Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  The man jumped back just in time to avoid a well-aimed hoof. “Thanks,” the photographer said. “Seems like you know this colt pretty well.”

  Danny nodded.

  “He hasn’t a mark on him,” the photographer said. “Man, he’s big. He must put away a lot of feed.”

  “He does,” Danny answered. “Three meals a day. Six quarts of oats, four whole and two crushed. Maybe thirty pounds of hay, too, special from the farm, timothy and a little clover thrown in for dessert. Sometimes I give him salad for good measure. That’s lettuce with a little endive, romaine, and leaves of the chicory plant.”

  The man’s eyes were now on Danny rather than Man o’ War. “I’ll bet you enjoy feeding him.”

  “I sure do,” Danny said quietly.

  The ceremony in the winner’s circle ended and Feustel called for Man o’ War’s blanket. Danny ran forward with it, giving it to the trainer, who placed it carefully over the colt’s hindquarters. Then he led Man o’ War back to the barn through the murky veil of heat.

  Racing His Shadow

  26

  Mr. Riddle decided to start Man o’ War only once more at Saratoga. Two weeks later the big colt went postward in the Travers Stakes at a long mile and a quarter. Again the stands were crowded with those who had come to watch him in action. They even had hopes that the Travers would be more than a parade performance by the champion, for Jim Rowe was again furnishing the competition against Man o’ War. He alone of all the trainers had not given up hope of toppling the colt from his pedestal. His grudge against the Riddle stable was deep-seated and he would fight it out to the very end.

  Danny watched Upset and John P. Grier follow Man o’ War in the post parade. Two against one! He knew, as did everyone else, what Jim Rowe’s strategy would be. Eddie Ambrose, who was riding John P. Grier, had been instructed to set the blazing pace he had run in the grueling Dwyer back in early June. The small, courageous colt had not raced since then; he was rested, fresh, and full of run. He would go as far and as fast as he could, trying to take everything possible out of Man o’ War; then Upset, who had not raced since June either, would come on in the homestretch, hoping to finish the job and beat the champion.

  It was fine race strategy, one that might even work, Danny decided fearfully. He had watched Upset and John P. Grier in their morning works and their performance had been brilliant. They might be more than a match for Man o’ War if the race was run according to Rowe’s strategy.

  Danny’s gaze shifted from Man o’ War to his rider. There was someone new on Man o’ War’s back and this, too, was a cause for anxiety. Earl Sande had had commitments at another track. Clarence Kummer’s shoulder had mended but was not yet strong enough for the jockey to control Man o’ War. Mr. Riddle had chosen Andy Schuttinger to ride in the Travers.

  Schuttinger was a good judge of pace, which would help today with John P. Grier due to go out in front. Still, it would be a difficult task for a new rider.

  He won’t have any more trouble, Danny thought, than Sande did. Man o’ War will go for anyone now, anyone who will just sit there and not interfere too much with the way he likes to run.

  The horses were moving up to the barrier. Danny watched closely, wondering if the other riders would again try to wear down Man o’ War at the post. His colt was carrying 129 pounds to Upset’s 123 and John P. Grier’s 115. Danny never quite understood the track handicapper’s allotments of weight. After the Dwyer, Grier should be carrying more poundage, he thought. With only 115 pounds on his back the small colt would fly!

  The horses pushed their noses up to the elastic tape and were straight and still. The huge crowd was quiet. A mile and a quarter of empty track faced the colts, the same distance over which the older champion, Sir Barton, had set a new track record on opening day. The spectators would have a comparison to make between Man o’ War and the older champion. Now they remained silent, the seconds ticking away.

  “THEY’RE OFF!”

  The horses had been behind the barrier less than a minute. Danny saw his colt spring forward, going to the front immediately, his great body concealing John P. Grier as in their last race. But this time Man o’ War moved a stride in front, then two! Danny felt a sudden heaviness come to his chest. He saw immediately that there was no holding Man o’ War today! No judgment of pace was necessary to guide him. John P. Grier’s early speed and Jim Rowe’s race strategy were swept aside in the long sweep of his legs. He ran in front and he kept going! Nothing would slow him down, neither the pull on his mouth, the weight on his back, nor the distance of the race. He was running as he wanted to run!

