The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  I was tied to a ring in the wall between a shivering and half-starved pony and a stout cart-horse, and a round paper with a number on it was stuck to my quarters. I turned as far as my rope would allow me and watched the scene. There were a great many people, mostly farmers and tradesmen, but also some very rough-looking men and boys who swore and spat a good deal.

  The noise was very great. The sellers were telling everyone what good animals they were offering. The frightened horses were all whinnying and there was an endless clattering of hoofs and cracking of whips as they were run up to show their paces to likely buyers. There were a few men already drunk, though it was not yet twelve, and they were shouting and singing.

  It was very unpleasant having my mouth forced open by complete strangers who wanted to see my teeth. Some of them felt my legs, slapped my flank and pulled out my tail as well, before making a disparaging remark about my age and walking on.

  The farmers all thought me too well-bred. “You got to cosset that sort,” they said, or, “I ’aven’t the time to look after a blood-’orse.” The tradesmen all asked if I was broken to harness and Percy, who didn’t know any better, said no, I was a hunter. The occasional person looking for a cheap hunter was always horrified by my age. The cart-horse next to me was having a better time. The farmers all said that he was “a likely sort”. He told me that he’d been working on the canals, towing barges. He enjoyed the life, but more and more goods were going by rail instead of by water so he, and many more like him, were out of a job. But, he added placidly, he would be quite happy to work on a farm.

  At last two men came who didn’t dismiss me as useless. The younger was tall and thin with an eager, handsome face, the other short and fat, wearing rather old-fashioned clothes and smoking a cigar. The young one, Felix, stood back, studying me carefully, and then said, “I think we’ve found him, Alf. He’s got presence, look at him, and breeding. Trimmed up a bit, well-groomed, he’d be exactly right. Stupendous!”

  “Except that he’s not a mare,” said Alf. He looked at my teeth. “Past his second youth. Is he sound? That’s the question. And can he jump?”

  “Oh yes, he can jump all right,” said Percy, coming forward.

  Felix laughed a lot. “There you are, that clinches it,” he said. “I knew at once he was the horse for us.Personality, looks quiet, friendly; a great jumper and any amount of character.”

  Alf seemed less certain. “We’ll see what he fetches; I’m not paying much for a horse of his age. Here, boy, trot him out and let’s see how he moves.”

  I liked the look of Felix, I felt that he would be a considerate master and all that talk of jumping was music to my ears, but I hoped that he didn’t want to hunt me in a fast country for I knew that I wasn’t up to that sort of work any more.

  Presently my turn to be sold came. I was walked and then trotted up and down amid a sea of white faces and brandishing whips, while the auctioneer called for bids. There was no great eagerness to buy me. A few of the people who’d looked at me bidded; one sounded like an undertaker, another voice could have belonged to the cat food man; the third was obviously a farmer. Then I saw Alf waving his catalogue in a lordly manner. At last the auctioneer’s hammer fell and I was led away and tied up. The half-starved pony was being sold; I hoped he would go to someone who would give him a square meal, and not for cat food.

  Then Felix came up carrying a saddle and bridle. “We got you for a song, old horse,” he told me. “Now, where’s that boy? I want to know your name.” Percy seemed pleased that Felix was to have me and told him that my name was Ebony. He put on the saddle while Felix adjusted the bridle to fit my head, then he sobbed a tear or two as he stroked my neck, but Felix gave him sixpence and told him I would have a good home.

  As Felix mounted and rode out of the sale yard I knew that he was a good rider. He felt confident and easy, he didn’t attempt to impose his will on me but just rode me quietly forward while he learned what I was like. In no time we were partners; it was as though I had Fanny or Ned back again and my heart rose as we left the town.

  It was a frosty day but the sun was high and warm and had already thawed most of the bone from the ground. Felix sang as we walked and trotted along and altogether he seemed very pleased and cheerful.

