Night Storm the Flat-Racer, page 12
Jim had been watching her face, anxious for her to like his sport and hobby, hoping that she would be interested enough to share it with him.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked, impatient for her reply.
“I think it’s great fun, Jim, but I must know more about the rules. I don’t suppose those blows I used on O’Hara are allowed in a club?”
Jim shuddered. “Heavens, no! That’s strictly for real self-defence. But the atmosphere, do you like that? They’re a good crowd.”
“I think they’re fun. I’d like to join and come down with you, and perhaps later on try to get a belt.”
The club members had been curious to start with—after all the newspaper publicity, that was only to be expected—but their curiosity had been friendly and not unwelcoming. “You’ll soon get yourself a high belt, and then you should do well in contests,” said Jim. “We’ll have more time after the racing season has ended. Things should get back to normal now Pat is there to help.”
“What are the belts, again?”
“Beginners usually wear a red belt, then, going up in order, they are white, yellow, orange, green, blue, and brown, all called kyu. The white is sixth kyu, and so on up to brown, which is first kyu. After that comes the black belt, or dan grade. The very highest possible grade is tenth dan, but I think the highest dan grade ever held by a white man is seventh dan,” said Jim, and Ann listened in deep interest, until Jim saw her eyes wander as she frowned.
“What is it?” he said, holding her hand.
“I suddenly thought of Night Storm.”
“It’s only three weeks now to Leger Day. I think the colt will prove himself, and if he can’t, then he can’t,” said Jim philosophically.
Horses and judo, judo and horses, filled their minds, and dominating all was the great black horse with the proud head and the arrogant spirit.
9
The St Leger
HENRY MATTHEW stood in his yard at the end of another tiring day and looked appraisingly at his two St Leger horses: both of them were fit, lean, well muscled, and trained to the last hair.
The trainer had a headache; he always seemed to have a headache now, and his temper was never far from exploding-point. Even his favourite jockey, Sandy Williams, was careful what he said to him. He knew he was being unpleasant, he knew his faults; but the strain, tension, and worry of preparing for the race had taken their toll of him. How much simpler life had been when he was just a jockey! The worries of this first season as a trainer had been doubled by the violent public criticism after the doping, and he had the horrible feeling that unless he could bring off one big win, very few owners would be sending their horses to him next season. He knew that he was lucky in being allowed to retain his licence; he knew too that the stewards’ vigilance was at fever-pitch where he was concerned. Nothing must go wrong with his two Leger candidates before the race. Once they were out on the race-course with their jockeys, the matter was out of his hands.
Could one of his two horses beat the popular and well-fancied Gay Batchelor, and if so, which would it be? This was the question which occupied his mind night and day. Night Storm had improved enormously in his work, and the trainer admitted that Sandy had ridden him hard, and seemed now to have complete control. He also had a fantastic gallop. But a horse like that could always behave quite differently on the actual race-course, with all the crowds and excitement, than on his own home ground.
For betting purposes, Leviathan was safer and more reliable, but had he the speed to hold Gay Batchelor?
Sandy Williams understood the trainer’s anxiety and irritability. He too was involved, but only with the horse. He felt sorry for his employer, and made allowances for his flaring temper. How he must be writhing under public opinion, how he must want to hit back! But if he could only secure first place in the big race, surely then the malicious tongues would be silenced? Night Storm first, Leviathan and Gay Batchelor second and third, he told himself. That’s how it’s going to be.
The Hendersons watched their horse on his last workout. They had driven over early in the morning, and stood on the short grass, their eyes riveted to Night Storm. There was a distinct autumn chill in the air, and both wore thick trousers with short riding-jackets. Ann had tied a scarf over her fine hair, to keep it from blowing everywhere in the wind.
He’s going well, she thought. The jockey is holding him very nicely, and he’s only kicked out twice. And the way he shot out from under the tapes, no hesitation, no fighting, just a wild desire to gallop!
