Our annual race meet.--The arrivals.--The camps.--The 'ordinary.'--The
course.--'They're off.'--The race.--The steeple-chase.--Incidents of
the meet.--The ball.
Our annual Race Meet is the one great occasion of the year when all the
dwellers in the district meet. Our races in Chumparun generally took
place some time about Christmas. Long before the date fixed on,
arrangements would be made for the exercise of hearty hospitality. The
residents in the 'station' ask as many guests as will fill their
houses, and their 'compounds' are crowded with tents, each holding a
number of visitors, generally bachelors. The principal managers of the
factories in the district, with their assistants, form a mess for the
racing week, and, not unfrequently, one or two ladies lend their
refining presence to the several camps. Friends from other districts,
from up country, from Calcutta, gather together; and as the weather is
bracing and cool, and every one determined to enjoy himself, the meet
is one of the pleasantest of reunions. There are always several races
specially got up for assistants' horses, and long before, the
youngsters are up in the early morning, giving their favourite nag a
spin across the zeraats, or seeing the groom lead him out swathed in
clothing and bandages, to get him into training for the Assistants'
race.
As the day draws near, great cases of tinned meats, hampers of beer and
wine, and goodly supplies of all sorts are sent into the station to the
various camps. Tents of snowy white canvas begin to peep out at you
from among the trees. Great oblong booths of blue indigo sheeting show
where the temporary stables for the horses are being erected; and at
night the glittering of innumerable camp-fires betokens the presence of
a whole army of grooms, grass-cutters, peons, watchmen, and other
servants cooking their evening meal of rice, and discussing the chances
of the horses of their respective masters in the approaching races. On
the day before the first racing, the planters are up early, and in
buggy, dogcart, or on horseback, singly, and by twos and threes, from
all sides of the district, they find their way to the station. The
Planter's Club is the general rendezvous. The first comers, having
found out their waiting servants, and consigned the smoking steeds to
their care, seat themselves in the verandah, and eagerly watch every
fresh arrival.
Up comes a buggy. 'Hullo, who's this?'
'Oh, it's "Giblets!" How do you do, "Giblets," old man?'
Down jumps 'Giblets,' and a general handshaking ensues.
'Here comes "Boach" and the "Moonshee,"' yells out an observant
youngster from the back verandah.
The venerable buggy of the esteemed 'Boach' approaches, and another
jubilation takes place; the handshaking being so vigorous that the
'Moonshee's' spectacles nearly come to grief. Now the arrivals ride and
drive up fast and furious.
'Hullo, "Anthony!"'
'Aha, "Charley," how d'ye do?'
'By Jove, "Ferdie," where have you turned up from?'
'Has the "Skipper" arrived?'
'Have any of you seen "Jamie?"'
'Where's big "Mars'" tents?'
'Have any of ye seen my "Bearer?"'
'Has the "Bump" come in?' and so on.
Such a scene of bustle and excitement. Friends meet that have not seen
each other for a twelvemonth. Queries are exchanged as to absent
friends. The chances of the meeting are discussed. Perhaps a passing
allusion is made to some dear one who has left our ranks since last
meet. All sorts of topics are started, and up till and during breakfast
there is a regular medley of tongues, a confused clatter of voices,
dishes, and glasses, a pervading atmosphere of dense curling volumes of
tobacco smoke.
To a stranger the names sound uncouth and meaningless, the fact being,
that we all go by nicknames[1].
'Giblets,' 'Diamond Digger,' 'Mangelwurzel,' 'Goggle-eyed Plover,'
'Gossein' or holy man, 'Blind Bartimeus,' 'Old Boots,' 'Polly,'
'Bottle-nosed Whale,' 'Fin MacCoul,' 'Daddy,' 'The Exquisite,' 'The
Mosquito,' 'Wee Bob,' and 'Napoleon,' are only a very few specimens of
this strange nomenclature. These soubriquets quite usurp our baptismal
appellations, and I have often been called 'Maori,' by people who did
not actually know my real name.
