The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  Showers gave Moonsugar the whip, just once. The animal jolted ahead, pulling a half length into the lead, then more. He was going full throttle now. Showers looked back to see that Kipp had decided to do the same.

  As though stuck together, nose to tail, Inkydink trailing now, they lunged and bounded over the fences of the next turn. Moonsugar was winding a little, ticking the top rail of the jump at the end of the swale, his breath coming in snorts. Showers heard the same sounds from Inkydink, heard a similar grunt as both horses landed hard from the next fence, plunging on into the backstretch.

  The damned cloying heat! Moonsugar smelled strongly of it. His coat glowed with sweat. Showers dripped with it. Only the brisk wind of their passage kept it from flooding his eyes. The pain in his right leg was becoming serious, and his left was beginning to cramp as well. Almost forty. So old and foolish to be doing this.

  But still he felt wonderfully exhilarated. His mind was clear and clean. He succumbed to a giddy joy, to an uncharacteristic gloating pride. If there were such things as ghosts, then his father’s was with him now. And his grandfather’s, all his ancestors’.

  Another fence. Moonsugar tiring. Inkydink, too. At least half a mile to go. The pain reaching into his ankles, spreading along his thighs, climbing his spine. The last turn ahead of him, its first jump coming at him in a rush.

  He pulled his horse to the left upon landing, leaning closer to the rail, forcing Inkydink to the right. There was a rough furrow of turf running diagonally from the next obstacle. It would slow Kipp if he hit it squarely from his position, slow him more if he shifted to avoid it. Had Kipp remembered it?

  If he had, he paid it no mind. Inky dink kept pace over the rail, hitting the ground beyond with a galumphing thud, recovering clumsily. Kipp whipped him back into place, lying just at Moonsugar’s haunch.

  Showers took time for a last quick look at the field. It was far behind, still bunched up in the backstretch, with a few horses strung out at the rear. Sherrie’s Dream was the only other horse in contention, the jockey whipping him frantically.

  Moonsugar’s glistening neck and veiny head were thrust forward, fully extended, lifting for the next jump, then pushing out again. His eyes were wild. His breaths came like the pounding of heavy machinery. He was all ego now. His flaring nostrils seemed to smell the finish.

  Two more fences to clear, and then a hundred yards or more of open turf to the end. The crowd was screaming.

  A bad tick of the right foreleg on the first of these last jumps, doubtless causing stinging pain. But a good landing. Fast into the approach to the next. Inkydink still pressing, coming closer. Showers could see his black head, his bulging eyes. Ahead the grass, clean and green and divinely inviting.

  Kipp moved nearer still, infuriating Moonsugar. All of Showers’ concentration was given to getting him over this last barrier. His thoughts were all to the fore. Moonsugar was scattering his attention, worrying to the side. As they took off, he kicked right, striking his rival, hoof hitting hide and bone.

  Up they went together, but Inkydink kept rising, his head high, mane flying. The animal veered, broaching the jump, hind legs smacking against the rail, his body rotating like some huge stone. Kipp went forward onto his mount’s neck. Showers reached out to shove him back into the saddle. Someone had done that for him once, saving him from a terrible fall.

  But there was no preventing this one. Kipp slipped from his grasp. Clear of the fence, Moonsugar, confused by Showers’ movement in the saddle, landed badly and staggered, then sank and rolled. Showers flew into the air, turning, watching like some hovering bystander the hideous aftermath of Kipp’s collision with the earth, the other jockey’s leg disappearing beneath his horse’s back. Both their screams were so awful Showers couldn’t tell which was the man’s and which the beast’s.

  Showers hit the ground on his side, one leg caught twisted beneath the other. He rolled over, frantically pushing himself up. Sherrie’s Dream was just seconds away, the knot of following horses still at some distance.

