Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  “Any way you look at it they’ll be out to beat us,” Danny said.

  “They sure will,” the trainer agreed. “And that’s what makes me so uneasy. Like everybody else Mr. Riddle wants this one bad, maybe even more than we do. This is his first try at the Futurity and here he is with the favorite. Most of the other stables have spent years tryin’ for a winner with no luck. They’ll do everything they can to beat us.”

  “Sam Hildreth is a wily one,” Danny said. “We’ll have to watch his Dominique.”

  “All of them,” Feustel muttered. “We’ve got to watch every last one of ’em. The thirteenth might not be such a lucky day for us.”

  “The thirteenth? Is that the date of the Futurity?” Danny asked, his hand coming to a stop on the colt’s neck.

  “Yes, and it was the thirteenth of last month that Upset beat us.”

  Danny said nothing more, for now he too was uneasy. And for the first time that he could remember, he welcomed the invasion of photographers who arrived at the stall wanting to take pictures of Man o’ War. He posed the big colt for them, listening to the clicks of their shutters but thinking only of the important race that would be run on—of all days—the 13th of September. Not that he was superstitious. Not at all. He would just rather have had the Futurity fall on some other day!

  The field that went postward the following Saturday was not as big as Louis Feustel had predicted. Still, there were nine colts and fillies whose stables had the courage to race Man o’ War. Danny walked beside his colt well onto the track, for Man o’ War was more restless than he’d ever been. He lunged hard, plunging against Major Treat and dragging Danny with him. Two men ran out to help, and the big colt took all three of them into the air, this time plunging away from Major Treat.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Danny said as he tried to bring Man o’ War down. “Unless it’s because he hasn’t raced in two weeks. He’ll raise the devil at the barrier.”

  The crowd watched Man o’ War, but it seemed no one was worried over the possibility of his post parade antics taking anything out of him. They had made him the favorite at the shortest odds, with one exception, ever quoted in the long history of the Futurity.

  He was carrying the highest weight in the field, this time 127 pounds, and conceding from five to ten pounds to all the other horses. The track was fast and, the fans believed, much to Man o’ War’s liking. A stiff wind was blowing up the track, but other than that nothing should impede this brilliant red colt in his final race of the season. It was possible that John P. Grier and Dominique might make a race of it, but Man o’ War had beaten most of the others entered in the race and no one expected the decision to be reversed today.

  Danny watched Man o’ War prance up the track. He was acting better, now that he knew the business of racing was at hand. He slid hard against Major Treat, who took the shock of the plunging tornado quietly, as he was resigned to do by now. Together they continued past the stands, eighth in the field of ten. Only John P. Grier and On Watch were behind him. Dominique was in second post position while Upset, trying again to repeat his victory of just a month ago, was sixth in line.

  The barrier awaited them at the start of the long three-quarters of a mile “chute.” As Danny had guessed, Man o’ War was dynamite behind the barrier. Even from where the boy stood, he could see his colt fighting to break through. The other jockeys weren’t helping to soothe him down, either. They were the top riders in America and all experts at getting the best of the start. They were doing everything possible to bother the favorite, and Loftus had his hands full with them as well as with his own mount.

  The minutes ticked away with Mars Cassidy trying to control the field and bring the horses into proper position. Five minutes passed by, then six, then seven … and at the eighth minute they were suddenly in line. The barrier was sprung and the yellow flag fell, waving them on.

  They came out in a bunch and Danny looked for the yellow-and-black silks. He thought Man o’ War, being so excited, would come out first and make every post a winning one. But out of the pack emerged Dominique, while John P. Grier flashed across the track from far outside and raced head and head with the leader!

  Danny looked back and found his colt, a stride in front of the rest of the pack, nicely placed, and running well within himself. It was easier now to see the compactly bunched field, and the crowd roared as Man o’ War began to move up. In front, Dominique seemed to feel the effects of the stiff headwind and gave way to John P. Grier.

