Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man

by Siegfried Sassoon

  ‘I’ve asked Tom to put half a crown on for me,’ he said; ‘it’ll be a great day for Butley if you win!’ His blunt nod, as I left him sitting under the shadow of his hooded van, was a send-off which stiffened my faltering ambition to prove myself worthy of being the owner of Cockbird.

  Remembering how I’d bicycled off to the Ringwell Meeting twelve months before, I thought how flabbergasted I should have been if I’d been told that I should be riding in a race there next year. And in spite of that persistent sinking sensation, I was thankful that, at any rate, I had got as far as ‘having a bump round’. For whatever might happen, I was much superior to any of the spectators. Taking my cap off to two elderly ladies, the Miss Pattons, who passed me on their tricycles with bobs and smiles, I wondered whether it was going to rain. Perhaps the sun came out to show that it was going to be a fine afternoon. When I was on the main road I passed Joey, the lizard-faced stone-breaker, who looked up from his flint-hammering to salute me with a grin.

  The sun was still shining when I got to the course; but it was now less easy to believe that I had engaged myself to contribute to the entertainment which was attracting such a crowd of cheerful country folk. I felt extraneous and forlorn. Everyone else seemed intent on having as good a time as possible on such a lovely afternoon. I had come briskly out from Downfield on a two-horse char-a-banc which was waiting outside the station. The journey cost half a crown. Several of my fellow-passengers were ‘bookies’ and their clerks, with their name-boards and giant umbrellas; their jocosities accentuated the crudity of the impact on my mind made by the realistic atmosphere of racing. I did my best to feel as much like a ‘gentleman-rider’ as I could, and to forget that I was making my first appearance in a race.

  The air smelt of trodden turf as I lugged my bag (loaded with fourteen one-pound lead weights) into the dressing-room, which was in a farm building under some elms on the crest of the rising ground which overlooked the sparsely flagged course. After dumping the bag in a corner of the dry-mud floored barn, I went out to look for Cockbird and Dixon. They were nowhere to be seen, so I returned to the dressing-room, reminding myself that Dixon had said he wouldn’t bring ‘our horse’ out there any earlier than he was obliged to, since it would only excite him; I also realized that I should get ‘rattled’ myself unless I kept quiet and reserved my energies for three o’clock.

  The first race was run at two, and mine was the third event on the card, so I bought that absorbing document and perched myself on an old corn-bin to peruse it. ‘Riders are requested to return their number-cloths to the Clerk of the Scales immediately after each race.’ I had forgotten that number-cloths existed, so that was news to me. ‘These Steeplechases are held subject to National Hunt Rules as to corrupt and fraudulent practices.’ A moment’s reflection convinced me that I need not worry about that admonition; it was sufficiently obvious that I had a clean sheet under National Hunt Rules, though it flattered me to feel that I was at last within their jurisdiction.

  After these preliminaries I looked inside the card, at the entries. Good heavens, there were fourteen in my race! Several of the names I didn’t know. Captain Silcock’s ‘Crumpet’. Mr F. Duckwith’s ‘Grasshopper’. Those must be the soldiers who hunted from Downfield. Mr G. Bagwell’s ‘Kilgrubbin III’. That might be – yes, of course, it was – the fat little man on the weedy chestnut, who was always refusing small timber out hunting. Not much danger from him as long as I kept well out of his way at the first fence, and probably he, and several of the others, wouldn’t go to the post after all. My own name looked nice.

  A blue-jowled man in a yellow waistcoat hurried in, exclaiming, ‘Can anybody lend me a weight-cloth?’ I glanced at my bag and resolved that nothing would induce me to lend him mine (which had yet to receive its baptismal instalment of sweat). Several riders were now preparing for the first race, but no one took any notice of me until ginger-haired Roger Pomfret came in. He had been inspecting the fences, and he wiped his fleshy red face with his sleeve as he sat down and started rummaging in his bag. Tentatively I asked him what he thought of the course. I was glad to see someone I knew, though I’d have preferred to see someone else. He chucked me a surly nod, which he supplemented with – ‘Course? I don’t mind telling you, this something course would break the heart of a blank buffalo. It’s nothing but twists and turns, and there isn’t a something fence you could go fast at without risking your something neck, and a nice hope I’ve got on that blank sketchy jumper of Brandwick’s!’

