A Horse Called Hero

by Sam Angus

  ‘He’d like to race but he doesn’t know what racing is,’ said Wolfie. ‘He doesn’t go in circles, he goes in straight lines, because he’s a charger.’

  ‘Well, let’s show him about circles too. Let’s try him in the Maiden Stakes.’

  Dodo began to remonstrate, but Drew was adding Wolfie to his list, leading him to the entry stand to collect a number.

  ‘I’m putting a pound on you. I’m in London next week so I could get the winnings to your father . . . What do you say? It’s just three laps, all on the flat.’ Drew checked his watch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

  Drew took Father Lamb’s arm and together they walked towards the judging stand.

  Dodo, fingers trembling, tightened the girth for Wolfie, shortened his stirrups two stops.

  Wolfie stood beside her saying urgently, ‘He knows Pa, Dodo, he knows Pa and he saw him.’ Joy shone on Wolfie’s face but as they walked away, leading Hero towards the roped enclosure, he grew hesitant. Ten or eleven horses had gathered for the Maiden Stakes, all sorts and sizes, shapes and colours. None wore silks or rugs. Like Hero they’d been brought here straight from the field, their manes and tails unkempt and loose. The riders were gentlemen farmers, or hunt staff or farm hands, some just boys, though none so young as Wolfie.

  ‘I’m a bit scared,’ said Wolfie. Seeing a ripple of heads turn towards him, he added, ‘People are pointing at me.’

  ‘That’s because you look rather small, Wolfie. Even your number placard’s bigger than you are.’

  ‘I am quite small,’ said Wolfie.

  ‘Keep him under control and stay on.’

  ‘He’s going to see Pa – he’ll tell him about Hero . . .’ began Wolfie.

  ‘Just stay on, Wolfie, please JUST STAY ON.’

  Father Lamb followed Wolfie and Hero to the enclosure. Dodo unhooked the entrance rope and Wolfie stepped forward. Hero stopped dead, his tail lifted and he snorted. His flanks began to quiver and his nostrils to flare.

  ‘He’s too excited,’ Wolfie whispered.

  Father Lamb slapped Hero’s rump and pushed him in, then gave Wolfie a leg up. Two riders were already leaving the paddock, still more were coming in. Hero stood out, silvery white against so many bays and chestnuts.

  ‘I’ve got a shilling on you too,’ said Father Lamb.

  ‘My heart is a bit wobbly,’ whispered Wolfie.

  ‘Those that have no fear have no courage. Courage is the mastery of fear, not the absence of it, Wolfie,’ answered Father Lamb.

  ‘. . . And I have butterflies.’

  There was no one left in the paddock now but Wolfie and Hero. Father Lamb rubbed Hero’s nose.

  ‘Get your butterflies in formation, Wolfie, get them into line . . . Don’t let that horse go, don’t let him really go, till you’re ready. Then just keep going.’

  Drew’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

  ‘You have only thirty seconds to go, gentlemen . . . That’s Drake Causey leaving the paddock now on Tinker, a smart sort of horse, bred up-country. That’s Number Twelve. Behind Tinker, the youngest entrant, Wolfie Revel on the dapple grey at Number Five. A good-looking two-year-old, nice clean limbs, but both horse and jockey are untested on the flat. Behind him’s Number Seven, the Master of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds. A fine rider there on Legacy. Legacy can hunt but can he race? . . . Twelve horses all in all for the Maiden Stakes.’

  Wolfie, with a parting glance at Dodo, followed the horses out to the starting line. Amidst so many older riders, he looked as incidental on the tall grey horse as though someone had left him there by accident. The riders were taking their place at the tape. Hero was wary. Wolfie urged him on, coaxing him up to the tape. Hero pulled away, his ears flat back.

  ‘I can’t watch. Under no circumstances can I watch,’ whispered Dodo to Hettie.

  Suddenly Hero spun round, almost unseating Wolfie, and was now facing the wrong way. He spun round again.

  ‘They’re under starters orders . . .’

  The gun went.

  ‘And they’re off!’

  The horses streamed away in a packed mass. Wolfie and Hero were left at the start line.

  ‘Number One is ahead of the pack, behind him Seven and Twelve, neck and neck . . . It’s a slow start for Number Five who hasn’t decided if he’s going or not going.’

