Pit Pony (2 page)

Chapter 3

Willie didn't hear the farmer come into the barn in the morning. He awoke with a start when a pitchfork, thrust into the haymow, narrowly escaped his head.

“Hey!” he shouted.

He pawed his way out, and the cat came after him. Then he and the farmer stood and stared at each other. The farmer was quite old, with a flowing white beard and long white hair. He spoke first.

“Well, now,” he drawled, “I never thought to find a brownie in my barn.”

Willie, who had heard stories of brownies and elves from his grandmother, brushed the hay out of his eyes.

“Oh, sir, I'm not a brownie,” he laughed.

“Who be ye, then?” demanded the old man.

“I'm Willie ... I'm William ... uh, ... just William.”

“Well, then, Just William, what are you doin' in my haymow at the break of day?”

Willie was silent, trying to think what he should say. He heard the roosters crowing loudly outside. The cow mooed anxiously, asking to be milked. Willie scuffed his feet on the rough floor and hung his head.

“I … I ... my horse ran away,” he stammered. “I ran after her and got caught in the dark and the rain, so I took shelter in your barn. I hope you don't mind, sir.”

The old man looked him over. His eyes were very blue and sharp under his white eyebrows. “A bit young to be ownin' a horse, ain't ya? What's your father's name?”

Willie turned and began digging in the hay for his boots. “I won't be botherin' you any longer,” he mumbled.

The farmer picked up a tin pail. “Just a minute. Maybe you are a brownie, after all. I'll give ye a sup of milk, along with puss.”

Willie realized then he was very hungry.

“Oh, thank you, sir. I'll clean out your stables and curry your horses ... and whatever else you want me to do,” he offered.

The old man said no more. He picked up a low, three-legged stool and set about milking his cow. “Swish, swish ... swish, swish,” the rhythmic sound of the milking set Willie to whistling. He looked doubtfully at his damp jacket and decided to spread it out on the hay to dry. He didn't want to catch his “death of cold,” as his grandma always said he would, if he didn't change into dry things.

The farmer rinsed the cat's dish out in a bucket of water before he filled it with warm milk, and handed it to Willie. Oh, how good it tasted! Willie did not often have milk at home, because it cost too much.

He didn't mind mucking out. He had often done it before. He knew how to use a curry comb, too.

The black mare had a sway back, and wheezed when she breathed.

“I hope she's not got the heaves, sir,” said Willie, anxiously.

The farmer smiled. “Her name is Topsy, and you can call me Charley,” he said. “We're both gettin' old, that's for sure. In the spring, I'll have to buy a young colt. I like to break and train my own horses.”

He inspected the clean stables, and watched Willie using brush and curry comb.

“You're doin' a good job, William,” he praised him. “I guess you've been around horses before. At first I thought you might be a runaway from the mines — a collier's son.”

Willie's hand stopped, and he felt his face turn red. “I ... I really was tryin' to catch a horse,” he said.

“Hmmm,” said Charley. “I doubt if you can find that horse, now. Usually a runaway will find its own way home after it gets over a fright. It's probably back in its own stable, right now.”

“But Gem doesn't have a stable!” cried Willie, without thinking.

Charley pulled at his long, white beard. “Never heard of a horse without a stable,” he said. “Except maybe a wild horse, but we don't have wild horses in Cape Breton.”

Willie was silent.

Then Charley said, “Tell you what. I can give a day's work before you go back to where you came from. I need help harvestin' the rest of my turnips before the ground freezes. It looks to be a nice, sunny day.”

He picked up his pail of milk and started for the barn door.

“Keep out of sight of the house. I can't ask you inside because my sister keeps house for me. She's as cranky as a mother bear in spring. Bide here until I get back.”

Willie busied himself around the barn until Charley returned, bringing an old grey sweater with a thick slice of freshly baked bread wrapped up inside. He smiled at Willie, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. Willie smiled back, and then they both laughed aloud as Charley slipped the sweater over Willie's head.

It was much too big. The waistband hung below his knees, and he had to roll the sleeves back six times before his hands were free. But it was warm and clean and sweet-smelling, and the bread tasted even better than the bread his grandmother baked at home.

Charley handed him a shovel and picked up the handles of a wooden wheelbarrow.

“Come along, then,” he ordered, and they set off side by side for the turnip field.

Wee Willie Maclean, who had hardly ever been outside the drab colliery town of Green Bay, thought old Charley's farm must be the most beautiful place on earth. He forgot his troubles. He whistled softly as they tramped across a small pasture carpeted with green grass. Ahead, a stand of maples and birches glowed red and yellow and orange, dressed in bright autumn colours.

The path to the vegetable garden led through the wood. Inside, the sunlight streamed through the branches, and touched upon open mossy glades with gold. Willie stopped to gaze around him in wonder. Charley stopped, too. It was so still and quiet, Willie could hear small creatures rustling through the undergrowth. Maybe rabbits, he thought.