By the evening, all, barring the very late arrivals, have found out
their various camps. There is a merry dinner, then each sahib, well
muffled in ulster, plaid, or great coat, hies him to the club, where
the 'ordinary' is to be held. The nights are now cold and foggy, and a
tremendous dew falls. At the 'ordinary,' fresh greetings between those
who now meet for the first time after long separation. The entries and
bets are made for the morrow's races, although not much betting takes
place as a rule; but the lotteries on the different races are rapidly
filled, the dice circulate cheerily, and amid laughing, joking,
smoking, noise, and excitement, there is a good deal of mild
speculation. The 'horsey' ones visit the stables for the last time; and
each retires to his camp bed to dream of the morrow.
Very early, the respective _bearers_ rouse the sleepy _sahibs_. Table
servants rush hurriedly about the mess tent, bearing huge dishes of
tempting viands. Grooms, and _grasscuts_ are busy leading the horses
off to the course. The cold raw fog of the morning fills every tent,
and dim grey figures of cowering natives, wrapped up over the eyes in
blankets, with moist blue noses and chattering teeth, are barely
discernible in the thick mist.
The racecourse is two miles from the club, on the other side of the
lake, in the middle of a grassy plain, with a neat masonry structure at
the further side, which serves as a grand stand. Already buggies,
dogcarts in single harness and tandem, barouches, and waggonettes are
merrily rolling through the thick mist, past the frowning jail, and
round the corner of the lake. Natives in gaudy coloured shawls, and
blankets, are pouring on to the racecourse by hundreds.
Bullock carts, within which are black-eyed, bold beauties, profusely
burdened with silver ornaments, are drawn up in lines. _Ekkas_--small
jingling vehicles with a dome-shaped canopy and curtains at the
sides--drawn by gaily caparisoned ponies, and containing fat, portly
Baboos, jingle and rattle over the ruts on the side roads.
Sweetmeat sellers, with trays of horrible looking filth, made seemingly
of insects, clarified butter, and sugar, dodge through the crowd
dispensing their abominable looking but seemingly much relished wares.
Tall policemen, with blue jackets, red puggries, yellow belts, and
white trousers, stalk up and down with conscious dignity.
A madcap young assistant on his pony comes tearing along across
country. The weighing for the first race is going on; horses are being
saddled, some vicious brute occasionally lashing out, and scattering
the crowd behind him. The ladies are seated round the terraced grand
stand; long strings of horses are being led round and round in a
circle, by the _syces_; vehicles of every description are lying round
the building.
Suddenly a bugle sounds; the judge enters his box; the ever popular old
'Bikram,' who officiates as starter, ambles off on his white cob, and
after him go half-a-dozen handsome young fellows, their silks rustling
and flashing through the fast rising mist.
A hundred field-glasses scan the start; all is silent for a moment.
'They're off!' shout a dozen lungs.
'False start!' echo a dozen more.
The gay colours of the riders flicker confusedly in a jumble. One horse
careers madly along for half the distance, is with difficulty pulled
up, and is then walked slowly back.
The others left at the post fret, and fidget, and curvet about. At
length they are again in line. Down goes the white flag! 'Good start!'
shouts an excited planter. Down goes the red flag. 'Off at last!'
breaks like a deep drawn sigh from the crowd, and now the six horses,
all together, and at a rattling pace, tear up the hill, over the sand
at the south corner, and up, till at the quarter mile post 'a blanket
could cover the lot.'
Two or three tails are now showing signals of distress; heels and whips
are going. Two horses have shot ahead, a bay and a black. 'Jamie' on
the bay, 'Paddy' on the black.
Still as marble sit those splendid riders, the horses are neck and
neck; now the bay by a nose, now again the black. The distance post is
passed with a rush like a whirlwind.
'A dead heat, by Jove!'
'Paddy wins!' 'Jamie has it!' 'Hooray, Pat!' 'Go it, Jamie!' 'Well
ridden!' A subdued hum runs round the excited spectators. The ardent
racers are nose and nose. One swift, sharp cut, the cruel whip hisses
through the air, and the black is fairly 'lifted in,' a winner by a
nose. The ripple of conversation breaks out afresh. The band strikes up
a lively air, and the saddling for the next race goes on.
The other races are much the same; there are lots of entries: the
horses are in splendid condition, and the riding is superb. What is
better, everything is emphatically 'on the square.' No _pulling_ and
_roping_ here, no false entries, no dodging of any kind. Fine, gallant,
English gentlemen meet each other in fair and honest emulation, and
enjoy the favourite national sport in perfection. The 'Waler' race, for
imported Australians, brings out fine, tall, strong-boned, clean-limbed
horses, looking blood all over. The country breds, with slender limbs,
small heads, and glossy coats, look dainty and delicate as antelopes.
