Black Beauty: The Autobiography of a HorseWersja dostosowana do wieku

I remember the first place I lived so clearly: a large, bright meadow with a clear pond, shady trees, and reeds with water lilies at the deep end. At the top stood a small fir grove, and at the bottom a brook ran. Beyond the hedge we could see the plowed field, and through a gate lay the house of the farmer who owned us.

When I was very little, I lived on my mother's milk. All day I ran by her side, and at night I lay close against her warm side. When it was hot, we stood in the shade by the pond; when it was cold, we had a warm shed by the fir trees. When I was old enough to eat grass, my mother went to work during the day and came home in the evening.

There were six young colts besides me on the meadow, all older than I was. We ran around in circles as fast as we could, and sometimes we played rough games, biting and kicking. One day when there was a lot of kicking, my mother called me to her side.

She was a wise mare, named Duchess, but the farmer often called her "Pet." She said to me: "Listen carefully now. The other young ones here are nice enough, but they are cart-horse colts and haven't learned good manners. You come from good blood; your father is famous around here, your grandfather won the cup two years running at Newmarket races, and your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew. You have never seen me bite or kick. Be gentle and good. Do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick – not even in play."

I never forgot her words. Our farmer was good and kind to us and gave us both food and kind words. When he came to the gate, my mother would trot up to him, whinnying happily. He would stroke her and say: "Well, old Pet, how is little Darkie doing?" I was coal black, so that was what he called me. I was my mother's favorite, and we two became the farmer's favorites too.

There was a plowboy named Dick who sometimes came into our meadow to pick blackberries. When he had eaten his fill, he would throw stones and sticks at us to make us run. We usually just ran away, but sometimes a stone would hit us and hurt. One day the farmer saw this from the neighbor's field. He jumped over the hedge, grabbed Dick by the arm, and gave him such a box on the ear that the boy began to howl.

"You wicked boy!" he shouted. "Take your pay and go home. I won't have you on my farm anymore." We never saw Dick again. Old Daniel, who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as the farmer. We were happy.

Before I was two years old, something happened that I have never forgotten. It was an early spring morning, with frost on the ground and mist over the woods. We were grazing peacefully when we heard the sound of hounds barking far away. The oldest colt lifted his head.

"There go the hounds!" he said.

We all ran up to the upper part of the meadow where we could see over the hedge. My mother and an old riding horse were standing there too.

"They have found a hare," said my mother, "and perhaps we will see the hunt."

Soon the hounds came pouring over the field next to ours, yelping "yo! yo!" at the top of their lungs. After them came men on fast horses, some in green coats. The old riding horse snorted and wanted to run with them. We young ones felt the same pull in our legs.

The hounds lost the scent and ran sniffing this way and that.

"Perhaps the hare will escape," said the old horse. But then the hounds started barking again. A hare, wild with fear, shot past us and headed for the woods. The hounds came over the bank, jumped the brook, and thundered right across our meadow. Six or eight riders followed, jumping their horses cleanly. The hare tried to push through the hedge, but it was too thick. She turned back toward the road. The hounds were upon her. We heard one long scream – then silence.

Down by the brook lay two fine horses – one struggling in the water, the other groaning on the grass. One rider got up, covered in mud, the other lay perfectly still.

"His neck is broken," said my mother heavily. "And he deserved it!" burst out one of the young colts.

"No," said my mother. "You must never say such things. I have seen much in my life, but I have never understood why men love hunting so much. They hurt themselves, ruin good horses, tear up fields and meadows – and all for a hare or a fox they could have caught another way. But we are only horses – and we don't know, I suppose."

People gathered around the young man. Our farmer was the first to reach him. They carried him to our house. We later heard that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son – the pride of the family. The blacksmith examined the black horse lying on the grass and shook his head – one leg was broken. Someone fetched a gun. A loud bang. A terrible cry. Then silence.

My mother was very sad; she had known that horse for many years. His name was Rob Roy, and he had never done anything wrong. My mother would never go to that part of the meadow again.

Not long after, the church bells rang for an unusually long time. A long, black carriage draped in black cloth, pulled by black horses, came through the gate, and more followed. They buried the young man. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy, I don't know. But it was all for one little hare.

I grew up to be handsome, with glossy black coat, one white foot, and a little white star on my forehead. The farmer would not sell me until I was four years old. "Foals should not work as horses until they are fully grown," he said. When I turned four, the squire, Mr. Gordon, came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs, and asked me to walk, trot, and gallop.

"When he is gently broken in, he will do well," he said.

The farmer said he would do it himself – he did not want me to be frightened or hurt.

Being broken in means learning everything a horse needs to know: the saddle and bridle, carrying a rider, going quietly, wearing a collar, breeching, and traces, pulling a carriage, going fast or slow as the driver wishes, not being startled by things, not crying out to other horses, not biting or kicking – never putting your own will before your master's, even when you are hungry or tired. The hardest part is that once the harness is on, you can neither jump for joy nor lie down when you are tired.

I was used to a halter. Now came the bit and bridle. The farmer gave me oats, coaxed me, and finally got the bit into my mouth. It was cold, hard steel on my tongue and between my teeth, held fast by straps over my head, under my throat, around my nose, and under my chin. Impossible to get rid of.

It was unpleasant. But my mother wore one, all grown horses did.

With oats, pats, and kind words, I got used to it. Then came the saddle – tightened gently each day, old Daniel holding my head, the farmer speaking calmly. One morning the farmer got on and rode me around on the soft grass. It felt strange, but I was a little proud to be carrying him. After a while, it didn't feel strange anymore.

Next came iron shoes. The farmer took me to the blacksmith's to make sure everything was done properly. The blacksmith pared away a little of my hoof without hurting, fitted an iron shoe, and drove nails through the hoof into the shoe. My feet felt heavy and stiff, but I got used to it. Then I learned to go in harness: a stiff collar, blinkers so I could only see straight ahead, and a strap under my tail – I hated that the most.