  It was at that second that Johnny Loftus must have spoken to Man o’ War, for the big red colt moved with electrifying swiftness. He hurtled past Dominique and then John P. Grier as if in play. Faster and faster he went until Loftus began pulling him back. Even then he was galloping faster than the other horses raced! By the last quarter of a mile, Loftus was once more standing in his stirrups and looking back at those who would challenge Man o’ War.

  It was another romp for the champion, and the overflowing crowd rose to its feet applauding him. When he came back to the winner’s circle, the cheers rose to still greater heights, for the time on the board was 1:11 ⅗ the fastest Futurity ever run! Man o’ War had won as he pleased. What might have happened if this great colt had been extended? the spectators asked themselves. Already they were looking forward to the following year when Man o’ War would reappear and their answer might be forthcoming.

  Danny waited outside the winner’s circle. He watched the photographers take pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Riddle standing beside Man o’ War. He had never seen them any happier. A short distance away he recognized Major August Belmont, owner of Nursery Stud. He, too, was smiling and Danny believed that he must be the happiest of all, for it was he who had decided that Mahubah should be bred to Fair Play. Major Belmont had sent from Nursery Stud the best colt bred there, perhaps the best in the world. What a pity he hadn’t kept him for himself!

  The Unwinding

  21

  “But will he go on?” a newspaper reporter asked Louis Feustel the morning after the Futurity. “He’s never raced more than three-quarters of a mile. Our readers will want to know if you think he’ll still be sensational when the distances are stretched out next year.”

  Feustel smiled, a little patiently, Danny thought. “You know,” he replied, “you’re the first reporter I’ve talked to who’s asked me that question. None of the others have been so skeptical. They seem to know that we have a top-class horse, one who has stamina as well as speed.”

  The reporter did not smile back. “The New York Sun editorial policy is more conservative than other newspapers,” he said seriously. “We have seen other horses receive the acclaim your colt has, only to fade badly in later performances. We believe our readers prefer to sit back calmly and await results rather than to place a young two-year-old in equine history before he’s actually had a chance to prove himself.”

  Feustel shook his head. “Horsemen feel differently about Man o’ War,” he said solemnly. “Regardless of the fact that he’s still a colt we know he’s among the greatest we’ve ever seen, and we include older horses as well. We rank him among the best of the best, and I would say this even if he was not in my stable.”

  The Sun reporter smiled for the first time at Feustel’s serious but glowing praise. “I’m afraid our paper thinks you and others are being carried away by Man o’ War’s triumph in the Futurity,” he said. “We prefer to think of him as a brilliant colt who has done everything a colt should do. But he is only on the threshold of his racing career. As to his being the greatest ever, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  The reporter paused, his gaze turning to Man o’ War. “All we would like to know just now is this: In your opinion, will he be able to carry his speed over longer distances?”

  Feustel shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “He will go on,” he said simply.

  “Has Mr. Riddle decided not to race him again this year?” the reporter asked. “He needs to win only $20,000 mo
re to set a new record for his age. And as you so eloquently pointed out, he dominates his division. It would be easy for him to …”

  “He’s not racing any more this year,” Feustel interrupted. “Mr. Riddle and I have decided he’s done enough; he needs the rest. We’re not out to break any purse records.”

  “But it’s very tempting, isn’t it?” the reporter persisted.

  “No, frankly, it isn’t,” Feustel said. “We have bigger things in view.”

  The following week Man o’ War was taken to the track only for light exercise. He began the “unwinding” that would take him back to the pastures of the Glen Riddle Farm in Maryland for the winter. Even though he was galloped slowly in the mornings, he attracted more attention than any other horse at the track. The acclaim of all turfdom still lingered in the air, for despite the fact that he was only a two-year-old there was no question but that Man o’ War was the “horse of the year.” It was the highest honor that exacting horsemen could bestow upon him. He towered above all other stars on the track. He had raced 10 times, with 9 firsts and 1 second, for $83,325 in purse winnings. That he would go on to become even greater as a three-year-old, few horsemen doubted.

