Second Heat.
When the horses were called for the second heat they came up looking well. Both had cooled out admirably. Johnny Hartman, a white jockey, and one of the best riders on the turf, was upon Duane, Steve not being able to resume his mount. Up to this time Boston had never been marked by whip or spur, except in his first race, when he sulked when touched with a spur. He had won all of his races running purely on his courage. Col. Wm. R. Johnson, the “Napoleon of the Turf,” who was managing him in this race, procured a cowhide, and when he mounted Cornelius gave it to him with instructions to use it if necessary from start to finish. There was no delay at the post; the drum tapped, and they were off, followed by the continuous cheers of the crowd. I doubt if a more closely contested match for four miles was ever run over any course than was waged between these two great horses in this second heat. It was literally a fight to the death. With every muscle strained, every sinew drawn to its utmost tension, they raced head for head the entire distance. Duane was on the inside and held it to the finish, although Boston made repeated efforts in every mile to take it. It was drive, drive, drive; death or victory. First the head of gold striped with white would for a moment show in front, then the head of bronze with the white spot gleaming like a star of hope would take the lead, but never more than a scant head would at any time divide them. As the head of either horse would show in front their respective friends would give a ringing cheer, but as mile after mile of the mighty contest was measured off by the long, low, powerful strides of these great racers and the desperate character of the race became more and more apparent, the excitement became too intense for shouting, and as the horses turned into the stretch on the fourth mile for the run home nose to nose, bit to bit and stride for stride a stillness as of death came over the crowd. Not a shout, not a word, not a whisper was heard. The stable boys and rubbers with bated breath and bulging eyes stared with almost agonized expression on their faces up the stretch where the desperate battle was being fought. The lemonade vender gave up all thoughts of trade, and even the wily pickpocket forgot his calling for the moment, and his hand, still clutching his ill-gotten gains, trembled with excitement as he watched the flying stallions and heard the ceaseless patter of their hoof strokes.
I was a young light-weight jockey then who had won his spurs in more than one hotly-contested field, and to-day am perhaps the only living turfman who witnessed this great match, for nearly sixty years have passed since then; yet in memory’s mirror, I can see that fearful finish as distinctly as my young eyes saw it that day. I can see two horses half-way down the stretch coming as true and even as two arrows from one bow. I can see two outstretched necks and heads, a sorrel and a brown, a blaze and a star. I can see their powerful haunches gathered under them and drive them forward as if they were shot from the mouth of a cannon. I can see the hard-trained muscles playing beneath their thin skins like oiled machinery, and as they come nearer and nearer I see their ears lying back and their bloodshot eyes gleaming with the light of the battle and undying courage. I hear their labored breathing and can see the red flush up their widely-distended nostrils glowing like heated furnaces. I can see Johnny Hartman, pale as death, riding as if for his life, drive the merciless steel again and again in the panting sides of Duane, and at each time the blood spurting from the wounds. I can see the black face of Cornelius, drawn as if in mortal agony, his lips parted, his white teeth shining and his eyes fixed on the finishing point only a few yards away. I can see him swing the cowhide, already crimsoned with the royal blood of Boston, high over his head and bring it down on the quivering flank of his horse, then, quick as lightning, lift him with the bit. I can see the great son of Timoleon crouch lower to the ground, gather his powerful quarters further under him and make the final rush just as Cornelius lifts him, and I can see the golden head and white nose cross the wire in front of the bronze and the star. Boston wins, but only by a head. Then the pent-up excitement broke forth. “Boston wins!” “Boston wins!” was the shout. Yes, he had won, but could he do so again? This was only a heat apiece. Another heat was necessary to decide the race, and in the peerless brown stallion he had found a foeman well worthy of his steel, and one that had shown him he could take his measure in any part of the four miles. Both horses had been fearfully punished and were dreadfully distressed, and so were the riders. Of the two latter Hartman was much the freshest, for after weighing out Cornelius had to be rubbed out, drenched with brandy and altogether requiring almost as much attention as his horse. But he would have died in the saddle rather than have relinquished his mount, and when they were called for the last heat he came out with his bloody whip, looking as determined as ever.