Having my tail bent together and pushed through a strap felt almost as bad as the bit. But I didn't kick; this farmer was too good for that. Gradually everything became normal.

The farmer sent me for two weeks to a meadow near the railway, among sheep and cows, so I could get used to the noise of trains. The first train came like a black, smoking serpent and was gone before I could catch my breath. I snorted and ran to the other side of the field. The cows just kept grazing. After a few days, I understood it would not come into our meadow to hurt me. Soon I cared no more about trains than the cows did. After that, I was never afraid at stations.

The farmer often drove me together with my mother, who was steady and could teach me. She said: "The better you behave, the better you will be treated. Do your best to please your master. But remember: There are all kinds of men: good and thoughtful ones like our master, whom any horse can be proud to serve; wicked and cruel ones who should never own animals; and many foolish, vain, or ignorant ones who ruin more horses than all the rest put together, just from lack of sense. I hope you fall into good hands, but a horse never knows who will buy him. Still – do your best, and keep your name good."

Then one morning in May, a man came from Birtwick Hall. The farmer said goodbye. "Be a good horse, Darkie, always do your best." I put my nose in his hand. He patted me. I left my first home.

Birtwick Park was beautiful – a large gate with a lodge, a smooth road between old trees, then another gate, and the house and garden. My stable was roomy, with four good stalls and a large loose box with a door, an airy window looking out into the yard, and walls so low I could look over the iron railing. I was put in the box, given oats, patted, and left in peace.

Next to me stood a little, round, gray pony with a thick mane and tail, a pretty head, and a lively nose.

"Good day, what is your name?" I asked.

"My name is Merrylegs," he answered proudly. "I carry the young ladies and sometimes the mistress in the low cart. They are very fond of me. Are you going to live here? I hope you are good-tempered – I don't like bitter neighbors."

From the stall beyond, a head appeared – ears laid back, a sour eye. A tall red mare with a long, beautiful neck.

"So you're the one who has turned me out of my box?" she said.

"I have turned no one out," I said. "The man who brought me put me here. I wish to live in peace."

She snorted. "We'll see about that."

When she was out later, Merrylegs whispered to me that the mare's name was Ginger – and she could bite. "She bit James in the arm so it bled. The little ladies dared not come into the stable after that. If you don't bite or nip, they'll soon come in again with treats."

I said I never bit anything but grass, hay, and oats.

"She says no one has ever been kind to her, so why should she be kind? If what she says is true, she has had a hard life," said Merrylegs. "But here it's different. John is the best stableman there is, and James is good. Our master never uses a whip if a horse does right. It's Ginger's own fault if she keeps on."

I had a good life – food, air, work. But I missed one thing: freedom. For over three years I had run wherever I wanted. Now I stood inside except when I was needed, with straps here and there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers. Yes, it had to be that way, I understood. But for a young horse with plenty of spirit, it was hard. Sometimes I didn't get enough exercise, and then my feet would tingle; I would jump and prance when John led me out. He was patient.

"Easy, easy, my boy," he would say. "Wait a bit, and we'll get the steam up, and then the tingling will go out of your feet."

When we got out of the village, he would let me trot at full speed for a few miles, and I would come home refreshed and happy. A lively horse that plays is not bad. John understood that. His voice meant more to me than anything else.

On Sundays we were sometimes let out into the home meadow or the old orchard. The grass was cool and soft, the air sweet, and it was heavenly to roll around and go wherever we pleased. We often stood together in the shade of a large chestnut tree and talked.

Ginger wanted to know all about my breaking-in. I told her.

"If I had had your upbringing," she said, "I might have been as gentle. But now – I don't know if I ever will be."

She told me about her own childhood: taken from her mother early, thrown together with other colts, a man who never said a kind word. Boys who walked along the path through the meadow threw stones to make them run. "We learned that boys were enemies."

When her breaking-in came, she was caught roughly by the mane and nose, pulled so tight she could hardly breathe, her mouth wrenched open, the halter put on by force, dragged and whipped.

"Everything was force. No one explained anything. I was tall and spirited. Being shut up in a stable with no freedom made me wild."

The old farmer, Mr. Ryder, might have changed things, but his son Samson took over. "He was hard in his eyes, his hand, and his voice. I felt he wanted to grind all the spirit out of me."

When she didn't do "exactly what he wanted," he chased her around with a long rope until she was exhausted. The next day he came with a new, painful bit. She reared up, he whipped her, she kicked and kicked as never before, throwing him off.

"I heard him fall heavily. I galloped away. I stood under an oak tree, hungry, thirsty, the saddle still strapped on, my flanks bleeding where the spurs had cut me. Flies swarmed around me. At sunset, the old farmer came with a sieve of oats. 'Come, then, my girl,' he said. His voice took the fear out of me. He bathed my sides, said 'poor girl,' gave me warm mash. 'If she cannot be won with kindness,' he said, 'she will never be good for anything.'"

After that, another trainer, Job, taught her – calmly and thoughtfully – and she soon understood him.

Later, she was bought as a match for another chestnut and sold to a fashionable gentleman in London. There they forced the horses to hold their heads high with tight check-reins.

"Imagine having to hold your head like that for hours! My neck ached, two bits in my mouth, one of them sharp. Blood colored the foam from my lips. Worst of all was when we stood outside a party for ages. If I stamped, the whip came. The gentleman only cared about style. In the stable I got harsh words and blows. I was willing to work, but not to be tortured for nothing."

Her breathing became bad, she grew restless.

"One day they pulled my head up so high that I kicked loose and broke the harness. I was sent to auction, tried without the check-rein by a horse dealer, sold to a good gentleman in the country. But the old stable boy left, and the new one was as rough as Samson. He hit me with the stable broom or hay fork if I didn't move fast enough. I bit him. He hit me on the head with his riding whip. After that, he didn't dare come into my box. But the gentleman believed him, and I was sold again."

That was how she finally came to Birtwick.

