Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  Yes, I will be glad when he’s retired, Feustel thought wearily. Maybe there’ll never be another like him, as they say, but if there is I don’t want him in my stable.

  He didn’t like match races, and he would have preferred unwinding Man o’ War now, in preparation for his retirement, to the contest at Kenilworth Park. A match race was a spectacle more than a part of the great sport he loved. It was a big show, and big business, too, with a purse of $75,000 going to the winner. He didn’t even think it was in the best interest of racing. But he was only a trainer and, it seemed, a lot of other people thought differently. It was his job to get the big colt ready to race and to keep him sound. He had accomplished both. Man o’ War was ready to do something greater than ever before, if necessary. And he was sound. His injured leg had cleaned right up and was cool and hard. The track at Kenilworth was as loose as the one at Havre de Grace, but it wouldn’t bother him. Man o’ War was a real champion.

  The Riddle stable arrived at Kenilworth Park on October 7, and Danny’s most important job was to see that no one who was not directly connected with the stable touched Man o’ War. Not that he didn’t have plenty of help. With the race only a few days off, Mr. Riddle had ordered all his employees to take every precaution to assure the champion’s safety. So night and day Man o’ War was guarded, and the hundreds of strangers who visited the stable area were kept well away from him.

  At first Danny thought Mr. Riddle was being overconcerned. Then his apprehensions, too, became greater as the pressure mounted and crowds began pouring into Kenilworth from all over the United States, Canada, and even Europe. Newsmen and photographers were everywhere, never giving the Riddle stable any peace, and their stories and pictures appeared in all the newspapers and magazines.

  Never in his wildest dreams had Danny anticipated such tremendous interest on the part of the public in the match race. People who had never seen a horse race or never before been interested in one were being made aware of the contest. For descending upon Kenilworth were the most eminent dignitaries of the world, and this in itself focused attention on the race to come. Everybody who was anybody was there.

  Danny watched the temporary stands being constructed to accommodate the thousands upon thousands who demanded seats. The infield would be thrown open too on race day, and special trains were already running between American and Canadian cities.

  He would be very glad when this last race was over, he decided. It was time to go home, to call an end to the growing legend that had begun at Nursery Stud. He wanted the peace and quiet of a farm, any farm, just so long as Man o’ War was there, too. He had expected his colt to be a champion because he had loved him, but never one of such overwhelming magnitude as this! The only escape for them was home.

  The weather was perfect on race day, the sun hot but the air cool and bracing. In the stall, Man o’ War jerked his head away from Danny’s hands. He was ready to go. He seemed to know the time had come.

  Samuel Riddle, glad too that this was the very last race for Man o’ War, watched his colt come into the saddling paddock. He had taken just about all he could from the public, from newsmen, even from other horsemen. Ordinarily he was not a nervous man, but the ordeal of racing such a horse as Man o’ War had been almost too much of a strain for him. One went into the sport of racing horses for the enjoyment of it. This had developed into something far more than that. Oh, it was true that Man o’ War had provided thrills for him never to be equaled again. But at the same time, never had life been more nerve-racking.

  A motion picture company was filming the race, and its director asked him to go forward to greet Man o’ War. He refused adamantly. He had too much at stake today to be agreeable. A great mob was surging into the paddock, and he wondered why the track police weren’t more efficient about keeping the people back. Didn’t they realize Man o’ War could be injured seriously?

  “Is it true you’re going to exhibit him at the Chicago World’s Fair?” a reporter asked, pulling on his coat sleeve.

  “No!” he almost shouted in answer. His eyes remained on Man o’ War, and a great sense of pride suddenly swept over him. Despite all his problems, no feeling in the world could compare with this moment.

  “He’ll run Sir Barton into the ground!” a friend said.

  “I hope so,” another interjected. “Sir Barton hasn’t been working well, but he never was a workhorse. He waits for the races. He’s ready to go in this one, I hear. We’ve got to watch out.”

