It was a disappointment to some of the ponies when he brought out harnesses and traces. But I liked to work, so I didn’t mind, though I couldn’t understand our job. We dragged logs up and down the beach, logs so heavy that they didn’t even float. We pulled them to the end of the beach, then turned around and pulled them back. There was no sense to the work, but we learned the English way to pull and haul. It was a gentler way, with a guiding hand on the halter and a biscuit when we finished. I was soon throwing myself gladly at the harness, eager to please Mr. Meares.
I wished that the stallion and some of the others would settle down and lose their fears. To them, every man in the world was a fearsome figure.
One day a gentleman came wandering down from his house, white haired and stiff backed, with a lady clinging to his arm. He stopped to admire the stallion, and asked the jockey, “How old is that one there?” The jockey only shrugged; he didn’t know. So the gentleman went closer to have a look.
The stallion tried to warn the man away. He pinned his ears back; he put his head low to the ground and swung it back and forth. But the man didn’t notice—or didn’t understand—and only went closer. So the stallion charged him.
The old man just stood there, maybe too surprised to run. In an instant, the stallion was right in front of him, rearing up to strike him down.
At the last moment, the gentleman raised one skinny little arm, trying to ward off the pony with his walking stick. Then the stallion struck out and the man went flying backward onto the grass. With a shriek, the stallion reared again and plunged with his hooves.
It took four big men to pull the pony away. He bucked and kicked and struggled. The men were scared, but awed as well. He was such a vicious fighter that he earned the name Hackenschmidt, after the famous Russian wrestler who had never lost a fight.
I saw his eyes that day, all wild and crazy, and I wondered again what had happened to him in his life among men. He was so angry, so bitter, that he frightened other ponies. There was just one with no fear of him—another stallion a little younger, every bit as wild himself. The men called that one Christopher, which I thought was too nice a name for such a horrible pony.
They were like a pair of bullies, Hackenschmidt and Christopher, staying friends only to keep themselves from killing each other. Both were stubborn and still untamed. As soon as the halters and traces were brought out, the two ponies made it clear they didn’t want to work. But the men were even more stubborn, and though it sometimes took four or five of them to do it, they always got those ponies harnessed. They always got them working, and they did it without a stick or whip.
I decided that they were training us for a special task, because no men—not even Englishmen—worked just for the pleasure of working. I wondered endlessly what it might be, and watched for clues in everything.
The first hint came in November, when a strange ship arrived at our island. It was Captain Scott’s Terra Nova, but I didn’t know it then. All I noticed was a funnel that spewed black smoke, and an old smell of death covered over with paint and tar.
The ship was still moving along the jetty when men began to come ashore. They were like fleas leaping from a dog, bounding from the side of it.
One of those men had a pipe in his teeth. He walked for a while in a funny way, as if the land was moving underneath him, though it wasn’t. He went up and down the jetty, then turned and came straight for the ponies.
He walked quickly, in long strides. He marched across the ground to the field where we were grazing, and he put his elbows on the fence and leaned there, puffing his pipe.
Hackenschmidt and Christopher snorted anxiously. They cantered away to the far side of the field, and some of the other ponies followed. But I stood where I was, not three yards away from the man. I liked him right away, because he smiled when he looked at me.
Over his shoulder, I could see Mr. Meares walking toward us, his pink legs flashing in the sunlight. He called out, “What do you think of them, Titus?”
The new man took the pipe from his mouth. He talked loudly, without turning his head. “They look first class.”
He had the kindliest voice I’d ever heard, and a feeling of compassion that hovered around him like his pipe smoke. I wanted to greet him properly, with a good sniff and a rub, but I went cautiously, with my head down and my hooves scuffing through the grass. I snorted softly to show him I wouldn’t be any trouble.
He didn’t move a muscle. He kept leaning on the fence, now holding the pipe in his hand, watching me with bright, sea-colored eyes.
I stopped in front of him, near enough that he could touch me if he wanted to. For a long time we looked at each other. Then he suddenly leaned forward.
