Babes in the Bush

At this moment one of the heroes joined the speakers, sauntering up with a respectful expression of countenance, proper to him who makes a request of a fair lady.

‘Miss Christabel, I have come to ask you to give me one of your ribbons for luck. I see Miss Effingham has decorated Hamilton. It’s only fair that I should have a charm too.’

‘Here it is, if you care for it, Bob!’ said the girl, hastily detaching a ‘cerise’ knot from her dress, while her varying colour told how the slight incident touched an unseen chord beneath the surface; ‘only I wish you were not going to ride at all. Somebody will be killed at these horrid steeplechases yet, I know.’

‘Why, you’re nearly as bad as my sister,’ said the youthful knight reassuringly, and giving his fair monitress an unnecessary look of gratitude, as Wilfred thought. ‘I shan’t let her come on the course next time I ride. There’s the saddling bell. We’ll see whether the pink ribbon or the blue goes farthest.’

The arrangements had been made with foresight, so that beyond the customary galloping across the course for a surcingle at the last moment by a friend in the interests of Currency Lass, a proceeding which aroused Mr. Rockley’s wrath, who publicly threatened her rider that he would bring the matter before the Turf Club, little delay was caused. At length all preliminaries were complete, and high-born St. Andrew passed the stand, shining like a star, with Charles Hamilton, in blue and gold, utterly point devise, on his back. Horse and rider seemed so harmonious, indeed, that a ringing cheer burst from the crowd, and all the throats whose owners inhabited the hills and vales south of the Great Lake shouted themselves hoarse for St. Andrew and Mr. Hamilton.

‘He’s as fit as hands can make him,’ said one of this division – a groom of O’Desmond’s. ‘There’s few of us can put on the real French polish like Mr. Hamilton; he’s a tiger to work, surely; and the little ’oss is fast. I know his time. If that Syd, or whatever they call him, licks ’im to-day, he’ll have his work to do. My guinea’s on St. Andrew.’

‘He’s a good ’un, and a stayer,’ said the man who stood next to him in the closely-packed temporary stand; ‘but there’s a bit of chance work in a steeplechase. The Cid’s a trimmer on the flat, or cross the sticks, but you can’t depend on him. I wouldn’t back him for a shillin’ if young Clarke wasn’t on him. But he’s that game and strong in the saddle, and lucky, as my note would be on a mule if he was up. Here he comes!’

As he spoke, The Cid came by the post at speed, ‘a pipe-opener’ having been thought necessary by his master, and as the grand horse extended himself, showing the elastic freedom of his magnificent proportions, with the perfection of his rider’s seat and figure, standing jockey-like in his saddle, moveless, and with hands down, it was a marvel of equestrian harmony.

The roar of applause with which the crowd greeted the exhibition showed a balance of popularity in favour of horse and rider as the long-repeated cheers swelled and recommenced, not ending indeed until the pair came walking back, The Cid raising his lofty crest, and swinging his head from side to side, as he paced forward with the air of a conqueror.

‘Oh, what lovely, lovely creatures!’ said Annabel Effingham, who had never been to a race meeting before. ‘I had no idea a horse could be so beautiful as St. Andrew or The Cid. Why can’t they both win? I hope Mr. Hamilton will, I’m sure, because he’s our neighbour; but I shall be grieved if The Cid loses. How becoming jockey costume is! And what a lovely jacket that is of Mr. Clarke’s! If I were a man I should be passionately fond of racing.’

‘Bob’s a great deal too fond of it,’ said Mrs. Malahyde, a bright-eyed matron of seven- or eight-and-twenty. ‘I wish you girls would combine and make him promise to give it up. I can’t keep away when he’s going to ride, but it’s all agony with me till I see him come in safe.’

‘When you look at it in that way,’ assented Annabel, ‘it certainly doesn’t seem right, and it’s unfair of us to encourage it. What a pity so many nice things are wrong!’

‘They’re off!’ said Miss Christabel, who had been eagerly watching the proceedings, during which the other performers had severally displayed themselves, receiving more or less qualified ovations, and then finally been taken in charge severely by Mr. Rockley as far as the distance post. ‘They’re off! Oh, don’t say a word till they’re over the first fence!’

