The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRight RoyalThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Right RoyalAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6452]Most recently updated: February 12, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIGHT ROYAL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Right RoyalAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6452]Most recently updated: February 12, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: Right Royal
Author: John Masefield
Author: John Masefield
Release date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6452]Most recently updated: February 12, 2013
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIGHT ROYAL ***
Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
by JOHN MASEFIELD
The persons, horses and events described in this poem are imaginary. No reference is made to any living person or horse.
An hour before the race they talked togetherA pair of lovers in the mild March weather,Charles Cothill and the golden lady, Em.
Beautiful England's hands had fashioned them.
He was from Sleins, that manor up the Lithe;Riding the Downs had made his body blithe;Stalwart he was, and springy, hardened, swift,Able for perfect speed with perfect thrift,Man to the core yet moving like a lad.Dark honest eyes with merry gaze he had,A fine firm mouth, and wind-tan on his skin.He was to ride and ready to begin.He was to ride Right Royal, his own horse,In the English Chaser's Cup on Compton Course.
Under the pale coat reaching to his spursOne saw his colours, which were also hers,Narrow alternate bars of blue and whiteBlue as the speedwell's eye and silver bright.
What with hard work and waiting for the race,Trouble and strain were marked upon his face;Men would have said that something worried him.
She was a golden lady, dainty, trim,As like the love time as laburnum blossom.Mirth, truth and goodness harboured in her bosom.
Pure colour and pure contour and pure graceMade the sweet marvel of her singing face;She was the very may-time that comes inWhen hawthorns bud and nightingales begin.To see her tread the red-tippt daisies whiteIn the green fields all golden with delight,Was to believe Queen Venus come again,She was as dear as sunshine after rain;Such loveliness this golden lady had.
All lovely things and pure things made her glad,But most she loved the things her lover loved,The windy Downlands where the kestrels roved,The sea of grasses that the wind runs overWhere blundering beetles drunken from the cloverStumble about the startled passer-by.There on the great grass underneath the skyShe loved to ride with him for hours on hours,Smelling the seasoned grass and those small flowers,Milkworts and thymes, that grow upon the Downs.There from a chalk edge they would see the towns:Smoke above trees, by day, or spires of churchesGleaming with swinging wind-cocks on their perches.Or windows flashing in the light, or trainsBurrowing below white smoke across the plains.By night, the darkness of the valley setWith scattered lights to where the ridges metAnd three great glares making the heaven dun,Oxford and Wallingford and Abingdon.
"Dear, in an hour," said Charles, "the race begins.Before I start I must confess my sins.For I have sinned, and now it troubles me."
"I saw that you were sad," said Emily.
"Before I speak," said Charles, "I must premise.You were not here to help me to be wise,And something happened, difficult to tell.Even if I sinned, I feel I acted well,From inspiration, mad as that may seem.Just at the grey of dawn I had a dream.
It was the strangest dream I ever had.It was the dream that drove me to be mad.
I dreamed I stood upon the race-course here,Watching a blinding rainstorm blowing clear,And as it blew away I said aloud,'That rain will make soft going on the ploughed.'And instantly I saw the whole great course,The grass, the brooks, the fences toppt with gorse,Gleam in the sun; and all the ploughland shoneBlue, like a marsh, though now the rain had gone.And in my dream I said, 'That plough will beTerrible work for some, but not for me.Not for Right Royal.'And a voice said, 'NoNot for Right Royal.'And I looked, and loThere was Right Royal, speaking, at my side.The horse's very self, and yet his hideWas like, what shall I say? like pearl on fire,A white soft glow of burning that did twireLike soft white-heat with every breath he drew.A glow, with utter brightness running through;Most splendid, though I cannot make you see.
His great crest glittered as he looked at meCriniered with spitting sparks; he stamped the groundAll cock and fire, trembling like a hound,And glad of me, and eager to declareHis horse's mind.
And I was made awareThat, being a horse, his mind could only sayFew things to me. He said, 'It is my day,My day, to-day; I shall not have another.'
And as he spoke he seemed a younger brotherMost near, and yet a horse, and then he grinnedAnd tossed his crest and crinier to the windAnd looked down to the Water with an eyeAll fire of soul to gallop dreadfully.
