Black Gold

by Marguerite Henry

  Jaydee awakened, drenched in a sweat. How could one little horse take ever all of his thoughts, awake and asleep?

  The day of the Jockey Club Stake was hazy and warm with low-hanging clouds obscuring the sun and reminding Jaydee of his dream. He rode in the third race and won. In the fifth race twelve horses were entered, but to him, on the sidelines, only one horse mattered. His post position was tenth. He carried 122 pounds. His jockey was Jack Howard, wearing the bright rose silks. And his name was Black Gold!

  In one minute thirty-nine and three-fifths seconds the race was over, but it seemed to Jaydee as if he had lived a whole lifetime in those few moments, as if he had been changed into an old, old man. A big-going colt by the name of Wise Counselor raced into the lead with a rush, set the pace lightning fast and won all the way. Battle Creek, Bob Tail, King Goren II, Cloister, Chilhowee, Bracadale, all ran gamely, trying to close the gap that Wise Counselor had made. But as for Black Gold, he was always in the ruck.

  A boy with a streak of meanness in him might have been secretly glad that Black Gold had lost with another jockey aboard. But Jaydee was stunned. He felt like a parent whose child had a big role in a play—a head angel, perhaps, at Christmastime—and the child not only forgot his lines but stumbled and fell on the stage and never recovered himself. Deeply hurt and disappointed, Jaydee ran from the track, ran belligerently for the jockey rooms. He wanted to hit something, to punch somebody. “I’ve got to ride that horse before he’s hurt. I’ve got to!” Swiftly, resolutely, he peeled off his silks, pulled on his shirt, and went out to find Old Man Webb.

  Webb himself was walking Black Gold around and around in the peaceful shade under the trees. He and his horse seemed so apart from the life about them that Jaydee stopped, waiting.

  A small wind played with Black Gold’s forelock, revealing the heart on his forehead. The symbol gave Jaydee courage.

  “Mister Webb . . . ” he began.

  The old man sighed. “Oh, it’s you again! Your middle name oughta be Nuisance, or mebbe Nettle.” But this time he tempered his gruffness with a smile.

  Jaydee fell into stride alongside him. “Isn’t it true, Mister Webb, that too many defeats can take the heart out of a horse? And then sometimes he won’t even try any more?”

  “What in tarnation you aiming to say, boy?”

  “Don’t you see, Mister Webb, if you want Black Gold to be a champion, I got to ride him? I understand him. I could help him.”

  The old man walked without changing pace—once around the cooling-out ring, and once again. His mind seemed far away and preoccupied as if he had forgotten the boy’s presence, almost as if he were talking the matter over with Al Hoots.

  Jaydee held his breath. His legs felt leaden. Just when they refused to go another step, the old man placed Black Gold’s halter rope in his hands.

  “If you expect to ride a champion,” he said abruptly, “it’s high time you learned to do for him. Now you walk him cool.”

  19. Aiming

  JAYDEE HAD never known such happiness. He felt reborn. The world and everything in it was his. Sun, moon, stars—all took on a special new shine. Even the wind blew cleaner.

  The race meetings at Lexington and Latonia were over, and he with Black Gold, Webb, Chief Johnson, and Buster had shipped back to New Orleans. Time was short. Only a little while until fall races. Only a few weeks to point up Black Gold’s speed and timing.

  Now the mornings could not come soon enough. Jaydee’s mother shook her head over the early hours, but Grandma Mooney approved. “Let him go, daughter,” she said as she poured hot milk into his coffee. “Morning hours have gold in them.”

  “Yes! Black Gold!” laughed Jaydee as he gulped his coffee, put his jelly sandwich in his pocket, and hurried out the door.

  Often he and the colt had the whole Fair Grounds track to themselves. First they went slow and easy, around and around. Then Jaydee, crouching forward like a monkey on a stick, clucked to Black Gold, asking for speed. And the stallion, head in the air but legs and body skimming close to the ground, answered strongly.

  As the sun bulged over the horizon, other horses and riders began to grow out of the morning mist. Black Gold’s quick ears caught the drumming of their hoofs and the deep snorting of their breath, but he ran on, light and easy, heeding nothing but the fine hands and the warm voice of the boy on his back.