  Showers got to Kipp just as Sherrie’s Dream flew over them, somehow missing them in a herculean leap. The next horses were coming in a thunder of hooves. Showers grabbed Kipp’s wrist tightly with both hands and heaved them both backward toward the edge of the course. Kipp shrieked. Shutting the sound from his mind, Showers pulled once more, collapsing back on the grass as, in a flying stream, the rest of the field thumped and galloped by.

  Then it was strangely quiet. He got back up to his knees, straightening his back. Kipp was very still, probably unconscious from shock. The man’s right leg was bent at a terrible angle, the sharpness of bone protruding from his boot top, blood pumping into the grass. Across the course, Inkydink was down on his side, snorting and coughing. Over by the rail, Moonsugar stood very still, oddly calm. Sadly, Showers saw that the animal’s foreleg was raised high, as though he was preparing to paw the earth. Except he kept it there, his leg muscles tightly clenched.

  Every part of Showers’ body now hurt. His ankle was swollen and numb. He sank back, looking up into the gentle blue sky. If his father’s ghost was watching now, he’d doubtless be laughing, or crying. He knew what Fairbrother would say to him: “You damn fool! You had it won!”

  May Moody had watched the accident with disbelief and horror. Now she felt a great rushing anger. What was the damned stupid point of racing over these deadly wooden fences? Why not gallop over land mines, or a field of pikes and spears? If the riders were out to prove their idiotic male courage, why subject the poor innocent horses to this bloody folly?

  One horse was standing with great dignity, but was obviously injured and in pain. The other was down, helplessly trying to get up with forelegs alone, braying its agony. The first rider lay grotesquely crumpled, barely moving. The other jockey, miraculously, got to his feet and leaned back against the fence. He removed his riding helmet, his silver hair bright in the sunlight.

  May had liked the look of him when she’d watched him mount in the paddock before the race. Though cursing him for the accident, for participating in the race, in the slaughter, she felt a rush of amazed admiration for him. He’d recklessly risked his own life to save the other’s. He’d thrown away the race. Who would have asked him to do that? Of all the men she had ever known—lovers, pals, colleagues, kin—she doubted that any of them was capable of such a thing.

  That was not fair. Her father had braved death to save the lives of three of his men in Vietnam. That’s why they had given him the Silver Star.

  An ambulance had pulled out onto the course and was trundling along the grass toward the injured. Bumping out ahead of it was a pickup truck hauling a small trailer with what looked to be a tent folded up in it. The track announcer had called the unofficial results and was now talking about the finish time, noting it was off the record. He said not a word about the accident.

  May had leapt to her feet when the first horse and rider had gone down. She now took a few steps forward, removing her sunglasses to better see what was happening.

  The pickup truck got to the scene first. Two men jumped out and hurried to the trailer, lugging out poles and canvas. As May watched incredulously, they began setting up a huge screen around the carnage, masking it from the spectators. The ambulance pulled up behind the truck and the attendants hastened forth with a stretcher, disappearing behind the canvas. More vehicles pulled up, including a Jeep hauling a horse trailer.

  “Are you all right, Miss Moody?” said her host, Granby. “You seem awfully pale.” He looked pretty ashen himself.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A drink? God, no.” It had been more than a year since she’d had one of those, a very long year.

  To her amazement and outrage, there was laughing and cheering in Bernie Bloch’s box down the slope from her. To his credit, her father looked somewhat unhappy, but Bloch was beaming. So was the blond woman whom May recognized as her stepmother. She was hugg
ing Bloch, though his wife was standing awkwardly next to him. Their horse had won. Damn all else.

  The track announcer, his voice only slightly subdued, reminded people that there were still three races to run on the day’s program and that in a moment the trophy for the Valley Dragoon Chase would be awarded to the victor in the winner’s circle. He said there were a number of distinguished guests among the spectators and that he hoped they’d come to the officials’ stand for the ceremonies.

  Another horse trailer was being brought up. The injured horse that was still standing began edging away at its approach.

  May turned to Granby and touched his arm.

  “I’d like to go now,” she said quietly. If this ruined his afternoon, hers already had been.

