The Races
"Well, Stroke?" asked the Benson's cox, as the two slowly made their way
from the boat-house towards the school. "What's to do now? I'm afraid
we're done for. Mind," he went on in another tone, "I'm not blaming you.
Any other fellow with a spark of spirit in him would have jibbed. But
have you counted the cost?"
"Yes, Dale, I've counted the cost, and know what I'm going to do."
"So?"
"Three must come down to Seven and Franklin must come into the boat at
Three. If only we had a week of practice before us I should not fear for
the result, but to-morrow----"
Stroke's voice died away as he dug his hands deeply into his trousers
pockets and walked moodily on. Suddenly he turned to his companion:
"After all," he said, "we may stand a chance. If not on the first day or
two of the races, then on the last. Rout out Franklin for me, Dale, and
tell him what's afoot, and that we row at seven this evening with him at
Three. Then tell the others. There'll be no hard work, only a paddle to
help Franklin find the swing. One thing--he's fit enough."
"Yes, and I must say we have you to thank for that, old boy. Those runs
before breakfast that used to make Monty so savage have done us a good
turn by keeping Franklin fit, not to mention the occasional tubbing we
have given him."
"Aye, he's not bad; and if the rest of the crew buck up well we may yet
do things. Now good-bye, Dale, until seven o'clock! See that every man
is ready stripped sharp to time for me, for I must now see Benson, and
tell him all my plans."
The further news that Benson's were going out again with their spare man
at Three, coming upon the sensational story of the quarrel between
Stroke and Seven, spread like wildfire through the school. Every boy who
was at all interested in the Eights--and who was not?--made a note of
the matter, and promised himself that he would be there and see the fun
for himself.
When seven o'clock arrived, therefore, the tow-path in front of Benson's
boat-house was thronged with boys; some there in a spirit of foreboding,
to see how their own crew shaped after its heavy misfortune, some to
rejoice at the evidence they expected to see of the impending
discomfiture of a redoubtable foe, some to jeer generally, and others--a
few, but the more noisy--in out-and-out hostility to the crew which had
turned out from among its number their favourite, Montgomery. So great
was the crowd that the crew had almost to push its way through the
press, at close quarters with a medley of cheers and groans that did not
do the nerves of some of them much good.
The outing was a short one. Mr. Benson, who had coached the crew himself
so far as his time permitted, did not put in an appearance, and Durend
had the field to himself. All he did was to set an easy stroke, and to
leave Dale, as cox, to keep a sharp watch upon the time and swing of
Three and Seven. The change naturally upset the rhythm of the crew a
little, but not so much as was generally expected. In fact, on the
return to the boat-house, cheers predominated, as though others besides
themselves had been agreeably surprised.
The Eights week at Hawkesley always stood out prominently from the rest
of the year as a kind of landmark. It marked the highest point of the
constant struggle between the several Houses into which the school was
divided, and all energies were therefore concentrated upon it for weeks
in advance. As may have been surmised, the Eights races were not direct
contests, with heats, semi-finals, and finals, but bumping races, for
the little River Suir would hardly permit of anything else. For a short
stretch or two, perhaps, a couple of boats might have raced abreast, but
it would not have been possible to have found a reasonably full course
for a race to be decided in that way. Consequently the boats were
anchored to the shore four boat-lengths behind one another, and by the
rules of the game they were required to give chase to one another, and
to touch or bump the boat in front to score a win.
A win meant that the victors and vanquished changed places, and the
whole essence of the contest was that the stronger crews gradually
fought their way forward into the van of the line of boats. There were
six Houses to the school, and the same number of crews competed, for the
honour of their respective Houses. Six days were allotted to the task,
and it was no wonder that the crews had to see to it that they were in
first-rate condition, for racing for six days out of seven was bound to
try them hard.
