Readin’ about the fine Staples of Frank Work and William H. Vanderbilt the other day, and how Swiveler and Edward and Maud S. are taken care of better than most men and women are, I couldn’t help thinkin’ of the fate (so different from theirs) of old Abdallah, from whom Maud S. and St. Julien, Edwin Thorne, Clingstone, Goldsmith Maid and other famous horses are descended.
Old Abdallah was the sire of Hambletonian, and yet he was treated like a dog, and died a dog’s death. He wasn’t very handsome to look at, had a rat tail and thin mane, wasn’t ever supposed to amount to anythin’, and was treated accordin’ly. He was put to hard work over on Long Island farms, but as he was a proud horse, although he didn’t seem to have anythin’ to be proud of, he wasn’t much of a success as a work-horse. So one day his boss sold him to a clam peddler, who as soon as he got him, proceeded to harness him to his cart. But it really seemed as if old Abdallah knew and appreciated the ignoble use to which he was bein’ put. Farmin’ was bad enough, but to pull a peddler’s cart–never! So the proud old horse reared and plunged and wound up by smashin’ the clam cart to pieces. This settled that matter, but it also settled old Abdallah. The clam peddler, in a fit of very natural rage, under the circumstances, turned out the poor proud old animal on the bleak hills of the South-side to die.
And there he did die slowly, of starvation. Not even a mosquito can live with any degree of comfort in some parts of Long Island, and poor old Abdallah’s appetite was the only healthy thing about him. He was sick, worn out, but still forever hungry. But he had nothin’ to eat, wandered around aimlessly in the sand, got too weak to wander, laid down on the hot, bare sand, and never got up again. His old bones are bleachin’ somewhere in the sand heaps to-day. And yet he was the sire of the greatest trottin’ stallion that ever lived. And his family now are valued at anywhere from $20,000 to $100,000 each.
In marked contrast to this sad and was the death of the once famous war horse and racer Brandy, who had been through the war of 1812, etc. Brandy havin’ had his day, and done his fightin’ and trottin’, was bought by a wealthy merchant and presented as a playmate to his children. All blooded horses are fond of children, and Brandy was particularly attached to ‘em. He followed ‘em about just like a little pony, and was specially fond of playin’ with and bein’ petted by the merchant’s little daughter, who gave him sugar and made a sort of huge four-legged doll of the old war horse.
When Brandy fell sick, the merchant’s wife nursed him as tenderly as she would have nursed a child, and just before he died the veteran raised himself, gave a neigh as if scentin’ the battle from afar, then looked around him with an almost human look of affection and farewell, and, surrounded by sincere mourners, left this world in a fashion that any man would have wished to leave it.
Horses, I have found, have just as great differences amongst ‘emselves as men and women have–not only as to their deaths, but their lives.
It is a curious and instructive thing to see how the similarity between human bein’s and horses is carried out.
There are a good many fathers, for instance, who are never heard of till their children turn out great, and exactly the same is true of some horses.
Old Hambletonian was never thought so very much of for a good many years, till his son Dexter turned out to be such a “crack.” But from that time Rysdyk’s Hambletonian ranked A No. 1.
The same was the case of Volunteer. This horse wasn’t considered of any great account till some of his stock, Bodine, Gloster, etc., proved to be such splendid horses. Then, shinin’ by reflected light, old Volunteer went up ahead.
Then again there are some men whose origin and antecedents are surrounded by mystery. Nobody ever found finds out anythin’ about their origin and early years. Some horses have been just this way.
There was Remus, the king of the trotters once, a magnificent horse. Nobody was ever able to trace exactly his pedigree. They know who his sire was, but they don’t know any further up the pedigree.
One day a seedy-lookin’ fellow, just gettin’ over the jimjams, and still shaky, drove through the streets of Harlem in a dilapidated lookin’ rig, drawn by a rather fine-looking’ horse. A butcher named Roorback, who was a good judge of horseflesh, came along, and seein’ the horse took a fancy to him and offered the seedy-lookin’ loafer a trifle for him. It wasn’t quarter what he was worth, but the seedy-lookin’ fellow jumped at the trifle, handed Roorback over the horse and disappeared. Nobody around to those parts ever saw the seedy-lookin’ chap again. Probably he drank himself to death with the money Roorback gave him. As for the horse, he was put to a butcher’s cart and did good, though not very excitin’ or elevated service. Gettin’ tired of him at last, and not dreamin’ of the real quality of his animal, Roorback sold the horse to R. B. Conklin, who out of him bred Remus. After Remus had become celebrated, they try to make out a great pedigree for him, but didn’t succeed. The pedigree searchers couldn’t get any further than the seedy-lookin’ drunkard. And just as many men begin life, very humbly and gradually develop ‘emselves into somethin’ stupendous, just so with horses.