  “Of course,” he said, with gallantry. “Just let me say goodbye to someone.”

  The track announcer called out the names of some of the VIPs invited to the winner’s circle. One was a famous mystery novel writer and former jockey. Another was a U.S. senator. It surprised May, though it shouldn’t have, to hear her father’s name announced.

  Then came words that sliced into her like a knife.

  “We not only have the White House chief of staff with us today,” said the announcer, his voice booming all over the meadow, like God’s. “But I’m told we’re also graced with the presence of his lovely daughter, the talented actress May Moody. We’d all be grateful if she would join her father up here as we award this year’s Dragoon Chase trophy to the owner of the winning horse, Bernard Bloch, a sportsman newly come to steeplechasing but one who’s already made a tremendous contribution.”

  People all around May were staring at her. Down in the group around Bloch, her father turned to look. So did the blond woman who was now his wife.

  May fled, almost tripping over a tent rope, pushing through some spectators and hurrying behind the tent and away from the course. The parking area where her host had left his Mercedes was on the other side of a fenced-in pasture with several unsaddled horses in it. She didn’t know which lane to take around it, but plunged on. When the one she chose proved to be blocked by a closed gate, she retraced her steps and ducked under a rope barrier. She remembered that the Mercedes was locked. Granby was nowhere in sight. She didn’t want to stand there, visible to all. Panicking, she looked frantically about, noticing finally a small wooden building farther along the ridge with a white board bearing a red cross on its wall. The aid station. She bolted for it.

  There was only one attendant in it. He seemed much too young to be a doctor.

  “I’ve got an injured man coming, miss,” he said as she stepped inside. “Are you in a bad way?”

  “I just feel faint,” she said. “The heat.”

  He studied her a moment, then motioned toward a cot by the corner. “Why don’t you lie down there. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”

  She did as bidden, removing her hat and scarf and then slowly reclining. She did feel a little dizzy. She certainly felt sick. Her heart was pounding.

  The injured man was not the horribly injured victim of the bad jump but the silver-haired jockey, who came in limping badly, assisted by a young woman in riding clothes. The attendant had him sit up on an examining table. None of them paid any attention to May.

  Outside, a siren could be heard, loud at first, then diminishing, then gone.

  “They’re taking Kipp direct to the hospital,” said the attendant. “You sure you don’t want to go there, Captain?”

  The jockey shook his head. “I don’t think anything’s broken. I can stand on it. After a fashion.”

  The medic worked the leg back and forth, gently. “I don’t know, Captain Showers. That ankle’s pretty bad. I want to take a look at it.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut off the boot.”

  “Is that necessary? These are my favorite boots.”

  “It’ll hurt like hell if I try to pull it off.”

  “Let’s have a go at it,” said Showers. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “I’ll help,” said the girl who’d come in with Showers.

  May’s eyes widened as she watched them struggle to remove the boot. The silver-haired man grimaced and swore, but did not cry out. The other two paused.

  “Keep pulling,” Showers said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The boot came off. The medic set it down, then removed the man’s sock. The ankle was terribly swollen. The medic probed the flesh and moved the foot.

  “It’s not broken, but it’s a pretty bad sprain. I’ll tape it up.”

  The jockey looked at the girl. “How’s Moonsugar?” he asked.

  “They have two vets with him.”

  “I hope one of them’s not Meade Clay.”

  The medic laughed.

  “Fairbrother’s with Moonsugar, too,” the young girl said.

  The jockey frowned.

  “It’s his decision, David,” the girl said.

  “I could kill myself for doing that to him,” Showers said.

  “If you hadn’t, Jimmy Kipp would have been killed.”

  Showers shook his head sadly. “I hope he doesn’t have to die.”

  “Maybe he won’t, David.”

  “Not if we have a good go at saving him. Go to Fairbrother, Becky. Ask him not to do anything until he talks to me. Until I see the horse.”

  “All right, David.”