  Jaydee had finally figured out his own way to ride this up-headed horse. There was no use riding in the ordinary way with reins taut. Black Gold must have his head. “Y’know,” he confided to Chief Johnson, “there isn’t a lazy bone in Black Gold’s body, but he likes to turn on his speed when he’s ready. I can actually feel when he centers down, ready for the burst.”

  The Chief nodded. “He can’t fly, but he match any bird. Good, willing horse.”

  “Willing!” Jaydee’s voice rose. “He’ll run another horse head ’n head for as long as two miles, where most horses’ll quit. Something about catching a look at that big rolling eye close to ’em that seems to throw ’em off stride. But not Black Gold.”

  One day the colt went a quarter-mile in twenty-one and four-fifths seconds. Hanley Webb, stop watch in hand, was furious. “I want endurance!” he bellowed, as he strode alongside them to the barn. “Ye’re goin’ to make a sprinter outa him just like his mother. I want he should be a stayer!”

  Jaydee stood his ground. “He’s got endurance already, sir,” he replied quietly. “We got to sharpen him up.”

  It was not disobedience in Jaydee that made him speak so. It was some inborn Irish knowing that in every race the burst of speed must come naturally at the critical moment and that a good jockey has to intensify the desire for speed. Toughness was necessary, too, but Black Gold already had that.

  Jaydee compromised only a little. Instead of asking him to spurt for a full quarter-mile, he agreed, for now, to an eighth.

  Several days later the old man finally yielded—not because he approved the method, but because Black Gold was thriving under this training. Always a good eater, he now cleaned up his oats and asked for more. He slept more soundly and in the best possible way—lying down instead of up on his feet. He played and cavorted with Buster as if he were no more than a yearling. As for his legs, their tendons strengthened until they seemed indestructible.

  After a particularly good workout, there was a new-won closeness between Black Gold and Jaydee.

  “I’ll harden myself, too,” Jaydee promised as Black Gold held his head down to have it rubbed and scratched underneath the bridle. Then brown eyes studied brown eyes in a kind of kinship.

  True to his promise, Jaydee took up road work to develop wind and stamina, and to keep his weight down to the absolute minimum. Some mornings he walked, jogged, and ran five and six miles and took off as much as five pounds.

  “Why’re you working the living daylights outa yourself?” Old Man Webb asked. “You’re just a sliver! Not an extry ounce of fat on you. Besides, you know we got to add slabs of lead to the saddle anyways to make the right weight. Why ain’t you satisfied with yer own live weight instead of dead?”

  “Lead weight is better, I figure,” Jaydee explained. “It stays put, evenly balanced on either side of the saddle, while I maybe don’t.”

  “Well, I be a wood pussy!” the old man chuckled. “Sounds like purty fair reasoning at that.”

  Often, as Jaydee dressed to go on the road, he wished he were a horse instead of himself. Then he would not need to put on layer after layer of clothes—the heavy woolen suit of underwear, the sweat shirt, the rubber suit, the fleece-lined jacket, the big Turkish towel wound around his neck.

  Neighbor children came out of their houses, gaping at his bundled-up look, wondering at the corncob in each hand, then tried briefly to keep pace with him. Every day on the road it was the same. Work, Jaydee, work. Bring your fists alongside your body. Now swing them up. Grip your corncobs, start slow and easy. Walk bold. Walk brisk. Heel, toe, heel, toe. Rock along. Keep wal
king. Now trot. Bring your knees up. High. Higher. Now run! Bend at a ninety-degree angle. Suck in the air. Run! Run! Run until the sweat trickles down your legs and into your shoes! Go another mile, and still you’re not through. Go another mile, and still another.

  Run bursting into the house at last. Play “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” on the phonograph. Stamp, stamp, stamp to the drumbeat until your body cries out “Stop!” Then sit down in a closed room. Relax. Sweat. And sweat. And sweat!

  Little by little, the boy and his horse grew lean and thin-waisted, their muscles hard, their wind strong. As other owners and trainers observed the two, so serious in their workouts, they came to Jaydee when he was out of earshot of Old Man Webb. “How about riding for me?” each one would ask. “I’ll speak to Hanley Webb if you like.”

