Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  The crowd went wild over Man o’ War’s spectacular and easy victory. Horsemen and fans alike followed him back to the open stable area, and Danny along with the other grooms tried to keep order by splashing water all about while washing the big colt. They did this despite the fact that Mr. Riddle and his prominent guests were there. They kept the newsmen and photographers back, too. No one could get close enough to touch Man o’ War. It didn’t matter that they were getting soaking wet themselves. They were dressed to tend horses, but these others, these tourists (they were all tourists now, even Mr. Riddle), had to keep back because of their fancy clothes. Not only that. After the race he had run, Man o’ War needed all the room and air he could get.

  Danny washed the colt’s forelegs, muttering, “They’d make fools of themselves over far lesser horses than this one. Stand still, Red.”

  Mr. Riddle had stepped back from the spraying water along with the other visitors and newsmen. He understood the grooms’ actions as well as the next man. But his pulse quickened as he looked over the long, powerful lines of his statuesque chestnut colt. He was very proud of Man o’ War, more so than of any horse he had ever owned. He smiled patiently as drops of water fell on him from the broad sweeping motions made by men with dripping sponges in their hands. And he listened to the glowing comments of the men around him.

  “He is the greatest two-year-old I’ve ever seen since I came home from France,” one friend said. “Nor did I see one in all Europe that I would class with him.”

  Mr. Riddle nodded. He knew Thomas Welsh was usually very sparse in his praise of racehorses. It was a good sign.

  Andrew Joyner, another friend, said, “I have to admit that he’s as good as his daddy was at two. I think he might even make as great a distance-running three-year-old as Fair Play.”

  Mr. Riddle nodded, satisfied again with this critic’s opinion, even though he thought it had been given a little reluctantly. Andrew Joyner had trained Fair Play, so it wasn’t easy to admit that Man o’ War might be as great as his sire. Mr. Riddle smiled. “He’ll be greater than Fair Play, Andrew,” he said confidently, “much greater. You’ll see.”

  Behind him someone said, “I’m sure he can shoulder as much weight as any two-year-old of the last twenty-five years and still win.”

  A newsman seemed to agree, for he exclaimed loudly, “He can carry all the weight they put on his back, all right. Did you notice how Loftus was just looking around at the scenery in the last stage of the race? There never was a more glorious two-year-old, and I’m including Colin and St. Simon, even Spendthrift and Eclipse and Herod.”

  “Whoa,” Mr. Riddle said, turning to the reporter. “Don’t go too far, son. He’s a great colt, but still a colt, not a legend.”

  “I never saw anything like the way he raced,” the newsman went on enthusiastically. “He was living flame. He was all fire. He could have won by a hundred lengths over any distance, at any weight.”

  Mr. Riddle raised his cane, not brandishing it angrily but to command attention. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said in a clear, ringing voice. “As good as this colt is, he’s still a horse. Don’t drool over him. He’s blood and bone. His interest is in oats and clean hay, not idolatry. And right now he needs most what we’re not giving him room to have … proper cooling out and a comfortable stall. Let us leave.”

  Then Mr. Riddle, his face set in stubborn lines, left the area, giving the others no choice but to follow him.

  Danny watched them go. Mr. Riddle was prouder of Man o’ War than most people are of their children, but he didn’t let it go to his head. He could be a gracious host and a good companion, but this was not the moment. He realized Man o’ War needed to be alone despite his clamoring audience. And Mr. Riddle usually got his way.

  With the Saratoga race meeting well under way, the mornings were no longer quiet. People crowded into the clubhouse stands to watch the sets of horses move through the clear, bright days. At times they saw a better show than what went on during the afternoons. When the morning workouts were over, they would roam through the open stable area, sharing the smell of woodsmoke from fires over which water and mash were being heated.

  Often they would watch Man o’ War standing in his stall. Even motionless he attracted more attention than any other horse in the area. Most of the time he stood with his head over the half-door, his ears pricked and eyes bulging with interest at all that went on about him. He was the picture of controlled energy and fire. Yet he looked, too, as if he would explode at any given moment. So visitors watched, waiting eagerly for the fury to be unleashed.

