Jerry pointed this out, but to no use. Mrs. Jerry asked pertinently
what good horses were for if not to be used. No, she wanted no livery
teams for the night work. When she rode she wished to ride behind Topsy
and Bonfire. They were her horses, anyway. She would do as she pleased.
And she did.
Summer brought neither rest nor relief. Early in July horses, servants,
and carriages would be shipped off to Newport or Saratoga, there to
begin again the unceasing whirl. And fly time, to a docktailed horse, is
a season of torment.
Of Mrs. Jerry, who had once roused the Garden for his sake, Bonfire
caught but glimpses. After that first day, when he was a novelty, he
heard no more compliments, received no more pats from her gloved hands.
But of slight or neglect Bonfire knew nothing. He curved his neck and
threw his hoofs high, whether his muscles ached or no; in winter he
stamped to keep warm, in summer to dislodge the flies; he did his work
faithfully, early or late, in cold and in heat; and all this because he
was a son of Sir Bardolph and for the reason that it was his nature to.
Had it been put upon him he would have worked in harness until he
dropped, prancing his best to the last.
No supreme test, however, was ever brought to the endurance and
willingness of Bonfire. They just kept him on the pole, nerves tense,
muscles strained, until he began to lose form. His action no longer had
that grace and abandon which so pleased Mrs. Jerry when she first saw
him. Long standing in the cold numbs the muscles. It robs the legs of
their spring. Sudden starts, such as are made when you are called from
line after an hour's waiting, finish the business. Try as he might,
Bonfire could not step so high, could not carry a perfect crest. His
neck had lost its roundness, in his rump a crease had appeared.
To Dan also, came tribulation of his own making. He carried a flat brown
flask under the box and there were times when his driving was more a
matter of muscular habit than of mental acuteness. Twice he was
threatened with discharge and twice he solemnly promised reform. At last
the inevitable happened. Dan came one morning to Bonfire's stall, very
sober and very sad. He patted Bonfire and said good-by. Then he
disappeared.
Less than a week later two young hackneys, plump of neck, round of
quarter, springy of knee and hock, were brought to the stable. Bonfire
and Topsy were led out of their old stalls to return no more. They had
been worn out in the service and cast aside like a pair of old gloves.
Then did Bonfire enter upon a period of existence in which box-stalls,
crested quarter blankets, rubber-tired wheels and liveried drivers had
no part. It was a varied existence, filled with toil and hardship and
abuse; an existence for which the coddling one gets at Lochlynne Farm is
no fit preparation.
IV
Just where Broadway crosses Sixth Avenue at Thirty-third Street is to be
found a dingy, triangular little park plot in which a few gas-stunted,
smoke-stained trees make a brave attempt to keep alive. On two sides of
the triangle surface-cars whirl restlessly, while overhead the elevated
trains rattle and shriek. This part of the metropolis knows little
difference between day and night, for the cars never cease, the
arc-lights blaze from dusk until dawn and the pavements are never wholly
empty.
Locally the section is sometimes called "the Cabman's Graveyard." During
any hour of the twenty-four you may find waiting along the curb a line
of public carriages. By day you will sometimes see smartly kept hansoms,
well-groomed horses, and drivers in neat livery.
But at night the character of the line changes. The carriages are mostly
one-horse closed cabs, rickety as to wheels, with torn and faded
cushions, license numbers obscured by various devices and rate-cards
always missing. The horses are dilapidated, too; and the drivers, whom
you will generally find nodding on the box or sound asleep inside their
cabs, harmonize with their rigs.
These are the Nighthawkers of the Tenderloin. The name is not an
assuring one, but it is suspected that it has been aptly given.
One bleak midnight in late November a cab of this description waited in
the lee of the elevated stairs. The cab itself was weather-beaten,
scratched, and battered. The driver, who sat half inside and half
outside the vehicle, with his feet on the sidewalk and his back propped
against the seat-cushion, puffed a short pipe and watched with indolent
but discriminating eye those who passed. He wore a coachman's coat of
faded green which seemed to have acquired a stain for every button it
had lost. On his head sat jauntily a rusty beaver and his face,
especially the nose, was of a rich crimson hue.
