Great Australian Horses.
The Barb v. Carbine.
For we did produce, once upon a time, animals fit to take their places
in the ranks against the greatest that the world could bring. Although
the Hon. James White failed in his patriotic invasion, many individual
racers reached the shores of Great Britain and showed the racing world
what we are really capable of.
To begin with, there was Merman. This horse was bred by Mr. W. R. Wilson
when his St. Albans Stud was in the zenith of its fortunes. He was a
chestnut colt, foaled in 1892, by Grand Flaneur, who, great horse as he
himself was, was not an unqualified success at the stud, from Seaweed,
by Coltness out of Surf (imported). He showed some fair form in
Australia, winning a couple of two-year-old handicaps in his first
season out of half a dozen starts; the July Handicap, at a mile, in nine
attempts as a three-year-old, and the Armadale Handicap, one mile, the
Rosstown Plate, 5½ furlongs, the Yan Yean Stakes, a mile, and the
Williamstown Cup, one mile and three furlongs, out of seven efforts, as
a four-year-old. That erudite judge, Mr. William Allison, then purchased
him on behalf of Mrs. Langtry, and in England he proved himself a stayer
of the very first water by winning the Ascot Gold Cup, 2¼ miles, the
Cesarewitch, 2¼ miles, the Goodwood Cup and the Goodwood Stakes at two
and a half miles each. This was the highest form imaginable, and was an
excellent advertisement for the Australian horse.
Newhaven, our Cup and Derby winner, won the City and Suburban Handicap
at Epsom, a race which the fiddle-headed old gelding, The Grafter, also
appropriated, while Maluma, the sister to Malvolio, won races. Aurum, a
son of Trenton, was, without doubt, the best representative we ever sent
to the Old Country, but, unfortunately, he went wrong and never had a
chance. He was the greatest three-year-old I ever saw, and at three
years old ran third to The Grafter and Gaulus in the Melbourne Cup, two
miles, at the beginning of November. This was such a good performance
that I must append the weights, so that you can thoroughly appreciate
the magnitude of the effort:—
Gaulus, 6 years 7.8 (1)
The Grafter, 4 years 7.0 (2)
Aurum, 3 years 8.6 (3)
Had they been meeting at weight-for-age, their respective imposts would
have been:—
Gaulus, ch. h., 6 yrs. 9.6.
The Grafter, b. g., 4 yrs. 8.11.
Aurum, br. c., 3 yrs. 7.6.
It will thus be seen that this three-year-old was asked to give The
Grafter, a horse capable of winning a City and Suburban, no less than
thirty-nine pounds, calculated on the weight-for-age basis, and Gaulus
forty pounds. It was no less than astounding.
A New Zealand colt, Noctuiform, perhaps almost as good a colt in his
three-year-old days as Aurum, also travelled to the Old Country, but
went all to pieces, and was a complete failure. That was the fortune of
war, but the Dominion avenged herself when Mr. S. H. Gollan took a
steeplechaser, Moifaa, across the wide seas to Liverpool, and put down
all England, aye, and Ireland, too, over that unique and difficult
course. Yes, I assure you we can breed the best in the world here, if we
would but take the greatest pains. That is where we fail, and fail
badly. English stud management can give us a couple of stone and a
handsome beating.
We often hear men arguing on the subject of “Which was the best horse
ever bred in Australasia?”
The subject is an interesting, if a somewhat profitless one for
discussion. It is impossible to decide the point, for the horses of old
had perforce to contend with conditions which their more pampered
brethren of to-day are never called upon to meet. But I should say that
the champion laurels hover between the brows of Carbine and The Barb.
The time occupied by each in running the Cup, two miles, can scarcely be
compared. The old-timer won, as a three-year-old, carrying six stone
eleven, in three minutes and forty-three seconds. Carbine, a
five-year-old, with ten five up, finished in three minutes twenty-eight
and a quarter seconds. The pace in The Barb’s year was probably not
fully on until approaching the Abattoirs, when the winner and Exile came
away from the field and, locked together, they fought out every inch of
the last hundred yards. In Carbine’s year they hopped off with a full
head of steam on, and the last five furlongs were covered at the
tremendous speed of one minute and two seconds. But the going in The
Barb’s race, no doubt, could not be compared with what it is in our day,
although we must remember that, after all, there was only an interval of
twenty-four years between the two eras. It will be interesting to
briefly run over the careers of the rivals.
As a two-year-old The Barb only competed twice. In April Fishhook and
Budelight, two Fisherman colts belonging to Mr. H. Fisher, beat him in
The Australian Jockey Club’s Two Years’ Stakes. The Barb ran green. A
week afterwards Fishhook attempted to give the black colt a stone, at
six furlongs, in The Nursery, but was beaten easily by two lengths.