  With the approach of cool weather, the Riddle stable moved to Maryland. Danny was glad to get away from the racetrack for a while. It was nice to relax, to rest. And for Man o’ War it was a time to play. Danny enjoyed his colt to the utmost, taking care of him all by himself. Once more they were the close friends of Nursery Stud days, for as big and famous as Man o’ War had become, he still had many coltish ways about him.

  Danny watched him roam the lush pastures of Glen Riddle Farm, his curious eyes finding familiar sights, his ears and nose catching sounds and scents he had known before. He played like a colt, romping and kicking from one end of the pasture to the other. But he ran as no other colt had ever run! He dug into the earth, cutting it with flaying hoofs and sending great chunks of sod behind him in a mad, whirlwind dash along the fence. Here he ran as he wanted to race … with no bit, no hands to hold him back! Perhaps that was the reason Man o’ War never ran as other colts did in pasture, well within themselves. Only here was he free from all restraint. And most of the time it was only Danny who observed this blazing speed. More than ever he was humbled by it. There was no horse in the world like Man o’ War. There never had been. There never would be again.

  Fall passed into winter, and Man o’ War became a three-year-old. He had grown like a weed. By spring he stood well over sixteen hands and his red chestnut coat was rich and glowing with good health and vitality. His body had thickened to keep up with his rapid growth. Weighing 1,100 pounds, he had a remarkable girth of seventy-two inches.

  Never had a three-year-old looked as magnificent as Man o’ War, Danny thought. His powerful forehand and quarters were matched by a barrel that was almost a perfect cylinder. His forearms and shoulders had developed enormously, keeping pace with the weight and thickness of his long, round barrel. His flanks were deep and well skirted and his loins broad and powerful. His stifle joints were wide and flaring so that when he ran through the pasture they swung free and clear of his barrel.

  Feustel watched him one morning with Danny and said, “He’s matured better than any colt I’ve ever seen. He’s filled and rounded-out to perfection.”

  Danny’s eyes glowed as Man o’ War came whipping around the fence toward them. “He looks more like a stallion than ever,” he said. “See how his neck dips in front of the withers. And how it rises to a crest. No horse could look more masculine.”

  Feustel nodded. “You notice a lot about this colt, Danny. You seldom miss anything.”

  “We’ve been together a long time,” Danny answered quietly.

  “A long time,” Feustel repeated. His eyes left the horse to study the boy. He noted how much taller and broader Danny had grown since he’d been with the stable. The kid was maturing along with the colt. In a way they were a good deal alike. Danny had lost a lot of his awkwardness, too, moving with a deftness now that belied his big frame.

  The trainer turned back to Man o’ War. It was too bad in a way that Danny had been born big-boned. The kid wanted to do more than rub Man o’ War. He’d have given anything to be a jockey and he probably would have made a good one. But there were other jobs for him besides rubbing horses. Danny was bound to do something big someday. Not that rubbing Man o’ War wasn’t pretty important in itself.

  They watched the colt run from one end of the pasture to the other. Feustel said, “You’re both a lot alike.”

  Danny said, “I wish I could go so fast.” He hadn’t meant it as a joke and didn’t smile. How much he would have given to be up on Man o’ War’s back!

  Feustel leaned against the fence. “Being with him is what counts, Danny,” he said understandingly. “That’s more important than anything else. And you’ve been closer to him than the rest of us. You saw him foaled.”

  Danny nodded but said nothing more. Later, when he put Man o’ War back in his stall, he stroked the colt’s head. Feustel is right, he thought. Just being here is what counts … that’s all that matters.

  He continued rubbing Man o’ War’s broad forehead, then followed the line of the tapered nose down to the fine, delicate muzzle. He knew every inch of Man o’ War, maybe better than anyone else, just as Feustel had said. How many other people had noticed that the colt’s jowls had widened this winter and the muscle over them had thickened?

  He pushed Man o’ War’s head gently away. “If looks mean anything, nothing will stop you ever,” he said quietly.

  When he closed him up for the night, he called, “Good night, Red.” From within the stall came a muffled snort.