The horse, that seemed to lean on rather than stand in the patched
shafts, showed many well-defined points and but few curves. His thin
neck was ewed, there were deep hollows over the eyes, the number of his
ribs was revealed with startling frankness and the sagging of one
hind-quarter betrayed a bad leg. His head he held in spiritless fashion
on a level with his knees. As if to add a note of irony, his tail had
been docked to the regulation of absurd brevity and served only to tag
him as one fallen from a more reputable state.
Suddenly, up and across the intersecting thoroughfares, with a sharp
clatter of hoofs, rolled a smart closed brougham. The dispirited bobtail
looked up as a well-mated pair pranced past. Perhaps he noted their
sleek quarters, the glittering trappings on their backs and their
gingery action. As he dropped his head again something very like a sigh
escaped him. It might have been regret, perhaps it was only a touch of
influenza.
The driver, too, saw the turnout and gazed after it. But he did not
sigh. He puffed away at his pipe as if entirely satisfied with his lot.
He was still watching the brougham when a surface-car came gliding
swiftly around a curve. There was a smash of splintering wood and
breaking glass. The car had struck the brougham a battering-ram blow,
crushing a rear wheel and snapping the steel axle at the hub.
From somewhere or other a crowd of curious persons appeared and circled
about to watch while the driver held the plunging horses and the footman
hauled from the overturned carriage a man and a woman in evening dress.
The couple seemed unhurt and, although somewhat rumpled as to attire,
remarkably unconcerned.
"Keb, sir! Have a keb, sir?"
The Nighthawker was on the scene, like a longshore wrecker, and waving
an inviting arm toward his shabby vehicle.
The man coolly restored to shape his misused opera hat, adjusted his
necktie, whispered some orders to his coachman and then asked of the
Nighthawker: "Where's your carriage, my man?"
Eagerly the green-coated cabby led the way until the rescued couple
stood before it. The woman inspected the battered vehicle doubtfully
before stepping inside. The man eyed the sorry nag for a moment and then
said, with a laugh: "Good frame you have there; got the parts all
numbered?"
But the Nighthawker was not sensitive. The intimation that his horse
might fall apart he answered only with a good-natured chuckle and asked:
"Where shall it be; home, sir?"
"Why, yes, drive us to number----"
"Oh, we know the house well enough, sir, Bonfire and me."
"Bonfire! Bonfire, did you say?" Incredulously the fare looked first at
the horse and then at the driver. "Why, 'pon my word, it's old Dan! And
this relic in the shafts is Bonfire, is it?"
"It's him, sir; leastways, all there's left of him."
"Well, I'll be hanged! Kitty! Kitty!" he shouted into the cab where my
lady was nervously pulling her skirts closer about her and sniffing the
tobacco-laden atmosphere with evident disapproval. "Here's Dan, our old
coachman."
"Really?" was the unenthusiastic reply from the cab.
"Yes, and he's driving Bonfire. You remember Bonfire, the hackney I
bought for you at the Garden the year we were married."
"Indeed? Why, how odd? But do come in, Jerry, and let's get on home. I'm
so-o-o-o tired."
Mr. Jerry stifled his sentiment and shut the cab-door with a bang. Dan
pulled Bonfire's head into position and lightly laid the whip over the
all too obvious ribs. Bonfire, his head bobbing ludicrously on his thin
neck and his stubby tail keeping time at the other end of him, moved
uncertainly up the avenue at a jerky hobble.
And there let us leave him. Poor old Bonfire! Bred to win a ribbon at
the Garden--ended as the drudge of a Tenderloin Nighthawker.
PASHA
THE SON OF SELIM
Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remained
untold.
The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, where
he had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore his
beard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim there
would be for him no joy in life. Also he had wept quite convincingly on
Selim's neck--but he finished by taking the heavy purse. That was how
Selim, the great Selim, came to end his days in Fayette County,
Kentucky. Of his many sons, Pasha was one.