There was a horse once who began by pullin’ a dirt cart in Harlem and wound up by bein’ the best steeplechaser in the country, known to every horseman as “Bay Rum.”
Another horse for years pulled a grocer’s cart and wound up as one of the “crack” trotters, Edwin Thorne.
A third horse was hitched to a plow, but lived to win a lot of races as Captain Lewis, while the most celebrated horse of the time, St. Julien, was once in the shafts of a milk wagon.
The good book says that a prophet is never without honor savin’ in his own country, among his own people, and it often happens that a man’s own family are the last to appreciate him. Just so it is sometimes with horses.
There was Goldsmith Maid, for example. She was never thought anythin’ of by those who knew her first and handled her most. She was regarded in early life as an animal no one could get any good of. She was bred by Johnny B., as the boys called him, or Mr. John B. Decker, of Deckertown, as he called himself, and he regarded the mare as too nervous and high-strung ever to be of much practical use. She was a regular female in bein’ irregular in her habits. She did just what she pleased, and didn’t please to do much. They put her to a plow and she would start off to her work all right; then something would happen to attract her ladyship’s attention, and from that moment she was n. g. to the plow. If they tried to keep her to her work she would kick and run away; and kickin’ and runnin’ away was all she ever did in harness, anyway. Nobody round the farm could cure her. So at last Johnny B., gettin’ tired of the circus, sold her to his nephew for a few hundred dollars, and thanked his stars he was rid of her.
Under her new master, about all that the Maid did was to run races by moonlight with the other horses, and always beat ‘em. A very amusin’ style of thing, but not very profitable. But one moonlight night Alden Goldsmith saw the Maid at her pranks and took a fancy to her.
The next mornin’ confirmed his favorable impressions and he bought the mare for about twice what Johnny B.’s nephew had paid for her; and then he, too (that is, Johnny B.’s nephew), thanked his stars he had got rid of her. But both uncle and nephew lived to materially change their opinions.
Goldsmith put the mare at once into the hands of Bill Bodine, the trainer; and here Goldsmith showed his good sense. He could easily have got trainers more brilliant than Bill and drivers much better, but he couldn’t have got for love or money a more careful, perfect trainer, nor a better man to handle the mare. Billy Bodine is certainly entitled to the credit of havin’ made Goldsmith Maid what she was. He worked her patiently and faithfully until she was steady in harness and began to show her speed. Then Budd Doble got hold of her and took her round the country, “hippodromin’” her and makin’ big money out of other people. Finally Henry W. Smith, the banker, bought her and put her on the celebrated Fashion farm. Smith is said to have paid $20,000 for her and to regard her as the best brood mare in the world.
Some men and some horses have bad luck steady all their lives, or come to grief at last through no fault of their own.
Alexander’s Abdallah was a horse of the latter kind. He was of tip-top pedigree, bein’ a son of old Hambletonian, and was in every way a first-class horse. There was only one thing against him and that was everythin’–he was unlucky. He had several mishaps, and finally came into the possession of Mr. Alexander, who put him on the Woodburn farm, where another mishap befell him which wound him up.
Alexander, the owner of Woodburn, was a Union man, and therefore quite unpopular among the out and out Kentuckians, who did all they could to annoy the great turfman. Now, the surest way to annoy Alexander was to annoy his horses, so the red-hot Kentuckians used to vent their spite on the Woodburn horses in a way that didn’t speak very well for Kentucky chivalry. Among other things, they one day made a raid on the farm and run off with Bay Chief and Abdallah.
Alexander raised a hue and cry over his captured favorites, and a Federal force was sent in pursuit. But the pursuit did more harm by far than the original raid. The Federals and the Secessionists met, had a hand to hand fight, and in the skirmish Bay Chief was killed and Abdallah wounded.
The latter horse, however, fell into the possession of one of the Union soldiers, who rode off with him and hid him, so as to get a reward from Alexander for findin’ him again. Then somebody found out where Abdallah was hidden and sent word to Alexander, who now made another raid after his own horse.
Meanwhile the object of all this solicitude was very badly treated, underfed and abused by those who had him in charge, and this style of treatment, added to the injuries he had originally received in the skirmish, brought on a fever, of which the animal died just as he got back into Alexander’s hands again.
Another unlucky horse, always knocked about, was old Chicago. He was lucky enough for his owner, mind, who had made big money off of him, but he never had any of the luck himself–only the hard work. He was driven all over the United States, from Bangor, Maine, to New Orleans and San Francisco, and was hardly allowed his necessary rest. He was a huge feeder, and liked his ease, but all his life long was fated to be on the go, and to go most of the time hungry.
He fell into the hands of Jim Rockey, the driver, who played him for all he was worth, and sometimes, unless reports mislead, for a good deal more.