All the horses of the little troop had sufficient self-control to go ‘well within themselves’ from the start except King of the Valley and Currency Lass. The mare’s nervous system was so shaken by the thunder of the horse-hoofs and the shouting of the crowd at her introduction to society, that she pulled and tore, and ‘took it out of herself,’ as her rider, Billy Day, afterwards expressed himself, to that extent, that he felt compelled to let her have her head, with a lead over the first fence.

This barrier she at first charged at the rate of a liberal forty miles an hour, with her head up, her mouth open, and such an apparently reckless disregard of the known properties of iron-bark timber, that Billy’s friends began to cast about for a handy vehicle, as likely to be in immediate demand for ambulance work. But whether from the contrarieties said to govern the female sex, or from some occult reason, Currency Lass no sooner had her own way than she displayed unexpected prudence. She slackened pace, and cocking her delicately-pointed ears, rewarded her rider’s nerve and patience by making a magnificent though theatrical jump, and being awfully quick on her legs, was half-way to the next fence before another had crossed the first.

‘Oh, what a lovely jump Currency Lass took!’ said one of the young ladies, ‘and what a distance she is in front of all the rest. Do you think she will win, Mr. Smith? How slowly all the others are going.’

‘There’s plenty of time,’ said the critic of the sterner sex. ‘She’s a clever thing, but she can’t stay the distance. Ha! very neatly done indeed. That’s what I call workmanlike. Cornstalk baulks – well done – good jump! All over the first fence, and no one down.’

These latter remarks were called forth by seeing St. Andrew, The Cid, and Bargo charge the fence nearly in line, the latter rather in the rear, and go over with as little haste or effort as if it had been a row of hurdles. Wallaby hit the top rail hard, but recovered himself, and Cornstalk, after baulking once, was wheeled short, and popped over cleverly, without losing ground.

The same style of performance was repeated with so little variation for the next half-dozen leaps, that the eager public began to look with favour upon the enthusiastic Currency Lass, still sailing ahead with undiminished ardour, and flying her leaps like a deer. The sarcastic inquiry, ‘Will they ever catch her?’ commenced to be employed, and the provincial prejudice in favour of a true bushman and a country-trained horse, ‘without any nonsense about her,’ began to gather strength.

But at this stage of the proceedings it became apparent that the struggle between the two cracks could not longer be postponed. With one bound, as it appeared to the spectators, St. Andrew and The Cid were away at speed, their riders bearing themselves as if they had only that moment started for the race.

‘They’re at one another now,’ said Argyll to O’Desmond. ‘We shall see how the Camerton blood tells in a finish.’

‘Don’t you think Charlie’s making the pace too good?’ said Mr. Churbett. ‘I wanted him to wait till he got near the hill, but he said he thought the pace would try The Cid’s temper, and half a mistake would make him lose the race.’

‘They’re both going too fast now, in my opinion,’ said Forbes. ‘One of them will have a fall soon, and then the race is old Bargo’s, as sure as my name’s James.’

‘Oh, what a pretty sight!’ said Mrs. Snowden, as a large fence in full view of the whole assemblage was reached.

The native damsel was still leading, but the distance had visibly decreased which separated her from the popular heroes. All three horses were going best pace, and as the mare cleared the fence cleverly, but with little to spare, pressed by The Cid and St. Andrew, as they took the jump apparently in the same stride, a great cheer burst from the crowd.

‘Well done, Bargo!’ shouted the complimentary crowd, in high good-humour, as the old horse came up, quietly working out his programme, and topping the fence with but little visible effort, followed his more brilliant leaders. The others were by this time considerably in the rear, but took their jumps creditably still. The next fence was known to be the most dangerous in the whole course. The ground was broken and stony, the incline unpleasantly steep, and a small but annoying grip caused by the winter rains interfered with the approach. In the hunting field it would have been simply a matter for careful riding. But here, at the speed to which the pace had been forced, it was dangerous.

‘Why don’t they pull off there?’ muttered Mr. Rockley, virtuously indignant. ‘No one but a madman would go over ground like that as if they were finishing a flat race. That fellow Hamilton is as obstinate as a mule. I know him; he wouldn’t pull off an inch for all the judges of the Supreme Court.’

‘I’m afraid Bob Clarke won’t,’ said John Hampden; ‘that’s the worst of steeplechasing, the fellows will ride so jealous. Well done, The Cid! By Jove! the mare’s down! and – yes – no! – St. Andrew too. Don’t be frightened, anybody,’ as more than one plaintive cry arose from among the carriages on which the ladies stood thickly clustering. ‘Both men up, and no harm done. Hamilton’s away again, but it’s The Cid’s race.’