  The Preakness

  22

  The other stables had not yet given up hope of beating the big red colt who had swept everything before him the preceding year. They knew from long experience that many sensational juveniles reached their peak at two years, never to improve. Many of the trainers believed that their own colts had been slow in developing and would show their real class at three years of age when the race distances were lengthened.

  Few turfmen had any idea what was taking place at Glen Riddle Farm. If they had seen Man o’ War in the spring, they would not have held such high hopes of defeating him.

  “Going in the Kentucky Derby with him?” Feustel asked Mr. Riddle one morning.

  The owner shook his head without taking his eyes from the chestnut colt. “No, the first of May is much too early to ask a three-year-old to go a mile and a quarter.”

  “Even him?” Feustel studied the good bone structure of Man o’ War, the flat cannons and feet so large and healthy. The Kentucky Derby’s distance wouldn’t break down this colt.

  “Even him,” Mr. Riddle answered.

  “There’ll be a lot of pressure put on you to run him,” Feustel went on. “It’ll take much of the public interest away from the Derby if he doesn’t go.”

  “We’ll still wait,” Mr. Riddle said adamantly.

  Louis Feustel nodded. “Okay,” he said. He would have liked to see Man o’ War in the Kentucky Derby, but there’d be no changing the boss’s mind. Mr. Riddle could be an extremely stubborn man.

  “No horse of mine will go to Churchill Downs so early in the year,” the owner went on. “Let the others knock themselves out. We’ll wait.”

  Feustel said, “He’s in top physical shape. We’ll step up his works now.”

  “The middle of May will be early enough to race him,” Mr. Riddle decided. “We’ll go in the Preakness, right here in Maryland.”

  Feustel’s brow furrowed. “But I thought your plan called for us to move back to Belmont Park.”

  “It does. I haven’t changed it. We’ll move the stable to Belmont the first of May and prepare there for the Preakness. It will be quiet with no racing there, and the facilities are better. We’ll ship him down to Pimlico a couple of days before the race and return to Belmont immediately after.”

 
Feustel shrugged his shoulders. “It might not be the wisest thing to do, shipping just before the race, but I think he can handle it.”

  “I think so too,” Mr. Riddle said. “There’s always a lot of confusion at Pimlico around Preakness time. The later we arrive the better.”

  “The public will maul him anyway,” Feustel said. “Racing is in the blood of all Marylanders, and he’ll heat them up still more.”

  Mr. Riddle smiled at his trainer’s words but said thoughtfully, “Maryland is his home. It’s only right that he makes his first start in the Preakness.”

  “What about Johnny Loftus?” Feustel asked. He and everyone else in the business knew that the jockey was having a difficult time getting a license to ride that year. Too many trainers and owners had complained about his not following their riding instructions.

  “I appealed to the Jockey Club to reinstate him,” Mr. Riddle said, “but it didn’t do any good. I doubt that he’ll get his license.”

  “Whom do you have in mind?” Feustel persisted. “It’ll take a lot of jockey to handle him, and we don’t want to make any mistakes in his first start.”

  “I’m not sure who it will be,” Mr. Riddle said, closing the subject.

  By the first of May they were at Belmont Park, and Man o’ War continued his preparation for the Preakness on the 18th. His very presence at the New York track aroused the curiosity of fans and trainers alike, and they watched every move he made with Clyde Gordon in the saddle. Every day that he was given anything approaching a fast trial, the stopwatches in the hands of clockers clicked. The morning gallery grew as the big colt was galloped longer and faster. Slowly they became convinced that this colt was not just a sprinter who had come to hand early to top his division. In the past they had seen many three-year-olds “pay the price” for their earlier, brilliant victories.

  Man o’ War would go on, they decided. He overshadowed everything else at the track. Each stride was effortless and he went about his business with a determination they had seen only in much older champions. He was eager to run and had a will of his own that delighted them. They knew that here was a courageous colt who wouldn’t quit. And from the looks of him he wouldn’t break down.