by J M Hemmings
‘Don’t you smile at me, you worthless beggar!’ Kelly spat, his powder-keg temper now ignited. ‘What in tarnation are you doing, smoking this before a race?!’
‘I … I … just…’ the man mumbled, a trickle of drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.
‘You just what?! I don’t pay you to chase the dragon before races, you dang idiot! You know what I’m startin’ to think? I’m startin’ to think you’re ungrateful. Yes, that’s right, that you’re ungrateful for everything I’ve done for you!’
‘I’m … not … ungrateful … master…’
Kelly tapped his cane impatiently on the ground as he shook his head and glared at the man.
‘Yes, yes you are,’ he hissed venomously. ‘Why, you’re purely and simply selfish and ungrateful! You’ve already forgotten who paid your debt to that Arab captain who was going to take your horse from you, because you’d lied about having money in India to pay for passage on his ship. Do you remember that, you ingrate? You’d be a penniless beggar with not even a rag on your back to your name, eking out a wretched existence with all the other cripples and filth on the streets of Calcutta had I not taken you under my wing with such magnanimous generosity! Yet this is how you repay the many kindnesses I’ve done you?!’
‘I’m … sorry … master…’ the unkempt addict croaked.
Kelly raised his cane above his head as if to strike him, and the man cowered and trembled in anticipation of the blow, which did not arrive as Kelly abruptly appeared to change his mind, after which he lowered the makeshift weapon.
‘You’re not sorry,’ Kelly growled. ‘You’re just saying that, I do believe, saying that to try save your dang hide. Well I don’t buy it, no sir, I do not buy it at all. I don’t buy what you’re selling me, y’hear? Why, I ought to keep your dang horse and that fancy sword for myself – not that either of those two items will come close to paying even a fraction of the debt you owe me, with the interest I’ve been forced to charge you – and then after I’ve taken ‘em, I’ll throw you out onto the streets! That’s what a selfish ingrate like you deserves!’
‘Please master … give me … one more … chance…’
Tears began to roll down the man’s grubby cheeks, and his visage folded into an expression of utter despondency.
Kelly turned away from the pathetic spectacle and grinned to himself, once again having to suppress the giggles that were threatening to burst from his crooked-toothed mouth. He ran his fingers through his mop of curly blonde hair, made sure his mask of anger was firmly in place, and then turned back to face the weeping jockey.
‘I’m a kind man,’ he declared, ‘yes, a soft-hearted fellow. Indeed, it’s my greatest weakness, I do say. Any reasonable man would have thrown you to the wolves long ago, but as for me, alas, I cannot change my nature. As much as you continue to hurt me with these selfish things you do, I somehow always find it in myself to forgive you. You know, however, that I will be forced to increase the interest on the debt you owe me yet again, do you not? You know that I don’t want to do this … but you understand why I have to do it, don’t you? It’s for your benefit, see? It’s to help you. D’you understand that? You do understand, I know you do. All I want is to help you … yet you keep hurtin’ me so. But once again, as always, I will forgive your selfishness and cruelty, and pray that you will see the light.’
‘Th-, th-, thank you … master,’ the man stammered through his tears. ‘Th-, th-, thank you…’
‘I am too kind to you, I think. Yes, far too kind. My soft heart will one day be my undoing, but I simply can’t help myself.’
‘Yes master … you are … very kind…’
‘Indeed. Now, are you going to smoke opium before a race again?’
The man shook his head, his countenance now a flawless picture of earnestness and resolve.
‘No … master … Never again…’
Kelly smiled and nodded, curling his fingers tight around the gleaming tip of his cane.
‘Good. I’m glad you at least show some repentance for your stupid and inconsiderate behaviour … not that that excuses what you’ve done, mind you. Anyway, come on, give me whatever opium you’ve managed to conceal on your person. Give it up, you hopeless wreck! You know I ration it to you for your own benefit, yet you still choose to try and sneak more doses in behind my back! Oh, the ways in which hurt me so, I say, I say, I say! Move it now, hand it over and get yourself onto your horse. This is a race I cannot afford to lose, you hear me? Do you understand?’