These hurried observations, made for the benefit of the visibly distressed clientèle of Hamilton, were called forth by the most sensational proceedings which had obtained yet.

As the two rivals came down the slope at the highly improper pace alluded to, they overtook Currency Lass at her fence, which confused that excitable animal. Getting her head from her rider, who had been prudently steadying her across this unpleasant section, with the idea that he would be unaccompanied till he was clear of it, she went at the fence with her usual impetuosity. A gutter threw her out a little; it may be that her wind had failed. It is certain that, taking off too closely to the stiff fence, she struck the top rail with tremendous force, the impetus casting her rolling over on her back into the adjoining paddock, while her rider, fortunately for him, was ‘sent rods and rods ahead of her’ (as a comrade described it), and so saved from being crushed under the fallen horse. The mare rose to her legs trembling and half stunned, glared for one moment at surrounding objects, and then went off at full speed, with flapping stirrups and trailing reins. The Cid had sailed over the fence a yard to the left of her, and was going at his ease, with nothing near him.

Where, then, was St. Andrew? He had also come to grief.

Putting his foot on a rolling stone, he had been unable to clear his leap, though he made a gallant effort. Striking heavily, he went down on the farther side.

His rider, sitting well back, and never for one instant losing his proverbial coolness, was able to save him as much as, under the circumstances, a horse can be saved. Down on nose and knee only went the good horse, his rider falling close to his shoulder, and never relinquishing the reins. Both were on their feet in an instant, and before the crowd had well realised the fact, or the ‘I told you so’ division had breath to explain why St. Andrew must fall if the pace was kept really good, Charlie Hamilton was in the saddle and away, with his teeth set and a determination not to lose the race yet, if there was a chance left. Bargo came up with calculated pace and line, and performed his exercise with the same ease and precision as if he had been practising at a leaping bar. Cornstalk baulked again, and this time with sufficient determination to lose him half a mile. Wallaby gave his rider a nasty fall, breaking his collar-bone and preventing further efforts. While King of the Valley, going reasonably up to this stage, overpowered his rider at last, and hardly rising at his fence, rolled over, and did not rise. He had broken his neck, and his rider was unconscious for twelve hours afterwards. The race therefore lay between The Cid, St. Andrew, and the safe and collected Bargo, coming up pedo claudo, and with a not unreasonable chance, like Nemesis, of appearing with effect at the close of the proceedings.

The next marked division of the course was known as ‘the hill,’ an eminence of no great altitude between two farms, but possessing just sufficient abruptness to make the fence a more than average effort. This ‘rise,’ as the country people called it, lay about three-quarters of a mile from home, and the horse that first came down the long slope which led towards the winning-post, divided from it but by several easy fences, had a strong chance of winning the race.

Before The Cid reached the base of this landmark, still keeping the pace good, but going comparatively at his ease, it was apparent that Hamilton, who had been riding St. Andrew for his life, and had indeed resolved to tax the courage and condition of the good horse to the last gasp, was closing in upon his leader. ‘Sitting down’ upon his horse, Charles Hamilton extorted praise from the assemblage by the determination with which he fought a losing race. He was well seconded by the son of Camerton, as, extending himself to the utmost, he flew fence after fence as if they were so many hurdles.

‘What a pity poor St. Andrew came down at that abominable place!’ said Annabel. ‘I really believe he might have won the race. He was not so far behind Mr. Clarke when he disappeared behind the hill.’

‘He’s only playing with him, I’m afraid,’ said Mr. Hampden kindly. ‘Hamilton and his horse deserve to win, but that fall made too great a difference between horses so evenly matched.’

‘The Cid’s heart’s not in the right place,’ here broke in an admirer of Miss Christabel’s, who had been cut down by the fascinating Bob. ‘You know that, Hampden. I saw him refuse and lose his race, which he had easy in hand, at Casterton. He might baulk at that sidling jump behind the hill yet. It’s a nasty place.’

‘I believe he will too,’ said Fred Churbett, staunch to the Benmohr colours. ‘We ought to see them soon now; they’re a long time coming. Take all the odds you can get, Miss Annabel.’

‘Will you take seven to four, Churbett?’ said Mr. Hampden. ‘I know The Cid’s peculiarities, but I’ll back him out, and my countryman, Bob Clarke, as long as there is a Hereford at Wangarua.’