All this was strange, but then a stranger thingCame afterwards. I woke all shiveringWith wonder and excitement, yet with dreadLest the dream meant that Royal should be dead,Lest he had died and come to tell me so.I hurried out; no need to hurry, though;There he was shining like a morning star.Now hark. You know how cold his manners are,Never a whinny for his dearest friend.To-day he heard me at the courtyard end,He left his breakfast with a shattering call,A View Halloo, and, swinging in his stall,Ran up to nuzzle me with signs of joy.It staggered Harding and the stable-boy.And Harding said, 'What's come to him to-day?He must have had a dream he beat the bay.'
Now that was strange; and, what was stranger, this.I know he tried to say those words of his,'It is my day'; and Harding turned to me,'It is his day to-day, that's plain to see.'Right Royal nuzzled at me as he spoke.That staggered me. I felt that I should choke.It came so pat upon my unsaid thought,I asked him what he meant.He answered 'Naught.It only came into my head to say.But there it is. To-day's Right Royal's day.'
That was the dream. I cannot put the gloryWith which it filled my being, in a story.No one can tell a dream.Now to confess.The dream made daily life a nothingness,Merely a mould which white-hot beauty fills,Pure from some source of passionate joys and skills.And being flooded with my vision thus,Certain of winning, puffed and glorious,Walking upon this earth-top like a king,My judgment went. I did a foolish thing,I backed myself to win with all I had.
Now that it's done I see that it was mad,But still, I had to do it, feeling so.That is the full confession; now you know."
SHEThe thing is done, and being done, must be.You cannot hedge. Would you had talked with meBefore you plunged. But there, the thing is done.
HEDo not exaggerate the risks I run.Right Royal was a bad horse in the past,A rogue, a cur, but he is cured at last;For I was right, his former owner wrong,He is a game good chaser going strong.He and my lucky star may pull me through.
SHEO grant they may; but think what's racing you,Think for a moment what his chances areAgainst Sir Lopez, Soyland, Kubbadar.
HEYou said you thought Sir Lopez past his best.I do, myself.
SHEBut there are all the rest.Peterkinooks, Red Ember, Counter Vair,And then Grey Glory and the Irish mare.
HEShe's scratched. The rest are giving me a stone.Unless the field hides something quite unknownI stand a chance. The going favours me.The ploughland will be bogland certainly,After this rain. If Royal keeps his nerve,If no one cannons me at jump or swerve,I stand a chance. And though I dread to fail,This passionate dream that drives me like a sailRuns in my blood, and cries, that I shall win.
Please Heaven you may; but now (for me) beginAgain the horrors that I cannot tell,Horrors that made my childhood such a hell,Watching my Father near the gambler's graveStep after step, yet impotent to save.
You do not know, I never let you know,The horror of those days of long agoWhen Father raced to ruin. Every nightAfter my Mother took away the lightFor weeks before each meeting, I would seeHorrible horses looking down on meLaughing and saying "We shall beat your Father."Then when the meetings came I used to gatherClose up to Mother, and we used to pray."O God, for Christ's sake, let him win to-day."
And then we had to watch for his return,Craning our necks to see if we could learn,Before he entered, what the week had been.
Now I shall look on such another sceneOf waiting on the race-chance. For to-day,Just as I did with Father, I shall say"Yes, he'll be beaten by a head, or breakA stirrup leather at the wall, or takeThe brook too slow, and, then, all will be lost."
Daily, in mind, I saw the Winning Post,The Straight, and all the horses' glimmering formsRushing between the railings' yelling swarms,My Father's colours leading. Every day,Closing my eyes, I saw them die away,In the last strides, and lose, lose by a neck,Lose by an inch, but lose, and bring the wreckA day's march nearer. Now begins againThe agony of waiting for the pain.The agony of watching ruin comeOut of man's dreams to overwhelm a home.
Go now, my dear. Before the race is due,We'll meet again, and then I'll speak with you.
In a race-course box behind the StandRight Royal shone from a strapper's hand.A big dark bay with a restless tread,Fetlock deep in a wheat-straw bed;A noble horse of a nervy blood,By O Mon Roi out of RectitudeSomething quick in his eye and earGave a hint that he might be queer.In front, he was all to a horseman's mind,Some thought him a trifle light behind.By two good points might his rank be known,A beautiful head and a Jumping Bone.He had been the hope of Sir Button Budd,Who bred him there at the Fletchings stud,But the Fletchings jockey had flogged him coldIn a narrow thing as a two-year-old.After that, with his sulks and swerves,Dread of the crowd and fits of nerves,Like a wastrel bee who makes no honeyHe had hardly earned his entry money.