In almost idyllic manner were spent the years of Pasha's coltdom. They
were years of pasture roaming and bluegrass cropping. When the time was
ripe, began the hunting lessons. Pasha came to know the feel of the
saddle and the voice of the hounds. He was taught the long, easy lope.
He learned how to gather himself for a sail through the air over a
hurdle or a water-jump. Then, when he could take five bars clean, when
he could clear an eight-foot ditch, when his wind was so sound that he
could lead the chase from dawn until high noon, he was sent to the
stables of a Virginia tobacco-planter who had need of a new hunter and
who could afford Arab blood.
In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables were many good hunters, but none
better than Pasha. Cream-white he was, from the tip of his splendid,
yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush,
his neck as supple as a swan's, and out of his big, bright eyes there
looked such intelligence that one half expected him to speak. His lines
were all long, graceful curves, and when he danced daintily on his
slender legs one could see the muscles flex under the delicate skin.
Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very own at first sight. As no one at
Gray Oaks denied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he belonged from that
instant. Of Miss Lou, Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew that
bridle-reins were for gentle guidance, not for sawing or jerking, and
that a riding-crop was of no use whatever save to unlatch a gate or to
cut at an unruly hound. She knew how to rise on the stirrup when Pasha
lifted himself in his stride, and how to settle close to the pigskin
when his hoofs hit the ground. In other words, she had a good seat,
which means as much to the horse as it does to the rider.
Besides all this, it was Miss Lou who insisted that Pasha should have
the best of grooming, and she never forgot to bring the dainties which
Pasha loved, an apple or a carrot or a sugar-plum. It is something, too,
to have your nose patted by a soft gloved hand and to have such a person
as Miss Lou put her arm around your neck and whisper in your ear. From
no other than Miss Lou would Pasha permit such intimacy.
No paragon, however, was Pasha. He had a temper, and his whims were as
many as those of a school-girl. He was particular as to who put on his
bridle. He had notions concerning the manner in which a curry-comb should
be used. A red ribbon or a bandanna handkerchief put him in a rage,
while green, the holy color of the Mohammedan, soothed his nerves. A
lively pair of heels he had, and he knew how to use his teeth. The black
stable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was known
as "Mars" Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had ridden Pasha once, had ridden
him as he rode his big, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, and Pasha had not
enjoyed the ride. Still, Miss Lou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars"
Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. That is, they did until the coming of
Mr. Dave.
In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend. From a far Northern State was Mr.
Dave. He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, but after he had bought his
cargo he still stayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha's education," so
he said.
Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pasha liked. He had a gentle manner of
talking to you, of smoothing your flanks and rubbing your ears, which
gained your confidence and made you sure that he understood. He was firm
and sure in giving commands, yet so patient in teaching one tricks, that
it was a pleasure to learn.
So, almost before Pasha knew it, he could stand on his hind legs, could
step around in a circle in time to a tune which Mr. Dave whistled, and
could do other things which few horses ever learn to do. His chief
accomplishment, however, was to kneel on his forelegs in the attitude of
prayer. A long time it took Pasha to learn this, but Mr. Dave told him
over and over again, by word and sign, until at last the son of the
great Selim could strike a pose such as would have done credit to a
Mecca pilgrim.
"It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Lou.
But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dave had been teaching tricks to
horses ever since he was a small boy, and never had he found such an apt
pupil as Pasha.
Many a glorious gallop did Pasha and Miss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayed
at Gray Oaks, Dave riding the big bay gelding that Miss Lou, with all
her daring, had never ventured to mount. It was not all galloping
though, for Pasha and the big bay often walked for miles through the
wood lanes, side by side and very close together, while Miss Lou and Mr.
Dave talked, talked, talked. How they could ever find so much to say to
each other Pasha wondered.
But at last Mr. Dave went away, and with his going ended good times for
Pasha, at least for many months. There followed strange doings. There
was much excitement among the stable-boys, much riding about, day and
night, by the men of Gray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One day the
stables were cleared of all horses save Pasha.
"Some time, if he is needed badly, you may have Pasha, but not now,"
Miss Lou had said. And then she had hidden her face in his cream-white
mane and sobbed. Just what the trouble was Pasha did not understand, but
he was certain "Mars" Clayton was at the bottom of it.
