Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  The big colt had become too much of a responsibility for almost any owner, Danny decided. He had to be watched every moment, and even the difficulties in properly taking care of him were mounting with every day that passed. There was also the fact that he dominated racing so much that he was making a mockery of any contest in which he entered. Even the owner of Sir Barton had refused to race against him! A truly great horse like Man o’ War was a problem to the management of every track at which he raced. Celebrated races became nothing more than “walkovers” for him, costing the management money and leaving the customers nothing to watch but a one-horse exhibition, usually at a slow gallop. Like today, Danny mused.

  Or would Man o’ War put on another exhibition of extreme speed, contrary to Feustel’s orders? Watching the big colt’s eagerness to run, Danny knew it just might happen.

  Man o’ War reared behind the barrier, taking an assistant starter off his feet. The crowed roared its approval of the champion’s restiveness. There seemed to be no holding him today.

  Danny watched and thought, The only way they’ll ever stop him will be by weight. If he raced next season the track handicappers would put the heaviest weight on him ever carried by a Thoroughbred. Mr. Riddle wouldn’t stand for it. It would break Man o’ War down. He’s sure to be retired. And where he goes, I go.

  The barrier swept up! Man o’ War went to the front in a mighty leap and began drawing away. Kummer had a good hold on him but the gap between him and Damask continued to widen. All eyes remained on the red colt as he fought for more rein while lengthening his lead. Kummer was unrelenting and Man o’ War’s head was pulled in to his chest.

  Sweeping into the far turn at the end of a mile, he was a dozen lengths in front of Damask and still fighting for his freedom. He pounded into the homestretch and, while the crowd roared, broke from Kummer’s strangle hold. For a short distance he was all-out, silencing the stands with his dizzying speed. Then Kummer had him under control again, shortening Man o’ War’s strides so that he finished the race in an easy gallop. So easy, in fact, that no one in the huge crowd believed the time on the board. For his 2:28 ⅘ was a new American record! Man o’ War had again beaten the clock, just as he had beaten Louis Feustel, who would have had him win slowly, comfortably.

  Later, the trainer said, “He ran faster than you should have let him go, Clarence.”

  The jockey rubbed his shoulders. “Try holding him back yourself sometime,” he said irritably.

  The new record went into the books as the fifth consecutive one established by Man o’ War. But everyone, including the press, again wondered what it might have been had he been allowed to run all-out. How fast could this horse really run? Were they ever to know? He broke records, of course, but always under a hold that never allowed a true indication of his top speed. Perhaps next time. The Potomac Handicap was just a week off.

  The Riddle stable moved to Havre de Grace, Maryland, and as the day of Man o’ War’s final engagement approached, Danny was concerned about one thing only. The track handicapper had given Man o’ War 138 pounds to carry, more weight than any three-year-old had ever been asked to assume. What Danny feared most of all, his colt’s breaking down, might become a reality before he even had a chance to retire!

  Bitterly, he said to Louis Feustel, “I thought Marylanders regarded him as their own.”

  “I guess they do. Why?”

  “A fine way they have of showing it,” Danny muttered, “assigning him that weight.”

  Feustel smiled grimly at the boy’s concern. “It’s not Marylanders, Danny,” he said. “It’s the track handicapper. He thinks it’s the only way to make an even race of it.”

  The trainer picked up Man o’ War’s right forefoot, examining it closely. But why, Feustel wondered, had the handicapper given Paul Jones, winner of the Kentucky Derby, only 114 pounds? And how come Jim Rowe’s crack colt Wildair got in the race with just 108 pounds? And a brilliant sprinter like Blazes with a light 104 ½?

  Feustel put down the colt’s foot. “Sometimes it doesn’t make sense,” he admitted to Danny. “It’s almost too severe a test for any horse, even Man o’ War.”

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Riddle scratch him then?” Danny asked. “He could keep him in the barn.”

  “He’d disappoint too many people. Besides, it won’t happen again. This is the last time Man o’ War will go against a field.”

