War Horse Chapter 1-2 PDF

# Chapter 1 My earliest memories are a confusion of hilly fields and dark, damp stables, and rats that scampered along the beams above my head. But I remember well enough the day of the horse sale. The terror of it stayed with me all my life. I was not yet six months old, a gangling, leggy colt wh...

# Chapter 1 My earliest memories are a confusion of hilly fields and dark, damp stables, and rats that scampered along the beams above my head. But I remember well enough the day of the horse sale. The terror of it stayed with me all my life. I was not yet six months old, a gangling, leggy colt who had never been farther than a few feet from his mother. We were parted that day in the terrible hubbub of the auction ring and I was never to see her again. She was a fine, working farm horse, getting on in years but with all the strength and stamina of an Irish draft horse quite evident in her fore and hindquarters. She was sold within minutes, and before I could follow her through the gates, she was whisked out of the ring. But somehow I was more difficult to dispose of. Perhaps it was the wild look in my eye as I circled the ring in a desperate search for my mother, or perhaps it was that none of the farmers and gypsies there were looking for a spindly-looking half-Thoroughbred colt. But whatever the reason, they were a long time haggling over how little I was worth before I heard the hammer go down, and I was driven out through the gates and into a pen outside. "Not bad for three guineas, is he? Are you, my little fire-brand? Not bad at all." The voice was harsh and thick with drink, and it belonged quite evidently to my owner. I shall not call him my master, for only one man was ever my master. My owner had a rope in his hand and was clambering into the pen followed by three or four of his red-faced friends. Each one carried a rope. They had taken off their hats and jackets and rolled up their sleeves, and they were all laughing as they came toward me. I had as yet been touched by no man and backed away from them until I felt the bars of the pen behind me and could go no farther. They seemed to lunge at me all at once, but they were slow and I managed to slip past them and into the middle of the pen where I turned to face them again. They had stopped laughing now. I screamed for my mother and heard her reply echoing in the far distance. It was toward that cry that I bolted, half charging, half jumping the rails so that I caught my foreleg as I tried to clamber over and was stranded there. I was grabbed roughly by the mane and tail and felt a rope tighten around my neck before I was thrown to the ground and held there with a man sitting. It seemed, on every part of me. I struggled until I was weak, kicking out violently every time I felt them relax, but they were too many and too strong for me. I felt the halter slip over my head and tighten around my neck and face. "So you're quite a fighter, are you?" said my owner, tightening the rope and smiling through gritted teeth. "I like a fighter. But I'll break you one way or the other. Quite the little fighting cock you are, but you'll be eating out of my hand quick as a twick." I was dragged along the roads while tied on a short rope to the tailboard of a farm cart so that every twist and turn wrenched at my neck. By the time we reached the farm road and rumbled over the bridge into the stable yard that was to become my home, I was soaked with sweat, and the halter had rubbed my face raw. My one consolation as I was hauled into the stables that first evening was the knowledge that I was not alone. The old horse that had been pulling the cart all the way back from the market was led into the stable next to mine. As she went in, she stopped to look over my door and nickered gently. I was about to venture away from the back of my stable when my new owner brought his crop down on her side with such a vicious blow that I recoiled once again and huddled into the corner against the wall. "Get in there, you old rat-bag," he bellowed. "Proper nuisance you are, Zoey, and I don't want you teaching this young'un any of your old tricks." But in that short moment I had caught a glimpse of kindness and sympathy from that old mare that cooled my panic and soothed my spirit. I was left there with no water and no food while he stumbled off across the cobbles and up into the farmhouse beyond. There was the sound of slamming doors and raised voices before I heard footsteps running back across the yard and excited voices coming closer. Two heads appeared at my door. One was that of a young boy who looked at me for a long time, considering me carefully before his face broke into a beaming smile. "Mother," he said deliberately. "That will be a wonderful and brave horse. Look how he holds his head." And then, "Look at him, Mother. He's wet through to the skin. I'll have to rub him down." "But your father said to leave him be, Albert," said the boy's mother. "Said it'll do him good