Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  Finally we wormed it out of him. There’s a race meeting down south at Jembaicumbene, on a private course Tom and Mr de Mestre have been to before. They’ve taken horses all round the colony: to spring meetings in Sydney and up the Hawkesbury, to Maitland, out Windsor way and Bathurst. Only this time Mr de Mestre isn’t going. He thinks it’ll be good for me to see a meeting.

  Tom has allowed five days to get there and the walking will keep the horses fit and healthy. The road goes inland, partly through the mountains, so it’ll be all up and down and good for their leg muscles—very uneven and rough in places, though. Where the bullock drays have left huge ruts, the rain’s filled them and they’ve turned into muddy potholes. I have to watch Archer all the time so he doesn’t stumble and hurt himself.

  The bush either side of the road is thick and heavy, tangled with vines and the undergrowth barely cut back in some places where the road’s gone through. Now and then we pass huge trees that Barney says have been there for hundreds of years—back when his granny’s granny and even her granny were alive. His granny used to tell him stories about trees like these and the bush all around us.

  While Tom watches the road ahead, Barney and I watch Archer and Moss Rose put one hoof in front of the other, on and on, keeping a steady pace.

  We’ve stopped for a bit to let them drink at a stream and there’s plenty of grass on the banks besides. That’ll help eke out the oats and hay we’ve brought for them.

  This meeting won’t be a big one like Randwick, but there’ll be horses from all the surrounding districts, Tom says. I’ve got to stop now, we’re moving on again.

  Later

  Every now and then Moss Rose turns and looks around as if something’s about to jump out at her. Tom says she’s always doing that. Horses can scare easily and anything can rattle them—the wind rippling through weeds, a rabbit scuttling past and you see the whites of their eyes. Tom says last year a brindle dog ran out of a paddock onto the road near Terara and a horse shied. The rider bent to hit out at it, but lost his balance, fell and was killed outright.

  I know we won’t see a dog out here, but the thought’s got me holding Archy’s lead tightly. Next thing, Tom says we need to watch out for snakes. It’s the season and they sometimes sun themselves on the road. So now I’m really on the lookout!

  Dinner’s only long enough to grab some cold mutton and damper and give the horses a feed of oats. We’re in a paddock, feeling the sun warm our backs after the shady road through the forest and I’m still looking round for snakes.

  Tom tells me more about the little things that can get to the horses: sun in their eyes blinding them; seeing their shadow on the ground. But all you do is turn them round and make sure their backs are to the sun and they’re fine.

  We take to the road again and I’m walking Archer steadily. We’ll miss the first day’s racing, but should arrive on Thursday evening to race them Friday and Saturday. That’ll be enough, with all the walking they’ve done.

  Up each hill, down the other side and up again. The bush thick with ironbarks and wattles, box trees, so many gums you wouldn’t think they could be packed in so close. It seems like they’re all stuck together—till you look and see the clumps of leaves, soft like green fingers. Slowly the sun starts to sink, the shadows grow long and scary and a chill sets in around us.

  We’ve stopped now for the night and it’s getting too dark to see. I hope there aren’t any snakes out tonight, but Tom says they’ll keep well away from us. I hope he’s right.

  Monday 28th January

  No time to write today. Even the stops have been shorter—much to Archy’s annoyance—and now we’re about to spend the night well off the road and out of sight, in case anyone passes. A bushranger, for instance. Our supplies are low, but Tom’ll find us a homestead tomorrow night and with any luck we’ll get to camp in the farmer’s paddock.

  Tuesday 29th January

  Having eaten the last of the apples, we set out soon after sunrise. I had to share mine with Archy because he stared at it longingly. Then my stomach started to rumble out loud, but Tom kept telling me about the de Mestres and that took my mind off it.

  The family started off growing corn and had the Aborigines pick it and harvest their wheat, too, till it got rust. Then they tried dairy farming and that was more successful. Mr de Mestre was in his twenties when he set up as a trainer. So, in less than ten years he’s built stables, a stud farm, a racetrack, and a good reputation.

