by Jim Haynes
In those days the weights for the AJC Autumn Carnival were issued in January, and Wakeful, even with the maximum penalty, was thrown into the Doncaster Handicap with 7 st 10 lb (49 kg). She won the famous mile race easily and, with really no preparation as a stayer, ran a gallant third in the Sydney Cup two days later. The AJC immediately rescheduled weight declarations to prevent such a thing happening again.
In the spring Wakeful returned to racing by winning the Caulfield Stakes. She then started favourite in the Caulfield Cup. After stumbling and almost falling in the straight, she recovered to catch Hymettus and the crowd thought she had won. The judge, however, gave the race to Hymettus on the bob of the head—they had taken one and a half seconds off the race record.
Wakeful then won the first of her three consecutive Melbourne Stakes, defeating Hymettus who could only manage fourth placing. She had not been trained for the Melbourne Cup and tired to run fifth in the big race after contesting the lead in the straight with the eventual winner, her stablemate Revenue, who carried 1 stone (6.35 kg) less. MacDonald, who also owned Revenue, did not expect Wakeful to run out the 2 miles, and she started at 10 to 1.
When Wakeful returned to racing in the autumn of 1902, she had been trained and conditioned to stay, her target being the Sydney Cup. She opened her campaign by winning the 1½-mile Essendon Stakes, but on her second outing, over 3 miles, she ran second to Carbine’s daughter La Carabine. In what was perhaps an attempt to toughen up the mare, two days after her second placing Munro started her twice in one day at Flemington. She easily won the All-Aged Stakes over a mile, but could only manage third over 14 furlongs later the same day.
Munro then took the mare to Sydney where, after a three-week break, she proceeded to ‘do a Carbine’ by winning four major races in seven days at the Autumn Carnival. She won the Autumn Stakes over 1½ miles on the first day and, two days later, recorded what was perhaps her greatest victory. Carrying a record weight for a mare of 9 st 7 lb (60.5 kg) she won the Sydney Cup by 2 lengths, taking an amazing three seconds off the race record held by, among others, the mighty Carbine and his champion son Wallace. Three days later she won the All-Aged Stakes over a mile, and two days after that the AJC Plate over 3 miles.
As a six-year-old Wakeful started fifteen times for ten wins, four seconds and a third. Trained to stay, her wins came at distances from 9 furlongs to 3 miles and her placings, all except one at 10 furlongs, were in shorter races. The great mare bypassed the Melbourne Cup that year to concentrate on weight-for-age races. In winning her second Melbourne Stakes, however, she easily defeated The Victory, who won the Melbourne Cup at his next start.
In the twilight of her career, as a seven-year-old, Wakeful raced eight times for three wins, three seconds and a third. It is strange that, considering her amazing record and all her great wins, racing historians consider her best efforts to be two second placings. The first of these was the Caulfield Cup of 1901 when she stumbled only to recover and be unluckily placed second to Hymettus in that dubious judge’s decision, which could only have been guesswork. The second, and most incredible effort of all, came in the champion mare’s final race, the Melbourne Cup of 1903.
The most weight carried by a female horse to win the Cup prior to 1903 was the 7 st 4 lb (46.5 kg) carried to victory by Auraria in 1895. The most weight carried to victory by a mare in the Cup’s entire history was 9 st 1 lb (58 kg), when Makybe Diva won her third Cup in 2005. Wakeful was given 10 st (63.5 kg), still the biggest weight ever allotted to the female sex in the great race’s history, and it is likely to remain so for all time.
The gallant mare raced to the lead half a mile before the finish and led into the straight by 2 lengths, only to be run down by the good stayer Lord Cardigan, carrying 6 st 8 lb (42 kg)—a massive 3 st 5 lb (21.5 kg) less than Wakeful. Lord Cardigan, whose connections had successfully ‘cheated’ the handicapper to get the tough young stayer into the race with a featherweight, won by less than a length. Many experts considered that Wakeful could have beaten Lord Cardigan if jockey Frank Dunn had waited another furlong before going for home on the champion mare.
Wakeful was a very successful broodmare. She produced five winning sons, including Night Watch who won a Melbourne Cup, and the great sprinter Blairgour, who won an Oakleigh Plate and a Futurity Stakes. Her daughters were not successful on the track but two, San Repos and Camilla, became great broodmares, producing many good horses and passing Wakeful’s genes down to later generations of good stayers like Frill Prince and Yarramba.
The year after Wakeful’s gallant Cup defeat, the fairer sex had revenge when the aged mare, Acrasia, defeated Lord Cardigan by exactly the same margin as he had beaten Wakeful. The difference was that Acrasia carried 7 st 6 lb (47 kg) and Lord Cardigan carried 9 st 6 lb (60 kg), a ‘turnaround’ in the weights of 5 st 4 lb (33.5 kg) in favour of the mares.
Lord Cardigan was generally acknowledged as Australia’s best racehorse when Wakeful retired. By the imported champion son of St Simon, Positano, out of the good Trenton mare Lady Trenton, Lord Cardigan won the Sydney Cup as well as the Melbourne Cup, but his effort in running second to Acrasia caused him to rupture and he died several days after the Cup, at the age of four. Acrasia was owned by Sydney bookmaker Humphrey Oxenham, who lost her in a card game to Lord Cardigan’s owner, John Mayo, on the eve of the Caulfield Cup, but bought her back the next day for 2000 guineas.