  Danny was ordered to stand by the stall door when Man o’ War was inside. It was a job he loved more than any other, for he felt closer to his colt then than at any other time. He kept the visitors back, listening to their remarks and often answering their questions.

  “I heard he takes a full twenty-eight-foot stride,” one man said. “Could that be possible?”

  “That’s what they measured in his last race,” Danny replied.

  “Someone said they’re going to work him one of these mornings with Golden Broom. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know,” Danny answered. “Feustel’s the trainer.”

  “I heard that Mike Daly has Golden Broom at his best,” the man went on. “He had a quarter crack, you know. It kept him back.”

  “Yes, I know,” Danny said.

  “He’s come along nicely. I watched him work the other morning. He’s regained all he lost by being idle.”

  “I heard that, too,” Danny admitted.

  “He might even steal the show from your colt.”

  Danny didn’t answer.

  “It helps the sport all around,” the man went on, “having this sort of rivalry. I’m looking forward to their being tried together.… You know how it came about, don’t you?” he asked when Danny remained silent. “Well, this is the way I heard it. Mike Daly suggested to Feustel that they alternate the big stakes instead of racing their colts against each other. He thought he was doing Feustel a favor, I think. Feustel got mad and wanted to settle the matter once and for all as to which was the better colt, so he agreed to this private match at three furlongs.”

  “That’s too short for Man o’ War,” another visitor said. “Golden Broom breaks like a meteor.”

  “Yeah,” the first agreed, his eyes still on Man o’ War, “he gets away fast, all right. But there’s only one horse for me, even at three furlongs.”

  The next morning, with the sun bright on the lofty elms and the dust shimmering over the track, Johnny Loftus rode Man o’ War out for his work. There to meet him at the barrier was his old training comrade, Golden Broom, looking every bit the picture horse he was. To Danny he seemed more finished than ever. His superb head with its white blaze was beautiful to see, and there was fine perfection to the symmetrical lines of his golden body. Golden Broom was lithe and powerful and very fast.

  Danny had looked forward to the private match as much as anyone else. He hadn’t forgotten the defeats his colt had taken from Golden Broom as a yearling. The intense but friendly rivalry between the Jeffords and the Riddle stables had resumed. Glancing back at the clubhouse veranda, he saw that there were many early-morning risers who had forsaken sleep to watch this workout. Mr. Riddle was sitting next to Mrs. Jeffords.

  At the barrier Man o’ War was eager to be off, as usual, but Loftus had him in position. He was no awkward yearling now, who would have to untangle his long legs in order to get away. It would not be the same as it had been in last fall’s speed trials, even at so short a distance as three furlongs.

  The barrier swept skyward and Danny saw the timer’s yellow flag descend as the colts were off. Golden Broom broke as fast as Danny remembered, his powerful short legs driving his white-stockinged feet into the soft track and sending the dirt flying. But he was not alone. Alongside was Man o’ War, making up for his rival’s flowing action with ground-eating strides! He refused to be swept behind by G
olden Broom’s blinding speed. He raced much higher off the ground than his rival, but he dug into the dirt as if the wrath of the heavens were following him; the track seemed to heave beneath the lash of his power.

  Watching him, Danny was silent. While his stomach churned in rhythm with the sounds on the track, he knew in those few seconds that there never had been, never would be, a horse like Man o’ War. He saw him pull in front of Golden Broom at the end of the first furlong and lengthen his lead in the second and third furlongs. The timers caught him in 33 seconds, faster than any horse, regardless of age, had ever raced before! And to make the record-shattering time even more fantastic, all who watched were convinced that Man o’ War was not going all-out!

  Golden Broom, despite his defeat, had given a good account of himself, and there were many in the crowd who believed that since he had not had any races to date, he needed the trial to bring himself to top speed for his stake engagements. A few even thought that Golden Broom had shown enough in the trial to be the colt that would beat Man o’ War when they met under racing conditions.

