Bill the Bastard

by Roland Perry

  The Jericho Cup was not a handicap race so Khartoum, who carried an ex-professional Sydney jockey, was the out and out favourite. By the beginning of the event punters could not put a bet on him. Bookies, some experienced operators from Melbourne and Sydney, had never seen such a huge plunge in percentage terms compared to other competitors. There was one bet of 750 pounds from Cairo, and the bookies suspected a former owner of Khartoum in play. Some wagers were around 50 quid, a year’s income for a serviceman.

  Some spectators wandered close to the ‘track’, which was a crescent shape running the three miles. Most in the crowd wore headgear to protect them from the sun and sat on sand mounds around the course. Some found meagre shade from palms at the only oasis, where a well dispensed water about fifty metres beyond the finish line. A makeshift horse trough was set up for the thirsty competitors after they reached the line.

  The first four races were largely non-events. Some horses gave up before the end of the mile races, others crashed into each other. Two went lame struggling over the sand and had to be shot. One was bitten by a scorpion and had to be retired for treatment while another poor mare appeared to have been bitten by an asp and collapsed. A trooper arrived with a rifle to put it down but the animal died before he could take aim.

  The crowd seemed listless and disinterested, except for the Anzacs, who were betting on every race. Against orders, many of the troopers had alcohol and were becoming boisterous, then obstreperous, in the trying heat. Fights broke out. Military police waded into the crowd near the finishing post and made a dozen arrests.

  Meanwhile Paterson sat in his office at Moascar with about forty trainers crowded around a cable machine which would send a placings report for each minute of the Jericho Cup. At Jaffa, hundreds of troopers hovered near the officers’ HQ waiting for word on the first three place-getters.

  At 6 pm in the Jordan Valley the heat had been taken out of the day and the humidity was at its lowest. The fifteen starters in the Jericho Cup variously sauntered, trotted, pranced and cantered to the start line. There were no stalls, just a taut rope across the track which would be dropped when signalled by the starter’s revolver.

  Mullagh was the only jockey to ride bareback. In the scores of truncated rides he had had on Bill, he found this was the best way to go. He was also the only rider not to mount up on the way to the start line. An officer acting as the chief steward asked him why he had not done so.

  ‘I can’t risk it,’ Mullagh said, clearly suffering from nerves. ‘I don’t want him to bolt before the race begins.’

  Mullagh had walked Bill for an hour at dawn. He had taken him for a nailbiting short run of about a furlong before a long drink and a further relaxing walk. His lungs were opened. While the other races were on Mullagh had walked him a third time and had risked another ride, a quick second furlong dash.

  One writer to record the event was the author and cricket specialist A Sumner Reed, who had covered the Melbourne races when a junior reporter at the Herald. He was a member of the brigade’s brass band, which had struck up before each race. After drumming in the earlier events, the balding 50-year-old Anglo-Australian retired to write a full report on the event. He positioned himself on horseback halfway around the course and took notes, which he would have typed up for posterity. He, like all the other onlookers, had no idea that the race was part of a ruse to fool the Turks into a false sense of security.

  Reed was intrigued by all the impressive thoroughbreds but planned to watch Bill the Bastard with particular interest. He had seen quite big side-bets put on the distance that the big Waler would travel before he removed his jockey. Most picked the first half-mile for Mullagh’s dislodgement.

  Just before the betting books were closed at 6 pm a gentle plunge was placed from Jaffa by Chook Mulherin, who put ten pounds on Bill at 50 to 1. He had placed the bet ten hours earlier in a cable despatch to Jericho HQ and it had just reached the bookie concerned.

  The bookie with a booming voice laughed at the bet. ‘This is the second bet I’ve taken for the Bastard to finish the race with the jockey still on ’im!’ he roared to a fellow bookie a few yards away. ‘The rest are on where he will buck his rider off, with the exception bein’ the bloody jockey himself! Mullagh put a fiver on. Felt sorry for him and gave him 50 to 1.’

  ‘Is he allowed to bet on himself?’

  ‘Only if he reckons he’ll stay on.’

  They both laughed.

  The stewards began to line up the horses as best they could.

  ‘Get on him or I’ll disqualify him,’ the chief steward ordered Mullagh.

  In between exercises, Bill had been quite gentle all day but that meant nothing with his mercurial character. Mullagh kept one eye on Khartoum, knowing that these two had a ‘history’. The big black stallion was near the ‘fence’, or left of the track. Mullagh took Bill to the far side, where no other jockey wanted to be. Then he took a breath and mounted him. Bill remained impassive. Mullagh patted him.