  Along with the thousands of others, Danny watched Man o’ War in complete silence. His speed was blistering; they had only to look back at John P. Grier, already under the whip and losing ground every step of the way, to know that. Still farther behind, Upset was under the whipping drive as well.

  There was no catching Man o’ War. He passed one quarter pole after another in the fastest time ever recorded at Saratoga. When he entered the homestretch, Andy Schuttinger was standing in the stirrup irons in an attempt to slow him down. Gradually the colt’s strides shortened, as if he had decided to give in to the urgent pull on his mouth. He passed the stands and swept under the finish wire, easy, flowing, and still going strong.

  Only then did the great crowd come to life, giving him an ovation that reached its height when the time of the race was announced. Slowed down throughout the stretch as he had been, Man o’ War had equaled Sir Barton’s track record!

  Danny tried to reach his colt but was thrown back by the milling throng. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to lay a hand on Man o’ War. He watched the ceremonies from several tiers back while Mr. Riddle received the trophy and Feustel held the champion.

  It was at this very same track, Danny recalled, that Man o’ War had stood in the sales ring, a gangling, underweight yearling. No one had any idea then of the potentialities of this colt, regardless of what they might say now. The bidding for him had been slow, wary, and almost reluctant before Man o’ War had been sold. And at the time Mr. Riddle had said, “If he can’t run, we’ll make a hunter of him.”

  That was a far cry from what was going on in the winner’s circle now, Danny noted. He was close enough to hear Mr. Riddle tell one of the track officials, “No, I can’t run him here again in the Saratoga Cup. It’s too close to his race in the Lawrence Realization at Belmont, which I consider more important.”

  “But Sir Barton is eligible for the Cup race,” the official prodded. “With Man o’ War racing too, it would be the event which the public and press want very badly.”

  “To race Man o’ War in both the Saratoga Cup and the Lawrence Realization with only three days in between, including a railroad trip to New York, would be too much to ask of him,” Mr. Riddle said quietly. “I’m not going to do it.”

  A reporter sidled up to him. “It wouldn’t be that you don’t want your colt to meet Sir Barton, would it?” he asked.

  Mr. Riddle didn’t bother to answer. He turned away, concluding the interview.

  Later, when Danny led Man o’ War back to the barns, he decided that Mr. Riddle was right in having resisted the temptation to race his colt in the Saratoga Cup against Sir Barton. Ahead of them was the longest race yet for Man o’ War, for the Lawrence Realization was at a mile and five furlongs. A week after that event would come the Jockey Club Stakes, another long race. The fall classics were at hand! It made sense for them to beat the rush of horses that would soon be leaving Saratoga for Belmont Park.

  Within a week they were back at the Long Island track, and in some ways Danny found it worse than ever so far as he was concerned. There was no doubt that Man o’ War belonged to the public now; every move he made was watched, and Danny could no longer call even the nights his own. Two and sometimes three grooms were stationed at the colt’s stable door. Mr. Riddle was worried that someone might harm him. What couldn’t be done on a racetrack might be accomplished in the s
table area.

  Danny became more and more resigned to seeing people follow Man o’ War everywhere, especially on chilly mornings when he went to the track. There they would hang on the rails, watching the big colt work, and never quite believing the stopwatches they held in their hands. Man o’ War took such giant strides that when he ran alone one was never aware of his great speed.

  During his final workout a few days before the Lawrence Realization, he broke the world record for a mile and a half. Back at the stable Feustel said, “That time’s going to scare the others off. He might be racing all by himself on Saturday.”

  The Realization was what its name implied, the end result of all the high hopes that horsemen had for promising colts in their stables. But as Feustel had forecast, Man o’ War’s blistering workout blasted the hopes of all other trainers and owners. None wanted to see the big colt make a sorry spectacle of their entries. It looked as though Man o’ War would go to the post alone until Mrs. Jeffords decided to start Hoodwink and give the Realization the semblance of a race.

  In the saddling paddock Danny heard a track official tell Mr. Riddle, “It’s probably the biggest crowd we’ve ever had at Belmont. Since it won’t be a contest against Hoodwink, won’t you let him extend himself? It’s what almost everybody has come to see.

