Third Heat.
Gilpatrick and I took our old position under the wire, with many misgivings as to the fate of our combined fortunes, the $13 that hung upon the result of this heat. For the first time Boston began to show the ugly side of his disposition by sulking. As they were led up to start he repeatedly refused to go, and when the drum was finally tapped, having the inside, he bolted toward the fence. Cornelius pulled him out, and then he ran diagonally across the track towards the outside. In the meantime Hartman was sending the dead game son of Hedgford, along, and by the time Cornelius got Boston straight and on his stride the magnificent brown had taken the track and was running smoothly more than fifty yards in front. These positions were maintained until they reached the head of the stretch. Here Boston showed another peculiar trait in his disposition, and one for which he afterwards became noted, the shouting of a crowd seemed to inspire him and make him run faster. As they turned into the stretch with Duane so far in advance his friends began to cheer. The sound no sooner reached Boston’s ears than he began of his own accord to make a run at Duane, and so rapidly did he run down the stretch that when they passed under the wire he was only two open lengths away. Going around the lower turn both riders eased up their horses, but on entering the back stretch Cornelius made a run with Boston at Duane and at the half mile had closed out all the daylight between them.
But rounding the upper turn Duane shook him off and entered the stretch an open length and a half in front. Again a great shout went up from the backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again as the sound reached Boston it seemed to lend him wings. Running true and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced son of Timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile his white nose was at Duane’s hip. Going around the lower turn the boys again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up the stretch and around the upper turn, Boston holding his place with the tenacity of a bull dog. But the white star of Duane is still in front as they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches Duane. Half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last heat. It was now the time for Boston’s friends to cheer, and if pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. Men were simply wild with excitement. They danced about like children; hats, coats and canes were thrown into the air. Gilpatrick and I hugged each other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that Boston, inspired by the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the track from Duane. But to experienced riders like Gil and I this sudden change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. We both knew Hartman well. He was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse, saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. Knowing from our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to the over-sanguine friends of Boston shouting: “Duane has quit!” “Duane has quit!” We knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. So we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with Boston leading up the back side and around the upper turn.
Just before entering the stretch for home Hartman began to move on Duane. “He’s coming!” “He’s coming!” Gil whispered, for he was too excited to speak, and we both stood speechless watching the fierce battle that was opening a quarter of a mile away. Cornelius rides Boston a little wide on turning in the stretch in order that his whip hand might be free to drive. Hartman sees the opening thus made next the rail and rushes Duane in it. It was skillful riding on both sides. Hartman had no whip, but rode with spurs, while Cornelius had no spurs, for Boston would not stand them, but rode with a whip, and if Hartman in a tight finish could get so close to Cornelius on his whip side as to prevent him from using the lash he would have a big advantage. This Cornelius prevented by riding a little out on the turn. The spurt of Duane was greeted with the old-time cheer of his backers. “He comes! he comes!” “See him come!” went up from the throats of thousands, but it ceased almost as suddenly as it began, for the red horse is coming with him, and at that moment not a hand’s breadth divides them. But Hartman’s judgment in saving his horse now begins to tell, and inch by inch the brown stud begins to slowly but surely draw away. First a nose, then a head, then a neck and shoulders he pushes to the front. Hartman’s knee is at Boston’s head. Duane is a half length in front and only an eighth of a mile to run. Can he hold? Cornelius shifts both reins to his left hand, the cat-gut whirls above his head and falls upon the flank of Boston, cutting the thin skin of the thoroughbred like a knife. Maddened with pain and his own desire to win Boston bites savagely at Duane, but catches Hartman’s trousers at the knee and nearly tears them off of the jockey. Cornelius pulls him loose, lifts his head, straightens him and again the cruel rawhide tastes his blood. Responding to the lash with unfaltering courage, with the shouts of “Duane,” “Duane,” “Duane wins!” ringing in his ears, the great horse with almost human instinct seems to know that the supreme moment has come, as he puts forth the last vital ounce of strength that yet lingers in his powerful muscles and begins to draw up on Duane. Each weary leap brings him nearer and nearer the head of the gallant brown, whose last rush at the head of the stretch is now beginning to tell upon him. Only fifty feet from the wire and they are nose and nose. Horses and riders were rolling from side to side, all utterly exhausted. Still, with outstretched necks, distended nostrils and eyes yet flaming with passion, the fierce contest goes on as they literally stagger towards the finish, for the pace is now nothing more than a hard gallop. Cornelius is reeling from exhaustion in his saddle, but with a last effort he partially lifts the drooping head of Boston, cuts him with the whip and—the race is over! Boston wins! But so dead tired are both horses that Boston, although the winner, actually stopped directly under the wire, and Duane walked under it.
Fortune has been kind to me since then and given me many of her most choice blessings, but never in her most liberal moods has she given me anything that I appreciated more than the smile she gave me that hot day on Beacon Heights nearly sixty years ago, when, watching this greatest of all the great races I have ever seen, she doubled my humble fortune.
The reason so little has ever been said or written about this race is owing to the fact that it was not a match or stake or section race, but simply a purse race of four mile heats, in which two of the most noted horses in America met. I helped to carry Boston home after the race. We went through by land, and so completely exhausted was the horse that he would frequently fall and we would have to assist him to his feet.