The author was there on Moosehorn Lake that winter day when his father’s team of Clydesdales broke through the ice. Even as the company manager, assuming there was no hope for the beautiful team, went for his rifle, the author’s father was planning a daring rescue attempt. My father had a deep affection for horses and in particular for a certain team of Clydesdales that he drove for The Independent Ice Co. of Worcester, Massachusetts, back in the early part of the century. He called them Pat and Lotty, as though they were one, and treated them as if they were his own. About a mile from our little farm, the ice company had an enormous icehouse on Moosehorn Lake, where thousands of tons of natural ice were harvested during the New England winters. One cold winter day, right after a January thaw, Pa was working a snowscraper on the lake when Pat and Lotty broke through the ice. The horses went down only a few feet from the open water where the ice had already been harvested, and were trapped by the collar of unbroken ice. It was a Saturday and Ma had asked me to drive old Maud, our buggy horse, down to the lake and bring Pa home for a hot dinner. (We had dinner at noontime in those days, and the night meal was supper.) I got to the company stable early, so I went out on the lake to meet Pa, unaware of his predicament. I got there at just the same time as Mr. Topping, the company manager. He was a beanpole of a man with black, nervous eyes that seemed always to be searching through his eyebrows for an easy way out. He was carrying a high-powered rifle and when I saw what was happening, I was scared stiff he was going to shoot Pa’s beautiful Clydesdales — which was what he really had in mind or he wouldn’t have had the gun. Then Mr. Bent, the company’s foreman, arrived on the run. He was a chubby fellow with a moonlike, smooth-shaven face. Meanwhile Pa was on his belly holding Pat’s and Lotty’s heads up over the edge of the ice by the bridles, his face red with anger, his eyes wet with feeling as he saw his beloved team of Clydesdales in this terrible predicament. “Don’t you dare shoot these horses!” Pa yelled when he saw the rifle. “Get me two men with needle bars and have them break up the ice between here and the open water, and I’ll save your team. But mind you, Topping, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for my team.” Ordinarily my Pa was a very quiet man, but when there was no other way, he always could find the right words. Mr. Topping reacted first. He said to Bent, “You heard the man. Do as he says. Get a couple of needle bars and hurry it up!” As Bent went on his way Mr. Topping spoke to Pa. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Warren. Just remember — I’m not asking you to do this. From now on you’re on your own.” We waited and waited for the men with the chisels, and there Pa was at the heads of those trusting animals, talking to them in undertones, giving them the courage he knew they needed to carry out his plan. Finally the men arrived with the needle bars and Pa told them how to make the channel. Then, much to the amazement of us all, Pa handed me the checkreins, and, getting to his feet, kicked off his felt boots and sheepskin jacket and without hesitation jumped into the water with the horses. My heart was in my mouth. He sank out of sight, but soon, came back up, treading water. He grabbed hold of Latty’s harness and pulled himself over to the ice edge where I handed him the checkreins, and those three brave souls Pa and his beloved Clydesdales, started swimming toward the opposite shore. The men with the chisels ran around the open water as instructed, and by the time Pa and the horses arrived, the men had cut another channel between the open water and the shore. And I was there waiting, with Pa’s felt boots and jacket. Pa turned the horses loose and they ran across the tracks to the stable while I covered Pa’s back with his coat and helped him put his boots back on. I wanted to bundle Pa up in the sleigh and hurry him home, but when Mr. Topping and his foreman didn’t arrive to care far Pat and Latty, Pa asked me to help him do it. It was nearly a half an hour later when the two men arrived, each of them with a toothpick in his mouth, right from the dining room. I thought Pa would explode when Mr. Topping said, “What the devil are you doing here, Warren? You should have been home long ago!” He spoke it like a reprimand. Pa shot back the cleverest retort I ever heard, before or since: “When it comes to that, what