  I could never have all that by the time I’m his age, but it doesn’t matter because all Barney and me want is to be jockeys.

  We went on long past dinner. Then Barney let out a yell. He’d found some berries a little way back from the road and went charging in after them, saying he knew they were good to eat. Tom let us stop to pick them, and we stripped the bush, while Archy and Moss Rose helped themselves to any that had fallen.

  By mid-afternoon, Tom was looking out for a property he knew was nearby, where he felt sure we could spend the night, and it wasn’t long before we came to a gate. He opened it and marched in, with us straggling behind. The horses kept going along the drive, while he went up to the house to ask.

  He came back soon after and said the farmer was happy to let us camp. The farmer’s wife sent us some bread and cheese for supper and a bottle of pickles to go with them—as well as homemade ginger beer for Tom and fresh lemonade for us.

  Before settling down for the night, Tom had us ride the horses round the paddock to warm them up a bit. Then we rubbed them down and threw the blankets over them. The blankets are dark and hard to see at night, so he half-hobbled the horses to stop them wandering off.

  The lead he tied to a log near his foot, then round his boot. That way if any bushrangers tried to steal them he said they’d have to drag him along, too. The paddock’s a good way in from the road, so any bushrangers would have trouble finding us. And Tom hasn’t brought his tin whistle, so we won’t be giving them any help.

  We sat looking up at the stars. Tom says that long before anyone can remember, people tried to make sense of the stars by saying they looked like animals. He reckons one group’s shaped like a half-man, half-horse with a bow and arrow, but Barney and me can’t see anything like that.

  Tom’s got a lantern the farmer gave him, but turned it down so low, on account of the bushrangers, that I can’t see to write. The sky’s as black as mourning and all the stars clear and twinkling, but no matter how hard I look I still can’t see that half-man he’s talking about.

  Wednesday 30th January

  We’re up soon as we see smoke coming from the homestead chimney and Tom sends us up to the door to return the bottles. I let Archy and Moss Rose loose to graze freely. The farmer’s wife gives us bread, bacon and a billy of tea for breakfast, so we thank her and take them back with us. The farmer lets us have some hay for the horses.

  Later

  Tonight we’re in the bush a little way off the road. There don’t seem to be any other farms about. But the farmer’s wife packed us some cake and apples and cheese, so we didn’t do too badly for tucker and the horses have found some grass.

  Thursday 31st January

  During the night I woke to hear horses passing and for a moment I was scared that they were ours that had wandered off. Then I realised I must have been hearing about six of them. The road wasn’t bad there, but whoever it was couldn’t have been up to much good. It was a long way out. I woke Barney gently and he put a hand over Tom’s mouth, so he didn’t shout out and give us away.

  He knew straightaway what was up and sat hoping our horses wouldn’t decide to snort or whinny. But they were good: didn’t make a sound. Maybe they sensed our fears somehow.

  Gradually the hoof-beats faded away and Barney whispered that it might have been that gang Mr de Mestre had mentioned.

  ‘Who? Keene, Watson and Lawler?’ I asked.

  ‘No, they’re further west,’ said Tom. ‘Round Billabong way. But that’s not to say it’s not
some other gang.’

  We lay down again, but I don’t think any of us slept much the rest of the night. For most of today we’ve been trudging along, tired and cranky, so we were glad when we reached the racetrack.

  Later

  There’s nothing ‘grand’ about it: it’s more of a training track, circular, about a mile round, with the ground beside it flat, where local innkeepers have set up tents for refreshments.

  Tom says it’s always like this—a bit of a carnival. Archy knows what to expect. He could probably find his own way to most racecourses now if he had to.

  Makeshift stalls are set up for the horses, big enough to keep them and their strappers dry, and we settle in. Now the horses are fed and happy and so are we. Barney says the property owners make sure that everyone’s fed.

  We’ve been given a couple of candles to see by, but the light’s too dim for writing. As well, there’s a flock of noisy galahs squawking their heads off in the trees above and I can hardly think, so I’ll stop here.

