THE PIT AND THE PASTERN-RINGS
a Fetlock Holmes Story
© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1994-1997
first published in GOING NATIVE magazine 1994-1996
The character of my good friend Fetlock Holmes was strange and beset with anomalies. Although he affected as much precision with his grooming as a champion of dressage, his personal habits would have driven most creatures to despair. His quarters were an affront to the senses. Old shoes were cast carelessly into corners. His remarkable and valuable collection of equine memorabilia was strewn about in disorder, slung over rafters, tangled with his hay net or transfixed to the wall with a sharpened hoof-pick. As I have said before in this rambling memoir, he was a creature in whom intense periods of activity alternated with extreme lethargy, and his stabling reflected the latter humour.
The habit that distressed me most deeply was his frequent use of bute as a means to relax and broaden his mind. I am an animal of regular habits, and my early training on the moors of Derbyshire instilled in me a deep respect for Nature, and the hardiness of a sound body kept fit by good food and exercise. The pit ponies of that region were sterling examples of this enduring recipe for health, and would have scorned to use drugs unless in absolute extremity.
It was to these memories that my mind returned as I cantered east on a route that was becoming too familiar to bring my friend home from an infamous bute-den on the docks.
In the dim and sultry atmosphere, horses lay in abandoned attitudes, mumbling to themselves or whickering with insane laughter. With relief I spied Holmes in conversation with a brokenwinded nag in a corner. He greeted me mildly. His eye was steady, if a trifle over-bright.
"Come, Holmes" I said briskly. "It is time to depart."
"Withers!" quavered the old nag. "It’s old Doctor Withers!"
I did not recognise the fellow. He was haggard, streaked with sweat, and tottered like a drunk on hideously swollen joints.
"It’s me, Jake, Doctor Withers."
"Great Scott, it cannot be!"
I was aghast. When I left Derbyshire, Jake had been a young stallion whose strength was a byword in the village. That was five short years ago. What catastrophe had produced the pathetic wreck that now stood before me?
"Jake has a strange story to tell," said Holmes. "Shall we hear it in the comfort of our stables, or shall I send for more refreshment here?"
Shuddering, I lead them home.
With the door shut against the chill night wind, we sent Hudson for bran and fresh pony nuts, and Jake began his tale.
"As the good Doctor here knows, me and mine have worked down the pit all our lives. Born to it as you might say. And a good life it is too, though not for the weak, and having a dark coat is a blessing. We never had no call to take sick. We had hard work and good plain food, and plenty of it. We was well took care of, and we was strong. Come Midsummer Revels there was none could cast a shoe further or kick a bale higher than me, or maybe my lad Joe."
I was overcome with nostalgia at his words.
"Tell me, do they still dance the Tangle-tack around the stable boy?"
"Aye, they do, though I never did see a finer configuration than that year you was on the leading rein, Doctor."
"Ah, those good old country games. Doff The Jockey, Split The Hurdle, Hunt The Gelding-Irons...."
A tear ran down Jake’s wasted cheek.
"Aye, they was good times. But times change. We had new managers at the pit. Took over real sudden-like a few days after we’d started mining a new seam off the southern gallery. Us pit-ponies was sized up and looked over, then we was split. Me and my lad Joe was put with the strongest, and we was set to work the new seam. It were no trouble first going off, except those carts felt heavy. I said to meself Jake, you’re getting old. Well, time goes on, and bless me but they closes the seam down. I says to Joe it ain’t right. There’s coal down there. I seen it, and I knows coal, Doctor Withers.
"Nothing happens for a week or so. They take us up out of the mine, away from our families and turn us out to graze. We’re fattened up, and stood around with nowt to do and I gets worried. I’m bred to work and I can’t hold with standing idle.
"There’s eight of us. They takes us one at a time. Old Ned goes first. "Come on Ned," they says to him, "tha’s going to be shod." And off he goes, and that’s the last we sees of him. Next off is Ben, and we thinks this is daft. Ben’s only just been shod and his shoes ain’t hardly had time to cool down before they’re taking ‘em off again. Ben don’t come back neither. Then they comes for my Joe, and we puts up a fight of it. You know how it is, they always wins in the end, but I broke a couple of ribs afore they got a halter on my lad. They just laughs. "Don’t worry Jake," they says. "Tha’ll be next." And I was.
"They took me to a place like no blacksmith’s forge I’ve ever seen. It weren’t no iron they was forging. What smith makes horse-shoes in a cast! They shoes me right enough, then they says "You’re getting lame Jake. Best have some support for those pasterns." So they starts to fit metal rings round my legs. It looks like iron, but it don’t feel like iron. It’s soft, and by God it’s heavy. When they’re done they covers the rings with surgical boots, and I tries to walk. Out comes the whip. "Come on Jake", they says. "Try harder. You’ve got a long way to go."
He fell silent, and it seemed that the memory of his journey tortured him. The sinews of his neck stiffened and his eyes grew dull.
"Aye," he said at last, "and it was a long way. From Derbyshire to London, every gruelling mile, and the pain in my joints something as you never want to feel this side of Hell. We gets to the docks and at last they takes the metal off my legs. "He’ll never work again" says one. "He’s done for. Best shoot him like the others." The I knows what’s happened to Ned and Ben, and my lad, and by God I fights them. Somehow I managed to beat them off and get away. I don’t know how far I wandered, but eventually I found the place where you met me. That’s my story, gentlemen. Make of it what you will."