are you doing here, Mr. Topping? Your horses took off their own harnesses, rubbed themselves dry, and put an their own blankets. And they even helped themselves to their own oats and timothy, and put on their own halters and tied themselves up in their comfortable stalls. Oh, yes, and they bedded themselves down. You see, I was too cold to help them.” He turned to leave. “Come on, Buddy, let’s go home.” That turned Mr. Topping and Mr. Bent a self-conscious pink; they couldn’t think of anything to say while Pa and I got into our sleigh and I drove as fast as I could make old Maud go, home to Ma and a warm house. As I was going into the house after putting up Maud, I saw it was 9 degrees below zero. I heard sleigh bells and here came Dr. Knowlton’s mare on the run. When we entered the house, the doctor’s voice was cheerful — part of his country-doctor therapy, I guess. “Hello, Warren,” he said, pulling the icicles from his long black beard and throwing them into the woodbox. “Mr. Topping tells me you took a swim this morning. Real refreshing, I’ll bet.” “Oh, he did, did he!” Pa was still put out with Mr. Topping and Mr. Bent. The room was quiet except for the busyness of the stove and its fire as it hummed softly. Dr. Knowlton gave Pa a good going-over as he lay there shivering on the couch-bed in the living room. Finally he volunteered,” You got a bad chill, Warren, that’s for certain; better stay right where you are. And Bertha, you see he’s kept warm and takes one of these pills every hour. And if we’re lucky he won’t get anything worse than bronchitis — the way it looks now.” “Pshaw!” Pa said, disgustedly — doctors and veterinarians always annoyed him — “Bronchitis, my foot! ‘Tain’t nothing but a little chill — or a little cold in the chest, maybe. Be warmed up in no time.” But all afternoon Pa tossed and turned in his bed, and it wasn’t all from fever — although the doctor said he had one. I was sure it was from worrying about his Clydesdales. By evening, Pa’s concern had multiplied to become uncharacteristic mumbling and fretting. Ma and I sat by the big round table reading by the kerosene lamp. Her eyes were pools of worry, and it flowed out and spread over her kind, warm face. Suddenly the mantel clock brought Pa to life as it struck eight. His red beard and sandy hair were tousled, giving him a harried look. His voice was like a spirit trapped in a barrel. Ma went over to him, straightened the quilts, and tucked him in. “Would you mind if I sent Buddy down to the stable just to check on the horses?” he asked her. There was a light in the stable when I got. there and I saw a horse and a sleigh standing by the door. I went in. Mr. Topping, his face pale as a pan of snow, stared at me. “What in the world you doing here, Buddy? Your Pa sent you, didn’t he? Well, you get along home and tell him we got the veterinary here and he’s doing all he can.” I went over to Pat’s and Lotty’s stalls, and what I saw was bad. Pa’s beautiful Clydesdales were flat on their sides. Mr. Bent was jerking and yanking on Pat’s halter and yelling at him, between kicks, to get up on his feet. And the veterinary was pulling on Lotty’s halter rope and screaming and grunting at her to get up. And both horses were thrashing and moaning with deep sounds of protest and annoyance. Then I saw Mr. Topping reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall. I was ready to die, I was so scared. “Please, Mr. Topping, don’t shoot them,” I pleaded. “I know my Pa can get them up. Promise you won’t shoot them. I won’t be long. Please?” Mr. Topping said, ” But we’ve done all we can, Buddy. Mr. Prentiss is a veterinary — and if he can’t get the horses up, what can your father do?” “Why are you in such a hurry to shoot them?” I yelled. “Can’t you let them stay where they are till Pa gets here? Can’t you just let him try?” I was so scared I was screaming now. And besides, these men didn’t make sense to me, being in such a hurry to use that rifle! “All right, Buddy. Go ahead home. I promise not to shoot the horses.” I left there like a shot and ran like mad all the way home. I found Pa already dressed and waiting, he was so sure that the horses were in trouble. His cold was so deep he could hardly talk. I asked him where Ma was. “Sh-h-h! she’s asleep. I talked her into bed.” I hitched Maud to the sleigh and we sped through the icy night. Pa had a package under his arm and I was sure it was the bottle of White Horse whiskey Mr. Topping had given him for Christmas. As we entered the stable, both