Charley started on again, wheelbarrow creaking. Willie followed. They came to a small stream, half-hidden by brown rushes and green bracken, gurgling over mossy stones. They crossed a narrow footbridge of old planks and came out into bright sunshine again.

Now they were in the turnip field. Willie set to work. It didn't take long to fill the barrow. Charley picked up the handles.

“You keep on digging, lad. Put the turnips in neat piles. I'll be the carrier and take them back and store them in the barn.”

Willie worked hard all morning. Charley went back and forth to the barn, storing the turnips for the winter. At noon, he came back with a small box.

“Here's some lunch for ye, lad. Take a break and I'll be back after I have a bite and my afternoon nap.”

All the time Willie had been working, he had tried not to think about what might have happened to Gem or about what he should do next. Now, as he perched on a big rock at the edge of the field and munched on the bread and cheese Charley had brought, he tried to make a plan. He had no idea in which direction Gem had travelled, so how could he continue to hunt for her?

He loved the farm. He wished he could stay and work for Charley forever. He choked on the last bite of bread, and put the oatmeal cookie in the pocket of the old sweater. He was no longer hungry, but he was thirsty. He decided to go back to the brook to wash his face and hands, and get a drink.

He went back whistling a sad, Scottish ditty. He felt as if he was all alone in the beautiful autumn world, breathing its sweet, cool air, but as he bent over the gurgling stream to drink of the crystal-clear water, he heard something move in the bushes.

He waited, listening.

He had a feeling that he was being watched. He looked up, and there amongst the shadowy trees, sunlight flecking her shaggy chestnut coat, was Gem.

Willie remained very still, afraid if he moved he might startle her.

But Gem knew him.

She gave a soft whicker in greeting. Willie felt in his pocket for the cookie and held it out on his hand. Gem stepped through the shallow brook and came to nibble. The young boy put his cheek against her warm, soft neck and put up a hand to brush the rough, tangled mane out of her eyes.

“Oh, Gem, Gem,” he whispered.

Chapter 4

When Charley came back, he found them there by the brook. He stood for a few moments, silently watching the boy with his arms around the neck of the shaggy horse. Then he spoke softly.

“Will she follow you, lad? If so, we can put her in the barnyard pasture for the time being.”

Willie nodded. Holding Gem's mane, he made soft, coaxing noises. Obediently, the mare plodded after him until they came to the fenced area behind the barn. Willie didn't want to leave her there alone, but Charley said, “Now we'll go back and get the rest of the turnips.”

By mid-afternoon, the turnips were harvested. When he came back for the last barrow load, Charley said, “Let's you and me sit over on the big rock. We better have a heart-to-heart talk, William.”

Willie's heart sank. He didn't want to have a heart-to-heart talk. But Charley wasted no time. He picked up a long stalk of grass and chewed on it as he talked.

“That's an odd-lookin' mare you've got there, lad, with her short legs and round, fat belly. I never saw a horse with such a thick pelt. I've heard tell that's the size and shape of a Sable Island horse. But a'course, this one don't seem very wild. If it wasn't for that, I'd make a guess she's one of the shipment I heard came from the Island to work in the coal mines at Green Bay.”

Willie hung his head. He couldn't lie to the kind old farmer.

“You're right,” he mumbled, “Gem is a Sable Island horse. She's not wild because she used to belong to a lighthouse keeper.”

Charley put a hand on Willie's shoulder. “That explains a lot,” he said, “but it don't explain how come you own her.”

Willie felt tears sting his eyes. He dashed them away with his fists. He made up his mind to tell Charley the whole truth about what had happened. And he did. Then he told how angry his father would be.

“I don't want to go home,” said Willie. “I don't want to go down into the pits when I'm eleven years old. And I don't want Gem to go down, either. I'd rather go down myself than have Gem go down. Maybe ... could you buy her, Charley?”

Charley shook his head. “'Fraid not, lad. I like to train my own horses. This one has run away once and she might run away again. She's not used to farm work.”

“She's not used to mine work, either,” said Willie. He felt as if his heart would break.

“I'm sorry,” said Charley. He threw away the straw and combed his fingers through his white beard. “You and I have to face up to facts, lad. My farm lies only two kilometres outside the town of Green Bay. It won't be long before someone comes lookin' for that horse — and like as not someone will come lookin' for you. If they find that mare in my barnyard and you in my barn, and I haven't reported either of you, I could be accused of kidnapping. I'll end up in jail.”

“Oh, no!” cried Willie.

“That's the way it is,” said Charley firmly. “Now you'll have to decide what to do. You can keep on runnin' and hidin' until you get caught. Or you can go home now and 'fess up to the truth.”

Willie's face turned very white. He felt sick inside. But he had decided.

All he said was, “How'll I take Gem back?”

“You can lead her. I'll make a halter out of a piece of rope and a strip of leather. You can fill your pockets with oats and coax her along,” Charley suggested.

Willie got up from the rock. “I'd better get home before dark,” he said.

