CHAPTER XII

‘I see that the Liverpool Grand National Steeplechase is to come off at Aintree on the 25th of March,’ Mrs. Banneret had said, at breakfast, one morning. ‘Your father has decided to take us to that great race, which I feel certain we shall all enjoy. Even I must renew my youth, and recall the days when I used to ride—actually _ride_ to the country race-meeting held at Appin, near Barham Court, our old home in New South Wales. My eldest brother always rode in the principal steeplechase. And what tremendous excitement there was when he won!’

‘How delightful!’ said Vanda. ‘What was the name of the dear horse?’

‘I remember it well,’ said the matron, her eye kindling and her clear cheek flushing with the memories of a bygone day. ‘It was Slasher; he was bred in the family, and trained by my brother himself. The Governor’s wife walked up to the Judge’s box, and patted his neck. She congratulated Val—who had just received a commission in the 50th Regiment, known to be under orders for India.

‘“You have my best wishes, Mr. Bournefield, and I feel confident that you will always be in the forefront of the battle, as you have been to-day—I wish you every success in life!” Val bowed low, and said he hoped to do honour to her ladyship’s good opinion. So he did, poor fellow! That is his portrait which hangs in my bedroom.’

‘What! the one with all the medals and clasps—such a handsome, soldierly-looking man. Why, his hair is grey!’

‘Yes, he was Colonel Bournefield when he was killed, shot through the heart, waving his sword, and leading his men on in the Sikh War. He was only twenty when he won that race.’

‘Was he handsome, mother?’

‘It was thought so. A very nice-looking boy, with blue eyes and curly fair hair—full of mischief, and afraid of nothing in the world. Poor Val! How he would have enjoyed coming with us to-day!’

‘Isn’t it fortunate that there is an Australasian horse in the race?’ said Hermione. ‘I wonder if he has a chance of winning—I must back him in gloves, if nothing else. What is his name?’

‘Moifaa, a New Zealand name; he comes from there, and has won steeplechases in his own island. What did Eric and Reggie say about him?’

‘They went to see him in his stable, and liked him ever so much—a fine horse, nearly or quite thorough-bred, with immense power, and a fair amount of speed. They were going to back him for a moderate amount.’

‘Then I vote we do likewise,’ said Hermione, ‘always supposing father approves. It will give us so much more interest in the race. Delightful, won’t it be, if we can pay our expenses, and have all the fun and excitement to the good?’

‘Do you agree, mother?’

‘We must see what your father says—I daresay he and Eric will look him well over. Then we may invest with confidence.’

‘Really,’ said Vanda, ‘one would think that all these charming “fixtures” had been arranged specially for our benefit. I never heard of so many, more or less mixed up with Australians. It’s quite flattering to our vanity, of which we are supposed to have our share!’

‘Not more than English people,’ said Hermione; ‘the difference is, that we talk more when we win anything, because it is a pleasant surprise, having been brought up to believe that the British article is in every department superior. The Englishman disdains to dwell upon the fact, because his unquestioned excellence in art, science, sport, and fashion must be (he supposes) admitted by the whole civilised world!’

‘That’s what makes him hated abroad, I suppose?’

‘Often unjustly, I have thought,’ interposed Mrs. Banneret. ‘His quiet manner is translated into supercilious pride, as also his distrust of casual acquaintances, who may be, and indeed often are, undesirable. Our Australian habit is quite the reverse, and, as I have more than once warned you, my dear girls, not always free from disagreeable developments.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ said Vanda; ‘you remember that delightful Sicilian Count, who turned out to be a cardsharper, or something worse?’

The day of the great steeplechase at length arrived. It did not rain, though it was cold and bleak. It was snowing in Lancashire—so they heard, but Aintree was dry. However, the Australians were more curious than alarmed about such a phenomenon. Besides, it gave the girls an excuse for wearing their furs, which were of the first quality. The next obvious duty was to scrutinise the competing horses as they came out in procession. ‘Here is the King’s horse, Ambush II.; he has been made first favourite,’ said Eric. ‘He won this race in 1900. Isn’t he a grand animal, and in the very pink of condition—goes out at 7 to 1. Now, girls, look! Here’s the King himself! come on purpose for us Cornstalks to see him. Ambush II. is being saddled. His Majesty pats his neck, and shakes hands with his jock, the well-known Anthony—wishes him good luck, of course. Isn’t that worth coming all the way from Australia to see?’

‘Very nearly!’ said Vanda, who was eagerly taking in every detail of this truly astonishing performance. ‘Do you think he will win?’

‘There’s no saying,’ replied her brother guardedly; ‘he did win this race, and so did Manifesto. But they say the stewards have raised the leaps, or made them stiffer, this year. There is a bit of a row about it. That gives the Maori horse a better chance.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the jumps in Australia and New Zealand are notoriously the biggest and stiffest in the racing world. So the horse that can “negotiate them with ease to himself and satisfaction to the lookers-on,” need not fear Aintree, or any course under the sky.’

‘But didn’t some gentleman say he considered the course absolutely unfair?’