‘Done!’ said the friendly Fred; ‘and “done” again, Mr. Hampden,’ said Bob’s rival.

Just as the words were finished a great shout of ‘St. Andrew wins, Benmohr for ever!’ arose from the country people as one horse was seen coming down the long, green slope. On the rider could plainly be discovered the blue and golden colours of Charles Hamilton.

‘Baulked, by Jove! the sidling fence was too much for him; thought Bob was sending him along too fast. Deuced uncertain brute; not the real thing; never could stay; nothing like the old Whisker and Camerton strain. Here comes Bargo! By Jove! Hurrah!’

Such comments and condemnations were freely expressed as St. Andrew came sailing along. The concluding cheer, however, was evoked by the apparition of a second horse which followed St. Andrew with a flogging rider, who was evidently making his effort. It immediately became apparent that this was Bargo, whom his rider was ‘setting to with,’ believing that the tremendous pace which St. Andrew had sustained for the last part of the race must now tell upon him. Where, then, was The Cid? Where, indeed? His admirers were dumb; his opponents jubilant. It is the way of the world.

‘Where’s your seven to four now, Mr. Hampden?’ said the youthful partisan.

‘Possibly quite safe; never be quite certain till the numbers are up. Here comes The Cid at last; Bob’s not beaten yet.’

Another sustained shout from the excited crowd showed what a new element of interest this apparition of the lost horseman had added to the race. Bargo, carefully saved, and comparatively fresh, sorely pressed the gallant St. Andrew, whose bolt was nearly shot. Still, struggling gamely to keep his lead, and well held together, he had crossed the third fence from home before he was challenged by Bargo.

But down the hill, at an awful pace, ridden with the desperation of a madman, came The Cid. Bob Clarke, with cap off and reckless use of whip and spur, could not have increased the pace by one single stride had he been going for a man’s life. Had a doomed criminal been standing on the scaffold, ready for the headsman’s axe, did the reprieve of the old romances not be displayed in time, not another second could The Cid have achieved.

‘He’ll do it yet if they’re not too close at the last fence,’ said Hampden, with his usual calmness. ‘I never knew The Cid baulk twice in one race, and he has a terrible turn of speed for a short finish. Bob’s in earnest, I should say.’

That fact was doubted by none who saw him that day. His face was pale; his eyes blazed with a flame which few had ever seen who looked upon the handsome features and pleasant smile of Robert Clarke. The excitement became tremendous. The ladies made emotional remarks – some of pity for his disappointment, some of sympathy with his probable hurts, if he had had a fall. All joined in reprobating the unlucky Cid.

Christabel Rockley alone said no word, but her fixed eyes and pale cheek showed the absorbing interest which the dangerous contest, now deepening to a possible tragedy, had for her.

The furious pace appeared not to interfere with The Cid’s wondrous jumping powers. At the speed he was driven at his fences he must have gone over or through them. He seemed to prefer the former, and cheer after cheer broke the unusual silence as high in air was seen the form of horse and rider, as every fence was crossed but the last, and perhaps the stiffest, a hundred yards from home.

St. Andrew and Bargo were now neck and neck, stride and stride. The indomitable chestnut had begun to roll; the stout but not brilliant Bargo was at his best. As they near the last fence it is evident that The Cid, still coming up with a ‘wet sail,’ is overhauling the pair. The question is, whether St. Andrew is not too near home.

The anxiety of the crowd is intense, the breathless suspense of the friends of the rival stables painful, the fielders are at the acme of excited hope and fear, when St. Andrew and Bargo, closely followed by The Cid, rise at this deciding leap. The chestnut just clears it, with nothing to spare; Bargo, overpaced, strikes heavily, and rolls in the field beyond; Bob Clarke charges the panel on the right like a demon, and, after a deadly neck-and-neck struggle with St. Andrew, who still has fight left, outrides him on the post.

The conclusion of this ‘truly exciting race, covering with glory all concerned therein,’ as the local journal phrased it, was felt to be almost too solemn a matter for the usual hackneyed congratulations. The overwrought emotions of the young ladies rendered a prompt adjournment necessary to side-saddles and vehicles, which, after refreshment supplied to the protagonists, were made ready for the homeward route. Bob Clarke received a congratulatory glance from Christabel Rockley, which no doubt helped to console him, as did such guerdon many a good knight of old, for the dust and dangers of the tourney.

