Black Beauty

The first place I can well remember was a large, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water. I lived there with my mother, Duchess, a wise old horse who gave me counsel I have never forgotten. “I hope you will grow up gentle and good,” she told me, “and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play.” Our master was a kind man who called me Darkie, and I knew nothing but gentle hands and good food. The world was a place of soft grass, my mother's side, and the warm sun, and I thought it would always be so.

When I was four years old, I was sold to Squire Gordon of Birtwick Park, a place that became my home for three happy years. My new master was as kind as my first, and his coachman, John Manly, knew just how a horse feels. I was given a fine, airy stall next to a pert little pony named Merrylegs and a tall chestnut mare named Ginger. Ginger's ears were often laid back, and she had a habit of biting. I soon learned her temper was the fruit of a cruel upbringing, full of harsh bits and harsher men. At Birtwick, under John's patient care, her suspicious nature slowly softened. We three horses became great friends, and our happiest times were spent together, free in the orchard on Sundays.

Life at Birtwick was orderly and good. I learned to carry the mistress, whose light hand was a comfort on the reins, while Ginger, with her proud spirit, carried the master. We learned from each other, and from the older horses, about the follies of men. Sir Oliver told us how his tail had been cruelly docked for fashion, and Ginger spoke of the agony of the bearing rein, a device used to force a horse's head into an unnaturally high position. “If they strain me up tight,” she warned, “why, let ‘em look out! I can't bear it, and I won't.” In our sheltered life, these seemed like troubles from a distant world.

I learned, too, the deep trust that can exist between a horse and a man. One stormy night, the master and John were driving me home in the dogcart when we came to a low wooden bridge. I stopped dead, refusing to set foot on it, for I felt a deep sense of wrongness. No urging from the master could make me move. Just then, a man ran from the tollgate on the other side, waving a torch. “The bridge is broken in the middle!” he cried. “If you come on you'll be into the river!” My master's voice was full of awe when he later spoke of it. He said that God had given animals a knowledge that was more prompt and perfect than human reason, and that I had saved their lives.

But this happy time could not last. Our dear mistress fell ill, and the doctors ordered her to a warmer country. The entire household was broken up, and we horses were to be sold. John Manly's voice was thick with sadness as he gave us our last pat. “We shall never forget you,” he said, “and please God we may some day see mistress back again like herself.” Ginger and I were sold to the Earl of W - , and as John led us away from our home, I felt we were leaving all that was good and safe behind us.

At Earlshall Park, our new life began. While the Earl was a fair man, his wife was ruled by fashion. Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing reins were shortened until our heads were pulled painfully high. It was a constant torment. I bore it, but Ginger's fiery spirit could not. One afternoon, when the rein was tightened further, she reared up in a frenzy of rage and pain, kicking violently until she fell, breaking the carriage pole and injuring us both. After that, she was deemed unsuitable for a lady's carriage and was taken away to be a hunter for one of the Earl's sons. My own downfall came not long after, when a drunken groom named Reuben Smith rode me home from town over sharp, fresh stones with a loose shoe. The shoe came off, my hoof was split to the quick, and at last I stumbled and fell, throwing him from the saddle and breaking my knees.

I was ruined. My blemished knees meant I could never again work in a gentleman's carriage. After a time of healing, I was sold at a horse fair. I was passed from one owner to another, my life growing harder at every turn. For a time, I found a home with a London cab driver named Jeremiah Barker, a man as good and kind as John Manly. In his care, I found a brief respite from my hardship. But it was in London that I saw Ginger for the last time. She was pulling a low, shabby cab, her body thin, her coat ill-kept, her breath short. Her beautiful spirit was broken. “It's no use,” she told me, her voice dull with misery. “Men are strongest, and if they are cruel… there is nothing that we can do, but just bear it, bear it on and on to the end.” A short time later, I saw a cart pass with a dead chestnut horse, and I hoped it was Ginger, for her troubles were finally over.

Jerry, my good master, became sick himself after waiting for hours in the freezing sleet for some thoughtless gentlemen to leave a party. He could no longer work the cab, and his family moved to the country. I was sold again, this time into the deepest misery of my life. My new master, a man named Skinner, worked his horses to death. I was starved, overloaded, and whipped until one day, pulling a cab piled high with luggage, I collapsed on the street. I was so weak I could not rise, and I thought my end had come. I was of no more use to Skinner, and he sent me to the horse fair to be sold for whatever I would fetch.

There, lame and thin, I was noticed by a kind farmer and his young grandson, Willie. “I am sure he would grow young in our meadows,” the boy pleaded. Seeing the breeding still evident in my weary frame, the old man paid five pounds for me, and I was led away to a life of quiet and peace. In their green fields, with good food and gentle care, my strength slowly returned.

One day, I was sold to be a carriage horse for three ladies. As the groom, a pleasant young man, was cleaning my face, he suddenly stopped. He traced the white star on my forehead, the single white foot, and a small patch of white hair on my back. “It must be Black Beauty!” he exclaimed. “Beauty, do you know me? Little Joe Green that almost killed you!” It was indeed the boy from Birtwick, now grown into a fine man. I was home. My ladies promised I would never be sold again. My troubles are all over, and often, before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple trees.