  Bill wandered up to the line. Ringing in Mullagh’s ears were Shanahan’s words of advice two years earlier: ‘Show Bill respect all the time and he will give it back, most of the time . . . Never hit him or yell at him. Keep a long rein. Don’t jerk him ever, but be firm. Let him know what you want. If he is feeling good, he will do some if not all of what you want . . . Never dig a stirrup into him. Use a gentle heel. Heel and hands, that’s what he responds to. Sweet words of praise in his ear never hurt. He knows your voice. Stroke his mane. You must have an inner rapport with Bill . . . He has to believe in you . . . Remember, this animal is the smartest four-legged anything that you will ever meet . . . Respect his intelligence . . . Embrace it and give it a chance to breathe and create . . .’

  Mullagh looked along the line-up and noticed he was the only rider without a whip. The starter’s gun fired and the horses began raggedly. Mullagh used a feather-touch of his hand on Bill, who responded by building slowly from a light gallop to something resembling an interest in being in touch with the field. Khartoum blazed to the lead early, followed by Tut 1 and Blackham. Tut 2 was in a difficult mood and well back in the field after the first two furlongs.

  Mullagh kept up an encouraging chat in Bill’s ear but tried not to sound too urgent. He lifted himself off the horse’s back to give Bill some sense of freedom from his rider. Mullagh recalled Shanahan telling him: ‘He is used to me and he accepts my weight, my presence. But if you are on him, try to make it seem as if you are not on him, like a jockey. It will help.’

  Bill was running second last as they passed the rough first mile post marked by two palm trees near a disused well. Mullagh kept his head down, only looking up to see how far behind he was. All the horses were finding the going tough. The track was ‘heavy’, not from rain but the occasional thick layers of sand that made it a plough for every runner. Bill was pulling through well but his pace was slow. At a mile and two furlongs he was neck and neck for last place. The next furlong was very slow, even for the front runner Khartoum, who was forty metres in front of Tut 1 and Blackham, fighting out second place. The sand was deep and soft. All the horses pushed hard. The whips were out everywhere.

  A Sumner Reed had positioned himself high on a sand-hill at the halfway mark. He could see the complete field. He used binoculars to watch Bill and noticed that Mullagh was stroking his neck all through the tough plough of that stretch. Bill was pulling harder than any horse. He pounded past six competitors and was running eighth when they all emerged onto red dirt. Reed saw something else from his vantage point. Bill was the only horse moving at pace. He was making up ground on the middle bunch. Reed pushed his horse down the slope and was galloping ahead of the front runners on a flat stretch next to the track. He reached the two mile point and looked back. Khartoum had stretched his lead to fifty metres but, like all the runners, he was struggling. He had done his training length run of the Melbourne Cup and seemed to be slackening off. His jockey was using the whip so much that the horse seemed distracted.
The same applied to Tut 1 and Tut 2, who were gaining on the leader. The rider on Blackham was the only one not using the whip apart from Mullagh. Reed stopped to take notes. He scribbled ‘Bill, Fifth—one mile to go’. He watched as Bill grunted past, his nostrils flaring and pulling in the oxygen for his big lungs. Mullagh was hanging on, his derriere well above Bill’s back. Reed galloped on but could not keep pace with the front runners.

  At two miles and a furlong, Khartoum was being challenged by Tut 2, who had settled down and was running on better than the others.

  Mullagh felt in harmony with Bill for the first time in perhaps all their rides. The race had now been going for more than three minutes and Bill had not attempted even a playful buck. He seemed to be concentrating on what was ahead. At two-and-a-half miles, Bill was still running fifth. He could smell the water. Mullagh had given him a fair drink in the morning, although this had been against the race guidelines, which had suggested that a horse would run better without water for a day.

  At two miles, five furlongs the front runners had bunched. Khartoum was still in the lead but by only two lengths, with Blackham second, Tut 2 third and Tut 1 fourth. Bill was a further three lengths behind, but Reed reckoned Bill had moved faster than any horse over the past mile. His tremendous strength was beginning to tell.

  Half the spectators were bunched around the finishing tape three furlongs away. Their animated cheering could be heard floating over the thick evening air. Two furlongs from the finish, Blackham and Khartoum were neck and neck. Blackham’s jockey was using the whip for the first time. Bill had caught Tut 1 and Tut 2. Mullagh felt a thrill up his spine as he realised Bill was actually trying to pace and beat the others, something not evident in the race until this moment. Bill was being his unpredictable self. One furlong out, the desert evening air carried the roar as Bill burnt off Tut 1 and Tut 2. Mullagh was too nervous to urge him on overly hard for fear of a sudden turn-off, but he heard himself say close to Bill’s ear: ‘C’mon, Bill you Bastard! You can take that big black bugger!’

  Khartoum had Blackham beaten 110 metres from the line. Bill moved up and took the game mare too. Khartoum was now only a length in front. Bill moved up close. They were neck and neck as the tape came into view. Bill swerved close and the move seemed to startle Khartoum, who may have had memories of Bill’s attack three years earlier. Fifty metres from the line, