Horse/Man

By Julia Merritt

What happens when your entire identity revolves around a way of life that is becoming obsolete?

In the 1920s, as Canada progresses through the Industrial Revolution, horses are still the rural engines of survival. As a child Adam lives this reality on his family's farm in the Ottawa Valley, planning to take over one day and have a family of his own. When his parents die during the Great Depression, nineteen-year-old Adam is disinherited in favour of his brother and is forced to move to the city to find work. Without a formal education his choices are few, yet he finds a place to use his horsemanship skills in the dwindling forces of the Canadian cavalry based near Montreal. There he finds pride in being a mounted soldier, and friendship with his fellow dragoons. But the cavalry units are mechanized by the beginning of World War Two, and when Adam is sent to Europe, he must abandon his equine partners for trucks and tanks. In the catastrophic experience of war, he will lose everything once again.

Broken in body and spirit, he returns to Canada where he must confront the question of survival in a world that doesn't seem to have a place for an injured soldier. Full of poetic reflections on what it means to work with horses, horse/man is a powerful story about a man searching for dignity and connection in the face of a rapidly shifting world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228856542

Julia Merritt

Julia Merritt has been captivated by horses ever since she could see out of the car window. Then she grew up and became a public library CEO and certified animal bodyworker. She lives in Ontario, Canada, with her thoroughbred horses and smooth collie dogs. This is her first novel.www.juliamerritt.ca

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horse/man

Julia Merritt

horse/man

Copyright © 2022 by Julia Merritt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-5655-9 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-5656-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-5654-2 (eBook)

Contents

The Model T, Spring 1921

Draft Horse Show, Autumn 1922

Water, Summer 1924

Pete & Buddy, Autumn 1926

Brothers, Winter 1926

The Cycle, Spring 1927

Harvest, Autumn 1932

Courting Flora, Summer 1933

Accidents, Autumn 1933

The Will, Winter 1934

Recruitment, Spring 1934

Camaraderie, Autumn 1936

Marie-Claude, Autumn 1937

Over. Under. Through., Summer 1938

War, Spring 1941

Italy, Summer 1943

Dispatch Rider, Spring 1945

Toronto, Autumn 1945

The Bryants, Autumn 1945

Reintegration, Winter 1946

Hunt Groom, Autumn 1947

Horse Trader, Summer 1950

The First Show, Summer 1956

In Pursuit of the Sublime, Summer 1957

The Royal Winter Fair, Autumn 1958

New Ride, Autumn 1959

Adam’s Farm, Summer 1960

Teaching, Summer 1962

Susan & Judy, Summer 1964

Happenstance, Autumn 1964

A Friend, Spring 1965

History, Autumn 1971

Tractors, Spring 1977

The Daily Special, Winter 1981

Legacy, Autumn 1988

Dispersal, Autumn 1990

Progress, Spring 1992

The End, Winter 1992

For Further Reading

About the Author

For Zoey, who taught me perseverance, compassion, discipline, and joy.

The Model T, Spring 1921

Trot on, Jack! Git up, Pete! Git UP! Good.

The driver called out orders and sounded gruff, even in praise. The reins slapped the broad chestnut backs lightly, then loosened. It was the end of May, and planting had finished. Today, they were going to town. Freed from their heavy collars and the deep wet soil, the horses danced down the dirt road, shaking their heads as they pushed through the harnesses. Their efforts were rewarded with an easy silence.

Seven-year-old Adam sat in the back of the wagon, his skinny legs anchoring the sacks and baskets his mother had given him for dry goods. He was small for his age but wiry and strong. His face was still childish, heart-shaped and snub-nosed, with sandy brown hair and eyes. His father, Ciaran, was alone on the front seat, driving the horses with his back to Adam. Adam was grateful for the rest.

The horses picked up speed, and Adam bounced from side to side on the planks. The percussion of the horses’ hooves and the squeak of the wagon on its struts was all he could hear. The wind from the wagon’s movement had a chill. He turned his head to face it, letting the tears from his watering eyes stream along his cheeks. He inhaled the sharpness of spring, undercut by the heaviness of soil and vegetation that was not quite yet alive. Travelling along, further details unfurled — the patches of mud in the potholes, the freshly tilled soil in the fields, the shades of green emerging from the ditches and the trees.

