Finding Black Beauty

by Lou Kuenzler

  But the pen next to them was empty.

  A short man with wiry hair like a terrier was throwing brushes and a rope halter into an empty bucket.

  This had to be the dealer.

  “Where’s Beauty? Where’s the black horse from Earlshall?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “Sold.” The man jumped from foot to foot excitedly. “Gone for a pretty price too. Twenty-four pounds and ten shillings. I couldn’t have got better than that. Not with those scarred knees.”

  “Who did you sell him to?” I cried. “Not to a butcher? Please not a butcher!”

  “For that money? Don’t be daft.” The man gave a shrill laugh. “He’s gone to London to be a cab horse. Barker: that was the name of the fellow that brought him. Or was it Baker? Yes, I’d swear on my old ma’s life it was Baker.”

  “When?” I asked. “How long since you sold him?”

  “Not five minutes ago.” The dealer pointed down the road that led out of town. He saw my face. “You might catch him if you’re quick.”

  I turned and ran, ran through the streets to the London road. For a moment I thought I saw Beauty, disappearing behind a milk cart, but as I got closer, he was gone. If he was ever there, he had vanished again like a shadow in the crowd. There was just an old woman and a donkey, plodding away down the long empty road towards London. Nothing. Desperately I scanned the horizon, but I knew it was no good.

  Black Beauty was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  James and I spent another hour combing the market square and Tanner’s Yard in case Beauty was still nearby. I even went as far as the fields by the river. But I knew it was hopeless.

  “There’s nothing for it,” I said at last. “I’m going to London.”

  “You’re – what?” asked James, startled.

  “Going to London,” I said. “That’s where Beauty is. I’m going now.”

  “You’ll never find him in London. There are so many horses,” said James. “It’s a huge city…”

  “I’ve got to try.” I turned and walked towards the White Lion.

  “But…” James caught at my arm. “Joe, that’s madness.”

  “Don’t worry,” I spun around and faced him again, “I’m not asking you to come with me. You can go back to your precious Earlshall and…”

  “Earlshall is not precious to me!” James’s face flushed. “I hate it there as much as you did. But I have to go back. I have to sell Linnet at the fair today and take the money to Sir George. I have responsibilities…”

  “Responsibilities? To that horrible family?”

  “Yes,” said James. “I am a servant. That is what I do, Joe … I serve! And, unless you have forgotten, Ginger is still there too. I have to go back and look after her.”

  “Go on then,” I said, anger spitting out of me. I knew it wasn’t James’s fault that Beauty had been injured, not his fault that he had been sold; but I had no one else to blame and now all my fury was turned on him. “You promised me you’d take care of Beauty. You promised me. I just hope you make a better job of looking after Ginger than you did of looking after Black Beauty for me.”

  “Joe…” James stumbled back as if I had punched him. “If I could turn back time, I would.”

  “Well you can’t,” I said, as I stormed through the arch into the White Lion courtyard. “Neither of us can. But if you’ve got any sense you’ll save Ginger before it’s too late. Get her away from Earlshall, James.”

  I pointed to poor lame Linnet, tied in a stall.

  “That’s what happened to the last horse Sir George rode,” I said. “Save Ginger, James.” The words stuck in my throat. “Save her before it’s too late, like it was for Beauty.”

  “Joe, I’m so sorry…”

  “Sorry won’t bring Beauty back,” I said.

  I spun on my heel and walked away.

  I wish now that I had been more kind.

  I wish I had told him what happened to Beauty was not his fault. It was Reuben Smith. And beer. And the cruelty of Lady Magpie who would not keep a carriage horse with scars on his knees.

  I wish I had told him he was my friend.

  But, by the time I climbed down from the loft with my little bag of belongings, Linnet’s stall was empty. She was gone. And so was James.

  I told no one I was leaving except Doris. She listened as I explained and then took my hand.