‘Very likely; but others who had ridden and trained horses at Aintree saw nothing to complain of.’

‘How many starters are there?’

‘Twenty-six. What a splendid-looking lot they are!’

‘Oh! here comes Reggie! Who is that with him, Eric? He looks nice.’

‘He’s a Cambridge chum—same college, and a wonderfully good chap. A great hunting man in his own county. He’s always wanting us to go and stay with him at Castle Blake, where there’s no end of shooting and fishing. We’re going some day, when we can get away. They’re coming now, and Reggie will introduce him.’

At this moment the two young men came up. The stranger was a handsome young fellow with blue eyes of a daring and romantic character, and that expression of _abandon_ so characteristic of every man of every class hailing from the Green Isle—when out for a holiday.

‘Permit me to present my friend and college chum, Mr. Manus Beresford Blake, of Castle Blake, in the historic county of Galway. He’s making believe to study for the Church, though whether he follows up the profession after he’s taken his degree, I make bold to doubt. In the meantime, he’s coming to lunch with us, and will explain all about this race, as I believe he knows every racehorse and steeplechaser in Ireland.’

‘So much the better for us, my dear Reggie,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘for we know scarcely anything, and I feel sure the girls are dying to get reliable information.’

‘Here’s the very man! Manus, my boy! behold two young ladies whose minds you can store with every kind of useful knowledge about the noble animal. Only don’t be led into thinking that they are wholly ignorant of horse- and hound-lore, though they do come from a far country.’

‘I shall wait until our further acquaintance before I presume to add to the Miss Bannerets’ library of useful knowledge. I presume that they are accustomed to your vein of humour. Any hints which my acquaintance with so many honest horses, _not_ quite so honest owners, enables me to give, I shall be proud to offer.’

‘You and Eric have been round the horses, Mr. Blake, I gather,’ said Hermione. ‘What do you think of our champion, the New Zealander?’

‘Moorfowl, is it? for that’s what I heard a bookmaker call him. A fine horse, there’s no denying it, but I hardly think—I doubt, that is, whether he’s thorough-bred.’

‘Oh, of course,’ broke in Vanda, ‘he’s a colonial horse, and therefore _can’t_ be good enough to win against an English field! Poor Moifaa! You’ll see directly’; and the girl’s eyes sparkled, the colour came to her cheek, as she raised her head defiantly, as if to dare the world in arms to disparage the steeds of the South.

‘I didn’t gather that my friend’s family came from Ireland,’ replied Mr. Blake, with a smile half of challenge, half of admiration, as he gazed at the eager damsel, whose ardent championship heightened her beauty so dangerously. ‘But I seem to be accused of British prejudice before I have had time to assert an opinion of any kind or description. I merely indicated a doubt, and got no farther, when Miss Vanda swept me away from my position, before I had time to take one. That’s a truly Irish statement, isn’t it?’

Here all the young people laughed, and Mrs. Banneret gently reproved the too fervent advocacy of her younger daughter, hoping Mr. Blake would excuse her on the score of her recent arrival from a far country.

That young lady, however, declined to be excused on the ground of being a savage (so to speak), though she owned that she could not tamely suffer Moifaa to be depreciated, as it seemed to her, solely on the ground of his being born outside their sacred England. However, she apologised, and hoped Mr. Blake would overlook it, on the ground of her youth and inexperience.

‘My dear young lady, I’ll overlook _anything_ you are pleased to say! I take it as the highest compliment to contradict me, any time you feel in want of a new sensation. And now, shall I say what I think of this fine upstanding horse from the South?’

‘Oh, by all means!’

‘Then, remember, we start fair. He’s a grand-looking horse—would be just the sort to carry my father, who’s sixteen stone, over the Galway stone walls—but I’m doubtful—no, I’ll say, apprehensive—that he’s “too big to get the course,” as they say here. Seventeen hands is a big horse, though his make and shape are almost perfect, I’ll allow, and finer shoulders I never saw. And so we’ll know more after the race—I’ll have something to say then.’

‘Oh, here comes my father! He was detained in London about matters of business.’

Mr. Banneret had met Mr. Blake at his son’s rooms at Cambridge, so there was no need of an introduction. He had excellent news from Pilot Mount, which enabled him to join the family party with even higher expectations of enjoyment than he had anticipated.

He brought with him a New Zealand friend, whose successes in land investment had placed him in a position to indulge himself with what he called a ‘run home’ every three or four years. Mr. Allan Maclean was a typical Highlander of the dark-haired, swarthy type, middle-sized, but broad-shouldered, and sinewy of frame, giving promise of exceptional strength. He had emigrated to the land of the Moa and the Maori when a mere boy, had worked hard, and formed so shrewd an outlook as to the progress of the young colony, that he was now not only independent, but likely to be, within a few years, one of the richest men in the South Island.

‘I suppose this is an interesting race to you, Maclean?’

‘Decidedly so—in fact I came home a month earlier chiefly to see it run. Glendon Spencer is a great friend of mine, and I knew not only Moifaa, but his dam, Denbigh—a magnificent animal, and a winner of steeplechases in her day—not unimportant ones either.’

