but to pay forfeit, which they did. Their idea was that they could bet
their money to better advantage in the four-mile purse race, which was
to come off in a day or two, and in which both horses would enter,
knowing that Decatur would be largely the favorite in the betting, and
even more so, as they had paid forfeit to him. On the day of the race
the track was quite heavy. This also lengthened the odds on Decatur. But
Boston won, after a close contest, and largely enriched his friends. He
was now considered the champion racer of America, and he was sent over
to Long Island to attend the second spring meeting, to come off in a few
weeks.
In the meantime Duane and Charles Carter had been winning fame and most
of the large purses in Maryland and Virginia, under the management of
that shrewd and competent horseman, Billy McCargo. They were now turned
toward the metropolis, with a view to catching this new champion at Long
Island and taking a measure of his courage and speed. McCargo thought
either of his horses was better than Decatur, and as good, if not
better, than Boston. At Long Island he decided to make his first battle
on Boston with Charles Carter, the lesser light of the two stars of the
turf. The horses came together in a four-mile purse race, and for the
character of the soil and condition of the track, it was the most
fiercely-contested four-mile dash I ever saw. The first three miles were
run in 5:36, the fastest, notwithstanding the poor condition of the
track, ever made up to that time. As they passed out on the fourth mile
the horses were going like a matched team, and the contest appeared in
great doubt, but on the back side Boston began to draw away and won
easily by half a dozen lengths, and when Carter came in it was seen that
he was broken down and had run his last race.
Boston and his friends now crossed over to Hoboken, followed by McCargo,
with Duane. Over the new race course on Beacon Heights it was decided
that Duane should give the champion a beating or the race of his life.
McCargo had managed his fight on Boston with consummate skill. He had
selected the weaker of his two horses, Charles Carter, to make the first
assault, and it was evident from the terrific fight he had made over the
Long Island track that he hoped, even if he could not win with Carter,
to at least run Boston such a race that he could beat him with Duane on
Beacon Heights. Therefore they were quite sanguine of victory and freely
took all bets offered.
Beacon Heights was a new course just opened near New York, easy of
access, and costing only a trifle to get from the city there and to see
the race. Excitement was intense over the coming race between these two
famous Southern champions, both sons of Virginia, and I am confident
that a hundred thousand people witnessed the race. They came from every
section of the United States, and all classes were represented. Mr. Van
Buren, who was then President, and all of his Cabinet occupied a
conspicuous place in the grandstand, as did also nearly all of the
foreign legations, who were out in full force. The beauty and chivalry
of the nation had assembled to witness what was expected and what proved
to be the greatest horse race that ever occurred in this or any other
country. The great sea of humanity was kept in the best of humor by
lively music from a number of bands, the most noted being the United
States Marine Band, which had been sent out in honor of the assembled
dignitaries.
In those days there was but little betting done until the day of the
race, and most generally not until the horses were on the track. On this
occasion Commodore Stockdon, who, besides being a Commodore in our navy
was also a true sportsman and a prominent breeder and importer of
thoroughbreds, and who owned and raced some prominent horses of the day,
proposed on the evening before the race to Mr. Pringle, the most noted
sporting man of that day, in Washington, that he would bet him $5,000 on
Duane, provided he liked the looks of the horse the next day. The bet
was promptly taken, and the next day when the horses were brought out,
after carefully inspecting Duane, the Commodore told Pringle it was “a
go.” This settled it. No money passed, and rarely ever did with big
bettors. In those days men’s words were sufficient. What a striking
difference between then and now! Here a Commodore in the navy bets
$5,000 with a noted gambler, with nothing more than the word “go”
between them, and yet either would have sold the clothes off his back
rather than to crawfish out of the bet, or in any way defraud the other.
This even bet seemed to make the mark for others to go by, and the money
went on even up, and by the cartload in sums from fifty to five and ten
thousand dollars a side. As a rule the Southern contingent backed Duane,
while the New Yorkers piled their wealth on Boston. McCargo’s mulatto
boy, Steve, who had ridden Carter against Boston, at Long Island, was
now up on Duane to make another desperate effort to down the champion,
while Cornelius, Boston’s old rider, a negro boy who belonged to Mr.
