Poseidon, a failure at the stud, was, on the racecourse, great. He commenced his career so modestly that no one would have suspected that a bright sun had arisen in the morning skies. He won a Nursery at the A.J.C. January Meeting, and was allotted six stone eight in the Melbourne Cup.
Early in the following spring he was still, apparently, without any ambition towards higher things. He commenced by winning a welter at the Sydney Tatt.’s Club gathering in September, and followed it up with a victory in the Spring Handicap at Hawkesbury. Then, with odds of seven to one against him, he was proclaimed the A.J.C. Derby winner, beating Collarit, Antonious, Iolaire and a couple more. With his penalty he was beaten next day by Solution in the Metropolitan. Then came triumphs in the Eclipse Stakes at Caulfield, the Caulfield Cup, with a fourteen-pound penalty, the Victoria Derby, the Melbourne Cup, the St. Helier Stakes at Caulfield in February, the St. Leger at Flemington, and the Loch Plate, two miles, beating Dividend. Then he was checked in this triumphal progress. Dividend took down his number in the Champion, and again in the Cumberland Stakes at Randwick. Meanwhile, however, Poseidon had won what was practically a bloodless victory in the A.J.C. St. Leger.
At four years Poseidon still retained his form, and was successful seven times, the Spring Stakes, the Eclipse, the Caulfield Cup, with nine stone three up, the Melbourne Stakes, the Rawson Stakes, the Cumberland Stakes, and the A.J.C. Plate falling to his lot. Mountain King, however, who might have been a great horse but for wind troubles, beat him in the Rawson Stakes in spring, the Craven and the C. B. Fisher Plate. Poseidon was unplaced (eighth) in the Melbourne Cup that year, carrying ten stone three, including a penalty, and he did but little more. Had Alawa depended upon his three-year-old record, he might have been included in the Roll of Honour, but his star had reached its zenith by his three-year-old autumn, and those greater suns, Comedy King and Trafalgar, obscured his lesser light until it finally sank beneath the horizon. There was a rich vintage just at this period of our history: Trafalgar, Alawa, Comedy King, Prince Foote. It was when Comedy King was a four-year-old and Trafalgar a five-year-old that the real fun began. The latter was a chestnut horse by Wallace from Grand Canary, by Splendor from a Lapidist mare, and to see him walking out for his afternoon exercise, or lagging along in the saddling paddock, you would never, as a casual spectator, have taken him for anything but a rather lazy, spiritless, washy old gelding. He was sleepy, indifferent to his surroundings, careless of the calls of love, or of what the next hour might bring in the shape of a tussle with some worthy foe.
Comedy King, a rich brown, with fire in his eye, and in his every movement, with a skin like satin, showing every vein as he paced along, was the very antithesis of his great rival. He had been imported by Mr. Sol. Green, at his mother’s side, and he was by King Edward’s horse Persimmon, out of Tragedy Queen, a Gallinule mare.
Prince Foote was a great three-year-old. But his nine victories at that age left their effects upon him, and he only started three times as a four-year-old, winning the Chelmsford and running second in the A.J.C. Spring Stakes to Comedy King, beating Trafalgar, Pendil, etc. The Chelmsford came early in the spring, and here, with the exception of Maltine, he had not much to beat. As a three-year-old, however, he won the Chelmsford again, against a large field, including that great miler, Malt King; the A.J.C. Derby, from Patronatus and Danilo; the V.R.C. Derby, the Melbourne Cup, carrying two pounds over weight-for-age; the V.R.C. Leger; the Champion Stakes from Pendil; the A.J.C. Leger; the A.J.C. Plate, from Pendil and Trafalgar; and the Cumberland Stakes, two miles, from the same couple. Yes, he was a “great” three-year-old.
Between Trafalgar and Comedy King it was a case of “pull devil, pull baker,” so long as they were running at a distance not beyond a mile and a half. After that Trafalgar was the master. For, although Comedy King beat the chestnut in the Cup, the latter was giving weight, and I do not think that many people, with the exception of Comedy King’s backers, were altogether satisfied that Trafalgar had had a clear run. The black horse, at three years, won the Futurity at Caulfield, with a twenty-one pound allowance; as a four-year-old he took the Cup, the St. George’s Stakes, the Essendon Stakes, the All-Aged Stakes, and the Autumn Stakes. And at five years the Eclipse again fell to him, after which he retired. But Trafalgar, his arch enemy, secured twenty-four high-class races, and raced on until he was seven years old. He won at distances varying between nine furlongs and three miles, but the farther he went the better he liked it, and, strangely enough, he appeared to be gaining in speed as he grew older. And he never left an oat in his manger, and would clean up everything that was offered him, even when undergoing a course of physic, while his legs were of iron. I would not have liked to go into his box by myself, nor without his boy at his head. He was a sour old dog, and did not like to be disturbed in his castle. I have seen him “round” on his trainer and eject him without much ceremony from his box when in an ill humour. But I have no doubt that after he went out of training, and had liberty, and not too much strapping, he became the mildest mannered horse that ever won a race or cut a rival’s throat. I fear, however, that he is not a success at the stud, although a sure foal-getter. Comedy King, on the other hand, sires innumerable gallopers, from hurdle jumpers up to the winners of the greatest prizes to be gained on the turf to-day. And I think you would have anticipated the destiny of the pair had you seen them often in their daily lives.