Then followed the Australian Derby in September. The Barb won with the
greatest ease by two lengths, Bylong, a chestnut Sir Hercules colt
belonging to Mr. John Lee, running second, and Fishhook third. On
September sixth, The Barb, still entitled to run in “A Maiden at entry”
event, was beaten by a Pitsford horse, Bulgimbar, in the Spring
Metropolitan Maiden Stakes, after a fine race, by half a length. Truly
the ways of our ancestors were not our ways. Next day at weight-for-age,
but carrying his seven-pound Derby penalty, he smothered Fishhook very
easily by three lengths at a mile, run in 1.50. Dead slow! Then came the
great Melbourne Cup on November 1st, 1886. The Barb won by a short head.
Time, 3.43. All-Aged Stakes. One mile. Special weights. Sour Grapes (Mr.
C. B. Fisher’s) br. f., 2 years, first. The Barb second. The latter was
left at the post. Won by 2 lengths. Time, 1.50.
Twelfth Champion Race. 1,000 sovereigns. Weight-for-age. Three miles.
The Barb first, Mr. Tait’s Volunteer second. Cowra, Sea Gull and
Fishhook also ran, but Fishhook bolted. Won very easily. Time, 5 min. 38
sec. “Quickest on record in Australia.”
The Homebush Maiden Plate. One mile and a half. For Maidens at time of
entry. (The race was run on April 22nd, and so The Barb’s claim to
maidenhood would not hold good to-day.) Mr. E. Lee’s Phoebe was the only
other starter. “Won in a trot. Time, 3 min. 9¾ sec. The Barb ran in his
shoes.”
The Australian St. Leger. At Randwick, May 4th.
Mr. C. B. Fisher’s Fishhook 1
Mr. T. Ivory’s Blair Athol 2
Mr. J. Lee’s Bylong 3
Mr. J. Tait’s The Barb, Old England and Sir John also ran. “Fishhook and
The Barb went off with the lead, and raced at a tremendous pace for a
mile, when The Barb was beaten.” What the explanation of this debacle
might have been, I cannot say, but I am told by one who lived at that
time that Fishhook simply “burst him up.”
During the next season The Barb’s career was an uninterrupted triumphal
procession. The Metropolitan, the Craven Plate, the Randwick Plate, the
Royal Park Stakes at Flemington, the Port Phillip Stakes, the Sydney
Cup, and the Queen’s Plate at Randwick, all came his way without much
effort. The Royal Park Stakes was a walk-over, and in the Randwick Plate
he had only Warwick, a stable companion, to canter along with him. But
in the other events he beat Tim Whiffler, Fireworks (not, however, the
Fireworks of his three-year-old days), Coquette, Gulnare, Glencoe and
Gasworks. He was invincible, and there, at the height of his fortunes,
his racing career terminated.
Now let us sum up Carbine as quickly as possible. As a two-year-old he
appeared on the course five times, and on each occasion won his race
against the best that New Zealand could produce of the same age, and in
the Challenge Stakes he also beat Russley, a six-year-old, and
Silvermark, a three-year-old.
After arriving in Australia, he was beaten—the most palpable fluke—in
the Derby at Flemington by Mr. White’s Ensign. Hales on Ensign won the
race; Derrit on Carbine lost it. The latter rider struck his mount
(Carbine) with his whip on a tender spot, and paralysed him for the
moment.
The Flying Stakes (seven furlongs), the Foal Stakes (a mile and a
quarter), beating Melos and Wycombe, fell to him at the same Spring
Meeting at Flemington. Then followed a couple of defeats. Carbine, now
the property of Mr. Donald Wallace, ran third in the Newmarket, carrying
eight stone twelve, to Sedition, a six-year-old mare with seven three on
her back, and Lochiel, an aged horse, with nine four. Mick O’Brien
always maintained that he should have won this race upon Carbine. It was
well known that O’Brien was a partner in another of the runners
(Tradition), and he was fancied. Carbine’s jockey was determined that he
would beat his own horse at all costs—otherwise, what would the mob
say?—and kept the big bay well shepherded. When Tradition was palpably
unable to come along, O’Brien clapped on full sail, and came too late.
