TRAGEDIES OF THE TURF
In the whole drama of the British Peerage there are few figures at once
so splendid in promise and opportunities, so pathetic in failure and so
tragic in their exit as that of the fourth and last Marquess of
Hastings. Seldom has man been born to a greater heritage; scarcely ever
has he flung away more prodigally the choicest gifts of fortune.
When Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet was born one July day in 1842 it
was a very fair world on which he opened his eyes, a world in which rank
and wealth and exceptional personal gifts should have ensured for him a
leading _rôle_. He was still in the cradle when his father, the second
lord, died; and he was barely nine years old when the death of his elder
brother made the school-boy a full-blown Marquess, the inheritor of vast
estates and a princely rent-roll.
But Fate, which had showered such gifts on the young lord had, as so
often happens, marred them all by the curse of heredity. The taint of
gambling was in the boy's blood. His mother had won an unenviable
reputation throughout Europe by her passion for gambling; indeed there
were few gaming-tables in Europe at which the "jolly fast Marchioness"
was not a familiar and notorious figure. And his father, the Marquess,
was as devoted to horses and turf-gambling as his wife to her cards and
roulette. That the child of such parents should inherit their depraved
tastes is not to be marvelled at. And it was not long before they
manifested themselves in a dangerous form.
While he was still an undergraduate at Oxford the young Marquess who,
from childhood, could not bear the sight of a book when there was a dog
or a horse to claim his attention, began that career on the turf which
was to be as tragic in its end as it was dazzling in its zenith. He
bought from a Mr Henry Padwick for £13,500 a horse called Kangaroo,
which was not worth the cost of his keep. What a fraudulent animal he
was is proved by the fact that he never won a penny for his purchaser,
and ended his career, as he ought to have begun it, between the shafts
of a hansom.
But, so far from being disheartened by this initial experience, Lord
Hastings had barely thrown aside his cap and gown before he was owner of
half a hundred race-horses, with John Day as trainer; and was fully
embarked on his turf-career. From the very first year of his enlarged
venture success smiled on him. Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire for him,
in 1864; the Duke captured the Goodwood Cup two years later; and the
Earl carried off the Grand Prix de Paris. In the four years, 1864 to
1867 the Marquess won over £60,000 in stakes alone, while his winnings
in bets were larger still. So excellent a judge of a horse was he that
he only spoke the truth when he boasted, "I could easily make £30,000 a
year by backing other men's horses." Indeed on one race, Lecturer's
Cesarewitch, he cleared £75,000. Such was the brilliant start of a
racing-career which was to close so soon in failure and disgrace.
In the world of the Turf the youthful Marquess was hailed as a new
deity. At Epsom, Newmarket, and a dozen other race-courses his
appearance created as much sensation as that of the Prince of Wales
himself; he was greeted everywhere with cheers and a salvo of doffed
hats; and the way in which he scattered his smiles and his bets was
regal in its prodigality.
"As he canters on to the course," we are told, "he
slackens speed as he passes through the line of
carriages, from which come shrill, plaintive cries, 'Dear
Lord Hastings, do come here for one second,' and others
to like purpose. Conveniently deaf to the voice of the
charmers, he rides straight into the horseman's circle,
and takes up his position on the heavy-betting side.
'They're laying odds on yours, my lord,' exclaims a
bookmaker. 'What odds?' blandly asks the owner. 'Well, my
lord, I'll take you six monkeys to four!' 'Put it down,'
is the brief response. 'And me, three hundred to two--and
me--and me!' clamour a score of pencillers, who come
clustering up. 'Done with you, and you, and you'--the
bets are booked as freely as offered. 'And now, my lord,
if you've a mind for a bit more, I'll take you
thirty-five hundred to two thousand.' 'And so you shall!'
is the cheery answer, as the backer expands under the
genial influence of the biggest bet of the day. Then,
with their seventies to forties, and seven ponies to
four, the smaller fry are duly enregistered, and the
Marquess wheels his hack, his escort gathers round him,
and away they dash."
