by Jim Haynes
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called the ‘take-you-down brigade’.
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure
The last time round he’d sail away with such a swallow’s flight
The rest would never see him go—he’d finish out of sight.
So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race ‘the Dude-in-Danger Cup’.
The horse was known as ‘Who’s Afraid’, by Panic from The Fright
But still his owners told the jock he’d finish out of sight.
And so he did; for Who’s Afraid, without the least pretence,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right,
For he was in the ambulance, and safely ‘out of sight’.
STEEPLECHASING
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
Of all the ways in which men get a living there is none so hard and so precarious as that of steeplechase riding in Australia. It is bad enough in England, where steeplechases only take place in winter, when the ground is soft, where the horses are properly schooled before being raced, and where most of the obstacles will yield a little if struck and give the horse a chance to blunder over safely.
In Australia the men have to go at racing-speed, on very hard ground, over the most rigid and uncompromising obstacles, ironbark rails clamped into solid posts with bands of iron. No wonder they are always coming to grief, and are always in and out of hospital in splints and bandages. Sometimes one reads that a horse has fallen and the rider has ‘escaped with a severe shaking’.
That ‘shaking’, gentle reader, would lay you or me up for weeks, with a doctor to look after us and a crowd of sympathetic friends calling to know how our poor back was. But the steeplechase rider has to be out and about again, ‘riding exercise’ every morning, and ‘schooling’ all sorts of cantankerous brutes over the fences. These men take their lives in their hands and look at grim death between their horses’ ears every time they race or ‘school’.
The death record among Australian cross-country jockeys and horses is very great; it is a curious instance of how custom sanctifies all things, that such horse-and-man slaughter is accepted in such a callous way. If any theatre gave a show at which men and horses were habitually crippled or killed in full sight of the audience, the manager would be put on his trial for manslaughter.
Our racetracks use up their yearly average of horses and men without attracting remark. One would suppose that the risk being so great the profits were enormous; but they are not. In ‘the game’ as played on our racecourses there is just a bare living for a good capable horseman while he lasts, with the certainty of an ugly smash if he keeps at it long enough.
And they don’t need to keep at it very long. After a few good ‘shakings’ they begin to take a nip or two to put heart into them before they go out, and after a while they have to increase the dose. At last they cannot ride at all without a regular cargo of alcohol on board, and are either ‘half muzzy’ or shaky according as they have taken too much or too little.
Then the game becomes suicidal; it is an axiom that as soon as a man begins to funk he begins to fall. The reason is that a rider who has lost his nerve is afraid of his horse making a mistake, and takes a pull, or urges him onward, just at the crucial moment when the horse is rattling up to his fence and judging his distance. That little, nervous pull at his head or that little touch of the spur, takes his attention from the fence, with the result that he makes his spring a foot too far off or a foot too close in, and . . . smash!
The loafers who hang about the big fences rush up to see if the jockey is killed or stunned; if he is, they dispose of any jewellery he may have about him; they have been known almost to tear a finger off in their endeavours to secure a ring. The ambulance clatters up at a canter, the poor rider is pushed in out of sight, and the ladies in the stand say how unlucky they are, that brute of a horse falling after they backed him.
A wolfish-eyed man in the Leger stand shouts to a wolfish-eyed pal, ‘Bill, I believe that jock was killed when the chestnut fell,’ and Bill replies, ‘Yes, damn him, I had five bob on him.’ And the rider, gasping like a crushed chicken, is carried into the casualty room and laid on a little stretcher, while outside the window the bookmakers are roaring ‘Four to one bar one,’ and the racing is going on merrily as ever.
TOMMY CORRIGAN
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
Tommy Corrigan died of his injuries several hours after falling while riding a horse called Waiter in the Caulfield Grand National Steeple on 11 August 1894. He had a remarkable record of 235 wins from 794 rides, including the 1881 Grand National Hurdle, the 1881, 1885 and 1886 Grand National Steeple, the 1882 and 1889 Caulfield Grand National Steeple, and the 1875, 1876, 1879 and 1882 Grand Annual Steeple.
***
You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace,
Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase.
It’s right enough, while horses pull and take their fences strong,
To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along;
But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat,
When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet.
When any slip means sudden death, with wife and child to keep,
It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap,
But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed,
He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid;
With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face,
He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race.
He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash,
He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash;
He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all,
But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall.
You should have heard the cheers, my boys, that shook the members’ stand
Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand.