  “Against a field,” Danny repeated. “You mean he might race Sir Barton alone? A match race?”

  Feustel nodded. “Mr. Riddle has decided in favor of it,” he said quietly.

  Saturday afternoon Danny led Man o’ War into the saddling paddock. His colt was no ordinary colt, so he wouldn’t be carrying ordinary weight. If it was good handicapping, as some people thought, the horses should come down to the wire together. But he didn’t think it would happen that way. It wouldn’t be the first time the scales were against Man o’ War. Besides, his colt was in top shape. There wasn’t a mark on him; he was raring to go!

  Danny’s optimism faded as he held Man o’ War still and Feustel saddled him. The trainer and Mr. Riddle were concerned over the condition of the track, something that Danny had not taken into account. It had rained the night before and the heavy loam footing was loose and “cuppy,” making it dangerous for any horse that took a stride as long as that of Man o’ War.

  “Maybe we should have scratched him,” Danny heard Feustel say to Mr. Riddle. “With the tremendous burden he’s carrying …”

  “Too late now, Louis. He’ll manage.”

  Clarence Kummer was boosted into the saddle. The track might be “off,” the jockey thought, but the day was perfect, just right for riding. And nothing seemed to be bothering Man o’ War.

  Kummer patted his mount’s neck. “Easy, Red. Easy,” he said quietly as they moved to the track. The stands as Havre de Grace were more packed than Kummer had ever seen them; the infield too, had been opened to the crowd, and people hung over the inner rail from one end of the stretch to the other. Across the track they were lined up on the backstretch as well.

  Feustel took one look at the immense crowd and said, “Danny, you lead him to the post.”

  The barrier was stretched across the track directly in front of the packed stands. Danny walked toward it, his feet sinking deep into the loose soil. The eyes of everyone were on Man o’ War, and the colt seemed to know it. He started putting on a show, sliding his hindquarters in a circle and cleaving the air with his hoofs.

  Danny tried every trick he knew to keep him in position, fourth behind the others. He slipped and almost went down as Man o’ War whirled. Regaining his feet, he felt the mud oozing around his ankles. The hoofprints of the horses before him were deep, but Man o’ War’s were deeper. He realized more than ever the dangers of such a track. With every tremendous stride in the race to come, Man o’ War would have to pull his hoofs out of several inches of heavy, sucking dirt. The weight and drive behind his strides would give him little chance of recovery and put great strain on his tendons.

  They reached the barrier, and Danny’s job was done. Carefully he turned Man o’ War over to one of the assistant starters and moved to the inner rail.

  He watched Man o’ War rear and wheel, trying to break from Kummer’s hold and slip past the elastic webbing. If he’d only been up on him instead of Kummer, he would have said, “Easy, Red. It’s no time to be putting on a show for the home-folks. Stand still and come out slow until you find your stride. I’ll let you run.”

  He would have felt the heavy strips of lead beneath his knees, but he wouldn’t have worried about them. They were forward on the withers, where they should be. The pad was buckled down tight. It would not slip forward or backward or from side to side. It would stay put while Man o’ War was in full stride. Even 138 pounds would not stop him today.

  Kummer had Man o’ War in position, but the colt’s body was quivering with eagerness. The crowd hushed, expecting the break from the barrier any second and wo
ndering if weight and loose footing would finally stop this colt.

  Danny’s eyes never left Kummer. He would have said at this moment, “Don’t move, Red. Don’t move. You’re on the outside with nothing to bother you. Wildair is quiet. He’s the one to watch. And Paul Jones is ready. Blazes is fussing over on the rail but he’ll settle down. He’ll get off fast with only 104 pounds on his back. But he won’t last. You’ve got this race, Red. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Kummer moved forward in his saddle but said nothing to Man o’ War. He had his own weight where the lead was, over the colt’s withers. He sat very still and crouched low, waiting with Man o’ War.