  Friday 1st February

  First up this morning Barney’s getting ready to ride Moss Rose, when out of his kitbag Tom takes Mr de Mestre’s silks—all-black jacket and cap—and hands them to him. Soon as Barney puts them on he looks like a real jockey. Even tips crop to cap at Tom in salute. Tom tells him if Moss Rose is nervous he should stop her taking off too soon. Then he nods and Barney takes Moss Rose out on the track and lines her up—or not so much lines her up as circles round. You can’t make these horses stand in line if they’re not of a mind to. So they mill about waiting. Moss Rose is getting a bit twitchy. She has a lovely nature, but can get nervous and Barney’s having trouble holding her.

  The winning post is a way off and it’s just a sapling with a flag on top. A couple of bullock drays lashed together make a stewards’ platform. Then there’s the crowd of farmers and their wives dressed for market, station hands in leggings and boots straight off the farm, bushies in cabbage-tree hats—even a bushranger, maybe, come to watch the horses, but I wouldn’t know. Maybe they dress like bushies so as not to be noticed.

  One of the local farmers is appointed starter and raises the flag. A hush falls on the crowd, but a lone cockatoo flies off screeching. The flag drops and Moss Rose bursts forward to take the lead.

  ‘Too soon.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘He should’ve held her back longer.’

  Six of them settle into stride as they move round bunched up into the back straight. We can’t see Moss Rose for trees in the way. Then they turn into the home stretch, racing for the winning post, and I’m yelling, ‘Horse and man, Barney!’ He waves his crop and surges ahead. Then at the last second a horse comes from the back of the field somehow and beats her by a short half-head and it’s all over.

  I don’t know what to say so I give him a quick hug, but Barney doesn’t seem to mind too much losing. I would. He tells Tom Moss Rose seemed nervous but he couldn’t work out why. Next up, he’s riding Archer and I can’t see why he’s the one who gets to ride him, but I don’t say anything. Maybe Tom doesn’t think I’m ready yet.

  Anyway, this time Barney manages to hold the lead just long enough to come home first.

  Afterwards he tells Tom Archy didn’t like that turn any more than Moss Rose, because it’s a bit sharp, but they’ll be used to it by tomorrow. And Tom says maybe both of them are tired after all the walking and we should have started out a day or two earlier to get them used to the course.

  The meeting goes on for the rest of the day, with the horses resting in between races. It must be hard for them, having to race twice or more in the same meeting. Though not as hard as life for those horses on that Burke’s expedition.

  Tom plans to ride tomorrow and says he wants to see what it was that made Moss Rose nervous, and he’ll let me ride too, if I feel I can. Of course I can, since it’s Archy I’ll be riding, and I need the practice if I’m going to be a jockey.

  But for now we’ve hit the sack and Tom’s ready to blow out the candles. I’ll try to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.

  Saturday 2nd February

  Up early and not yet light enough for us to walk them round the course, but during the morning we leg Tom up on Moss Rose. He’s wearing black silks, too, only bigger than the ones I have to share with Barney. I watch him wait for the red flag to drop, then he takes off. It looks like a three-quarter gallop, but he builds it all the while till he races for home, with the others starting to catch him, and the dust kicking up behind. He passes the winning post with almost half a length to spare. Tom’s really pleased and pats Moss Rose’s neck and says, ‘Good girl.’

  There’s horse droppings along the track now that make it soft in places and Tom tells me to watch out.

  After lunch it’s my turn on Archer. I feel like a real toff in silks, but my legs are wobbling like jelly. Tom and Barney make it look so easy, but Moss Rose isn’t the big horse Archy is and it’s a long way to the ground. Since it’s my first real race, I’m scared.

  Tom says calmly, ‘You can do this, Robby. You know you can.’ But all I can think of is not falling off and disgracing him—forget about winning!

  Then we’re off and it’s twice round. I take him out strongly, but don’t build him up too soon. Down the first straight. Turn. Onto the next. So far so good. Into the back straight and I start to push him up to full gallop and hold him hard, hoping he’s still got something left for me. And before I know it, he’s over the line and Archy wins by a length and a half. Suddenly I hear Barney shouting, ‘Robby! Robby!’ and turn to see him jumping up and down at the fence.

