Spirit of the Horse

by William Shatner

  The slumbering instincts long unstirred

  Start at the old familiar word;

  It thrills like flame through every limb—

  What mean his twenty years to him?

  The savage blow his rider dealt

  Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;

  The spur that pricked his staring hide

  Unheeded tore his bleeding side;

  Alike to him are spur and rein,—

  He steps a five-year-old again!

  Before the quarter pole was past,

  Old Hiram said, “He’s going fast.”

  Long ere the quarter was a half,

  The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;

  Tighter his frightened jockey clung

  As in a mighty stride he swung,

  The gravel flying in his track,

  His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,

  His tail extended all the while

  Behind him like a rat-tail file!

  Off went a shoe,—away it spun,

  Shot like a bullet from a gun;

  The quaking jockey shapes a prayer

  From scraps of oaths he used to swear;

  He drops his whip, he drops his rein,

  He clutches fiercely for a mane;

  He’ll lose his hold—he sways and reels—

  He’ll slide beneath those trampling heels!

  The knees of many a horseman quake,

  The flowers on many a bonnet shake,

  And shouts arise from left and right,

  “Stick on! Stick on!” “Hould tight! Hould tight!”

  “Cling round his neck and don’t let go—”

  “That pace can’t hold,—there! steady! whoa!”

  But like the sable steed that bore

  The spectral lover of Lenore,

  His nostrils snorting foam and fire,

  No stretch his bony limbs can tire;

  And now the stand he rushes by,

  And “Stop him!—stop him!” is the cry.

  Stand back! he’s only just begun,—

  He’s having out three heats in one!

  “Don’t rush in front! he’ll smash your brains;

  But follow up and grab the reins!”

  Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,

  And sprang impatient at the word;

  Budd Doble started on his bay,

  Old Hiram followed on his gray,

  And off they spring, and round they go,

  The fast ones doing “all they know.”

  Look! twice they follow at his heels,

  As round the circling course he wheels,

  And whirls with him that clinging boy

  Like Hector round the walls of Troy;

  Still on, and on, the third time round!

  They’re tailing off! they’re losing ground!

  Budd Doble’s nag begins to fail!

  Dan Pfeiffer’s sorrel whisks his tail!

  And see! in spite of whip and shout,

  Old Hiram’s mare is giving out!

  Now for the finish! at the turn,

  The old horse—all the rest astern,—

  Comes swinging in, with easy trot;

  By Jove! he’s distanced all the lot!

  That trot no mortal could explain;

  Some said, “Old Dutchman come again!”

  Some took his time,—at least they tried,

  But what it was could none decide;

  One said he couldn’t understand

  What happened to his second hand;

  One said 2.10; that couldn’t be—

  More like two twenty two or three;

  Old Hiram settled it at last;

  “The time was two—too dee-vel-ish fast!”

  The parson’s horse had won the bet;

  It cost him something of a sweat;

  Back in the one-hoss shay he went;

  The parson wondered what it meant,

  And murmured, with a mild surprise

  And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,

  “That funeral must have been a trick,

  Or corpses drive at double-quick;

  I shouldn’t wonder, I declare,

  If brother—Jehu—made the prayer!”

  And this is all I have to say

  About that tough old trotting bay.

  Huddup! Huddup! G’lang!—Good-day!

  Moral for which this tale is told:

  A horse can trot, for all he’s old.

  Four Horses and a Sailor

  THE HUMAN DRIFT by JACK LONDON (1917)

  Though he died at the tragically young age of forty, Jack London was a social activist and a war correspondent, and he owned a sprawling ranch in Sonoma County, California, of which he wrote, “Next to my wife, the ranch is the dearest thing in the world to me.” London died at that ranch of, among other things, a recurring illness he had picked up in the Klondike.

  What a life. And what an author, who wrote such classics as The Call of the Wild, White Fang, and the unforgettable short tale of survival “To Build a Fire.”

  He understood animals and he understood that elusive essence of “place,” the interaction I spoke of—human, animal, terrain. This book would not have been complete without him.

  I have left the spelling as I found it … as he wished it!

  “Huh! Drive four horses! I wouldn’t sit behind you—not for a thousand dollars—over them mountain roads.”