‘I heard that you backed him heavily.’

‘Well, fairly so. I took thirty to one, in hundreds, from Joe Johnson. Being early in the market, I got a shade more of the odds. I am not a betting man, generally; but in this case I felt confident, and stood to lose a trifle, or win enough to pay my travelling expenses, and something over.’

‘You colonists are a demoralising lot, it must be admitted. Fancy the example to me dear friend Reggie Banneret, and his brother—poor innocent Eric! Think of it now! rushing over the South Pacific to see a race run, and within a few months clearing back again, with £3000 in your pocket.’

‘If the old horse stands up. It’s rather a big “_if_,” isn’t it? But I’ll trust my luck this time. It’s not the first time I’ve backed him. I saw him win the Great Northern Steeplechase in Auckland, three miles and a half, with eleven stone twelve up, as well as the Hawkes Bay Hurdle Race, carrying twelve stone. He was taken to England, with the idea of winning this race; and I believe he _will_ win it. Isn’t that the bell? What a string, to be sure! Twenty-six coloured for the race. What horses—what people—what a sight! Old England for ever! God save the King! Here comes His Majesty’s Ambush II. looking his very best, and Anthony, no less, the proudest jock in Britain this day.’

Here they all start for the preliminary canter—what a cheer from the assembled thousands! Now they are paraded. No time lost at the start. They are off—off! A deep, wordless hum succeeds, like the surge voice of a lately aroused ocean, still reminiscent of storm and tempest, though now the wave and wind be still. ‘Look! Pride of Maberton, Loch Lomond, and Inquisitor are away, followed by Railoff, who falls at the first fence. Ambush II. is down at the next.’ Alas! The girls are so sorry—not that they wished him to win, but to have been among the gallant few that fought it out to the end. Deerslayer goes on from The Gunner, and Loch Lomond, and half a dozen others, amongst whom, going steadily, are Moifaa, Detail, and Manifesto.

Deerslayer continues to lead over Valentine’s Brook, the next to come down is May King, after which Honeymoon and Old Town fail to clear the dry ditch. Now the excitement becomes intense!

‘Oh, look!’ cries Vanda, ‘at Moifaa. How he is coming up! Well done the Maori! Aké—Aké—Aké! He has passed Deerslayer—The Gunner and Kirkland are next, with Nahilla, and a lot of others behind. Look at that gallant old Manifesto! How easily he takes his jumps!’

‘Becker’s Brook—doesn’t Nimrod mention it somewhere?’ said Hermione. ‘Oh, poor Deerslayer is down!—the slayer among the slain. Fortune of war.’

‘Now, Moifaa,’ shouts Allan Maclean, ‘it’s time for you to test your “mana.” Death or glory! He’s going strong; Kirkland and The Gunner also. Ambush II., enjoying himself without a rider, keeps well up, but cannoning into Detail—turns him into “another detail” (_pace_ Mr. Kipling). There is a fall in the dry ditch. Benvenir breaks down. Loch Lomond breaks his neck. Moifaa draws clear of Kirkland and The Gunner on the flat, and, striding along, beats Mr. Bibby’s Kirkland by _eight_ lengths; The Gunner a neck behind _him_.’

‘Who was fourth horse?’

‘Shaun Aboo—Robin Hood fifth. Poor dear old Manifesto last!’ concluded Vanda. ‘“And that’s how the favourite was beat,” as Gordon sings.’

* * * * *

The great race is over. Nothing more until next year. The winners retire to count up their gains, the losers to calculate how they may liquidate. This last is a more serious affair. As Moifaa was led in towards the weighing-stand, a burst of applause greeted horse and rider. There were very few of the cheering company who had not lost upon him, but a British crowd is chiefly just, and upholds a fair field and no favour.

With regard to the performance, to quote an eminent sporting authority, ‘no finer exhibition of jumping ability has ever been seen at Aintree than that afforded by the New Zealand horse. He seemed to go half a foot higher than anything else in the field, and to land in the most collected manner. For the last mile it looked like a match between Moifaa, Kirkland, and The Gunner. But when once on the race-course, any one could see that Moifaa was a certain winner if he stood up.’

The muster of colonials was alarming. Was there going to be another Boer War? Indeed, had occasion arisen, a formidable contingent could have been recruited there and then. North and south, and east and west—the bronzed, desert-worn, weather-beaten Sons of Empire turned up in the paddock, never so crowded before. Men were shaking hands enthusiastically who had last met in Sydney or Melbourne—Perth or Brisbane—Calcutta, Peshawur, Nigeria, or New South Wales—the back blocks of Queensland or the northern territory of West Australia, where the pearling luggers with their Malay crews make high festival when the ‘shell takes’ are good.

How far, how widely, the roving Englishman wandered in his quest for fame or fortune, was abundantly demonstrated by the number and quality of the ‘Legion that never was listed,’ on that auspicious day. Such companies and troops—rank upon rank, as they closed round the champion of the day—the first Australasian horse that had ever won against Britain’s best ‘chasers,’ in the classic race of world-wide fame that had no fellow in the contests of horse and man since the world began.