Holmes, who had been silent throughout, now stepped forward and bowed his head.
"I bow, sir, to acknowledge your Herculean strength and endurance. I have heard many tales of the feats of pit ponies, but you and your friends have outdone them all. Unless I am mistaken, you have carried your own weight in gold these many miles."
I trust I am not less astute than the average creature, but Holmes’ extraordinary gift of deductive reasoning frequently astounded me. We had both listened to the same facts, and had the same evidence laid before us. I could not fathom this strange intuitive leap, and feared his imagination to be unnaturally stimulated by the previous events of the evening. Jake’s glance met mine. It was apparent that we were of the same mind.
"Nay, sir," began Jake. "I never did hear of owt but coal in them pits."
"Until the new shaft is mined! Think, sir! You are separated. Only the strongest ponies are used. The shaft is prematurely closed when there is still coal to be found. Would this happen unless something of far greater price had already been conveyed to the surface? There is gold to be found under the English hills, and its rarity and rich colour render it valuable beyond the dreams of avarice. An honest creature would declare his find, but there are greater profits to be made by smuggling and selling on the Continent. Little and often is the clever smuggler’s watchword. Who would question the weary passage of a lame horse on the busy thoroughfares of London? However, we may yet confound them. Withers, we may need assistance. It is time to call on Inspector Leshire of Scotland Yard."
Leshire, roused from sleep at a most unpalatable hour, was less than pleased to see us.
"What’s this then Mr. Holmes? Don’t tell me it’s a mystery you can’t solve on your own."
"The mystery," replied Holmes, "is already solved. Do not trouble yourself on that account. However, arrests must be made, and swiftly, to prevent the perpetrators from profiting from their crime."
"And what crime might that be?"
Holmes outlined the strange events of the night. As he talked, Leshire paced to and fro, pausing occasionally to take notes, or pick stray strands of bedding from his coat.
"Pastern rings of gold, covered with a thin layer of lead!" he snorted at last. "So that’s how the job is done. Holmes, you may have solved a mystery that has baffled the equine detective forces of three continents. Oh yes - we knew that smuggled gold was finding its way abroad. I’ve had my runners staked out at the docks under cover for weeks. We’ve searched travelling circuses, troupes of performing Lipizzaners - we’ve even stripped an entire regiment of Her Majesty’s Horse Guards right down to the last stirrup. It nearly cost me my job. Now at last we have a lead."
"We must be swift, but cautious," said Holmes. "These are desperate men. Withers - do you have your trusty revolver with you?"
I sighed and stowed the wretched weapon as commanded, and the four of us set out for the docks at a canter. All trace of lassitude had left my friend. He moved eagerly, and his eyes burned with the fierce intelligence that so many villains of the underworld had come to know and dread.
At the docks, the noisy bustle of commerce was muted by the sinister shadows of night. Holmes surveyed the scene keenly.
"So, Leshire, you say that you and your runners have turned this place upside down. Then we must look in the places where you have not looked. We must find the improbable, impossible conveyance, and there we will find the gold. Look! There. Do you see that small pony standing by that ship? He looks nervous, do you not think?"
"Oh no, you are wrong Holmes, "declared Leshire with some satisfaction. "That ship is bound for Africa taking a consignment of pack-mules for the missionaries. My lads turned it over only this morning and I swear that the most precious item on board is a chest of bibles for the edification of the poor heathens in those foreign parts."
"Quite so," murmured Holmes. "Then let us see what is beside the ship."
Silently he edged his way through the shadows until he could see between the great piles. Down on the water, hidden from view by the towering bulk of the Mary Belle was a small tug. There was a man on board, and as the moon sailed out from behind a cloud he looked up. A great bellow of rage came from Jake. He rushed forwards and would have fallen upon his human tormentor had I and Leshire not prevented him.
"Gawd Blimey! The game’s up!" cried the man.
I saw that the bulk at his feet was an uncovered box that shone in the moonlight. Then we were facing the barrels of a gun.
"Withers! Quickly! Your revolver!" cried Holmes.
Never had extremity been so great, and I struggled and fought with the mechanism, willing it to fire. At last in desperation I took it in my teeth and hurled it at the fellow hoping to knock him out with the butt. There was a hard clang as it bounced of the flanks of the Mary Belle, then a sharp report and the man in the boat lay still.
"Good shooting!" cried Holmes. "I knew you had it in you old chap. Well done!"
A week later, in the cherished peace of our stables, Leshire called as I was writing up my notes of the case. Thanks to Holmes they had cracked the smuggling ring and recovered the gold. It had been ferried out to the Mary Belle by tug under cover of darkness, and loaded in the perilous privacy of the English Channel. The papers were full of the story, and I myself received no little commendation for my skill and courage in shooting down the leader of the gang. I was, I confess, flattered by the attention, though deeply relieved that my revolver had been lost in the struggle since I had no notion of how the damned machine had been induced to fire.
"Withers!" called Holmes, "Rouse yourself dear chap. Leshire has a gift for you."
"Well, " said Leshire, shuffling his great feet, "my lads were so impressed by your marksmanship and so sorry that you had lost your weapon to which Holmes tells me you were greatly attached , that we had a Whip Round at the Yard."
He presented me with a revolver. Identical to the one I had lost. What could I do but accept.
Modified:25/7/97
Created:25/7/97