IRISH FIRE

by Jeanette Baker

  Despite her personal antipathy toward her husband, the magnitude of such a tragedy and what it would mean to the American thoroughbred industry filled her with despair.

  16

  Irish Gold was surprisingly docile when Brian led him into the trailer before dawn the following morning. It was one of the new and improved model trailers recently purchased by the Curragh Stud. Horses walked in from the side instead of backing in and stood at an angle with a window view of their surroundings. The new style better accommodated the yearlings and colts who could stand without the restricting lead rope tying down their heads.

  The sky was a dismal leaden gray. Overnight the frost had silvered the grass so that every blade stood stiffly erect in its coat of armor. Brian was scraping the residue from his windows when Robert Fowler hurried out to say goodbye, clapping his arms, his breath smoke-white in the bitter cold air. You should have an easy drive to Ballinasloe. The weathers good.

  Aye. Brian stripped off his gloves. Caitlin said you were goin to operate on her colt.

  Fowler nodded. Its what she wants.

  Brian scraped the last of the frost from his window. Theres no hope of racin him after the hobday operation, not in the flats anyway.

  I wont be trying the hobday, but the results are the same. She knows that.

  What of the expense?

  I wouldnt think a Claiborne would be concerned with that.

  Brian frowned. He was reluctant to betray Caitlins trust.

  Youve heard the Claibornes are divorcin.

  Fowler frowned. Are they now?

  The colt is part of the disagreement, or he was, Brian amended, before this happened. I cant imagine Sam Claiborne fightin for a defective animal.

  You wouldnt happen to be the reason for their divorce, would you, mate?

  Brian was genuinely shocked. Whatever put that idea into your head?

  Shes an attractive woman, Fowler observed.

  Ive noticed.

  It would be difficult for a man not to.

  Are you interested for yourself, Rob?

  Fowler held up his hands and backed several steps away. I never said that. Shes unusual, thats all I meant. And she took it quite well, about the colt. It had to be quite a blow.

  Brian knelt to check a tire. She had a bit of warnin. It wasnt hard to figure out after he bled all over my hands.

  His chances are good, Fowler said emphatically. Only one side is defective.

  Brian stood and leaned back against the truck. Shes in a financial bind, Rob. This colt was to be her ticket. There wont be any Claiborne money comin this way.

  It wont break me. The vet had come close to the trailer to stroke the colts velvety nose. Theres something odd about this one, Brian.

  How?

  Ive followed Narraganset ever since he was put out to stud. Hes never thrown a colt that looks like this one. His genes run truer than any stallion Ive seen, small muscles, large head, nothing Arabian about him. This one doesnt look like he has Narranganset bloodlines at all.

  Later, after Brian had negotiated the maze of round-abouts leading out from Galway, after hed waited patiently for endless minutes while a road bowling game dispersed, and after hed waited for a flock of sheep to be herded off the road by a redheaded lad with so many freckles they appeared to stand up on his cheeks, his mind finally cleared, and the ramifications of Rob Fowlers casual comment came to him. It was preposterous, of course. Not even Samuel Claiborne could get away with such a fabrication. Not unless hed expected the colt to be born in the privacy of the Claiborne stables. Not unless he planned to control every aspect of his bloodtyping and his registering. He couldnt do it alone. Others would have to be involved as well, others whod worked for Claiborne for years, those whose livelihood depended on the reputation of the Claiborne stables.

  It occurred to Brian that if his suspicions were true, Claiborne must be feeling rather desperate now that only two months remained before the colts required blood tests and registering. He looked out of the rearview mirror. The narrow road hugged the edge of the cliff and wound snake-like behind him into the distance. He tightened his grip on the wheel, grateful that Caitlin had decided to go home by train. A desperate man was often a dangerous man.

  The Ballinasloe horse sale was located on a flat piece of land resembling the Burren, that ancient limestone shelf that covered a good portion of Connemara and western Ireland. Rows of trailers lined the perimeter of the field and men in wool caps known as middlemen stood arguing the merits of a particular horse to buyers while reminding the owner of his defects. The familiar open palmed, hand-slapping between middleman and seller, and then middleman and buyer, and the rubbing of soil on an animals hindquarters to indicate an agreement, had been part of the Ballinasloe tradition ever since Celtic warriors raced their steeds at the Curragh a thousand years before.

