A Girl and Five Brave Horses

by Sonora Carver

  When the New York fair closed we left for Canada, and the morning of the opening day we went out to the grounds to practice. I was to have my first ride on Red from the high tower and admittedly was nervous.

  After I got up on the tower Al turned him into the runway and he came trotting up the ramp as though he had done it thousands of times. He allowed me to mount him all right and brought up at the head of the platform properly, but he was a little slow in the take-off and, for some unexplained reason, just before he left the board the harness started slipping. I lost my position as he kicked off, and somewhere about mid-air my body lost contact with his. I remained connected to him only by means of my grip on the diving harness, and I lost even that when we hit. He went in on his right shoulder and we came up on opposite sides of the tank. By putting some extra pep into my stroke I managed to swim over and climb on again before he reached the incline.

  It was a point of the greatest pride with me that when I did get knocked off I got back on as quickly as possible. I felt it was the only way I could redeem myself.

  When we came out of the tank Al said he thought I should let Red try it alone. That way the horse could get used to the height by himself, and it would give me an opportunity to study his action and style.

  This time he worked with more speed, but it sent shivers down my spine, for instead of making a plunge dive he went in on his nose! A nose diver is the most difficult of all to ride, and I knew that if Red dived that straight with me on his back and I didn’t turn him over I’d be better than I thought I was. John had thrown in a nose dive now and then, but he was big and powerful enough to handle a rider’s weight with ease; also, he was an accomplished diver who knew how to throw his long neck and head up to balance himself.

  That day, the hours until performance time seemed to last forever, but my anxiety was needless. When the time came Red went off like a trouper in a perfect medium plunge. From then on he improved. Some of his dives were bad, of course, but most of them were good. During the last of those memorable three weeks, however, he managed to give me one really big scare.

  At a fair in St. John, New Brunswick, the soil was so gravelly that we had had to shore up the sides of the tank. On returning from dinner one evening we found that the posts on the left side had washed loose and the canvas on the left wall was caving in and floating up from the bottom. It was not bad enough to cause damage, provided the horse landed in the exact center of the tank, but unfortunately Red had developed a marked tendency to veer to the left. If he did so that night he would dive directly into the posts and the results would surely be deadly.

  Normally in such circumstances we would have gone to the secretary of the fair and explained that we would be unable to give the performance. Our contract covered the possibility of dangerous situations and gave us the right to cancel performances, but in St. John that summer other considerations made cancellation inadvisable.

  Some of the acts had not been able to appear at the fair until the middle of the week because of some immigration trouble at the Canadian border. Their tardy appearance, coupled with heavy mists which kept the stage and props so wet that it was hard for the performers to accomplish their tricks properly, had created a feeling of dissatisfaction among the members of the fair association, and there were rumors that these acts would not receive their money. If this were true we felt that our refusal to dive the horse would further jeopardize their position—and perhaps our own.

  A grandstand that gradually filled to capacity that night was further proof that we had to devise some means of diving the horse. To put the wall back where it belonged was impossible. We would have had to pump all the water out and then take the canvas out, and there just wasn’t time for all that. Finally I came up with a suggestion.

  If we took the long rope used for exercising the horses up to top the tower before performance time and threw one end down to the ground on the right side of the tank, I could snap the other end onto Red Lips’ halter before I mounted him and Al could guide his dive to the right. By pulling in that direction as we came off the tower he could keep the horse from veering left into the piling. It wasn’t a foolproof solution, but it was better than nothing, so we decided to try it.

  All went well until I snapped the rope onto his halter, signaled for the slack to be taken up, and mounted. Unfortunately, however, the slack wasn’t taken up quickly enough and the horse stepped neatly into a coil of rope on the floor of the tower. I became upset, knowing that Red was very fussy about his feet; this irritant at a crucial moment might well put him off his stride. Alternatively, I had visions of him diving with his feet all tangled in the rope, making him incapable of swimming up from the bottom.

  Greatly excited, I called down to Al and explained what had happened. “Release the rope if you can reach the snap,” he shouted, and I leaned as far forward as possible and managed to reach and unsnap it. This was something new to Red, and the delay made him nervous. I was hardly back into riding position when he started to dive. As we took off I breathed a fervent prayer: “O God, please make this horse dive straight.” I do not know whether God had time to hear me, but Red landed in the center of the tank.

  As time went on that season Red became more and more fond of nose diving and, before it was over, had dumped me several times. I also turned him over on three different occasions, but past experience helped me save myself from any serious injury. Later I learned to duck at precisely the right moment and thereafter seldom lost him.

  Although Al and I became increasingly devoted to Red, it was easy for us to understand why his former owner had branded him an outlaw. He was as obstinate as any mule that ever lived. The only way to cope with him was to outsmart him, and that was quite a task because he was extremely intelligent. One thing became obvious—using force was never going to make Red do anything he didn’t want to do. The moment he suspected he was being forced he would get ready for battle.

