The Disputed V.C.: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny

by Frederick P. Gibbon

Mr. Vernon’s light chestnut was also a handsome animal, far more so than the lean gray of the Ahmednuggur Irregulars.

The ensign’s nerve was largely affected by the unwonted excitement as he reined his mount alongside the others; an indistinguishable mass of white and brown humanity appeared to float before his eyes; and all he heard of the shouts and comments was a confused and distant murmuring, or rather buzzing. Mechanically he prepared for the start.

The flag dropped, and the starter scurried to one side; “The Padre” leapt from under him and plunged away, the spectators seeming to swim past. He shook off the trance and partially recovered his self-possession. In front were Mr. Vernon’s “Flying Fox”, and another and darker chestnut. Aligned with him were the Ahmednuggur gray and a bay; the remaining three were slightly to the rear, for the pace was one that would soon tell.

Miss Woodburn watched with much anxiety as they came to the first fence, and began to regret that she was responsible for inducing the boy to take part in the dangerous pastime. But “The Padre” went over like a bird, and no one came to grief. The second and third obstacles were well taken by the whole field, but the leading chestnut (the horse of a comrade) fell at the fourth and was out of it. At the next—a water-jump—the Ahmednuggur gray swerved and lost ground, and a moment later the bay, who had got in front, carried away one of the hurdles—the easiest obstacle of the course. Ted was now calm enough to take all this in, and he became aware that he had only two horses to fear, “Cabul” and “Flying Fox”. The black was now about a length behind, whilst the chestnut was almost as much in front of him.

More than two miles had been covered before “Cabul” began to forge slowly ahead of “The Padre”, and to gain gradually on “Flying Fox”, who, by his tail’s convulsive twitching and his heaving flanks, was beginning to throw out signals of distress.

Even at that exciting moment the boy could not but admire the strong seat, light firm hands, and splendid horsemanship of Lieutenant Spencer. They had approached a hedge side by side, and though “The Padre” was going quite as well as, if not even better than “Cabul”, the latter seemed to glide over the obstacle and was away on the other side a good yard in front. The boy knew that the time was lost in collecting his horse for the jump, and after landing on the other side, and as he felt convinced that his mount was speedier and quicker on his legs than Spencer’s, and had better shoulders for landing, he could not understand how his rival managed to fly the fences with so little decrease in his speed and collect himself and get away on the other side without a pause. And it seemed no effort!

The last jump was taken by the black a length in front of the gray, who in his turn had beaten the chestnut by nearly as much. No other horse was within thirty yards of the leader. But whereas Spencer had driven his steed speedily at this wide water-jump, and had cleared it in gallant style, “The Padre” jumped slightly short, and though he quickly pulled himself together, he was now nearly two lengths behind. Still he was going merrily and gamely, with any amount of spring and stay, and the ensign recognized despairingly that he bestrode the swifter and more clever horse, and was being beaten by his rival’s horsemanship and superior judgment.

And it is now a straight run to the judge’s stand. Ted fancies to his delight that “Cabul” appears somewhat done, and his rider is undoubtedly having to urge him along for the first time. But with Spencer—in striking contrast to the rider of the bay who came to grief at the solitary line of hurdles—there is no flourishing of the whip, no nervous jerking of the reins: the officer of the Guides preserves his calm and impassive demeanour, for he understands his mount. In his excitement the boy speaks to “The Padre”, and that willing beast seems to comprehend and gallantly responds.

From her horse’s back, on a little mound near the judge’s box, Ethel Woodburn cranes forward eagerly. Yes, down the hill the gray is slowly gaining on the black!

One hundred and fifty yards away and “The Padre’s” head is level with “Cabul’s” tail. They see Ted for the first time touch the horse lightly with his heels, the spur pricking a handsbreadth behind the girths; a couple of quick strokes with the whip and the clever gray knows that the time has come, and they see him bound forward. Eighty yards away and Ted’s knee is in line with “Cabul’s” tail. The black is labouring hard, and under an ordinary rider would have given in, but Lieutenant Spencer is no ordinary rider.