Such was the splendid, reckless fashion in which the Marquess would
fling about his wagers until he frequently stood to win or lose £50,000
on a single race. If he had always kept his head under the intoxication
of this wild gambling he might perhaps have made another fortune equal
to that he had inherited. But his wagering was as erratic as himself,
and his gains were punctuated by heavy losses which began to make
inroads on even his enormous resources.
The first crushing blow fell on that memorable day when Hermit struggled
through a blinding snowstorm first past the post in the Derby of 1867,
to the open-mouthed amazement of every looker on; for Mr Chaplin's colt
had been considered so hopeless that odds of forty to one were freely
laid against him.
Hermit's sensational victory was the climax of a singular and romantic
story. Three years earlier Lady Florence Paget, daughter of the second
Marquess of Anglesey, had been the affianced bride of Mr Henry Chaplin,
who was passionately devoted to her, little dreaming that another had
stolen her heart from him. One day Lady Florence, with Mr Chaplin for
escort, drove to Messrs Swan & Edgar's, ostensibly on shopping bent; but
the shopping was merely a cloak to another and treacherous design. She
entered the shop, slipped out through the back entrance where Lord
Hastings was awaiting her, jumped into his cab, and was whirled away
while her _fiancé_ patiently and unsuspectingly awaited her return at
the opposite side of the building.
When Mr Chaplin realised the dastardly trick that had been played on
him, he bore the blow to his pride and affection right bravely. No trace
of resentment was ever shown to the world; but he would have been less
than a man if he had not cherished thoughts of retaliation. His
opportunity came when Hermit was offered for sale by auction, and Lord
Hastings was among the keenest bidders for the son of Newminster and
Eclipse. At any cost Mr Chaplin determined to baffle his betrayer for
once--and he succeeded; for, when the Marquess stopped short at 950
guineas, Mr Chaplin secured the colt by a further bid of 50 guineas.
At the time he little realised--nor did he much care--what a bargain he
had got; for Hermit not only sired two Derby winners in Shotover and St
Blaise, before he died his sons and daughters had won among them
£300,000 in stake-money alone. Not much later came that ill-starred
Derby, which none who saw it can ever forget. Lord Hastings, angry at
having lost the horse to his rival, laid the long odds against Hermit
so recklessly that he stood to lose a large fortune by his success; and
Hermit's last few gallant strides cost him over £100,000.
It was a staggering blow, under which the most stoical man with the
longest purse might well have reeled; but the Marquess met it with a
smile of indifference; and when, a few minutes later, he drove off the
course, with his friends, in a barouche and four to dine at Richmond, he
seemed the gayest of the company. A few days before his death, recalling
this tragic moment in his life, he said proudly, "Hermit fairly broke my
heart. But I didn't show it, did I?"
That his smiling face must have masked a very heavy heart, it scarcely
needed his own confession to prove. Rich as he still was, the loss of
more than £100,000 was a very serious matter. Indeed we know that he was
only able to meet his liabilities by parting with his magnificent estate
of Loudoun in Scotland, which realised £300,000. When the doors of
Tattersall's opened on the morning of settling-day, the first to present
themselves were his agents, who handed over £103,000 in settlement of
all claims against the Marquess. Mr Chaplin had scored, and scored
heavily; but at least it should never be said that his defeated rival
had shrunk from paying the last ounce of the penalty the moment it was
due.
When next his lordship appeared on a race-course--it was at Ascot, a few
months later--he was greeted with thunders of cheers from the
bookmakers, a tribute to his pluck and sportsmanship, which must have
taken away some of the sting of defeat. But fate which had dealt this
merciless blow to the Marquess was in no mood to spare him further
disaster. The second stroke fell within five months of the first--at the
Newmarket second October Meeting. The favourite for the Middle Park
Plate was Lord Hastings' filly, Elizabeth, whose chances he fancied so
much that he backed her heavily, confident that he would recover a great
part of his Derby losses.
When Elizabeth, instead of running away from her rivals, passed the
winning-post a bad fifth, even his iron nerve failed him for once. He
uttered no word; but he grew pale as death, and staggered as if about to
fall. A moment later, however, he had pulled himself together and was
helping Lady Aylesbury to count her small losses. "Tell me how I stand,"
asked her ladyship, as she placed her betting-book in his hand. The
Marquess made the necessary calculation; and with a smile of sympathy,
answered: "You have lost £23." And he, who could thus calmly calculate
so trifling a loss, was £50,000 poorer by his filly's failure to win the
Plate!