  Brian parked the trailer and checked on the colt before making his way across the long wet grass to where the most promising horses were corralled. Ballinasloe attracted all breeds, from the small, wiry Connemara pony to the Irish draft horse, heavy with muscle. Occasionally a bankruptcy or divorce would force the sale of a thoroughbred of high enough quality for Brian to consider training at the Curragh Stud, but that was a rare day indeed. He came to these events to keep his finger on the pulse of the true Irish horse world.

  The Curragh Stud and other farms like it were Irelands treasuresarchitectural masterpieces with manicured grounds, state-of-the-art neonatal units, pristine stables, and horses worth millions in worldwide currency, worlds as far away from the backyard horse trainers reality as the Ballinasloe sale in the middle of a horse pasture was from the Goffs auction in its modern building surfaced with glittering mirrors.

  Ballinasloe was the common mans auction and despite his association with the Curragh Stud, Brian considered himself a common man. A horse lover who had learned everything he knew from the kind of grass roots training acquired by trial and error and hanging on the heels of those with experiencejust the same as a thousand other lads like himself who had empty pockets, horses in their blood, and hands that werent afraid of an honest days work.

  Well, if it isnt our lad, Brian Hennessey. A heavy hand slapped his back nearly knocking him off his feet.

  Brian turned, grinned and held out his hand. How are you, John?

  John Connelly with his bowed legs, mismatched clothes, curly gray hair, and scruffy beard hardly looked the part, but he was a man known the length and breadth of Ireland for his shrewd horse sense and razor-quick wit. He was seventy years old, a middleman, known for bringing buyer and seller together and sticking with a promising transaction until both parties were equally satisfied. His commissions were substantial and Brian had never regretted acting on his advice.

  Well enough, lad, the man replied. What brings y t Ballinasloe?

  I havent missed a Ballinasloe sale since I was a boy.

  Connelly stroked his beard. No, I dont suppose y have. Why is that, I wonder, when youve enough on your plate takin care of the diamonds of the thoroughbred world?

  Brian narrowed his eyes, and for an instant the years fell back and he was a boy again with imagination enough to feel what it must have been like for a Celtic warrior to race his stallion on the flat plain of the Curragh. The feel of it stayed with him, through summers as an exercise boy at stud farms, as an amateur jockey, as a grooms assistant, and then trainers assistant and finally, thanks to John OShea, a position coveted by every boy in Ireland who ever sat on a horse: manager of the Curragh Stud.

  Brian was under no illusions that his talent for training winners would have brought him to the point where he now was. There were many men in Ireland as talented with horses as he was, but only he had managed the good luck of rooming with Martin OShea. This is where it all began for me, John. I wouldnt miss it.

  The old mans eyes misted. Unashamed of his emotion, he squeezed Brians shoulder. I remember well enough the first day y came with your da. A scrawny dark little lad y were with t
hat black hair and those eyes that looked liked all the sea in Galway was locked behind them.

  Brian remembered. He wanted a horse for his wagon.

  Aye. And I found it for him, didnt I?

  You did, John. We brought home a fine horse that day.

  I remember takin a good look at your face and thinkin this lad will never be a fisherman.

  Brian laughed. Right you were, John. Ill not be makin my livin from the sea.

  I was sorry to hear about your da, lad. He was a good man who should have had another ten years in front of him.

  It seemed to Brian as if the din surrounding them had lessened, and the noise and crowds and color receded to a different plane.

  He was at his fathers funeral again. His mother had reproached him for missing the Rosary as if that were more important than the years of silence between them. Hed watched the throng of mourners pass by the closed coffin and for the first time saw something in the women of Inishmore that hed never seen before.

