Born to Trot

by Marguerite Henry

  The banker pulled a notebook and a lead pencil from the tail of his coat. ‘Now then, how do you spell your horse’s name, Rysdyk?’

  William Rysdyk began—slowly, haltingly. ‘Hah, ah, em, bay, el, ay, tay, oh, en, ee, ah, en.’

  Mister Spingler smiled down his nose. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the oaf has named the colt after our hero, Alexander Hamilton, yet he knows not how to spell the name.’

  A deep flush came over William Rysdyk’s face. How could he explain to the men that he had named his horse for Hambletonian, the hero of his childhood? He would not try.

  The driver laughed. ‘Why not call him Rysdyk’s Big Bull? It will add flavor to the notices. Rysdyk’s Big Bull against The Chief.’

  11: Match Against Time

  Tuesday next came, and William Rysdyk and Hambletonian were in New York City. Early that morning William Rysdyk stepped into a new jewelry store called Tiffany’s.

  ‘A timekeeper I would want to buy,’ he said timidly to the spruce gentleman who leaned across the showcase. ‘To click it on when my colt strikes off on the Union Course. What for timekeepers have you?’

  The gentleman opened a narrow drawer behind him and took out a shiny watch on a long cord. ‘Of course, you know how it works,’ he said, ‘but I should like to make certain it is in perfect order.’ Turning the face toward William Rysdyk, he clicked the pin. He let the seconds run, sixty of them, and clicked it again. Then he placed the watch in his customer’s hand, saying, ‘In perfect condition!’ Thus in his quiet, thoughtful way the jeweler had shown a frightened stranger in New York how to work a stop watch.

  He smiled as he held open the door. ‘Remember, time waits for neither man nor horse.’

  ‘Is true!’ William Rysdyk nodded heartily. He walked away, smiling to himself. ‘That Mr. Tiffany will make a go of it, I betcha.’

  His smile died on his lips. A light rain was falling. ‘Ach, the track!’ he cried, clapping his hands to his head. ‘It goes sticky on me.’ He was in a frenzy to get there, as if he could mop it up singlehanded.

  But when he did get there, the rain was falling in a steady curtain. There was nothing to do but watch it out the window of Hambletonian’s stall. Desolated, he threw a blanket on the straw and lay down, inviting Hambletonian to join him. Together, man and colt slept, and the rain quieted and stopped, and the wind came up and blew a gale.

  And as they slept, the first spectators began coming to the course, spreading handkerchiefs and butcher’s paper over the damp seats. Jonas Seely left his group in the stands to look in on his hired man.

  ‘Ho there, Rysdyk! Awake! The hour is at hand!’

  William Rysdyk scrambled to his feet and looked up at the sky. ‘The weather strikes around. God lets go the pump handle, eh?’

  ‘Aye, but a gale blows now. However, it takes more than wind and storm to keep true sportsmen away. Naturally, the assemblage is not so great as it was for the race between Fashion and Peytona or for Fashion and Boston, but what it lacks in numbers it makes up in quality.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Aye,’ Mister Seely nodded. ‘Already I have spotted Oliver Holmes, Ralph Emerson, and His Honor, Ambrose T. Kingsland, Mayor of New York.’

  William Rysdyk came out of the stall and looked at the stands. His mouth went dry. Top hats and poke bonnets were thick as flies in a blacksmith shop, and in the centerfield was a higgledy-piggledy conglomeration of carts and gigs and chariots and landaus and phaetons and broughams. He had never seen so many turnouts. He looked helplessly at Mister Seely.

  ‘Excuse, sir, Hambletonian and me—is maybe better we tail it from here. We could home be already by morning.’

  ‘Come, come, man. The colt will give you confidence. The gentleman yonder,’ he indicated the direction with a slight lift of his elbow, ‘the one smoking the big cigar, is Mister Roe, owner of Abdallah Chief.’

  William Rysdyk took one look at the man, standing big and calm, watching while his hired help wheeled out one of the new sulkies. William Rysdyk wished he were at home. Digging ditches. Sacking onions. Splitting wood. Anything. If only he had known! Now it was too late. He looked down at the patches on his knees, at his stable boots.