"I had decided that men were my enemies. Here it's different – but for how long?"

I said it would be shameful if she bit or kicked John or James.

"As long as they are good to me, I won't do anything to them," she answered.

She admitted she had snapped at James once, but John just said: "Try kindness," and James brought warm mash and stroked her. "After that, I haven't snapped at him," she said. And in fact, she grew better.

"The Birtwick cure," John laughed. "Patience, gentleness, firmness, and patting – and half a pint of common sense. That's all the medicine she needs."

Merrylegs boasted one day that he had "taught a lesson" to two boys who rode him too hard with hazel sticks. He rose up lightly on his hind legs so they slid off backward, one after the other.

"They aren't bad boys, they just needed a lesson," he said. "I love our people. I would never hurt the little ladies. But I can tell off lazy boys."

An older horse in the orchard, Sir Oliver, had only a stump of a tail. One day I asked why.

"Accident? No! It was no accident," he snorted. "It was fashion – cold-blooded and shameful. They tied me up so I couldn't move and cut off my tail through flesh and bone. Not just the pain – without a tail, I can never brush the flies off my hindquarters and legs. You have no idea what torment it is when they bite and bite, and you have nothing to drive them away with. It is a wrong that lasts my whole life."

He shook his head at men's ideas: they cut dogs' tails and ears, always wanting to improve nature, as if God didn't know what he was doing.

Another day in the orchard, the talk grew heated about blinkers and check-reins. Justice, the roan gelding, said some people thought blinkers prevented horses from shying, but admitted it was often just habit. Sir Oliver said blinkers are dangerous at night – horses see better in the dark than men. A hearse had once overturned in a pond because the horses couldn't see; they drowned.

"Old Colin," he said about a horse from before my time, "would never have gone into a hole if he had seen. But he was tied backward."

Merrylegs calmed our angry words by reminding us that our people were good – it was unfair to blame all people for the foolishness of a few.

Our master and mistress were good to all living things. They spoke to drivers who pulled their horses too tight, asking them to loosen the reins. The master once stopped a man at the gate who was twisting a little pony's mouth so hard it almost sat down, and then whipping it while holding it back.

"Is that pony made of flesh and blood?" called the master, and gave the man a thorough scolding: such behavior was unworthy and wicked, and also stupid – the pony only remembered that the gate was home, it wasn't being stubborn.

Another time, the master met a captain who liked to see his horses with tight heads.

"I like to see them carry their heads," said our master, "but not held up. It takes away their strength and spirit, and they wear out faster."

He asked him to loosen up – soldiers don't become better by having their heads tied backward on parade either.

Then came an autumn storm. I was harnessed to the dogcart, John driving, the master beside him. Wind in gusts, leaves over the road. We ran under a wood where large branches swayed like twigs. John said it would be bad if a branch broke. At that moment, there was a long groan, then a crack – a great oak was torn up by the roots and fell across the road just in front of us. I stopped short.

"That was close," said the master.

We had to take a long detour back to another road, and it was nearly dark when we reached the wooden bridge. The water stood high over the middle, but that happened sometimes. We started at a good trot. But as soon as my front feet touched the planks, I felt something was wrong. I dared not go on. The master gave me a little touch with the whip. I couldn't. A sharper cut. I jumped forward – but refused again.

John was off in a second. "What is it, my boy?"

Then the toll-keeper on the other side came running, shouting and waving a torch: "Stop! The middle is gone – you'll go straight into the river!"

The master breathed "Thank God," and John said, "You, Beauty!" and turned me around calmly.

Not long after, home at the gate, the gardener was waiting – the mistress was beside herself with worry.

"If Black Beauty had not been wiser than us," said the master, "we would all have been swept away by the current."

Later, he and John spoke quietly about how God had given men reason to figure things out, but also gave animals a kind of knowledge that was often quicker and saved lives.

Many things happened at Birtwick. A boy whipped a little pony to make it jump over a gate that was too high – the pony sent him straight into a thorn hedge and went home. John laughed and said the boy had learned his lesson.

James, our boy, told how a boy at school had sat picking the wings off flies. James gave him a box on the ear, and the teacher preached to everyone: cruelty was the devil's mark. Kindness to the weak and helpless was God's sign. John said the same – all religion without love was sham and deception.

One morning the master came into the stable with a letter. He "tested" John by asking if James ever neglected his work when John wasn't looking.

"Never," said John. "He is steady, honest, and sharp."

The master smiled – he had the same good opinion himself. He offered James a good position with his brother-in-law's old coachman – with salary, uniform, room, and a boy under him. James was only nineteen, but ready. He was to practice driving. Soon he drove the master and mistress on a long trip, with stops, steep hills, and busy stations – he drove wisely and carefully.

At the inn that evening, we met an old stable hand, tiny and quick, with crooked knee and striped vest. He cleaned and groomed me so lightly and quickly that even James was impressed.

"It's just habit," he laughed. "I was a jockey once, until my knee went. But I had to be near horses whatever happened."

He said he could tell after twenty minutes how a horse had been treated. If he was calm and friendly, he had been well treated as a colt. If he was nervous and difficult, he had been scolded and beaten.

"Just like with children," he said.

That night we woke to thick, stinging smoke. The trapdoor to the hayloft was open, a strange crackling above us. The other horses pulled at their halters and stamped. The old stable hand came with a lantern, but was more frightened than helpful. One by one, the horses refused to go out. But then we heard James's voice, steady as always:

"Come, my beauties, now we go."

He tied his scarf over my eyes, put the bit on, and led me out. In the yard he called for someone to take me, and dashed back in. Flames were licking up under the roof; I neighed, and Ginger later said it gave her courage. James came out again with her, coughing. The fire engine thundered in, flames shot high, the roof fell. Two horses burned to death that night. Hearing their screams – I will never forget it.

The next morning we learned that a stranger had gone up into the hay with a pipe in his mouth. John had always forbidden pipes in the stable. I thought James was a hero.