Adam caught sight of something round and black on the road ahead. He couldn’t decipher it; it was too big for an animal and the wrong shape for a wagon. He squinted, then gasped.

A car, Father, a car! He’d never seen a car before, except in pictures.

So it is, said Ciaran. And all the way out here. Wonder what for?

Adam got onto his knees for a better view, holding on to the side of the wagon.

The car revealed itself to be a shiny Model T. Perhaps the driver, like the horses, could not resist the lure of moving in the sunshine. Adam watched the car bump slowly over the ruts, advancing towards them. Grey smoke wisped behind it.

Ciaran slowed the team to a walk, and they could hear the engine, a hum that grew to a rumble. Pete and Jack jerked their heads as it got close, banging into each other.

Go on, get up, Ciaran growled. The horses’ ears twisted sideways and forwards, trying to decide between the driver or the instinct to flee. The wagon’s tongue rattled as their legs jostled.

The car driver slowed and lifted his hand as he passed the wagon. Ciaran raised his hand in response, the other clenched on the lines attached to Jack and Pete’s gaping mouths. When the car had gone safely by, he reached over, picked the buggy whip out of its holder, and smacked each rump with the corded lash.

Go on, trot! he commanded, loosening the lines. The team straightened out and carried on with their jobs. Adam stared at the receding vehicle, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the fumes.

In town, Adam stood beside Ciaran as he chatted with Tom, the general store owner. He enjoyed the warmth of the store, smelling its clean wooden floor and casting his eyes over the rows of mail-order catalogue goods brought to life. He liked to take in the men’s faces in conversation, the way their thick skin moved as they spoke, how the wrinkles bunched and smoothed. This skin softened both plain and handsome features, equalizing everyone with the passage of time and hard work.

Tom was in his element, spooling out gossip with barely a pause. His face brightened even more when he remembered something else, slapping his hand lightly on the counter.

Eh, did you know? Arthur Cobb’s gone and bought himself a Fordson! He arched back and crossed his arms, looking delighted and skeptical. The pinstripes on his shirt stretched over his bulky body, the apron tied around his waist sinking into his flesh.

Ciaran was leaning against the counter, his own arms already crossed. His soft Irish accent undercut Tom’s nasal Canadian tones. A tractor, really? Would never have thought Cobb would go for one of those, he mused. He’s too cheap.

Tom stepped towards the counter and put his elbows on it, lowering his voice. Adam mirrored the men so that he could hear, too. Well, you know he sold most of his horses to the army a few years ago when they came along. I suppose Arthur figured it was time for a change. At least the tractor won’t take so much time to keep, he said.

Ciaran raised his eyebrows. They were thick and dark brown. Their darkness contrasted with the hair peeking out from beneath his hat, which was already quite grey. Guess you can start ordering parts for him then, for when it takes a turn.

Tom laughed. I may have to. I should start stocking splints and braces as well. I’ve heard they flip when they run up on a rock, and God knows there’s still enough of those here in the valley to choke a mule.

Ciaran grunted. Adam thought of the ritual spring rock-picking, slogging through wet fields to collect stones unearthed by the plough.

You know, Tom carried on, you may want to start considering one for yourself.

Mmm, said Ciaran, wary.

Tom shook his head. They’re the way of the future, I’m telling you. Gonna save you farmers reams of work.

Ciaran’s face went blank. We’ll see, was all he said. He looked at the floor for a moment, then to the back of the shop where Tom’s assistant was gathering the order. Tom uncrossed his arms, shifting to pull his pencil from behind his ear and move it over the ledger.

On the way home, Adam sat in the wagon’s front seat and rolled the image of the car in his mind, trying to remember the details. He’d seen cars advertised in catalogues, one of those fantastical advancements that people in the Ottawa Valley weren’t wealthy enough to afford. The idea of climbing into a car was far removed from hitching a horse to a wagon. Who owned it? Why did that person need it? Adam thought maybe his father might know, but Ciaran’s silence was always forbidding, and he wasn’t brave enough to break it. He recalled the car’s colour as so deeply black it was unnatural compared to even the blackest of horses, whose coats were sunburnt in the summer and covered with dust in the winter. And when it had passed, the engine sound had drowned out all others.

