The Big Book of Australian Racing Stories

by Jim Haynes

  But, in the end, and rightly, we remember only the horses. Who can forget Light Fingers nosing out Ziema in 1965? Light Fingers, the mare, small and finely chiselled. Ziema, the gelding, big and homely. Roy Higgins throwing everything at the little girl, asking her to crash through the wall. Johnny Miller cuddling Ziema, who was inclined to give up if passed. Two bobbing white bridles, two hearts close to bursting.

  And what about Empire Rose in the muggy heat of 1988? She was huge like the Himalayas and had a lot of bad disposition. With joints like water melons, she should have broken down, yet she won our hardest race, neck down low, ears laid back threateningly. Laurie Laxon, her trainer, said she won because she had a ‘good aggressive attitude’. What Laurie meant was that she hated other horses.

  In 1960, the Centenary Cup, 101,000 of us turned up because Tulloch, the best horse most of us will ever see, was going around. That’s just what he seemed to do: go around. Neville Sellwood took him via Footscray Tech and he flashed home seventh. Hi Jinx, the winner at 50 to 1, came back in silence. I was young and idolised Tulloch. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I have matured a bit since; I think I now understand what happened.

  In 1989, a new prince of trainers arrived: Lee Freedman. People will tell you afterwards they knew their horse would win; Lee told anyone who wanted to listen the Saturday before, after Tawrrific had run in the Mackinnon. Freedman stood watching the bay being cooled down. Each time the horse passed, he would say: ‘I love him, I love him. He’s a toughie, my favourite horse. He can win the Cup.’ On Cup day, Freedman, his collar smudged with lipstick, said quietly: ‘I told you so’. He was, and is, a man with faith in himself.

  In 1976, the year Van Der Hum won in a cloudburst, I stood with my mate Mick from Queensland and watched the field parade. We had a wonderful view because no one else was dumb enough to stand in the rain. After the pneumonia passed, we felt we had matured a lot. In 1985, the two of us again watched the parade and agreed on one thing: What A Nuisance couldn’t win because his coat was too dull. He won, and we matured some more. We felt better when we learned Johnny Meagher had trained the horse from a paddock.

  Bart Cummings had trained nine Cup winners. His finest performance was perhaps Kingston Rule in 1990. With the look of eagles in his eye and copper lights in his coat, Kingston Rule seemed too pretty, too brittle, to be a contender. Bart made him one.

  Kingston Town almost won the Cup in 1982. Tommy Smith, his trainer, and David Hains, his owner, thought he had, then the wrong number went up. The pair came down the steps with the uncomprehending looks of people herded out of a hotel fire at 3 a.m.

  Johnny Letts, who won on Piping Lane in 1972, hadn’t ridden at Flemington before and asked other riders where he should make his run. ‘Go at Chiquita Lodge,’ they told him. Letts assumed Chiquita Lodge to be a ‘30-storey motel’ rather than a single-storey stable block at the 1000-metre post. He never saw it. He decided to go when he saw Roy Higgins send Gunsynd forward. Higgins had gone Chiquita Lodge. It only goes like this in Australia.

  While I never convinced Mort from Chicago, Mick Kinane a few months ago told an English journalist of his ride down the Damascus road: ‘It gets as much hype as the Derby and the Arc put together, and though I never dreamt as a child of winning the race—like I did the Derby—I’d recommend it to anyone.’

  So would I.

  30 October 1994

  GALLOPING HORSES

  C.J. DENNIS

  C.J. Dennis was able to convey the effects of Cup Week on all and sundry. In 1932 he even wrote about the effect of the Spring Carnival obsession on himself and other poets.

  ***

  Oh, this is the week when no rhymster may rhyme

  On the joy of the bush or the ills of the time,

  Nor pour out his soul in delectable rhythm

  Of women and wine and the lure they have with ’em,

  Nor pen philosophic (if foolish) discourses,

  Because of the fury of galloping horses.

  Galloping, galloping thro’ the refrain—

  The lure and the lilt of it beat on the brain.

  Strive as you may for Arcadian Themes,

  The silks and the saddles will weave thro’ your dreams.

  Surging, and urging the visions aside

  For a lyrical lay of equestrian pride,

  For the roar of the race and the call of the courses,

  And galloping, galloping, galloping horses.

