Man O'War (29 page)

The red-coated marshal was directly in front of them. Their post position was number 7, but the track officials had decided Man o' War should lead the post parade for the Preakness. There were a lot of people in the stands and infield who would be getting their first look at the two-year-old champion, now going into his first race as a three-year-old. Kummer also knew that every horseman in the East was there.

They reached the track, and the jockey signaled to Clyde Gordon to turn them loose. Danny still had hold of the colt's bridle. “Okay, kid,” Kummer said, “let go.”

The track band had begun to play the immortal Preakness hymn, “Maryland, My Maryland.” Kummer tied a knot in the reins, making them still shorter. The huge crowd was on its feet, listening and singing to the first strains of the music while watching the horses step onto the track.

Man o' War bolted. Kummer pulled hard, trying to restrain him. The music continued but the fans were no longer listening. Their roar drowned out the Preakness hymn as Man o' War swept up the track, his head thrust forward and tail streaming behind him. He ran faster and faster, with Kummer standing in his stirrup irons. There seemed to be no holding him. Then, suddenly, he slowed down, as if of his own accord. He turned in the direction of the packed stands, his ears pricked and alert, his eyes blazing yet curious, too. It seemed that he had pulled himself up to find out what all the commotion was about. Before he had a chance to move again, the red-coated marshal caught hold of his bridle.

A roar of applause and laughter came from the crowd as once again the band played the Preakness hymn and the field caught up to Man o' War. But everyone wondered, too, how much the run up the stretch had taken out of the fiery colt.

Clarence Kummer had been humbled by Man o' War but not beaten. He had more respect for the colt's quickness, but still felt confident that he could handle him. In the future, however, he'd let Clyde Gordon and Major Treat accompany them to the post. It was better to save the running until later.

The eight other three-year-olds were lined up at the barrier, six inside, two on the outside of him. Kummer wasn't worried about any of them. He'd ridden against most of the field before, including Man o' War. It was good to be sitting on the top horse for a change, he decided. He expected to go a long way with him, maybe becoming as famous as Johnny Loftus. Man o' War could do it for him, but one thing was certain: he had no intention of stirring up the colt. It wasn't necessary, for Man o' War had enough run in him to catch the others without prodding, especially now that the distances were longer. Today a whole mile and an eighth stretched before them.

On the rail St. Allan and On Watch were fractious and raising the devil. Upset, alongside Man o' War, was just as bad. Kummer spoke to him, trying to keep his mount quiet. He was eager to get away himself, but he must not be overanxious in the saddle. It would only stir up Man o' War still more.

Kummer glanced at Blazes in the fifth position. That colt was a great sprinter. He'd be away first, but he wouldn't last. King Thrush, with Earl Sande up, would be out fast too, trying to run them into the ground. The strategy of the other stables, Kummer decided, was to set a furious pace and hope to wear down Man o' War while Upset, Wildair, and On Watch caught the big colt in the homestretch.

The strategy wouldn't work. He had too much horse under him to be caught.

For six more minutes the horses and riders milled behind the barrier, all bent on wearing down Man o' War one way or another. It was a tough first outing for a three-year-old. Kummer kept his mount back. Feustel's instructions were simply to keep Man o' War out of trouble, and that's what he intended to do. The big colt responded to his quiet commands. He was anxious to be off, but was not rebellious. He had brains, Kummer decided. He had proved it in his dash up the track earlier. Any other colt would have kept running and had nothing left for the race.

The starter had them all in line and straight. Kummer leaned forward for the first time, waiting for the barrier to go up. The elastic webbing flew skyward, the yellow flag came down, and the famed Preakness had begun!

Man o' War plunged forward, his head up and eyes blazing. Kummer gave him full rein, surprised that the big colt was so quick on his feet and went into stride so easily. He was near the front and showing amazing speed at this early stage of the
race. Kummer gave him his head, and only King Thrush stayed alongside as Man o' War's strides lengthened. Earl Sande, up on King Thrush, was using his whip but Kummer had no need to urge his mount on. Man o' War was running for the sheer love and excitement of it. He seemed to glory in his freedom and the thrill of racing.

