War Horse (10 page)

THERE WAS AN air of determined conspiracy abroad in the yard that day. Whispering groups of men in dripping greatcoats, their collars turned up to keep the rain from their necks, huddled together, their voices low and earnest. Albert seemed scarcely to notice me all day. He would neither talk to me nor even look at me but hurried through the daily routine of mucking out, haying up and grooming, in a deep and gloomy silence. I knew, as every horse in the yard knew, that we were threatened. I was torn with anxiety.

An ominous shadow had fallen on the yard that morning and not one of us could settle in our stables. When we were led out for exercise, we were jumpy
and skittish and Albert, like the other soldiers, responded with impatience, jerking sharply at my halter, something I had never known him do before.

That evening the men were still talking but now Sergeant Thunder was with them and they all stood together in the darkening yard. I could just see in the last of the evening light the glint of money in their hands. Sergeant Thunder carried a small tin box which was being passed around from one to the other and I heard the clink of coins as they were dropped in. The rain had stopped now and it was a still evening so that I could just make out Sergeant Thunder’s low, growling voice. ‘That’s the best we can do, lads,’ he was saying. ‘It’s not a lot, but then we ’aven’t got a lot, ’ave we? No one ever gets rich in this man’s army. I’ll do the bidding like I said – it’s against orders, but I’ll do it. Mind you, I’m not promising anything.’ He paused and looked over his shoulder before going on. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this – the Major said not to – and make no mistake, I’m not in the ’abit of disobeying officers’ orders. But we aren’t at war any more, and anyway this order was more like advice, so to speak. So I’m telling you this ’cos I wouldn’t like you to think badly of the major. ’E knows what’s going on right enough.
Matter of fact the ’ole thing was ’is own idea. It was ’im that told me to suggest it to you in the first place. What’s more, lads, ’e ’s given us every penny of ’is pay that ’e ’ad saved up – every penny. It’s not much but it’ll ’elp. ’Course I don’t ’ave to tell you that no one says a word about this, not a dicky bird. If this was to get about, then ’e goes for the ’igh jump, like all of us would. So mum’s the word, clear?’

‘Have you got enough, Sarge?’ I could hear that it was Albert’s voice speaking.

‘I’m ’oping so, son,’ Sergeant Thunder said, shaking the tin. ‘I’m ’oping so. Now let’s all of us get some shut-eye. I want you layabouts up bright and early in the morning and them ’orses looking their thundering best. It’s the last thing we’ll be doing for ’em, least we can do for ’em seems to me.’

And so the group dispersed, the men walking away in twos and threes, shoulders hunched against the cold, their hands deep in their greatcoat pockets. One man only was left standing by himself in the yard. He stood for a moment looking up at the sky before walking over towards my stable. I could tell it was Albert from the way he walked – it was that rolling farmer’s gait with the knees never quite straightening up after each
stride. He pushed back his peaked cap as he leant over the stable door. ‘I’ve done all I can, Joey,’ he said. ‘We all have. I can’t tell you any more ’cos I know you’d understand every word I said, and then you’d only worry yourself sick with it. This time, Joey, I can’t even make you a promise like I did when Father sold you off to the army. I can’t make you a promise ’cos I don’t know whether I can keep it. I asked old Thunder to help and he helped. I asked the major to help and he helped. And now I’ve just asked God, ’cos when all’s said and done, it’s all up to Him. We’ve done all we can, that’s for certain sure. I remember old Miss Wirtle telling me in Sunday School back home once: “God helps those that helps themselves”. Mean old divil she was, but she knew her scriptures right enough. God bless you, Joey. Sleep tight.’ And he put out his clenched fist and rubbed my muzzle, and then stroked each of my ears in turn before leaving me alone in the dark of the stables. It was the first time he had talked to me like that since the day David had been reported killed, and it warmed my heart just to listen to him.

The day dawned bright over the clock tower, throwing the long, lean shadows of the poplars beyond across the cobbles that glistened with frost. Albert was up with
the others before reveille was blown, so that by the time the first buyers arrived in the yard in their carts and cars, I was fed and watered and groomed so hard that my winter coat gleamed red as I was led out into the morning sun.

The buyers were gathered in the middle of the yard, and we were led, all those that could walk, around the perimeter of the yard in a grand parade, before being brought out one by one to face the auctioneer and the buyers. I found myself waiting in my stable watching every horse in the yard being sold ahead of me. I was, it seemed, to be the last to be brought out. Distant echoes of an earlier auction sent me suddenly into a feverish sweat, but I forced myself to remember Albert’s reassuring words of the night before, and in time my heart stopped racing. So when Albert led me out into the yard I was calm and easy in my stride. I had unswerving faith in him as he patted my neck gently and whispered secretly in my ear. There were audible and visible signs of approval from the buyers as he walked me round in a tight circle, bringing me at last to a standstill facing a line of red, craggy faces and grasping, greedy eyes. Then I noticed in amongst the shabby coats and hats of the buyers, the still, tall figure
of Sergeant Thunder towering above them, and to one side the entire veterinary unit lined up along the wall and watching the proceedings anxiously. The bidding began.