to be left alone. He told you not to touch him." "Mother," said Albert, slipping back the bolts on the staple door. "When Father's drunk, he doesn't know what he's saying or what he's doing. He's always drunk on market days. You've told me often enough not to pay him any account when he's like that. You feed old Zoey, Mother, while I see to him. Oh, isn't he grand, Mother? He's red almost, red bay you'd call him, wouldn't you say? And that cross down his nose is perfect. Have you ever seen a horse with a white cross like that? Have you ever seen such a thing? I will ride this horse when he's ready. I will ride him everywhere, and there won't be a horse to touch him, not in the whole parish, not in the whole country." "You're barely past thirteen, Albert," said his mother from the next stable. "He's too young and you're too young and, anyway, Father says you're not to touch him, so don't come crying to me if he catches you in there." "But why did he buy him, Mother?" Albert asked. "It was a calf we needed, wasn't it? That's what he went into market for, wasn't it? A calf to suckle old Celandine?" "I know, dear. Your father's not himself when he's like that," his mother said softly. "He says that Farmer Easton was bidding for the horse, and you know what he thinks of that man after that argument over the fencing. I should imagine he bought it just to deny him. Well, that's what it looks like to me." "Well, I'm glad he did, Mother," said Albert, walking slowly toward me, pulling off his jacket. "Drunk or not, it's the best thing he ever did." "Don't speak like that about your father, Albert. He's been through a lot. It's not right," said his mother. But her words lacked conviction. Albert was about the same height as me and talked so gently as he approached that I was immediately calmed and a little intrigued, and so stood where I was against the wall. I jumped at first when he touched me but could see at once that he meant me no harm. He smoothed my back first and then my neck, talking all the while about what a fine time we would have together, how I would grow up to be the smartest horse in the whole wide world, and how we would go out hunting together. After a bit, he began to rub me gently with his coat. He rubbed me until I was dry and then dabbed salt water onto my face where the skin had been rubbed raw. He brought in some sweet hay and a deep bucket of cool water. I do not believe he stopped talking the whole time. As he turned to go out of the stable, I called out to him to thank him and he seemed to understand for he smiled broadly and stroked my nose. "We'll get along, you and I," he said kindly. "I will call you Joey, only because it rhymes with Zoey, and then maybe-yes, maybe-because it suits you. I'll be out again in the morn-" # Chapter 2 " ... says, and he's known horses all his life." "Father just doesn't understand them," said Albert. "I think he's frightened of them." I went over to the door and watched Albert and his mother walking away into the darkness. I knew then that I had found a friend for life, that there was an instinctive and immediate bond of trust and affection between us. Next to me, old Zoey leaned over her door to try to touch me, but our noses could not quite meet. ## Through the long hard winters Through the long hard winters and hazy summers that followed, Albert and I grew up together. A yearling colt and a young boy have more in common than awkward gawkishness. Whenever he was not at school in the village or at work with his father on the farm, he would lead me out over the fields and down to the flat, thistly marsh by the Torridge River. Here on the only level ground on the farm he began my training, just walking and trotting me up and down, and later on lunging me, first one way and then the other. On the way back to the farm, he would allow me to follow him at my own speed, and I learned to come at his whistle, not out of obedience but because I always wanted to be with him. His whistle imitated the stuttering call of an owl-it was a call I never refused and I would never forget. Old Zoey, my only other companion, was often away all day plowing, cutting, and harvesting out on the farm, so I was left on my own much of the time. Out in the fields in the summertime, this was bearable because I could always hear her working and call out to her from time to time, but shut in the loneliness of the stable in the winter, a whole day could pass without seeing or hearing a soul, unless Albert came for me. As Albert had promised, it was he who cared for me and protected me all he could from his father, but his father did not turn out to be the monster I had expected. Most of the time he ignored me and if he did look me over, it was always from a distance. From time to time he could even be quite friendly, but I was never quite able to trust him, not after our first encounter. I would never let him come too close, and would always back off and shy away to the other end of the field and put old Zoey