The evening shadows grew long as Willie and Gem trudged along the highway. They met only a few people along the way. Two ladies in a rubber-tired buggy with a bony black horse, stopped gossiping long enough to stare at the small boy leading the queer little horse. A farmer on foot tipped his cap and said, “Good evening,” without stopping.

By the time Willie and Gem plodded up the last hill, the sun had set, and the sky blazed red behind the black buildings and the great bull-wheel at the pithead. Willie didn't want to look at that dark scene. He didn't want to think about those black tunnels under the earth that reached far out under the Atlantic Ocean. He didn't want to think about the pits, but he couldn't help it.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. Gem had caught a whiff of the horses penned in the paddock down by the waterfront. With a whicker of joy, she reared up on her hind legs and almost broke away from Willie. He shouted at her and hung on for dear life. She took off at a half-gallop, dragging him along beside her. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet and guide her to the fence. He took down the bars, and off she galloped across the grass to join the others, still wearing her make-shift halter and rope.

Willie replaced the bars and leaned over the fence to watch her.

Poor little Gem! She was happy now. She did not know of the sad fate that awaited her.

With a heavy heart, Willie turned away and slowly started for home.

As soon as he came to Sunny Row, he knew something had happened. People were standing about in small groups, talking in low voices as they did after an accident in the coal mine. Some of the people looked up and nodded, but nobody smiled or said, “Hello.”

Then he saw a black wreath hung on the door of one of the houses. Somebody was dead. That was where Ed MacNeil, his father's buddy, lived.

For as long as Willie could remember, these two men had walked to the mine together and had worked side by side. They were hand-pick miners, who got paid for however much coal they got out in a day. It was said that the pair were the fastest and best workers in the colliery. It would be a terrible thing for Willie's father if Ed MacNeil had been killed.

People were gathered on his own front doorstep, too. Willie's heart gave a thump. He was afraid to ask questions. He went around to the back and opened the door into the kitchen. The table was covered with goodies — an apple pie, a loaf of brown bread, a plate of cookies. It looked as if the neighbours had brought the party food as if for a ceilidh — or for a death….

Everything was quiet. Willie looked around the room. His grandmother sat in her usual chair, rocking back and forth, her hands idle. The chair made rhythmic, squeaking sounds. Where were the children?

The door to the parlour stood open. A smell of creolin, the antiseptic that was used if anyone had a cut or wound, almost drowned out the spicy odour of the food on the table.

“What's wrong, Grandma?” Willie whispered, but his grandmother seemed not to hear him. She continued to rock back and forth, back and forth. Nellie came out of the parlour and closed the door softly behind her. Her red hair hung in strings about her pale face, and her eyes were red and swollen from weeping.

“Nellie! What happened?” cried Willie.

“Shh! There's been an accident, a rock fall in the mine. Mr. MacNeil was killed and Papa ... Papa's in the infirmary. He's been hurt. He's been hurt bad.”

For a moment, Willie couldn't speak. Then, “Where's John?” he whispered.

Nellie nodded toward the parlour door. “In there. He's got cuts and bruises and a broken leg, but he'll be all right. It's Papa....” Nellie sank down on a chair and sobbed aloud. “Oh, Willie! Where have you been? All this time ... I thought you might be dead, too.”

Willie put his arm around her awkwardly. He could think of nothing to say except, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”

He couldn't tell her now about how he had let Gem run away. He couldn't tell her about how happy he had been on the farm — while all the time such terrible things had been happening at home.

His mind raced. He knew the Company wouldn't let them stay in the house a single day if it was known that there wasn't a wage earner in the family. The winter before, he had seen Mrs. Wilson with her five little children, wandering the streets, and he had seen the pitiful shack she had tried to build out of pieces of carpet and scraps of lumber. He knew two of her babies had died of cold and hunger. He didn't know what had become of the rest of them.

He spoke in a very loud voice. “No, we won't be out on the street. Pa was going to send me down the mine anyways. I'll go down ... tomorrow.”

Nellie stared at him through her tears.

“Lots of kids go to work when they're eleven,” said Willie, in the same strange, loud voice.

Nellie said, “Oh, Willie, if you could! Just until John gets better.”

“And Papa, too,” said Willie.

Nellie pushed back strands of her red hair. “You better wash up. I'll get you something to eat,” she said.

The rest of the evening would remain forever a blur in Willie's mind. He ate his meal without really tasting anything. The little girls were brought home by the neighbours and put to bed. The doctor dropped in to see John. After he left, Willie was allowed to go into the parlour to talk to his brother for a few minutes.

“Don't worry, John. I'm goin' down tomorrow. There'll still be a wage earner in this family,” he told him.

“Good,” said John, drowsily. “Pa would be proud. Wish't I could show you around. You'll start out as a trapper, you know.”

“I know,” said Willie. “Can I borrow your piece-can to carry my lunch?”

“Sure. Take whatever you need.”

The doctor had given John a painkiller, drops of morphine and chloroform on a spoonful of sugar. His voice was getting thick and his eyelids closed.

“Keep whistlin', Willie,” he murmured, and tried to smile.