OLD PARDON, THE SON OF REPRIEVE
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
This, in my humble opinion, is the best yarn ever penned about bush racing in colonial times. Written in the days when major races were run in three heats with the winner being the best performed horse over all three, it includes that wonderful description of a heavenly racebook entry, ‘Angel Harrison’s black gelding Pardon, blue halo, white body and wings’.
***
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you’re only a Johnnie
And don’t know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don’t get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young ’un should know.
They bred him out back on the ‘Never’,
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front—and then stay there—was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames—and their pluck to receive—
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating—
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn’t stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He’d race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile and a half,
And we all began to look silly,
While her crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President’s Cup—
Oh! that’s a sweet township—a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It’s ‘win, tie, or wrangle’—to best ’em
You must lose ’em, or else it’s ‘dead heat’.
We strolled down the township and found ’em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they
had, why they drowned ’em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good ’uns and fit ’uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! How we rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow—
‘There was plenty of milk in our tea.’
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would ‘put us away’.
Experience docet, they tell us,
At least so I’ve frequently heard,
But, ‘dosing’ or ‘stuffing’, those fellows
Were up to each move on the board:
They got to his stall—it is sinful
To think what such villains would do—
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley—green barley—to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog—
The girths wouldn’t nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner—
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
’Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the ‘books’ calling the doubles—
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang ‘Any price Pardon, I lay!’
Says Jimmy, ‘The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath today.’
Three miles in three heats—ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don’t see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half a mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn’t earn much of their damper
In a race like the President’s Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed—
You’d kick your hat faster, I’ll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
‘We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don’t spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat—if he can—
He’ll earn a disqualification;
Just think over that, now, my man!’
Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn’t gallop a yard;
And then people thought that we did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of ‘Any price Pardon!’ were grand.
We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us—why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.
They’re off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed—
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, ‘Now or never! The old ’un
May reckon with some of ’em yet.’
Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens—
The pace at the first had been fast—
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he came sailing—
I knew that the battle was won—
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare—
He’s in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!
Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of ‘Ten to one on!’
‘Who’ll bet on the field? I back Pardon!’
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe;
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed ’em the method to travel—
The boy sat as still as a stone—
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.
***
But he’s old—and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don’t want no harping nor singing—
Such things with my style don’t agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There’s music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p’raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on
’Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
‘Angel Harrison’s black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.’
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He’ll rush to the front, I believe;
And you’ll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
INTRODUCTION—CHAMPIONS AND FAVOURITES
Here is a random selection of stories about champions and f
avourite horses from the modern era, that is, ‘since Phar Lap’, as they say in racing.
There is, unfortunately, only so much space in a book like this to tell the great stories of the legends and the lovable favourites of more recent times. To leave out champions like Flight, Rising Fast, Vain, Gunsynd, Manikato, Dulcify, Might and Power, and crowdpleasers such as Wenona Girl, Tails and Apache Cat, breaks my racing tragic’s heart; but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.
How good were our top-class international racing ambassadors such as Choisir, Takeover Target and Miss Andretti in the UK, Elvstroem in Dubai, Sailor’s Guide in the USA, and Karasi in Japan? Those stories, however, must wait for another time.
This section contains a handful of stories about some of the many great and wonderful horses we have loved over the past few generations. Other champions of this era, such as Mosstrooper, Crisp, Light Fingers and Makybe Diva, have their stories told in other sections of this collection.
HERE’S A STAYER
JIM HAYNES
‘Here’s a stayer!’
These were the words Frank McGrath said to his stable foreman when he first set eyes on the flashy Peter Pan.
It was a summer’s day in 1932 when the colt arrived at McGrath’s stables near Randwick racetrack, and the leggy chestnut with the silver mane and tail was already well into his two-year-old season.
McGrath was renowned as a trainer of stayers. He had trained Prince Foote to win the Melbourne Cup in 1909 and Peter Pan’s owner, Rodney Dangar, thought the astute and patient trainer would be just the man to get the best out of his beautiful colt.
Dangar was a patient man himself. He had left Peter Pan to gallop and grow in the paddock at his family property near Singleton, New South Wales, well past the time when most promising thoroughbreds would be shipped off to training stables. He was happy to send his staying prospect to a trainer of the old school, a man who had won his only Melbourne Cup more than two decades before.
Peter Pan was the result of one of those ‘happy chance’ matings, a friendly gesture that was actually a last-minute afterthought on the part of Dangar’s neighbour Percy Brown.
Brown had booked five mares to go to the imported stallion Pantheon. Pantheon had been brought out from Britain to race in Australia and was a very good stayer. His eight wins included the Rosehill Cup, the C.B. Fisher Plate and two AJC Randwick Plates over 2 miles. He started favourite, at 9 to 4, in the 1926 Melbourne Cup and finished third, ridden by the famous Jim Pike. He was placed a further eighteen times, giving him a good record for a stayer of 27 wins and placings from 34 starts.