  Before I could think of an answer his boon companion in blasphemy, Bill Jaggett, came in (embellished with a brown billycock hat and black and white check breeches). Jaggett began chaffing him about the something unhealthy ride he was going to have in the Heavy Weights. ‘I’ll lay you a tenner to a fiver you don’t get round without falling,’ he guffawed. Pomfret took the bet and called him a pimply faced bastard into the bargain.

  I thought I might as well get dressed up: when I had pulled my boots on and was very deliberately tucking the straps in with the boot-hook, Stephen strolled in; he was already wearing his faded pink cap, and the same elongated and anxious countenance which I had seen a year ago. No doubt my own face matched his. When we’d reassured one another about the superlative fitness of our horses he asked if I’d had any lunch, and as I hadn’t he produced a bar of chocolate and an orange, which I was glad to get. Stephen was always thoughtful of other people.

  The shouts of the bookies were now loudening outside in the sunlight, and when I’d slipped on my raincoat we went out to see what we could of the Light Weight Race.

  The first two races were little more than the clamour and commotion of a passing procession. The ‘Open Race’ was the main excitement of the afternoon; it was run ‘in colours’, and there were about a dozen dashing competitors, several of them well-known winners in such events.

  But everything connected with this contest reached me as though from a long way off, since I was half-stupefied by yawning nervousness. They appeared to be accomplishing something incredible by galloping round the course. I had got to do it myself in half an hour; and what was worse, Dixon was relying on me to put up a creditable performance. He even expected me to give the others ‘a shaking up’. Stephen had ceased to be any moral support at all: in spite of his success last year he was nearly as nervous as I was, and when the field for the Open Race had filed out of the hurdle-guarded enclosure, which did duty as the paddock, he disappeared in the direction of Jerry and I was left to face the future alone.

  Also, as far as I knew, my horse hadn’t yet arrived, and it was with a new species of alarm that I searched for him after I had seen the race start; the paddock and its environs now looked unfriendly and forsaken.

  I discovered my confederates in a quiet corner under a hayrick. They seemed a discreet and unassuming pair, but Dixon greeted me with an invigorative grin. ‘I kept him away from the course as long as I could,’ he said confidentially; ‘he’s as quiet as a sheep, but he knows what he’s here for; he’s staled twice since we got here.’ He told me that Mr Gaffikin was about and had been looking for me. ‘He says our horse stands a jolly good chance with the going as good as it is.’

  I said there was one place, in and out of a lane, where I’d have to be careful.

  We then escorted Cockbird to the paddock; by the time we were there and I’d fetched my weight-cloth, the Open Race was over and the spectators were trooping back again. Among them was Mr Gaffikin, who hailed me companionably with ‘Hullo, old chap; jolly sporting of you to be having a ride!’ and thereafter took complete charge of me in a most considerate manner, going with me to the weighing tent with the weight-cloth over his arm, while I, of course, carried my saddle.

  The winner of the Open Race was weighing in when we arrived, and I stepped diffidently on to the machine immediately after his glorified and perspiring vacation of the seat. Mr Gaffikin doled out a few leads for me to slip into the leather pouches on the dark blue cloth until I tipped the scale
at fourteen stone. The Clerk of the Scales, an unsmiling person with a large sallow face – he was a corn-merchant – verified my name on the card and handed me my number-cloth and armlet; my number was seven; under less exacting conditions I might have wondered whether it was a lucky number, but I was pushed out of the way by Pomfret. Arthur Brandwick (in a grey bowler) was at his elbow, talking nineteen to the dozen; I caught a glimpse of Stephen’s serious face; Colonel Hesmon was with him behaving exactly the same as last year, except that, having already ‘given the boy the horse’, he could no longer say that he was going to do so if he won the race.

  While Dixon was putting the last testing touches to Cockbird’s straps and buckles, the little Colonel came across to assure me that if Jerry didn’t win there was no one he’d rather see first past the judge’s wagon than me. He added that he’d taken a lot of trouble in choosing the Cup – ‘very nice goblet shape – got it from Stegman & Wilks – excellent old firm in the City’. But his eye wandered away from Cockbird; his sympathies were evidently strongly implicated in Jerry, who was as unperturbed as if he were being put into a brougham to fetch someone from the station.