The legacy left the Benson crew by their comrades of the year before was
the position No. 3 in the line. The position the year before that had
been No. 5, so it was not surprising that the Bensonites had great hopes
that this year would see them higher still. Cradock's was just in front
of them, with Colson's at the Head. Both were strong crews, and so was
Johnson's, just behind--too strong, indeed, for Durend to feel very
comfortable with an unknown quantity at his back.
The race was timed to start at eleven, and a minute or two before the
hour all the crews had taken up their position, stripped and made ready.
The crews were too far apart for signals by word of mouth or by pistol
to be effective, so a gun was fired from the bank--one discharge "Get
ready!" two "Off!" and three--after a lapse of ten minutes--as the
"Finish".
"Boom!" went the first gun, and men ceased trying their stretchers or
signalling to their friends on shore. A few words of caution from the
stroke, and then all was still in tense expectation. The mooring-ropes
were slipped, and the boats left free to move slowly forward with the
stream.
"Boom!" Simultaneously forty-eight oars dipped and churned the water
into foam. Like hounds suddenly unleashed, the six boats leapt forward
and began their desperate chase upon the waters of the Suir.
The strongest point of Benson's crew had been its lightning start, and
Durend had always counted upon this giving him at least half a length's
advantage at the outset. Striking the water at his usual rate, he
hoped--almost against hope--that this advantage still remained to him.
Less than half a dozen strokes, however, were sufficient to convince him
that the hope was a vain one. The perfect swing of the boat was marred
by a jar that became more pronounced with every stroke. He knew well
enough what it was: it was the new half-trained man, Franklin, vainly
trying to keep up the pace of a trained crew.
It was a bitter disappointment, but Durend was not one to let such
feelings cloud his judgment, and without a moment's hesitation he let
his racing start fall away into a long, steady swing. Victory--for the
moment, at any rate--must be left to others, while his crew were brought
back once more to the swing and rhythm they had lost.
For some time Durend kept his stroke long and steady, and the boat
travelled evenly and well, though at no great pace. By that time
Cradock's, in front, were almost lost to sight, but Johnson's, behind,
were very much within view, and coming up fast. The situation seemed so
critical that Dale at last could contain himself no longer. For some
minutes he had been nervously glancing back at the nose of the boat
creeping up behind, and wondering when he must forsake his straight
course for the forlorn hope of an attempt to elude the bump by a pull at
the rudder line.
"Durend, they'll have us, if you don't draw away a little."
Durend nodded. He had not been unmindful of the boat creeping up behind,
but he had a problem, and no easy one, to settle. Should he press his
crew to the utmost, or should he hold his hand for another time? It was
a terribly difficult thing to decide for the best, with Johnson's
creeping up and every fibre in him revolting against surrender and
calling out for a desperate spurt right up to the end.
Suddenly Durend quickened up. His men were waiting and longing for a
spurt and caught it up at once. But again the swing was marred by
Franklin's inability to support the terrific pace. After the first
stroke or two the boat began to roll heavily, the form and time became
ragged, and there was much splashing.
One glance at Dale's agonized face and Durend again allowed his stroke
to drop back into its former steady swing, and doggedly, with
sternly-set face, plugged away as before, refusing to look again at the
crew drawing inexorably up behind. Twice the boats overlapped, but both
times Dale managed, by skilful steering, to avoid a bump. The third time
no trick of steering could avoid the issue, and the nose of the Johnson
boat grated triumphantly along the side of Benson's.
At the touch, both crews ceased rowing. The race for them was ended for
that day at least, and they could watch and see how the other crews had
fared. But the other races were also over, for the third and last "Boom"
rang out within a few seconds of the termination of their own.
Defeat is always hard to bear, and the Benson crew were no exception to
the rule. It was obvious to every one of them that they had not been
allowed to have their full fling, and angry and discontented thoughts
surged into the brains of the disappointed men as they leaned over their
oars and tried not to hear the jubilant chatter of those insufferable
Johnsonites. Why had Stroke set so wretchedly slow a stroke that defeat
was certain? The members of the beaten crew were, for the most part,
fresher far than the winning crew. Why had not Stroke given them the
opportunity of rowing themselves right out instead of tamely
surrendering thus?