  “Perhaps we’ll let him run home the last quarter at top speed,” Mr. Riddle replied warily. He glanced at Clarence Kummer, who would be back in the saddle again. There was nothing to worry about today.

  The Belmont track official was shrugging his shoulders, still dissatisfied with Mr. Riddle’s answer. The public wanted a lot more than a final drive from Man o’ War.

  Mrs. Riddle turned to her husband. “Why not let him run all the way, Sam?” she asked. “It’s what the crowd wants, and I must say that I’d like to know myself if he can set a new record.” She turned to Louis Feustel. “Isn’t he in shape for it?” she asked.

  Feustel smiled at the woman’s persistence. It sounded as though she, too, was tired of seeing Man o’ War’s head bowed under a tight hold. “He’s never been more ready than he is now,” the trainer answered. He shifted his glance to Mr. Riddle. “And for a change,” he added, “he’s carrying 126 pounds, the weight for his age.”

  Mr. Riddle met Feustel’s eyes, then turned uneasily to his wife and back again to the trainer. Finally he nodded. “Let him run then,” he said quietly.

  The bugle sounded and Feustel boosted Clarence Kummer into the saddle. “You heard the boss,” Feustel said. “We’re letting him run. But that doesn’t mean,” he cautioned, “that you let him have his head all the way. No horse can go top speed the full distance, as you know even better than I. You’ve got a clock for a head. Use it today. Race him like you can.”

  The track was fast, the day perfect for racing. Danny watched Man o’ War approach the barrier. The Lawrence Realization would be one to remember. It would be no contest but an exhibition of Man o’ War’s speed and a test of Kummer’s judgment of pace over a long, grueling distance. Danny glanced at Hoodwink, now going up to the tape with Man o’ War. If he had been Mrs. Jeffords, he decided, he never would have let Hoodwink out of the barn. But she hadn’t known what Mr. Riddle’s final instructions would be.

  Clarence Kummer patted Man o’ War’s bulging neck. “Easy, big fellow, easy,” he said quietly. With only Hoodwink beside him, they’d be sent away from the barrier without any waiting. It felt good to be up on Man o’ War again; the last time had been the Dwyer, over two months ago, a race he’d never forget. His broken bones had knit well and he felt confident that he could control the big colt. “Steady, fellow,” he said. “Steady.”

  The barrier swept up in front of them. Hoodwink broke first, a stride in the lead. Another stride and Man o’ War had caught him. Kummer gave the colt his head. He was full of run, and a blistering first quarter would burn some of the fire out of him, making him more responsive to the reins.

  At the quarter pole Kummer glanced back at Hoodwink, some twenty lengths behind. He began taking hold of Man o’ War. It was not that he was sorry for the Jeffords colt; it made no difference to him whether Hoodwink was beaten by twenty lengths or a hundred. But Man o’ War still had a mile and furlong to go and it wasn’t possible for any horse to maintain the speed he had set the first quarter.

  Kummer steadied the colt and felt the stiff resistance to his tightening hands. He wasn’t going to pull Man o’ War’s head into his chest, but he wasn’t going to let him run himself into the ground either. Feustel had said to pace him carefully so as to get the most out of Man o’ War over the whole distance, and that was what he intended to do.

  There was some response to his bidding and the colt’s strides slowed. They swept through another half-mile, Man o’ War tugging for his head. He was running easily and maintaining a speed that would certainly create a new record if he kept going. And there was no indication that he wouldn’t!

  For another half-mile Kummer kept Man o’ War under wraps, fighting the colt’s anxiety to be turned loose and his own temptation to give in. But the clock in Kummer’s head kept time with Man o’ War’s strides and he restrained himself as well as his mount. A new record could be set only by accurately spacing the champion’s speed to the unreeling quarters. They had gone a mile and a quarter, but there were still three long furlongs to go!

  Coming off the far turn and into the homestretch, Kummer heard the roar of the crowd. For a second he thought Hoodwink might be coming on! Turning in his saddle, he saw the Jeffords colt plodding along some fifty lengths to the rear. Man o’ War was racing only his shadow and the cheers were for him.