  We passed through several villages and then we cantered over a short stretch of moor and came to a long lane, between stone walls, that brought us down to a grey stone farm in the valley.

  It was rather a tumbledown place and the yard, instead of being full of pigs or cattle, had a whole collection of caravans within its walls; like gypsy vans they had little chimneys, two windows, and shafts for the horse, but the people who came to greet us weren’t gypsies, though there may have been one or two among them. There were a great many children playing everywhere and a smell of paint and cooking filled the air.

  Felix led me into a stable. I saw with pleasure that it was quite a large loose box and when I looked over the low partition into the next box I found the smallest pony I had ever seen. He was skewbald and much smaller than The Giant. He could not have been more than eight hands. He said at once that his name was Tom Thumb, that he was the smallest pony in the world and came from the Shetland Islands. Felix was rubbing me down, someone was spreading straw, someone else brought a bucket of water and yet another came running with a rug so I was soon very comfortably settled. When the humans had gone away and I had eaten my feed, Tom Thumb asked me what I did. I answered that I was a hunter, an answer that he didn’t seem to find at all satisfactory.

  “I wonder what you’ll do here, then,” he said. “Oh well, I suppose they’ll teach you something. I jump through hoops, lie down, take handkerchiefs from my master’s pocket, chase a boy round the ring and do numerous other tricks. I’m billed as ‘The Clever Pony’ as well as ‘The Smallest Horse in the World’; people pay good money to watch me.”

  I felt rather alarmed at this, but Tom Thumb, who seemed very pleased to have a companion, talked on and on. It seemed that he and his master, Andrew, had belonged to a circus, but there had been a fire and the equipment had all been lost so now they had joined this fair and soon we would all be travelling round the countryside performing.

  I asked if he knew what Felix did and he answered that he was an actor and that sometimes a whole company of them went round with a fair, but he thought that Felix was the only one and he had been talking about an equestrian act. Then I asked about Alf, and Tom Thumb said he was the Guv’nor and usually called “His Nibs”. He settled the quarrels and arranged the fairgrounds and lent everyone money.

  Felix seemed a very thoughtful master. The very next morning he spent a long time sawing and hammering at my door and when he had finished it was in two halves and the top one fastened back and enabled me to look out and see all the activities in the farmyard. I can’t describe the pleasure that gave me. Being tied up in a stall is all very well for a short time and it’s not so bad for a horse that is out all day doing slow work and only in his stall at night. But when a hunter or hack is condemned to spend twenty-two out of twenty-four hours, six or seven days a week, facing the same blank wall, well, it’s no wonder that horses are driven to crib-biting, wind-sucking and other nervous disorders.

  After the boredom of the mews I was delighted with my view and made Tom Thumb so jealous with my accounts of all I could see that he began to work on the bolt of the door between our boxes. He got the head up and then slid it back with his teeth and pushed the door open and came in with me. Of course he wasn’t tall enough to see over the door and he had to balance with one toe on the crossbar. When Felix found our two heads looking out he laughed and fetched a stout box for Tom Thumb’s forefeet.

  For a few days Felix just took me for rides in the countryside. We jumped some walls and hurdles and a gate and he seemed very pleased with me and always told everyone that I was “just the thing”.

  Then one day he took me into the barn. The floor was scattered with peat and a ring was marked out i
n the middle; it was rather a small space but I was well-enough balanced to canter round it quite fast, which pleased Felix. We practised entering at a wild gallop and stopping dead in the centre. He was very careful of my mouth and threw his weight back as a signal instead of pulling on the reins and, as soon as I understood what he wanted, I did it all on my own. Then we started work on the whole act. After the gallop in Felix would make a speech all about his wonderful mare Black Bess, and then another man called King would come in on one of the caravan horses and he and Felix, who was Dick Turpin, plotted together.