He knew well that he was a ruined man--worse than this, unutterably
galling to his proud spirit--he knew that he was a disgraced man. His
vast fortune had crumbled away until he had not £50,000 in the world to
pay this last debt of honour. And yet he continued to smile in the face
of ruin, carrying through this crowning disaster the brave heart of an
English gentleman and a sportsman.
He sold the last of his remaining acres, his hunters and hounds, and
all his personal belongings; and all the money he could raise from the
wreckage of his fortune was a pitiful £10,000. His last sovereign was
gone, and he was £40,000 in debt, without a hope of paying it. When he
next appeared on a race-course the very men who had cheered him to the
echo at Ascot greeted him with jeers and angry shouts at Epsom. The hero
of the Turf, the idol of the Ring, was that blackest of black sheep, a
defaulter!
And not only was he thus branded as a defaulter. Strange stories were
being circulated to his further discredit as a sportsman. The running of
Lady Elizabeth in one race was, it was said, more than open to
suspicion. The Earl, who was considered a certainty for the Derby, was
unaccountably scratched on the very evening before the race, though the
Marquess stood to win £35,000 by her, and did not hedge the stake-money.
The public indignation at these discreditable incidents found a vent in
the columns of the _Times_; and although Lord Hastings denied that there
was "one single circumstance mentioned as regards the two horses,
correctly stated," and offered a frank explanation in both cases, the
public refused to be appeased, and the stigma remained.
So overwhelmed was he by this combination of assaults on his fortune and
his good name that his health--undermined no doubt by excesses--broke
down. He spent the summer months of 1868 in his yacht, cruising among
the northern seas in search of health; but no sea-breezes could bring
back colour to his cheeks or hope to his heart. He was a broken man
before he had reached his prime, and he realised that his sun was near
its setting. When he returned to England no one who saw him could doubt
that the end was at hand. But his ruling passion remained strong to the
last. He was advised by his friends to stay away from the Doncaster
races; but he would go, though he could only with difficulty hobble on
crutches.
The last pathetic glimpse the world caught of this former idol of the
Turf was as, from a basket-carriage, with pale, haggard face and
straining eyes, he watched Athena, a beautiful mare which had once been
his, win a race. As she was being led to the weighing-house he struggled
from his carriage, hobbled on his crutches up to the beautiful animal,
and lovingly patted her glossy neck.
Such was the last appearance of the ill-fated Marquess on a scene of his
former triumphs. For a few months longer he made a gallant fight for
life. He even contemplated another voyage, and a winter in Egypt; but,
almost before winter had set in, on the 11th November 1868, he gave up
the struggle and drew his last breath--"leaving neither heir to his
honours nor the smallest vestige of his ruined fortune; but leaving, in
spite of his final failure, the memory of a true sportsman, and of a
perfect gentleman who was no man's enemy but his own."
* * * * *
Before the Marquess of Hastings had mounted his first pony another
meteor of the Turf, equally dazzling, had flashed across the sky, and
been merged in a darkness even more tragic than his own.
Lord William George Frederick Cavendish Bentinck, commonly known and
loved as "Lord George," who was cradled at Welbeck in February 1802, was
the second son of the fourth Duke of Portland, a keen sportsman who won
the Derby of 1809 with Teresias. The boy thus had the love of sport in
his veins; and a passion for racing was the dominant note in his too
brief life from the day, in 1833, when he started a small stud of his
own, to that fatal day on which, piqued by his repeated failure to win
the coveted "blue riband," he sold every horse in his stables at a word,
and abandoned the Turf in despair.
"Lord George Bentinck," wrote Thormanby, a few years ago,
"was the idol of the sportsmen of his own day. The
commanding personality of the man threw a spell over all
with whom he was brought into contact; they were
half-fascinated, half-awed--judgment and criticism
surrendered to admiration. There are still veterans left,
like old John Kent, who talk with bated breath of Lord
George as a superior being, a god-like man, a king of
men."