Adam was still daydreaming about the car as he helped put the horses in their stalls. He carried pieces of harness to their hooks on the barn wall and measured out some grain for Jack and Pete. He wondered how much work the driver had to do for his car when he got home. Did it need to be cleaned every day like the horses?

After the barn chores were finished, he and his father ferried the groceries into the house. A plain two-storey house covered with wooden boards for siding, it had replaced a smaller cabin a few years ago. Ciaran was proud of the white walls and green window sills. To Adam, it was home, and he raced back and forth to put the boxes and bags away so that they could go in to their supper.

Draft Horse Show, Autumn 1922

Adam climbed out of the wagon behind his older brother, Michael. His mother, Patsy, and younger sister Mary were handed down from the front seat by his father. Adam bounced on his toes while he waited for the women so they could go in to the local agricultural fair. With all the daily work to be done, it was rare that the family went out together for anything except Sunday mass.

The warm September sun brought up the aroma of frosty crops and damp earth. It wrapped around the men standing in groups, making them sweat underneath their good wool jackets and igniting the sharp stink of overheated and excited people. Everyone had been preparing for weeks, and they’d all travelled miles to be there, on the edge of the small village. The harvest was mostly finished, and a collective sense of tired gratification lay beneath the day’s nervous energy.

Here, boys, let’s see what’s what, said Ciaran. The boys followed as ducklings do, but at his mother’s voice, Adam hesitated.

Not you, Mary, said Patsy as Mary made to join her brothers. You and I are going to the pavilion to see the handicrafts.

Mary’s eyes were round. But I want to go see the animals with the boys, she pleaded. She and Patsy were wearing their best dresses, cotton floral prints in shades of pink and white and green, topped off by straw hats trimmed in wide yellow ribbons.

Patsy crooked her wrist. No. Maybe next year you can enter some of your own jams and win a prize.

Mary looked to Adam for solidarity, pouting. Their father and brother were already far ahead. Adam glanced at Mary and then sprinted to catch up. He didn’t see Mary’s shoulders slump as she walked with their mother, making their way to the women’s exhibits.

Michael and Adam strolled with Ciaran through the mown grass field, passing through the picket lines of horses and wagons. Ciaran’s usual closed expression was more relaxed today, and he nodded and doffed his cap to his neighbours with something approaching a smile.

Adam sensed the lightened mood and tugged on Michael’s sleeve. Do you think we could ask for an ice cream today? he asked, his voice at a volume he thought his father wouldn’t hear.

Michael’s expression was disdainful. Get off me, he hissed, yanking his shoulder to pull his shirt out of Adam’s fingers. I don’t care about your ice cream. You ask him and see if you don’t get a smack. Michael looked so much like their father, with his dark hair and stocky frame. He exuded the same intensity as Ciaran, the same tendency to dismiss anything that didn’t align with his perspective.

Rebuffed, Adam stayed quiet. He’d thought ice cream would have been a safe thing to ask about.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though. Hullo, there, O’Connor! came a jovial voice from the crowd. Come to test out your team again, eh?

Ciaran spotted the face that belonged to the voice and hailed back. Ah, Stroud, hullo to you, too. Suppose I have, he said with a half-smile.

Merrick Stroud extracted himself from a cluster of tweed and moved over toward Ciaran. The men clasped hands that bulged with muscles and callouses, dirt embedded into every line of the skin even after being scoured with a bristle brush.

And these must be your wee sprockets, said Stroud in his Scots brogue, shaking hands with Michael and Adam. Though barely squeezing, Stroud’s hand was like a vice. Adam wished his hands were as strong.

Adam knew of Stroud from listening to the men talk after church. Stroud had spent his early working years as a driver for a logging company and prided himself on getting every ounce of try out of his horses. He also bred most of the Belgians in the area — short-legged orange-hued horses with apple-shaped rumps and enormous necks, like Pete and Jack. He kept the best stock for himself and trounced his customers every year in the competitions.