But soon James was to leave. In the meantime, a new boy came to the stable: Joe Green, fourteen and a half, small and eager. James taught him everything he could. Merrylegs sulked because "a boy who knows nothing" kept "mauling" him, but after a couple of weeks he saw that Joe really tried.

Then came the night I will never forget.

The bell rang loudly in the stable, John came running, saddled me in a hurry. At the hall door stood the master with a lamp.

"Ride for your life – for the mistress's life!" He gave John a letter for the doctor.

We burst out through the gate, over the bridge, along the river, past two villages, through woods and steep hills. I gave everything without whip or spur. We reached the doctor at three in the morning. The doctor came out in his nightcap. His horse was exhausted, the other taken by his son.

"Can I take yours?" he asked.

John nodded – I had nearly the whole way back ahead of me, but we had to go. The doctor was heavy, not as steady in the saddle as John, but I did my best, feeling his hand firm on the reins. The toll-keeper had the gate open; Joe stood at the lodge; the master waited at the door.

I trembled in every limb, every hair on my body was wet. In the stable, Joe did the best he knew, but he was so young. He gave me cold water, no warm blankets, plenty of hay and corn – and left. Soon I was shivering, shaking, and felt pain in my chest and back. Every breath stung.

When John finally came walking eight miles through the night, he found me in agony. He covered me with warm blankets, fetched warm water, made mash. The next day I was very ill. A severe inflammation took my lungs. John sat up night and day. Mr. Bond, the horse doctor, bled me one day. I became so weak I thought I would die.

John didn't curse Joe, but he was stern in his words: "Ignorance is as dangerous as wickedness," he said quietly one night. "'I didn't know' and 'I meant no harm' save no one. People kill babies with 'soothing syrups' without meaning to. They frighten brothers half out of their wits by pretending to be ghosts. Ignorance kills plants and animals. Learn – and ask – before you hurt."

Joe heard it. He took it in. And he quickly became better.

Meanwhile, the mistress grew sicker. The doctor came often. One day we heard she had to go to a warmer country for several years. The whole house became heavy. The master sold or gave away the horses. Ginger and I were sold to an old friend, the Earl of W—. Merrylegs he gave to the vicar's wife, with strict orders: never sell him, and when his life was done, give him a quick, good end and bury him. Joe was to take care of him. John said he would wait with his own decision.

That evening, the master thanked John for faithful service. John's voice was almost frozen: "Don't say more, sir. I owe you everything. May we one day see the mistress well again."

On the last day, Ginger and I drove the mistress to the station. The master carried her carefully down the stairs. The servants were crying. We drove slowly through the park and the village while people stood in their doorways and said "God bless her." When the train glided away, everything was silent – only white clouds of smoke remained. John stood with the reins without a word.

"We will never see her again," he said quietly as he turned homeward. Our home was no longer ours.

The next day John rode Ginger and me to Earlshall Park. There we met Mr. York, a firm, polite stable master. John told him that my temper was quite excellent – he had never spoken a harsh word to me and never needed to. But that Ginger was cautious and could "give back" if she was troubled; she needed kindness. Neither of us had used a check-rein at Birtwick.

York said that at their place, horses had to use it, because my lady liked the style. My master, the Earl, was sensible, but my lady decided whether heads should be carried high. John sighed, but had no choice. He said goodbye to us. I put my face against him – I never saw him again.

The first day in harness at Earlshall, the check-rein was uncomfortable, but not very tight. The next day, my lady came in rustling silk, tall and proud. She said nothing, but looked displeased. The day after, she came again, pointed at our heads, and said sharply they must be higher. York asked to do it gradually, but still tightened it one hole.

We drove up a steep hill. I wanted to lean forward and pull as I was made to, but with my head pulled up, I lost my spirit. The pressure came on my back and legs instead of my shoulders and chest. Day by day, York tightened it one more hole. Ginger grew restless, but said little. I began to dread being harnessed to the carriage.

One day my lady was in a particular hurry, and commanded: "Now you tighten it properly. No more nonsense."

York pulled it to nearly unbearable for me, and went to tighten Ginger's. She shook her head, pulled at it, York's hat flew off – she kicked over the shaft and fell, and I received a hard blow near my hind leg. York shouted orders, people ran with a winch, unscrewed the shaft, loosened the harness, and I was led into my box with my head still held high – I couldn't lower it. I was miserable – wanted to kick everything I saw.

Ginger was led in, bruised and sore, angry and sad. After this, Ginger no longer drove in my lady's carriage. She was given to a young son for hunting. The Earl told York to "use the check-rein in moderation," but the truth was everything still depended on my lady.

I got a new partner: Max, who was used to a tight rein. "Everyone knows it's painful for us," he said, "but it's good for trade. People in town want horses with high necks and high steps. They wear out quickly, so they buy new ones."

I went four months under my lady's regime. My mouth was sore, my windpipe compressed, my neck and chest painful. I foamed blood. I grew tired and sad. York probably knew the truth, but he couldn't master the lady.

In spring, the Earl and part of the family went to London with York. Ginger and I were left behind. Lady Anne, a skilled rider, chose me for riding and called me Black Auster. We often rode out with her cousin.

One day she and a guest, Colonel Blantyre, were to stop at Doctor Ashley's in the village. He hung my reins on an iron spike while he went up to the house. Lady Anne sat lightly on Lizzie, a spirited mare. Across the road, a gate stood open into a meadow. A boy chased out young horses; they came thundering toward us. One of the foals crashed right into Lizzie's hind legs. She kicked out and bolted. Lady Anne almost lost her seat, but regained it.

I stamped and neighed, shook my head, tried to tear off my reins to follow. Blantyre ran, saw what happened, sprang into my saddle. I needed no spur. We flew after them.