  “I won’t stop you going, Josie; I can see it’s not worth me trying. But I want to give you something.” She led me upstairs to the little white bedroom she shared with four other maids. “Don’t worry,” she said, seeing my anxious face. “There’s no one about. They’ve all gone to flirt with grooms at the horse fair.” She pushed open the door. “There!”

  She pointed a pile of clothes on the end of her bed. I could see a white pinafore and a brown smock dress.

  Girls’ clothes.

  “They don’t fit me any more, but there’s still plenty of wear in them.”

  “They look perfect,” I said, eyeing them nervously. It had been so long since I had worn skirts.

  “It’ll be a lot easier for you to travel as a girl now that you’re growing so womanly.” She folded her arms. “Just try them on.”

  “Fine!” I sighed, slipping my shirt off, untying the bandages around my chest and pulling the brown dress over my head.

  “Here. Let me do that,” said Doris, as I fumbled to tie a bow in the back of the pinafore. “You’re just out of practice, that’s all.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t like to tell her that Nanny Clay had always tied my pinafore for me.

  “Oh, my word! If Daisy saw you now, she’d faint like a feather!” Doris smiled, spinning me round so that I could see myself in the little chipped looking glass above the dressing table. “There you are.”

  And there I was. Josie Green. A girl again. I didn’t recognize myself – a thin tanned face, with wide green eyes, thick lashes, and curves beneath the pinafore. Not a stable boy any more – but not a fine lady either.

  I was still staring in shock when I heard Doris gasp, “Oh, that hair! It’ll never do. Here. You better take this.” She lifted the hat with the big yellow ribbons from her own head.

  “No, Doris!” I cried. “It’s your Sunday best.”

  “We can’t have you looking scruffy in London.” She pulled the hat down until it almost covered my eyes. It was so big, I felt like I was wearing a washtub on my head … all tied up with a bright yellow ribbon.

  But Doris was right. I did need something to cover my boyish hair. And, in that moment, I made a decision. I would travel to London as a girl. “Thank you, it’s perfect.” I kissed Doris goodbye as she helped me into an old faded coat of hers, and then stamped my feet into Billy’s big boots. They would just have to do. And no one would see them under my long skirt.

  I stepped out of the door and into the courtyard.

  “Excuse me,” I asked an old man with a draper’s cart. “Are you going to London?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I hung out of the side of the draper’s cart all the way to London, hoping that I would catch sight of Beauty on the road.

  “Has your sweetheart run away, miss?” the old draper Mr Silver teased me.

  “Leave the poor girl alone,” said his wife.

  When I told them I was looking for a beautiful black horse who had been sold by mistake, they promised to keep an eye out too.

  But we never caught up with Beauty on the road.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told myself over and over again. “I’ll find him.” At least I know he is going to be a cab horse, I thought. That is a good start.

  As we drew close to London though, my heart sank.

  It was twilight and the gas lamps were already lit. The main road into the city was crowded with carriages and carts. We had to stop and start and stop and start again, until we came to a standstill in a queue on a big bridge over the wide grey River Thames.

  I had never seen so many h
orses in my whole life.

  There was no way through and nothing to do but wait. Yet, still, people shouted and jostled. Whips cracked and horses stamped their feet.

  Poor Beauty. He had never known anything but open fields and quiet lanes.

  “I do hope the cab man is kind,” I whispered. “I hope he does not crack his whip.”

  “Where should I drop you?” said Mr Silver, when we were over the bridge at last.

  “Could you take me to where the cabs are?” I asked.

  “But there’s horse cabs everywhere!” said old Mrs Silver.

  “Oh, I know,” I said. “But where are the horses kept at night?”

  I imagined there must be an enormous stable where all the cab horses were cared for, ready to go to work in the morning.

  “They live all over the place,” said Mr Silver. “Each cab driver looks after his own horse, sometimes two. And then there is a few big cab companies who own lots of horses and loan them out to the drivers one by one.”