Reeves, the owner of the horse, was in the pigskin on his favorite.
After having gone through the racing season, running from two to four
mile heat races every week, the two horses, as they stepped out on the
track, looked like two gamecocks made of whalebone and steel. Every
muscle and sinew stood out as if carved by an artist’s chisel, while
their glossy coats, bright eyes and light, springy step indicated that
both were on edge and ready to run for a king’s ransom or a woman’s
love. Boston was a red sorrel, about fifteen hands three inches high,
both hind ankles white and a white strip on his face that broadened out
over the nose; hence the nickname of “Old White Nose” afterward given to
him by his friends. He was a horse of immense driving power, but so very
symmetrical in his proportions and so evenly balanced that it was only
noticeable in the eyes of a critic. As he moved about under Cornelius
quietly, but with a supple, catlike step, bearing lightly on the
snaffle, with his red coat gleaming in the sunshine like burnished gold,
he was as beautiful and grand-looking a specimen of race horse as ever
gladdened the eyes of a turfman. Duane, the son of imported Hedgford,
was the counterpart of Boston in every respect, except in color and
markings. He was a dark brown, almost black, with tan muzzle and flanks.
While Boston’s coat shone like gold, Duane looked like polished bronze.
He had no marks, except a small spot of white in his forehead that shone
like a diamond, and as he was led out on the course by his old negro
trainer, Lazarus, with yellow Steve in the saddle, followed by their
manager, Billy McCargo, they presented a picture that will live forever
in the memory of every turfman who saw them. Gilpatrick, the most
distinguished jockey of his day, afterwards the rider of Boston in all
of his races, and who rode Lexington in his memorable race against time,
and I, both young riders then and fast friends, pooled our hard-earned
wages, amounting to $13, and bet it all on Boston, and with beating
hearts we worked our way through the crowd and took position under the
wire directly opposite the judges. Hon. John C. Stevens, one of New
York’s most prominent citizens, an accomplished gentleman and the most
competent starter of his day, was in the stand and ordered out the
horses.
First Heat.
At the tap of the drum the battle began. Duane was first on his stride
and showed the way around the turn. Here Boston made a run and shortly
after entering the stretch was on even terms with him. Head and head
they passed the stand. A mighty shout went up from the vast crowd and as
they started on the second mile you could hear, “$500 on Duane!” “A
$1,000 on Boston!” “Watch him run him out!” “Stay with him, old white
nose!” and a thousand other such exclamations from the friends of each.
Rounding the lower turn, Duane having the track, Cornelius took a slight
pull on Boston, but on entering the back stretch he made a run and at
the half they were nearly lapped. Rounding the upper turn, however,
Duane shook him off. Another shout from the backers of Duane and more
money goes up. Entering the stretch the game son of Timoleon makes
another run at his flying antagonist, and, although he closes up the
space, he can only get on Duane’s hip, and in this order, head and hip,
they pass the stand and swing around the turn. Cornelius is content to
hold this position until he enters the back stretch, when he again calls
on Boston; slowly but surely the red coat of Boston inches up and at the
half is hid behind Duane. So even are they running that it looks like
one horse and one rider; in this position they ran around the upper
turn, down the home stretch and enter the fourth mile as even as a
carriage team with the deafening shouts of the multitude following them.
Rounding the lower turn Steve for the first time takes a pull on Duane,
evidently with a view of saving him for the finish; Cornelius on Boston
moves to the front, intending to take the track, but Steve has no idea
of giving up this advantage, and he keeps Duane moving just close enough
to keep Boston on the outside. In this position they race to the head of
the stretch. Here Steve begins to make a run; down the stretch they
come, hip and head, but in spite of all Cornelius’ efforts and in spite
of the long, tireless strides of Boston, the brown son of Hedgford
overhauls him when half-way down the stretch, but it has taken the last
remnant of his reserve power to do this, and head to head, leap for
leap, they strain their hardened muscles. A child’s blanket would have
covered them. Both riders were rolling in their saddles from exhaustion,
but were lifting and urging all they could. Boston had been running
purely on his courage. Cornelius had neither whip nor spur. Steve had on
spurs that had more than once in the finish drawn the claret from Duane.
