Man O'War

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THE BLACK STALLION

THE BLACK STALLION RETURNS

SON OF THE BLACK STALLION

THE ISLAND STALLION

THE BLACK STALLION AND SATAN

THE BLACK STALLION'S BLOOD BAY COLT

THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY

THE BLACK STALLION'S FILLY

THE BLACK STALLION REVOLTS

THE BLACK STALLION'S SULKY COLT

THE ISLAND STALLION RACES

THE BLACK STALLION'S COURAGE

THE BLACK STALLION MYSTERY

THE HORSE-TAMER

THE BLACK STALLION AND FLAME

MAN O' WAR

THE BLACK STALLION CHALLENGED!

THE BLACK STALLION'S GHOST

THE BLACK STALLION AND THE GIRL

THE BLACK STALLION LEGEND

THE YOUNG BLACK STALLION (
with Steven Farley
)

What you are about to read is a
fictional
biography of Man o' War, in that there was no stableboy named Danny Ryan. His actions and conversations with others are purely imaginary on my part and used to tell the story of Man o' War as I know it. That such a person as Danny may have existed (comparable, if not as I have drawn him) among the large entourage following the champion, I have little doubt. Such love and devotion as Danny had for Man o' War are not uncommon among those tending a racehorse, or any horse, be he a champion or not.

I saw Man o' War before his death in 1947. Like many boys and girls, I wanted to visit the well-known horse farms in Kentucky, and one summer my father took me there. I saw many fine stallions, for all horse lovers are welcome in that country and no one who behaves himself is ever turned away. When we reached Faraway Farm, there were many visitors swarming through the gates. For my father this was the highlight of our tour, since he had seen Man o' War race and “the flame-colored
stallion was the greatest horse that ever lived.” To someone like myself, who had not been around long enough to see Man o' War race, he was a legendary horse, a monument, a part of the history I had read on American racing. I was excited, too, but not prepared at all for the moment to come.

I recall adding my name to a guest book, which according to my father already totaled over half a million visitors. I followed the large group into the stallion barn, thinking that if Man o' War had belonged to the public in his racing days, things hadn't changed much for him.

We approached his big stall, and Will Harbut, the black groom who took care of him, looked us over, rather critically, I thought, as if deciding for himself how much we knew about horses and Man o' War in particular. Like others in the throng, I had read many stories in magazines about Will Harbut's love and care for Man o' War in these—his later years—at Faraway Farm. I was prepared to listen to his well-publicized and very complete monologue on Man o' War's record and the accomplishments of his foals. But at that moment my father's hand tightened on my arm, directing my attention to the stall itself.

The door had been swung open and Man o' War stood there. I was prepared to see a great champion and sire. But suddenly I knew that while I had never seen him race, it made no difference at all. I felt as my father did. I was lucky to be there, close enough to touch him if that had been allowed.

Man o' War stood in the doorway, statuesque and magnificent. There was a lordly lift to his head and his sharp eyes were bright. He didn't look
at
us, but far out over our heads. If his red coat and mane and tail had faded with time, as my father said later, I was not aware of it. Nor did I notice the dip of his back, deepening too with age. I could not even have said
whether his massive body was red or gold or yellow. I was aware only of one thing—that for the first and perhaps the only time in my life I was standing in the presence of a horse that was
truly
great, and it would be a moment always to be remembered.

What accounted for this stirring of the heart? For that is what it was. If one attributes it to the emotions of youth, what about my father's adulation of Man o' War? And all the others of his generation who had seen this horse and felt no differently? Was the look in Man o' War's eyes responsible for it? His gaze, I recall, shifted occasionally to look at us. They were deep, intelligent eyes and very bright. More often than not, however, he seemed not to know we were there at all, his gaze fixed and far away, so intent that I could have sworn he was watching something far beyond our vision.

Or was it the regal lift of his head, the giant sweep of his body, or the dignity with which he held himself up for our inspection? Or, perhaps, a combination of everything, for there was nothing about him that did not seem right to me. Whatever accounted for it, I stood in his presence in quiet reverence, unmindful of anything but Man o' War. I heard only snatches of the eloquent recital that rolled from Will Harbut's tongue. “
He's got everything a hoss ought to have and he's got it where a hoss ought to have it. He is de mostest hoss. Stand still, Red.
”

It has also been said of Man o' War that “
he touched the imagination of men and they saw different things in him. But one they all remember was that he brought exaltation into their hearts.
” Whatever else may be written or said of Man o' War, I know this to be true from my one visit to an aged but majestic stallion. It was with the hope that I could impart something of what I felt to you that I wrote this book.

Many years have passed since Man o' War raced. The few who remember him on the track will tell you that all the great champions that have raced since—Equipoise, War Admiral, Whirlaway, Assault, Citation, Native Dancer, Nashua, Secretariat, Seattle Slew, to name a few—were only “the best since Man o' War.” To them Man o' War is
the
one to be remembered. He alone is their yardstick of time.

There are fewer people still who remember Man o' War as a yearling. If you believe them, most all saw in him the spark of greatness at the time. But the facts usually indicate otherwise. And there is only a mere handful of people who recall Man o' War as a suckling colt at the side of his dam, Mahubah, at Nursery Stud.

To reconstruct this story of Man o' War, I have used to best advantage the city newspapers and national magazines published at the time, as well as the many excellent publications devoted especially to Thoroughbred racing and breeding—among them,
Daily Racing Form, The Morning Telegraph, The Blood Horse, The Thoroughbred Record
, and
American Racing Manual.

I have used also the facilities of many fine libraries and referred often to John Hervey's
Turf Career of Man o' War
, which would have been published in book form had it not been for the noted track historian's untimely death before the manuscript was completed; the rough manuscript is part of the Harry Worcester Smith Collection at the National Sporting Library, Middleburg, Virginia, and has also appeared serially in
Horse Magazine.
Without the use of all these sources to supplement my own file, this story of Man o' War could not have been written.

W
ALTER
F
ARLEY

It was hardly the time or the place to be thinking about a horse,
any
horse, the man decided, even Man o' War. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and pushed his head against the drizzling, chilling dampness that penetrated everything he wore right down to the flannel undershirt beneath his heavy gray suit. It was unusually cold for only the 22nd of October. But one couldn't count on anything in New York. Full of surprises, always.

He glanced up at the buildings rising like giant pyramids above him. Even Times Square wasn't square. It was a triangle, noisy and garish. And now that the morning was just about over, Broadway was coming to life, with theater and store managers trying to pierce the milkiness with pale, flickering lights. It was a losing battle. The fog wasn't going to lift for a while. Maybe he wouldn't even be able to see the backstretch of the big track at Aqueduct.