He’s certainly fit, Jim was telling himself Matthew knows his job, there’s not an ounce of fat on that colt. And the power in those loins and quarter muscles! That thick neck, with those iron bands of sinew running down to the broad shoulders, the shining black coat, the bright eyes—if ever a horse looks a winner, it’s ours.
John Holden watched both horses. He had been in racing a long time. He knew the trainer was a shrewd man, and he admired Sandy Williams. The young jockey would go a long way, but he hoped the Hendersons were not going to be too disappointed in the horse. He’d made up his mind—the black was too erratic. The horse to back was Leviathan, with Harry Saunders as his pilot. Safe as the bank itself, Gay Batchelor could never touch them.
Each person involved had made his choice and laid his bet. The only man who hesitated in laying his bet was the trainer himself. He thought Night Storm could win after his proved training sessions, but he also strongly fancied Leviathan. Finally he covered his bets in an either-order forecast.
* * *
The St Leger was being held, as always, at Doncaster on the Town Moor course. It was a dry September, cold at night but sunny during the day, and thousands turned out to watch the popular race founded and named in 1776 after Colonel St Leger. The going was firm and fast on the course, over 1 mile 6 furlongs 132 yards of close-cropped turf.
There were other small races before the big event, but everyone was keyed up for what was forecast to be a fierce contest between the three big racehorses. Leviathan and Gay Batchelor were equal favourites, with Night Storm a couple of points behind in the betting lists.
The Hendersons and Bartons turned out in force, only Robert being left behind in Mrs Coe’s care. Ann wore the same suit she had worn for the Two Thousand Guineas, while Mike, Jim, and Mr Barton wore sober grey suits. Only Susan blazed forth in bright colours, and her flowered dress and saucy yellow hat stood out vividly against the men’s darker clothes.
Ann had lived with nervous tension before. She had experienced it when Jim rode Pilot in the Grand National. She had herself been nervous when riding Easter the show jumper, but she had never before known such strained emotion as she felt awaiting the start of this big race.
The public interest in the coming contest was tremendous, and money was changing hands rapidly, queues forming at the bookmakers’ and Tote windows.
Ann closed her eyes in an attempt to still her nerves. If Night Storm could win this race he would silence once and for all the critics who said that his previous win was nothing but a flash in the pan. If he behaved himself he would show that he had become amenable to training. Nerves jangled in Ann’s neck, her heart bumped uncomfortably, and she was aware that she was the subject of many interested stares. Her face was now a familiar one after the trial and newspaper stories.
“Come on, Sue! Let’s go and have a last look at the horses. Too many people are staring at me here.”
They pushed their way through the crowd to the edge of the paddock, where they had a first-class view of the horses parading. Jim saw them, waved, and then turned back to speak to the trainer.
“Well, he’s certainly quiet enough at the moment,” he said, eyeing the black colt.
Henry Matthew nodded back. He wasn’t sure whether he could believe in such good behaviour from the horse. Surely the intensive training hadn’t worked such wonders? It was almost too good to be true.
The eleven horses walked around led by their grooms, each horse saddled, bridled, and ready for the race, each jockey standing next to the horse’s owner or trainer, eyeing his horse, debating his chance.
Sandy Williams watched Night Storm carefully. He was behaving himself extremely well, but in spite of all the training he had been given for good behaviour, the jockey was still a little suspicious. He stared at the horse’s head, saw the eyes roll and the ears twitch, and understood.
So that’s your game, he thought; you don’t intend to run without a little fight! You’re saving it up for me. Well, go ahead! I know how to handle you now.
Sandy had been planning his race tactics since the Two Thousand Guineas, and he had discussed them carefully with the trainer. He had been teased unmercifully by the other jockeys in the changing-room, but he had refused to be drawn into any arguments, and had just laughed, in his good-natured way, at their ribbing. Only Harry Saunders had been unpleasantly sarcastic about the black colt, and boastful about the prowess of Leviathan. Jeffrey Hogan, the middle-aged champion jockey who was riding Gay Batchelor, had listened in silence to all this, and later had taken Sandy aside.