  Kummer gave him his head and Man o’ War began flying, as if he were just beginning to race! They whipped by another pole, and Kummer had no doubt Man o’ War had covered the mile and a half faster than any colt in history! Still a furlong to go, an eighth of a mile, and the colt’s swiftness increased with gigantic strides. Kummer sat still in his saddle. There was no need to urge Man o’ War along. At the end of the long race he was running with the breathtaking speed of a sprinter. He flashed under the wire more than one hundred lengths in front of Hoodwink!

  Later, Man o’ War came back with his tail in the air and barely taking a long breath. His time was announced as 2:40 ⅘, faster than any horse in the world had ever gone before and, perhaps, never to be equaled! The huge mass of people moved upon him, leaving no room for Danny Ryan to reach his horse.

  The Campaign Ends

  27

  It was several hours before the stable area grew quiet and Danny was able to give Man o’ War his evening feed. The big colt had cooled out well from the race and was hungry. He whiffed the oats in his box and occasionally lifted his head to snort at Danny or kicked out a hoof without meaning any harm. He just felt good. He was enjoying himself, even now after the exhausting distance of the Lawrence Realization.

  Danny remained in the stall, while outside the night mutterings of other grooms filled the air. He knew Man o’ War didn’t mind his staying there. The big colt liked attention; that was why he did so well despite the clamor from thousands upon thousands of fans every race day. He would be most unhappy, Danny decided, without it. He belonged to the public and the public belonged to him, just as Feustel had said.

  Finishing his feed, Man o’ War moved over to Danny, the straw rustling beneath his hoofs. He took hold of the boy’s sweater.

  “Let go,” Danny said. “It’s the only one I’ve got.” There was no anger in his words, and his hand moved up and down the colt’s nose.

  In the adjacent stall Major Treat whinnied, and Man o’ War went quickly to the door. He peered into the night, his ears pricked, his eyes bright and inquisitive. His chest, like his neck, was most impressive. Man o’ War had become all stallion. He was perfection itself.

  “You don’t want to miss anything,” Danny said, looking into the darkness with him, “nothing at all. You’d think that after today’s race you’d want to quit for a while and
just rest. But not you. You want to be on the go all the time. You won’t have long to wait, that’s for sure. A few more days and you’ll be racing again.”

  On September 11 Man o’ War went to the post in the Jockey Club Stakes. The distance was a mile and a half, and only one colt was sent out to oppose him, Damask from the Harry Payne Whitney stable. This was done only out of a sense of sportsmanship by Mr. Whitney. No other owner or trainer would attempt to beat Man o’ War after his record-shattering performance in the Lawrence Realization!

  The great stands were packed again, this time with spectators who had come to watch a race they knew would be virtually a “walkover” for Man o’ War. Earlier in the week they had hoped that Sir Barton would run in the Jockey Club Stakes, since it was a race for three-year-olds and upward, and the older champion was on the grounds. The track management had added its voice to the possibility of such a contest by increasing the value of the purse if the two champions went postward. But Commander Ross, owner of Sir Barton, declined. The Jockey Club Stakes was a race in which horses would have to carry weight for their age, and he wouldn’t allow Sir Barton to go postward carrying four pounds more than Man o’ War.

  So the fans watched Man o’ War stride toward the barrier, their sole interest being the speed in which it would be run. Danny’s gaze, too, followed Man o’ War to the post. He knew what they expected, and anticipated their disappointment when the champion was held under the tight hold that Feustel had ordered.

  “Rate him evenly, Clarence,” the trainer had said to Kummer. “Win by a comfortable margin, but no more. I don’t want him extended today.”

  Man o’ War had been given a good rest since his last race, and he acted it. He was more fractious than usual on the way to the barrier, and Danny knew Kummer would have his hands full following Feustel’s instructions. He supposed the trainer was becoming more careful than ever that Man o’ War should finish the season unhurt and sound. One more race after this one, and his three-year-old campaign would be over. Danny had heard Mr. Riddle say that he was thinking seriously of retiring Man o’ War at the end of the season. If that happened, Man o’ War would never see the tracks as a four-year-old.