He was quick as a snake. Before I knew it, he had grabbed hold of my halter. I tried to pull away.
“Easy, lad,” he said, seeing how I shivered. “You’re safe as houses, son.”
I moved closer. I nudged against him, and he smiled again at that. Then his eyes shifted away, and he looked at the scars on my shoulders. He touched them, and I didn’t even flinch.
This man was Lawrence Oates, a soldier, a captain in the cavalry. No one ever called him by his real name. To the men, he was Titus or the Soldier. But to me he seemed so much unlike a fighting man that he was only Mister Oates.
He didn’t stay long that day. After a little pet and a rub on the cheek, he went away with Mr. Meares, strolling together toward the ship. From then on, I watched for him all the time, standing whenever I could at the same spot along the fence. But it was three or four days before I saw him coming toward me again.
It took me by surprise. I was watching for him around the ship, but he appeared instead on the roadway, in a happy group of people.
It was a fine day, the clouds like froth on a river. Honeybees were buzzing around the clovers, and the people came slowly in the sunshine, chattering away like crows.
In the middle of the group was a man with a walking stick, wearing a cap with a gleaming badge, and a coat with rows of buttons that flashed in the sun in rounds of gold. The others swarmed around him—now in front, now behind—like a flock of little birds. He had Mr. Oates close behind him, and a woman at his side, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Her white clothes reached right to the ground, and I had to wonder if she had any legs, because she seemed to float like a cloud across the grass. At the back of the group, the Russian jockey carried lead ropes draped across his shoulders.
The man in the middle was Captain Scott. He swung his walking stick in his hand, jaunty as a wooden tail. Ten yards away, he stopped and stared at me and the other ponies. He pushed up the brim of his cap.
The whole group stopped along with him. Mr. Meares came up to his side, beaming proudly. Mr. Oates lingered, though I longed for him to come up and pet me.
Captain Scott studied us carefully. For once, all of us were quiet, no one fighting another. Even Hackenschmidt was doing nothing more than eating grass, though he was wary as he did it. We must have made a splendid sight: nineteen white ponies in a field of grass and clover.
“Splendid,” said Captain Scott. He looked very pleased. “A bit of all right. Don’t you agree, Titus?”
“They seem so,” said Mr. Oates. “I haven’t had a proper look yet.”
“No time like the present,” said Captain Scott.
The whole group came through the gate and into the field. The Russian jockey ran ahead and gathered four ponies, including me. He attached our lead ropes and held us in a bunch as Captain Scott and the others came toward us. The lady kept her distance, making sure there was a man between herself and any pony. But Mr. Meares and Captain Scott came right among us, and then Mr. Oates—with his pipe in his teeth—smiled right at me. “There’s my lad,” he said.
I was thrilled that Mr. Oates remembered me. I greeted him with a snort and a nicker and a toss of my head. It made the men laugh for some reason, and the lady cried out, “What a darling!”
I was the first
to be examined. Captain Scott held my rope while Mr. Oates looked me over. He lifted my feet and poked my hooves; he felt my belly and my chest. He wasn’t smiling anymore; he was frowning instead. He moved on to the next pony, and the next after that, until he’d looked at all four of us.
Captain Scott seemed impatient. “Well?” he said.
“They’ve had a hard life,” said Mr. Oates with a sigh. “A long one too.”
“Do you mean they’re old?” asked the captain.
“As the hills,” said Mr. Oates. “They’re worn out. A lot of crocks, most of them.”
Crocks. It was the first time I’d heard that word. But I could tell it wasn’t a good thing to be a crock. The ponies beside me were old; it was true. Their coats were ragged, their backs bent, their teeth badly worn. I wondered if Hackenschmidt was a crock because he was so wild. Or Christopher because he was stubborn and mean.
Mr. Meares looked disappointed. And Captain Scott seemed almost angry. “You’re being a bit hard on them, don’t you think?” he said.