  Without exception their foreheads were pinched in the center and the skin around their eyes was stretched with lines that could only have come from long hours spent squinting at the sea, fingering Rosary beads, scrubbing floors that were already bleached to an unnatural purity, beating rugs, washing windows, wringing linens, praying until the fishing boats were sighted again, signaling a fresh catch and a husband who hadnt been washed overboard and swept away.

  The sea was both savior and nemesis. It put food on a womans table and widowed her before her time. The sea had claimed Kevin Hennessey during an unexpected storm, kept him hidden for six long days, and finally washed him up in the nets of another fishing boat, so bloated and disfigured that his sweater, the distinctive Aran with its blackberry stitch representing the Holy Trinity, was his only identifying mark.

  No, Brian would not go the way of his father, despite his love for that wild and lonely island off the coast of Galway Bay. Give him the settled beauty of Irelands horse country: leaves crimson and gold, piled in heaps along winding country roads. Gravel paths leading away from wrought iron gates, hedge rows and oak trees, spruce-lined fences. Sleek horses munching in rich pastures, rare November sunlight picking out diamond-bright raindrops in water-slick grass. Turf fires, pungent, white steam against a pewter sky. Low foamy clouds that hung like stiffly beaten egg whites over the peaks of green hills, an orange sunrise coloring the patchwork quilt that was Ireland. Women in bright anoraks who walked the roads with healthy dogs for no reason other than that the day was a lovely one.

  He cleared his throat. He was a good man.

  Aye, that he was. John pulled his pipe from the inside pocket of his jacket and dug around for his matches. After an exhaustive search he found them in the same place where they always were, beside his pipe. Striking the match against his shoe he lit the tobacco and sucked in deeply. I hear youve stabled a Claiborne mare and colt, he said casually.

  Thats right, answered Brian. John Connelly wasnt one for idle conversation. Sooner or later he would come out with his reasons for throwing a particular subject out on the table for discussion.

  Word has it that Samuel Claiborne has come to Ireland to take them back.

  Brian shrugged noncommittally and kept his eyes on a promising bay with black legs and mane. She was giving the boy holding his lead rope a difficult time of it, twisting and pawing the ground. I havent heard from him.

  Word has it that Mrs. Claiborne has broken the law bringin the mare t Ireland the way she did.

  Brians eyes never left the bay. Do you know Sam Claiborne, John?

  Not if I was t see him face t face.

  If I were judge and jury, Brian continued, Id lay odds that it wasnt Mrs. Claiborne who broke the law, but rather the other way around.

  Before the old man could answer, Brian gripped his shoulder and nodded in the direction of the bay. What can you tell me about that two year old?

  John immediately picked out the horse. Thats Jamie Dempseys filly. She was passed over last year. Her da was Satans Madboy. He looked at the leaping, snorting horse. It appears that shes inherited some of his tendencies.

  Brian groaned. Satans Madboy was possibly the fastest horse to come out of Ireland since Simba Kahn but he was unpredictable. No jockey would ride him. Even after he was retired to stud, he mauled an exercise boy, crippling him permanently. Eventually he was put down.

  Sometimes it isnt the animal, lad, John offered. Y know that. If hes been treated badly y cant blame him.

  How much is Dempsey askin?

  John was already counting his commission. His forehead wrinkled. Two thousand quid, fifteen hundred if we work it right.

  Lets see what he says.

  The old man beamed. Follow me, he ordered, shouldering his way through the masses to where the filly stood shackled and tied to a fence post. Jamie Dempsey, he roared over the crowd noise. Ive a buyer for your horse. If y know whats good for y, youll be here by the time Im through countin.

  Instantly Dempsey appeared at his side. Im here, John.

  Good lad. What are y askin for this bag of bones y call a horse?

  Three thousand quid, the man replied promptly.

  John shook his head sadly. Brian here will give you one thousand, not a pence more.

  Shes worth more.

  Come, lad. John waved his finger at the boy. Last year y couldnt give this horse away. I dont see anyone lined up t buy this year. Mr. Hennessey will give y a fair price. He lifted Dempseys hand, slapped it and let it fall. What do y say, lad? Again he picked up the young mans hand and slapped it. One thousand pounds and youve sold the nag.