“I should be punished, flogged,” he confessed, after weighing in. In the
Australian Cup, Lochiel, giving in actual weight a pound, got home from
the three-year-old by three parts of a neck. At weight-for-age Carbine
would have received eighteen pounds. The colt now won the Champion
Stakes, three miles, in a very slow run race, from Abercorn, Melos,
Volley, Lonsdale and Cyclops. Next day he secured, very easily indeed,
the All-Aged Stakes at a mile, and, on the same day, the Loch Plate, two
miles, by half a head from Lochiel and Carlyon, Carbine carrying a
fourteen pound penalty.
In Sydney, at the Autumn Meeting, in glorious weather, Abercorn beat the
champion in the Autumn Stakes, a mile and a half, and The Australian
Peer, Lochiel and Cranbrook were behind the pair. Next day, in the
Sydney Cup, two miles, Carbine, nine stone, won by a head from Melos,
eight stone two, with Abercorn third, nine four, two lengths away, and
Lochiel, nine two, eighth. “At the half-mile post Lady Lyon somewhat
interfered with Carbine, causing him to drop back last. Time, 3 min. 31
sec.”
Next day Carbine won the All-Aged (a mile) from Rudolph, Russley,
Lochiel and Melos, and later in the afternoon beat Lochiel in the
Cumberland Stakes, two miles, with Abercorn third. Carbine won by half a
head, as you will see if you turn up the Turf Register of the day. What
that useful work does not tell you, however, is this: Five furlongs from
home the race looked a gift for Carbine, and all the books were laying
“ten to one Lochiel.” At this moment Carbine nearly fell, and dropped
astern a prodigious long way. Old Mr. Sam Cook, the owner of The
Admiral, hearing the fielders still calling “ten to one Lochiel,” dashed
in and took all the hundreds to ten he could gather. Running back to the
Lawn again he came in sight of the winning post just in time to see
Carbine put in the most paralysing run perhaps ever seen, and just catch
the leader on the post. One who was down the running tells how, sweeping
round the bend, Carbine was literally “ventre a terre,” his belly almost
touching the grass. The last half was run under 48 seconds. It was a
falsely run race, the two miles taking them five minutes and three
seconds. On the last day of the meeting, Mr. Wallace’s colt again beat
Abercorn—half a length—Melos, Lochiel, Volley and Bluenose, in the
Australian Jockey Club Plate, three miles.
And so ended his three-year-old career. The next season opened for him
in the Spring with the Caulfield Stakes. Mr. James White’s
three-year-old Dreadnought beat him two lengths over the mile and a
furlong, and Mr. White with Abercorn, and Mr. Gannon, by the aid of
Melos, stood in Carbine’s way in the Melbourne Stakes. But only a short
head and half a neck separated the three. Ah! there was racing in the
days of these mighty giants. In the Melbourne Cup, Carbine was set to
carry ten stone. Bravo, a six-year-old son of Grand Flaneur, who had
been much fancied, went lame a few days before the race, was eased in
his work, and went back in the betting to pretty hopeless odds.
Recovering, however, and most probably all the better for the let-up, he
won fairly easily from Carbine, with the consistent Melos third,
carrying eight twelve.
When Carbine was saddled up for the Canterbury Plate on the last day of
the meeting, he had one of his fore feet quartered, and consequently he
was unable to show his best form, and for once in a way he was beaten
out of a place by Abercorn, Sinecure and Melos. His revenge came in the
autumn. In the Essendon Stakes he beat Singapore, Melos, Bravo and
Chintz, although Melos and Dreadnought finished ahead of him in a slow
run Championship. However, on the fourth day of the meeting he made
ample amends by taking the All-Aged Stakes, at a mile, from five
two-year-olds, and the Loch Plate, over two miles, from Singapore and
Fishwife. “Three to one on Carbine.” Then came the Autumn Randwick
Meeting. Here, in the Autumn Stakes, Melos once more ran second to the
great horse, with Dreadnought third. Chintz, Antaeus and Federation also
ran. The Sydney Cup, two miles, came on the second day, and Carbine won
easily. He carried nine stone nine, and Melos, nine five, was out of a
place. He ended his four-year-old efforts with the All-Aged Stakes, the
Cumberland Stakes—both on the same day—and the A.J.C. Plate, three
miles, in the last race beating Melos and Dreadnought. The time occupied
in running the distance was six minutes and seven seconds, which, of
course, was terribly slow. Carbine’s last season was almost, though
unfortunately not quite, an unblemished blaze of glory. Briefly, here is
the list of his triumphs: The Spring Stakes, Randwick, beating Melos and
seven others; the Craven Plate, with Megaphone and Cuirassier behind
him. The time for the mile and a quarter was 2 min. 7 sec., a record at
that period. The Melbourne Stakes from a large field, including Melos,
who must have been heartily sick of the sight of his enemy’s tail. The
aforementioned Melbourne Cup—the record Cup; the Essendon Stakes; the
Champion Stakes, beating on this occasion the risen sun amongst the
three-year-olds, The Admiral; the All-Aged Stakes; the Autumn Stakes,
with only Highborn in opposition at weight-for-age. In the great
Melbourne race you must remember that Highborn had carried six stone
eight to the champion’s ten five. On the second day of this Randwick
meeting, Highborn came out and won the Sydney Cup, carrying nine stone
three. This is perhaps the most convincing proof that Carbine was very
close akin to the super equine. But on the third day of the gathering
Carbine made his unlucky “lapsus pedis.” In the All-Aged Stakes, in
slippery going, that very great miler, Marvel, beat him easily by four
lengths, at his favourite distance. Carbine was extremely disgusted. His
faithful and splendidly knowledgeable trainer, Walter Hickenbotham, had
sent him out that day without shoes, and he did not seem able to act.