Mr. Oates shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Well, I believe they’ll do very well,” said Captain Scott. “They’re as good as Shackleton’s; I’m sure of that.”
There was another new word. I was glad to be better than a shackleton, though I had no idea what it was.
“They’ll do the job,” said Captain Scott.
The job. I pricked up my ears, hoping to learn something more. But the captain walked away with Mr. Oates and all the rest. So I began to stand around the edges of the field, trying to hear important words. Everything was a puzzle.
When the men began to empty the ship, I hoped they were staying on the island. The things they unloaded were made for cold weather: big sledges and tents and woolly clothes. But they only emptied the ship to make repairs, and then they filled it again. The work took many days, and I spent most of them lying on the grass, eating every tiny clover I could reach without moving. Each morning, the lady brought a parasol and sat beside me, scratching my ears as I nibbled away.
But the work came to an end eventually, and one evening, all of the men got onto the ship.
I was afraid they were leaving without me. I called out to Mr. Oates. I whinnied and nickered for all I was worth. But he didn’t notice. So I dashed back and forth along the fence, crying out like a colt for its mother. But for once—for the first time—Mr. Oates did not come to see me.
In the morning, everything seemed a disaster. The jetty was empty, the ship was loaded, and black smoke billowed from the funnel. I felt a terrible lurch inside my chest. It would be hard enough to watch him sail away, but even worse if Mr. Oates didn’t come and say good-bye.
But the ship didn’t leave. Instead, a huge box appeared, rising from the muddled deck. It made bad memories in my mind, but I didn’t run away. I moved closer instead, hoping to be first aboard.
The men took Hackenschmidt. Six of them wrestled him into the box, and he kicked and bucked all the time. It was the same for Christopher, and I was next after him. A big sailor named Taff Evans gave me a biscuit as he guided me into the box. “That’s the ticket,” he said proudly. “That’s how it’s done.”
He rubbed my ears, then closed the box, and up I went. The men laughed to see me looking down at them as I munched away on my biscuit.
Mr. Oates was waiting on the ship. “There’s my lad,” he said as he let me out of the box. “Midships,” he told a sailor, who led me to my place, down a deck so crowded with crates and sacks that we had to go in single file. I was given a stall in a row of four, with a roof of canvas cloth. I could look up toward the bow, or over the roof of the icehouse, past the funnel toward the stern. I had to peer between packing crates and machinery, but it was a pleasant view. Other ponies, not as lucky, were put right into the ship, in a dark space below the deck.
When the last pony was aboard, the dogs came barking across the island. I had thought I was rid of them, but again they were chained all around me. One was tied right in front of my stall, another only a few feet away, a few on the roof of the icehouse. I hoped their chains were good and strong, and I wished they’d stop their howling.
The steam engine started thumping below me. Puffs of smoke rose from the funnel like black thunderheads. With a shrill from the whistle, and a cheer from the shore, we started on our way. Captain Scott shouted orders, the men hauled on the ropes, and the ship moved faster every moment. The thumping of the engine made everything shake and rattle and jingle. I saw the captain wave at his wife, who had stayed on the shore, then turn his back toward her. Soon we left the shelter of the land and came out to the open sea.
Despite the never-ending roll of the ship, and the dogs at my feet, I found the early days of that voyage were some of the happiest of my life.
Of the nineteen ponies, I was the sailors’ favorite. They named me James Pigg, in honor of a man who lived only in a book. “A pleasant rogue,” they said. Sometimes they called me Jimmy Pigg, and sometimes only James. And they always said it in the fondest way, with a smile and a thump on my shoulder. Often, there was a biscuit as well, slipped to me from a cupped hand so the other ponies wouldn’t be jealous. “You’re a good lad, James Pigg,” they said.
It was the first time in my life that I had a name. In the past, I had always been “the pony,” just a thing that pulled a cart or dragged a log. But now I felt important.
