Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  I’m so pleased with it, I’ve decided to give it to Ma on Friday when I go home. It’s my last chance to see them before we leave for Melbourne and I want her and all of them to know what Archy looks like, so they can think of him while the race is on. Then they’ll be able to keep their fingers crossed for him to win.

  Friday 30th August

  I went home today and had to explain to Pa about not having all my pay this time, on account of Mr de Mestre said I need new clothes. But Pa didn’t seem worried and Ma says the biscuit tin’s getting quite fat.

  And Ma was thrilled with my picture of Archy. I forgot it was her birthday last month and I hadn’t got her a present, but she thinks my picture’s her present so I haven’t let on.

  Hetty’s had some good news, too. One of the ladies Ma wrote to says that they’re expecting an addition to their family in January—which Ma says means she’s having a baby, but don’t like to say so out loud—and they want Hetty to live in and help care for it. Hetty couldn’t be more delighted. It’s what she wanted and she was all smiles when she told me. And she says if Pa insists on my coming back home to live, she’ll put in a good word for me.

  Saturday 31st August

  It was Tom dropped me off yesterday and it was George who picked me up today.

  On the way back he says he’s quite jealous not to be coming to Melbourne with us, but somebody has to mind the stables. He’s been to dozens of other race meetings, but he has a feeling in his bones that this is no ordinary race. It’s going to turn out special. I tell him it will be special if Archer wins, and he laughs.

  Then tonight Mr de Mestre gives Barney and me our Melbourne clothes. New moleskins—two pairs, the right length, too, and three shirts apiece, plain and striped. A short jacket for each of us like a Jack Tar’s and a hat—not crumpled and rained on or trodden on by Archy, as he’s done with my old one. Pale straw, and very smart with it. I’ve left one set out for wearing and packed the rest in my kitbag.

  Monday 2nd September

  We leave for Sydney this morning. No time to write now. We’ll rest the horses for a bit at Halfway House before heading for Melbourne. Barney and me don’t talk of anything else but the Cup.

  Wednesday 4th September

  We’ve been settled in the hotel’s stables since yesterday and we took the horses to the park this morning. Five times round we rode them, since it’s not as big as our course at Terara. Took them again this afternoon when people were out and about in the park, all smiles and aren’t-they-beautiful and that—meaning the horses—the ladies wanting us to hold their heads still, so they could pat them. You could see Archy loving every minute. He’s a great one for crowds. And Inheritor, with Barney holding him, seemed to enjoy himself, too.

  Then this evening Mr de Mestre says he has something to tell me and I’m worried, thinking it must be bad news from home, but it isn’t. It’s that Mr Dickens had a new book out in July. It’s called Great Expectations and it’s about a convict who comes to Australia. He says he plans to buy a copy in Melbourne and asks whether I’d like one to take home to Ma. I tell him yes—only it’ll have to come out of my pay, and that means less for Pa’s deposit.

  Saturday 7th September

  Our names were in the paper today—at least the horses’ were. Bell’s Life in Sydney said, ‘We believe that Mr de Mestre’s team of three, Archer, Exeter and Inheritor, will be here in Sydney on Monday on their way to Melbourne. The first named appears quite the fancy of the Sydney “talent for the Melbourne Cup”.’

  It doesn’t matter that we don’t get a mention. Tom says we’re a team and Mr de Mestre can’t manage without us. Good thing Bell’s didn’t say we’ve been in Sydney almost a week now. We don’t want everyone knowing how or where we train the horses, especially since there could be Melbourne spies about.

  Saturday 14th September

  Today was the last day of the Randwick Spring Meeting. None of ours have raced this time, but that didn’t stop Mr de Mestre going. He likes to see what horses are running so he knows whether they’re as good as ours. Then tonight he went off dining with his racing friends and Tom did evening inspection. Just as well, too. Mr de Mestre might have muddied his trouser hems.