No answers to these discontented queries were forthcoming. Durend could
have spoken, but would not. Dale might have spoken; for though he knew
not the plans of his chief, his position at the rudder enabled him to
conjecture a great deal. But he, too, was dumb. So it was that the
Benson crew could answer the questions of their distressed friends only
by referring them with disparaging shrugs of the shoulders to their
worthy Stroke.
Durend had never been a popular boy. He was respected for his steady
persistence and his capacity for unlimited hard work, but popular he
could not be said to be, even with his crew. He held himself rather
aloof, and never really took them into his confidence. He seemed to
think that if he did his best as Stroke, both in rowing and in
generalship, he had done all that was necessary. His plans, his hopes,
and his fears he kept strictly to himself. Why worry his men about them?
he reasoned, and in the main, no doubt, he was right, though he carried
it much too far. As a consequence the crew, with the possible exception
of Dale, were left to conjecture his reasons for all that he did, and in
most cases to put a wrong construction upon them.
But, though they growled, they were too sportsmanlike and too loyal to
their House to do more, and 11 a.m. next day saw them at their places
every bit as eager as before. This time, without a doubt, they told one
another, Durend would set them a faster stroke and give them a chance to
show the stuff they were made of.
Unhappily they were doomed to fresh disappointment. Twice, indeed,
Durend quickened up his stroke, but almost immediately he felt the time
and swing of the crew again becoming ragged. In his judgment it was
useless to persist in hope of an improvement; so, with the decisiveness
that was one of his chief characteristics, he promptly dropped his
stroke back into his old rate of striking. His men fretted and fumed
behind him, and one or two even went so far as to shout aloud for a
spurt. A sharp reprimand was all they got for their trouble, and in high
dudgeon they relapsed again into a savage silence. Fortunately, though
they saw nothing of the crew ahead, they managed to keep a length of
clear water between them and the weak Crawford crew travelling in their
wake.
No cheers heralded their return. The doings of Benson's attracted little
attention now, for all interest had centred upon the desperate struggles
between the three leading boats, Cradock's, Colson's, and Johnson's--for
the first two had now changed places. It is almost as hard to be ignored
as to be scoffed at, and it was a very sore crew indeed that put their
craft upon its rack that day and filed upstairs to the dressing-room of
Benson's boat-house.
Self-contained and preoccupied though he was, Durend could not help
noticing that his conduct of the races was being severely and adversely
commented upon. But he only shrugged his shoulders, hurried on his
clothes, and left the building perhaps a little more quickly than usual.
Some strokes would have given explanations to their crews, but it never
occurred to Durend to do so. Dale followed him from the room.
"See here, Max," he said, as he overtook him, "I think you should know
that our fellows are tremendously sick at the poor show we are making.
They feel that your stroking of the crew is not giving them a fair
chance."
Durend stopped abruptly. "So long as I am stroke, Dale, I shall set the
stroke I think proper. I am doing what I think is best for the crew, and
shall follow it out until the last race is over--lost or won."
"I know, I know, old man," replied Dale hastily. "But what is your game
really? You must know you can't win races with a funereal stroke like
that, so what's the good of trying it?"
Durend opened his lips as though about to make an angry reply.
Apparently he thought better of it, for he closed them again, and for
some minutes walked on in silence. When he spoke it was in the quiet
measured tones of one who has thought out his subject and has no doubts
in his own mind of the wisdom of his conclusions.
"After six weeks' hard work, Dale, we've managed to get the crew into
pretty good form--everybody says so. Is it all to be lightly thrown
away? Can we really expect Franklin to keep up the pace of the rest of
us without rushing his slide, bucketing, or something of the sort? Can
we now?"
Dale, but half convinced, returned to the charge. "Well, I don't know.