The road went straight for a good mile, then bent to the right and divided. Before the bend, she was out of sight. A woman pointed us to the right. We caught a glimpse of the green riding habit, then she was gone. An old road-keeper shouted "to the common!" – we set out over uneven heath with tufts of grass, ant hills, and boggy ground. It was the worst galloping ground I know. But Blantyre was a master. He gave me freedom, but guided me with such a light hand that I hardly lost speed. He saw every dip and bump before they came, guided me around the worst patches without breaking my stride.

We gained on Lizzie meter by meter. Lady Anne's hat was gone, long brown hair streaming. She had lost her stirrups, her legs hanging and swinging. She pulled at the reins until she had no strength left. Lizzie grew more uneven in her stride. We glided to the inside of a gentle curve. I gathered myself and shot forward to pass.

Then came a wide ditch. Lizzie jumped – then slipped in the clumpy earth and fell, throwing her rider. I took the ditch and the far bank in one bound. Lady Anne lay still. Blantyre called her name – nothing. He loosened her collar, felt for a pulse.

Two peat-cutters who had seen Lizzie running without a rider came. One of them, who owed Lady Anne kindness because she had helped his wife, rode me to the doctor and then to the hall in all haste. I carried him obediently – he was no rider, but held on tight.

Ginger was saddled for Lord George. She came back sore. York was not pleased; a young man with hard hands was no right rider to improve a cautious mare. Ginger only said: "Here we are, both ruined. You by a drunkard. Me by a fool."

Reuben Smith, a driver at our place, was better than most when he stayed sober. He was calm with horses, could treat small ailments, and drove steadily. But he loved drink. He could go for weeks, then slip. He had been dismissed once for being too drunk to drive a party home, but had been taken back with a promise to reform – which he kept for a long time.

Early in April, he was to drive Colonel Blantyre to town in the brougham and ride me back. He was given money for feed and told to spare me. He put me up at the White Lion, ordered feed, and asked for me at four o'clock. A small nail in my front shoe was loose, but the stable boy didn't see it until four. Smith didn't come until five. He said he wouldn't leave until six. The man told him about the nail.

"It will be all right," said Smith.

At nine o'clock he shouted for me, cursed the stable boy, swung himself up, and we dashed out. The moon was down, the roads newly stoned with sharp stones. The shoe became looser and came off at the toll-gate. If Smith had been sober, he would have felt something was wrong, but he was too drunk. Without a shoe, every step on those sharp new stones was like knives.

He whipped me into a gallop. My hoof cracked, splintered down to the flesh. I stumbled and fell hard. He was thrown forward and hit his head. When the moon rose, I saw him lying a few yards away. He tried to get up once, then a heavy groan – and everything was still.

I stood by the ditch, shaking. After nearly midnight, I heard wheels. Ginger came in the dogcart with two men. They found Smith.

"Cold as stone," said one. They looked at my knees, scraped raw, and my front hoof, torn open.

"No sober man would have ridden a horse over such stones without a shoe," said Robert, and he bound up my foot with his handkerchief and led me gently three miles home.

In the stable, they wrapped my knees with wet cloths and put warm poultice around my foot. The blacksmith said the joint might be saved, but there would be scars. It was a long, painful treatment – proud flesh burned away, blisters to remove the hair so the scar wouldn't rub under harness. The coroner cleared me; witnesses saw that Smith was drunk. His widow Susan was left with six children and had to go to the poorhouse.

When my knees were healed, I was turned out alone into a small meadow. I missed Ginger terribly. One day she was brought in – lame, exhausted. Lord George had run her in a steeplechase, and she had strained herself trying to keep up. Her breathing was ruined, her back stretched.

"Here we are," she said, "ruined in our prime."

The Earl came with York. He was annoyed; three hundred pounds lost, he said, and decided Ginger should have a year's rest, while I was to be sold – my knees spoiled my appearance. York recommended a livery stable in Bath.

Ginger called out to me as I was led away. I called back as long as I could hear her hooves.

In Bath, the stable was clean, but the stalls were sloped, which made standing heavy. I got good food and grooming. But now I was no longer a gentleman's horse – I was a "job horse," hired out to anyone.

I met all kinds of drivers. Some held the reins and bit so tightly I never got a rest for my mouth. Some let the reins hang slack and let everything go by itself until something happened and they couldn't help.

One day I got a stone in my front shoe. A good driver would have felt it in my stride after ten yards. This one drove half a mile, thought I had "gone lame for no reason." A farmer came and saw the stone, got it carefully out with a hook, and told the driver to go home quietly – my hoof was bruised. The driver looked as if he had never heard that horses could get stones in their hooves.

One evening we were driving out in the twilight, Rory and I, harnessed as a pair. The road turned sharply to the left. From the hilltop came a gig too fast straight toward us – one of our own, driven by a careless young man who didn't know which side of the road to keep. I was on the inside next to the hedge, but Rory was on the off side – the gig shaft cut him right across the chest.

He staggered with a cry I will never forget. He survived, but it took months, and afterwards he was sold for coal carting in steep hills, two-wheeled carts without brakes, the horses having to brake with their bodies – a hard life.

After Rory, I came out with Peggy, a strong, kind mare with an odd way of going – half trot, half little bounces.

"It's because my legs are so short," she said. "Men always want to go fast. If I can't keep up, I get whip, whip, whip. So I learned this ugly shuffle. My first master, a young clergyman, always drove at a steady trot and never scolded me. I wish I was still with him."

She was later sold to two ladies who drove themselves – they liked a quiet, safe horse. I saw her afterwards, happy and steady.

Another time, I stood at a grand door when two gentlemen came out. One went to my head and looked at my bit.

"Does this horse really need a curb?" he asked.

"No, he goes just as well without," said the stable boy.

"Then take it off," said the gentleman. He stroked my neck, and we drove out. He had a light hand and quick eyes – it was like singing with someone who knows your voice. He liked me, tried me several times, and eventually arranged for me to be sold to his friend, Mr. Barry, in Bath.