The lovely, compact Arabs, the pretty-looking ponies, and the
thick-necked, coarse-looking Cabools, all have their respective trials,
and then comes the great event--the race of the day--the Steeplechase.
The course is marked out behind the grand stand, following a wide
circle outside the flat course, which it enters at the quarter-mile
post, so that the finish is on the flat before the grand stand. The
fences, ditches, and water leap, are all artificial, but they are
regular _howlers_, and no make-believes.
Seven horses are despatched to a straggling start, and all negotiate
the first bank safely. At the next fence a regular _snorter_ of a 'post
and rail'--topped with brushwood--two horses swerve, one rider being
deposited on his racing seat upon mother earth, while the other sails
away across country in a line for home, and is next heard of at the
stables. The remaining five, three 'walers' and two country-breds, race
together to the water jump, where one waler deposits his rider, and
races home by himself, one country-bred refuses, and is henceforth out
of the race, and the other three, taking the leap in beautiful style,
put on racing pace to the next bank, and are in the air together. A
lovely sight! The country is now stiff, and the stride of the waler
tells. He is leading the country-breds a 'whacker,' but he stumbles and
falls at the last fence but one from home. His gallant rider, the
undaunted 'Roley,' remounts just as the two country-breds pass him like
a flash of light. 'Nothing venture, nothing win,' however, so in go the
spurs, and off darts the waler like an arrow in pursuit. He is gaining
fast, and tops the last hurdle leading to the straight just as the
hoofs of the other two reach the ground.
It is now a matter of pace and good riding. It will be a close finish;
the waler is first to feel the whip; there is a roar from the crowd; he
is actually leading; whips and spurs are hard at work now; it is a mad,
headlong rush; every muscle is strained, and the utmost effort made;
the poor horses are doing their very best; amid a thunder of hoofs,
clouds of dust, hats in air, waving of handkerchiefs from the grand
stand, and a truly British cheer from the paddock, the 'waler' shoots
in half a length ahead; and so end the morning's races.
Back to camp now, to bathe and breakfast. A long line of dust marks the
track from the course, for the sun is now high in the heavens, the lake
is rippling in placid beauty under a gentle breeze, and the long lines
of natives, as well as vehicles of all sorts, form a quaint but
picturesque sight. After breakfast calls are made upon all the camps
and bungalows round the station. Croquet, badminton, and other games go
on until dinner-time. I could linger lovingly over a camp dinner; the
rare dishes, the sparkling conversation, the racy anecdote, and the
general jollity and brotherly feeling; but we must all dress for the
ball, and so about 9 P.M. the buggies are again in requisition for the
ball room--the fine, large, central apartment in the Planters' club.
The walls are festooned with flowers, gay curtains, flags, and cloths.
The floor is shining like silver, and as polished as a mirror. The band
strikes up the Blue Danube waltz, and amid the usual bustle,
flirtation, scandal, whispering, glancing, dancing, tripping, sipping,
and hand-squeezing, the ball goes gaily on till the stewards announce
supper. At this--to the wall-flowers--welcome announcement, we adjourn
from the heated ball-room to the cool arbour-like supper tent, where
every delicacy that can charm the eye or tempt the appetite is spread
out.
Next morning early we are out with the hounds, and enjoy a rattling
burst round by the racecourse, where the horses are at exercise.
Perchance we have heard of a boar in the sugar-cane, and away we go
with beaters to rouse the grisly monster from his lair. In the
afternoon there is hockey on horseback, or volunteer drill, with our
gallant adjutant putting us through our evolutions. In the evening
there is the usual drive, dinner, music, and the ordinary, and so the
meet goes on. A constant succession of gaieties keeps everyone alive,
till the time arrives for a return to our respective factories, and
another year's hard work.
[1] In such a limited society every peculiarity is noted; all our
antecedents are known; personal predilections and little foibles
of character are marked; eccentricities are watched, and no one,
let him be as uninteresting as a miller's pig, is allowed to
escape observation and remark. Some little peculiarity is hit
upon, and a strange but often very happily expressive nickname
stamps one's individuality and photographs him with a word.