  Two thousand pounds, the boy said. Ill take two thousand for her.

  Regretfully, John shook his head and slapped Dempseys hand harder. Fifteen hundred. My buyer will give you fifteen hundred dollars and no more. He leaned close to the boy and removed the pipe from his mouth. This isnt goin to get any better, lad. Y didnt really come here today thinkin y would sell your horse, now, did y?

  Dempseys face fell. He isnt goin to pay anymore is he, John?

  No, Jamie. He isnt. I wont let him.

  All right, then. Its a deal.

  John picked up a handful of mud and smeared it on the fillys rump. Brian, lad. Reach into your pocket and bring out your checks. Youve got yourself a horse.

  * * *

  Brian had never cared for Sam Claiborne. The mans arrogant disregard for the small horse breeder was enough to raise a fair-minded mans contempt. But now that he knew Caitlin, and after Rob Fowler had raised his suspicions, he could barely look at the man without a slow-boiling rage gathering in the pit of his stomach.

  Seated in the stands in the center of a group of fawning Americans, Caitlins husband with his expensive flannel trousers and tweed jacket looked every inch the wealthy breeder.

  The auctioneer, immaculately dressed in the customary suit and tie suitable for the Goffs annual yearling action, took his place in the box. Brian turned his attention to the filly in the center of the ring. Then he looked at his program. She was a Suliman filly out of Aran Light, a nervous, fine-boned yearling, small for a foal born in January, but with the bloodlines for enormous potential. Brian pulled the pencil from behind his ear and marked her number. The auctioneer started the bidding at ten thousand pounds.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam Claiborne hold up two fingers.

  Ten thousand pounds has been offered, the auctioneer reported, do I have eleven thousand?

  Brian raised his hand and nodded.

  Eleven thousand pounds, the auctioneer droned, do I have twelve?

  Claiborne held up another two fingers.

  Twelve thousand pounds, said the auctioneer. Twelve thousand pounds has been offered.

  Brian looked at his program. As much as he wanted to foil Sam Claiborne, the Suliman filly wasnt worth more than ten thousand guineas. Reluctantly, he kept silent while the auctioneer finalized the Claiborne offer and the filly was led out of the ring.

  Six more horse
s were brought to the block, all with flaws that an experienced trainer wouldnt miss. Brian didnt bother bidding on them. To his intense satisfaction Claiborne Farms acquired four of the six.

  When the next colt was brought before the crowd, Brian wasnt the only one who caught his breath. Indian Summer was a March foal but he was large, sleek, and well-muscled with the canon bones of a flat racer. Under the golden light thrown by Goffs reflective panels, his cinnamon coat gleamed like living flame. This time, Brian resolved, he would not allow Claiborne to outbid him.

  The auctioneer spoke into the microphone. Indian Summer out of Donovans Lady by Sorley Boy. Champions, ladies and gentleman, winners of the One and Two Thousand Guineas races, the Saint Legers, and the Darby. The bidding will begin at fifteen thousand.

  Claiborne raised his hand.

  Fifteen thousand pounds offered by Mr. Sam Claiborne, the auctioneer said. Am I offered sixteen? Who will give me sixteen for this splendid animal?

  Eighteen thousand, someone called from the back. Brian recognized Seamus OConnor, a neighbor from nearby Naas.

  Eighteen thousand is on the table, the auctioneers voice broke through the murmurs of the crowd. Mr. OConnor has offered eighteen thousand punts. Am I offered twenty?

  Deliberately, Brian remained silent as the bidding continued. His reputation was well-established. He intended his offer to be the last and the highest. Sam Claiborne wasnt out of cash but he would be shortly. Hed already spent close to a hundred thousand guineas for untried horses. No stable, not even Claibornes could sustain that kind of expenditure.

  OConnors last bid was twenty-six thousand. Brian watched Sam Claiborne and the man beside him engage in a swift and animated conversation. They appeared to come to a decision. Claibornes hand remained at his side. Unless someone stepped in, OConnor would walk away with the Sorley Boy colt.