  “But…” I felt sick to my stomach. I could see streets and streets of higgledy-piggledy houses stretching out on either side of us. Not to mention butchers’ shops and builders’ yards, bakeries and costermongers’ stalls. Black Beauty could be anywhere. It was impossible. James had tried to warn me and it was true; I would never find Beauty in this city. Never.

  The old couple were having a whispered conversation and now Mrs Silver put an arm around my shoulders. “Listen, my dear. You come home with us, get a good night’s sleep and start your hunt in the morning.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Ain’t no point arguing with my Molly,” said Mr Silver. “And anyway, that horse of yours will be tucked up with a nice bran mash after a journey like he’s had from Riverford today.”

  “Of course.” Suddenly what the kind draper said made sense. Beauty wouldn’t be out on the streets, not now. He’d be in a stable somewhere, eating his evening meal.

  I realized how hungry I was then, and tired too.

  “You come home with us, love,” said Mrs Silver as my tummy rumbled loudly. “We’ll get you a nice bowl of warm soup and a safe dry bed for the night.”

  “Thank you!” As the grey fog swirled around the London streets I was pleased to have found somewhere to spend my first night alone in the big city. My spirits lifted a little. It would be light in the morning and I could begin my search then.

  “Don’t worry, Beauty,” I whispered in the darkness. “I haven’t given up. I’ll find you. Tomorrow…”

  In the morning, Mr Silver showed me where to catch the horse-drawn omnibus to St Pancras station.

  Luckily, although I had left before my last wages were due, I had a little money saved. I paid my fare and climbed the iron stairs up to the open deck on top.

  “You take care, young lady,” called Mr Silver.

  “Thank you.” I waved as the three strong horses pulling the enormous omnibus trotted away.

  When I climbed down at the busy station, I saw the line of hansom cabs at once. Each high-wheeled buggy was pulled by one horse, with a hood and window for the passengers, while the driver sat on a high box at the back, looking over the roof where he held the long reins.

  But it wasn’t the cabs I was looking at. It was the horses – they seemed half-starved and ragged. My heart sank as I desperately searched the line for Beauty.

  “Excuse me,” I called up to the nearest driver. “Could you tell me where I might find a fine black horse?”

  “What?” he shouted above the noise of the trains. “Climb in, so long as you can pay the fare.”

  He peered down at my shabby brown frock.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said, “I just want to ask you a question if I may…”

  “Questions are for school. Step out of the way,” snapped the driver.

  A man in a fine grey coat barged me aside as he rushed from a train.

  “Harley Street, and quick as you can,” he shouted, climbing inside the cab and bashing on the roof with his stick.

  “Right you are, governor.” The driver cracked his whip and his skinny grey gelding stumbled on his way.

  I looked down the line again in horror. The next three horses were just as thin. They hung their heads and their eyes were clouded.

  The fourth horse was the worst of all – an old black mare – her coat almost as dark as Beauty’s but dull as stone. She was so thin I could count her ribs like the railings on a iron fence.

  Was this what cab horses were like? Was this what Beauty would become?

  I almost sank down on the pavement I was so afraid.

  “Are you all right there, lassie?”

  A Scottish-sounding man with a big red beard called out to me from the other side of the street.

  He was a cab driver too, but was standing at his horse’s head while she ate from a nosebag, hooked to the bottom of her bridle.

  I smiled with relief as I saw that his horse, at least – a big strong roan mare – was plump with a shining coat.

  “I–I’m looking for a horse,” I said. “Please, can you help me?”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I told the Scotsman about Beauty and he explained that the thin horses I had seen all belonged to the big cab companies, who hired them out to the drivers for a fee.

  “The drivers work the poor brutes flat out to get the most out of their money they can. They don’t look after them, because they can hire a different horse when the first one is all used up. It’s a terrible business.”

  “How horrible,” I said, as another thin gelding rattled past pulling a cab with his head hung low.