  This is the week for the apotheosis

  Of Horse in his glory, from tail to proboscis.

  That curious quadruped, proud and aloof,

  That holds all the land under thrall of his hoof.

  All creeds and conditions, all factions and forces,

  All, all must give way to the galloping horses.

  Galloping, galloping—sinner and saint

  March to the metre, releasing restraint.

  If it isn’t the Cup it’s the Oaks or the Steeple

  That wraps in its magic the minds of the people.

  Whether they seek it for profit or pleasure,

  They all, willy-nilly, must dance to the measure.

  The mood of the moment in all men endorses

  The glamorous game and the galloping horses—

  Galloping horses—jockeys and courses—

  They gallop, we gallop with galloping horses.

  THE TALE OF PETER ST ALBANS

  JIM HAYNES

  Cup folklore includes the tale of the twelve-year-old ‘Aboriginal’ boy named Peter riding Briseis, the first female horse to win, in 1876.

  The story goes that Peter was born on the St Albans Stud property near Geelong to an Aboriginal mother; perhaps he was the son of St Albans’ owner, Jim Wilson Snr, or his son, also Jim. Another version has the boy being left as a baby on the doorstep of the home of one of St Albans’ grooms, Michael Bowden, to be raised by him and his wife.

  As he had no ‘real’ surname, so the story goes, he was given the name of the property and became Peter St Albans, youngest jockey and first Aboriginal rider to win the Cup!

  Unfortunately, this wonderful story, like Archer’s walk to Melbourne with his Aboriginal ‘strapper/jockey’, has more holes in it than a Swiss cheese.

  Two elements of the story are true. He was known as Peter and he was very young, in fact he was only twelve and, oddly enough, this fact explains the whole wonderful concoction.

  Aged only twelve, the boy had ridden Briseis, as a two-year-old, to three victories at Randwick earlier in the year, including an incredible win in the Doncaster Handicap where he rode her at 5 st 7 lb (35 kg). However, the VRC rules did not allow jockeys to ride in the Cup until they were aged thirteen, and Peter was a few days shy of his thirteenth birthday on Cup Day 1876.

  The regular jockey for St Albans’ horses was the legendary Tom Hales, who could not make the Cup weight at 6 st 4 lb (39.5 kg). As Briseis won most of her big races as a two- and three-year-old, she was given very light weights to carry, which meant that a good lightweight jockey was required.

  Few grown men could ride at those weights, but Peter was an excellent rider who knew the horse as a stableboy at St Albans and had ridden her to victory in three races in Sydney. So, cunning old Jim Wilson came up with the ‘cock-and-bull’ story of Peter’s origins to allow him to ride Briseis in the Cup. He argued to the VRC that both the boy’s birth date and parents were unknown, but he was probably older than thirteen.

  ‘Peter St Albans’ was actually born in Geelong on 15 November 1864, and there is a birth certificate to prove it. He was the son of Michael Bowden and his wife and, though christened Michael, he was known as Peter from an early age. There is a painting at the State Library of Victoria by Frederick Woodhouse showing Peter as a youth, looking very white and European, standing alongside Briseis with Tom Hales in the saddle.

  Michael ‘Peter St Albans’ Bowden was a successful jockey for several years around Geelong and also rode successfully interstate until a bad fall
at age nineteen saw him switch to training. He died in 1900 at the age of 35. The Geelong Thoroughbred Club awards the Peter St Albans Trophy each year to the jockey who rides the most winners at the Geelong track.

  CUP MEMORIES

  NAT GOULD

  To chronicle all I have seen on the turf in Australia would fill two or three volumes, so I shall merely give reminiscences and incidents likely to interest the reader.

  Bravo won the Melbourne Cup in 1889 and when I arrived in Melbourne that year one of the first men I met was the late Mr Chapman, a racing journalist who wrote as ‘Augur’ for The Australasian. He was a good fellow and he told me he had backed Bravo at the forlorn odds of a thousand to one.

  It appears some rash bookmaker, more in a spirit of bravado than anything else, had offered to lay a thousand pounds to a sovereign against Bravo and Mr Chapman had stood in with a friend and taken a quarter of the bet and won £250 for his five shillings.

