and as the inside of the establishment did not look by any means inviting, I lit a cigar and lounged about outside, awaiting the advent of Smithers.

  He didn’t arrive; and in the course of wandering to and fro I found myself against a window. Restlessly I was just moving away when a voice inside the room repeated the name of Blankney. I started, and turning round, looked in.

  It was a small apartment, with a sanded floor, and two persons were seated on chairs before the fire conversing earnestly. One of them was a middle-aged man, clad in a brown great-coat with a profusion of fur-collar and cuffs which it would scarcely be libel to term “mangy.” He was the owner of an unwholesome-looking face, decorated as to the chin with a straggling crop of bristles which he would have probably termed an imperial.

  “Wust year I ever ’ad!” he exclaimed (and a broken pane in the window enabled me to hear distinctly). “The Two Thousand ’orse didn’t run; got in deep over the Derby; Hascot was hawful; and though I had a moral for the Leger, it went down.”

  His own morals, judging from his appearance and conversation, appeared to have followed the example of that for the Leger.

  “I can’t follow your plans about this race down here, though,” said his companion, a younger man, who seemed to hold the first speaker in great awe despite his confessions of failure. “Don’t you say that this young Blankney’s horse can’t get the distance?”

  “I do. He never was much good, I ’ear; never won nothing, though he’s run in two or three hurdle-races; and since Phil Kelly’s been preparing of ’im for this race he’s near about broke down. His legs swell up like bolsters after his gallops; and he can’t get three miles at all, I don’t believe, without he’s pulled up and let lean agin something on the journey to rest hisself.”