“A dead heat!” “A dead heat!” shout the crowd. No. One more stride with
a savage dig that sent the rowels home in the quivering flanks of his
horse and at the same time lifting his head Steve sends Duane under the
wire a winner by a scant head, in 7:52.
Remarkable time for a new track filled with roots and sprouts. Both
horses showed distress when the boys returned to weigh out. It had been
a battle between giants, and their heaving flanks gave evidence of the
great physical strain they had undergone, but the same gamecock look
flashed from their eyes, showing that while the flesh might be weak
their courage could never die. The riders were scarcely less distressed.
Steve, the rider of Duane, fainted when taken down, and Cornelius was in
but little better condition. So popular was the victory of Duane that
Mr. Wm. Friend, of Virginia, bought him before the next heat was called,
paying his owner $12,000 for him.
Although he had lost a heat Boston’s friends asked and received no odds,
but still covered Duane money, even up.
Second Heat.
When the horses were called for the second heat they came up looking
well. Both had cooled out admirably. Johnny Hartman, a white jockey, and
one of the best riders on the turf, was upon Duane, Steve not being able
to resume his mount. Up to this time Boston had never been marked by
whip or spur, except in his first race, when he sulked when touched with
a spur. He had won all of his races running purely on his courage. Col.
Wm. R. Johnson, the “Napoleon of the Turf,” who was managing him in this
race, procured a cowhide, and when he mounted Cornelius gave it to him
with instructions to use it if necessary from start to finish. There was
no delay at the post; the drum tapped, and they were off, followed by
the continuous cheers of the crowd. I doubt if a more closely contested
match for four miles was ever run over any course than was waged between
these two great horses in this second heat. It was literally a fight to
the death. With every muscle strained, every sinew drawn to its utmost
tension, they raced head for head the entire distance. Duane was on the
inside and held it to the finish, although Boston made repeated efforts
in every mile to take it. It was drive, drive, drive; death or victory.
First the head of gold striped with white would for a moment show in
front, then the head of bronze with the white spot gleaming like a star
of hope would take the lead, but never more than a scant head would at
any time divide them. As the head of either horse would show in front
their respective friends would give a ringing cheer, but as mile after
mile of the mighty contest was measured off by the long, low, powerful
strides of these great racers and the desperate character of the race
became more and more apparent, the excitement became too intense for
shouting, and as the horses turned into the stretch on the fourth mile
for the run home nose to nose, bit to bit and stride for stride a
stillness as of death came over the crowd. Not a shout, not a word, not
a whisper was heard. The stable boys and rubbers with bated breath and
bulging eyes stared with almost agonized expression on their faces up
the stretch where the desperate battle was being fought. The lemonade
vender gave up all thoughts of trade, and even the wily pickpocket
forgot his calling for the moment, and his hand, still clutching his
ill-gotten gains, trembled with excitement as he watched the flying
stallions and heard the ceaseless patter of their hoof strokes.
I was a young light-weight jockey then who had won his spurs in more
than one hotly-contested field, and to-day am perhaps the only living
turfman who witnessed this great match, for nearly sixty years have
passed since then; yet in memory’s mirror, I can see that fearful finish
as distinctly as my young eyes saw it that day. I can see two horses
half-way down the stretch coming as true and even as two arrows from one
bow. I can see two outstretched necks and heads, a sorrel and a brown, a
blaze and a star. I can see their powerful haunches gathered under them
and drive them forward as if they were shot from the mouth of a cannon.