  The barrier swept up and Kummer brought his mount out even with the others. For one stride, two strides, they raced together, then Man o’ War bounded forward and only the sprinter Blazes stayed alongside. The run to the first turn was short and Kummer didn’t attempt to get clear of Blazes and cut over to the inner rail. Instead, he kept Man o’ War under a snug hold, trying to find out how he was taking to the track.

  They swept around the first turn and there was a sudden lurch to the hurtling body beneath him as Man o’ War’s speed increased and he had to fight to get his flying hoofs out of the deep, hollow cups. Kummer felt him recover, then surge to the front once more. He gave him his head momentarily and daylight opened between them and Blazes. Going down the back-stretch, he saw that the sprinter was no longer a threat and again took up on his mount, fearing the track more than those following in his wake. Wildair had taken up where Blazes had left off, but the others were already out of the race.

  Sweeping past the three-quarter of a mile pole and rounding the far turn, Kummer continued the strong pull on Man o’ War’s mouth. Wildair was still running steadily behind them, but Kummer wasn’t worried about the Jim Rowe colt. His only problem was the condition of the track. Yet, he thought uneasily, it was the first time Man o’ War wasn’t fighting for his head every stride of the way. The big colt seemed to be content to be rated, running only as fast as his rider wanted him to go. Kummer’s expression became grim. Had Man o’ War hurt himself in that early surge around the first turn? A sudden strain could do it in such footing. Or was Man o’ War smart enough to know it was better to run eased up on this kind of track? Kummer knew he’d soon have to find out which it was.

  Wildair was hanging on as they pounded into the homestretch. It was time to move if they were to stay ahead. Kummer gave Man o’ War more rein and awaited the big colt’s response. Wildair was almost alongside and under a whipping drive.

  Man o’ War met the challenge with a rush of his own. He took the free rein Kummer gave him and began drawing away from Wildair. When the jockey knew they had the race to themselves again, he eased off Man o’ War. He kept him going fast enough to win without putting any strain on his tendons. They swept under the wire to the great ovation of the crowd, a roar that lasted long after Man o’ War had been turned and brought back to the winner’s circle. For once again the board showed that he had set a new track record; this time under the greatest of handicaps!

  There remained only one question: would he now be retired or would he race Sir Barton?

  Mr. Riddle answered it in the winner’s circle.

  “Commander Ross and I have agreed to the terms of a match race,” he said happily. “Since it’s what the public wants, we feel we should comply.”

  Danny wasn’t listening to Mr. Riddle’s plans for the future. Instead, he was watching Louis Feustel, who was bent over the colt’s right foreleg. Had Man o’ War hurt himself? Only when they got back to the barns would they really know.

  Match of the Ages

  28

  Feustel led Man o’ War back to the stable area, and that in itself was indicative to Danny that something had gone wrong in the running of the race. He followed them, trying to catch a glimpse of his colt in the middle of the large throng. If Man o’ War had hurt himself, would it prove to be serious enough to keep him out of the match race with Sir Barton? Neither Mr. Riddle nor Mr. Feustel would take any chances with the colt, regardless of how much the public looked forward to the match.

  Danny walked along shed row with its orderly tack trunks and hanging pails, brooms, and rakes. He paid no attention to the stabled horses that stretched their heads over stall doors, nickering to him and expecting him to pat them. That he ignored them so completely was most unusual.

  George Conway, the stable manager, had dropped back, too, before the onslaught of the crowd accompanying Man o’ War to the barns.

  “Did he hurt himself?” Danny asked anxiously, walking beside the man.

  “Feustel says so. He struck himself in front.”

  “Is it serious?”

  The stable manager shrugged his shoulders. “Any trouble, no matter how slight, is something to worry about now.”

  “Any injury to the tendon?”

  “Feustel doesn’t know yet. If it fills, the colt’s done for sure.”

  Danny nodded gravely. No horse could race successfully after bowing a tendon. If that had happened, Man o’ War’s career had ended with this race. There would be no other place for him to go but to stud.

