All the King’s Horses – Chapter One

I do not like ships. I never have. I don’t like the smell of ships—with all the water surrounding them, why do they always smell so dreadful? Like moldy hay and pitch and other things I don’t wish to think about. I don’t like the motion of ships—back and forth and back and forth. Horses may not be able to bring up their dinners like humans can but we can certainly still get seasick. Nor do I like the sounds of ships—creak, creak, groan, groan. Always sound as though they’ll fall apart at any moment.

"Oh, Basil, please! Will you kindly stop stamping your hoof? It’s giving me a headache."

Ugh. And most especially, I don’t like the company I always get stuck with on ships.

"Sorry, Fiona my dear. Nervous habit, you know. Can’t help it."

Fiona tosses her head with an imperious sniff (she’s very good at that—must do it twenty times a day). "Well, really, Basil, you ought to have managed to settle down by now. We’ve been on this ship two days already."

"Three, actually," I correct her mildly.

She glares at me through a hole in the planking that separates us. "Quite." Another sniff. "Well at any rate, we should be getting off soon. Oh, to have solid ground beneath my hooves again! The hay they put down on the floor does no good, really. Most uncomfortable."

Much as I hate to admit it, I have to agree with her. There’s no such thing as comfortable quarters aboard a ship, and I don’t think one ever gets used to it. But at least the weather’s been quiet—I’ve been on a ship in a storm before and it’s not an experience I wish to repeat. Especially with this lot.

There’s a clatter on the stairs leading down to our hold, and—oh, good! It’s my lord, Colonel Lord Frederick Brighton. (Nice-sounding title, is it not?) How fine he looks in his scarlet uniform! I doubt there’s a handsomer master to be had anywhere in England. Or Portugal, which is where we’re going.

He stands there and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness down here before gazing at us—oh, really, my lord, can you still not tell my rump from the other rumps in the row? Over here—stuffed between bony grey Fiona and fat old Basil—yes, yes, that tall, good-looking bay with the sock on the right hind leg. Aha! Finally.

"Good day, Windsor." My lord saunters into my "stall" (as those sailors try to call it) and pats my neck. "How are things down here? Holding up?"

I snort expressively. (A fine impression of Fiona, if I do say so myself.) He laughs, and rubs my nose, where I’ve a crooked thunderbolt blaze. "Not very well then, eh?" You can say that again. "Well, don’t worry, Win. We’re well into the Bay of Biscay now—almost there. You’ll be stretching those fine legs of yours again in no time!"

My lord often comes to visit me down here, which is quite possibly the only thing making this voyage tolerable. The sailors who have to muck out the stalls are always an ill-favored lot, and terribly unskilled, and the masters of the other horses (officers, like my lord, I expect) don’t seem to have the time to grace us with their presence.

With a final pat, my lord leaves my stall and heads back up to the sunshine. I let out a gusty sigh. This is my third voyage in a ship—(Oh yes, I’m a well-traveled horse, I am!)—but I still don’t like it. I stamp my hind hoof irritably.

Beside me Fiona tosses her head again—she does that almost as often as she snorts. Very twitchy, she is. Old nag. "Don’t you start stamping too, Windsor! My poor head. I really can’t bear it much longer."

If only I could roll my eyes as humans do. Sigh again. On my other side Basil is noisily munching his soggy hay, and by the sounds of it most of the others are either sleeping or doing the same. What a dull bunch! At least on my first voyage I was with a few veterans with some tales to tell.

A few stalls down, somebody whinnies softly. I raise my head to look over the partitions, and I can just make out the black tips of Honoré’s ears. Poor Honoré. Even younger than I am, and almost two hands shorter. This is his first trip, and he’s probably more nervous than anyone. But unlike some—(ahem)—he bears it quietly. Possibly the only decent chap here.

"Almost there now, Honoré," I call. His ears perk up.

"How much longer, sir?" (He always calls me that, even though I’m always telling him not to. Makes me sound like a human officer. Oh, well…)

"Another day or two, I think. Maybe a bit more."

