“It’s Peter Song’s,” wailed Gibson.
“Ladies and gentlemen, everything can and does happen at a harness race. Peter Song’s sulky has a flat, but stand by, we’re on the job, pumping it up.”
The minutes’ delay loomed big and bothersome. But finally the tire was pumped and the scoring began again. On the fifth try the field worked with clock precision, starting at a walk, picking up the trot at the come-on signal, holding their positions as they hit the wire.
Now Steve Phillips was yelling “Go,” the crowd yelling it with him.
It was a race!
Gibson saw Rosalind far on the outside of the pack, holding her position as if they were still scoring. His hands clenched. Why doesn’t she go to the rail? Why doesn’t she? His father’s words came rushing at him: “Rosalind likes to make the pace.”
Why isn’t she doing it?
Why? Why? Why?
But as the field neared the turn and bunched, relief poured through him. Now he saw why. His father was driving a waiting first quarter! Holding her safe! Taking no chances! In a flash Gibson knew that if he had been driving he might have crowded for position, blocked himself in, lost the race in the first quarter. He was glad his father held the reins!
The words of Clem McCarthy drilled through the undertone of the crowd. “It’s Brownie Hanover in the lead at the first turn. Rosalind moving in, opening up space. Now the way shows clear. Now Rosalind taking it, catching Brownie Hanover, whipping around him.
“Behind her Sep Palin pulling Ed Lasater wide. Wait . . . wait!” The voice dinned. “Number three is breaking into a wild gallop in front of Lasater. It’s Gaiety Mite blocking him. Lasater’s forced far on the outside now, straining to catch the field. He jumps into a break. Now Palin’s getting him squared back onto his trot. He makes a good catch of it. But it may be too late, folks. They’re at the half-way pole. It’s Rosalind still on top by a length and a half. They’re coming down the stretch now, Rosalind in the lead, Brownie Hanover in second place, Pinero third, Clova fourth. Now Ben White glancing back to see if anyone’s closing in, but Rosalind’s still two lengths out in front, her tail beckoning, ‘Come on, Brownie! Come on, Lasater!’ ”
Gibson listened no more. Leaning out into space, his arms flailing, he was rooting his filly home, driving her in, stride for stride.
Eyes ahead, ears swiveled back to catch hoofbeats, Rosalind swept past the wire at her own pace.
“And what a pace!” Clem McCarthy’s voice thundered as the timer hung out the mark on the timer’s board. “Two minutes, one and three-quarters seconds! A half second faster than Greyhound’s best heat last year!”
Forty thousand people were on their feet, jumping up and down, roaring, throwing hats high. And up above them a lone boy was sending his cheers to swell the tumult.
“Let the radio audience enjoy the roar of the crowd,” Clem laughed as he caught Gibson and whirled him into a wild jig around and around the platform. Then, panting, he went back to the mouthpiece and poured everyone’s excitement into it. “Gib White’s bay filly took the lead at the first turn and was never headed. She led all the way, folks. All the way, to win by two lengths. She’s a flying machine. Two minutes, one and three-quarters seconds for the mile.”
Suddenly Gibson sobered. The second heat could be different. The race was not over. He saw the horses jogging back to the stables to blow out while another event took place.
He tried to watch the next race, a heat for pacers. Woodenly he answered Clem McCarthy’s questions. But in his mind he was at the stable helping with Rosalind, sponging off the sweat and dust, hand-rubbing her back and legs, offering her a few mouthfuls of water.
The second heat was different. Even from the beginning it was different. As winner of the first heat, Rosalind had the number one position now, and Ed Lasater was sixth instead of tenth.
This time only one false try and the horses were ready for the word. With the unity of boys at a track meet they came up to the wire, and passed the wire at the word “Go.”
And away from the wire they went, trotting faultlessly, all ten of them. And there was Rosalind moving out in front, her two white feet and her two dark feet punching out in unison. Rosalind sweeping around the turn alone! Rosalind making the pace. Behind her, within striking distance, Pinero, Brownie Hanover, Ed Lasater, Ruth M Mac.