  Those who backed Golden Broom in the golden colt’s first race a few days later on August 9 were not disappointed. While Man o’ War remained in his stall, Golden Broom won the Saratoga Special, beating the good colt Wildair easily. His smashing victory heightened interest in the forthcoming Sanford Memorial four days off, when he would meet Man o’ War in a race for the first time.

  Danny told Feustel the next morning, “Golden Broom needed that race but I still don’t think he’ll give our colt any trouble on Saturday.”

  The trainer nodded his head. “He needed that race to get him in feather-edge, but I feel Mrs. Jeffords should have kept him in his stall if she expected him to stay with our colt. Winning the Special means the handicapper will put more weight up on him in the Sanford. If he hadn’t raced, he would have got in light, maybe as much as fifteen pounds lighter than our colt.”

  Feustel was right about the weights, for the day of the Sanford Memorial, Golden Broom was assigned 130 pounds to carry, the same as Man o’ War.

  It was August 13, but for Danny thirteen was a lucky number and he had no qualms about Man o’ War. Besides, it was the seventh running of the Sanford and this was his unbeaten colt’s seventh start. A good omen. He watched Man o’ War standing in the shade of an elm tree in the paddock. For a moment his colt was motionless, which was most unusual for him before a race. His ears were pricked forward and his eyes were focused on something in the distance. Danny turned too, trying to find out what it was. But he could see nothing unusual beyond the paddock area, only the track. Whatever it was that held Man o’ War’s attention was for his eyes alone.

  Mr. Riddle stood nearby, alongside Louis Feustel. “He looks good, Louis,” he said.

  The trainer nodded. “He’s as tight as a coiled spring. He shouldn’t have any trouble today.”

  Danny turned to the men. There had been talk that Mr. Riddle had offered to withdraw Man o’ War from the race in order to give Mrs. Jeffords a better chance of winning with her colt. But Mrs. Jeffords had refused. She believed Golden Broom could beat Man o’ War despite her colt’s heavy impost of 130 pounds. He was fit and ready to go. Let the better colt win!

  The afternoon was very warm, and Man o’ War’s chestnut coat was already wet and glistening when he stepped from the shade out into the sunshine. He was bridled and saddled. All that remained was for Johnny Loftus to mount. The jockey stood next to Feustel, getting his last-minute instructions. But there was little the trainer had to tell him that he didn’t already know. He knew what sort of horse he was racing. Get Man o’ War away clear of the field and the Sanford Memorial too would be his.

  Upset

  19

  The bugler’s call came and the paddock judge said, “Riders, mount your horses, please.” There was a shimmering of colorful silks in the sun as the jockeys mounted, their horses sliding quickly, impatiently beneath them, tugging on lead shanks and impatient to be away. The pageant was on; the parade to the post had begun!

  Danny walked beside Man o’ War and Major Treat, reluctant to leave his charge. As always before a race, his stomach churned. “You won’t have any trouble, not a bit, Red,” he whispered. His colt had eyes and ears only for the track beyond, and Danny knew that he spoke just for his own benefit and solace.

  They were sixth in line going to the gap in the fence. Up ahead was Golden Broom, looking more beautiful than ever and holding the eyes of the crowd. Despite the 130 pounds he carried and the public knowledge of his defeat by Man o’ War in their morning workout, the crowd had made him a close favorite to Man o’ War.

  Upset was the third favored horse in the field, carrying only 115 pounds. None of the other four colts was expected to give the big three any trouble.

  The stands were overflowing with spectators, all wrought to a high pitch of excitement over the coming race. Danny listened to their screams while watching Man o’ War attempt to throw Loftus the moment he set foot on the track. It turned his stomach inside out and he held the black-and-yellow cooler close to his chest for comfort. He’d never make a rider, he thought, not even a good groom, if he couldn’t learn to watch a race more easily than this. His stomach rumbled on.

  He found a place on the rail, finally. He would have liked to have a pair of binoculars, as some of the others standing nearby had; then he would be able to see what happened at the barrier, far across the track.