Something's got to be done. I heard three of the fellows just now
whispering something about asking Benson to put Montgomery back in the
boat."
"Where?"
Dale hesitated.
"I see. At stroke. Well, I may be prejudiced, but I don't think it would
answer, old man. Anyhow, we'll leave all that to Benson, and those three
fellows too. Come, Dale, I'm sick of thinking about this, so let's try
and talk about something a little more cheerful."
Dale was a light-hearted, cheery fellow enough, and found no difficulty
in turning the talk into other and more pleasant topics. The two, though
so opposite in point of character and physique, were very good friends.
Dale was a slim, lightly-built young fellow of eighteen, with a fair
complexion and an open boyish face. He was a general favourite, and,
though not athletically inclined, was always ready to assist in acting
cox or kindred work. Max Durend was dark-complexioned, somewhat
reserved, and of a more thoughtful disposition. He also was eighteen
years of age, was of medium height but strongly built, and possessed a
great capacity for hard work. As has already been explained, he was not
popular, and that may have been partly due to his reserve, and partly to
the fact that he was only half English, namely on his mother's side.
The race on the following day was even less exhilarating than the last.
Benson's still rowed at their provokingly slow stroke, simply retaining
their position at No. 4, while Johnson's and Colson's, after a terrific
struggle, changed places. Thus Cradock's remained at the Head with the
Johnson and Colson crews second and third.
It needed all Dale's persuasion and plentiful supply of hopeful
suppositions (partly derived from his talk with Durend, but mostly made
up out of his own head) to keep the Benson crew from breaking out into
open revolt. Every day they had finished the race half fresh, and not
one of them could see the use of parading up and down the course as
though uncertain whether they were in the race or not.
And through it all Mr. Benson just looked grimly on, indifferent,
apparently, to all their woes, and said no word save a little--a very
little--commendation, no doubt intended to keep them from entering the
very last stages of despair. It seemed as though he had given the whole
thing up as a bad job, and did not intend to interest himself further in
the matter.
Another day came just like the last, and listlessly the dispirited crew
turned their oars on the feather and waited for the signal to start.
Quite suddenly they woke up to the fact that Stroke was leaning back
towards them and speaking.
"Now, you fellows," he was saying in a quiet but tense voice, "I am
going to give you a racing start at last. See to it, then, that you pick
it up and keep it. Don't forget. Franklin, I rely upon you to do your
utmost to keep up with us. Now, boys!"
"Boom!"
There was scarcely a soul about to see Benson's start; nearly everyone
was watching the struggles going on ahead, where strong crews were
striving in the last days to secure and hold a higher position for the
Houses they had been called to represent. So it was that the Benson
start passed unnoticed until it dawned upon Colson's, the crew ahead,
that the Benson boat had drawn unaccountably nearer. And Benson's, too!
It could only be a fluke, and with that conviction Colson's settled down
grimly to the task of shaking them off.
But somehow or other it did not seem at all easy to shake them off. In
fact, to their dismay, the end of the great spurt saw the gap between
the boats no wider. Suddenly, too, Benson's spurted in their turn, and
the nose of their boat drew closer at a speed that wellnigh paralysed
Colson's.
Indeed, in the Benson boat, the pent-up energies of three days of
enforced self-restraint were being let loose in a series of desperate
spurts for the mastery. Even Durend could contain himself no longer, and
Franklin, though he had not yet reached anything like the form of the
rest of the crew, was yet able to do his part in the struggle with a
fair measure of success. Within five minutes of the start Benson's had
overlapped Colson's, and, almost immediately after, the bump came.
We need not describe the joy and relief in the Benson crew at their
unexpected victory--unexpected to all of them, for even Durend, though
he had hoped and planned, had not anticipated it so soon. To the rest of
the school the whole affair was so unexpected as to be stupefying. Only
the most penetrating and experienced observers could give a reason for
their sudden recovery, and the remainder explained away the sensational
victory by a disparaging reference to the utter weakness of Colson's.