  “And could you bring me my shirt and jacket? This may be the last time I wear these.” Showers pulled off his racing silks. His neck and face were very tan, but his chest was not.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, David. We’re all counting on you to win the Old Dominion National this fall.”

  The girl left. As the medic leaned over Showers’ foot with his adhesive tape, the jockey tapped his shoulder. He was looking at May.

  “Have you attended to her?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Please take care of her. I can wait.”

  May shook her head. “I’m all right,” she said. “I just want to lie here awhile.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes, listening as the medic went about his business and the two men talked about the more seriously injured jockey. He had suffered a dangerous compound fracture, but his other injuries did not appear to be life threatening. He’d been taken to a hospital several miles away.

  “Kipp’s a professional rider, isn’t he?” said the medic. “Horse shows and all that?”

  Showers sighed. “He won’t ride again.”

  “There’s other work.”

  Showers looked down at his own leg, swinging it.

  Lenore Fairbrother entered, tripping on the step. She caught her balance, looked around, then rushed to Showers’ side.

  “My darling, darling David,” she said, taking up his hand and kissing the palm. “My God, I thought you were going to be killed.”

  “I’m fine, Lenore.”

  “Your beautiful leg’s not broken?”

  “Jimmy Kipp’s leg is broken. I think for good.”

  “That little fairy is damned lucky you were there,” Lenore said.

  “For God’s sake, Lenore! Moonsugar caused the accident. He clipped Inkydink going over the timber. It was my fault.”

  “Nonsense, David. Bloody nonsense.”

  Lenore fell silent as Becky returned, carrying Showers’ shirt and jacket. She was accompanied by an older man, who was elegantly but casually dressed in gray trousers, checked sport coat, white button-down shirt, red silk ascot, and khaki sun hat. He stood before Showers, not speaking for a moment. The medic moved away, busying himself by a medicine cabinet. May was watching intently now. It was all like a play.

  “I’m sorry, Lynwood,” said Showers.

  The older man put his hand on Showers’ shoulder. “David, I couldn’t be prouder. What you did was in the finest tradition of the Dandytown Hunt. This will go into the history of Virginia steeple-chasing. I can’t tell you how
terribly pleased I am to be associated with you today.”

  “I’ve left you with a very large empty space on your trophy shelf.”

  “The cup’s a formality,” said the older man. “We can attend to that next year. You won the race today. Everyone saw you do it. It’s an irrefutable fact. That you did this honorable thing instead of continuing on to the finish, that changes nothing. Mr. Bloch has a very hollow victory.”

  “His horse won the Dragoon Chase, Lynwood. He won it fairly, just as fairly as we would have won it if I’d left Kipp behind and gone on to the finish.”

  “But you didn’t, David. You didn’t. And that’s the whole point.” The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here you are. Just as I promised. I made it out before the start of the race. Never had a doubt about you.”

  Showers unfolded the paper. It was a check.

  “But I didn’t finish.”

  “Please, old boy. Not another word. Now, how are you? Banged up badly?”

  “I’m fine, Lynwood. What about Moonsugar?”

  The older man hesitated. “Not good, I’m afraid. There appears to be a fracture. We’re going to have to put him down.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  “We must. It happens in racing, as you know very well. I’m sorry.”

  “He can’t be that bad. He was standing calmly. Please.”

  “I haven’t time to deal with him, David. I’m going to London this week. We have horses to pick up in Southern Pines. It can’t be done. Not without an awful lot of cost and bother. Both vets say he can never race again.”

  Showers looked down at the floor. “Let me try.”

  “On your farm? In your condition? Just you and Becky?”

  “Please, Lynwood. Let me try.”

  “He’s a gelding, David. We can’t even put him to stud.”

  “Please.”

  Lenore put her arms around the older man, staring intently into his eyes.

  “Lynwood. Give him Moonsugar. He’s nothing to you now. He’s everything to David. If anyone can save him, David can. Let him try.”

  The old man sighed. “This could cost you a considerable sum of money, David.”