  So said Henry, and he ought to have known, for he drives four horses himself.

  Said another Glen Ellen friend: “What? London? He drive four horses? Can’t drive one!”

  And the best of it is that he was right. Even after managing to get a few hundred miles with my four horses, I don’t know how to drive one. Just the other day, swinging down a steep mountain road and rounding an abrupt turn, I came full tilt on a horse and buggy being driven by a woman up the hill. We could not pass on the narrow road, where was only a foot to spare, and my horses did not know how to back, especially up hill. About two hundred yards down the hill was a spot where we could pass. The driver of the buggy said she didn’t dare back down because she was not sure of the brake. And as I didn’t know how to tackle one horse, I didn’t try it. So we unhitched her horse and backed down by hand. Which was very well, till it came to hitching the horse to the buggy again. She didn’t know how. I didn’t either, and I had depended on her knowledge. It took us about half an hour, with frequent debates and consultations, though it is an absolute certainty that never in its life was that horse hitched in that particular way.

  No; I can’t harness up one horse. But I can four, which compels me to back up again to get to my beginning. Having selected Sonoma Valley for our abiding place, Charmian and I decided it was about time we knew what we had in our own county and the neighbouring ones. How to do it, was the first question. Among our many weaknesses is the one of being old-fashioned. We don’t mix with gasoline very well. And, as true sailors should, we naturally gravitate toward horses. Being one of those lucky individuals who carries his office under his hat, I should have to take a typewriter and a load of books along. This put saddle-horses out of the running. Charmian suggested driving a span. She had faith in me; besides, she could drive a span herself. But when I thought of the many mountains to cross, and of crossing them for three months with a poor tired span, I vetoed the proposition and said we’d have to come back to gasoline after all. This she vetoed just as emphatically, and a deadlock obtained until I received inspiration.

  “Why not drive four horses?” I said.

  “But you don’t know how to drive four horses,” was her objection.

  I threw my chest out and my shoulders back. “What man has done, I can do,” I proclaimed grandly. “And please don’t forget that when we sailed on the Snark I knew nothing of navigation, and that I taught myself as I sailed.”

  “Very well,” she said. (And there’s faith for you!) “They shall be four saddle horses, and we’ll strap our saddles on behind the rig.�
�

  It was my turn to object. “Our saddle horses are not broken to harness.”

  “Then break them.”

  And what I knew about horses, much less about breaking them, was just about as much as any sailor knows. Having been kicked, bucked off, fallen over backward upon, and thrown out and run over, on very numerous occasions, I had a mighty vigorous respect for horses; but a wife’s faith must be lived up to, and I went at it.

  King was a pole pony from St. Louis, and Prince a many-gaited love-horse from Pasadena. The hardest thing was to get them to dig in and pull. They rollicked along on the levels and galloped down the hills, but when they struck an up-grade and felt the weight of the breaking-cart, they stopped and turned around and looked at me. But I passed them, and my troubles began. Milda was fourteen years old, an unadulterated broncho, and in temperament was a combination of mule and jack-rabbit blended equally. If you pressed your hand on her flank and told her to get over, she lay down on you. If you got her by the head and told her to back, she walked forward over you. And if you got behind her and shoved and told her to “Giddap!” she sat down on you. Also, she wouldn’t walk. For endless weary miles I strove with her, but never could I get her to walk a step. Finally, she was a manger-glutton. No matter how near or far from the stable, when six o’clock came around she bolted for home and never missed the directest cross-road. Many times I rejected her.

  The fourth and most rejected horse of all was the Outlaw. From the age of three to seven she had defied all horse-breakers and broken a number of them. Then a long, lanky cowboy, with a fifty-pound saddle and a Mexican bit had got her proud goat. I was the next owner. She was my favourite riding horse. Charmian said I’d have to put her in as a wheeler where I would have more control over her. Now Charmian had a favourite riding mare called Maid. I suggested Maid as a substitute. Charmian pointed out that my mare was a branded range horse, while hers was a near-thoroughbred, and that the legs of her mare would be ruined forever if she were driven for three months. I acknowledged her mare’s thoroughbredness, and at the same time defied her to find any thoroughbred with as small and delicately-viciously pointed ears as my Outlaw. She indicated Maid’s exquisitely thin shinbone. I measured the Outlaw’s. It was equally thin, although, I insinuated, possibly more durable. This stabbed Charmian’s pride. Of course her near-thoroughbred Maid, carrying the blood of “old” Lexington, Morella, and a streak of the super-enduring Morgan, could run, walk, and work my unregistered Outlaw into the ground; and that was the very precise reason why such a paragon of a saddle animal should not be degraded by harness.