  The crowd was growing. Mister Seely pulled out his watch. ‘Half after two,’ he said. ‘Note Mister Roe now. He is warming up The Chief. He trots the mile at three on the hour. Then immediately afterward comes your turn.’

  With hands cold and trembling William Rysdyk began harnessing—slipping the collar over Hambletonian’s head, his tail through the crupper, putting the pad on his back, buckling the bellyband.

  As his hands touched the colt, he asked himself, ‘What matters it if my breeches is rough and patched? Hambletonian’s coat is satin, without flaw, his hoofs shining from beeswax. The crowd—they come for him, not me.’

  Hambletonian was restive, sensing the tension in the air. Today there was no rattle of milk cans. Today was different. And the wind! Already it distended his nostrils, lifted his mane, excited him.

  The bugles and drums! The wind had affected them, too. Quavered the notes, carried them high on wind shoulders.

  Now Mister Roe was driving Abdallah Chief out on the track. How slim and sleek The Chief! How wiry from his racing! The spectators liked him. Their cheers left no doubt.

  ‘The cheers care I not for!’ said William Rysdyk, trying to believe his own words. ‘What matters is the time.’ He held his watch on The Chief.

  ‘Go!’ came the word. And The Chief went, hugging the rail, taking advantage of the distance saved. William Rysdyk’s eyes darted ahead to the quarter pole, waiting for the horse to pass it. As he whipped by, the new watch said forty-four seconds!

  The assemblage was on its feet. Abdallah Chief was going the pace they expected. One twenty-nine at the half. Now his pace was increasing. Two-eleven and a half at the three-quarter pole. Faster down the stretch! He was passing the wire now—two minutes, fifty-five and a half seconds at the finish.

  The time was good in the gale, the crowd satisfied with its choice. Better marks had been made, they told each other. Flora Temple had done the same distance in less time. So had Lady Suffolk. But then the track had been fast and the wind still. The performance of The Chief was good. Mister Roe drove him back to his stall, looking mightily pleased. The Chief, however, seemed tired on his legs, blowing as if his lungs were fit to burst.

  Again the bugle shrilling in the wind. But if it had been no louder than a penny whistle it would have pierced William Rysdyk’s ears. And now the roll of the drums. The bugle and the drums were in him, inside him, in his stomach, his lungs, his heart.

  Now it was! Now the time had come! He mounted Silvertail’s big wagon, set his feet against the dashboard, braced himself. He took the reins. He cradled the stop watch in his palm. To his surprise his hand held steady and it was the crowd that fluttered. What if their cheers were few and raveling away in laughter? His eyes and ears were not for them. He was seeing between the ears of his colt, seeing the wet, gummy mile, waiting for the word.

  ‘Go!’ it came like a knifeblade sharpened on the wind. The colt and the watch clicked off in unison. And suddenly William Rysdyk knew the watch was his opponent. Not The Chief, but the live little thing in his hand. The little gold thing with a white face and little fine wires inside. She was his opponent.

  The sticky track was on her side, cupping at the colt’s feet, sucking at them, holding them back. The high wind was on her side, blowing pieces of paper in Hambletonian’s face. The white picket fence was on her side. The colt had never seen such a high fence before. He shied from it. No hugging the rail to save precious yards and seconds.

  The seconds were ticking themselves off, ticking away all safe and secure, away from the wind, away from the fence, away from the cuppy track. Time was his match! Time grinning up at him from the white face with gimpy, nervous little hands.

  In front of him the satin haunches, the driving legs punching out, clawing to grip the track, clawing and
slipping. On the first turn the heavy wagon began to skewer. William Rysdyk slowed the piston legs, slowed them. Even the turns were on the watch’s side.

  Forty-one seconds at the quarter pole. The colt was a match for Time! Now for a half mile without any turns. And the colt knew it, going like a steam engine, his tail the black smoke. Now the wind was a prodding stick, pricking inside his nose, pricking along his chest, his barrel, his legs, lifting his forelock, his mane. Rushing at him on all sides, jangling in his ears, spurring him.

  One twenty-three at the half! William Rysdyk felt pride rising with the wind. His colt was speed, harnessed speed.

  Tears blurred his eyes. He blinked them fiercely away. Two-seven and a half at the third quarter. The horse and Time were flying together, beat for beat, second for second.