So, how’s the team this year? Stroud asked, face alight with an expression Adam didn’t recognize. Stroud hadn’t bred Pete and Jack. Ciaran had purposely gone elsewhere to buy.

Oh, they’re coming along, said Ciaran. They’re still young, he hedged, refusing to divulge anything further.

They came third place last year, didn’t they? Not bad, Stroud chuckled.

Ciaran’s mouth thinned. They’ve put on quite a bit of muscle this summer, so they may do better today. We’ll see.

Excellent, excellent, Stroud said cheerily. My team’s come on leaps and bounds. Won just about everything there is to win at this point! He laughed, and Adam recoiled from the unseemly boasting. Stroud would have to go to confession for that one.

Adam saw his father’s eyes narrow, a sign of surprise and irritation. Then he smiled, his mouth pinched in the corners. Sure, and it’ll be a good match, then, he said, unwilling to congratulate the other man.

Stroud laughed again and touched his cap. See you out there, he said and offered his hand to say goodbye.

The men swirled away. Adam saw Ciaran’s determination in the grooves on his face and he willed Pete and Jack to perform. Michael’s face was blank with boredom.

They wandered about a bit more. Ciaran clucked at a dirty harness and nodded at some particularly impressive chickens in the poultry show. Michael perked up when they walked past the machinery booth, where the salesman was promoting the latest equipment for maximizing farm productivity. He lingered over the intricate gears and sharp blades. In the end, they did get an ice cream cone. Adam savoured his, allowing the sweet drips to run onto his hand so he could prolong the sugary taste.

After the ice cream, they returned to their wagon to prepare for the competitions. As something different this year, Ciaran had entered the boys in the riding class. Pete and Jack weren’t proper riding horses, but Ciaran had told them, The world won’t go looking for you to see how good you are. You have to go and tell it what. So the children had taken the draft horses and washed and brushed them, plaiting the manes and polishing their tack.

The ring was a roped-off section of grass in the field next to the tents and booths. Patsy and Mary met them there while they waited for the class to start. They didn’t touch the horses.

Adam, hand me that rag. Adam rushed to hand his father the clean cloth, which Ciaran passed over the faces of both his animals, wiping away invisible dust from their coppery coats. The other farmers were doing the same last-minute burnishing, peering sideways at each other.

The ring steward took the rope off the entrance and moved to the side. Time to get on, Ciaran declared. He tossed Michael and Adam into the battered flat saddles and sent the horses scooting into the ring with a slap on each rump. Michael rode Jack, and Adam sat atop Pete.

It was a basic riding class featuring the farmers’ children on an assortment of horses and ponies. Adam felt very grown-up to be put in charge of the big animal. He wanted to make his father proud. Used to riding bareback, he swam in the stiff adult-sized saddle, reins flapping while he struggled to find his balance. He strained to hear the instructions being shouted from the middle of the field over the spectators’ chatter.

Pete and Jack behaved as they always did, placidly going through their paces while their riders’ scrawny bodies gave minimal guidance. Adam had to kick continuously to keep Pete moving, which threw his body so far back he could hardly steer the giant head. Pete drifted like an unmoored schooner, content to sail with the fleet of horses going in the same direction.

A boy on a quick little pony circled into the middle of the ring to avoid a clump of horses ahead of him, forgetting to check who was coming up behind him. Adam yanked his arms left and right and avoided crashing into them by inches. Pete remained unperturbed, floating along. Adam sat straight and kicked on, his nerves bundling into a ball of grit.

After examining the group first one way and then the other, the judge arranged the motley crew in a line in front of him and handed out the ribbons.

In eighth place, Duncan Black, the judge began, and the boy who had nearly collided with Adam walked his pony out of the line. By the time the judge got up to fourth place, Adam knew he wasn’t going to win anything, but he didn’t care. He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling and looking foolish about nothing. Michael hadn’t got a placing, either. Rosy from the thrill, his eyes were shiny as they walked out of the ring. As they exited, Ciaran reached up and gently patted each of his sons’ legs with his thick, heavy hand. Well done, boys, he said quietly. Michael’s sour expression softened somewhat at this. Mary’s upturned face was envious.