“Don’t let any of their remarks affect your judgment,” he advised in his kind way. “You ride your horse the way that will suit his temperament, and according to your trainer’s orders. I hope I shall beat you with Gay Batchelor, but I wish you luck. You have a difficult horse, and I consider him a real danger to my chances.”
The young jockey looked across at the smiling elder man for whom he had a great respect. A contemporary of Henry Matthew in his racing days, he too was famous throughout the world, and Sandy was delighted that the other man had stopped to talk to him.
“Thank you very much, sir; I—”
“No, don’t tell me anything! I don’t want to know your tactics. You just go out there and do the best you can with the horse that you know. A lot of that talk back there was nothing but sour grapes!” added the other jockey, patting Sandy’s shoulder, before they parted to go to their respective trainers.
The talk had heartened the young jockey, and now, watching the colt, he felt supremely confident. He touched the trainer’s arm.
“I think he’ll play me up as soon as I mount him,” he told him in a low voice.
The warning bell sounded as Jim and Henry Matthew exchanged anxious glances.
“If that’s the case let’s keep him back here. I don’t want him kicking and injuring another horse,” said the trainer apprehensively.
Jim became a shade worried now. “And what if he burns up too much energy?”
The jockey shook his head. “That colt’s got plenty and to spare. I’d rather he got it over with early on so that he can concentrate on galloping. It’s not so much temper now, sir, as sheer excitement and keenness to be doing something.”
The groom led the black horse up, and the trainer checked stirrups and girth.
“Your orders, sir?” asked the jockey.
The trainer turned and rested a hand on the jockey’s shoulder. “Keep him active at the line-up. Don’t give him a chance to brood and get into mischief. Get a flyer if you can, then keep him way out in front. Lead as much as you can, but still try and save enough for a fast finish.”
Henry Matthew was anxious to get Sandy mounted so that he could attend to Leviathan and Harry Saunders. He wanted no criticisms thrown at his head for favouring one horse more than the other. This was his big test too; today his reputation was going to be made or marred for ever; today the scandal of the doping could be obliterated. He must be absolutely impartial to both horses.
The young jockey grasped the reins, and Jim gave him a leg-up into the saddle. The trainer released his hold on the rems and hurried over to supervise the mounting of Leviathan. Jim stood at the colt’s head while the jockey settled himself down.
“O.K.?”
“Yes, sir. I should stand well back now. Something’s going to happen, I’m sure, and I’m going to get my legs out of the stirrups,” said Sandy, and he slipped his booted feet out of the tiny, lightweight racing stirrups.
In the jockey’s racing crouch he would have little chance of staying on the back of a plunging horse. He could always pull his legs up again when it was safe to do so.
“Good luck!” called Jim, who had taken Sandy’s advice and stepped well back as he released the reins.
He was only just in time. Night Storm exploded! He reared high, reaching for the sky, screeching a challenging whinny, then dropped down to the grass, humped his back, and bucked. All four legs left the ground as with arched back and lowered head and neck he drummed a tattoo of excited impatience with his iron legs.
Everyone scattered in panic as the long black legs whipped out in vicious kicks. The crowd burst into an uproar, and many people hurriedly pushed to the queues to change their bets. Within seconds of Night Storm’s opening performance his price had gone out four whole points to seven to one.
Sandy Williams rode the storm, body whipping backward and forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the smirk of glee on Harry Saunders’s face, and his ears echoed with the cat-calls and shouts of the crowd.
He sat tight, watching the black ears, gauging the colt’s moves, switching his balance as the horse rocked and plunged between his knees. He could feel some of the sting going from the movements, the first flash of excitement was dying out, and he prepared to ram his feet back into the stirrups and drive the horse out of the paddock.