They were, indeed, a glorious pair, the great upstanding horse,
The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course.
Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall,
‘You follow Tommy Corrigan’ was passed to one and all.
And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command
To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand.
But now we’ll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go;
We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow.
We’ll drink to him in silence, boys, he’s followed down the track
Where many a good man went before, but never one came back.
And, let us hope, in that far land where the shades of brave men reign,
The gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again.
OAKBANK
JIM HAYNES
If it’s unique atmosphere you’re after, an event where the experience outweighs the result, may I suggest an Easter visit to Oakbank, in the Adelaide Hills, for the Great Eastern Steeplechase.
You won’t be lonely if you visit Oakbank at Easter; about 50,000 others usually do the same thing.
Many camp for the entire weekend or longer at various vantage points around the track. Others make the day trip to the track and fill the lovely old stands and lawns of the picturesque course.
This event combines the elements of a rural show, fairground, picnic race day and family camping trip into one glorious weekend of fun. Oh yes, and there are horse races too. In fact, th
ere are several horse races that are a real blast from the past. At Oakbank you get a glimpse of a bygone age when real horses raced over proper fences in the type of races that Adam Lindsay Gordon wrote about and rode in.
Australian steeplechasers are not as valued and followed and well known to the racing public as their English and Irish counterparts, who have the whole winter racing season to themselves. Still, you can’t doubt the courage and character of horses that run in a race like the Great Eastern. These are horses to be admired and remembered.
Australian steeplechasers are often tough old stayers, failures and rejects from flat racing with more endurance in their legs than speed. After a few often less-than-memorable seasons racing on the flat, some have the strength, disposition and character to train on for a jumping career. Without this option, these horses would not have a future. Other horses just love to jump and are born to hurdle and steeplechase.
In those states that still stage jumps races in Australia (the southern states of Victoria, Tasmania and South Australia), hurdles and steeplechases are seen by many as a winter sideshow to each race day, with one or two jumping races on each program through the colder, wetter months.
The Great Eastern is no sideshow to a race day, although the centre of the course is itself a sideshow alley with rides, carnival attractions and fairy floss for kids of all ages. The Great Eastern is the centrepiece of the whole weekend, the reason we’re all there.
The Von Doussa Steeple on Easter Saturday and the Great Eastern on Easter Monday are classic races of a kind now almost gone from the calendar. The course at Oakbank is so long and undulating that two race-callers are required to view the whole racetrack and call the races using a tag-team system.
Here is a memory of the 1973 event, in which the local hero was a black horse called The Cent and the Victorian interloper was a tough grey horse, almost white in fact, called Mystic Moon. He was trained by Yarra Glen trainer Stan Craddock, whose son John trained Trei Gnaree to win the VRC Grand National seventeen years later.
For most of the crowd it really was a case of black and white that year. South Australians don’t take kindly to Victorian ‘raiders’ and The Cent was favourite both in the ring and in the hearts of the majority.
Mystic Moon had won important races in Victoria and, according to many locals, should have stayed there and won some more instead of spoiling a good weekend for South Australian horses.
Now, the Great Eastern, like the Grand National, is not for the faint-hearted.
Horses in the Great Eastern actually pass the winning post three times in their 5-kilometre trip. So imagine the exhilaration and excitement that gripped the crowd that day in 1973 when the black horse and the grey horse came neck-and-neck down the straight the third time.
The horses jump a fallen log on a rise above the grandstand area and then race down a long sweeping hill to the straight and the winning post.
Over the fallen log they came, the brave grey and the big local jet-black horse.
Down the hill and along the straight they fought side by side. The roar of the crowd was deafening in the shallow valley where the grandstands, lawn and finish are situated. The tiring horses bumped and fought all the way to the post. The roar of the crowd told you The Cent had won before the judge’s cursory glance at the photo confirmed the decision, a short neck.
The local horse was welcomed back with rapturous applause and rousing cheers, but the protest flag was soon flying and it took stewards a long time to dismiss the Victorian protest.
As a New South Welshman and a man who has never managed to back a horse that finished a Great Eastern, let alone won one, I was a truly neutral observer. And I must admit I felt rather sorry for the gallant grey that tried so hard so far from home with so few friends.
South Australians are a loyal lot, and they never forgot the big black horse that defeated the Victorian champ. When The Cent died years later they buried him near the winning post at Oakbank, and 50,000 people visit his grave every Easter.