between us. On every Tuesday, however, Albert's father could still be relied upon to get drunk, and on his return, Albert would often find some pretext to be with me to ensure that he never came near me. ## On one such autumn evening On one such autumn evening about two years after I came to the farm, Albert was up in the village church ringing the bells. As a precaution he had put me in the stable with old Zoey, as he always did on Tuesday evenings. "You'll be safer together. Father won't come in and bother you, not if you're together," he'd say, and then he'd lean over the stable door and lecture us about the intricacies of bell-ringing and how he had been given the big tenor bell because they thought he was man enough already to handle it and that in no time he'd be the biggest boy in the village. My Albert was proud of his bell-ringing prowess, and as Zoey and I stood head to tail in the darkening stable, lulled by the six bells ringing out over the dusky fields from the church, we knew he had every right to be proud. It is the noblest music, for everyone can share it - they have only to listen. I must have been standing asleep, for I do not recall hearing him approach, but quite suddenly there was the dancing light of a lantern at the stable door and the bolts were pulled back. I thought at first it might be Albert, but the bells were still ringing, and then I heard the voice that was unmistakably that of Albert's father on a Tuesday night after market. He hung the lantern up above the door and came toward me. There was a whip in his hand, and he was staggering around the stable toward me. "So, my proud little devil," he said, the threat in his voice quite undisguised. "I've made a bet that I can have you pulling a plow before the end of the week. Farmer Easton and the others at The George think I can't handle you. But I'll show'em. You've been pampered enough, and the time has come for you to earn your keep. I'm going to try some collars on you this evening, find one that fits, and then tomorrow we'll start plowing. Now we can do it the nice way or the nasty way. Give me trouble and I'll whip you till you bleed." Old Zoey knew his mood well enough and whinnied her warning, backing off into the dark recesses of the stable, but she need not have warned me, for I sensed his intention. One look at the raised whip sent my heart thumping wildly with fear. Terrified, I knew I could not run, for there was nowhere to go, so I put my back to him, and lashed out behind me. I felt my hooves strike home. I heard a cry of pain and turned to see him crawling out of the stable door, dragging one leg stiffly behind him and muttering words of cruel vengeance. That next morning, both Albert and his father came out together to the stables. His father was walking with a pronounced limp. They were carrying a collar each, and I could see that Albert had been crying, for his pale cheeks were stained with tears. They stood together at the stable door. I noticed with infinite pride and pleasure that my Albert was already taller than his father, whose face was drawn and lined with pain. "If your mother hadn't begged me last night, Albert, I'd have shot that horse on the spot. He could've killed me. Now I'm warning you, if that animal is not plowing straight as an arrow inside a week, he'll be sold, and that's a promise. It's up to you. You say you can deal with him, and I'll give you just one chance. He won't let me go near him. He's wild and vicious, and unless you make it your business to tame him and train him inside that week, he's going. Do you understand? That horse has to earn his keep like everyone else around here - I don't care how pretty he is - that horse has got to learn how to work. And I'll promise you another thing, Albert: if I have to lose that bet, then he has to go." He dropped the collar on the ground and turned on his heel to go. "Father," said Albert with resolution in his voice, "I'll train Joey - I'll train him to plow all right - but you must promise never to raise a whip to him again. He can't be handled that way. I know him, Father. I know him as if he were my own brother." "You train him, Albert, you handle him. Don't care how you do it. I don't want to know," said his father dismissively. "I'll never go near the brute again. I'd shoot him first!" But when Albert came into the stable, it was not to soothe me as he usually did nor to talk to me gently. Instead he walked up to me and looked me hard in the eye. "That was plain stupid," he said sternly. "If you want to survive, Joey, you'll have to learn. You're never to kick out at anyone ever again. He means it, Joey. He'd have shot you just like that if it hadn't been for Mother. It was Mother who saved you. He wouldn't listen to me and he never will. So never again, Joey. Never." His voice changed now, and he spoke more like himself. "We have one week, Joey, only one week to get you plowing. I know with all that Thoroughbred in you, you may think it beneath you, but