Liking him still, though he failed at racing,Sir Button trained him for steeple-chasing.He jumped like a stag, but his heart was cowed;Nothing would make him face the crowd;When he reached the Straight where the crowds beganHe would make no effort for any man.
Sir Button sold him, Charles Cothill bought him,Rode him to hounds and soothed and taught him.After two years' care Charles felt assuredThat his horse's broken heart was cured,And the jangled nerves in tune again.
And now, as proud as a King of Spain,He moved in his box with a restless tread,His eyes like sparks in his lovely head,Ready to run between the roarOf the stands that face the Straight once more;Ready to race, though blown, though beat,As long as his will could lift his feet,Ready to burst his heart to passEach gasping horse in that street of grass.John Harding said to his stable-boy,
"Would looks were deeds, for he looks a joy.He's come on well in the last ten days."The horse looked up at the note of praise,He fixed his eye upon Harding's eye,Then he put all thought of Harding by,Then his ears went back and he clipped all cleanThe manger's well where his oats had been.
John Harding walked to the stable-yard,His brow was worried with thinking hard.He thought, "His sire was a Derby winner,His legs are steel, and he loves his dinner,And yet of old when they made him race,He sulked or funked like a real disgrace;Now for man or horse, I say, it's plain,That what once he's been, he'll be again.
For all his looks, I'll take my oathThat horse is a cur, and slack as sloth.
He'll funk at a great big field like this,And the lad won't cure that sloth of his,He stands no chance, and yet Bungay saysHe's been backed all morning a hundred ways.He was twenty to one, last night, by Heaven:Twenty to one and now he's seven.Well, one of these fools whom fortune lovesHas made up his mind to go for the gloves;But here's Dick Cappell to bring me news."
Dick Cappell came from a London Mews,His fleshless face was a stretcht skin sheathFor the narrow pear of the skull beneath.He had cold blue eyes, and a mouth like a slit,With yellow teeth sticking out from it.There was no red blood in his lips or skin,He'd a sinister, hard, sharp soul within.Perhaps, the thing that he most enjoyedWas being rude when he felt annoyed.He sucked his cane, he nodded to John,He asked, "What's brought your lambkin on?"
John said, "I had meant to ask of you,Who's backing him, Dick, I hoped you knew."
Dick said, "Pill Stewart has placed the money.I don't know whose."John said, "That's funny."
"Why funny?" said Dick; but John said naught;He looked at the horse's legs and thought.Yet at last he said, "It beats me clean,But whoever he is, he must be green.There are eight in this could give him a stone,And twelve should beat him on form alone.The lad can ride, but it's more than ridingThat will give the bay and the grey a hiding."
Dick sucked his cane and looked at the horseWith "Nothing's certain on Compton Course.He looks a peach. Have you tried him high?"
John said, "You know him as well as I;What he has done and what he can do.He's been ridden to hounds this year or two.When last he was raced, he made the running,For a stable companion twice at Sunning.He was placed, bad third, in the Blowbury CupAnd second at Tew with Kingston up.He sulked at Folkestone, he funked at Speen,He baulked at the ditch at Hampton Green,Nick Kingston thought him a slug and cur,'You must cut his heart out to make him stir.'But his legs are iron; he's fine and fit."
Dick said, "Maybe; but he's got no grit.With to-day's big field, on a course like this,He will come to grief with that funk of his.Well. It's queer, to me, that they've brought him on.It's Kubbadar's race. Good morning, John."
When Dick had gone from the stable-yard,John wrote a note on a racing card.He said, "Since Stewart has placed the com.,It's Mr. Cothill he got it from.Now why should that nice young man go blindAnd back his horse? Has he lost his mind?Such a nice young fellow, so civil-spoken,Should have more sense than to get him broken,For broken he'll be as sure as eggsIf he puts his money on horses' legs.And to trust to this, who's a nice old thing,But can no more win than a cow can sing.
Well, they say that wisdom is dearly bought,A world of pain for a want of thought;But why should he back what stands no chance,No more than the Rowley Mile's in France?Why didn't he talk of it first with me?
Well, Lord, we trainers can let it be,Why can't these owners abstain the same?It can't be aught but a losing game.He'll finish ninth; he'll be forced to sellHis horse, his stud, and his home as well;He'll lose his lady, and all for thisA daft belief in that horse of his.