The man nodded, his eyes teary and his bottom lip quivering as he handed over the small stash of the drug he had hidden in his ratty shirt.
‘Good,’ Kelly said, snatching the narcotic from the man’s grimy hand. ‘And one more thing, something that I somehow almost forgot to mention: I stopped by the post office in Calcutta earlier this week, and guess what? I picked up another letter for you, all the way from the other side of the world. Would you like to read it?’
The man’s glazed eyes brightened up immediately, and he sat bolt upright in the hay.
‘Y-, y-, yes master, please, p-, p-, please, p-, please!’ he begged.
Kelly’s thin lips tightened, and his eyes gleamed like frozen stone.
‘Win that race and you’ll get it. Lose though and I’ll burn it, along with all the rest.’
The man nodded and seemed suddenly alert, with burnished determination now shining in his eyes. Kelly noticed this, and the corners of his mouth inched upwards in a smug grin.
‘Go on then, show me that you’re not a worthless street urchin!’ he snapped. ‘Go out there and make me proud!’
‘Yes master! Y-, yes!’
***
‘By Jove, that wretch is who you’ve brought along to compete in this contest of ours? I understood that he was an opium smoker, but I did not know that he was also a street beggar!’
Earl Cavanaugh, utterly flabbergasted, was staring through his field glasses at the man on the horse who had just trotted out onto the lawn – the same dishevelled, pallid fellow who had been smoking opium in the stables earlier. Ivor Bingham, an English friend of Cavanaugh’s, a tall middle-aged man with a shiny bald pate and a huge grey walrus moustache, repeated this question as he too stared with disbelief at the ragged-looking jockey.
‘That’s your competitor, Kelly? Are you joking, man?’
Niall Kelly simply clasped his hands together, subdued mischief dancing in his eyes.
‘That is my contender, gentlemen.’
‘You are fully aware of the consequences of you losing this wager, are you not?’ Bingham asked incredulously.
‘I am indeed. I suppose Cavanaugh’s competitor does look like he’ll have the edge in this contest, but what can I say? I like to live dangerously.’
Kelly grinned and twirled one of his foppish golden locks around his forefinger. Bingham shook his head and chuckled, with mocking mirth shining brightly in his brown eyes, but Cavanaugh glared at Kelly with a rage-smouldering glower before replying.
‘My competitor is a former French cavalryman,’ he snarled, ‘a veteran of a number of foreign campaigns, and he would trounce that street vagrant of yours even if he were blindfolded! Have you come here to compete, Kelly, or to make a mockery of my hobby?! I’m warning you, man, I’m warning you! You know what I’m capable of…’
Kelly merely sipped on his brandy, calm and collected, and smiled cryptically.
‘Oh I know, Cavanaugh, I know,’ he said. ‘Humour me though, will you sir?’
Out on the field the two horsemen trotted up to the starting line of the race. One, the forty-three-year-old French cavalryman, was dressed in resplendent finery, and his thick black hair, meticulously styled and oiled, gleamed glossily under the Indian sun. The other competitor, greasy, wan and looking more like a vagrant than a horseman, rocked to and fro in his saddle, having still not entirely recovered from the effects of the opium he had smoked earlier. The Frenchman glanced over at his adversary and laughe
d haughtily before speaking in a heavily accented voice to the young man.
‘Which sewage canal did they drag you out of, eh? Bah, I come here to race against the likes of you?! I’m surprised you can even sit upright on a horse, let alone ride one!’
Two Indian servants rushed over to the men, handing each contestant a lance and a sabre.
The Frenchman gripped the lance in his left hand, and in his right he whirled the sabre about his head in a flamboyant display of expertise before slamming it into the scabbard on his hip. He laughed heartily, and then bowed in his saddle to the distant spectators who were seated on Cavanaugh’s veranda. The other rider merely shoved his sabre, somewhat clumsily, into the sheath on his hip, and gripped the lance loosely in his right hand, trying to keep his bleary eyes focused on the course ahead of him.
A thin Indian man dressed in an exquisite red suit strolled up to the contestants and beamed a toothy smile at each of them before he began to speak in flawless English.
‘Let me explain the rules of this contest, gentlemen. Please, listen first and ask any questions afterwards.’