When the clerk of the course rode up, as is the fashion in Australia, to
escort Marvel into the enclosure, Carbine “went for him” with open
mouth. Revenge is sweet indeed. Nor was it long delayed. In the second
last race of the same afternoon the pair again met at two miles, when,
suitably shod, and with seven to four betted on him, Carbine came home
seven lengths to the good. There had been considerable excitement and
applause when the black horse downed the great gun at the mile, but when
old Carbine fairly vindicated himself in such smashing style, a generous
and sporting public went wild with enthusiasm. Hats, umbrellas, even
field glasses, were thrown into the air, and the shouts were deafening.
Emotion like this, when money is not the incentive, is good. And—last
scene of all which closed this strange, eventful history—in the A.J.C.
Plate, on the fourth day, at three miles, and with the bookmakers asking
ten to one, the great horse cantered home from Correze and Greygown. The
curtain had fallen. The racecourse saw the familiar figure no more.
Which champion, then, shall be dubbed “The Champion of Champions?” Men,
and good judges, who have seen The Barb, tell us that, as a horse, he
was magnificent. Lengthy, but beautifully ribbed up, immense loins,
great powerful, muscular quarters, perfect shoulders, the best of legs,
and altogether a noble-looking animal. Carbine was scarcely that. He
possessed grand staying points, of course. “A loin and a back that would
carry a house, and quarters to lift you slap over the town.” His barrel
was all that it ought to be, deep, but not cumbersome. His shoulders
were excellent, his rein long. But, in proportion to the rest of his
frame, he was light in the gaskin, not great in the forearm, small—7¾
inches—and inclined to be round and long in his canon bones. Neither a
“pretty” nor a perfect animal. Both horses possessed the temperament
that heroes are made of. Courage, coolness, sagacity were theirs.
Carbine ran his own race. He seized his own opportunities, and took an
opening on his own initiative, when he saw it, through which he might
thread his way in a big field. And he recognised the winning post as
well as he knew his manger. He was determined to win, and he was
perfectly well aware when a supreme effort was necessary. One might
almost say, too, that he had the saving gift of humour. As he emerged
from the enclosure in order to take his breather before a race, he
almost invariably indulged in a little pantomime of his own, partly for
his own edification, and partly for the amusement of his friends, the
crowd. When he stepped on to the course from the enclosure, he would
“gammon” that he saw something up the running which attracted his
attention, and he would stand with his ears at full cock, gazing as at
an apparition. No effort on the part of his jockey could induce him to
walk forwards. Then Walter Hickenbotham appeared from the wings, as it
were, and endeavoured to “shoo” him on. No result. Now Walter would flap
his handkerchief at him, and the old fellow might walk a few paces, and
then take fresh stock of the imaginary object in the distance. Another
full stop. Then came the moment when Walter resorted to his ace of
trumps. This was an umbrella, kept evidently for the purpose, which was
opened and shut rapidly, as near as was consistent with safety to the
horse’s heels. This usually produced the desired effect, and Carbine
would then proceed far enough up the running to enable his jockey to
invite him to turn round and sweep down the course in his preliminary.
It was a curious and somewhat entertaining performance, but what the
horse thought about it all it is difficult to say. But now, to sum up
and deliver a verdict on the question of the merits of Carbine and The
Barb. It is possible that The Barb was the better horse, and he was,
most probably, the better looking of the two. Yet I fancy I know full
well what the verdict of posterity will be. When a statue to Carbine has
been erected in Olympia future generations will read in large letters on
its plinth, “C.O.M.,” and archæologists of a later age will interpret
this to mean: “Carbine, Optimus, Maximus” (“Carbine, Best and
Greatest”).