  Wednesday 18th September

  We left the city early this morning and walked the horses down Macquarie Street to board the City of Sydney. Barney and me were wound up tight as springs and Tom had to tell us to take it slow, or we’d snap. We passed the brick barracks with the big clock over the door and St James’s Church on the left. Then past the Mint and the Rum Hospital, on past Parliament House. All in a row they are, all pale honey-coloured stone. The street is wide, broad enough for any number of carriages going up and down it. Then came the grand terraces, three and four storeys high, and the Botanic Gardens, till we reached Bridge Street, where we turned left and walked the horses down to Pitt. From there it’s all higgledy-piggledy to Circular Quay, where passengers were making ready to board their vessels.

  The ships seemed huge compared with the Illawarra steamships we’re used to. There was row after row of them with masts like a forest of trees stripped bare. When we came to ours it had one black funnel, two smaller ones and a crest with a golden anchor, a crown and star. As soon as I saw that star I said to Tom, ‘It’s another sign.’

  ‘You and your signs, Robby,’ he said. ‘You’d find signs in anything.’ But I’m sure it’s a sign.

  Mr de Mestre and the jockeys were waiting for us. They’d caught the steam tram down Pitt Street and a crowd of his racing friends was there to see us off. Archer’s won seven races in a row now, so he’s mighty popular. But we couldn’t stop, we had to set to and help Tom. He was busy strapping the horses’ ankles with standing bandages to protect them on the trip. Then we had to get the first of them into the sling. It’s two thick leather straps that hold them under the thighs and shoulders. There are four strong chains attached on the near and offside, to hold them while they’re swung up high over the deck.

  Inheritor was first to be lifted and looked far from comfortable. So Mr de Mestre stopped them and asked that a sailcloth be added to give more support. He was worried the straps might cut into the horses. Captain Moodie was most obliging. He said anything to help, that he was as keen as the next fellow to see the horses do well in Melbourne.

  Inheritor whinnied a bit, but wasn’t hurt. Finally he was lowered into the hold. Then it was Archy’s turn. He gave a big snort at being dangled in mid-air, with everyone peering up at him. But Exeter was the worst, he seemed scared they’d drop him. He kept rolling his eyes and squirming as he was swung over the wharf till finally he was lowered into the hold.

  Barney had gone below to see them safely landed and taken off the sling each time. Then I joined him and we backed them into the stalls. The stalls aren’t big, but they’ve plenty of clean straw.

  When Tom came on board he said, ‘If we hit bad weather they could be thrown against the sides and hurt themselves. So two of us have to be down here all the time. Right?’ So we’ll take it in turns to go for meals.

  Since we were Steerage passengers we had to eat and sleep between decks. The horses were below the waterline with no portholes and it was stuffy. Dark, too. There were only two lanterns strung up on the bulkhead. This really was Straw Class.

  When it came dinnertime I told Tom I was really hungry, so he let me go to first sitting. Steerage turned out to be one big room with benches and tables in front of the berths. Then after I’d been, Barney went and now that Tom’s been and come back I’ll have to stop here.

  Thursday 19th September

  Once we were out through the Heads I could feel that first big rise as we hit the ocean swell. It felt like we were going up and over and my stomach along with it. Things started to slide across the mess table at breakfast and when you tried to stand, nothing felt firm underfoot anymore. I said to myself, ‘It’s not going to happen again. Just don’t think about it. I’m churned up and excited—that’s all.’ I even to
ld myself that Barney was feeling the same but he wasn’t.

  Then I went below, while he went up to eat and Tom after him. The horses were moving with the ship, shifting their legs each time she gave a roll.

  In the hold the first thing you noticed was the noise. It was nigh on deafening. The pounding screws. The deep rumble of engines. Then she rolled and I gripped the stall just as Tom climbed back down and said we were doing a steady twelve knots, and there was a moderate breeze pushing us along. ‘Captain Moodie’s using both engines with only a bit of canvas to catch the wind,’ he said. ‘So it’s full steam ahead, sighting the coast all the way and a smooth sea.’