  But Jaydee only shook his head. He couldn’t take any chances. If he rode for them, he might just accidentally break some rule and get set down, suspended for a month or two. Then what would happen to Black Gold and the Derby? Who then would take Black Gold forward in his campaign? “Not Matt Garner or Johnny Loftus,” he told himself. “Not even the great Earl Sande with that cool, low seat of his, that way of hunching right down on his stomach. How would they know that Black Gold likes to take his time? How would they know exactly when he centers down ready for the burst of speed?”

  Always his answer was the same. “No, thank you, sir.” Jaydee’s mind was made up. He could not divide his loyalties. If the black stallion was to win on Derby Day, he, Jaydee, must be his jockey.

  20. The Scare

  FOR THE old man and the boy the succession of race meetings leading up to the Kentucky Derby steadily gained in excitement. The sharp, staccato drumbeat of Black Gold’s hoofs worked up to a crescendo. Together the colt, the boy, and the trainer could not lose.

  Reporters swarmed about them before and after every race. They liked the combination not only because they won, but because they made news—the sleek black son of an outlawed Indian mare, the trainer who lived in a stall, the Irish jockey who refused to ride any other horse. Even Buster made the papers, pictured frequently muzzle-to-muzzle with Black Gold as if they were exchanging deep and wonderful vows of friendship.

  The newspaper stories were curiously alike; one theme rang through them all.

  OCTOBER 25, AT LATONIA

  Black Gold, handicapped twelve pounds more than every other entry, outclassed them all. Won in a canter.

  NOVEMBER 13, CHURCHILL DOWNS

  Black Gold, heavily handicapped, won easily. Ran as if he outclassed the others, made the pace so fast that Jockey Mooney held him under mild restraint all the way.

  MARCH 6, JEFFERSON PARK, NEW ORLEANS

  Black Gold the winner. Carrying by far the most weight, he outclassed the others. Started good and slow, then came with a rush into the lead and was hard held afterward, winning as his jockey pleased.

  SAINT PATRICK’S DAY, 1924, LOUISIANA DERBY AT JEFFERSON PARK.

  Irish lad J. D. Mooney rode Black Gold to an easy win In a field of eleven horses the black stallion outclassed them all, carrying top weight. Showed high speed, rushed into a long lead and was held under restraint for the entire race. With his jockey’s white pants gleaming, he won in almost a parade canter.

  Never, so long as he lived, would Jaydee forget the mud on that particular Saint Patrick’s Day. The rain slanted down without letup, and the track became a sea of sludge. The other jockeys took good care to wear their mud pants, but Jaydee said to the Chief, “I’ll wear my whites. We’re Number Thirteen, way on the outside. We’ll just stay on the outside and go right on up front. There’ll be no mud on me!”

  And there wasn’t.

  Then at Churchill Downs, just four days before the fiftieth running of the Kentucky Derby, the account of Black Gold’s race held an ominous note. “Black Gold,” it said, “appeared slightly sore in today’s Derby Trial, but was saved under restraint for the first three-quarters, then with a burst of speed at the critical moment rushed into the lead, to win.”

  “He’s just a bit gimpy,” Hanley Webb observed as together he and Jaydee cooled him out after the race.

  “It’s his left front,” Jaydee said, wincing as if the hurt were his.

  “Likely it’s no more ’n a stone bruise.”

  “Oughtn’t we call in a vet?”

  “No. No need of that. I got my own way of doctoring. Work is the cure, Jaydee. Lay up a man or beast and he gets stiff as a board; it’s work keeps us limber and sound.”

  “I’m not so sure this time, Mister Webb.”

  “You quit stewin’ and frettin’, boy. We’ll just work the soreness out of him. He’ll be sound as a dollar on Derby Day. Mark my words. Now you breeze him only two miles tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. By Saturday he’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

  In spite of the old man’s confidence, worry settled down on Jaydee like a cloud. It even brought on a wave of homesickness. That night, tired as he was, he found himself writing to Grandma Mooney. It was a long letter for Jaydee, and heavy with distress.

  Dear Gran:

  Hope you are well. We were till today. Up to now I was sure we’d win the Kentucky Derby. But now I don’t know. Black Gold is sore. It’s his left front.

  We just won the Derby Trial and that’s when he pulled up lame. But who cares about that race? It’s nothing compared to the Kentucky Derby. That’s the top. I don’t have to tell you. You know it carries more real high honor than all the other races put together.