I was clearly much in demand for the bidding was swift to start with, but as the price rose I could see more heads shaking and very soon there seemed to be only two bidders left. One was old Thunder himself, who would touch the corner of his cap with his stick, almost like a salute, to make his bid; and the other was a thin, wiry little man with weasel eyes who wore on his face a smile so full of consummate greed and evil that I could hardly bear to look at him. Still the price moved up. ‘At twenty-five, twenty-six. At twenty-seven. Twenty-seven I’m bid. On my right. Twenty-seven I’m bid. Any more please? It’s against the sergeant there, at twenty-seven. Any more please? He’s a fine young animal, as you see. Got to be worth a lot more than this. Any more please?’ But the sergeant was shaking his head now, his eyes looked down and acknowledged defeat.

‘Oh God, no,’ I heard Albert whisper beside me. ‘Dear God, not him. He’s one of them, Joey. He’s been buying all morning. Old Thunder says he’s the butcher from Cambrai. Please God, no.’

‘Well then, if there are no more bids, I’m selling to Monsieur Cirac of Cambrai at twenty-seven English pounds. Is that all? Selling then for twenty-seven. Going, going . . .’

‘Twenty-eight,’ came a voice from amongst the buyers, and I saw a white haired old man leaning heavily on his stick, shuffle slowly forward through the buyers until he stood in front of them. ‘I’m bidding you twenty-eight of your English pounds,’ said the old man, speaking in hesitant English. ‘And I’ll bid for so long and so high as I need to, I advise you, sir,’ he said, turning to the butcher from Cambrai. ‘I advise you not to try to bid me out. For this horse I will pay one hundred English pounds if I must do. No one will have this horse except me. This is my Emilie’s horse. It is hers by right.’ Before he spoke her name I had not been quite sure that my eyes and ears were not deceiving me, for the old man had aged many years since I had last set eyes on him, and his voice was thinner and weaker than I remembered. But now I was sure. This was indeed Emilie’s grandfather standing before me, his mouth set with grim determination, his eyes glaring around him, challenging anyone to try to outbid him. No one said a word. The butcher from Cambrai shook
his head and turned away. Even the auctioneer had been stunned into silence, and there was some delay before he brought his hammer down on the table and I was sold.

THERE WAS A look of resigned dejection on Sergeant Thunder’s face as he and Major Martin spoke together with Emilie’s grandfather after the sale. The yard was empty now of horses and the buyers were all driving away. Albert and his friends stood around me commiserating with each other, all of them trying to comfort Albert. ‘No need to worry, Albert,’ one of them was saying. ‘After all, could have been worse, couldn’t it? I mean, a lot more’n half of our horses have gone to the butchers and that’s for definite. At least we know Joey’s safe enough with that old farmer man.’

‘How do you know that?’ Albert asked. ‘How do you know he’s a farmer?’

‘I heard him telling old Thunder, didn’t I? Heard him saying he’s got a farm down in the valley. Told old Thunder that Joey would never have to work again so long as he lived. Kept rabbiting on about a girl called Emilie or something. Couldn’t understand half of what he was saying.’

‘Dunno what to make of him,’ said Albert. ‘Sounds mad as a hatter, the way he goes on. “Emilie’s horse by right” – whoever she may be – isn’t that what the old man said? What the divil did he mean by that? If Joey belongs to anyone by right, then he belongs to the army, and if he doesn’t belong to the army, he belongs to me.’

‘Better ask him yourself, Albert,’ said someone else. ‘Here’s your chance. He’s coming over this way with the major and old Thunder.’

Albert stood with his arm under my chin, his hand reaching up to scratch me behind my ear, just where he knew I liked it best. As the Major came closer though, he took his hand away, came to attention and saluted smartly. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ he said. ‘I’d like to thank you for what you did, sir. I know what you did, sir, and I’m greatful. Not your fault we didn’t quite make it, but thanks all the same, sir.’

‘I don’t know what he’s talking about,’ said Major Martin. ‘Do you, Sergeant?’

‘Can’t imagine, sir,’ said Sergeant Thunder. ‘They get like that you know sir, these farming lads. It’s ’cos they’re brung up on cider instead of milk. It’s true, sir, goes to their ’eads, sir. Must do, mustn’t it?’

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Albert went on, puzzled by their levity. ‘I’d like to ask the Frenchman, sir, since he’s gone and bought my Joey. I’d like to ask him about what he said, sir, about this Emilie, or whatever she was called.’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Major Martin, and he turned to the old man. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell him yourself, Monsieur? This is the young man we were speaking of, Monsieur, the one who grew up with the horse and who came all the way to France just to look for him.’