The first name Chicago had was different from his later name; in fact, Chicago’s real name was not Chicago. It was “Hard Bread.” He got this name by a mere accident. Jim Rockey happened to see one day a wagon passin’ by with a sign “Hard Bread” conspicuously displayed upon it. It hit Jim’s fancy, and he at once gave it to his horse, about the only thing he ever did give him, except his last name, Chicago.
This was bestowed upon him one time by Jim when he went on a “ringin’” tour with his horse. “Hard Bread” by this time was pretty well known, and it was hard to get big bets against him. So Jim Rockey puzzled his brains to get a new name for the old horse, a name that would take, and imply smartness, and dash, and all that, and at the same time be familiar, not scientific, or anythin’ of that kind. So last the idea occurred to him of callin’ “Hard Bread” Chicago, and he acted on the idea. There could not be a better name for a fast horse than a fast town, and as Jim Rockey said when he rechristened the animal, “If he is only as rapid as his name he will win all the money I want.” Some say that for a while “Hard Bread” was called Jim Rockey, after his driver, and others tell yarns of horse called Unknown, who was really Chicago under another alias. Certain it is anyway that the horse had plenty of names and hard work.
Well, after circusin’ and hippodromin’ and trottin’ all round the country, Chicago, or whatever his name was, got worn out, and then his owners got sick of him, just as he got sick, and sold him off to a second-class sport, who traded him off to a third-class sport, who sold him to a truckman, who parted with him to a peddler, who sold him to a contractor, who used him to haul dirt.
While dirt haulin’ in San Francisco, a New York turfman noticed him, and made up his mind, although he did not recognize him, that he had been a good horse once and had stuff in him still. He bought him cheap, and for a little while the old horse did enjoy what he hadn’t been used to, a streak of good luck.
Perhaps the most touchin’ story I know of in the horseflesh line was told me the other day by a sportin’ friend, and it still further serves to show how like some horses are in their destinies to some men, or how their careers illustrate alike the good and evil sides. The story I allude to was told me of the fine old trotter that used to be so popular among turfmen under the name of Silas Rich.
Silas Rich was in his day one of the very greatest two and three mile horses, and was kept to his work all the time. He won a great deal of money for his owners, but the constant strain on him wore him out at last. He got to Texas and there was heard of no more. Those who did find time to remember him thought he was dead.
One fine day a New York sport found himself in the streets of the old Texan town of San Antonio. He idled along the principal streets of the place, and while smokin’ and strokin’ his mustache, about the only two things there were just then for him to do, he saw an old, thin, seen-better-days horse hitched to a cart standin’ at a corner.
The sport was about to pass on, and do more smokin’ and mustache strokin’, when the old horse made a peculiar movement, a sort of twitch of his hind leg and his tail together. The sport paused and look at the old horse curiously. He remembered this sort of a “combination” movement well, though he hadn’t seen it Illustrated before for years.
There had been a fine trotter years and years ago named Silas Rich, who had been addicted to just that peculiar combination movement, which the sport hadn’t noticed in any other horse before or since.
Moved by curiosity and some impulse he could hardly account for, the sport stepped up to the old cart horse, examined him narrowly, and was convinced that there before him, worn-out, nearly blind, lame and “played,” stood, or tried to stand, the very horse on whom the sport had won a pile of money in the days gone by. Yes, that old dilapidated cart horse was the once crack trotter Silas Rich, or all that was left of him. Poor Rich! He was spavined, curbed and ring-boned, gone to seed generally, but his eyes had some spirit in ‘em still, as if the beast remembered sometimes what he had been once.
The sight of that dilapidated old trotter set the sport to thinkin’ upon the ups and downs of life; and it did more than set him to thinkin’–it set him to feelin’ and to behavin’ right.
“Old boy,” he said, strokin’ the horse this time instead of his own mustache. “I have won many a dollar on you, and you can’t die yet, in this sort of rig,” lookin’ at the worn-out stuffy cart harness, “if I can help it.” And he did help it.
He bought the old trotter of his then owner, givin’ him about three times what the cart man had paid for him, and then had him comfortably stabled and attended to.
But the old horse was too weak to rally. Poor Rich’s time had come. He had had hard luck so long that good luck couldn’t do him any good. It came as good luck often comes to a man as well as to beast–too late.
Within two weeks poor Rich died. But I guess that the New York sport never regretted, and never will regret, the kindness he showed to a worn-out favorite. For as I have said time and time again–but can’t say too often–there is something good in human nature, after all.
[Editor’s notes: In addition to Bay Chief and Abdallah, Robert A. Alexander owned Lexington, described as the best racehorse of the 19th century. Lexington was the subject of Geraldine Brook’s recent novel, Horse. Alexander’s farm was raided by infamous guerilla leader William Quantrill.]
