THE RACE
WITH many men, and those not the least dashing and brilliant horsemen,
courage is apt to be very much a question of caloric: their pluck rises
and falls with the thermometer. When the mercury stands at 45 or 50 deg.
they negotiate with pleasure the largest and most dangerous of fences;
at a few degrees above freezing they are content to seek humbly for the
gaps or weak places, and a gate, instead of being jumped, is lifted off
its hinges; whilst at 32 deg. the turnpike-road has invincible
attractions, and is not to be deserted under any provocation.
Granting such meteorological affinities, it is needless to observe that
a steeple-chase is usually contested in the bitterest possible weather,
with a cutting east wind.
The great event at Market Harborough was no exception to this general
rule, and the important day was ushered in by about as unpleasant a
morning as any gentleman could desire for the purpose of exposing
himself in a silk jacket and racing leathers about the thickness of kid
gloves. Frequent storms swept across the sky, bearing with them heavy
showers of mingled sleet and hail, which stung the unprotected face like
pins and needles. It was a bad day to see; a bad day to hear; above all,
a bad day to ride.
Struggles observed: “It was lucky they were not out hunting.”
Behold, then, between the storms, under a delusive gleam of sunshine,
about two P.M., half-a-dozen canvas booths erected in a large, sloppy
grass-field, within a few miles of Market Harborough. Behold,
congregated around the same, a motley group of tramps, list-sellers,
vagrants of every description, gipsies, and card-sharpers. Behold a few
jolly yeomen and farmers, pulling their wet collars over their mouths to
concentrate the fumes of that last glass of brandy, and poking their
horses about in the crowd, to stumble ever and anon over certain
mysterious ropes, placed, for no apparent purpose, in everybody’s way.
Behold two or three carriages of the gentlefolks herding together, as if
rather ashamed of their company, and a pretty face or two, amongst which
you may recognise that of Miss Dove, a little paler than usual, peeping
out from under a multiplicity of wrappers, with an air of vague
astonishment, the owner having been on the ground for more than an hour,
and nothing done yet. Behold also Mr. Tiptop, galloping his master’s
best hack as fast as the animal can lay legs to the ground, in the
direction of a dripping marquee, near which there is a little knot of
gentlemen in waterproof clothing, who seem to constitute an assemblage
of their own. Let us lift the dank, heavy sackcloth, and peep in.
Mr. Sawyer, paper-booted, silk-capped, and clad in a gorgeous raiment of
plum-colour, with face, too, on which the cares of an empire seem to
sit, is “spread-eagled” in a weighing machine, vainly trying to keep his
spurs off the wet straw, and to nurse on his uncomfortable lap a saddle,
a bridle, a breastplate, a martingale, five pounds of dead weight, and a
whip, of which the top is ornamented with an elaborate and massive
design. He is what he calls “weighing in”; and the process appears to be
troublesome, not to say painful.
Behind him, and preparing for the same ordeal, is Major Brush, tucking
himself and his under-garment, with considerable difficulty, into a pair
of extremely tight leathers, he having selected this most inappropriate
shelter as his dressing-room.
The Honourable Crasher, with a large cigar in his mouth, is watching the
proceedings vacantly, having to go through them in his turn; and a
quiet, clean-shaved man, with a keen eye, who is prepared for the fray,
but has wisely wrapped himself up once more in a long greatcoat, is busy
with his betting-book. This worthy, who answers to the name of Stripes,
has come a hundred miles to ride Mr. Savage’s bay horse Luxury. Judging
from the use he makes of his pencil, he seems to think he has a good
chance of coming in first. Already there has been a wrangle as to
whether he is qualified to ride as a gentleman; but the only argument
against his pretensions to that title being the superiority of his
horsemanship, the objection has been suffered to fall through.
The stewards will have an easier task than they expected. The race has
not filled well, and will probably not produce half-a-dozen starters. As
the Harborough tradespeople say, “It’s a poor affair.” Nevertheless, a
deal of money has been wagered on it; and the devoted few are resolved
to do their best.
Under the lee of an outhouse—the only one, by the way, within a mile—old
Isaac is walking Wood-Pigeon carefully up and down, with his usual
imperturbable demeanour. It is hard to make out what he thinks of the
whole affair—whether he esteems it an unheard-of piece of tomfoolery, or
looks upon it as a means of making an addition to his yearly wages.
Under either contingency, he has done his duty by Wood-Pigeon. Beneath
all that clothing, the horse is as fine as a star; and even Mr. Varnish
could not find fault with his condition. That worthy, however, is gone
to ride a horse of Napoleon the Third’s, at Chantilly, and is supposed
by his admirers to be staying with the Emperor at Compiègne, for the
event.
Mr. Tiptop and old Isaac are barely on speaking terms.
Presently, a heavier shower than any of its predecessors sweeps across
the scene; and the only steward who can be got to attend, not seeing the
fun of waiting any longer, has given the gentlemen-riders a hint that,
if they are not mounted and ready in ten minutes, he will go home to
luncheon. The threat creates considerable confusion and dismay. “Lend me
a fourteen-pound saddle!” exclaims one; “Where are my girths?” shouts
another; “I can’t ride him without a martingale!” groans a third;
“Where’s my whip? and has any one seen my horse?” asks a fourth: and,
for a time, things look less like a start than before. Nevertheless, the
steward is known to be a man of his word; and his announcement produces
the desired effect at last.
Let us take advantage of Parson Dove’s kind offer, and, placing
ourselves on the box of his carriage, abstract our attention from his
pretty daughter inside, and take a good view of the proceedings.