It's nothing to me, a man might say,That a rich young fool should be cast away,Though what he does with his own, in fine,Is certainly no concern of mine.I'm paid to see that his horse is fit,I can't engage for an owner's wit.For the heart of a man may love his brother,But who can be wise to save another?Souls are our own to save from burning,We must all learn how, and pay for learning.
And now, by the clock, that bell that wentWas the Saddling Bell for the first event.
Since the time comes close, it will save some swearingIf we get beforehand, and start preparing."
The roads were filled with a drifting crowd,Many mouth-organs droned aloud,A couple of lads in scarlet hats,Yellow trousers and purple spats,Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeingPassing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing.
Then with a long horn blowing a gloryCame the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory,The young Lord's eyes on his leader's earsAnd the blood-like team going by to cheers.Then in a brake came cheerers and hootersPeppering folk from tin peashooters;The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve capsFollowed fast in the Green Man's traps,The crowd made way for the traps to passThen a drum beat up with a blare of brass,Medical students smart as paintSang gay songs of a sad complaint.
A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipeWhistled as shrill as a man could pipe,Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teethCrying "Here's your colours for Compton Heath,All the colours of all the starters,For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters;Here you have them, penny a pin,Buy your colours and see them win.Here you have them, the favourites' own,Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white-roan,For all the races and what'll win 'emReal jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em."
Out of his kipe he sold to manyBright silk buttons and charged a penny.
A bookie walked with his clerk beside him,His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him,His white top-hat bore a sign which ran"Your old pal Bunkie the working man."His clothes were a check of three-inch squares,"Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs,"Double pearl buttons ran down the side,The knees were tight and the ankles wide,A bright, thick chain made of discs of tinSecured a board from his waist to chin.
The men in the brakes that passed at trotRead "First past Post" and "Run or Not."The bookie's face was an angry red,His eyes seemed rolling inside his head.His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare,With thin lips knowing and damp black hair.A big black bag much weathered with rainHung round his neck by a leathered chain.
Seven linked dancers singing a songBowed and kicked as they danced along,The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezedA concertina to tunes that pleased.After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey,Came drivers thrusting to clear the way,Drivers vexed by the concertina,Saying "Go bury that d——d hyena."Drivers dusty with wind-red facesLeaning out of their driving-places.The dancers mocked them and called them names:"Look at our butler," "Drive on, James."The cars drove past and the dust rose after,Little boys chased them yelling with laughter,Clambering on them when they slowedFor a dirty ride down a perch of road.A dark green car with a smart drab liningPassed with a stately pair reclining;Peering walkers standing asideSaw Soyland's owner pass with his bride,Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip,Pressing his chin with his finger-tip,Nerves on edge, as he could not choose,From thought of the bets he stood to lose.His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale,Prayed from fear that the horse might fail.A bright brass rod on the motor's bonnetCarried her husband's colours on it,Scarlet spots on a field of cream:She stared ahead in a kind of dream.
Then came cabs from the railway stations,Carrying men from all the nations,Olive-skinned French with clipped moustaches,Almond-eyed like Paris apaches.Rosy French with their faces shiningFrom joy of living and love of dining.Silent Spaniards, merry Italians,Nobles, commoners, saints, rapscallions;Russians tense with the quest of truthThat maddens manhood and saddens youth;Learned Norwegians hale and limber,Brown from the barques new in with timber.Oregon men of six feet sevenWith backs from Atlas and hearts from Heaven.Orleans Creoles, ready for duels,Their delicate ears with scarlet jewels,Green silk handkerchiefs round their throats,In from sea with the cotton boats.Portuguese and Brazilianos,Men from the mountains, men from the Llanos,Men from the Pampas, men from the Sierras,Men from the mines of the Cordilleras,Men from the flats of the tropic mudWhere the butterfly glints his mail with blood;Men from the pass where day by dayThe sun's heat scales the rocks away;Men from the hills where night by nightThe sheep-bells give the heart delight;Indians, Lascars and Bengalese.Greeks from the mainland, Greeks from the seas;All kinds of bodies, all kinds of faces,All were coming to see the races,Coming to see Sir Lopez runAnd watch the English having their fun.
The Carib boxer from HispaniolaWore a rose in his tilted bowler;He drove a car with a yellow panel,He went full speed and he drove a channel.
Then came dog-carts and traps and wagonsWith hampers of lunches, pies and flagons,Bucks from city and flash young bloodsWith vests "cut saucy" to show their studs,Hawbuck Towler and Spicey RandomTooled in style in a rakish tandem.Blood Dick Haggit and Bertie AskinsHad dancers' skirts on their horses' gaskins;Crash Pete Snounce with that girl of Dowser'sDrove a horse that was wearing trousers;The waggonette from The Old Pier HeadDrove to the tune "My Monkey's Dead."