  Mrs. Hoots is coming clear from Oklahoma to watch B. G. win. And Old Man Webb says all the Indians in the Osage Nation are backing him. They almost went on the warpath when U-see-it was outlawed from the tracks. Now they expect to see a wrong get righted. Mister Hoots planned it all before he died. And a whole year ago I planned it too after I saw him get bumped to his knees in a race and then get up to win.

  Maybe it would help if you and Mom said a prayer.

  Love,

  J.D.

  Writing the letter helped to calm Jaydee. Now he could go on with Hanley Webb’s program, feeling almost confident again. And so, on the three days that remained before the Derby, Jaydee breezed the colt, let him step the wrong way of the track, then eased him, then the right way, and eased him again. Always going out to the track he seemed to favor the sore foot; then during the workout he ran straight and true.

  Inwardly Jaydee was glad to admit that the old man must have known what he was talking about, for on the day before the Derby if Black Gold favored his left foreleg at all, surely it was from habit, not from hurt.

  21. The Wrong Horse

  FRIDAY, MAY 16, 1924. The day before The Day.

  Never was Louisville, Kentucky, so crowded. Already the city had the busyness of an anthill—people coming, going, seeking, gathering, dispersing, wandering—all activities finally centering at the track.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon myriads of visitors were closing in on the barns, studying the entries, while dogs barked, banty roosters and hens squawked underfoot, and an occasional goat went ba-a-a-ing and stomping at the fuss.

  In the midst of all the confusion walked quiet Rosa Hoots, wearing her long-sleeved Sunday dress, a hat to shade her eyes, and a bright scarf made of loops of gay silk. She had already sought directions from an official, and now moved purposefully toward the third row of barns, end stall.

  Hanley Webb was holding a bucket of water to Black Gold’s lips, but when his eyes caught sight of Rosa, he set the bucket down shamefacedly and came out of the stable. “Hello, Rosa! You would catch me acting like an old nursemaid,” he chortled.

  Rosa grasped his hand warmly, without a word. Then she stood at his side, stood silently before the colt she had never seen. The late afternoon sun was slanting into his stall, giving an extra polish to his coat. With his tail toward her, he was busy pulling bits of hay from his manger. It pleased Rosa to see that his smooth rump had the gleam of black satin. He turned about and came to the door, his
friendly eyes curious, asking, “And who are you? What are you doing here?”

  She saw that he was more delicately made, more beautiful and fiery spirited than his mother. But his forelock, like hers, was unruly, and there was an engaging quality in the way he looked out of his wide-set brown eyes until U-see-it almost spoke again through him.

  Her hands reached out shyly, wanting to touch his neck. He did not draw away, but let the strong, gentle fingers stroke him, let them lift up his forelock and softly trace the heart-shaped marking.

  Still looking, looking, memorizing every curve and line of him, she stood motionless. It was Hanley Webb who broke in. “He’s just like you painted a picture! Ain’t he? Not ribby and drawed in at the waist. Just all pretty and slick, and his veins a-sticking out.”

  “When I get back to Skiatook,” Rosa said more to the colt than to Webb, “I will tell U-see-it how fine a son she has.”

  “How is U-see-it?” Webb broke in.

  “She is getting a little old and I think maybe her hearing fails. Unless the wind blows just right, she doesn’t hear the music box any more.”

  Now Rosa was talking solely to Black Gold. “But I will go close to her ear and tell her she can be proud.”

  Rosa seemed close to tears and the Old Man glanced helplessly up at the sky. “Your Al, too . . . he would feel big-chested and proud could he see her colt now. Yes, Rosa?”

  And Rosa nodded.

  • • •

  Saturday, May 17, 1924. The Morning of The Day.

  Jaydee, up before dawn, out on the track, breezing Black Gold an easy mile to limber muscles already limbered, to sample the wind, to be ready.

  As he listened to the even rhythm of Black Gold’s feet and felt the flowing movement of his body, he found himself shouting: “No limp! You’re going sound! Sound! Sound!”

  Early morning visitors were already clustered along the rail. Hanley Webb, with a stranger on either side of him, was motioning Jaydee to pull up. “This here is Jaydee Mooney, Mrs. Hoots. I want ye to meet the gol-durndest jockey in the country.” He winked at Rosa. “He’s a feisty fellow, not near so easy to handle as Black Gold.”