“At the half-mile pole, folks,” Clem McCarthy was taking his listeners into his confidence, “Brownie Hanover is trying hard. He’s collaring Pinero, nosing ahead of him. But wait! Ed Lasater’s turning on his speed.” A chill came over Gibson as he saw Ed Lasater working his way forward, moving up on Pinero, drawing away from him, moving up on Brownie Hanover, drawing away from him, moving up on Rosalind, challenging her!
And then at the far turn came the clash everyone expected, the duel everyone had paid money to see!
Now Ed Lasater’s muzzle was almost touching the black and white cap. He was pulling around Rosalind’s sulky. Now his nose was even with her driver. Now he was at her flank. Now looking her in the eye! Gibson cupped his hand over his mouth as if all of him wanted to cry out.
“He’s got her!” A thousand voices shrilled up from the stands as one voice.
“He’s got her! He’s got her!”
Gibson shut out the cries. He was down there on the far turn, in Rosalind’s sulky, holding the reins over her, clucking, telegraphing, calling on her for the supreme effort.
And she was answering him, turning on her speed for him, inching away from Ed Lasater, widening the gap between them. By a quarter length. By a half length.
Behind her Sep Palin was pulling up on his reins, trying to lift Ed Lasater out in front. And behind him, the field. Whips lashing. Lines flapping. Drivers shouting. Only Rosalind’s driver sitting tight, letting his horse alone, letting her do it herself.
“A solo finish!” shouted Clem McCarthy. “Rosalind two lengths in the lead.”
Gibson looked at his stop watch as she crossed the line. Ed Lasater had forced her to go the last half in one minute, the last quarter in twenty-nine and a quarter seconds.
“Rosalind wanted to win!” he shouted. “She meant to win!”
There was no doubt about it. The big-going filly wanted all along to win.
Clem McCarthy’s arm waved Gibson in toward the microphone, but the boy had to get out on the track. He had to! Two at a time he backed down the rungs while the loud-speaker boomed in his ears.
“It was Rosalind all the way. She was too much horse for Ed Lasater. Ladies and gentlemen, we promised you a new star this afternoon. Here she is. Her name is Rosalind.”
Gibson landed running behind the grandstand. He had to thank Rosalind and his father. He tried to cut in and around the crowd, but they were a solid mass. Then someone recognized him, saw the look in his eye, made way for him.
And now he was on the track, in a cry of joy gripping his father’s arms while forty thousand throats sent up a shout. That boy out there was doing what all the great throng wanted to do—take Benjamin Franklin White to their hearts. And their united arms took in the boy and the filly, too.
Even the thousands who believed in Ed Lasater were shouting themselves hoarse. Even Mr. Reynolds himself. And in a box in the grandstand Mrs. Palin was hugging Mrs. White, telling her it just had to be this way. Mrs. White wasn’t able to answer at all. She was sobbing and holding onto her mother’s hand as if she were a little girl again.
As Gibson ran back and forth in frantic joy between his father and his filly, neither could say very much because of the din. But Mr. White was thinking, “What a good dose of horse medicine Rosalind has been!” And he was wishing Dr. Mills were here to see.
In answer to his thoughts, a red-and-white plane came scudding out of the clouds, circling over the track, signaling with its wings.
“That must be Dr. Mills!” shouted Gibson.
Mr. White nodded, looking up. The plane was circling the track, going up, stalling, coming back down, moto
rs roaring. He imagined he could hear Dr. Mills encouraging the pilot: “Go ahead. Do a loop. I don’t care if my heart falls out.”
And then Mr. White looked up into the sky beyond the wing tips. Into the blue silence he made his prayer of thanks to the Great Pilot, not for the race-win, but for the strong young arms that gripped his own.
By now camera bulbs were flashing, photographers tearing off pieces of black paper, letting the wind crackle them away. Rosalind shied from the frightening bits of paper, pulled her head toward the safety of her stall.
It was Guy Heasley who came to her rescue. With a proud and happy grin he led Rosalind to the stable, while her driver and her owner were escorted to the judges’ tower.
The presentation of the trophy lasted only a few minutes. Yet everyone in that vast audience knew it had taken three years to make this moment.