Both men nodded and grunted in affirmation.
‘The first leg of the race will involve tent pegging,’ the man said. ‘You can see the markers out there; there are ten of them for each of you. Yours are painted yellow,’ he said, glancing at the Frenchman, ‘and yours are painted red,’ he said, nodding to the other man. ‘You must spear at least eight out of the ten markers with your lances. Failure to do so will result in immediate disqualification. Also, spearing an opponent’s marker is considered bad sportsmanship and will also result in disqualification. Are we clear on this?’
Both men nodded.
‘Excellent. The second leg will involve sabre cuts, and you are free to discard your lance for this. Out there are ten melons per competitor. As with the markers, they are colour-coded, and once again the targets are red and yellow respectively. Again, you must successfully cut eight out of ten melons to pass. Do you understand?’
Each man muttered an affirmation.
‘Good. The final stage before the finish line is a slalom course. If you look over there at the end of the field, you will see that you each have a separate but identical course to navigate, with jumps to clear, barriers to evade, and obstacles around which to guide your horse. You will finish off the contest by stabbing a dummy through its heart – which is painted onto its chest – just before crossing the finish line. If you do not hit this exact target, you will be disqualified. Are you both clear on all of the above?’
Both men nodded, the tension in the air between them palpable.
‘Then gentlemen, take your places! When I fire this gun, you may race!’
The Indian man pulled an ornate revolver from his suit pocket and pointed it skywards as both of the horsemen prepared to race.
Up on the veranda, Earl Cavanaugh raised his brandy glass to his thick crimson lips and swigged greedily on the fiery liquid as he watched the horsemen ready themselves. He even allowed himself a brief smile and a chuckle as he perused Kelly’s competitor through his field glasses.
‘You’ll not be the first man I’ve fed to my tigers, Kelly,’ he rumbled. ‘They’ve feasted on plenty of wogs before, but this is the first time they’ll taste Yankee meat.’
‘Confederate meat, Cavanaugh. Confederate meat,’ Kelly said with a smirk.
‘If you say so, Kelly. Personally, I don’t think the tigers will care much about the distinction.’
‘I think they’ll have to keep eating wog meat.’
A puff of smoke emerged from the barrel of the pistol, and a second later the sound of the shot reached the ears of the spectators. Kelly jumped out of his seat, his eyes wild and his pulse racing at the sight of the two horsemen spurring their mounts into a furious gallop as they steamed along the course, neck and neck.
‘That’s it, boy!’ he shouted hoarsely, thumping an eager fist on the white-painted rail of the veranda. ‘Show that frog just how damned well you can ride, show him damn you!’
The two riders were fast approaching their first sets of targets. The Frenchman hoisted his lance up in his right hand, adopting an unconventional overhand grip, while his woolly-haired, grubby competitor held his lance with the standard underhand grip. The Frenchman speared his first target dead centre, and with fluid grace he spun the lance about above his head and brought it suddenly down in a vicious stab, perfectly transfixing the next target as he sped past it.
The rider next to him, however, missed his first target with a very poorly timed and inaccurate thrust, and then, distracted by the Frenchman’s flair, he missed the second as well, and started to fall behind the pace.
Kelly howled with rage and disgust as he saw his rider miss the first two targets, and in a fit of anger he flung his brandy glass onto the chequered black and white tiles, upon which it shattered.
‘I’ll add the cost of that tumbler to the hundred pounds you’ll owe me by the end of this race,’ Cavanaugh remarked with a smug grin. ‘Although, seeing as you’re unable to pay that, I suppose that just means I’ll throw your rider into the tiger pit along with you. Or perhaps I should throw you both to the crocodiles instead…’
‘Shut up Cavanaugh!’ Kelly snapped, his tenuous grasp on his violent temper slipping. ‘The goddamned race isn’t over yet!’
‘If he misses the next marker, it is over,’ Cavanaugh said in a tone of quiet danger.
It was then, however, that Kelly’s rider made his move. He crouched low and leaned out of his saddle to the right as he approached his next target – and this time he speared it with perfect accuracy. Then with rapid precision he swung his whole body over so that he was now hanging off the left of the horse, and he impaled the next target as well, while still managing to gain on the Frenchman, who was a few horse-lengths ahead.