It began well with Barry. But after a while, my oats started shrinking. I got beans and bran, but little corn. After two or three weeks, I felt my strength fading. A farmer friend saw me and said: "This horse doesn't look as well as he used to." Mr. Barry said that "horses are always dull in autumn."

"Nonsense," said the farmer. "It's only August."

Soon a policeman caught the stable boy coming with a covered basket from the stable – the basket was full of oats. Filcher, the stable boy, was caught, sent to prison. A new stable boy, Alfred Smirk, was tall and handsome – and lazy. He polished the harness till it shone, oiled my hooves for show, but couldn't be bothered to clean my feet properly or my box. Old, wet straw, sour smell, eyes that stung, appetite that disappeared.

"It's dangerous to use water in the box," said Alfred when Barry noticed how bad it smelled.

A mason came and looked at the drains – everything in order – five shillings wasted. On the damp straw, I developed thrush in my foot. The blacksmith said: "I see this in stables that aren't kept properly clean." He asked for dry, fresh straw, daily cleaning, less corn, green food, and mash. I got better – but Barry was tired of being cheated. He sold me at the horse market.

The market was chaos of horses – young ones from the country, small scruffy ponies, large cart horses with braided tails, and ones like me – well-built, but with a blemish or injury that had pushed us down a class. Some shone; others were skin and bone, with old sores on their backs.

Men walked around feeling legs and teeth, pulling at mouths and tails, making us trot and gallop. Some grabbed me as if I were a thing, others passed gentle hands over my body with a little pat. I judged them by how they touched me.

A small, quick man with gray, kind eyes came by. He smelled fresh of hay and soap, not beer and tobacco. He offered twenty-three pounds. The seller laughed. The man walked away. A hard man with a loud voice came – I trembled that he would bid, but he didn't. The gray-eyed man came back. I put my head forward – he stroked me.

"Well, old fellow," he said, "I think we can suit each other."

He bid twenty-four pounds.

"Sold."

So he led me out of the crowd, gave me a good portion of oats at the inn while he stood and talked quietly both to me and to himself. Half an hour later, we were heading toward London.

His name was Jerry Barker. At home, Polly, his wife, was waiting – a small, quick woman with warm eyes and a smile. Their son Harry, twelve, and daughter Dolly, eight, came running.

"Is he kind, father?" asked Dolly.

"Yes, of course, as kind as your cat," said Jerry.

They called me Jack. Jerry checked that the saddle and harness fit well. No check-rein, no sharp bit, only a simple snaffle. What a blessing!

Life as a cab horse was hard in London. Noise, crowds, and jostling. But I quickly learned I could trust Jerry. He never used the whip without reason, and almost never even then – he could speak with the reins and his voice. He knew when I needed water and understood that horses drink better when they always have fresh water by them, instead of gulping half a bucket at once when they finally get it.

The best thing was Sundays. We rested. Without them, we wouldn't have lasted.

On those quiet Sundays, my good stable companion, Captain, told me about his youth in the war in the Crimea. He was a noble, dark dapple gray, had served a young cavalry officer. Training at home was fun – turning on command, charging at the trumpet call. On the ship, it was terrible – they were hoisted in straps and swung over the sea, shut in small spaces, tossed around in storms. But the men loved their horses, gave them their rations and warmed them with blankets when they could.

About the battles he said: "As long as we felt the rider's hand firm and calm, none of us were afraid. We charged at cannon mouths even if bullets sprayed around us. We were trained – we trusted them. I wasn't afraid, not until the day I lost my master."

He described how the squadron rode straight over a valley, under a wall of cannon fire. Horses and men fell, but no one turned. His master shouted and raised his arm – then a bullet struck him. The reins fell, the sword dropped, and he sank backward. Captain was carried forward by the momentum, and when he came to his senses, he was alone on the battlefield.

"That fear I still feel," he said quietly. "I saw enough of war. Those who call it fine had not seen what I saw."

After the war, he came home, whole, but old.

Jerry was honest, straightforward, and cheerful. He made up little songs about helping each other. He hated waste of time and lazy people who shouted "hurry!" and "get the steam up!" because they themselves were late.

Two young fellows shouted one day from a tavern: "Quick! We're late! Extra shilling if you drive like a steam engine!"

Jerry shook his head. "I drive at a good regular pace. One shilling isn't worth wearing out a horse," he said.

Larry, who stood nearby, put the men in his cab and struck his horse – a worn-out old creature. Jerry patted me: "No, Jack – a shilling isn't worth it."

But when there was reason, Jerry would get a move on. A young man slipped on a piece of orange peel, hurt himself, got up and was about to miss his train.

"It's important that I don't miss the twelve o'clock train," he said. "I'll gladly pay extra."

Jerry nodded and said quietly to me: "Now, Jack, as fast as we can – we know why."

In the middle of the day in London, it's hard to thread through traffic quickly. But when a good driver and a good horse understand each other, they can do amazing things. We reached the station eight minutes before twelve.

"Thank God we made it," said the man, and tried to give Jerry half a crown.

"No thank you, sir. It was reward enough to see you catch it," said Jerry.

A wealthy customer, Mr. Briggs, wanted Jerry every Sunday for church. Jerry said no – he had a six-day license and wouldn't work seven.

"Before, when I drove seven days, it was too hard for me and my horses. I never saw my family. I never got to church. Now I'm stronger, my horses are healthier, and we have more in the bank," he said.

Polly supported him. They lost Mr. Briggs for a while. But word spread – other horses and vehicles weren't as clean or reliable. Soon came word: "Mrs. Briggs wants Jerry back – but never Sunday."

One Sunday, however, work came anyway. A neighbor named Dinah Brown had received a letter that her mother was dying, ten miles out in the country. She had a four-week-old baby and was weak herself, no one could drive her, and the train only helped part of the way.

"We should do for others as we would have them do for us," said Polly quietly. "This is not breaking the Sabbath."

Jerry borrowed a light, open cart from a neighbor. We drove out in the mild May day. When we arrived, I was put in a little meadow to graze, drink, and rest. Jerry sat under a tree and sang softly, read in his little brown book, and ate bread. Then we drove carefully home.