Had not Colson's dropped in three days from Head of the River to No. 3,
and was that not enough proof of weakness? they argued. Gradually the
general view crystallized down to the opinion that Benson's had had
their fling, and could hope to make no impression upon the two really
strong crews now in front of them.
Nevertheless, though this seemed the general opinion, the following
morning found the whole school on the tow-path opposite the Benson boat.
No one wanted to see the struggle between Cradock's and Johnson's, but
everyone was anxious to see the start of the Benson crew, and to learn
whether any fresh surprises were in store for them.
There could be no doubt about the spirit of the crew. Hope and
confidence seemed to exude from every pore, and it was clear that for
them the week was only just beginning. At the report of the gun, Durend
took his men away with a racing start that recalled those they had made
before Montgomery left the crew. The form was well kept; even Franklin,
who had improved rapidly with every day's work, keeping well in with the
swing of the rest of the crew. Dropping the stroke a little soon after
the start, Durend led them along with a strong, lively stroke that was
soon seen to be gaining them ground slowly, foot by foot, upon their old
foe, the Johnson crew. The latter were, however, in no mood to yield an
inch if they could help it, and made spurt after spurt in the desperate
endeavour to keep well away.
For the first eight or nine minutes of the race, Durend did not allow
himself to be flurried into any answering spurt. He knew that he was
within reach, and to him that was, for the time, sufficient. His watch
was strapped to the stretcher between his feet, and he was carefully
measuring the time he could allow Johnson's before calling them to
strict account.
It wanted one minute to the time when the finishing gun would boom out
before Durend quickened up. His men were waiting in confident
expectation for that moment, and answered like one man. From the very
feel of the stroke they had known what a reserve of power their stroke
and comrades possessed, and they flung themselves into the spurt with
all the energy of conscious strength. The boat leapt to the touch, and
up and up, nearer and nearer, the nose of their craft crept to the boat
ahead.
A hoarse and frantic appeal from the stroke of the Johnson boat, and his
men strove to answer and stave off that terrible spurt. But they had
spurted too often already, and another and a greater was more than they
could bear. Their time became ragged; some splashed and dragged, and the
boat was a beaten one before the end came.
It was a thrilling moment when the boats bumped, and the straggling
crowds upon the tow-path shouted and yelled with delight and deepest
appreciation. Rarely had there been such a race in the school's annals;
never one in which the winning crew had thus fought its way up from
previous failure and defeat.
After witnessing that achievement, the opinion of the school veered
completely round, and everyone confidently predicted that Benson's would
win their way to the Head of the River on the following morning. It had
now become as clear as noonday to all that the stroke of Benson's had
been playing that most difficult of all games, the waiting game. He had
held his crew inexorably in until the new man had had time to settle
down into his place and catch the form and time of the rest of the crew.
Clearly, too, the crew was rowing better every day, and no one believed
that Cradock's would be able to keep them off in the full tide of their
swing to victory.
This time the opinion of the school was right, and the following day
Benson's caught up and bumped Cradock's within three minutes of the
start. They had settled down and become a great crew, confident in
themselves and even more confident in the power and judgment of their
Stroke.
The ovation they received on the return to their boat-house they long
remembered. The noisy and enthusiastic tumult was indeed something to
remember and be proud of, but to Durend the few words of commendation of
Mr. Benson counted for far more.
"Well done, Durend!" he said simply. "I saw you knew your business, and
that is why I did not interfere. But even I did not expect so splendid a
success. Your men have done well indeed, but it is to you and your
fixity of purpose our win is mainly due. I have never known an
apparently more hopeless chase; and, to you others, I say that it shows
that there is almost nothing that fixity of purpose will not achieve in
the long run."
Even more pleasurable were the words of Montgomery, touched with real
contrition, as he grasped his old Stroke by the hand and begged his
pardon for doubting his ability and power to stroke a crew to victory.