War Horse: Author's Note–Chapter 4

He stands, a splendid red bay with a remarkable white cross emblazoned on his forehead and with four perfectly matched white socks.

He looks wistfully out of the picture, his ears pricked forward, his head turned as if he has just noticed us standing there.

To many who glance up at it casually, as they might do when the hall is opened up for parish meetings, for harvest suppers or evening socials, it is merely a tarnished old oil painting of some unknown horse by a competent but anonymous artist.

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 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.

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 firebrand? Not bad at all.”

My owner had a rope in his hand and was clambering into the pen followed by three or four of his red-faced friends.

I felt the halter slip over my head and tighten around my neck and face.

My one consolation as I was hauled into the stables that first evening was the knowledge that I was not alone.

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.

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?

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.

“You should never talk to horses, Albert,” said his mother from outside. “They don’t understand you. They’re stupid creatures. Obstinate and stupid, that’s what your father says, and he’s known horses all his life.”

A yearling colt and a young boy have more in common than awkward gawkishness.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

"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 was to learn during that week the rudiments of plowing like a farm horse.

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.

Yet in spite of the normality of the routine, there was a growing tension on the farm, and I began to feel an acute sense of foreboding.

"You don’t drink, Mother,” Albert replied vehemently. “And you’ve got worries just like he has and, anyway, if you did drink you wouldn’t yell at me like he does. I do all the work I can, and more, and still he never stops complaining that this isn’t done and that isn’t done..."

But Albert and his father scarcely spoke to each other anymore those days, and Albert’s mother was used more and more by both as a go-between, as a negotiator. It was on a Wednesday morning with the war but a few weeks old, that Albert’s mother was again arbitrating between them in the yard outside.

“All right, then,” Albert conceded, as he always did when his mother intervened, for he hated to upset her.

Excited as I was, I remember that a sense of deep apprehension came over me as we trotted up into the village.

There were men in khaki uniforms everywhere, and then, as Albert’s father dismounted and led us up past the church toward the green, a military band struck up a rousing, pounding march.

He was tall and elegant in his jodhpurs and military belt, with a silver sword at his side.

The vet, a small, bustling man with a bushy black moustache, prodded me all over, lifted each of my feet to examine them—which I objected to—and then peered into my eyes and my mouth, sniffing at my breath.

Then I was trotted around and around the yard before he pronounced me a perfect specimen. “Sound as a bell. Fit for anything, cavalry or artillery,” were the words he used.

Even old Zoey, obedient and placid as she always was, stopped and would not be moved on no matter how hard Albert’s father pulled her.