  I was more interested in the fate of a horse called Chicago. He was a good horse and a Caulfield Cup winner; but, somehow, I managed to back him in the wrong race.

  Bravo had been reported as so lame that his starting was regarded as out of the question. A few days before the race Bravo came into the market again and was well backed. The bookmakers who had been taking liberties with him felt uneasy, and a lot of the money they had laid against him at long odds was hedged at a loss.

  The Melbourne Stakes on the Saturday had produced a terrific race between Abercorn, Melos and Carbine, who passed the post in that order. Abercorn on that day was at his best and I never saw him run a better race. At this particular time he was even better than Carbine, but it must not be forgotten that the son of Musket had one of his fore-hoofs tightly bound up due to a cracked heel, and was not at his best.

  After his forward running in the Stakes on the Saturday, Melos was naturally a great favourite for the Cup, as he had a lot less weight to carry, yet Bravo’s Cup win was not such a surprise as many people imagined, for the horse was well backed at twelve to one on the day of the race. He beat Carbine and Melos, who finished in that order.

  Bravo’s win put a good stake in the pocket of his owner, Mr W.T. Jones of Ballarat, a good racing man.

  The next year’s Cup was won by Carbine.

  Carbine was the best racehorse I ever saw during my residence in Australia.

  He won the Champion Stakes, three mile, as a three-year-old, beating Abercorn, who was then a four-year-old, at wfa [weight-for-age]. He won several races that season, including the Sydney Cup, in which he carried nine stone, or within four pounds of Abercorn, who finished third. This race goes far to prove he was a better horse than Abercorn, as he was receiving only four pounds, and giving away a year.

  As a four-year-old he ran second to Bravo in the Melbourne Cup, with ten stone on his back, giving the winner 1 stone 7 pounds. He again won the Sydney Cup, carrying 9 stone 9 pounds and performed the great feat of winning five of the principal races at the AJC Autumn Meeting in four days, including Sydney Cup and four wfa races.

  It was a treat to see the way in which Carbine tackled his opponents. The horse fairly revelled in his work, and his rush at the finish was marvellous. I have never seen a horse of his size cover so much ground in his stride.

  If Carbine was a wonder up to four years old, what shall we say for his five-year-old career, which fairly eclipsed all that he had previously done. He ran eleven times, and was beaten once, when he ought to have won. He won his memorable Melbourne Cup this season.

  When the saddling bell rang before the Cup race there was intense excitement, and Carbine held his position as favourite firm as a rock, and Highborn was at thirty-three to one. Ramage rode Carbine, and Egan, a tiny lad, Highborn. ‘Old Jack’ was fairly mobbed as he was being saddled, but as usual he took no notice of the crowd. When he came onto the track there was a terrific burst of cheering. Carbine stood still and looked round, and then declined to go to the post.

  His trainer, Mr Hickenbotham, gave him a push behind, and Carbine moved a few paces. This was a slow process. At last Ramage threw the reins over the horse’s head, and Mr Hickenbotham fairly dragged him up the course. I never saw a more sluggish horse until he commenced to race, and then there was a different tale to tell. Mr Forrester was very confident Highborn would beat him.

  I shall never forget that race.

  Carbine held a good position throughout, but did not get well to the front until they were in the straight. At the home turn Highborn looked to have a chance second to none, and the hopes of his backers were high. No sooner, however, did Carbine see an opening than he shot through, and after that it was a case of hare and hounds. On came ‘Old Jack’, with his 10 stone 5 pounds, and at the distance he had the race won.

  Cheer after cheer rent the air, and people went almost frantic with excitement. It was a wild scene. For months Carbine had been backed by the public, and at last the suspense was over. It was a glorious victory, and everyone knew it, but none better than Mr Forrester, whose crack Highborn finished a couple of lengths behind him. Not only did Carbine carry 10 stone 5 pounds, but he ran the two miles in 3 minutes 28.5 seconds, the fastest time on record for that distance in the colonies.

  I had special opportunities of learning a good deal more about that race before it came off than most people. Mr William Forrester, of Warwick Farm, had in his stable a horse called Highborn that he had specially kept for this event. Mr Forrester was then, and, I am proud to say, still is, a great friend of mine; and I also knew Mr Hickenbotham, the trainer of Carbine, very well.