  Eagle-eyed, Hero watched and assessed. He began to paw the ground. Wolfie waited, watching Hero’s ears, reading them like a book. Then Hero’s muscles tensed. He raised his head. He raised his head higher, tall and majestic. His ears went forward, understanding, beginning to shiver with interest and excitement.

  Wolfie bent and whispered, ‘Shall we go?’

  Hero’s ears flickered back, then pricked forward. Wolfie pressed his knees, loosed his rein and whistled the first notes of the cavalry charge. Hero reared for joy, for joy and for good health and for the soft mown turf, then shot like a bullet from a gun down the track.

  ‘Stay on, Wolfie, please just stay on,’ breathed Dodo. Wolfie didn’t ride forward as the others did, but sat atop carelessly, as though he might at any minute fall. He felt Hero beneath him, smooth and steely and expert, smiled and loosed the rein a little more.

  The main body of horses was streaming up the hill, now turning, now racing in silhouette along the skyline. Wolfie turned his head a little and saw them. Smiling, he whistled again, pressed with his knees. Hero moved effortlessly into a faster gallop. Wolfie pressed harder. Thrilled at his own gathering speed, Hero surged forward, ears leveled with the wind, finding unexplored power in himself, running faster now than he’d ever run. Wolfie’s nerves melted. He closed his eyes and laughed – it was like riding a cloud or a shooting star.

  They were approaching the judging stand, but still a long way behind the field. He saw the grey mane rising and falling and he breathed in and out, in with Hero, out with Hero, hearing in his own ears the roaring of the wind, the thunder of blood and hoof.

  Dodo covered her face with her hands. Hettie nudged her and she separated her fingers a fraction. She saw clods of flying turf, opened her fingers a fraction more, saw the glittering eye and reaching neck.

  ‘Number Five’s young but he’s fast. Look at the energy of him, the ambition of him – but he’s a long way behind . . . If he’s rideable at three, what’ll he be as a five-year-old . . . ?’

  The field was curving, more strung out now, on to the leftward, downward slope.

  ‘Up at the front’s Number One, Four’s closing in on the inside, a promising young chestnut – they’ve still the third lap to go . . .’

  ‘He’s making time on them, Dodo,’ whispered Hettie.

  ‘Something’s happening at the back, Five’s coming up on the outside, he’s making time, he’s catching the rump of the race. Look at that – he’s past Four – making time on One – they’re neck and neck . . . see the fierce youth of Number Five, both horse and rider . . .’

  The fields were a blur, Hero’s hoofs didn’t touch the earth, the ground spun beneath them, insubstantial as a toy globe, they were suspended above the turf, they belonged to the sky, to the tattered gold-trimmed clouds.

  ‘A feather – or a breeze – might knock that child off . . . We’re into the third and final lap . . .’

  Wolfie leaned low over the straining neck and whispered, ‘For Pa – Hero, let’s go.’ He stayed low, his hands stretched forward, breathing with Hero, in with him, out with him, becoming part of the flow of the horse.

  ‘The young grey’s coming up on the inside – Number Five’s on the inside, he’s found a gap – he’s coming up fast, he’s passing them! Have you ever seen anything like it here at Comer’s Gate? He’s a streak of light – he’s neck and neck with Seven. We’re into the final furlong and Number Five – there’s fire in him – he’s a head ahead, he’s a length ahead, he’s found another gear, he’s got another speed he didn’t know he had! He’s leading the field, he’s leaving the field behind . . . He’s left it behind – th
ey’re on the home straight and he’s found he’s got wings – he’s outlasted, out-strided, outpaced all others . . . This horse didn’t know he could run, and now he’s running as though he’s been doing it all his life . . .’

  The crowd broke into a roar. Wolfie was laughing, tears streaming from his eyes. He and Hero were the sun and the wind and the sky.

  ‘He’s past the finish! What a horse – the courage of him! What a race! It’s Number Five, young Revel on the dappled grey . . .’

  Dodo saw her brother atop the sweat-streaked horse, the handsome grey head framed by the dark loose mane, the tail a streaming banner and tears sparkled on her cheeks. Wolfie braced his reins and pulled, slowing Hero up, bringing him back to a canter, now turning and trotting back to Dodo, waving, careless, the reins loose.