  Near him, Nigel Croplady was fussing round his horse, with quite a crowd round him.

  The terrific ‘Boots’ Brownrigg was puffing a cigarette with apparent unconcern; his black cap was well over his eyes and both hands were plunged in the pockets of a short blue overcoat; from one of the pockets protruded a short cutting whip. His boots were perfection. Spare built and middle-sized, he looked absolutely undefeatable; and if he had any doubts about his own abilities he concealed them well.

  Stifling another yawn, I did my best to imitate his demeanour. The bookies were bawling ‘Two to one bar one’. Cockbird, stimulated by publicity, now began to give himself the airs of a real restive racehorse, chucking his head about, flattening his ears, and capering sideways in a manner which caused the onlookers to skip hastily out of range of his heels.

  ‘I say, that’s a classy looking quad!’ exclaimed a youth who appeared to have purchased the paddock. He consulted his card, and I overheard his companion, as they turned away, saying something about ‘his jockey looking a bit green’. ‘We’d better back Nigel’s horse. They say he’ll win for a cert.’

  For want of anything else to do at this critical moment I asked Dixon whether he’d put Homeward’s half-crown on. He said, ‘Yes, sir; Mr Gaffikin’s man has just done it for me, and I’ve got a bit on for myself. It’s a good thing; they’re laying five to one about him. Mr Stephen’s horse is at two’s.’

  Mr Gaffikin chimed in with ‘Mikado’s a hot favourite. Two to one on, all along the line!’ Mikado was Croplady’s horse.

  Mr Gaffikin then tied the strings of my cap in a very tight bow; a bell jangled and a stentorian voice shouted, ‘Now, then, gentlemen, I’m going down to the post.’ The blue sky suddenly went white; my heart bumped; I felt dazed and breathless. Then Mr Gaffikin’s remote voice said, ‘Let me give you a leg up, old chap’; I grabbed hold of the reins, lifted an awkward foot, and was lifted airily on to the slippery saddle: Cockbird gave one prance and then stood still; Dixon was holding him firmly by the head. Pressing my knees into the saddle I overheard Mr Gaffikin’s ultimate advice. ‘Don’t go in front unless you can help it; but keep well with ’em.’ They both wished me luck and released me to my destiny.

  I felt as if I’d never been on Cockbird’s back before; everything around me appeared unreal and disconnected from all my previous experience. As I followed Stephen out of the paddock in a sort of equestrian trance I caught sight of his father’s face, pale and fixed in its most strenuous expression; his eyes followed his son, on whose departure he was too intent to be able to take in anyone else. We filed through a gate under some trees: ‘Gentleman George’ was standing by the gate; he stared up at me as I passed. ‘That’s the ’oss for my money,’ was all that he said, but his measured tone somehow brought me to my senses, and I was able to look about me when we got down to the starting place.

  But even then I was much more a passenger than a resolute rider with his wits about him to ‘pinch’ a good start. There were seven others. I kept close to Stephen. We lined up uneasily; while the starter (on his dumpy grey cob) was instructing us to keep the red flags on the right and the white flags on the left (which we already knew) I noticed Pomfret (on a well-bred, excitable brown), and Brownrigg (Croplady’s bright chestnut looking very compact) already stealing forward on the side furthest from him.