Of the horses of the last lustrum it is difficult to speak, and, indeed, before history has had time to give her verdict, it might be injudicious to open one’s mouth. But I can safely say this: I never saw a performance in my life which equalled that of Artilleryman in the Melbourne Cup of 1919. He had been a somewhat uncertain performer in his two-year-old days. As a three-year-old he had run Richmond Main, a very good colt, a dead heat in the A.J.C. Derby, and had been well beaten by the same horse in the V.R.C. classic event, a few weeks after. But there were extenuating circumstances, I admit, in the latter race. In the Cup, three days later, running next the rails, and in a fair, but not a too flattering position as the field streamed to the bend, Lewis, his rider, perceiving a clear space ahead of him, shot his colt through, and in a very few seconds the contest was all over. Artilleryman, with his weight-for-age on his back, simply squandered the field. The official verdict was six lengths. The photographers made it at least a dozen. The eyesight of the excited spectators pronounced the gap between the winner and Richmond Main, the second horse, at anything varying between a hundred yards and a quarter of a mile. From a coign of vantage, unhampered by the crowd, and in a semi-official capacity, I judged the brown horse to be over ten lengths to the good as he passed the winning post. This great colt won his autumn engagements at Flemington, although to the professional eye there was something not quite all right about his physical state at that time. Nevertheless, he travelled on to Sydney, where he was badly beaten in all his engagements. It then transpired that all was not well with him. A swelling had made its appearance both on the outside and on the inside of his near thigh, and his near hock was enlarged. Unfortunately, the trouble went on from bad to worse, and in a few months this great son of Comedy King succumbed, dying, strange to say, within a few hours of Mr. Alec Murphy, who was a partner in the horse with his friend Sir Samuel Hordern.
The verdict, as I write, has not yet been pronounced upon the risen sun of to-day, Eurythmic. That he is a very good horse indeed, there can be little doubt. That he is a really great one is not yet quite certain. The best of judges point out that Eurythmic has been tremendously lucky; that he has never met anything which can be called great, with the exception of Poitrel, who undoubtedly was a very excellent stayer indeed. At a mile, and, perhaps, at a mile and a half, Eurythmic was superior to game little Poitrel, but we only once saw them meet over a distance of ground, and that was in the Melbourne Cup. Here, giving ten pounds, Poitrel won cleverly, with Eurythmic a good fourth. At weight-for-age, Poitrel would have been giving his rival only six pounds. So that it certainly looks as though the Poitrels “had it on the voices.” But there is just a lingering feeling in the mind that Eurythmic had not yet quite come to his own on that fine spring day when the Cup was decided, and his subsequent form showed very distinct improvement. We shall see. But the name of Poitrel is assuredly one of those “that glow from yonder brass.”
Chapter XIV.
Queens of the Turf.
Of course, there have been infinitely fewer great mares on the turf than there have been famous and great horses. And this is peculiarly noticeable in Australia, for what reason I am unable to say. Thus, since the St. Leger was first instituted in this country until to-day, a mare has only won the race six times. In England, on the other hand, during the same span, a mare has been hailed the winner on fourteen occasions. Perhaps it is for this reason that, when a mare does stamp herself as the best of the year, and perhaps of her generation, she catches the affection of the public even more firmly than does some great horse hero of the course. It may be, too, that there is more sympathy felt by everyone for the weaker vessel, and that naturally, for the crowd, who are composed more of men than of women, it is easier to love anything female as opposed to male. Whatever may be the cause, there it is, anyhow. If you let your mind run back during the last sixty years or so to the racing in the Old Country, the love manifested by the mob for Regalia, Achievement, Caller Ou, Formosa, Hannah, Apology, La Fleche, Sceptre and Pretty Polly was far more firm and enthusiastic than for all the Ormondes, Isonomys, Donovans, Robert the Devils and Persimmons, no matter what their achievements have been. And when it has come to a contest between a colt and a filly in a classic race, the hearts of the people have always seemed to go out to the mare. One can never forget that year, perhaps the most sensational in the history of the turf, when Hermit won the Derby. Whilst this great colt was making romance and story, there was a beautiful mare, Achievement, who was gripping the hearts of everyone interested in the sport of horse racing. She had not had a career of uninterrupted success. And this fact, in a mare, in no way alienates the affection of the people. On the contrary, sympathy flows out to the defeated filly. During the autumn, in the Doncaster St. Leger, she and the Derby winner were destined to meet. I cannot recall a year in which such universal interest was taken in a race. My own household were on tip-toe, and we awaited the result with bated breaths. We were all for “the mare.” There was no rapid dissemination of news in those days such as we “suffer under” to-day. Indeed, we were lucky, or thought ourselves lucky, if we happened to hear a result before the delivery of the morning papers at about ten o’clock next day. We were all at tea on the evening of the great event. It was one of those quiet, warm, brooding days of early autumn, when sounds travel to a great distance. Suddenly we heard the crunching of feet far off, marching up the carriage drive and, we all—“just a wheen callants,” you know—cocked our ears. Was it the news? The footsteps halted at the open front door, and the voice of a neighbour called out loudly, “The mare won by three lengths.” And then, what a cheer burst from us! I should like to hear the same again, in some modern household to-day. But this is but “an old song that sung itself to me, sweet in a boy’s day dream,” and we will pass to a consideration of the few Queens of the Turf in Australia since the beginning of things. We need not revert to the Bessy Bedlams of the early ’forties of the last century, nor the Alice Hawthorns of before the flood. Worthy mares, no doubt, and reverenced by their worshippers, but probably slow gallopers compared to the fliers of to-day.