  He first demonstrated this characteristic when I tried to ride him in a parade. (We didn’t do that kind of thing as a rule, but arrangements had been made for all the performers to parade before the grandstand on the first night.) To my great surprise, when I got on his back he simply balked. He didn’t buck like a bronco; instead he reared and tried to throw himself backward. He wasn’t successful in tossing me, but it was obvious that he would keep on trying until he did or until he hurt himself. I had to get off—temporarily. We felt it would be bad for Red to think he could have his own way by a little extracurricular bucking, so we compromised and the groom led us through the parade. By pulling down hard on the halter he was able to make Red keep all four feet on the ground.

  Red was a temperamental horse but worth the trouble entailed in humoring him. One day near the end of the season Al bought him a goat. (For reasons known only to horses, goats have a soothing effect upon them.) When I first met Happy, the goat was so little he fit into Al’s hand, and I could not believe anything bite-sized could have any influence on Red. I followed Al out to see how the horse would take to his new companion.

  Al walked into Red’s stall, still holding the goat, and said, “All right, Red, this is your roommate. His name is Happy and he’s a baby goat and you’ve got to be nice to him. See how little he is?” He held him up to Red, and Red took one look and rolled his eyes.

  “Come on now,” Al said, “you mustn’t hurt him. He’s too little to hurt. Come on and tell him hello. Make him feel at home.” As he continued to chatter, he was making Happy a nest in the hay, and when he finished he put Happy in it and beckoned to the horse. Red, still looking wary, went over and nuzzled the tiny goat.

  Happy let out a sad little bleat, and Red drew back quickly. Then, apparently having decided the bleat didn’t mean much, Red snuffled him again. This time Happy did not bleat but began to look sleepy.

  “That’s the boy,” soothed Al. “Make him feel at home.” After a few minutes of walking around him and looking him over Red lay down beside the goat and the two of the
m went to sleep. From that moment on Happy slept with Red and Red looked out for him. He never rolled over on him or stepped on him or harmed him in any way.

  As Happy grew bigger he began to wander away from the stall during the day and found that his mere presence outside the barn was sufficient to set the stable dogs barking. At first this frightened him half to death and he would run for Red’s stall lickety-brindle. There he would place himself between Red’s front legs, where he knew the dogs wouldn’t dare to come after him.

  This worked out so well that it turned into a game. Having learned that Red Lips was his protector, he began to bait the dogs deliberately. He would drift toward the front of the barn and out into the open just long enough to be seen, then light out for Red’s stall and take his stand between the horse’s feet. He would duck his head menacingly and paw the ground a little as if to show the dog and Red how fierce he was, but he never ventured from beneath the protection of his Colossus.

  Later, however, Happy grew a formidable set of horns, and then the ground rules changed. He would go out long enough to attract the dogs, then run as usual for the stall, but, just short of it, he would wheel suddenly and meet the dog head on. Inevitably the dogs would go off howling; after each fracas Happy would turn to Red Lips with a look that seemed to say, “See, I’m a big goat now. I can take care of myself.”

  Happy’s increasing size became a problem, not to us, but to Red, who solved it in his own intelligent way. In the beginning Happy had formed the habit of lying down in the hay to eat. This hadn’t bothered Red because Happy was so small that he didn’t take up much room, but when Happy got bigger the limited floor space presented difficulties. Happy still insisted on lying down in the middle of the hay to eat, and if Red wanted a meal he had to eat around him. Finally this got to be too much for Red, and one day we heard a mournful bleating from the barn. Al and I both went to see what was going on and found Happy running around soaking wet.

  We could not imagine how it had happened since there was no puddle anywhere, but then, as if to demonstrate, Happy lay down in the middle of the hay and began to eat, whereupon Red turned and went to his water bucket, filled his mouth with water, and spat it out all over the goat. It was an imaginative solution to a domestic crisis.

  Eleven

  September came finally, and with it Lorena and Arnette. Lorena told me that although Arnette had come through the season unscathed there had been times when she wished she didn’t have to watch her ride. She never knew whether Arnette was going to be skilled or whether she was going to be dangerously awkward. In spite of all attempts to correct her errors, Arnette continued to dive erratically. We agreed then that, although Arnette loved riding the diving horses, for some reason she wasn’t a performer. I made up my mind then and there that no matter how hard Arnette pleaded she had ridden her last.

  When I broke the verdict to Arnette she wailed just as I suspected she would, but I put her on the train and said, “Now go home and graduate cum laude and forget about this riding.” As the train pulled out and disappeared from sight, I heaved a long sigh of relief.

  By that time Al and I had been working together for a year, traveling all over the country, hardly out of one another’s sight for more than a few hours. Al was some twenty years older than I and I had not thought him my “type,” but as the months passed I had come to know him much better.

  We talked about everything. We entertained each other for hours with stories of our childhoods and endlessly discussed the horses and the problems associated with them. I could share all his concerns about the act and he could understand my feelings. I suppose we both should have known that the inevitable was happening.