Adam slithered off and stood, dazed, as Ciaran hitched the team to the wagon for the driving classes. Michael held onto the bridles, standing between the horses with his arms raised high to reach the cheekpieces. Ciaran was silent, his eyes trained on the leathers.

A long line of teams formed along the edge of the ring, and at the judge’s signal, they thundered in. The farmers glowered in their Sunday best as they drove their gleaming horses with sparkling harnesses. The teams went around the ring in single file, circling the judge at a stately trot. Adam was in awe of the power of so many big horses, controlled by the thin reins and the sharp barking of their weathered drivers. He liked the ponderous way they moved and their heavy muscles, the way their feet dug into the ground, and how their tails twitched when they had to exert themselves.

The spectators were quiet, feeling the earth quiver under their feet and listening to the rhythmic jingle of buckles and bells. From the intentness on all the faces, an outsider might believe the class to be as important as any fashion parade in Hyde Park. Minutes into the class, an overexcited young team started to gallop, charging through their bridles. They nearly collided with the O’Connor’s wagon, braking at the last moment and angling towards the safety of the open space in the centre of the ring. Only the runaways’ driver yelled. The rest of the teamsters hardened their faces and continued trotting around the field. Ciaran sat tall and focused solely on his horse’s rumps.

Once again, the O’Connors’ team came away without a ribbon. Adam could see their stolid chestnut Belgians had been outshone by the tall bay Clydesdales, who picked their knees up high and tight like marching soldiers, feathers waving and flashing. This time it was Adam that patted Pete’s shoulder when he left the ring. The horse was warm, and Adam’s hand stuck to the damp coat.

Never mind, Ciaran said. We’ll get them in the pull.

They waited for hours without shade, inspecting the breeding stock in the conformation classes and listening to the chatter about the latest imported stallions. Stroud’s animals came away with the top placings, and Adam watched him from the opposite side of the ring, laughing and grinning as the ribbons were awarded. Ciaran huffed to himself as the classes went on, and Patsy wandered away to chat with some of the other women.

Finally, right at the end of the day, it was time for the pulling match, pitting horsepower against deadweight. The audience shuffled tighter against the ropes. A loaded stoneboat waited in the middle of a level stretch of turf, ready with its first fifteen hundred pounds of rocks. The flat bottom of the boat was already slightly sunk into the grass. The drivers eyed the ring stewards, who strolled about, scribbling on their papers.

Michael, Adam, and Mary moved to stand across from the row of horses, pushing their way through to the front of the crowd. Pieces of conversation dropped into their ears.

Is that Bob’s new young team over there? Where did he get them?

My preserves have taken two firsts this year! Last year they weren’t even noticed.

I would’a brought my team, but my lead mare went off her feed right after the harvest.

Stroud’s stallion looks likes it’s ready to go.

Should be a good match.

The steward beckoned for the first team to be hooked. Once the team and driver were standing still, he blew his whistle.

Hup! yelled the driver, slapping the long reins on the horses’ haunches. The pair launched forward in unison, their massive necks and hindquarters bunching as they dug their shoes into the dirt for traction. They effortlessly dragged the weight along the ground to the target line and stopped on command.

One by one, the teams took their positions and pulled the opening weight. Pete and Jack weren’t even sweating when they finished, their nostrils flaring a few times before they snorted and were calm again. Ciaran rubbed their foreheads and led them back to the sidelines. The crowd clapped politely.

As the weight became heavier, the teams danced in place, anticipating the start. The drivers called, HO! trying to keep all the traces aligned as the horses ricocheted off the edges of the harnesses. Their biceps bulged with the effort of holding back their now-bullish teams, four thousand pounds of flesh restrained with thin leather straps. And then, at the starting cue, HUP! The more the horses struggled, the more the drivers shouted, growling at each by name.

Emboldened by the drivers,

Reviews for Horse/Man

[jan cressman-weiss · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I REALLY enjoyed the book .just finished it I started with a
pony,and eventually owner several quarter horses .My granddaughter is taking riding lessons