The costermongers as smart as sparrowsBrought their wives in their donkey barrows.The clean-legged donkeys, clever and cunning,Their ears cocked forward, their neat feet running,Their carts and harness flapping with flags,Were bright as heralds and proud as stags.And there in pride in the flapping bannersWere the costers' selves in blue bandannas,And the costers' wives in feathers curling,And their sons, with their sweet mouth-organs skirling.
And from midst of the road to the roadside shiftingThe crowd of the world on foot went drifting,Standing aside on the trodden grassTo chaff as they let the traffic pass.Then back they flooded, singing and cheering,Plodding forward and disappearing,Up to the course to take their places,To lunch and gamble and see the races.
The great grand stand, made grey by the weather,Flaunted colours that tugged their tether;Tier upon tier the wooden seatsWere packed as full as the London streetsWhen the King and Queen go by in state.
Click click clack went the turnstile gate;The orange-sellers cried "Fat and fineSeville oranges, sweet, like wine:Twopence apiece, all juice, all juice."The pea and the thimble caught their goose.
Two white-faced lurchers, not over-clean,Urged the passers to "spot the Queen."They flicked three cards that the world might choose,They cried "All prizes. You cannot lose.Come, pick the lady. Only a shilling."One of their friends cried out, "I'm willing."He "picked the lady" and took his pay,And he cried, "It's giving money away."
Men came yelling "Cards of the races";Men hawked matches and studs and laces;Gipsy-women in green shawls dizenedRead girls' fortunes with eyes that glistened;Negro minstrels on banjos strummingSang at the stiles to people coming.
Like glistening beetles clustered close,The myriad motors parked in rows,The bonnets flashed, and the brass did clink,As the drivers poured their motors drink.
The March wind blew the smell of the crowd,All men there seemed crying aloud,But over the noise a louder roarBroke, as the wave that bursts on shore,Drowns the roar of the wave that comes,So this roar rose on the lesser hums,"I back the field. I back the field."
Man who lives under sentence sealed,Tragical man, who has but breathFor few brief years as he goes to death,Tragical man by strange winds blownTo live in crowds ere he die alone,Came in his jovial thousands massing,To see Life moving and Beauty passing.
They sucked their fruit in the wooden tiersAnd flung the skins at the passers' ears;Drumming their heels on the planks below,They sang of Dolly of Idaho.Past, like a flash, the first race went.The time drew by to the great event.
At a quarter to three the big bell pealed;The horses trooped to the Saddling Field.Covered in clothing, horse and marePricked their ears at the people there;Some showed devil, and some, composure,As they trod their way to the great enclosure.
When the clock struck three and the men weighed out,Charles Cothill shook, though his heart was stout.The thought of his bets, so gaily laid,Seemed a stone the more when he sat and weighed.
As he swung in the scales and nursed his saddle,It seemed to him that his brains would addle;For now that the plunger reached the brink,The risk was more than he liked to think.
In ten more minutes his future life,His hopes of home with his chosen wife,Would all depend on a doubtful horseIn a crowded field over Compton Course.
He had backed Right Royal for all he owned.At thought of his want of sense he groaned."All for a dream of the night," he thought.He was right for weight at eleven naught.
Then Em's sweet face rose up in his brain,He cursed his will that had dealt her pain:To hurt sweet Emmy and lose her loveWas madman's folly by all above.He saw too well as he crossed the yardThat his madman's plunge had borne her hard."To wring sweet Em like her drunken father,
I'd fall at the Pitch and end it rather.Oh I hope, hope, hope, that her golden heartWill give me a word before I start.If I thought our love should have come to wreck,I'd pull Right Royal and break my neck,And Monkery's shoe might kick my brains outThat my own heart's blood might wash my stains out.
But even if Emmy, my sweet, forgive,I'm a ruined man, so I need not live,For I've backed my horse with my all, by Heaven,To be first in a field of thirty-seven,And good as he is, the dream's a lie."
He saw no hope, but to fall and die.
As he left the room for the Saddling PaddockHe looked as white as the flesh of haddock.But Love, all seeing, though painted blind,Makes wisdom live in a woman's mind:His love knew well from her own heart's bleedingThe word of help that her man was needing;And there she stood with her eyes most bright,Ready to cheer her heart's delight.