  I went to Warwick Farm from Sydney, about an hour’s ride in the train, to have a peep at the horses. Warwick Farm is a snug place, and the house and stables join on to Mr Oatley’s private racecourse. Mr Forrester is brimful of hospitality, and a born gentleman if ever there was one. When we came to Highborn’s box, Mr Forrester said, ‘What do you think of him?’

  I was looking at a lanky, flat-sided common gelding, as black as coal, with a wall eye that made him look wicked. Honestly, I could not say I thought much of him. It was wonderful how he improved upon acquaintance. ‘He’s no beauty,’ I replied, or words to that effect.

  Mr Forrester smiled, and gave me to understand if I did not have a few pounds on ‘the black fellow’ in the Melbourne Cup I should regret it. Knowing ‘the Squire’s’ propensity for practical joking, I thought he was trying it on, but I soon found he was serious. He had specially kept Highborn for this particular race, and when the weights came out with Carbine 10 stone 5 pounds and Highborn 6 stone 8 pounds, there was much joy in the Warwick Farm camp.

  The preparation of both horses went on satisfactorily, but Carbine’s trainer had a lot of trouble with the horse’s feet, and had a very anxious time of it. Mr Forrester and some of his friends were quietly putting money on Highborn at very long odds months before the race. Highborn’s trial was good enough to win with nearer nine stone up than 6 stone 8 pounds, so no wonder they were sanguine. When I reached Melbourne that year for the Cup meeting, I saw Carbine do his winding-up preparations on the track at Flemington. One morning he easily beat his stablemate, Megaphone, for whom Mr Wallace had given two thousand guineas or more after he ran Carbine such a great race at Randwick.

  Meeting Mr Hickenbotham after the gallop, I remarked what a good go it was.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘and weight or no weight, bar accidents, he’ll win the Cup.’

  I had an idea he could go near it, but doubted if he could give 3 stone 11 pounds to a horse like Highborn. About a week before the Melbourne Cup was run, I met Mr Forrester, and he asked me to go up to Oakleigh Park, as they were going to give Highborn a run there. I went, to my sorrow, for Highborn was just beaten by Mr James Redfearn’s Malvolio. I remarked to Mr Forrester, after the race, that a beating like that was not good enough to win a Melbourne Cup.

  ‘Don’t make any mistake,’ was his reply. ‘Malvolio’s Redfearn’s crack three-year-old, and he’ll win the next Melbourne Cup w
ith him.’

  Sure enough his words came true, for I saw Malvolio win it the following year.

  To show how good the performance of Carbine was, I have only to allude to Highborn’s performances afterwards. Highborn won the Australian Cup, the Sydney Cup, and the Anniversary Handicap, and ran fourth in the Melbourne Cup the following year with nine stone up. He was sold to go to India, and when the property of the Maharajah of Cooch Behar he won two Viceroy’s Cups in succession.

  In 1891, Malvolio beat Sir William and Strathmore to win the Cup. His sire was the 1884 Cup winner, Malua, and his dam was Madcap. Malvolio was bred, owned and trained by Mr James Redfearn and ridden to victory by his son.

  There was some trouble about paying over the stakes in the 1891 Cup. Mr Etienne de Mestre put in a claim for them on the grounds that he owned Madcap, the dam of Malvolio, and had merely lent her to Mr Redfearn. This Mr Redfearn denied and I think Mr de Mestre was ill-advised to make the claim he did. Malvolio’s owner got the stakes, and rightly so.

  On the return journey from Melbourne in 1891 we had a fire alarm on the train. Lord Jersey, the Governor, was in a special car behind ours and the attendant roused us and said to me, ‘There’s a fire, sir! You’d better get out!’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ I replied. ‘It’s not time to turn out yet.’

  The attendant has a knack of rousing you up early in order to make the beds in the car. I fancied his fire alarm was a happy inspiration on his part to get me out.

  When I saw the train had stopped and people were hurrying out of the car I felt it was time to make a move. Then a sudden thought occurred to me: I felt I could earn undying fame as a staunch supporter of our great Empire, so I sang out, ‘Save the Governor!’

  An old Scotsman was in the berth over mine, and he growled out, ‘Save the Governor be damned! Where’s me boots?’