  Now one more turn. The wagon sluing again on the wet clay, teetering on two wheels! William Rysdyk leaned far out to hold it on the track, pushing with his body, his feet, holding his breath in anguish as two iron tires spun free of the earth in a singing whine.

  Too late now to slow down. He leaned harder, the breath hurting in his lungs. And then to his relief he felt the wagon settling down, felt the jolt and the relief all in one.

  Now the brush down the stretch! William Rysdyk straining, pushing forward, sitting bird-light in the seat, longing to trot alongside the colt, yoked to him, somehow worthy of him.

  The white face in his hand! Two minutes, forty-eight and a half seconds as they crossed the finish line. Hambletonian had won! His time was better than The Chief’s! Seven seconds better!

  The crowd was finding its voice, waving handkerchiefs and muffs big as bedpillows. The crowd was a flag of many colors, flung on the wind, now rippling in, closing in on Hambletonian. And the judge was jumping down from his perch, raising his hand, shouting with the throng.

  ‘Huzzah for Rysdyk’s Big Bull! Huzzah for Rysdyk’s Big Bull!’

  Suddenly William Rysdyk’s voice burst into a shout, lustier than any other: ‘Hurrah for Rysdyk’s Big Bull!’

  The ‘bull’ himself stood shining with sweat, his ears laced back, not because he was displeased but because he was the son of Old Abdallah!

  ‘Excuse, please.’ William Rysdyk tried to speak out above the applause. ‘The colt he must not stand in the wind. I must now walk him out and put his blanket on, walking him cool.’ But his voice was lost in the huzzahs.

  Nineteen

  GIBSON leaned back against the pillows. The rain had stopped and a watery spot of sun filtered through the trees and found his bulletin board. It marked Alma Lee’s picture—Alma Lee whom he had driven against time. In the shadowy fringes around the sun were Rosalind’s pictures, Rosalind whose speed was still untried. He closed his eyes and dreamed the race of Rosalind. All of it. He saw himself in it. But mostly he saw Rosalind. Big-going like Hambletonian. Born to trot.

  He opened his eyes and looked around the room, at Mike splashing water on a canvas and getting a tree instead of a puddle, at Grubber squinting his near-sighted eyes as he worked with a tiny spring on a freight-car wheel. Only Beaver was watching him hungrily.

  “Say, Gib,” he said, “I’m still waiting for that book. You memorizing it?”

  “Only one little skinny chapter left, Beaver.”

  “Okay. But, jeepers creepers, I get all excited just looking at you.”

  The few pages had to wait for everyday things. When a quiet time came early next morning before breakfast, Gibson tried to read the words slowly to make them last. But they were quicksilver.

  12: The Great Sire

  Top hats, handkerchiefs, muffs were still waving over the Union Course as William Rysdyk drove off. The performance of the untried colt had first stunned and thrilled the spectators; then a wondering set in. What could Rysdyk’s Big Bull have done with training? With a skilled driver? On a fast track? On a windless day? What could he have done hooked to a light sulky instead of a cumbrous wagon?

  And now what could he, as a sire, do to improve the speed and stamina of the American trotter? The question flew from mouth to mouth during the weeks that followed the Union Course race. And more than one man stood ready to answer it. Stock-breeders, dirt farmers, dairymen, men cooped up in office buildings, men from near, men from far—all wanted to buy the colt. Two gentlemen journeyed up from Virginia to bid ten thousand dollars for him. At first their offers were spoken low, in quiet confidence, then their offers and voices were raised in impatience.

  ‘Sh! Don’t speak it so loud,’ William Rysdyk would say, motioning toward Hambletonian. ‘He don’t like it. Already I know him since he was eating off his mare-mom. No, by criminy! Hambletonian and me—we wouldn’t going to separate now. There’s nobody could buy him.’

  In the years that followed, many horsemen brought their mares to Hambletonian to be bred and thus improve their trotting stock. One was Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States. It was the President’s approval that helped carry the name of Hambletonian throughout the world.

  And it was the President who noted a unique characteristic in Hambletonian’s colts: their hips stood higher than their withers. He gave a name to this conformation. The “trotting pitch” he called it. And what Israel Toothill and his august committee had once laughed at, horsemen now began seeking.