  Johnny Loftus tried to keep Man o’ War still and alongside Major Treat, but the big colt was as full of fight as he’d ever known him to be. Johnny’s eyes moved to Upset just ahead of him. He feared that colt more than Golden Broom, for Upset was going very light at 115 pounds and he had Willy Knapp in the saddle. Willy had been riding for seventeen years. He had been up on Exterminator the year before, when he won the Kentucky Derby. Willy knew what he was doing every minute, behind the barrier and in the race. He was one to watch.

  Eddie Ambrose was up on Golden Broom. He’d bear watching, too. Just get clear of those two, Loftus decided, and the race was his.

  They neared the webbing stretched across the track. Man o’ War was eager to reach it. He reared when Major Treat was ridden away, and lunged toward the barrier. Johnny managed to stop him before he broke through it; he backed him up, only to have the big colt fight for his head and lunge forward again. One of the starter’s assistants caught hold of the bridle and was abruptly pulled off his feet. He held on grimly, his legs dangling until Man o’ War came down.

  Loftus started backing up Man o’ War from the barrier again, only to be banged hard by another colt from inside. Man o’ War, jostled by the impact, plunged forward again, almost breaking through the barrier before he was brought under control.

  Once more Loftus backed him up while trying to keep clear of the other horses and riders. He sought the help of the official starter, shouting to him that he ought to keep the field more under control.

  The old man in the starter’s stand didn’t like his job at all. For thirty years and more it had been his whole life, but he had retired from such work months before. He was much too old for it now. His regular job was that of presiding judge, and he had been pressed into service today because Mars Cassidy, the official starter, was sick.

  He watched the crowding and interference going on behind the barrier and called for attention. But his words were futile, falling upon deaf ears. It took a younger man to control these riders, intent as they were upon wearing each other down even before the race began. If he’d been in top form, he might have been able to do it. They were paying little if any attention to him. A starter’s job in America lacked authority, let alone dignity, he decided. In England it would have been different; there they had respect for the official starter.

  “Take that colt back again,” he shouted to Loftus. “And Ambrose, keep your colt clear of him. Knapp, keep yours steady!”

  He might as well have been talking to the people in the stands for all the goo
d it did. He watched the confusion of horses and riders with anxious eyes, the time ticking away, the crowd anxious for the race to begin. He bit his lower lip, recalling with great uneasiness an important race twenty-six years before when he’d had to keep the horses at the barrier one hour and forty-five minutes before he could get them away. It was unprecedented, before or since, and he didn’t want anything like that ever to happen again to mar his record. So he watched anxiously, waiting for the horses to reach the barrier in any kind of line so he could send them off. The horses and riders continued to jostle each other, Man o’ War plunging constantly at the barrier. Meanwhile, the minutes were ticking away. The old man wanted to spring up the webbing and get his job done. He wanted very much to have it over with.

  Johnny Loftus was very anxious to get off, too. Once the barrier was lifted the big colt would be away in a flash. He had sixth position, next to the outside, an excellent one for keeping clear of the kind of bumping he was taking back of the barrier. Loftus’s anxiety increased as the webbing stayed down and the moments ticked away. His face was already wet with sweat as he glanced at the starter. Why didn’t the old man send them off? Man o’ War plunged forward once more, almost pulling his arms from their sockets. He managed to stop him at the barrier. He started backing him up. The big colt half reared, twisting as he came down. The jolt almost unseated Loftus and he rested a second, his mount turned almost the wrong way on the track.

  The barrier swept up! Johnny Loftus, despite all his anxiety to be off, had been caught napping … and Man o’ War, the unbeaten colt, was left at the post!

  Furious with himself and the starter, Loftus whirled the big colt around. He’d made a mistake but there was still plenty of time to correct it. He leaned into Man o’ War, straightening him out and urging him on. The big colt bounded forward, only to be pulled up again as Loftus saw that they weren’t the only ones left at the post in the straggling start. The Swimmer and Capt. Alcock were off slow, and to make matters worse they had swerved in front of him! He pulled harder, trying to hold Man o’ War back from the heaving hindquarters of the two colts directly ahead. Man o’ War was determined to break through. He ran into the colts and almost over them before Loftus could pull him back. More furious than ever, the jockey got Man o’ War clear and on the outside. He had lost many more lengths to the leaders. But there was still time to catch them.