  ‘A run to make a father’s heart burst with pride – the courage of the Victoria Cross runs in this boy’s veins, the mettle of it’s in his marrow. His father led the last great cavalry charge the world’ll ever see – was awarded the highest honour this country can bestow, and – now this! What a horse – have you ever seen such a thing? – what a horse, what symmetry, strength, grace! What a horse! And young Revel on him, the spirit of his father . . .’

  He’d said it – a man who’d been there at the time had said it, in front of everyone – ‘The courage of the Victoria Cross’ – here to the sun, to the stripy tents and golden clouds, to the purple hills and coconut shies, to schoolmates and to neighbours.

  ‘And now the lap of honour . . . Behind him follow the Hunt staff, the hounds – Look at him, a horse with stamina, with speed, with grace – a horse that’ll be the envy of all England . . .’

  As the hounds bayed and the bugle sounded and the crowd roared, Hero halted beside Dodo, snorting and heaving and steaming, nostrils wide and pink. Wolfie whispered, ‘Will you tell Pa, Dodo? Will you tell him everything?’

  To the baying of the hounds and the sounding of the bugle and the cheering of the crowds, Wolfie and Hero rode the lap of honour. Father Lamb smiled at his daughter and winked. She took his arm and he leaned against her as they watched.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After the race Pa had written to Wolfie that the fame of Hero had reached even the darkest corner of London, and that Pa sat purring like a cat in the sun with the pride of it all. Pa thought that Wolfie must have breathed with Hero, in with him and out with him, so that they were at one.

  The winter that followed was cold and slow, March long and bitter. When April came it was wet and grey.

  Anti-aircraft batteries, artillery ranges and search light positions were established on the open ground of the hills. The moor itself became a training ground for infantry and artillery. The noise of gunfire, shells and mortar, became, for a while, a constant background that spring. The village filled with troops, British first, then American. Rumblings filled the valley, echoing and growing as convoys of monstrous tanks crawled across the old pack bridge. The old houses, smaller than the giant tanks, seemed to tremble with fear to see such things.

  ‘Fifteen troop trains a day,’ said Father Lamb wistfully. ‘Each one with a thousand troops.’

  Stacks of ammunition stood outside the Village Stores. Blocks of gelignite piled up on roadsides like pats of margarine. Anti-aircraft shells, hand grenades, dynamite and mortars gathered on the roadsides. American jeeps burned and screeched down the narrow lanes. DUKW vehicles arrived, strange mongrels, armoured cars crossed with boats. GIs sauntered through the villages in soft rubber-soled shoes, hands in their pockets, chewing gum, smiling, singing, lavish with tinned peaches, ‘candy’ and cigarettes.

  In the kitchen at Lilycombe, Wolfie looked over the Common, the brown moor beyond, a landscape as unwarlike as he could conceive. Father Lamb stood at his side, listened to the rumblings of the tanks through the open window, and said, ‘Twenty thousand troops up here, they say, and half of them American.’

  ‘Are we going to invade soon?’

  ‘No. Not soon, not unless it stops raining.’

  Wolfie sat at the table and wrote to Pa.

  Dear Pa,

  I am glad you will appeal soon. Hero is bored because it keeps raining and the ground is too wet to ride.

  The Americans are here. They put antlers on their jeeps. They give us toffee apples and oranges. They chew gum.

  Love, Wolfie

  PS The end of the war is going to start from here. Eisenhower is in the pub again today. His train has a cinema in it. There is lots of gelignite. There are tanks in the playing field at school. Father Lamb says the Americans feed their horses candyfloss and run their tanks on Coca Cola. He says they are waiting for it to stop raining. I think something is going to happen soon.

  Dodo, in secret, wrote a short note along the bottom of his letter before sealing the envelope:

  Dear Pa,

  Wolfie talks of nothing else but Hero and will never be quiet till you see him. It is a great strain.

  I hope Vickers will be exchanged so you have a witness and can make an appeal.

  Love, Dodo

  PS It is true that Eisenhower is here. He likes riding and he likes the Royal Oak.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The weather grew wetter and wetter, Hero more fretful and bored. By May it seemed the country was running with water. Meanwhile, almost on the doorstep of Lilycombe, General Eisenhower gathered the largest ever amphibian force. Piles of ammunition grew in fields among the bluebells. Tanks and jeeps waited in woods, camouflaged with netting and foliage. More tanks arrived, more troops, more jeeps, more lorries.