His sister, Mrs. Malahyde, who could hardly have been said either to have seen or enjoyed the thrilling performance, for ‘mamma was lying down crying in the bottom of the dogcart all the time,’ as her little daughter testified, now arranged her bonnet and countenance, and expressed her heartfelt thanks for Bob’s safety.

Charles Hamilton received assurances from the ladies generally, and particularly from his neighbours of The Chase, that his courage and perseverance had been to them astonishing, and beyond all praise; while St. Andrew, beaten only by a head, after all his gallant endeavours to repair ill-luck, was lauded to the skies.

‘Poor dear fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘I wonder if horses ever feel disappointed. He does droop a little, and it was wicked of you to spur him so, Mr. Hamilton. Now that naughty Cid goes swinging his head about as if he was quite proud of himself. How he has been spurred! Dear me!’

‘Yes, and well flogged,’ said one of the Hobart division. ‘Bob said when he baulked behind the hill he could have killed him. However, it will do him good. He took his last fences as if he would never refuse again as long as he lived.’

‘I will just say this, as my calm and deliberate opinion, and I should like to hear any man contradict me,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘that there never was a race better ridden in the colony than Hamilton’s on St. Andrew. If he hadn’t made that mistake at the stony creek he must have had the race easily. His recovering his place was one of the best bits of riding I ever saw.’

‘Oh, of course; but if The Cid hadn’t baulked, he would have come in as he liked. Suppose we get them to run it over again to-morrow as a match for a hundred. I’ll put a tenner on The Cid.’

‘The race is run, Mr. Newman, and that’s enough,’ said Rockley decisively; ‘quite enough danger for one year. The next thing is to get back to Yass in time to dine comfortably, and see that everything is ready for the race ball to-night.’

This sensible advice, which, like the suggestions of royal personages, savoured somewhat of a command, was duly acted upon, and in a short time the greater part of the company, who intended to recompense themselves for the fatiguing emotions of the day by the fascinations of the night, took the homeward road, leaving ‘The Hack Stakes’ and the ‘Scurry’ (post entry) to be run without them. There was ample time. The afternoon was mild and fair of aspect; a friendly breeze, sighing over the plain, had come wandering up from the south. The equestrian portion of the company formed themselves unconsciously into knots and pairs.

Bob Clarke, having shifted into mufti, was lounging homeward on a well-bred hackney on the offside of Christabel Rockley’s Red King, whose arching neck he felt impelled to pat, while he replied to the eager questioning of the fair rider. Her cheeks were brilliant again with youth’s bright tints, and her eyes glittered like imprisoned diamonds beneath her tiny lace veil.

‘I hope you sympathise with me, Miss Effingham,’ said Hamilton, as they rode in advance of the rest of the party, a position to which Fergus’s extraordinary walking powers generally promoted him. ‘Bob is receiving the victor’s meed from Miss Christabel – how happy they both look!’

‘I really do, sincerely,’ said Rosamond, ignoring the episodical matter. ‘It must be most provoking to have one’s prize wrested away in the moment of victory. But every one saw what a gallant struggle you and St. Andrew made. Were you hurt at all when you fell?’

‘I shall be pretty stiff to-morrow,’ he answered carelessly; ‘but I have had no time to think about it. I thought my arm was broken, as it was under St. Andrew’s shoulder. It is all right, though numbed for a while. I am inwardly very sore and disgusted, I don’t mind telling you. That tall fellow, Champion, and Malahyde, with all the Tasmanians, will crow so.’

‘It can’t be helped, I suppose,’ said Rosamond soothingly. ‘Mr. Hampden, at least, did not show any disposition to do so, for he praised your riding and St. Andrew’s good finish warmly. He said all steeplechases were won either by luck, pluck, a good horse, or good riding, and that you had all but the first requisite.’

‘Hampden is a good fellow and a gentleman,’ said the worsted knight, rather consoled, ‘and so is Bob Clarke. If one has done one’s best, there is no more to be said. But I had set my heart on winning this particular race. Heigh-ho! our pleasure week is coming to an end.’

‘Yes; to-night, the ball; to-morrow, the Ladies’ Bag and a picnic. We are all off home on Monday. I shall not be sorry, though I have enjoyed myself thoroughly; every one has been so pleasant and friendly, and Mrs. Rockley kind beyond description. I never had so much gaiety in so short a time. But I shall be pleased to return to our quiet life once more.’