It seemed impossible for the jockey in his red and black colours to manage the great horse, but Sandy knew exactly what he was doing. The horse paused, home went the booted feet, up came the horse’s head as the reins were shortened, and Night Storm was heeled from the paddock on to the race-course and down towards the Starter.
For a few strides the black horse fought wildly for his head, pulling and straining against the snaffle bit, kicking sideways, but the jockey’s arms were like iron. Then he stopped fighting and began to take an acute interest in his surroundings: the wavering line of racehorses, the shouting (and at times cursing) jockeys, and the prospect of galloping. The colt knew what was going to happen this time—he had raced before—and though he was still excited and his fighting spirit at full flare, curiosity and keenness were beginning to replace it.
Sandy kept the horse on the move all the time while the stewards made adjustments to girths and number cloths and attended to all the other last-minute requests from the jockeys.
The Starter mounted his stand and gloomily eyed the black colt. Just my luck, he thought, to have that Henderson horse to contend with! If he plays up now he’ll set them all going with that infectious temper of his.
Sandy walked backward and forward at the rear of the line of horses, marking his place in the line-up with his eyes, and at the same time watching the colt’s ears. At every flicker he felt with his heels and hands, keeping Night Storm fully occupied and well away from the other horses.
The line-up was straightening now. Sandy pulled his goggles down and shortened his reins even more. Harry Saunders leered at him, and the champion jockey gave him a nod of encouragement.
Turning Night Storm’s head, the young jockey slowly walked his horse forward while he stared at the Starter like a hawk. He saw the man’s hand move towards the lever—Sandy rammed with his heels.
Night Storm hurtled forward in one huge bound, the tapes rose, and they got away in a perfect flyer. With his ears back, the horse thrashed along, leaning on the bit, testing his rider’s strength and mood, but not fighting too much. Sandy watched his horse and kept a wary eye on both flanks. They were well ahead of the field, and the galloping horses behind were producing a roll of thunder as their hooves drummed the turf. The colt’s large shoulders were sliding easily, the long legs flying with great strides, the quarters bunching as the hocks drove the powerful body forward.
A bay head appeared on his left flank, and instantly the black colt snatched at the bit, wanting to go faster. Sandy strained to steady him while trying to gauge just how far Harry Saunders would let Leviathan challenge at this stage of the race. Wanting to test him, the jockey let Night Storm increase his pace, and as they hurtled forward the bay head tracked at their heels.
It was a tremendously fast race. As the half-way mark neared Sandy let his horse go out a little farther. He could feel the explosive power in Night Storm still bursting to come out in a wild gallop, and he wanted to shake off Leviathan. A blur shot ahead of him, and to Sandy’s astonishment and Night Storm’s irritation, a grey colt burst into the lead exactly at the half-way mark. Sandy worked firmly with wrists and hands, restraining the black colt, who instantly wanted to thrash after this rival. The jockey eyed the grey’s speed, but was not unduly alarmed. The horse was an outsider and could never keep up such a pace. Even as he watched, the grey started coming back to them; he had shot his bolt, and Night Storm swept past him easily, the black ears laid back in anger. Sandy breathed more easily again.
He now crouched almost flat over the black neck; man and horse hurtled along together, the jockey’s hands keeping a strong feel on the reins. He threw a quick glance to the left. Leviathan had disappeared from sight as well as the grey, but as he straightened his head he saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. A brown face with a white blaze was insidiously creeping alongside his flank, and Jeffrey Hogan’s narrowed eyes were hard as he nursed Gay Batchelor up with Night Storm.
The black colt bored on his bit again, objecting to another horse so near, and Sandy had to fight to keep him straight and balanced. He was going well now, rolling along in a steady gallop, hinting that given his chance he could pour out much more speed.
At the three-quarter post the brown and the black were galloping neck and neck. Sandy decided that this was the time to move. The winning-post was getting nearer with each stride. He pulled his whip, showed it to Night Storm, and gently started scrubbing.