No longer did Miss Lou ride about the country. Occasionally she galloped
up and down the highway, to the Pointdexters and back, just to let Pasha
stretch his legs. Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips. Sometimes he
would pass many men on horses riding close together in a pack, as the
hounds run when they have the scent. They wore strange clothing, did
these men, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knives
that swung at their sides. The sight of them set Pasha's nerves
tingling. He would sniff curiously after them and then prick forward
his ears and dance nervously.
Of course Pasha knew that something unusual was going on, but what it
was he could not guess. There came a time, however, when he found out
all about it. Months had passed when, late one night, a hard-breathing,
foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard and taken
into the almost deserted stable. Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars"
Clayton swearing at the stable-boys. Pasha heard his own name spoken,
and guessed that it was he who was wanted. Next came Miss Lou to the
stable.
"I'm very sorry," he heard "Mars" Clayton say, "but I've got to get out
of this. The Yanks are not more than five miles behind."
"But you'll take good care of him, won't you?" he heard Miss Lou ask
eagerly.
"Oh, yes; of course," replied "Mars" Clayton, carelessly.
A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha's back, the girths pulled cruelly
tight, and in a moment "Mars" Clayton was on his back. They were barely
clear of Gray Oaks driveway before Pasha felt something he had never
known before. It was as if someone had jabbed a lot of little knives
into his ribs. Roused by pain and fright, Pasha reared in a wild attempt
to unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars" Clayton's knees seemed glued to
Pasha's shoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake him off by sudden leaps,
side-bolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These manoeuvres brought vicious
jerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouth
sorrily and more jabs from the little knives. In this way did Pasha
fight until his sides ran with blood and his breast was plastered thick
with reddened foam.
In the meantime he had covered miles of road, and at last, along in the
cold gray of the morning, he was ridden into a field where were many
tents and horses. Pasha was unsaddled and picketed to a stake. This
latter indignity he was too much exhausted to resent. All he could do
was to stand, shivering with cold, trembling from nervous excitement,
and wait for what was to happen next.
It seemed ages before anything did happen. The beginning was a tripping
bugle-blast. This was answered by the voice of other bugles blown here
and there about the field. In a moment men began to tumble out of the
white tents. They came by twos and threes and dozens, until the field
was full of them. Fires were built on the ground, and soon Pasha could
scent coffee boiling and bacon frying. Black boys began moving about
among the horses with hay and oats and water. One of them rubbed Pasha
hurriedly with a wisp of straw. It was little like the currying and
rubbing with brush and comb and flannel to which he was accustomed and
which he needed just then, oh, how sadly. His strained muscles had
stiffened so much that every movement gave him pain. So matted was his
coat with sweat and foam and mud that it seemed as if half the pores of
his skin were choked.
He had cooled his parched throat with a long draught of somewhat muddy
water, but he had eaten only half of the armful of hay when again the
bugles sounded and "Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening the girths, until
they almost cut into Pasha's tender skin, he jumped into the saddle and
rode off to where a lot of big black horses were being reined into line.
In front of this line Pasha was wheeled. He heard the bugles sound once
more, heard his rider shout something to the men behind, felt the
wicked little knives in his sides, and then, in spite of aching legs,
was forced into a sharp gallop. Although he knew it not, Pasha had
joined the Black Horse Cavalry.
The months that followed were to Pasha one long, ugly dream. Not that he
minded the hard riding by day and night. In time he became used to all
that. He could even endure the irregular feeding, the sleeping in the
open during all kinds of weather, and the lack of proper grooming. But
the vicious jerks on the torture-provoking cavalry bit, the flat sabre
blows on the flank which he not infrequently got from his ill-tempered
master, and, above all, the cruel digs of the spur-wheels--these things
he could not understand. Such treatment he was sure he did not merit.
"Mars" Clayton he came to hate more and more. Some day, Pasha told
himself, he would take vengeance with teeth and heels, even if he died
for it.