Emilie’s grandfather stood looking sternly up at my Albert from under his bushy white eyebrows, and then his face cracked suddenly and he held out his hand and smiled. Although surprised, Albert reached and shook his hand. ‘So, young man. We have much in common you and I. I am French and you are Tommy. True, I am old and you are young. But we share a love for this
horse, do we not? And I am told by the officer here that at home in England you are a farmer, like I am. It is the best thing to be, and I say that with the wisdom of years behind me. What do you keep on your farm?’

‘Sheep, sir, mostly. A few beef cattle and some pigs,’ said Albert. ‘Plough a few fields of barley as well.’

‘So, it was you that trained the horse to be a farm horse?’ said the old man. ‘You did well my son, very well. I can see the question in your eyes before you ask it, so I’ll tell you how I know. You see your horse and I are old friends. He came to live with us – oh it was a long time ago now, not long after the war began. He was captured by the Germans and they used him for pulling their ambulance cart from the hospital to the front line and back again. There was with him another wonderful horse, a great shining black horse, and the two of them came to live in our farm that was near the German field hospital. My little granddaughter, Emilie, cared for them and came to love them like her own family. I was all the family she had left – the war had taken the rest. The horses lived with us for maybe a year, maybe less, maybe more – it does not matter. The Germans were kind and gave us the horses when they left, and so they became ours, Emilie’s and mine. Then
one day they came back, different Germans, not kind like the others; they needed horses for their guns and so they took our horses away with them when they left. There was nothing I could do. After that my Emilie lost the will to live. She was a sick child anyway, but now with her family dead and her new family taken from her, she no longer had anything to live for. She just faded away and died last year. She was only fifteen years old. But before she died she made me promise her that I would find the horses somehow and look after them. I have been to many horse sales, but I have never found the other one, the black one. But now at last I have found one of them to take home and care for as I promised my Emilie.’

He leant more heavily on his stick now with both hands. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘Tommy,’ he went on. ‘You are a farmer, a British farmer and you will understand that a farmer, whether he is British or French – even a Belgian farmer – never gives things away. He can never afford to. We have to live, do we not? Your Major and your Sergeant have told me how much you love this horse. They told me how every one of these men tried so hard to buy this horse. I think that is a noble thing. I think my Emilie
would have liked that. I think she would understand, that she would want me to do what I will do now. I am an old man. What would I do with my Emilie’s horse? He cannot grow fat in a field all his life, and soon I will be too old to look after him anyway. And if I remember him well, and I do, he loves to work, does he not? I have – how you say? – a proposition to make to you. I will sell my Emilie’s horse to you.’

‘Sell?’ said Albert. ‘But I cannot pay you enough to buy him. You must know that. We collected only twenty-six pounds between us and you paid twenty-eight pounds. How can I afford to buy him from you?’

‘You do not understand, my friend,’ the old man said, suppressing a chuckle. ‘You do not understand at all. I will sell you this horse for one English penny,
and
for a solemn promise – that you will always love this horse as much as my Emilie did and that you will care for him until the end of his days; and more than this, I want you to tell everyone about my Emilie and about how she looked after your Joey and the great black horse when they came to live with us. You see, my friend, I want my Emilie to live on in people’s hearts. I shall die soon, in a few years, no more; and then no one will remember my Emilie as she was. I have no
other family left alive to remember her. She will be just a name on a gravestone that no one will read. So I want you to tell your friends at home about my Emilie. Otherwise it will be as if she had never even lived. Will you do this for me? That way she will live for ever and that is what I want. Is it a bargain between us?’

Albert said nothing for he was too moved to speak. He simply held out his hand in acceptance; but the old man ignored it, put his hands on Albert’s shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ he said. And then he turned and shook hands with every soldier in the unit and at last hobbled back and stood in front of me. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said, and he touched me lightly on my nose with his lips. ‘From Emilie,’ he said, and then walked away. He had gone only a few paces before he stopped and turned around. Wagging his knobbly stick and with a mocking, accusing grin across his face, he said. ‘Then it is true what we say, that there is only one thing at which the English are better than the French. They are meaner. You have not paid me my English penny, my friend.’ Sergeant Thunder produced a penny from the tin and gave it to Albert, who ran over to Emilie’s grandfather.

‘I shall treasure it,’ said the old man. ‘I shall treasure it always.’

And so I came home from the war that Christmas-time with my Albert riding me up into the village, and there to greet us was the silver band from Hatherleigh and the rapturous peeling of the church bells. Both of us were received like conquering heroes, but we both knew that the real heroes had not come home, that they were lying out in France alongside Captain Nicholls, Topthorn, Friedrich, David and little Emilie.

My Albert married his Maisie Cobbledick as he said he would. But I think she never took to me, nor I to her for that matter. Perhaps it was a feeling of mutual jealousy. I went back to my work on the land with dear old Zoey who seemed ageless and tireless; and Albert took over the farm again and went back to ringing his tenor bell. He talked to me of many things after that, of his ageing father who doted on me now almost as much as on his own grandchildren, and of the vagaries of the weather and the markets, and of course about Maisie, whose crusty bread was every bit as good as he had said. But try as I might, I never got to eat any of her pasties and do you know, she never even offered me one.