There’s a grateful sigh from his stall. I hope his officer is serving with mine—a naïve little colt like that won’t last two days on the battlefield without someone looking after him.

Beside me Basil has abandoned his hay (not that it’s really edible anyway) in preference of the wooden wall in front of our noses. I can hear his teeth scraping along it, breaking off ragged strips of the wood. (I wonder if he’s ever gotten splinters in his tongue doing that?) It’s enough to make you want to kick him.

"Basil!" Try to be patient. Poor old lad. Shouldn’t be making a voyage like this—if a simple trip across the Channel does this to his nerves, what will battle do? "Basil, would you please stop chewing on the wall? It’s not going to get us there faster."

Basil sighs pathetically, but he stops. Thank goodness. "Sorry, m’dear fellow. Can’t help it, you know. I’ll go mad if I don’t see the sun soon."

At the end of the row there’s a sudden flurry of kicking against the wall, and then just as suddenly, stillness. Again I wish I could roll my eyes. I think Dinadan’s gone mad already.

"Dim!" (Our nickname for him. Very apt.) "You all right, there?"

I can hear him panting slightly—crazy old thing. Why on earth is his master bringing him along? He should be on a farm someplace, in peace and quiet. With a few chickens roosting in his stall and on his back. And mice in that wild tangle he calls a mane. "…’m all right, Win…" Well, that’s something, at least. Sometimes he doesn’t answer me at all.

"Not long now," I remind no one in particular. Not long now. Pray God it’s not! I’ll be as mad as poor old Dim if I’m stuck with this lot much longer. Where’d my lord go? His visits are so short these days. Ah, well. Shouldn’t complain, I suppose. At least he visits, unlike the other officers. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of any of them since we boarded. I hope my lord is staying clear of their company—they might give him ideas.

Ha. As if my lord would ever neglect me. I’m son of the gentle old mare who taught him to ride when he was no more than a knobbly-kneed little colt himself. I’ve also saved his life more times than either of us can count—not that we would wish to. He’s saved my life more times than I know, I’m sure.

Oh, dear. Listen to me. Scarcely eight years of age and getting as nostalgic as an old campaigner! Well, I suppose I am an old campaigner, if "old" means experienced. Been fighting that Bonaparte fellow since I came of age, almost. A long time, when one thinks about it.

Hmm. I had not known that lengthy periods of dull, endless monotony made me so reflective—no wonder those veterans on my first voyage spent hours on end telling me their stories. Nothing else to do! At least I held out for most of the trip before cracking. There may be hope for me yet…

"Windsor!" Fiona again. What’d I do this time? "Would you please stop all your shifting and stamping your feet? My head is about to burst, it really is."

Whoops! Didn’t realize I was doing it—blast! Another result of this relentless boredom. Basil is a bad influence on me. "Sorry, Fiona." There, Win. Be still. Completely, totally—no, no shifting! It hurts dear Fiona’s head. Musn’t disturb poor dear Fiona.

I wonder what would happen if I simply whinnied at the top of my lungs. It’s sounding pleasanter and pleasanter by the minute. It would probably snap everyone out of their stupors, but then would they think? Oh, Lord! Windsor’s gone mad! We’re all done for now.

"Windsor?" Basil. Oh, er—hmm? "What’s so funny?" Oh. Didn’t realize I was chuckling to myself.

"Er…" (Imagining your reaction if I suddenly went mad like old Dim? Oh, no, Windsor, don’t laugh!) "Nothing, Basil. Nothing at all." Cough. Ahem. "Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ll want to be well-rested when we reach land."

"Oh, yes, quite right m’dear fellow, quite right." Grrr. If he calls me "m’dear fellow" one more time…

Ooh, yawn. Yet another result of boredom? Well, this one’s not so bad. I think it’s time to follow my own advice and take a nap. If only Bayberry would stop snoring down there… Ah, nevermind. I’m too deep in stupor now to care about Bayberry’s snoring. Another yawn. Hopefully when I wake up, we’ll be in port! There’s a nice thought. I’m sure to have pleasant dreams with that in mind.

Well! (Yawn.) Good night, then.