that's what you're going to have to do. Old Zoey and me, we're going to train you, and it'll be very hard work - even harder for you because you're not quite the right shape for it. There's not enough of you yet. You won't much like me by the end of it, Joey. But Father means what he says. He's a man of his word. Once he's made up his mind, then that's that. He'd sell you, even shoot you rather than lose that bet, and that's for sure." That same morning, with the mists still clinging to the fields and linked side by side to dear old Zoey in a collar that hung loose around my shoulders, I was led out onto Long Close and my training as a farm horse began. As we took the strain together for the first time, the collar rubbed at my skin and my feet sank deep into the soft ground with the effort of it. Behind, Albert was shouting almost continuously, flashing a whip at me whenever I hesitated or went off line, whenever he felt I was not giving it my best - and he knew. This was a different Albert. Gone were the gentle words and the kindnesses of the past. His voice had a harsh-ness and a sharpness to it that wouldn't tolerate any refusal on my part. Beside me, old Zoey leaned into her collar and pulled silently, head down, digging in with her feet. For her sake and for my own sake - for Albert's, too - I leaned my weight into my collar and began to pull. I was to learn during that week the rudiments of plowing like a farm horse. Every muscle I had ached with the strain of it, but after a night's good rest stretched out in the stable I was fresh again and ready for work the next morning. Each day as I progressed and we began to plow more as a team, Albert used the whip less and less and spoke more gently to me again, until finally at the end of the week I was sure I had all but regained his affection. Then one afternoon after we had finished the headland around Long Close, he unhitched the plow and put an arm around each of us. "It's all right now, you've done it, my beauties. You've done it," he said. "I didn't tell you, because I didn't want to put you off, but Father and Farmer Easton have been watching us from the house this afternoon." He scratched us behind the ears and smoothed our noses. "Father's won his bet and he told me at breakfast that if we finished the field today he'd forget all about the incident, and that you could stay on, Joey. So you've done it, my beauty, and I'm so proud of you I could kiss you, you old silly, but I won't do that, not with them watching. He'll let you stay now. I'm sure he will. My father is a man of his word. You can be sure of that - as long as he's sober." It was some months later, on the way back from cutting the hay in Great Meadow along the sunken leafy road that led up into the farmyard that Albert first talked to us about the war. His whistling stopped in mid-tune. "Mother says there's likely to be a war," he said sadly. "I don't know what it's about - something about some old duke that's been shot at somewhere. Can't think why that should matter to anyone, but she says we'll be in it all the same. But it won't affect us, not down here. We'll go on just the same. At fifteen I'm too young to go, anyway - well, that's what she said. But I tell you, Joey, if there is a war I'd want to go. I think I'd make a good soldier, don't you? Look fine in a uniform, wouldn't I? And I've always wanted to march to the beat of a band. Can you imagine that, Joey? If it comes to that, you'd make a good war horse yourself, wouldn't you, if you ride as well as you pull, and I know you will. We'd make quite a pair. God help the Germans if they ever have to fight the two of us." One hot summer evening, after a long and dusty day in the fields, I was deep into my mash and oats, with Albert still rubbing me down with straw and talking on about the abundance of good straw they'd have for the winter months, and about how good the wheat straw would be for the thatching they would be doing, when I heard his father's heavy steps coming across the yard toward us. He was calling out as he came. "Mother," he shouted. "Mother, come out, Mother." It was his sane voice, his sober voice, and was a voice that held no fear for me. "It's war, Mother. I've just heard it in the village. Postman came in this afternoon with the news. The Germans have marched into Belgium. It's certain for sure now. We declared war yesterday at eleven o'clock. We're at war with the Germans. We'll give them such a hiding they won't ever raise their fists again to anyone. Be over in a few months. It's always been the same. Just because the British lion's sleeping, they think he's dead. We'll teach them a thing or two, Mother - we'll teach them a lesson they'll never forget." Albert had stopped brushing me and dropped the straw on the ground. We moved over toward the stable door. His mother was standing on the steps by the door of the farmhouse. She had her hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear God", she said softly. "Oh, dear God."