I can see the hard-trained muscles playing beneath their thin skins like
oiled machinery, and as they come nearer and nearer I see their ears
lying back and their bloodshot eyes gleaming with the light of the
battle and undying courage. I hear their labored breathing and can see
the red flush up their widely-distended nostrils glowing like heated
furnaces. I can see Johnny Hartman, pale as death, riding as if for his
life, drive the merciless steel again and again in the panting sides of
Duane, and at each time the blood spurting from the wounds. I can see
the black face of Cornelius, drawn as if in mortal agony, his lips
parted, his white teeth shining and his eyes fixed on the finishing
point only a few yards away. I can see him swing the cowhide, already
crimsoned with the royal blood of Boston, high over his head and bring
it down on the quivering flank of his horse, then, quick as lightning,
lift him with the bit. I can see the great son of Timoleon crouch lower
to the ground, gather his powerful quarters further under him and make
the final rush just as Cornelius lifts him, and I can see the golden
head and white nose cross the wire in front of the bronze and the star.
Boston wins, but only by a head. Then the pent-up excitement broke
forth. “Boston wins!” “Boston wins!” was the shout. Yes, he had won, but
could he do so again? This was only a heat apiece. Another heat was
necessary to decide the race, and in the peerless brown stallion he had
found a foeman well worthy of his steel, and one that had shown him he
could take his measure in any part of the four miles. Both horses had
been fearfully punished and were dreadfully distressed, and so were the
riders. Of the two latter Hartman was much the freshest, for after
weighing out Cornelius had to be rubbed out, drenched with brandy and
altogether requiring almost as much attention as his horse. But he would
have died in the saddle rather than have relinquished his mount, and
when they were called for the last heat he came out with his bloody
whip, looking as determined as ever.
Third Heat.
Gilpatrick and I took our old position under the wire, with many
misgivings as to the fate of our combined fortunes, the $13 that hung
upon the result of this heat. For the first time Boston began to show
the ugly side of his disposition by sulking. As they were led up to
start he repeatedly refused to go, and when the drum was finally tapped,
having the inside, he bolted toward the fence. Cornelius pulled him out,
and then he ran diagonally across the track towards the outside. In the
meantime Hartman was sending the dead game son of Hedgford, along, and
by the time Cornelius got Boston straight and on his stride the
magnificent brown had taken the track and was running smoothly more than
fifty yards in front. These positions were maintained until they reached
the head of the stretch. Here Boston showed another peculiar trait in
his disposition, and one for which he afterwards became noted, the
shouting of a crowd seemed to inspire him and make him run faster. As
they turned into the stretch with Duane so far in advance his friends
began to cheer. The sound no sooner reached Boston’s ears than he began
of his own accord to make a run at Duane, and so rapidly did he run down
the stretch that when they passed under the wire he was only two open
lengths away. Going around the lower turn both riders eased up their
horses, but on entering the back stretch Cornelius made a run with
Boston at Duane and at the half mile had closed out all the daylight
between them.
But rounding the upper turn Duane shook him off and entered the stretch
an open length and a half in front. Again a great shout went up from the
backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again
as the sound reached Boston it seemed to lend him wings. Running true
and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced
son of Timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his
antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile
his white nose was at Duane’s hip. Going around the lower turn the boys
again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up
the stretch and around the upper turn, Boston holding his place with the
tenacity of a bull dog. But the white star of Duane is still in front as
they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a
cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and
promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches Duane.
Half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his
white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last
heat. It was now the time for Boston’s friends to cheer, and if
pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. Men
were simply wild with excitement. They danced about like children; hats,
coats and canes were thrown into the air. Gilpatrick and I hugged each
other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower
turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that Boston, inspired by
the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the
track from Duane. But to experienced riders like Gil and I this sudden
change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. We both knew
Hartman well. He was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful
horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse,
saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. Knowing from
our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to
the over-sanguine friends of Boston shouting: “Duane has quit!” “Duane
has quit!” We knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew
that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. So
we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with Boston
leading up the back side and around the upper turn.