  With each year Hambletonian’s fame grew and spread. At one Orange County Fair, while a vast throng sent up cheers and clamorings, Hambletonian and nine of his big-going sons trotted around a giant oak tree in the centerfield.

  ‘Hero of Orange County! King of Sires!’ they shouted now. And the name ‘Rysdyk’s Big Bull’ buried itself in the dust of the past.

  His son Bruno became the first four-year-old to trot the mile in 2:30; George Wilkes made a world record of 2:22; Jay Gould, 2:211/2; Orange Girl, 2:20; Nettie, 2:18. And his son Dexter became a household word for speed. He won forty-seven out of fifty-one races, reducing the world record to 2:171/4. And it mattered not to the great Dexter whether he trotted in harness, to wagon, or under saddle. He won!

  Good as these marks were, none stood. Hambletonian’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren kicked their heels at them, setting up new marks of their own—2:111/2 for St. Julien; 2:10 for Jay-Eye-See, 2:083/4 for Maud S.; 2:07 for Peter the Great.

  The line strengthened as it lengthened! Each new generation clipped off seconds until Hambletonian became the most famous stallion in all America.

  Year on year at the county fairs, old and young would stop in admiration when William Rysdyk drove him into the grounds. And year on year the stallion would win blue ribbons with gold lettering that said, ‘Best stallion in his class.’ He won silver cups, too, and a sterling silver tea set because of all stallions he was the best.

  Of course, William Rysdyk had no more use for silver cups and tea sets than for water in his hat, but he accepted them all as custodian for Hambletonian. And often on moon-bright nights he would steal out to the barn with lye ashes and rag to polish them. ‘Foolish, eh?’ he would chortle as he rubbed. ‘Yah, foolish but not caring. In some other world maybe his thirst gets gentler and out of tea cups he drinks.’

  In time William Rysdyk’s beard turned white, and white hairs too grew around Hambletonian’s muzzle. And still the horse was above price. As the man and the stallion grew old together, they looked upon each other with their hearts as well as their eyes.

  One early spring evening shortly before his death, William Rysdyk motioned to the youngest Seely boy, man-grown now, who sat in his room tending him. The young man got up and knelt beside the bed, looking into the bearded face and the pleading eyes.

  ‘There is two wishes I could maybe want to wish.’ William Rysdyk’s breath came short but a smile played about his lips. ‘Can you once to boost up on me so out my window Hambletonian I could see?’

  With awkward but gentle hands the young man propped the pillows behind the hired man’s back. Then he threw wide the shutters, saying, ‘I will go out now and lead your horse in front of the
window.’

  Turning to leave the room, something caused him to look back. To his wonderment he saw the stallion footing his way slowly and majestically toward the open window. Head upraised, ears pricked forward like trumpets, he came closer, step by step. He may only have been harkening to the cry of a hawk thin on the wind, but perchance he heard a beloved voice calling. As his head reached the window, the voice spoke only two words. ‘Till seeing,’ it said, ‘till seeing.’

  At sound of the familiar singsong the stallion began to quiver, and suddenly in a long trembling neigh of remembrances added his voice to One Man’s.

  With a sigh of satisfaction William Rysdyk sank back among the pillows. ‘When deep sleep comes to him,’ he whispered to the Seely boy, ‘he has it on the green hillside with a name marker? Yah? In my will we make it up so? Yah?’

  The young man nodded.

  And so it was.

  It is not given to horses to write wills. But some there are who say Hambletonian’s descendants are his testament.

  And some say Hambletonian wrote his will in music—American music, the tap-tap, tap-tap ringing of hoofbeats.

  Gibson turned the page and was about to close the book when his eye fell upon a pocket pasted inside the back cover. Edging out of it, a piece of notepaper was plainly visible. At first he thought it might be a family letter belonging to Dr. Mills. Then he spied the top of a “G” and the top of a “b,” and the more he looked the more he felt the two letters might be part of his own name.

  He pulled the paper out of the pocket a little, and then a little more, and suddenly he was reading Dr. Mills’ scrawling handwriting.

  Dear Gib,

  Hambletonian does have a big-marked tombstone. But I like to think that the world’s premier trotting race, the Hambletonian, is his real monument, a living one. And it seems just right that each year the race is held in Goshen, Orange County, an easy trot from the little knoll where the horse was born.