  “Not like Pinky, here. I own her myself so it’s in my interest to feed her well and see that she’s not overworked,” he said. “I don’t want the poor lass getting sick. If she does, I’ll have no one to pull my cab. And besides, Pinky is like a friend to me.”

  “I can see that,” I said as he undid the nosebag and the roan mare rubbed her head against the driver.

  “This black horse of yours,” he said. “He sounds like he’s been bought by an owner, for sure; the cab companies wouldn’t go all that way just to buy a horse at the fair.”

  “So the man who bought Beauty will look after him well?” I said.

  “Sure to.” The Scotsman smiled as he led Pinky over to join the line of waiting cabs.

  “I think the man’s name is Baker or Barker. You don’t know him, do you?” I said, following them across the road. If Nanny Clay was here she would say I was “pestering” but I had to find out as much as I could.

  “Sorry, lass,” he shrugged. “There are over ten thousand cabbies…”

  “Ten thousand?” I gasped. “All here in London?” How was I supposed to find Beauty’s driver among that many? I didn’t even know his name for sure.

  “Is this station a good place to start, at least?” I asked, hope slipping away like water from a cracked jug.

  “Yes.” The driver smiled kindly. “You might be lucky here. Or try Euston, or Paddington, or Bishopsgate. Any of the big stations.”

  He was at the front of the queue now and a grand woman in a large lavender hat appeared from the platform.

  “To the opera house,” she said. “In Covent Garden.”

  “Right you are.” The cabby touched his hat to me. “Goodbye, lassie.”

  The lady climbed inside the cab, turning sideways to fit her enormous hat through the door.

  “They call me Mac by the way,” the driver called as Pinky trotted away. “If I see this Black Beauty of yours, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you!” I smiled and waved as brightly as I could, but a flood of loneliness washed over me as soon as he was around the corner.

  I was just plucking up courage to go and speak to the next driver in line, when Mac’s loud voice startled me. “Lassie!” He was back. “Hop up here,” he cried, pointing to the space beside him on the high box seat above the cab. “I’ve had an idea.”

  “What are you d
oing, driver?” The brim of the lavender hat poked out of the window. “Why have you returned to the station? This is where I came from, you silly man.”

  “Right you are, madam,” called Mac as I scrambled up to the seat beside him.

  “I want to go to the opera, you fool,” the lady barked.

  “And so you shall.” Mac didn’t bat an eyelid at being insulted. “Come on, Pinky, lass,” he said turning the horse’s head around. “I always have terrible trouble getting her to go to the opera,” he called down. “She’s more for the ballet, my Pinky.”

  I giggled as a picture of the little tubby mare wearing a frilly dance tutu popped into my mind.

  “So, here’s my thinking, lass,” he said, when we both stopped laughing. “There’s so many different railway stations nowadays, with cabbies waiting outside each one, you’d always be playing a game of cat and mouse. Maybe while you were back there at St Pancras, your Black Beauty would be at Bishopsgate. Or while you were at Paddington he’d have set off for King’s Cross.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, my head swimming.

  “What you need to do is to stay in one place, lassie,” he said. “That’s how a cat catches the wee mouse. She stays by the hole!”

  “The hole?”

  “Covent Garden! That’s the mouse hole,” said Mac. He waved his hands like a magician as we turned the corner into a huge bustling market place.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I cried in surprise. And it was. There were flower sellers on every corner and carts laden with cabbages and carrots, turnips and cauliflowers in broad stripes of green and orange and white. The colours looked so bright against the grey London streets and cold winter sky.

  “Wait until the summer, it’s like a bonny meadow,” said Mac. “Strawberries, peaches, roses … daffodils in the spring.”

  “I’d love to see that,” I said. “But I don’t want to be here in the summer. I want to have found Black Beauty by then.”

  We had stopped in front of a building with tall pillars like a Roman temple.

  “Opera house,” called Mac and the lavender lady climbed down from the cab.