Kelly, watching intently, whooped and punched a white-knuckled fist into the air.
‘That’s it boy! That’s it, damn you!’
The rider had now almost caught up to the Frenchman, and he was spearing targets dead-centre, and not losing an ounce of momentum as he did this. Just after he stabbed the last of his targets, he found himself neck and neck with his adversary, who glanced over his shoulder with sudden alarm at the ragged vagabond, who looked as if he was about to overtake him. With a sneer that was equal parts disgust and aggression, the Frenchman cast his lance aside and drew his sabre, preparing to cut at the first of the head-sized melons. Swinging agilely out of his saddle, he aimed his sabre with careful precision, and with a deft flick of his wrist he sliced the melon in half as he raced past it. With a loud and self-satisfied laugh, he raised his sabre to make the next cut, and glanced to his left, only to see that his opponent had already cut three of the melons and was surging ahead, leading him by a number of horse-lengths.
‘Sacre bleau! Merde!’ he shouted harshly, kicking and whipping his mount with the flat of his blade in a flurry of competitive rage.
With his rider making impressive progress, Kelly was dancing a jig and grinning like a madman. Cavanaugh watched the unfolding spectacle through his field glasses, his face darkening further with every horse-length that Kelly’s man put between himself and the now-trailing Frenchman.
Kelly’s rider hacked the top off the final melon, and without even shooting a glance over his shoulder at his opponent he directed his mount into the slalom course. Horse and man were as one as they snaked and sprang and twisted and turned, slipping through, past and over obstacles with the fluidity of eels between river rocks. The rider cleared the final jump, and then readied his sabre in his hand as he galloped hard at the dummy by the finish line. As he reached the dummy he leaned to the side, and with a smooth thrust he stabbed the sabre straight through the painted-on heart. He released the weapon from his grasp the instant it transfixed the dummy, and then he steamed across the finish line, leaving the embedded sword quivering in the human-shaped sack of straw.
After he had finished, he reined his f
roth-sweating horse in and slowed down, wearing a satisfied smile on his haggard, grubby face, and then he turned around to watch his flustered opponent come charging in.
Up on the veranda, Cavanaugh’s field glasses slipped from his trembling hands and dropped with a noisy clatter onto the tiles.
‘Brandy…’ he muttered hoarsely, ‘more brandy…’
‘Pardon me, master?’ the nervous servant nearest to him said.
Cavanaugh’s eyeballs bulged with white fury, as if they were about to pop out of his skull, and the veins in his temples and neck pulsated like food-engorged pythons.
‘I SAID MORE FUCKING BRANDY, YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING WOG! GET ME SOME FUCKING BRANDY RIGHT FUCKING NOW!’
‘Yes master, as you say master,’ stammered the servant, who hastily rushed off to replenish the supply of liquor.
‘And a glass for me,’ Kelly called out gaily, biting down hard on his lower lip and clenching his fists tight, only barely managing to keep a fit of giggles at bay.
‘Well Cavanaugh,’ he said eventually, unable to keep the dripping smugness out of his voice, ‘it appears that my man has emerged victorious! Our debt is thus settled, is it not?’ Kelly then turned to Bingham, who was wearing a subtle smile, and asked him to confirm this. ‘Dr Ivor Bingham,’ he said calmly, ‘you are here as an independent witness, so I ask you this: has our debt been settled in a gentlemanly fashion? Did my man not compete, obeying all the rules of the contest and satisfying all the conditions thereof, and emerge triumphant? And you witnessed Cavanaugh and I shake hands on these terms, yes? So please, sir, I say, I do say, I do say, do us the honour of declaring the outcome of this here wager.’
Bingham took a slow sip of his brandy and then set his glass down on the table, after which he dabbed at his mouth with his silk handkerchief.
‘As witness to both the terms of the wager and the action of the contest,’ he said coolly, ‘I must declare that the contest was won in a legitimate fashion by Niall Kelly’s man, thus winning Kelly the sum of one hundred pounds, and simultaneously nullifying Kelly’s long-standing debt to Cavanaugh.’