  Mr. Riddle sighed wearily. He wasn’t listening to his friends anymore in their predictions, whether in favor of or against Man o’ War. He felt like an old hand at this game in which he was comparatively new. With a horse like Man o’ War you learned fast.

  He glanced at Sir Barton a short distance away, well aware of the tremendous pride the Canadians had in their champion. He seemed to be fit and eager to go. They’d find out more about him in a few minutes’ time.

  Clarence Kummer came into the paddock, carrying his racing saddle. Feustel took it from him, examining the girth and stirrup leather carefully before placing the light saddle on Man o’ War’s back. Kummer smiled patiently at the trainer’s close inspection of his tack. It was in perfect shape, but no one was taking any chances today.

  In a way he was glad it was to be his last ride on the big colt. So far he’d been able to pilot him without making a mistake. He didn’t want to make any wrong moves. If he ever lost with the eyes of the world on Man o’ War, public criticism would be so severe he’d never be able to rise above it.

  Feustel boosted him into the saddle. Picking up the reins, Kummer spoke softly to his mount. He noted the black and yellow ribbons Danny Ryan had braided in the mane. Pretty, very pretty. The kid cared about his job and his horse.

  They started around the walking ring and Kummer’s gaze shifted to Feustel. “Any instructions?” he asked.

  “Don’t let this race get you excited,” the trainer said. “Ride it as you would any race. Go to the front as soon as you can, and that will be it.”

  The crowd pressed close, wanting to touch Man o’ War. Kummer tried to move away, but it took the track police to clear a path for them. He glanced at Sir Barton just beyond.

  The short, compact horse might give them trouble, he decided. Sir Barton looked eager to run, his strides even now showing restlessness. He wore blinkers and was up against the bit; he didn’t seem to be bothered by the crowd.

  Sir Barton looked more like a sprinter than the stayer he was. He had won many long races including the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont at a mile and one half. He had the speed with the inner courage to go on. Kummer knew that his rider, Frank Keogh, would try to go to the front with him, setting the pace, so the first quarter of a mile should be a horse race anyway.

  Kummer’s eyes remained on the rival jockey. Only a few hours ago, around noon, Earl Sande had been taken down from Sir Barton and this fellow had gone up in his place. That, too, was part of riding Thoroughbreds … make one wrong move and you found yourself on the ground without a mount.

  The “backside” talk was that Sande had made his wrong move months ago, when he had ridden Man o’ War for the first and only time in the Miller Stakes. After winning it, he had remarked to the press that Man o’ War was the best horse he had ever ridden. Commander Ross hadn’t liked having his contract jockey make such statements in favor of another horse. So Sande, after two years of riding Sir Barton, found himself on the ground today. If the story was true, Kummer decided, Commander Ross had chosen a spectacular time for switching riders.

  Kummer dropped Man o’ War behind Sir Barton as they left the walking ring for the track. He didn’t blame Sande at all for turning in his contract with Ross and announcing publicly that he’d never ride another horse for that stable. It was humiliating to be taken down in such a way, and Kummer decided he would have done the same thing.

  But right now he had his own problems. The trainers of both horses had said their entries
were ready to race, and there would be no excuses in case of defeat. Kummer knew he wouldn’t be allowed any excuses, either. He had to make this a good ride, his last ride on Man o’ War.

  There was a lot of applause when they rode onto the track, and Kummer thought most of it was for Man o’ War. He watched Sir Barton a few strides ahead of them; the older champion was still restive and straining to be turned loose. On the other hand, Man o’ War was more quiet than ever before.

  Kummer wondered if he should shake up his mount a bit. It wasn’t like Man o’ War to walk so placidly past the milling thousands who were applauding him. He decided to do nothing to stir up the colt and let matters stand as they were. Man o’ War was smart enough to know what it was all about. Maybe he missed the band music, for there was none at Kenilworth today. It could be something as simple as that. At any rate, he wasn’t going to worry about it.