RIO GRANDE
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
Now this was what Macpherson told
While waiting in the stand;
A reckless rider, over-bold,
The only man with hands to hold
The rushing Rio Grande.
He said, ‘This day I bid goodbye
To bit and bridle rein,
To ditches deep and fences high,
For I have dreamed a dream, and I
Shall never ride again.
‘I dreamed last night I rode this race
That I today must ride,
And cantering down to take my place
I saw full many an old friend’s face
Come stealing to my side.
‘Dead men on horses long since dead,
They clustered on the track;
The champions of the days long fled,
They moved around with noiseless tread—
Bay, chestnut, brown, and black.
‘And one man on a big grey steed
Rode up and waved his hand;
Said he, “We help a friend in need,
And we have come to give a lead
To you and Rio Grande.
‘“For you must give the field the slip;
So never draw the rein,
But keep him moving with the whip,
And, if he falter, set your lip
And rouse him up again.
‘“But when you reach the big stone wall
Put down your bridle-hand
And let him sail—he cannot fall,
But don’t you interfere at all;
You trust old Rio Grande.”’
‘We started, and in front we showed,
The big horse running free:
Right fearlessly and game he strode,
And by my side those dead men rode
Whom no one else could see.
‘As silently as flies a bird,
They rode on either hand;
At every fence I plainly heard
The phantom leader give the word,
“Make room for Rio Grande!”
‘I spurred him on to get the lead,
And I chanced full many a fall;
But swifter still each phantom steed
Kept with me, and at racing-speed
We reached the big stone wall.
‘And there the phantoms on each side
Drew in and blocked his leap;
“Make room! Make room!” I loudly cried,
But right in front they seemed to ride—
I cursed them in my sleep.
‘He never flinched, he faced it game,
He struck it with his chest,
And every stone burst out in flame—
And Rio Grande and I became
Phantoms among the rest.
‘And then I woke, and for a space
All nerveless did I seem;
For I have ridden many a race
But never one at such a pace
As in that fearful dream.
‘And I am sure as man can be
That out upon the track
Those phantoms that men cannot see
Are waiting now to ride with me;
And I shall not come back.
‘For I must ride the dead men’s race,
And follow their command;
’Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace
If I should fear to take my place
Today on Rio Grande.’
He mounted, and a jest he threw,
With never sign of gloom;
But all who heard the story knew
That Jack Macpherson, brave and true,
Was going to his doom.
They started, and the big black steed
Came flashing past the stand;
All single-handed in the lead
He strode along at racing-speed,
The mighty Rio Grande.
But on his ribs the whalebone stung—
A madness, sure, it seemed—
And soon it rose on every tongue
That Jack Macpherson rode among
The creatures he had dreamed.
He looked to left, and looked to right,
As though men rode beside;
And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white,
Raced at his jumps in headlong flight
And cleared them in his stride.
But when they reached the big stone wall,
Down went the bridle-hand,
And loud we heard Macpherson call
‘Make room, or half the field will fall!
Make room for Rio Grande!’
‘He’s down! He’s down!’ And horse and man
Lay quiet side by side!
No need the pallid face to scan,
We knew with Rio Grande he ran
The race the dead men ride.
INTRODUCTION—THE AGE OF GREAT STAYERS
If Australian racing has a ‘golden age’ most people would say it was either the 1920s, or the 1950s and 1960s. Though some would argue that colonial days were the great age of racing, with horses like The Barb and Carbine and trainers such as John Tait and Etienne de Mestre around.
However, because we all tend to fall into the trap of thinking our time is the best, I have decided to resist the temptation to say that my lifetime was the best era in Aussie racing history. Instead, I will try to remind readers that there were great horses and great times for racing before we were born, in other words, beyond living memory.
The period covered here is really the dawn of what we might call ‘modern racing’. If today’s racegoers were transported back to Flemington, Doomben, Morphettville or Randwick in 1920, we would find it old-fashioned, sure, but very familiar. A hundred years ago, racing was pretty much as we know it now: the saddlecloths and silks, racing styles and distances, rules and regulations, tote and bookmakers, etc., remain more or less unchanged.
True, in the early days races were started with the horses lined up behind a wire barrier that lifted (starting stalls came in the 1950s), and there were four enclosures for the spectators—the Members, Paddock, Leger and Flat—and every one of them was packed because there was no off-course legal betting. All the same, racing was pretty much as it is today, generally, and it was an age of mighty champions.