"I haven't lost Sunday. The birds sang hymns, and I sang along," he said that evening.

Winter came early, with sleet, rain, cold wind, and icy roads. Horses suffered, and drivers too. Some sat on their seats until after midnight, freezing. Others went into pubs and drank "for warmth." Jerry did not.

"Brandy makes a man colder afterwards," he said. "Dry clothes, warm food, cheerfulness, wife and children – that's what warms."

Polly sent food when he couldn't get home, and Dolly often crossed the street through all the traffic with hot soup in a can. An elderly gentleman waited patiently while Jerry finished eating and put Dolly safely on the pavement.

"A true gentleman," said Jerry.

The same gentleman later crossed the street when a man was beating two fine cart horses over the heads: "Stop, or I'll have you arrested – both for leaving your horses and for brutality." The man cursed, but stopped. The gentleman's nose was sharp, his mouth firm, but his eyes warm.

"If we see wrong and can stop it and do not, we become part of the guilt," he said to his friend. I liked him.

Not all drivers lived like Jerry. Many hired their cabs day by day. They had to first earn the owner's hire – nine shillings per horse – before they could earn a penny. A thin, worn-out man we called Seedy Sam said it plainly:

"I stand out fourteen, sixteen hours a day. I haven't had a Sunday in ten weeks. Master Skinner never gives any time off. My children go hungry if I don't keep going. When a horse is completely worn out, only the whip makes him move his feet. I have to put my wife and children before the horse – but something is wrong with the system. No rest, never any peace."

A few days later, Sam fell ill and died. His last words were: "I never had a Sunday's rest." It became completely quiet on the stand when we heard that.

One day, a weak, scruffy old mare stood beside me in the park, knees knobby, eyes sunken.

"Is it you?" she whispered.

It was Ginger.

She told me of her life in her last stretch – sold down and down, from fine house, to a rough owner who rode her too hard, then to a livery stable keeper who said: "Let her go in low cab and use her up." The driver who hired her had to earn much for the owner – "I must whip her or we starve," he said.

"I wish I were dead," said Ginger quietly.

Not long after, I saw a cart drive by with a dead horse over the side – tongue hanging out, blood dripping slowly, and on its forehead a white stripe. I hope I was mistaken. If it was Ginger, her sufferings were over. If men had been more merciful, many would have been given a quick end before such a fate.

Election day came, and the city was wild. Colors in hats, shouting, dancing, drunken men. Jerry wanted nothing to do with politics like that. He said to Harry that colors are not freedom – freedom is not about who shouts the loudest. Instead, he took a poor woman with a sick child to the hospital for free that day, even though two men tried to push past her into his cab.

"My cab is taken," he said calmly, and closed the door on them. He set the mother and child down at the great door, rang the bell, and quoted softly: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these."

As we drove away in the rain, Mrs. Fowler, Polly's old mistress, came out on the steps and waved. She was glad to see Jerry, but worried about his health.

Soon the terrible thing happened. We were coming over London Bridge after setting down some passengers, when an empty beer wagon with two strong brewery horses came thundering along with a drunk man at the reins. He was whipping them into a wild speed. He had no control. A girl was knocked down. Then he crashed straight into us.

Our cab was torn right off the wheels; Captain was dragged down, a shaft pierced his side. Jerry fell, bruised, but got up. Captain was bleeding. The blacksmith and Jerry did everything they could. But Captain was old.

"He might be sold for a few pounds for light work," said the blacksmith.

Jerry looked into his wise eyes. "I will not sell an old friend to suffering for a few pounds. That turns all joy in money to rot," he said.

The next day, Captain was gone – he had been given a quick, gentle death. We mourned.

Jerry needed a new horse. He heard of a fine brown horse that had "run away" and thrown his rider, probably because he was harnessed too tightly, with martingale, tight check, and sharp bit. Jerry liked him. After a little work and a light hand, he calmed down. His name was Hotspur, and he became a good partner.

New Year's Eve, we stood outside a house in the West End. Two gentlemen were only going to be inside for an hour, they said. The clock struck eleven. Then twelve. Sleet was driving. There was no shelter. Jerry put a blanket over my neck, walked to keep warm, but only started coughing. He sat down at the bottom of the cab with his feet on the pavement.

At half past twelve, he rang the bell.

"Coming soon," said the servant.

At quarter past one, the gentlemen came out, complained about the fare – Jerry had never charged more than was right, and never less either. When we finally got home, his voice was almost gone. Polly said nothing – she led him quietly inside, gave him warm gruel. He gave me a quick rub himself – then stiffened with coughing.

The doctor came, said bronchitis, dangerous. Harry and Dolly came every day to care for us. Our "governor" on the stand, Grant, took Hotspur out for driving each day and gave half the money, "or else he'll burst when you get well."

Jerry got better. The doctor was firm: "No more cab driving, if you want to live to be old."

Jerry was sad – what would they live on? Then a letter came.

It was from Mrs. Fowler in the country. She offered Jerry the vacant coachman and gardener position at her estate – with a nice garden and henhouse and apple trees next to a little white house. Harry would get a job too, and Dolly a school. They cried with joy.

"We'll leave as soon as father is strong enough," said Polly.

Hotspur got a new owner – a good one – and I was sold to a corn merchant and baker that Jerry knew and trusted.

At the corn merchant's, I got good food, but the foreman was always in a frantic hurry. We were loaded heavily, often too heavily. My driver, Jakes, often complained – uselessly. He always kept the check-rein up, even on hills.

One day, the cart was more than usually loaded, and we came to a steep hill. I leaned in with all my strength. The wheels stuck in the mud. Jakes shouted and whipped. It burned in my chest. I pulled a few yards, and then – the whip again. My heart sank. The third time, the whip struck hard.

"Stop!" cried a sharp voice. A lady came – right up to me, a gentle hand on my neck.