We all got names. A lazy old pony on my left became Weary Willy. A small one on my right was named Jehu, the one beside him, Nobby. I heard other names shouted through the wall, from the space where the ponies were stabled. I never saw the ponies in there but learned of Snatcher and Snippets, and Bones and Guts, and so many others that I couldn’t keep track.
I sometimes heard the sailors singing, and the ship felt safe and happy. But as we went along to the south, the wind blew harder. The sea grew very rough. I saw the men turn anxious faces toward the sky as it filled with wicked clouds.
There was a terrible storm. It began with wind that howled like a dog. Then the waves got bigger and bigger, and soon the ship was rolling heavily. I had to struggle to stay on my feet as I was driven back and forth against the ends of my stall.
The ship rolled so far that I thought it would roll right over. Waves came thundering over the side, surging across the deck. They leapt over the icehouse and burst against my stall. I was suddenly belly deep in water, and it slowly drained away.
For the dogs it was worse. Buried by every wave, they struggled at the ends of their chains. They didn’t bark anymore; they didn’t howl. They whimpered like baby birds, looking around with fear-filled eyes. Even I felt sorry for them.
The wind grew stronger. The waves grew higher. Packing crates and bags of coal shifted back and forth, battering at the railing and the deckhouse.
Then a chunk of railing broke away. It tumbled into the sea, and a struggling dog, chained to the wood, paddled furiously for a moment before he was dragged under. He rose again, swimming for all he was worth, then disappeared forever.
I believed the ship was drowning. It wallowed in the waves like a great hog in a slough of mud. I could smell fear in the men, but they kept at work. Only a few were sailors. Most were scientists and doctors. There was a cook, and a photographer who’d been seasick on the calmest days. But every man turned out to save the ship, and they did it. They pitched coal over the side by the ton. They pumped water from the hull and lifted it up by the bucket.
A rainbow appeared as they worked. It was the most beautiful rainbow I’d ever seen, huge and bright across the sky. One man saw it and nudged his neighbor, and soon every one of them was looking toward that rainbow. Then the next huge wave collapsed on the deck, and the work began again.
I lost my balance as the ship pitched sideways. My front legs slithered out from under me, and down I went, crashing forward into the boards. I couldn’t get up and couldn’t lie down, and I thought my legs were about to snap. I heard a wave thundering over the ship, and my
stall suddenly filled with water.
I panicked. I kicked and thrashed on the floor of my stall; I screamed from fear and pain. The sea roared in, covering me again, and little Jehu had to scamper and jump to keep away from my flailing hooves.
It was a sailor who saw me, a man called Thomas Crean. He shouted for help, and Mr. Oates came running. “Hang on, lad,” he said as he clambered into the stall.
Just the sound of his voice was calming. I lay heaving on the floor as he untangled my legs. The big round face of Taff Evans peered down at me over the boards. Then he joined Mr. Oates in my stall, and the two of them hauled me to my feet just as my mother had done on the day I was born. They held me up till I found my balance. They braced me against the side.
“There you go, Jimmy,” said Taff Evans. “Up on your pegs, eh. Bob’s your uncle.”
When he saw that I was safe, Mr. Oates hurried away. I could hear the ponies struggling in the dark space inside the ship, screaming as they bashed against the wood.
At the stern stood Captain Scott, as ragged as a scarecrow. He steered to the east with the wind behind him. To me, the ship seemed frightened. It ran at a crazy speed, hurtling through the waves. Captain Scott didn’t seem worried. But I thought the ship had bolted and was running just for the sake of running.
The Terra Nova is sinking. Captain Scott keeps her running east, hoping the storm will pass. He relies on the steam engine to pump water from the hull of the old whaler.
Down below, everything is wet. Seawater drips through the coal bunkers, washing the dust down to the bilge. In the bottom of the ship, it sloshes back and forth, mixing with lubricating oil spilled from the engine. Bit by bit it’s drawn into the pumps, where it turns to a black and tarry mass. It clogs the valves; it chokes the pumps.
In the engine room, water rises quickly over the gratings. The engine is shut down to save the boilers.
The Winter Pony Page 3