horses, still flat on their sides, whinnied, showing they knew it was Pa. In a moment Pa was in Lotty’s stall, down on his knees beside her head . He unwrapped the package and laid the bottle under the manger for use only if his Clydesdales were too far gone to respond to his love and his coaxing gentleness. I could hear him talking in undertones, and I saw him stroking her eyes and her cheek with his bare hands, and gently stroking her ears. And I heard the other horses munching on their hay, and occasionally a stomping, as if their feet were cold. And then Pa spoke to me: “Go tell Mr. Topping to bring two big buckets of warm water, not too hot, just lukewarm. And hurry.” Mr. Prentiss and Mr. Bent were at the card table when I delivered the message, and I heard Mr. Bent’s voice as he spoke with sarcasm, “Are them stubborn old devils dead yet, Buddy? Or has your Pa snatched them out of their graves again? ” I simply told Mr. Topping to please hurry with the water and left. When I returned, Pa was still in beside Lotty, talking to her softly. Then he untied the halter rope and got up, pulling just gently enough to let the mare know he really meant what he said. Her feet pulled up under her and she swung ponderously up onto her huge feet, nudging Pa with her nose and dropping her head so Pa could give her a hug. She whinnied softly. Pa led Lotty out and handed me the halter rope. “Lead her round while I take care of Pat, Buddy.” I did this without really knowing why, but Pa had a reason for everything. He explained, “Got to keep them on the move — get their circulation going, Buddy. It ‘s the only way we can save them after all that time in the icy water and being neglected so long in here. I hope it’s not too late.” By the time I had led Lotty up and down the stable a couple of times, Pa had Pat on his feet too and we both led the horses back and forth. Pa was grinning, his eyes sparkling with sheer joy. Mr. Topping and Mr. Prentiss brought in two big buckets of warm water and stared at me and Pa, then looked at the horses as if they were a pair of four-legged ghosts. The horses stopped and, smelling the water, stuck their noses clear to the bottom, spilling the water over the edges as they drank thirstily. Lotty’s head came up first and slobbered all over Pa’s sleeve as she whinnied and nudged him her thanks. Mr. Topping said, “Warren! What did you do to get those stubborn critters on their feet?” “Nothing much. I guess the big bums like me. That makes a difference, sometimes.” Just then Mr. Bent came in and his blue eyes, that always seemed disappointed in everything they looked at, showed surprise when they saw the horses standing there big as life instead of dead. All he could say was,” What the hell happened?” Pa said nothing, just handed him Pat’s halter rope and Lotty’s to Mr. Topping. “Better keep them on the move for another half hour or more. Meanwhile, I’ve got something for them.” The men obeyed like a couple of hired hands and Pa went and got his bottle of White Horse. Then Pa, while standing on a bale of hay, lifted Lotty’s head up and let a couple of gills run down her throat. She whinnied and pranced about and Pa soothed her, laughing. Then Pa did the same for Pat, and set the men to walking the horses again. As Pa sat down on the bale of hay, he started to cough. His chest cold was pretty bad. He had the bottle in his hand, and he looked at it questioningly while he had another coughing spell. He decided to take a dram — no more — that was the rule handed down by his father who had come from the Scottish Highlands. As Mr. Topping came by, leading Lotty, Pa got up and handed him the bottle. “For the horses,” he said, “just in case. Although if you walk them another half hour or so and give them another bucket of warm water and some timothy — well, you won’t have to shoot them after all.” Then he turned to me and said huskily, “Come on, Buddy, let’s go home.” Even though Pa was dry and dressed warmly, I urged Maud to hurry all the way home. And as we went, I realized how few men would have done as he had done, and remembered what he once told me when I asked him why he didn’t try to buy the Clydesdales. He said, “Maybe I will, son, but you don’t have to buy and pay for a team like Pat and Lotty. If you love them enough, they’re already your own, and nothing in the world can take them away from you.” Excerpt from “The Day the Clydesdales Went through the Ice,” Yankee Magazine, March 1979.

C. C. Bemis

The Day the Clydesdales Went through the Ice