  So it was that Charmian remained obdurate, until, one day, I got her behind the Outlaw for a forty-mile drive. For every inch of those forty miles the Outlaw kicked and jumped, in between the kicks and jumps finding time and space in which to seize its team-mate by the back of the neck and attempt to drag it to the ground. Another trick the Outlaw developed during that drive was suddenly to turn at right angles in the traces and endeavour to butt its team-mate over the grade. Reluctantly and nobly did Charmian give in and consent to the use of Maid. The Outlaw’s shoes were pulled off, and she was turned out on range.

  Finally, the four horses were hooked to the rig—a light Studebaker trap. With two hours and a half of practice, in which the excitement was not abated by several jack-poles and numerous kicking matches, I announced myself as ready for the start. Came the morning, and Prince, who was to have been a wheeler with Maid, showed up with a badly kicked shoulder. He did not exactly show up; we had to find him, for he was unable to walk. His leg swelled and continually swelled during the several days we waited for him. Remained only the Outlaw. In from pasture she came, shoes were nailed on, and she was harnessed into the wheel. Friends and relatives strove to press accident policies on me, but Charmian climbed up alongside, and Nakata got into the rear seat with the typewriter—Nakata, who sailed cabin-boy on the Snark for two years and who had shown himself afraid of nothing, not even of me and my amateur jamborees in experimenting with new modes of locomotion. And we did very nicely, thank you, especially after the first hour or so, during which time the Outlaw had kicked about fifty various times, chiefly to the damage of her own legs and the paintwork, and after she had bitten a couple of hundred times, to the damage of Maid’s neck and Charmian’s temper. It was hard enough to have her favourite mare in the harness without also enduring the spectacle of its being eaten alive.

  Our leaders were joys. King being a pole pony and Milda a rabbit, they rounded curves beautifully and darted ahead like coyotes out of the way of the wheelers. Milda’s besetting weakness was a frantic desire not to have the lead-bar strike her hocks. When this happened, one of three things occurred: either she sat down on the lead-bar, kicked it up in the air until she got her back under it, or exploded in a straight-ahead, harness-disrupting jump. Not until she carried the lead-bar clean away and danced a break-down on it and the traces, did she behave decently. Nakata and I made the repairs with good old-fashioned bale-rope, which is stronger than wrought-iron any time, and we went on our way.

  In the meantime I was learning—I shall not say to tool a four-in-hand—but just simply to drive four horses. Now it is all right enough to begin with four work-horses pulling a load of several tons. But to begin with four light horses, all running, and a light rig that seems to outrun them—well, when things happen they happen quickly. My weakness was total ignorance. In particular, my fingers lacked training, and I made the mistake of depending on my eyes to handle the reins. This brought me up against a disastrous optical illusion. The bight of the off head-line, being longer and heavier than that of the off wheel-line, hung lower. In a moment requiring quick action, I invariably mistook the two lines. Pulling on what I thought was the wheel-line, in order to straighten the team, I would see the leaders swing abruptly around into a jack-pole. Now for sensations of sheer impotence, nothing can compare with a jack-pole, when the horrified driver beholds his leaders prancing gaily up the road and his wheelers jogging steadily down the road, all at the same time and all harnessed together and to the same rig.

  I no longer jack-pole, and I don’t mind admitting how I got out of the habit. It was my eyes that enslaved my fingers into ill practices. So I shut my eyes and let the fingers go it alone. To-day my fingers are independent of my eyes and work automatically. I do not see what my fingers do. They just do it. All I see is the satisfactory result.