  As I bring Archy back, Tom says, ‘See? What did I tell you? You had it in the bag.’

  I slip down and give Archy the biggest hug, because I know he won for me. Then we walk back to the stall and I rub him down and give him a good feed, because he’s earned it.

  Once the races are finished for the day, Tom sends us off to get supper and we bring back bread and sausages, for him too. Then while it’s still light enough, I write up my diary. But there’s so much noise coming from round the pub tents that Barney and I want to head off and watch the crowds. Tom says we’ll do nothing of the sort: we’ll stay right where we are. We tell him it’s too noisy to sleep, but he says we can still try and he blows out the candles.

  Barney and I have other ideas, though. Tom told us on the way down there’ll be a ball on the last night when all the ladies dress up. There’ll be music and Chinese lanterns strung out in a big barn and Barney and me are determined to go, but Tom’s sounding gruff. He says he came to see the races not to go gallivanting around. Besides, he didn’t bring his top hat and frock coat, so he can’t go. But we know he doesn’t have either. He’s only saying that because he won’t let the horses out of his sight and he beds down early of a night to be near them.

  Anyway, we pester and pester him: we tell him lots of strappers and stablehands our age or thereabouts are going. Please, can’t we?

  Tom has this funny way of thrumming his fingers on his bottom lip when he’s thinking. It makes a little bloop-bloop-de-bloop noise. So we can hear this in the dark. Then he says, ‘Oh, all right. Off with you, then.’ But he makes us promise not to go anywhere near the innkeepers’ tents and to be back sharp by 9 o’clock.

  We promise and race for the barn to stand in the doorway and watch the fun. All the farmers and horse owners are there, decked out in fancy clobber and their wives dolled up a treat. They’re doing jigs and reels and the like to a bush band—a fiddle, flute and piano that even has us tapping our feet.

  Then, suddenly, one of the farmers, a bit red in the face since we saw him hanging round the innkeepers’ tents after the last race, takes a tumble in Strip the Willow. Upends his wife as he hits the dirt and she falls in a heap on top of him. Everyone rushes forward to help them while the band stops playing.

  It’s several minutes before the wife is dusted off and helped to a chair and the other wives fan her. The farmer’s pulled to his feet but still unsteady and sh
e’s so cross now she won’t even speak to him but I’m sure he’ll hear plenty about it later.

  They look so funny, all hot and bothered and crumpled, that Barney and me can’t help but laugh and have to go outside so they don’t see us.

  Then we see some of the strappers leaving the barn to go back to their horses and we ask the time. The man takes out a fob watch and says it’s just gone 9—and then how we move! We don’t want to be in Tom’s bad books so we race off, panting all the way back to the stalls. Tom’s already wrapped in his blanket, and growling at us. He says he was just getting ready to send out blacktrackers after us. At that Barney starts laughing, like he can’t stop, slapping his sides at the thought of blacktrackers out looking for him. But Tom’s not really angry with us and before long he’s sound asleep, snoring, same as usual. And now that I’ve written up my diary, I won’t be far behind.

  Sunday 3rd February

  We set out at dawn this morning with two bags of oats for the horses and the food Tom’s bought to see us back to Terara. We’ve kept up a steady pace all day today so as not to tire the horses too much. They’ve done their bit. Moss Rose is taking the hills slower, but Archer’s still striding up ahead. This time we know where to find patches of grass for them so we can stop every so often to give them a break. Tonight we’re sleeping off the road again and will do every night till we get back.

  Thursday 7th February

  We reached Terara at sunset in time to give both horses a sponge-down. Meanwhile, Danny tells us there’s been a farrier working here since yesterday and Barney says that’ll be Frank Riley, he comes round regular to check on the horses. He doesn’t just trim their hooves and fit new shoes, but makes sure their feet are sound and their shoes fit properly. He’s finished for today, Danny says, but tomorrow I’ll watch him work and write down what I learn from him.