A preliminary gallop, in the wind’s eye, with a sharp sleet driving in
their faces, prepares the heroes for their agreeable task. Flags mark
out the extent and the direction of “danger’s dark career.” Starting in
this large grass-field, they jump a hedge and ditch into yonder less
extensive pasture, fenced by double posts and rails, which, successfully
negotiated, brings them, after a succession of fair hunting leaps, to
The Brook. Fourteen feet of water is a tolerable effort for a horse,
everywhere but in print; and as the weather will probably have wet the
jockeys through before they arrive at this obstacle, it matters little
whether they go in or over. After that, the fences are larger and more
dangerous, an exceedingly awkward “double” enclosing the next field but
one to the run-in.
The Parson thinks the ground injudiciously selected. As he had no voice
in the matter, it is as well to agree with him. Mrs. Dove’s attention is
a little distracted by the hamper with the luncheon; and Cissy hopes
fervently that “nobody will be hurt.”
Let us count the starters. One, two, three, four, five, six. Mr.
Crasher’s Chance, blue, and white sleeves (owner); Major Brush’s
Down-upon-’em, “gorge de pigeon,” crimson cap (owner); Mr. Savage’s
Luxury, scarlet, and black cap (Mr. Stripes); Mr. Brown’s Egg-Flip,
white (owner); Mr. Green’s Comedy, by Comus, black and all black (Mr.
Snooks); and lastly, Mr. Sawyer’s Wood-Pigeon, plum-colour, and blue cap
(owner).
The latter’s appearance excites considerable admiration, as he takes his
breathing canter. Wood-Pigeon is a remarkably handsome animal; and Mr.
Sawyer, at a little distance, looks more like a jockey than any of them,
with the exception of the redoubtable Stripes.
Old Isaac goes up to his master for a few last words before the flag
drops. “You mind the double comin’ in,” says the wary old dodger. “Close
under the tree’s the best place, ’cause there’s no holes in the bank;
and, pray ye now, _do ye sit still_!”
A faint exclamation from Miss Dove proclaims they are off. Out with the
double-glasses! From the carriage, we can see them the whole way round.
One, two, three! They fly the first fence in a string, Chance leading.
The Honourable means to make running all through. Wood-Pigeon is a
little rash; but Mr. Sawyer handles him to admiration. He goes in and
out of the double posts and rails like a pony.
This difficulty disposes of Mr. Snooks, who lets Comedy by Comus out of
his hand, falls, and never appears again.
The others increase the pace, as the lie of the ground takes them a
little downhill towards the brook. As they near it, you might cover them
with a sheet; but, while the whole increase their velocity, Chance and
Wood-Pigeon, the latter followed closely by Mr. Stripes on Luxury,
single themselves out from the rest. All three get over in their stride;
and a faint shout rises from the crowd on the distant hill. Egg-Flip
jumps short, and remains on the further bank with his back broken, the
centre of a knot of foot-people, who congregate round him in a moment,
from no one knows where. Down-upon-’em struggles in and out again,
striding over the adjacent water meadow as if full of running; but Brush
is far more blown than his horse. His cap is off, his reins are
entangled, he has lost a stirrup, and it is obvious that the Major’s
chance is out.
The race now lies between the leading three; and Crasher, who has great
confidence in Chance’s pedigree and stoutness, forces the running
tremendously. He and Sawyer take their leaps abreast, the latter riding
very quietly and carefully, mindful of old Isaac’s advice, to “sit
still.” Luxury is waiting close upon them.
“That fellow has been at the game before,” remarks Parson Dove, eyeing
Mr. Stripes through his glasses, and struck with admiration at the
artistic manner in which that gentleman pulls his horse together for the
ridge-and-furrow.
The Parson is not far wrong. Few professionals would care to give Mr.
Stripes the usual allowance of five pounds.
[Illustration: “Wood-Pigeon ... chucks his rider into the field
before him.”]
Thus they near the “double”—the last obstacle of any importance. It
consists of two ditches, and a strong staked-and-bound fence on a bank.
No horse can fly it all in his stride, after galloping nearly four
miles. Perhaps that is the reason why Stripes, who knows he is on a
_quick_ one as well as fast one, shoots a little to the front, and comes
at it at such an awful pace, seducing his two adversaries, by the force
of example, into the same indiscretion. Crasher, who never “loses his
stupidity,” as he calls his presence of mind, diverges for a rail that
he spies where the ditch is narrowest, takes the chance of breaking that
or being killed, and going at it forty-miles-an-hour, smashes it like
paper, and succeeds, as Chance rises not an inch, in covering both
ditches at a fly. He lands almost abreast of Luxury, who has struck back
at the fence with the rapidity and activity of a cat.
Mr. Sawyer, though remembering the place under the tree, dare not pull
his horse off enough, lest he should lose too much ground, and
Wood-Pigeon, who is a little blown, attempting to do it all at once,
lands with both fore-feet in the farther ditch, chucks his rider into
the field before him, and then rolls over the plum-coloured jacket in an
extremely uncomfortable form. The horse rises, looking wild and scared;
not so the rider: “He’s down!” exclaim the crowd; but their attention is
so taken up by a slashing race home between Crasher and Stripes, in
which the former is out-ridden by the latter, and beaten by
half-a-length on the post, that probably no one present but Miss Dove
knew who it was that was down. As the plum-colour still lay motionless,
poor Cissy turned very pale and sick, and then began to cry.
Our friend was not dead, however, very far from it—only stunned, and his
collar-bone broken. He recovered sufficiently to be taken past the
Doves’ carriage before Cissy had done drying her eyes; and although he
was not able to join the dinner-party at his hotel, with which the day’s
sports concluded, and at which an unheard-of quantity of champagne was
consumed, I have been credibly informed that he partook of luncheon
within less than a fortnight at Dove-cote Rectory, and was seen
afterwards with his arm in a sling, taking a _tête-à-tête_ walk to look
for violets with the daughter of the house.
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