“It gives me great pleasure,” Mr. E. Roland Harriman, president of the Hambletonian Society, was saying, “to present this trophy to Gibson White, owner of the sensational filly who won today’s Hambletonian.
“Rosalind,” he said, “was named out of As You Like It, and that is how she won her race. She set a new record for the fastest time ever made by a Hambletonian winner. Somebody,” the words boomed solemnly, “should write a book about Rosalind. Only no one would believe it!”
Gibson looked at the silver gleaming in Mr. Harriman’s hand. And, wonder of wonders, it was not a cup, it was a tea set! A Hambletonian tea set! His eyes widened as he accepted it.
Now Mr. Harriman was paying tribute to Mr. White, calling him Hambletonian Ben, the grandest Roman of them all.
As the speech ended, the tea set was suddenly whisked out of Gibson’s hands and replaced by a microphone. He looked at the shiny metal thing in awe. The very closeness of it was frightening. He tried to hand it back, but no one would take it—not Mr. Harriman, nor William H. Cane, president of the Goshen track, nor Mr. White. They just stood there laughing, nodding their heads at him, urging him to say a few words.
Gibson saw the dizzying crowd, banked until it met the platform on the roof. A new wave of fright washed over him. For a long second he stood with his hands frozen to the metal stem, saying nothing. Then a few little words began to form inside him. He said them out as they came.
“I’m the luckiest fellow in the world.” He paused and began again. “I not only have a great filly. I’ve got a great dad.”
There was a little stillness. The words were so simple the listeners expected something more. But no more came. And then the crowd took up the words and sang them back.
“A great filly! A great dad! A great . . .”
Twenty-Seven
AFTER the victory Gibson helped cool out Rosalind. She closed her eyes and relaxed as he walked her, sometimes nodding her head on his shoulder. And then she was back in her stall, rattling her empty feed tub as if she knew she had done her work well.
Guy Heasley bustled importantly over to Gibson. “Here’s a handful of oats. Go on, Gib, give her a little appetizer. Then you better be readying yourself for the big horsemen’s dinner.”
Gibson took the oats, although his pockets already bulged suspiciously. He let Rosalind lip them from the palm of his hand, quietly watching his own reflection in her eyes. “You did it, Beautiful!” he said very softly when no one was looking.
Then he went out of her stall and around to the office. He found his father in shirtsleeves and his old hat, relaxing in a camp chair outside the door. A banty rooster perched on his knee, pecking at some corn kernels in his hand, and more banties scratched in the dirt at his feet.
Gibson sprawled down on the doorstep. “Dad,” he asked, flipping some oat seeds to the banties, “do you feel like dressing up and going to a big dinner tonight?”
“Pshaw, no!”
“Could we—?”
“Could we what?”
“Could Mother or Grandmother make up something to eat and just the four of us go out to the Millers’ place in Chester and have a picnic up there on the hill?”
Mr. White shoved his hat back and passed his hand across his forehead. He stretched out his legs, first one and then the other, and let his eyes close, remembering the peace of the spot. Then he sighed happily. “By George, I think the Millers would like it if we came to see them tonight. We could return Hambletonian’s pedigree to them, too.”
“And if they aren’t home,” Gibson suggested, “we could picnic anyway?”
“Like as not.” Mr. White’s voice had a kind of impatience in it. “But we’ll have to wait an hour. Your grandmother is resting. You know, Son, she went two very fast heats this afternoon.”
Gibson grinned. “Maybe that’s part of the reason Rosalind won. Everybody was trotting with her. Hey, Dad!” His eyes lighted with a sudden idea. “We have an hour. A whole hour. I’ll telephone Mom about the sandwiches for the picnic. Then I’ll meet you in the car. Hurry, Dad!”
After Gibson made his telephone call, he came back and got in the car with his father.
“Well? Your mother like the idea?” Mr. White asked as he started up and drove past the deserted parking lot and out through the unguarded gate.
“She said she’d like nothing better. They’ll be ready when we get back.”
“Where do we go now, Son?”
“Across the Erie tracks and out toward Sugar Loaf.”
“You figuring on making a kind of pilgrimage.” It was more a statement than a question.