She said, "My darling, I feel so proudTo see you followed by all the crowd;And I shall be proud as I see you win.
Right Royal, Soyland and PeterkinAre the three I pick, first, second, third.And oh, now listen to what I heard.Just now in the park Sir Norman CookingSaid, 'Harding, how well Right Royal's looking.They've brought him on in the ring, they say.'John said, 'Sir Norman, to-day's his day.'And Sir Norman said, 'If I had a monkeyI'd put it on yours, for he looks so spunky.'So you see that the experts think as you.Now, my own own own, may your dream come true,As I know it will, as I know it must;You have all my prayer and my love and trust.
Oh, one thing more that Sir Norman said,'A lot of money has just been laidOn the mare Gavotte that no one knows.'He said 'She's small, but, my word, she goes.Since she bears no weight, if she only jumps,She'll put these cracks to their ace of trumps.But,' he said, 'she's slight for a course like this.'
That's all my gossip, so there it is.
Dear, reckon the words I spoke unspoken,I failed in love and my heart is broken.Now I go to my place to blush with prideAs the people talk of how well you ride;I mean to shout like a bosun's mateWhen I see you lead coming up the straight.Now may all God's help be with you, dear."
"Well, bless you, Em, for your words of cheer.And now is the woodcock near the gin.Good-bye.Now, Harding, we'd best begin."
At buckle and billet their fingers wrought,Till the sheets were home and the bowlines taut.As he knotted the reins and took his standThe horse's soul came into his handAnd up from the mouth that held the steelCame an innermost word, half thought, half feel,
"My day to-day, O master, O master;None shall jump cleaner, none shall go faster,Call till you kill me, for I'll obey,It's my day to-day, it's my day to-day."
In a second more he had found his seat,And the standers-by jumped clear of feet,For the big dark bay all fire and fettleHad his blood in a dance to show his mettle.Charles soothed him down till his tricks were gone;Then he leaned for a final word from John.
John Harding's face was alert and grim,From under his hand he talked to him."It's none of my business, sir," he said,"What you stand to win or the bets you've made,But the rumour goes that you've backed your horse.
Now you need no telling of Compton Course.It's a dangerous course at the best of times,But on days like this some jumps are crimes;With a field like this, nigh forty starting,After one time round it'll need re-charting.
Now think it a hunt, the first time round;Don't think too much about losing ground,Lie out of your ground, for sure as trumpsThere'll be people killed in the first three jumps.The second time round, pipe hands for boarding,You can see what's doing and act according.
Now your horse is a slug and a sulker too,Your way with the horse I leave to you;But, sir, you watch for these joker's tricksAnd watch that devil on number six;There's nothing he likes like playing it low,What a horse mayn't like or a man mayn't know,And what they love when they race a toffIs to flurry his horse at taking off.The ways of the crook are hard to learn.
Now watch that fence at the outer turn;It looks so slight but it's highly likeThat it's killed more men than the Dyers' Dyke.It's down in a dip and you turn to take it,And men in a bunch, just there, mistake it.But well to the right, it's firmer ground,And the quick way there is the long way round.In Cannibal's year, in just this weather,There were five came down at that fence together.I called it murder, not riding races.
You've nothing to fear from the other places,Your horse can jump.Now I'll say no more.They say you're on, as I said before.It's none of my business, sir, but stillI would like to say that I hope you will.Sir, I wish you luck. When we two next meetI hope to hear how you had them beat."
Charles Cothill nodded with, "Thank you, John.We'll try; and, oh, you're a thousand on."
He heard John's thanks, but knew at a glanceThat John was sure that he stood no chance.
He turned Right Royal, he drew deep breathWith the thought "Now for it; a ride to death.""Now come, my beauty, for dear Em's sake,And if come you can't, may our necks both break."
And there to his front, with their riders stoopingFor the final word, were the racers trooping.
Out at the gate to cheers and banterThey paced in pride to begin their canter.
Muscatel with the big white star,The roan Red Ember, and Kubbadar,
Kubbadar with his teeth bared yellowAt the Dakkanese, his stable-fellow.Then Forward-Ho, then a chestnut weed,Skysail, slight, with a turn of speed.The neat Gavotte under black and coral,Then the Mutineer, Lord Leybourne's sorrel,Natuna mincing, Syringa sidling,Stormalong fighting to break his bridling,Thunderbolt dancing with raw nerves quick,Trying a savage at Bitter Dick.The Ranger (winner three years before),Now old, but ready for one try more;Hadrian; Thankful; the stable-cronies,Peterkinooks and Dear Adonis;The flashing Rocket, with taking action;Exception, backed by the Tencombe faction;Old Sir Francis and young King Tony,Culverin striding from great hips bony.