From the day he joined the Army as a cornet of Hussars in 1819, to the
tragic close of his life, Lord George always cut a conspicuous and
brilliant figure in the world. He was the spoilt child of Fortune; and,
like all such spoilt children, was constantly getting into hot
water--and out of it again. As a subaltern, for instance, he showed such
little respect for his seniors that, one day on parade, a Captain Kerr
exclaimed aloud: "If you don't make this young gentleman behave himself,
Colonel, I will." Whereupon the insubordinate sub. retorted: "Captain
Kerr ventures to say on parade that which he dares not repeat off."
Such was the youth and such the man--gay, debonair, and popular to the
highest degree, but always uncontrollable and reckless. As a sportsman
he was the chief of popular heroes, his appearance on a race-course
being the invariable signal for an ovation, such as the King might have
envied. And, indeed, his Turf transactions were all conducted on a scale
of truly regal magnificence. Though he was never by any means rich, he
often had as many as sixty horses in training, while his racing stud
numbered a hundred. He kept three stud farms going, and his
out-of-pocket expenses ran to £50,000 and more a year. To provide the
money for such prodigality he wagered enormous sums. For the Derby of
1843, for instance, he stood to win £150,000 on his horse Gaper, and
actually pocketed £30,000, though Gaper was not even placed. In 1845 his
net winnings on bets reached £100,000; and he thought nothing of staking
his entire year's private income on a single race.
One by one all the great prizes of the Turf fell to him--some many
times--but the only prize he ever cared a brass farthing for, the Derby,
always eluded his grasp, though again and again it seemed a certainty.
So deep at last became his disgust and mortification at the unkindness
of Fate in withholding the only boon he coveted that, in a moment of
pique, he decided to sell his stud and leave the turf for ever.
"I'll sell you the lot," he impulsively said to George Payne at
Goodwood, "from Bay Middleton to little Kitchener (his famous jockey),
for £100,000. Yes or no?" Payne offered him £300 to have a few hours to
think the offer over, and handed the sum over at breakfast the next
morning. No sooner had the forfeit been paid than Mr Mostyn, who was
sitting at the same table, looked up quietly and said: "I'll take the
lot, Bentinck, at £10,000, and will give you a cheque before you go on
the course." "If you please," was Lord George's placid answer; and thus
ended one of the most brilliant Turf careers on record.
And now for the irony of Fate! Among the stud thus sold, in a fit of
pique, for "an old song" was Surplice, the winner of the next year's
Derby and St Leger. Lord George had actually had the great prize in his
hand and had let it go!
How keenly he felt the blow may be gathered from the following passage
in Lord Beaconsfield's biography:
"A few days before--it was the day after the Derby, May
25, 1848--the writer met Lord George Bentinck in the
library of the House of Commons. He was standing before
the bookshelves with a volume in his hand, and his
countenance was greatly disturbed. His resolution in
favour of the Colonial interest, after all his labours,
had been negatived by the Committee on the 22nd; and on
the 24th, his horse, Surplice, whom he had parted with
among the rest of the stud, had won that paramount and
Olympic stake, to gain which had been the object of his
life. He had nothing to console him, and nothing to
sustain him, except his pride. Even that deserted him
before a heart, which he knew at least could yield him
sympathy. He gave a sort of superb groan.
"'All my life I have been trying for this, and for what
have I sacrificed it?' he murmured. It was in vain to
offer solace.
"'You do not know what the Derby is,' he moaned.
"'Yes, I do; it is the Blue Riband of the Turf.'
"'It is the Blue Riband of the Turf,' he slowly repeated
to himself; and, sitting down at a table, buried himself
in a folio of statistics."
Just a few months later, on 21st September 1848, his body was found
lying, cold and stiff, in a meadow about a mile from Welbeck. That very
morning he had risen full of health and spirits, and at four o'clock in
the afternoon had set out to walk across country to Thoresby, Lord
Manvers' seat, where he was to spend a couple of days. He had sent on
his valet by road in advance; but the night fell, and Lord George never
made his appearance. A search with lanterns was instituted, and about
midnight his body was discovered lying face downwards close to one of
the deer-park gates. He had been dead for some hours.