  When he said ‘Go’, I went with the others; albeit with no sense of initiative. The galloping hoofs sounded strange. But Cockbird felt strong under me and he flicked over the first fence with level and unbroken stride; he was such a big jumper and so quick over his fences that I had to pull him back after each one in order to keep level with Jerry, who was going his best pace all the way. One of the soldiers (in a top-hat) was making the running with Brownrigg and Pomfret close behind him. At the awkward fifth fence (the one on a bank) Pomfret’s horse jumped sideways and blundered as he landed; this caused Pomfret to address him in uncomplimentary language, and at the next obstacle (another awkward one) he ran out to the left, taking one of the soldiers with him. This, to my intense relief, was the last I saw of him. I took it at a place where a hole had been knocked in it in the previous races. The next thing I remembered was the brook, which had seemed wide and intimidating when I was on foot and had now attracted a small gathering of spectators. But water jumps are deceptive things and Cockbird shot over this one beautifully. (Stephen told me afterwards that he’d ‘never seen a horse throw such an enormous lep’.) We went on up a long slope of firm pasture-land, and I now became aware of my responsibility; my arms were aching and my fingers were numb and I found it increasingly difficult to avoid taking the lead, for after jumping a couple more fences and crossing a field of light ploughland we soared over a hedge with a big drop and began to go down the other side of the hill. Jerry was outpaced and I was level with Mikado and the Cavalry soldier who had been cutting out the work. As Stephen dropped behind he said, ‘Go on, George; you’ve got ’em stone-cold.’

  We were now more than three parts of the way round, and there was a sharp turn left-handed where we entered on the last half-mile of the course. I lost several lengths here by taking a wide sweep round the white flag, which Brownrigg almost touched with his left boot. At the next fence the soldier went head over heels, so it was just as well for me that I was a few lengths behind him. He and his horse were still rolling about on the ground when I landed well clear of them. Brownrigg looked round and then went steadily on across a level and rather wet field which compelled me to take my last pull at Cockbird. Getting on to better ground, I remembered Mr Gaffikin’s advice, and let my horse go after him. When I had drawn up to him it was obvious that Cockbird and Mikado were the only ones left in it. I was alone with the formidable Brownrigg. The difference between us was that he was quite self-contained and I was palpitating with excitement.

  We were side by side: approaching the fourth fence from the finish he hit his horse and went ahead; this caused Cockbird to quicken his pace and make his first mistake in the race by going too fast at the fence. He hit it hard and pecked badly; Brownrigg, of course, had steadied Mikado for the jump after the quite legitimate little piece of strategy which so nearly caused me to ‘come unstuck’. Nearly, but not quite. For after my arrival at Cockbird’s ears his recovery tipped me half-way back again and he cantered on across the next field with me clinging round his neck. At one moment I was almost in front of his chest. I said to myself, ‘I won’t fall off’, as I gradually worked my way back into the saddle. My horse was honestly following Mikado; and my fate depended on whether I could get into the saddle before we arrived at the next fence. This I just succeeded in doing, and we got over somehow. I then regained my stirrups and set off in urgent pursuit.

  After that really remarkable recovery of mine, life became lyrical, beatified, ecstatic, or anything else you care to call it. To p
ut it tersely, I just galloped past Brownrigg, sailed over the last two fences, and won by ten lengths. Stephen came in a bad third. I also remember seeing Roger Pomfret ride up to Jaggett in the paddock and inform him in a most aggressive voice that he’d got to ‘something well pay up and look pleasant’.

  Needless to say that Dixon’s was the first face I was aware of; his eager look and the way he said, ‘Well done’, were beyond all doubt the quintessence of what my victory meant to me. All else was irrelevant at that moment, even Stephen’s unselfish exultation and Mr Gaffikin’s loquacious enthusiasm. As for Cockbird, no words could ever express what we felt about him. He had become the equine equivalent of Divinity.

  Excited as I was, an inward voice cautioned me to control my volubility. So when I had weighed in and returned with my saddle to find a cluster of knowing ones casting an eye over the winner, I just waited soberly until Dixon had rubbed him down, mounted, and ridden serenely out of sight. The Colonel was on the spot to congratulate me on my ‘nailing good performance’ and, better still, to give Dixon his due for having got Cockbird so fit. Those few lofty minutes when he was making much of his horse were Dixon’s reward for all the trouble he had taken since Cockbird had been in his charge. He had needed no such incentive, but he asked for nothing more. While he was on his way back to Downfield he may also have thought to himself how he had made me into a good enough rider to have got round the course without a catastrophe. (He had yet to hear full details of the race – including my peculiar acrobatics toward the end, which had been witnessed by no one except the rider of Mikado, who had been kind enough to tell Croplady that he never saw such a thing in his life, which was, I hoped, intended as a compliment.)