At this, he rode through the open gateInto the course to try his fate.
He heard a roar from a moving crowd;Right Royal kindled and cried aloud.There was the course, stand, rail and pen,Peopled with seventy thousand men;Seventy thousand faces staring,Carriages parked, a brass band blaring:Over the stand the flags in billowsBent their poles like the wands of willows.All men there seemed trying to bawl,Yet a few great voices topped them all:"I back the field! I back the field!"
Right Royal trembled with pride and squealed.
Charles Cothill smiled with relief to findThis roaring crowd to his horse's mind.
He passed the stand where his lady stood,His nerves were tense to the multitude;His blood beat hard and his eyes grew dimAs he knew that some were cheering him.Then, as he turned, at his pace's endThere came a roar as when floods descend.All down the straight from the crowded standsCame the yells of voices and clap of hands,For with bright bay beauty that shone like flameThe favourite horse Sir Lopez came.
His beautiful hips and splendid shouldersAnd power of stride moved all beholders,Moved non-bettors to try to betOn that favourite horse not beaten yet.With glory of power and speed he strodeTo a sea of cheering that moved and flowedAnd followed and heaped and burst like stormFrom the joy of men in the perfect form;Cheers followed his path both sides the course.
Charles Cothill sighed when he saw that horse.
The cheering died, then a burst of clappingMet Soyland's coming all bright from strapping,A big dark brown who was booted thickLest one of the jumps should make him click.He moved very big, he'd a head like a fiddle,He seemed all ends without any middle,But ill as he looked, that outcast racerWas a rare good horse and a perfect chaser.Then The Ghost came on, then Meringue, the bay,Then proud Grey Glory, the dapple-grey;The splendid grey brought a burst of cheers.Then Cimmeroon, who had tried for yearsAnd had thrice been placed and had once been fourth,Came trying again the proverb's worth.
Then again, like a wave as it runs a pier,On and on, unbroken, there came a cheerAs Monkery, black as a collier-barge,Trod sideways, bickering, taking charge.Cross-Molin, from the Blowbury, followed,Lucky Shot skipped, Coranto wallowed,Then Counter Vair, the declared-to-win,Stable-fellow of Cross-Molin;Culverin last, with Cannonade,Formed rearguard to the grand parade.
And now, as they turned to go to post,The Skysail calfishly barged The Ghost,The Ghost lashed out with a bitter knockOn the tender muscle of Skysail's hock,And Skysail's hope of that splendid hourWas cut off short like a summer flower.From the cantering crowd he limped apartBack to the Paddock and did not start.
As they cantered down, Charles Cothill's mindWas filled with joy that his horse went kind;He showed no sulks, no sloth, no fear,But leant on his rein and pricked his ear.They lined themselves at the Post to start,Charles took his place with a thumping heart.
Excitement running in waves took hold,His teeth were chattered, his hands were cold,His joy to be there was mixed with dreadTo be left at post when they shot ahead.The horses sparred as though drunk with wine,They bickered and snatched at taking line.
Then a grey-haired man with a hawklike faceRead from a list each rider's place.Sitting astride his pommely hack,He ordered them up or sent them back;He bade them heed that they jump their nagsOver every jump between the flags.
Here Kubbadar, who was pulling double,Went sideways, kicking and raising trouble,Monkery seconded, kicking and biting,Thunderbolt followed by starting fighting.
The starter eyed them and gave the orderThat the three wild horses keep the border,With men to hold them to keep them quiet.Boys from the stables stopped their riot.Out of the line to the edge of the field,The three wild biters and kickers wheeled;Then the rest edged up and pawed and bickered,Reached at their reins and snatched and snickered,Flung white foam as they stamped their hateOf passionate blood compelled to wait.
Then the starter shouted to Charles, "Good heaven,This isn't a circus, you on Seven."For Royal squirmed like a box of tricksAnd Coranto's rider, the number Six,Cursed at Charles for a green young foolWho ought to be at a riding school.
After a minute of swerves and shoving,A line like a half-moon started moving,Then Rocket and Soyland leaped to stride,To be pulled up short and wheeled to side.