Just before entering the stretch for home Hartman began to move on
Duane. “He’s coming!” “He’s coming!” Gil whispered, for he was too
excited to speak, and we both stood speechless watching the fierce
battle that was opening a quarter of a mile away. Cornelius rides Boston
a little wide on turning in the stretch in order that his whip hand
might be free to drive. Hartman sees the opening thus made next the rail
and rushes Duane in it. It was skillful riding on both sides. Hartman
had no whip, but rode with spurs, while Cornelius had no spurs, for
Boston would not stand them, but rode with a whip, and if Hartman in a
tight finish could get so close to Cornelius on his whip side as to
prevent him from using the lash he would have a big advantage. This
Cornelius prevented by riding a little out on the turn. The spurt of
Duane was greeted with the old-time cheer of his backers. “He comes! he
comes!” “See him come!” went up from the throats of thousands, but it
ceased almost as suddenly as it began, for the red horse is coming with
him, and at that moment not a hand’s breadth divides them. But Hartman’s
judgment in saving his horse now begins to tell, and inch by inch the
brown stud begins to slowly but surely draw away. First a nose, then a
head, then a neck and shoulders he pushes to the front. Hartman’s knee
is at Boston’s head. Duane is a half length in front and only an eighth
of a mile to run. Can he hold? Cornelius shifts both reins to his left
hand, the cat-gut whirls above his head and falls upon the flank of
Boston, cutting the thin skin of the thoroughbred like a knife. Maddened
with pain and his own desire to win Boston bites savagely at Duane, but
catches Hartman’s trousers at the knee and nearly tears them off of the
jockey. Cornelius pulls him loose, lifts his head, straightens him and
again the cruel rawhide tastes his blood. Responding to the lash with
unfaltering courage, with the shouts of “Duane,” “Duane,” “Duane wins!”
ringing in his ears, the great horse with almost human instinct seems to
know that the supreme moment has come, as he puts forth the last vital
ounce of strength that yet lingers in his powerful muscles and begins to
draw up on Duane. Each weary leap brings him nearer and nearer the head
of the gallant brown, whose last rush at the head of the stretch is now
beginning to tell upon him. Only fifty feet from the wire and they are
nose and nose. Horses and riders were rolling from side to side, all
utterly exhausted. Still, with outstretched necks, distended nostrils
and eyes yet flaming with passion, the fierce contest goes on as they
literally stagger towards the finish, for the pace is now nothing more
than a hard gallop. Cornelius is reeling from exhaustion in his saddle,
but with a last effort he partially lifts the drooping head of Boston,
cuts him with the whip and—the race is over! Boston wins! But so dead
tired are both horses that Boston, although the winner, actually stopped
directly under the wire, and Duane walked under it.
Fortune has been kind to me since then and given me many of her most
choice blessings, but never in her most liberal moods has she given me
anything that I appreciated more than the smile she gave me that hot day
on Beacon Heights nearly sixty years ago, when, watching this greatest
of all the great races I have ever seen, she doubled my humble fortune.
The reason so little has ever been said or written about this race is
owing to the fact that it was not a match or stake or section race, but
simply a purse race of four mile heats, in which two of the most noted
horses in America met. I helped to carry Boston home after the race. We
went through by land, and so completely exhausted was the horse that he
would frequently fall and we would have to assist him to his feet.
With Our Writers
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”
As a rule, traveling salesmen manage to extract and radiate as much joy
and mirth as any class of citizens that I know of. But even these genial
spirits have their own sorrows.
A drummer was sent by his house, shortly after his marriage, on a long
trip to the Pacific coast. Some time after his departure the young wife
was seized with appendicitis, was hurried off to a hospital, operated
on, and recovered all right. The strain, both mental and financial, had
been great, but she was well again. Joe had remitted by check for
surgeon’s fee, special nurse, hospital charges, and a few other items
amounting to a hundred or so, and his spirits were just beginning to
rise again as he worked towards Los Angeles, where mail from home would
await him.
The “gang” from the 9:10 train hurried up to the office of the
“Link-Schmidt.” The night clerk handed each his quota of these
ever-welcome missives.