In the meantime he had learned the cavalry drill. He came to know the
meaning of each varying bugle-call, from reveille, when one began to paw
and stamp for breakfast, to mournful taps, when lights went out, and the
tents became dark and silent. Also, one learned to slow from a gallop
into a walk; when to wheel to the right or to the left, and when to
start on the jump as the first notes of a charge were sounded. It was
better to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk on
the bits or a prod from the spurs.
No more was he terror-stricken, as he had been on his first day in the
cavalry, at hearing behind him the thunder of many hoofs. Having once
become used to the noise, he was even thrilled by the swinging metre of
it. A kind of wild harmony was in it, something which made one forget
everything else. At such times Pasha longed to break into his long,
wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must leave the others no
more than a pace or two behind, although he could have easily
outdistanced them all.
Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire. No more did he dance at the
crack of carbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. He could even hold his
ground when shells went screaming over him, although this was hardest of
all to bear. One could not see them, but their sound, like that of great
birds in flight, was something to try one's nerves. Pasha strained his
ears to catch the note of each shell that came whizzing overhead, and,
as it passed, looked inquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask, "Now
what on earth was that?"
But all this experience could not prepare him for the happenings of
that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There had been a period full of
hard riding and ending with a long halt. For several days hay and oats
were brought with some regularity. Pasha was even provided with an
apology for a stall. It was made by leaning two rails against a fence.
Some hay was thrown between the rails. This was a sorry substitute for
the roomy box-stall, filled with clean straw, which Pasha always had at
Gray Oaks, but it was as good as any provided for the Black Horse
Cavalry.
And how many, many horses there were! As far as Pasha could see in
either direction the line extended. Never before had he seen so many
horses at one time. And men! The fields and woods were full of them;
some in brown butternut, some in homespun gray, and many in clothes
having no uniformity of color at all. "Mars" Clayton was dressed better
than most, for on his butternut coat were shiny shoulder-straps, and it
was closed with shiny buttons. Pasha took little pride in this. He knew
his master for a cruel and heartless rider, and for nothing more.
One day there was a great parade, when Pasha was carefully groomed for
the first time in months. There were bands playing and flags flying.
Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the head
of a squadron of coal-black horses, passed in review before a big,
bearded man wearing a slouch hat fantastically decorated with long
plumes and sitting a great black horse in the midst of a little knot of
officers.
Early the next morning Pasha was awakened by the distant growl of heavy
guns. By daylight he was on the move, thousands of other horses with
him. Nearer and nearer they rode to the place where the guns were
growling. Sometimes they were on roads, sometimes they crossed fields,
and again they plunged into the woods where the low branches struck
one's eyes and scratched one's flanks. At last they broke clear of the
trees to come suddenly upon such a scene as Pasha had never before
witnessed.
Far across the open field he could see troop on troop of horses coming
toward him. They seemed to be pouring over the crest of a low hill, as
if driven onward by some unseen force behind. Instantly Pasha heard,
rising from the throats of thousands of riders, on either side and
behind him, that fierce, wild yell which he had come to know meant the
approach of trouble. High and shrill and menacing it rang as it was
taken up and repeated by those in the rear. Next the bugles began to
sound, and in quick obedience the horses formed in line just on the
edge of the woods, a line which stretched and stretched on either flank
until one could hardly see where it ended.
From the distant line came no answering cry, but Pasha could hear the
bugles blowing and he could see the fronts massing. Then came the order
to charge at a gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly at the bit, but
for what reason he did not know. He knew only that he was part of a
great and solid line of men and horses sweeping furiously across a field
toward that other line which he had seen pouring over the hill-crest.
He could scarcely see at all now. The thousands of hoofs had raised a
cloud of dust that not only enveloped the onrushing line, but rolled
before it. Nor could Pasha hear anything save the thunderous thud of
many feet. Even the shrieking of the shells was drowned. But for the
restraining bit Pasha would have leaped forward and cleared the line.
Never had he been so stirred. The inherited memory of countless desert
raids, made by his Arab ancestors, was doing its work. For what seemed a
long time this continued, and then, in the midst of the blind and
frenzied race, there loomed out of the thick air, as if it had appeared
by magic, the opposing line.