  In front of the stall Danny pushed his way through the crowd until he had reached his colt. Frank had him by the bridle and Feustel was once again bent over, examining the right foreleg. Danny’s eyes followed the trainer’s hands as they felt the tendon. No one spoke. Fearfully he awaited the trainer’s decision. His gaze moved to the sleek and shining colt. There was no pain showing in Man o’ War’s eyes despite the fact that he had placed full weight on his leg coming off the track. The injury might only be a slight one.

  Feustel took his hands away from the leg, and Man o’ War swung around on the lead shank, his strides free and powerful. Everyone nodded with relief. There seemed to be nothing wrong.

  Feustel said, “The tendon started to bow, all right, but it’s not as serious as it might be. We’ll give him a rest and see what happens. If it fills, he’s done.”

  “Does that mean there’ll be no match race?” a reporter asked anxiously.

  “I think he’ll be all right,” Feustel answered. “But as I said, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “A few days? Or longer than that?” the reporter persisted.

  “We should know in a few days’ time,” Feustel said quietly.

  For another week they remained at Havre de Grace while Man o’ War was rested and Feustel worked on the injured leg. He rubbed the tendon gently and very patiently, well knowing the seriousness of such an injury if the tendon didn’t heal. But it responded to treatment and Man o’ War became more and more restless in his confinement. Feustel decided that it was time to ship the big colt back to Belmont Park and resume workouts. He advised the press that Man o’ War would race Sir Barton as planned.

  The first day back at the metropolitan track Feustel let Kummer gallop Man o’ War and the leg held up without strain. In fact, the colt never looked better. The week’s rest had done him a lot of good. He could be asked for more speed any time now, any time at all.

  The next day Feustel had Kummer move him a mile in 1:45; then two days later he had him go a mile and a quarter in 2:09. The track was sloppy but Man o’ War was fighting for his head all the way. Feustel knew then that Man o’ War was in perfect condition and ready for any kind of test against Sir Barton.

  In many ways, Feustel decided, he would be glad when it was all over. He was weary of reporters following his every move and of having to answer their persistent questions. They were calling the coming race “The Match of the Ages.” Well, the trainer mused, it was what the public had wanted for a long while, beginning back at Saratoga, when both Man o’ War and Sir Barton had set their records. There had been no avoiding the insistent clamor for such a match, and the only question had been where and when. Churchill Downs had offered a purse of $25,000 if the two horses met there. Then Laurel had bid for the attraction, increasing the purse to $30,000. Finally, Kenil
worth Park in Canada had got it, with a fantastic bid of $75,000 to the winner! It was the largest single purse ever offered and if Man o’ War won it, he would go to the head of the list of America’s leading money winners.

  Feustel would have preferred seeing the race take place in New York rather than away up in Canada. He couldn’t understand why none of the metropolitan tracks had bid for the contest that would decide the kingship of the American turf. The demand for the race had been loudest here, and the crowd would have been larger than anywhere else. But Commander Ross, owner of Sir Barton, was a Canadian and that, together with the large purse offered, had won Kenilworth the match race. It was just across the river from Detroit, so Americans would have easy access to it. It wouldn’t be too bad, but it wasn’t perfect.

  Two days before shipping Man o’ War to Canada, Feustel sent him the race distance of a mile and a quarter with Kummer up and carrying full weight of 120 pounds. He watched the colt run easily, seemingly without extending himself, and clocked him in 2:02 flat. He wouldn’t have believed his watch if others hadn’t caught him in about the same time, with one “clocker” still faster. He turned away from the reporters who pursued him and Man o’ War, seeking the quiet that could be found only behind the closed doors of the stall.

  Soon it would be over, he thought with relief. No longer would his every movement be watched, his casual remark repeated and published for the world to read. No longer would he be the subject of intense criticism as well as envy. It was not easy to be the trainer of a wonder horse. It took more endurance, more stamina, than most people realized. The fans didn’t seem to know that even a great horse could be beaten by a misstep on the track, a stable accident, a bad slip, even a slight cold or an off day. A severe public would tolerate no excuse, even the thousand or more trivial ones that could defeat Man o’ War.