  Then a very old coach came in, drawn by four very hairy horses, and it was robbed by Turpin and King. Several people fell dead and everyone fired pistols which made us horses jump at first, though we soon became used to it. After that the police came and they captured King and he called to Turpin to shoot the men who held him, but Turpin missed and killed King by mistake.

  Then a great chase began. I would go round and round the ring at a gallop, rush out and come in again from the other side and the pursuers were doing the same though they never caught up with us. We robbed another coach; it was the same one really, but they put a different name on the doors and dressed the people differently, and there was some more firing of pistols.

  The next exciting part was when a toll-gate was put up in the ring. As Turpin and I came galloping in the keeper shut it to stop us, but Felix would give a shout and I would soar over. After that I had to show signs of tiring and when I could only proceed at a weary trot with my head low we stopped at an inn and I was given a drench of brandy or ale or something from a bottle, only the bottle was always empty.

  Then we came to the city of York and a large cardboard spire was put up and bells began to ring. I was reduced to a walk and Felix dismounted and led me, and then I was supposed to fall down dead. This wasn’t easy to learn. Tom Thumb could do it and I was made to watch him, but I found all his advice very irritating and got on better when Felix taught me alone. He would take me to a nice soft spot and strap up one of my forelegs, then he would tap my other knee with a whip until I bent it and kneeled down. The moment I did it I was praised and given oats or carrots. Gradually I learned to kneel without the strap and whenever he pointed at my knees. All he had to do then was to turn my head towards him and gently push my shoulder until I gave way and lay down on my side. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone, but Felix was kind to me and made all my lessons enjoyable, so I decided to oblige.

  I soon knew the routine and when we reached York and the bells began to ring, I would watch for the signal.

  When I had died Felix would make a long speech over my dead body and then the pursuers would come up and there was another fight. The first time this happened I raised my head to see what was going on, but this caused a great outcry from the watching children and Felix came and told me I had to stay dead.

  The next problem was carrying me out. A great yard-door was brought in and slid under my body as six strong men lifted me, then about twelve of them carried me out. I always hated this part but Felix would walk by my head and stroke my neck to keep me calm, so I put up with it because I was doing it for him.

  Though there were stablehands among the fair people, Felix looked after me himself and by the start of the season I was a picture. Too round and well-covered to be hunting fit, I was just right for a public performance, my coat shone, my mane and tail, neatly trimmed, were beautifully brushed out and this was just as well, for there were some very extravagant tributes to Black Bess’s beauty in the verses Felix had to say.

  On the day we moved out of our winter quarters all the carts and wagons and vans left very early in the morning. Felix and I started later for we could take a short cut across country instead of going by the roads.

  When we reached the fairground, which was just outside a large town, Felix rode me to a tent which had a large notice about Tom Thumb the Clever Pony and another saying that Captain Felix Fanshawe, late Royal Hussars, would present the stupendous equestrian drama Dick Turpin’s Ride to York, with spectacular fights and a thrilling performance by his famous horse, Black Bess.

  Inside was our usual ring and the cardboard inn and the spire and the toll-gate, and a couple more jumps were all ready at the side.

  I began to feel nervous but Felix rode me round until I was used to the tent and the lights and then he took me out to see the fairground. There were stalls for hoop-la and ranges for shooting and coconut shies. There was a huge roundabout with brightly coloured and richly-gilded horses and a steam engine to work it. There were many little booths with fortune-tellers and fireproof ladies and fat ladies inside. There was Professor Lopescu’s Flea Circus from Romania and a Punch and Judy Show and many slides and swings and entertainments of all sorts.

  As it grew darker more and more lights came on and the steam engines sent sparks and smoke up into the dark sky. There was a smell of burning coal and hot engines. Then a great steam organ started up. It was painted in bright colours and gilded like the roundabout horses and the noise from it was tremendous, as though a whole brass band was playing close at hand. I stood looking at the scene, turning this way and that to take it all in, and Felix sat on my back laughing loudly at my amazement.