Before they had reached the first turn, Man o' War was in front. He swept around the turn going faster and faster, and when Kummer saw that they had killed off King Thrush, he began taking hold of the eager colt.

At first the jockey felt Man o' War's resentment. The big colt fought him, trying to get his head down and to run as he pleased. Then, slowly, there was a response to his hands and the long strides shortened. They passed the half-mile pole with Man o' War running easily and well within himself. He was still eager to show his best, but Kummer found that he was able to control him while in full stride. There was no need to saw on the reins.

The backstretch was deep and rough, giving way under Man o' War's flying hoofs. Kummer glanced back at the straggling field from five to thirty-six lengths behind them. Upset was the closest to them, but not near enough to be any threat. They sped around the final turn.

Entering the homestretch, Upset made his bid to catch them, but Kummer didn't turn Man o' War loose. He knew Upset was being driven under the hardest kind of punishment and wouldn't last.

Man o' War moved easily past the stands, receiving ever-increasing applause as if it was his just due. His tail streaming out behind him, he drew still farther away from Upset and the cream of the season's three-year-olds. He seemed to be enjoying himself and was barely taking a long breath. He swept beneath
the finish wire not extended, not tired.

The cheers continued as he was turned around and came back to the winner's circle. The crowd pressed hard against the enclosure to get close to this colt who had made a mockery of the historic Preakness. The ovation rose to its greatest heights when the horseshoe of black-eyed Susans was placed about his neck. He stood quietly, his head held high, his gleaming flanks scarcely damp. He looked every bit the noble champion he was.

Far back in the crowd Danny waited, his eyes leaving Man o' War to glance impatiently into the dusk of the eastern sky. Only with the coming night would Man o' War be his alone again. Then he would be able to tell him what a great three-year-old he was.

It was early evening when Danny finished “cooling out” Man o' War. The crowd in the stable area had lingered, feasting their eyes on the chestnut colt, unable even then to let him go.

Danny offered him a drink of water but the colt refused it. Man o' War pulled on the lead shank as if he were still feeling fresh and wanted no part of the closed stall. Danny let him have his way, walking rapidly just to keep up with him. They passed beneath the trees, and the gazes of all who remained in the area followed them.

The throng nodded in full appreciation of what it saw, for Man o' War held his beautiful head high and the long star on his nose stood out dramatically in the night. His long, sinewy neck curved like that of a war horse. He seemed to know very well that people were watching him, and yet there was aloofness, perhaps even disdain, in his brilliant eyes.

“He certainly looks as if he hadn't raced at all,” a newspaperman said.

Louis Feustel nodded. “He's in fine physical shape,” the
trainer agreed, “but he wasn't nearly at his best today. He needed the race under his belt. He'll improve fast now. You'll see.

“We saw plenty already,” the newsman said.

Feustel went on, “Unless I miss my guess, he'll show the American public something very unusual in speed and stamina before the season ends.”

The trainer's eyes left the colt, turning to Mr. Riddle. “Don't you agree, sir?”

“Yes, Louis, I do,” Mr. Riddle said. “I expect him to improve considerably over today's race.”

The newspaperman took another tack, turning also to Mr. Riddle. “Is it true you've been offered $500,000 for him by a syndicate?”

Man o' War's owner smiled. “I've been flattered by many offers,” he replied. “But I've never taken any of them seriously. I have my own plans for him.”

“Do you plan to race him in the big handicaps?”

“Just in the ones for his age only,” Mr. Riddle said. “My object is to give him the best possible opportunity to show the public how great a horse he is. But I don't want to see him carrying any more weight than the handicappers have already put on his back. It's enough to ask of any three-year-old, even Man o' War.”

Mr. Riddle turned back to his friends, but the newspaperman was persistent. “But would you race him against
older
horses, if he didn't have to carry any more weight than the 126 pounds for his age?”