  ‘You call this smooth?’ I groaned and he laughed and said this was only enough to sort the sailors from the landlubbers.

  I kept telling myself I mustn’t let Mr de Mestre down, not again. Then I remembered he was in First Class, so maybe the ship rolls more down here. Then suddenly there was this smell of fouled straw from Archy and I had to race up on deck for air.

  By late afternoon it was worse, with bad weather setting in and a storm brewing. The sky darkened till a sudden flash lit it up, followed by a clap of thunder so loud it even drowned out the engines. The ship rose like a buggy going over a hillock and I started thinking about all those wrecks below. Maybe we wouldn’t even make it to Melbourne.

  I was on deck, clinging to the rail and trying to look out, not down, when the ship dipped suddenly and a wave washed fair over my feet. It was a wall of water, big and grey, and what if I was washed overboard! Who’d tell Ma?

  Holding onto the sides, I dragged myself back down the companionway, willing my stomach to stay down while she kept rolling from side to side like a horse in sand. Archy and the others knew something was up. They were skittish. And Tom didn’t help by saying full sailing ships rolled far worse than this. Barney was wedged in between Exeter and the side of his stall, to stop him hitting it.

  Tom had Archy and Inheritor out of their stalls and he was holding their leads to help them balance. ‘Here—hold Archer!’ he yelled at me, but it was all I could do to stand. My head was spinning; so was the deck. Round and round and …

  I wished I hadn’t had pickled pork and greasy potatoes for dinner, because it felt like they were coming straight back up again. All I wanted was for the ship to stop moving and for me to die here on the deck.

  ‘Aw, Robby! Couldn’t you make it to the bucket?’ yelled Tom and even Archy gave me a cross look. It was his straw I’d been sick on. But I could have killed Barney. He started to laugh, and soon he was laughing, fit to burst, till finally he spluttered, ‘If I’m black, you’re green!’

  Now it’s night, and after supper. Eventually, the storm passed and I started to feel better—well, enough to bring this up to date. But all I want now is sleep.

  Friday 20th September

  I still felt a bit strange this morning, but the deck wasn’t coming up to meet me and my stomach stayed put.

  Then Tom started teasing. ‘What was it you said about horses being seasick? They were fine,’ he said and I felt all hot in the face. He added that next time he’d fetch me a pannikin of seawater—that’d fix me—I hoped he was joking. We’d lost time, but not too much, he said, and we were sure to pick up speed with a good wind behind us.

  We passed Gabo Island quite early. It was on the Victorian side, like a rocky hand sticking up from the ocean. The lighthouse has been there since a shipwreck in ‘53 and I couldn’t help but think of all those people lying on the bottom of the ocean, staring up at me, knowing I couldn’t swim.

  Then I heard the First Mate, Mr Rimmer, call, ‘Veer to starboard,’ meaning we were turning right, so it wasn’t going to be too long now.

  This afternoon we had the horses up on deck for a bit, while the stalls were mucked out. The crew built a makeshift ramp up from the hold, so the horses could clamber up it with us pushing behind them. Somehow they knew to dip their heads as they came out. You could see Archy lift his head at all that salt air and when I tried to take him back down again, he stood firm for a bit and refused to move till I gave him a shove.

  Saturday 21st September

  I thought after Gabo the voyage would be easy, till Tom said there were plenty of wrecks in Bass Strait, too, but mostly sailing ships. Then, at the entrance to Port Phillip it was all hands on deck. The entrance was barely two miles across, with rocks off the Port Nepean side, shoals on the other and the water churning so much they called it the Rip. But Captain Moodie brought her through, so I didn’t feel it much and inside the Heads it was calm as a mirror.