Gibson stole a quick glance at his father. “Why, yes.”
“And where do we go in Sugar Loaf?”
“I don’t know exactly. But there’s a monument to Rysdyk’s Hambletonian I’d like to see.”
The car sped through the elm-shaded streets, then out on the back road to Sugar Loaf.
“They say there’s two shrines.” Mr. White spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “One on the Jonas Seely place where the colt was foaled, and a great big monument where he was buried over in Chester. Two shrines for the horse. None for the man.”
“That’s okay. William Rysdyk would prefer it that way.”
Mr. White nodded. “I think he would.”
“I don’t want to see the big monument after all,” Gibson said. “Let’s go to the foaling spot.”
Mr. White tossed his hat on the back seat. “Son, how is it with you? How do you feel?”
The blue hills in the distance, the quiet, winding road made talk come easy. Gibson drew a deep breath of happiness. “When Rosalind won, I felt just tops, Dad. Tops all over—as if I could trot a two-minute mile myself.”
“I felt pretty good, too,” Mr. White chuckled.
“Dad—?”
“Um-m-m?”
“Don’t you think horses come to know when it’s a workout and when it’s the real thing?”
“No question about it.”
“Then Rosalind knew?”
“She knew.” Mr. White scratched his back against the seat in content. “It was a strange thing about this race, Gib. From the moment I climbed into the sulky and took hold the reins I knew we had a winner. I don’t think any horse in the world could have beaten us today.”
“And when Rosalind pulled away from Ed Lasater, I knew something, too.”
“Meaning?”
Gibson laughed out. “I knew we had a champion on our hands!”
The tiptop of old Sugar Loaf showed itself now, dark against the sky. Gibson had half expected it to be white, like the sugar he fed the horses. A pheasant, flushed by the car, flew up from a tussock of grass.
Mr. White began humming a lazy tune, tapping out the rhythm on the wheel.
“With the purse Rosalind won,” Gibson said, his eyes mounting with the bird, “I can finish paying for her training costs. And the rest of the money I’d like to use”—he paused, then blurted—“to go into business with you!”
The humming stopped. The hand on the wheel tensed.
“It’s just as you said, Dad. Some day Rosalind will be a brood mare and
I’ll be driving her colts.”
A silence that was good closed them in as the car climbed a slow mile. At last Mr. White could hold the gladness in no longer. He pulled off the road and stopped, even though they were in front of a farmhouse.
“I feel so good,” he sighed, glancing across the road and up and up to the tower of the mountains. “Fact is, I could take an old horse like Pegasus, score for the word on the bald dome of Sugar Loaf, and drive right across that cloud lazin’ over yonder.”
“Hmpf,” snorted Gibson, “with a colt out of Rosalind I could pull out around you and kick cloud dust all over your winged horse.”
Mr. White’s voice was far away. “There’s another reason why I feel good,” he said. “It’s because you wanted me, not one of the younger men, to drive today.”
A screen door scraped across a sill and a friendly voice called to them. “Were you looking for the Banker farm?”
Mr. White got out of the car and walked up to the house. “Strangely enough, we were,” he said. “I understand the Banker farm used to be the Jonas Seely place. Are you Mrs. Banker?”
The woman nodded, brushing the flour from her apron.
Now Gibson was out of the car and on the bottom step of the porch. “Could we—would you mind if we visited the place where Hambletonian was born?”
“Why, not at all,” she smiled. “We’re glad to have folks interested.”
Gibson liked her at once—not because she was prettier and less tired looking than most farm women nor because she smelled of a freshly baked cake, but because he thought he saw in her a pride in living on the same land Hambletonian himself had trod.
“Go on down the road to that cattle gate.” She made a right-hand sign to them. “You can open it and drive across the pasture lot till you come to the marshy place. Then you’ll have to foot it across a little log bridge. And there you are! The oak tree and the boulder with the writing on it.”
When they had driven through the gate, Mr. White stopped. “I’m tired, Son. I’d like just to sit in the car with the doors open and smoke a cigar and rest my bones. Maybe even doze a little. You go on.”
Born to Trot Page 15