Mr. Riddle smiled. “There'll be exceptions, of course. We're not afraid of Sir Barton, Exterminator, or any of the other older horses, providing we don't have to give them weight, too.”

“I'm sure the public would like to see such a race,” the reporter said.

Mr. Riddle nodded. “Man o' War belongs to the public as much as he does to me,” he said quietly. “He's the greatest horse that ever set foot on a racetrack.”

Danny walked Man o' War through darkness lit only by a moon in its first quarter. “Don't let all this talk go to your head, Red,” he whispered.

The boy knew that by the next day the world would echo Mr. Riddle's praise of Man o' War. His easy win in the Preakness had demonstrated that he was a stayer. Nothing his age could hold a candle to him!

The following morning Man o' War was shipped back to Belmont Park. Those who went with him, including Danny, felt as only people can who are in the entourage of a great champion. This was their hour as well as Man o' War's. He belonged to everybody in the Riddle stable. Victory was theirs. History was theirs. They would make no mistakes this year. There would be no flukes, no races not truly run in which their colt would be defeated. Nothing would stop Man o' War. Not Paul Jones who had won the Kentucky Derby. Not Sir Barton, Exterminator, or any of the older horses. Their colt was king, and they stood proudly beside him, sharing his glory.

Danny moved over to make room for all those who now claimed Man o' War as their own, too, and watched the colt carefully. Feustel had been right in saying that Man o' War had needed the Preakness under his belt and would improve still more. Daily at Belmont, the colt seemed to grow in stature. There was not a pound of surplus flesh on him anywhere, and his form on the track matched the heroic proportions of his glistening body.

He worked six furlongs in the blazing time of 1:11, and the
morning before his next race he was blown out a furlong in 10 ⅕ seconds, both under the strongest kind of pull and fighting for his head.

Danny washed him off while Mr. Riddle and Louis Feustel stood quietly by. He swept the wet sponge over the colt's powerful quarters, and through the perspiration he could see the black spots Man o' War had inherited from the maternal line of Fair Play. Danny was certain his colt was destined for greater glory than his sire or any of his noble ancestors. Man o' War would stand alone at the top of the world before his racing career ended.

Louis Feustel said, “I don't like all this hero worship he's getting, Mr. Riddle. It's gotten out of hand. But I guess it can't be helped.”

Mr. Riddle nodded, then smiled. “Well, if it'll make you any happier there's one dissenter. Jim Rowe is out to stop our colt.”

Feustel shrugged his shoulders. “He did it once with Upset. But everyone knows that race was a fluke. It couldn't happen again.”

“But he's a fine trainer,” Mr. Riddle said.

“The best, I guess,” Feustel admitted. “That's why everyone listens to him. For some fifty years he'd been enjoying the best of everything the track has to offer, and that includes working with the finest stock and the top breeders and owners. He's had a world of experience, so people pay attention to what he says. But this time he's dead wrong. He's not going to stop our colt, and he knows it. It's hard for him to take.”

“Especially since I'm a
new
owner,” Mr. Riddle said quietly.

“That's part of it,” Feustel admitted. “Jim has been training for Harry Payne Whitney for the last twenty years now. Their
big goal has always been to win the principal two- and three-year-old races. They don't care much about the races for older horses. It's the juveniles they want to win. So they come out each year with a whole team of high-class colts and fillies. They race on a grand scale with all the resources of the Whitney breeding farms behind them. Any one of their youngsters might prove to be a champion. So that's why the rest of us have always felt a certain amount of terror in racing against them.”

“But not this year,” Mr. Riddle said, enjoying the success of Man o' War.

“Yeah, we come along with a wonder colt that takes the Hopeful and the Futurity. We upset all their plans. And here they were this season with three colts they thought the world of—Upset, Wildair, and John P. Grier—all of Ben Brush's male line crossed with mares carrying the blood of Domino, which have produced the most brilliant early-speed and stakes-winning juveniles of the day. I guess they got a right to be a little bitter.”

“Perhaps so,” Mr. Riddle answered, “but that's racing.”