What was the cause of his mysterious death? The coroner's jury appear
to have found no difficulty in coming to a decision. Their verdict was,
"Died by the visitation of God--to wit, a spasm of the heart." Thus
vanished from the world one of its most brilliant and picturesque
ornaments, in the very prime of his life and his powers (he was only
forty-six), and when he seemed assured of a political future even more
dazzling than his Turf fame.
But there were many, among the thousands who deplored the tragic eclipse
of such a promising life, who were by no means satisfied with the vague
verdict of the inquest. Lord George had always been a man of remarkable
vigour and health, and never more so than on the day of his death. Was
it at all likely that such a man would drop dead during a quiet and
unexciting stroll across country? Later years, however, have brought new
facts to light which suggest a very different explanation of this
tragedy. "The hand of God" it was, no doubt, which struck the fatal
blow--it always must be; but was there no other agency, and that a human
one? Could it not be the hand of a brother? Some have said it was; and
although the story is involved in obscurity and may be open to grave
doubt (indeed it has been more than once flatly contradicted) there can,
perhaps, be no harm in including it in this volume. This is the story as
it has been told.
Though Lord George Bentinck was the handsomest man, and one of the most
eligible _partis_ of his day he never married; yet, no doubt, he had
many an "affair of the heart." But not one of all the high-born ladies,
who would have turned their backs on coronets to become "Lady George,"
could in his eyes compare with Annie May Berkelay, a lovely and
penniless girl, who could not even boast a "respectable" parentage.
Miss Berkeley was, so it is said, a child of that most romantic union
between the Earl of Berkeley and pretty Mary Cole, the butcher's
daughter. This girl he professed to have made his countess shortly after
in the parish church of Berkeley. That his lordship legally married his
low-born bride at Lambeth eleven years later is beyond doubt, but that
alleged first secret marriage was more than open to suspicion. There
seems little doubt that the entry the in Berkeley church register was a
forgery; and that, not until Mary Cole had borne several children to the
Earl, did she become legally his wife by the valid knot tied at Lambeth.
It was, in fact, decided by the House of Peers that the Berkeley
marriage was not proven, and thus seven of the children were
illegitimate.
It was one of Lord Berkeley's children thus branded to the world who is
said to have won the heart and the homage of Lord George Bentinck. And
little wonder; for Annie May Berkeley had inherited more than her
mother's beauty of face and of figure, with the patrician air and
refinement which came from generations of noble ancestors.
But handsome Lord George was only one of many wooers whom her charms had
enslaved. There were others equally ardent, if less favoured; and among
them none other than the Marquess of Titchfield, Lord George's elder
brother, and the future "eccentric Duke" of Portland, often referred to
as "The Wizard of Welbeck." The Marquess and his younger brother had
never been on the best of terms. They had little in common; and when
they found themselves rival suitors for the smiles of the same maiden
this incompatibility gave place to a bitter estrangement.
It was not, however, until Lord George discovered that the Marquess was
more intimate with his ladylove than he should be, that their mutual
relations became strained to a dangerous degree. It is said that the
brothers quarrelled fiercely whenever they met, and that Lord George,
whose temper was violent, frequently struck his brother, who was no
physical match for him. One day, so the story goes, their constant
squabbles reached a climax. After a fiercer quarrel than usual Lord
George struck his brother and rival repeatedly, until the latter, roused
to fury, struck back and landed a heavy blow on his brother's chest,
over the heart. Lord George's heart was diseased, and the blow proved
fatal.
This, then, is said to be the true explanation of the tragedy of that
September day in 1848; of that "spasm of the heart" which, according to
the verdict of the coroner's jury, was the cause of Lord George
Bentinck's death. If this story is true, much that has been so long
mysterious becomes clear. Lord George's sudden and tragic death is
explained; as also the fact that it was from this period that the Duke
of Portland's moroseness and shunning of the world became so marked as
to be scarcely distinguishable from insanity. If the death of a brother,
however provoked and accidental, had been on his conscience, what could
be more natural than that the fratricide should thus shut himself from
the world in sorrow and remorse?