  Then as soon as we dropped anchor, Mr de Mestre sent us down a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald from the day we left. He got a mention among the passengers in the shipping news. So did the jockeys and it said there were bookmakers on board, but I’ve no idea where they would have been. Maybe they travelled First Class, too.

  Port Phillip wharf was another avenue of masts, sails all furled ready. Bustling carts and drays loading and unloading the full length of the wharf, only this time there was no crowd to meet us. That wasn’t surprising, since they don’t know much about our horses in Melbourne and Mr de Mestre doesn’t want people to know. Not yet.

  We’re unloading the horses now, so I’ll have to stop.

  Sunday 22nd September

  The trip was good for the horses. Having to balance their legs all the time was exercise for them—only they did like being on solid ground again. Archy was tossing his head and whinnying as if to say he felt much better, thank you.

  Then, once landed, we walked them through the streets to Kirk’s Bazaar. It’s a horse saleyard between Queen and Swanston Streets near where the Cobb & Co coaches leave. But it doubles as a quarantine yard. Because we’re over the border now, the horses had to stay three days to be checked to make sure they were well enough to race and to keep them away from the local horses.

  Meanwhile, Mr de Mestre had left us (there was a loft above the stalls for us to sleep, same as at home) while he went off to find us somewhere to stay.

  The first thing Tom did was take off their leg bandages. Then from his kitbag he took a can of hoof oil and a brush and gave their hooves a good going over. He wouldn’t let Barney or me do it—he said he wanted to make sure it was done proper.

  It’s night now and quiet. Quieter almost than Terara. Tom says that’s because it’s Sunday and Sundays in Melbourne are always quiet.

  At least it’ll be easy to sleep, with no sound of the ship’s screws. Only Tom’s snoring.

  Monday 23rd September

  Melbourne seems a grand enough city, what we saw of it as we walked from the ship. It looks to spread out for miles, and there are fine big buildings on every block, easily as big as Sydney’s—only here the buildings look different, somehow. I asked Tom what it was that was different and he said it’s the stone they’ve used. Bluestone, he called it. It’s a dark, solemn blue, like the sky just before dawn, and it makes the buildings look more … serious. Maybe that’s why nobody feels like making much noise on Sundays. Tom said that’s the stone they had here, so that’s what they’ve used. Sydney’s buildings are paler because there’s plenty of sandstone for quarrying.

  Melbourne is bigger than I thought it would be. It used to have maybe 20,000 people, Tom told us, before gold was found, but then thousands came from all over the world to the goldfields. Now it’s more likely to be 140,000.

  Wednesday 25th September

  Mr de Mestre came back for us once the horses were allowed to go. He’d found room for us in South Yarra at the Botanical Hotel. There must be a lot of racing men in town all wanting rooms and stables for the Cup. He said he was lucky to find these. So we walked the horses over there and soon had them settled in their stalls and comfortable.

  Mr de Mestre and the jockeys are staying in the hotel part. Tom and Barney and me get to doss down in the servants’ quarters round the back, next to the stables. Our rooms are a bit boxy pokey—not much bigger than the stalls themselve
s—but the stables are brick and cool with plenty of fresh straw and fodder, so the horses aren’t complaining. The Botanical’s in Domain Road across from a park, so that’s good. It means we can train them there, as if it’s our own track.

  Friday 27th September

  There’s a cat here in the stables, a ginger tabby that runs scared every time it sees the horses. It’s got a funny tail too, that’s a bit on the short side and Tom thinks maybe a horse trod on it flat, so he’s called it Flattus and Barney and me groaned when we heard.

  Saturday 28th September

  Our names were in the paper again today. Bell’s Life in Victoria that comes out once a week on a Saturday says, ‘The City of Sydney, which reached Sandridge on Saturday last, brought the Sydney entries for the Melbourne Cup, viz Archer, Inheritor and Exeter. The horses reached this colony without a scratch, and remained at Kirk’s Bazaar until Wednesday, when they took up their abode at the Botanical Hotel, South Yarra.’