  From his saddle he seemed to tower above the jockey just ahead of him, for Man o’ War was at least a hand taller than Sir Barton. The older champion was chunky and robust compared to his mount’s great bulk. But he mustn’t underestimate Sir Barton, Kummer decided; it would be fatal if he did. The older horse had the habit of smothering his competition in the early stages of a race and “winning all the way,” just as Man o’ War did.

  The barrier was waiting for them at the top of the homestretch. Since the Kenilworth track was a mile oval, they would come down the full stretch, passing the stands and going around the course to finish in front of the crowd again. It would make an easy race for the spectators to watch.

  Kummer took Man o’ War behind the barrier, aware that even now his mount was much quieter than usual. He hoped he wouldn’t have to stir him up to get away, and yet he didn’t want to be left behind either. Sir Barton was on the rail, and Kummer had no doubt that Keogh would try to make every pole a winning one. It would be a duel of speed, stamina, and heart from the very beginning. Neither horse could run all-out over the full distance of the race, but one would carry his speed longer than the other. Kummer was convinced it would be his colt who would accomplish this feat.

  Man o’ War went forward, his eyes becoming suddenly alert when he saw the webbing in front of him. Kummer kept him in position, all the while glancing at Keogh up on the smaller horse. He mustn’t underestimate this rider. Keogh would be out to win every way he could. Being up on Sir Barton was his big chance, and he wouldn’t miss a trick.

  Man o’ War tried to bolt through the barrier, but an assistant starter held on to his bridle. For a moment Man o’ War was still, and so was Sir Barton. Kummer knew the break would come any second.

  The barrier went up, and there was nothing but empty track before them! The roar from the stands momentarily drowned out the pounding of their hoofs. The Match of the Ages had begun!

  Kummer felt the great lurch as Man o’ War bounded out from behind the barrier. He glanced at Sir Barton, who was head for head with Man o’ War. The strides of both horses came faster. Sir Barton had a choppy way of going, but he didn’t drop back as Kummer had hoped. Keogh was hurling his mount forward.

  Kummer sat down to ride. The furious battle the crowd had expected was under way!

  Man o’ War dug into the loose dirt of the track, his strides devouring it in great leaps. Suddenly he surged to the front and began drawing away from Sir Barton! Kummer hadn’t expected the dizzy burst of speed so soon. He took advantage of it by moving his colt over to the rail before passing the furlong pole. They swept by the stands for the first time with open daylight between Man o’ War and Sir Barton. Was this race over, too, before it had hardly begun? Kummer wondered, along with everybody else.

  He steadied Man o’ War as they went into the first turn and, glancing back, saw that Sir Barton was already under Keogh’s whip! They were trying to come on and collar Man o’ War in the backstretch. But entering the long straightaway, Kummer glanced back again to find Sir Barton falling still farther behind! It looked as though the older champion could not stand the pressure of Man o’ War’s blinding pace.

  Kummer took up the reins another notch, trying to ease up his mount still more. Man o’ War was making a mockery of the race that had been billed the greatest of all time! It was just another horse race to this colt, and he was winning as he always did!

  Kummer’s only duel now was with Man o’ War. His colt was full of run and fighting for his head. The jockey didn’t want him to get hurt by running himself out over the loose footing or by fighting for more rein. So Kummer gave way a little. Man o’ War took the extra rein greedily, increasing his speed as they swept into the final turn. Kummer took him wide, careful to see to it that he did not slip or pull his flying feet out of the deep track too quickly.

  Entering the homestretch, he glanced back once more. Sir Barton was vanquished but still trying hard. Kummer wrapped the reins around his hands for a better hold and slowed down Man o’ War. They were seven lengths ahead of Sir Barton, far enough to win this final race without disgracing the game horse any further. The crowd cheered them all the way through the stretch and under the wire. The match race and Man o’ War’s turf campaign were over.

  Kummer slowed Man o’ War and, rising in his stirrups, took him into the first turn again. Suddenly the right stirrup gave way and dropped to the track! Luckily Kummer had Man o’ War almost to a walk and had no trouble stopping him. Lifting his leg, he saw where the stirrup leather had parted.