  Still we managed to get over the ground that first day—down sunny Sonoma Valley to the old town of Sonoma, founded by General Vallejo as the remotest outpost on the northern frontier for the purpose of holding back the Gentiles, as the wild Indians of those days were called. Here history was made. Here the last Spanish mission was reared; here the Bear flag was raised; and here Kit Carson, and Fremont, and all our early adventurers came and rested in the days before the days of gold.

  We swung on over the low, rolling hills, through miles of dairy farms and chicken ranches where every blessed hen is white, and down the slopes to Petaluma Valley. Here, in 1776, Captain Quiros came up Petaluma Creek from San Pablo Bay in quest of an outlet to Bodega Bay on the coast. And here, later, the Russians, with Alaskan hunters, carried skin boats across from Fort Ross to poach for sea-otters on the Spanish preserve of San Francisco Bay. Here, too, still later, General Vallejo built a fort, which still stands—one of the finest examples of Spanish adobe that remain to us. And here, at the old fort, to bring the chronicle up to date, our horses proceeded to make peculiarly personal history with astonishing success and dispatch. King, our peerless, pole-pony leader, went lame. So hopelessly lame did he go that no expert, then and afterward, could determine whether the lameness was in his frogs, hoofs, legs, shoulders, or head. Maid picked up a nail and began to limp. Milda, figuring the day already sufficiently spent and maniacal with manger-gluttony, began to rabbit-jump. All that held her was the bale-rope. And the Outlaw, game to the last, exceeded all previous exhibitions of skin-removing, paint-marring, and horse
-eating.

  At Petaluma we rested over while King was returned to the ranch and Prince sent to us. Now Prince had proved himself an excellent wheeler, yet he had to go into the lead and let the Outlaw retain his old place. There is an axiom that a good wheeler is a poor leader. I object to the last adjective. A good wheeler makes an infinitely worse kind of a leader than that. I know … now. I ought to know. Since that day I have driven Prince a few hundred miles in the lead. He is neither any better nor any worse than the first mile he ran in the lead; and his worst is even extremely worse than what you are thinking. Not that he is vicious. He is merely a good-natured rogue who shakes hands for sugar, steps on your toes out of sheer excessive friendliness, and just goes on loving you in your harshest moments.

  But he won’t get out of the way. Also, whenever he is reproved for being in the wrong, he accuses Milda of it and bites the back of her neck. So bad has this become that whenever I yell “Prince!” in a loud voice, Milda immediately rabbit-jumps to the side, straight ahead, or sits down on the lead-bar. All of which is quite disconcerting. Picture it yourself. You are swinging round a sharp, down-grade, mountain curve, at a fast trot. The rock wall is the outside of the curve. The inside of the curve is a precipice. The continuance of the curve is a narrow, unrailed bridge. You hit the curve, throwing the leaders in against the wall and making the pole horse do the work. All is lovely. The leaders are hugging the wall like nestling doves. But the moment comes in the evolution when the leaders must shoot out ahead. They really must shoot, or else they’ll hit the wall and miss the bridge. Also, behind them are the wheelers, and the rig, and you have just eased the brake in order to put sufficient snap into the manoeuvre. If ever team-work is required, now is the time. Milda tries to shoot. She does her best, but Prince, bubbling over with roguishness, lags behind. He knows the trick. Milda is half a length ahead of him. He times it to the fraction of a second. Maid, in the wheel, over-running him, naturally bites him. This disturbs the Outlaw, who has been behaving beautifully, and she immediately reaches across for Maid. Simultaneously, with a fine display of firm conviction that it’s all Milda’s fault, Prince sinks his teeth into the back of Milda’s defenceless neck. The whole thing has occurred in less than a second. Under the surprise and pain of the bite, Milda either jumps ahead to the imminent peril of harness and lead-bar, or smashes into the wall, stops short with the lead-bar over her back, and emits a couple of hysterical kicks. The Outlaw invariably selects this moment to remove paint. And after things are untangled and you have had time to appreciate the close shave, you go up to Prince and reprove him with your choicest vocabulary. And Prince, gazelle-eyed and tender, offers to shake hands with you for sugar. I leave it to any one: a boat would never act that way.