Then the trickier riders started thrusting,Judging the starter's mind too trusting;But the starter said, "You know quite clearlyThat isn't allowed; though you'd like it dearly."
Then Cannonade made a sideways boltThat gave Exception an ugly jolt.Then the line, reformed, broke all to pieces.
Then the line reforms, and the tumult ceases.Each man sits tense though his racer dances;In a slow, jerked walk the line advances.
And then in a flash, more felt than seen,The flag shot down and the course showed green,And the line surged forwards and all that gloryOf speed was sweeping to make a story.
One second before, Charles Cothill's mindHad been filled with fear to be left behind,But now with a rush, as when hounds leave cover,The line broke up and his fear was over.A glimmer of bay behind The GhostShowed Dear Adonis still there at post.Out to the left, a joy to his backer,Kubbadar led the field a cracker,The thunder of horses, all fit and foaming,Made the blood not care whether death were coming.A glimmer of silks, blue, white, green, red,Flashed into his eye and went ahead;Then hoof-casts scattered, then rushing horsesPassed at his side with all their forces.His blood leapt up but his mind said "No,Steady, my darling, slow, go slow.In the first time round this ride's a hunt."
The Turk's Grave Fence made a line in front.
Long years before, when the race began,That first of the jumps had maimed a man;His horse, the Turk, had been killed and buriedThere in the ditch by horse-hoofs herried;And over the poor Turk's bones at paceNow, every year, there goes the race,And many a man makes doctor's workAt the thorn-bound ditch that hides the Turk,And every man as he rides that courseThinks, there, of the Turk, that good old horse.
The thick thorn-fence stands five feet high,With a ditch beyond unseen by eye,Which a horse must guess from his urgent riderPressing him there to jump it wider.
And being so near both Stand and Post,Out of all the jumps men haunt it most,And there, with the crowd, and the undulled nerves,The old horse balks and the young horse swerves,And the good horse falls with the bad on topAnd beautiful boldness comes to stop.
Charles saw the rush of the leading black,And the forehands lift and the men sway back;He steadied his horse, then with crash and cryingThe top of the Turk's Grave Fence went flying.Round in a flash, refusing danger,Came the Lucky Shot right into Ranger;Ranger swerving knocked Bitter Dick,Who blundered at it and leaped too quick;Then crash went blackthorn as Bitter Dick fell,Meringue jumped on him and rolled as well.As Charles got over he splashed the dirtOf the poor Turk's grave on two men hurt.
Right Royal landed. With cheers and laughterSome horses passed him and some came after;A fine brown horse strode up beside him,It was Thankful running with none to ride him;Thankful's rider, dizzy and sick,Lay in the mud by Bitter Dick.
In front, was the curving street of Course,Barred black by the leaps unsmashed by horse.A cloud blew by and the sun shone bright,Showing the guard-rails gleaming white.Little red flags, that gusts blew tense,Streamed to the wind at each black fence.
And smiting the turf to clods that scatteredWas the rush of the race, the thing that mattered,A tide of horses in fury flowing,Beauty of speed in glory going,Kubbadar pulling, romping first,Like a big black fox that had made his burst.
And away and away and away they went,A visible song of what life meant.Living in houses, sleeping in bed,Going to business, all seemed dead,Dead as death to that rush in strifePulse for pulse with the heart of life.
"For to all," Charles thought, "when the blood beats highComes the glimpse of that which may not die;When the world is stilled, when the wanting dwindles,When the mind takes light and the spirit kindles,One stands on a peak of this old earth."
Charles eyed his horses and sang with mirth.What of this world that spins through space?With red blood running lie rode a race,The beast's red spirit was one with his,Emulous and in ecstasies;Joy that from heart to wild heart passesIn the wild things going through the grasses;
In the hares in the corn, in shy gazellesRunning the sand where no man dwells;In horses scared at the prairie spring;In the dun deer noiseless, hurrying;In fish in the dimness scarcely seen,Save as shadows shooting in a shaking green;In birds in the air, neck-straining, swift,Wing touching wing while no wings shift,Seen by none, but when stars appearA reaper wandering home may hearA sigh aloft where the stars are dim,Then a great rush going over him:This was his; it had linked him closeTo the force by which the comet goes,With the rein none sees, with the lash none feels,But with fire-mane tossing and flashing heels.
The roar of the race-course died behind them,In front were their Fates, they rode to find them,With the wills of men, with the strengths of horses,They dared the minute with all their forces.