  Still Eisenhower waited. Still the whole country waited.

  Every morning Wolfie asked the same question.

  ‘Will it be today?’

  ‘Look.’ Father Lamb was peering at the map, Dreadnought at his side, looking up too. Dreadnought noticed no one else but Father Lamb, did everything that Father Lamb did. ‘Where d’you think we’ll land?’ He ran his fingers along the French coast. ‘We might pretend to go to Calais, then quietly go somewhere else. And how’ll we land?’ He tapped his fingers on the map. ‘Where can we land two and a half thousand vehicles in a single day?’ He turned and said, ‘Wolfie, it’s going to be like nothing the world’s ever seen before – it’s the most critical operation of the war, Eisenhower’s got to get it right first time, got to get the right moment . . . he needs a calm crossing.’

  He took his coffee to the table, sat down and drank, then said, ‘That man must be beside himself with fear that it could all go wrong. As he sits down there, in the Royal Oak, he must fear that this could be another Somme, another Gallipoli.’

  Pa wrote that there was to be a second exchange of prisoners, that perhaps Major Vickers might be among them. Free then at last to talk, he’d say what had happened. Pa’s story would at last be proven, and he could then appeal and clear his name. For Wolfie, he’d added an extra note:

  Always make a horse feel secure. Hero must know that you’ll never let him down. They have long memories. A horse has a very long memory. You must never, never break trust with a horse, Wolfie.

  The weather stayed bad. The country waited, tense as a coiled spring. On Sunday Samuel told Hettie that Monday and Tuesday would be fine, that there’d be a storm today, but the following days would be clear. Samuel always knew when to take sheep off a hill, when to harvest, when to sow.

  On Sunday the fields and roadsides and woods began to empty of ammunition and vehicles. By Monday, the lanes and villages were as empty as if the whole country had gone across the Channel to settle with Hitler. There were no tanks in the playing field at school. That night, as the children wished him goodnight, Father Lamb said, ‘Churchill will be a worried man tonight. At least three hundred thousand men will cross that Channel tomorrow. By the time the country wakes, what will’ve happened? Will twenty thousand men be dead? Will the Channel run with blood?’

  ‘Father . . .’ interrupted Hettie, shocked.

  ‘You must pray for the
m,’ said Father Lamb.

  At eight next morning, the BBC bulletin announced that paratroopers had landed in Northern France. Wolfie bought a Red Cross flag at the crossroads and dropped a penny in the tin. All the way to school Wolfie chanted Eisenhower’s words: ‘The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you . . .’

  At 9.45, on the wireless in the schoolroom, Wolfie heard Eisenhower call to the Allies in France, Belgium and Holland, ‘Be patient, be patient, we are coming.’

  At ten o’clock the D-Day landings were announced. They heard cheers in the streets, people singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. In the village that evening, Father Lamb gave an impromptu service of thanksgiving, the church filled to overflowing, tears on everyone’s faces.

  Dodo and Wolfie were quiet, holding hands, thinking of Pa, alone in a military jail.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After the Normandy landings, the summer had greyed and sagged. Rationing had taken a tighter grip. Germany was firing sinister, pilotless bombs on London.

  There’d been no good news from London. Pa was still waiting to hear if Vickers was to be among the prisoners exchanged, still waiting to be moved to the mines. Wolfie and Dodo had picnicked at Pennywater with the ponies. Their mood was subdued and melancholy and when the sky grew thick and woolly, they mounted their horses and headed for home. The first fat round drops of rain began to fall. The sky grew violet. Gunmetal clouds rolled and heaved in monstrous towers.

  They rose from the wooded droveway on to the brow of the hill, and into a solid wall of wind and rain. Over the hill beyond Lilycombe, clouds reared, menacing as wild animals against the ribboned sky. Wind battered the heather, bending and shaking the rush, nerving them homeward. They kicked onward.

  A summer gale was gathering. Rain billowed like smoke.

  ‘Hurry, Wolfie!’ called Dodo, alarmed by the sudden transformation of the day, by the driving rain, the rearing, bucking wind. Finally they reached the lane and took the short cut home.