"He is doing his best. The load is too heavy."

Jakes muttered.

"The foreman put on three hundredweight extra to save an extra trip."

"Loosen his check-rein," she said. "Give him a chance."

Jakes laughed a little, ashamed, but loosened it. What relief! I stretched my neck, shook off the stiffness, put my forehead against the collar, and pushed steadily. The cart began to roll, slowly but surely. The lady walked beside me, stroking me and speaking softly.

"Don't put it on again," she asked.

Jakes said others would laugh at him.

"It is better to be first in a good habit than last in a bad one," she said. "Many fine gentlemen have given up the check-rein. Animals do not suffer less because they have no words."

After that, Jakes loosened the rein more – especially on hills. But the loads were still too heavy. No horse can bear that forever.

I was changed out for a younger horse. The stable was poorly lit. My sight grew weaker, but luckily not permanently. I was sold to Nicholas Skinner, a hard man with a hard voice. I soon saw the difference between being someone's own horse – and being a number in a book.

Skinner owned many cabs and many men. No Sunday. No mercy. On hot summer days, we drove full "fast fares" that went far out and back again, full load, no walking up the hills. The drivers whipped under our bellies, struck at our heads. I became so hot and thirsty and confused that I couldn't eat. I dreamed of Jerry and the warm mashes with saltpeter he gave when we were overheated. Here there was nothing.

One day, my wish to fall dead almost came true. A loud man with a lady, a little boy, and a young girl insisted on piling all their luggage on top of me – they had a long way to go. The porter suggested two cabs.

"Nonsense," said the man.

The girl whispered: "Papa, this horse is too weak."

"Hold your tongue!" he shouted.

Boxes and trunks were loaded. It was already late in the day, and I had hardly rested. We set off. When we came to Ludgate Hill, through the steep street and the heavy rain, my hind wheels slipped, men shouted, the whip bit, and my legs went out from under me. I fell heavily and lay without breath.

Voices and confusion. Cold hands loosened straps. A sweet, worried girl's voice: "It is our fault, poor horse."

Water on my head, something warm in my mouth, a cloth over my back. Life came slowly back. A calm man spoke in my ear, encouraged. I got up and was led to a stable. Warm mash. Rest. In the evening, I was dragged back to Skinner.

Next morning, Skinner came with a blacksmith.

"Six months of rest and he'll be fit," said the blacksmith. "No strength left."

"Then he must go to the dogs," said Skinner. "My method is to use them until they drop and sell them for what they give."

"If you rest and feed him for ten days, you might get a little more for him at the sale," said the blacksmith.

Skinner grunted and nodded. Ten days of peace, good oats, and linseed mash worked wonders. For the first time in a long while, I felt it might be worth living.

At the auction, I stood among old, worn-out souls. A frail old man liked me, but I was too weak. A ruddy farmer with a broad-brimmed hat came with his grandson, Willie.

"Look, a horse that has known better days," he said.

The boy stroked my face. "Buy him, grandfather – make him young again, like you did with Ladybird!" he said.

The farmer laughed, but felt my legs and looked in my mouth. The seller said: "Just overworked. Not old. Six months' pasture, and he'll be good."

The boy begged, the farmer found five pounds. His name was Thoroughgood.

At home, I was given a large meadow with an open shed, fresh hay and oats, Willie every day with carrots and kind words. He called me "old fellow." With complete rest, soft grass under my feet, good food, and a little gentle leading in a halter daily, my strength slowly returned.

In spring, Mr. Thoroughgood tried me in a little cart. I pulled comfortably.

"He's getting young again, Willie," he said with satisfaction. "We'll find a quiet, proper place where he will be appreciated."

One morning, after Willie and his grandfather had groomed me until I shone, we drove to a white house with a low picket fence and lawn. Out came three ladies: Miss Blomefield, tall and dignified; her sister, Miss Lavinia, pale with a white shawl; and Miss Ellen, younger with dark eyes and a laughing mouth.

"What a good forehead he has," said Miss Ellen, smiling at me.

Mr. Thoroughgood told my life story briefly. Miss Lavinia was nervous: "Hasn't he been down? His knees?"

"Many first-class horses have fallen because of bad drivers," said Thoroughgood. "Take him on trial."

The next day, a young stable boy came to fetch me. He looked at my knees and sighed, but Thoroughgood said: "The most beautiful is the one who acts beautifully."

When we arrived at the ladies' stable, the boy began to brush my face. He stopped suddenly.

"It looks just like the star Black Beauty had," he whispered. His fingers felt over my neck – the little hard lump from being bled that night I was sick. He stroked my back and found the spot John used to call "the three-parts piece."

"It must be Black Beauty!" he cried, his voice thick. "Don't you know me? Little Joe Green – the one who nearly killed you!"

He laughed a little shamefacedly and patted me again. He had a beard and was a grown man. I couldn't say with words that I knew him, but I laid my head against his chest. He understood.

Miss Ellen drove me carefully in a little park cart with Joe beside her. She had a light hand, like my mistress at Birtwick once. After a week, they said: "We will keep him – and call him by his old name."

Joe wrote to Mrs. Gordon to tell her that her favorite was alive and well.

Now I have lived in this happy home for a whole year. Joe is the best stable boy I could imagine. My work is light, my drives short, the voices kind. Willie always calls out "Hey, old friend!" when he sees me. Miss Ellen talks to me as to a friend. They have promised I shall never be sold.

And when the sun shines through the leaves of the low apple trees, it is like standing again in the orchard at Birtwick, with Merrylegs chuckling under his breath, Sir Oliver snorting, and Ginger sleeping a long, good sleep without suffering.

My mother's words ring in me: "Do your work with a good will, and never bite or kick."

I did my best. Sometimes it was enough to save lives. Sometimes it was only enough to keep my heart whole.

I am home now. The restlessness is over. And when I close my eyes in my box in the evening, I dream that the freedom and kindness I learned as a foal have finally come back to stay.