  When we went to the stable tent that I was to share with Tom he was being got ready for his act. He wore a silver and orange bridle, roller and crupper and from his forelock rose a very handsome orange plume. I wondered if I had to dress up, but no, it was Felix who came disguised. He had a curly moustache, a green coat, cocked hat, and a belt full of pistols.

  Andrew was impossible to recognise with his face covered in white, a huge mouth and a false nose; he was dressed as a clown. The small, fat boy Tom had to chase had been made to look fatter than ever by very tight clothes.

  When Tom left for the ring one of the stable hands put the finishing touches to my appearance, then Felix stopped brushing his coat and mounted and we walked over to the ring tent and waited in a dark corner.

  Tom was pretending to become angrier and angrier with the fat boy and finally he chased him round the ring and out in a ferocious manner. His Nibs, wearing black trousers, a scarlet coat and a top hat, announced Dick Turpin, and Felix took me well back so that we could get up speed for our entrance.

  We whirled in and round and came to a dashing halt in the centre. Felix took off his hat and bowed low, I stared at the lights and the white faces all round me. Then Felix began the verses on how much he loved his bonny Black Bess. As he came to the verse:

  Mark that skin, sleek as velvet and dusky at night,

  With its jet undisfigured by one spot of white;

  That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress.

  Now, is she not beautiful? Bonny Black Bess!

  King came riding in and they began to plan robberies.

  We held up the coach. The horses were all looking a good deal smarter than they had at rehearsal and the guard had a horn to blow. There were the usual shootings and several deaths and then we made off with some bags labelled ‘money’. King had taken too many and could not control his horse, which was why the police got him.

  When Felix’s shot killed King all the audience groaned in horror, but they cheered up when we took one of the extra jumps and galloped away. These brush fences were not very big, but, though I was supposed to leap over perfectly, the pursuers, especially the police, were meant to run into each other, fall off and generally make a hash of things and this pleased the audience very much.

  Then we robbed the second coach and came to the toll-gate. It had grown larger at every practice and was now a big jump, about five feet. I took it carefully, for the lights were casting strange shadows and made finding the right take-off difficult. The people cheered and clapped as I soared over. We stopped at the inn and Felix had another long verse to say which ended:

  By moonlight, in darkness, by night or by day,

  Her headlong career there is nothing can stay.

  She cares not for di
stance, she knows not distress,

  Can you show me the courser to match with Black Bess?

  Then I began to slow down and hang my head; soon I was only walking and then as the spire was put up and the bells began to ring, Felix led me. Right in the middle of the ring he pointed at my knees and I fell dead. The audience were very upset; I think some of them thought I really had died. Turpin was very upset too:

  “Art thou gone, Bess? Gone – gone!” he cried out very dramatically. “And I have killed the best steed that was ever crossed?”

  O’er highway and byway, in rough or smooth weather,

  Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together;

  Our couch the same straw, our meals the same mess;

  No couple more constant than I and Black Bess.

  They fought the last fight and I managed to lie still and not look, though it was very hard. Then the door came and they called for volunteers from the audience to help carry out poor dead Bess and I’m certain a great many people went home wondering whether I was really dead or not.

  All the fair people thought the performance a great success and Felix kept patting me and saying, “Old horse, you’re a natural, a born actor. Stupendous!”

  After that he became even more ambitious and besides adding new touches to our present act he was always thinking of other acts we could perform in the future and talking about The Tailor of Brentford and The High-Mettled Racer or The Fat Farmer, who wore layers and layers of clothes and undressed as he galloped round the ring.

  We seemed to be doing well. We moved from place to place, sometimes only staying for one day and night, sometimes for five. By the summer we had reached the West Country and I was jumping the toll-gate keeper as he ran to bar the way, as well as the gate; we were practising for The Tailor of Brentford which called for a lot of acting on my part as I had to push Felix around and make disagreeable faces and pretend to bite him.