  Al says he loved me from the beginning and that he had told himself soon after we met, “Someday I’m going to marry her,” which is very flattering but from my viewpoint open to argument. Beyond a casual courtesy, he never evidenced any interest in me, at least not during his father’s lifetime. But I suppose that’s the clue. Al knew any attentions to me would meet with strong disapproval because Dr. Carver didn’t make any bones about the fact that he thought his son “wild.” Now that Dr. Carver was gone, however, Al could display his feelings, but, with a showman’s true sense of timing, waited until I could know him better.

  The first hint I had came from his eyes. They were deeply expressive, and a look appeared that I seemed to recognize but could not fully interpret. Whatever its meaning, it left me breathless and full of anticipation. It was like waking on a spring morning and listening to things come alive and knowing, even before you opened your eyes, that this day was going to be different. Until one night when we were making our last fair appearance in Connecticut, we never discussed being in love.

  Driving back to the hotel that night, Al pulled my head down on his shoulder and quietly told me he loved me. In order to understand my reaction to this, I must make it clear that I had long since made up my mind never to marry— a decision compounded of several factors, the strongest of which was early conditioning. I had felt the conflicts in my parents’ marriage and wanted no more of such misery. Too, from what I had seen of married couples in general, it appeared that, after the bloom of the honeymoon wore off, indifference always resulted—an emotion so pale and unpalatable that downright hatred is preferable. There was also a widespread social condition that prevailed during my childhood in the South that caused me to feel as I did. Families were much larger than most people could afford; they provided a financial quicksand in which parents struggled hopelessly all their lives.

  I stammered out these anti-matrimonial views in one form or another that night, but, for all the good it did me, I might as well have saved my breath. Al was as strong-willed and strong-minded as his father, and when I finished all he said was, “That’s silly.”

  “It’s not silly,” I said. “I’m serious.”

  “That’s because you’re young.”

  “I’m twenty-five!”

  “That’s young,” he said. He was quiet a minute, then said, “I told you I loved you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “And you love me,” he said positively.

  “I do?” I said.

  In the days that followed, Al bent all my arguments from swords into plowshares, and one October evening I gave in and said that I would marry him.

  The next morning I put on my brown chiffon dress and brown suede shoes and brown felt hat but still could not really believe I was getting married. It was as if someone had wound me up and pointed me in a certain direction and that’s the way I was going.

  We went to the little New England town of Norwich and found the justice of the peace, and in what seemed an incredibly short period of time I found myself standing beside Al, saying faintly, “I do,” in the meantime being not at all certain I did. Afterward we drove back to the fairgrounds for my afternoon appearance, and when Al got out of the car and went over to the barn to check with the groom about the horses I watched him walk away from me, thinking, “I’m his wife!”

  In a moment he came back and stood by the car door. Looking in at me, he said, “I’ll see to it that you’re never sorry.” Then he leaned in the window and kissed me.

  “People don’t know we’re married,” I said.

  He smiled. “They will.”

  The week after we were married Al brought me a present. It wasn’t the kind of present many new brides would have appreciated or made use of, but it was the perfect one for me: a contract for a season’s engagement at the Atlantic City Steel Pier.

  Atlantic City at that time was the queen of the amusement-park business, and the biggest names in show business appeared there during the summer. Our contract at the Steel Pier was by far the most lucrative one the Carver act had ever achieved, and when Al signed it I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. I knew that this would be the high spot of my riding career and I was anxious for the winter to pass and spring to come so we could get started.

  After we had mailed
the signed contract the management of the pier wrote, saying they wanted the horses to dive into the ocean, but with the memory of Lightning’s death still so vivid in our minds we refused. The management replied, “Never mind. We want your act. We’ll build anything you need.” Early that spring we went to Atlantic City to see to the tower and tank.

  Until then the pier had ended in a ballroom with a wide deck running around it, but our arrival produced drastic changes. A grandstand, large enough to seat eight thousand spectators, rose from the floor of the deck to up under the eaves of the ballroom. Since I would be riding three times a day on weekdays and four times a day on weekends until the middle of July, after which I’d do four, five, or six shows a day through September, by the end of the season I would have performed before a tremendous number of people.

  After the grandstand was finished they began on the stage, which was to stand sixty feet beyond the grandstand and twenty-five feet above the water at high tide. It had to be connected to the deck by means of a narrow cross bridge for the use of the performers.

  Next the ramp of our diving tower was built across the back of the stage so as to give the spectators a broadside view. The tank was then cut into the floor of the stage and supported by hundreds of pilings. Five feet of it rose above the stage and six feet sank below. To allow for the five feet above the deck, we raised the height of the diving platform from forty to forty-five feet.

  I had a dressing room to myself which adjoined one belonging to Al It was not large—only about six feet square-but had everything in it I needed. A long shelf ran along one wall for my make-up and odds and ends, and from a window over the shelf I could see out by standing on my toes. I kept my wardrobe trunks containing all my suits and other paraphernalia in a corner and had hooks on the opposite wall for my wet suits.

  Al’s room was slightly larger than mine and we made it into a small lounge. It contained a rocking chair, along one wall a bench covered with a leather cushion, and his trunks. This was where I was to spend the better part of my time between acts, either reading or talking with other performers who dropped in to chat.