  If Man o’ War had given him any trouble at the barrier, Kummer thought … if it had been a hard race, calling for quick movements in the saddle … if the stirrup had given way any other time but now, he would have been on the ground and, perhaps, under flying hoofs.

  Turning Man o’ War around, Kummer rode slowly back toward the winner’s circle, where a jammed throng was awaiting them. He saw Sir Barton, exhausted and staggering, leave the track. Someone shouted that Man o’ War had run the race in 2:03 flat, lowering the track record by six full seconds! He couldn’t have been less interested. How fast might Man o’ War have run had he let him? The police kept the huge crowd back. Everybody in the Riddle stable was going to be very happy tonight, Kummer thought. Everybody … including himself. He was very happy just to be getting back alive.

  Ruling Monarch

  29

  Man o’ War returned to Belmont Park in a special railway car, and everywhere the train stopped, crowds gathered to look at him. They peered into the car, bug-eyed at the sight of the famous horse. He appeared every bit of what he was, the ruling monarch of the turf.

  Danny was very proud to be part of the champion’s entourage. There was no harm in letting the crowds look at Man o’ War during his triumphal journey home, but Danny and the other grooms kept them from entering the car.

  Although Man o’ War was a super horse, there was no haughtiness in his manner. He accepted the adulation of all who gazed upon him in a friendly, good-natured way. It was as if he knew he had attained his speed and greatness through the careful, thoughtful planning of others. He could have acted no other way, any more than he could have ignored the power in his smoothly functioning body. Man o’ War had taken his rightful place in the world of racing, and about his gleaming bronze body was an aura of greatness perhaps never to be seen again.

  The train rumbled on, carrying him ever closer to Belmont Park, where he would carefully be taken out of training. Soon it would be over for keeps. The crowds would leave. The newsmen and photographers would be a thing of the past. The last race had ended and was recorded in the books. Only silent homage, if anything, would be paid to the great champion. Man o’ War, only three years old, had become history, his track career finished.

  Danny kneeled in the freshly made and clean-smelling straw bedding. He ran a hand down the colt’s right foreleg, which had been injured at Havre de Grace. There was no filling from yesterday’s match race. But with further racing the tendon might easily bow. That was another reason for Mr. Riddle’s deciding to retire Man o’ War. There was no sense i
n taking the risk of hurting so valuable a stud prospect.

  Danny got up from the straw and sat on a low, flat tack trunk. It doesn’t mean that it’s the end for him or me, he thought. I can get a job with Mr. Riddle at the stud farm. In time there’ll be his colts and fillies to watch, all just as spindle-legged and starry-eyed as he was.

  Man o’ War had his head raised and turned toward Danny. His eyes were large and lustrous, burning with a fiery energy none of his races had ever diminished. His silky foretop hung low between his eyes, and his nostrils were dilated as he breathed in the cool air of the coming night. He was on his way to complete retirement and yet he was still far from having reached his full growth or greatness.

  “Try to think of it as the beginning of something else for him and for you,” Danny told himself, half aloud. “Try it that way.” Maybe they had both reached a turning point in their lives. Maybe they had.

  From the far end of the car, the other grooms looked up from their card game to glance in Danny’s direction. One aged black man called, “What you all mutterin’ to yo’self about, Danny-boy?”

  “Nothing,” Danny answered. “Nothing at all.”

  He listened to the click of the iron wheels on iron rails and was grateful for the coming darkness that would soon envelop him and his horse. Man o’ War was taking the long trip in stride, just as he did everything else.

  How many horses of his temperament would ship as quietly as this? Danny wondered. You asked him to load and he loaded without fuss. It always came as a surprise to those who only knew him on the track. But then it was different. Every horse needed to be on his toes at race time.

  Man o’ War knew when it was time to rest, and perhaps that was one of the reasons he had become so great. He saved all his nervous energy for the racetrack. He was a true campaigner, not a man-eater, as some reporters had led their readers to believe. But the long trail was fast coming to an end. Man o’ War stood quietly in his stall while the train clanked along the tracks at ever-increasing speed.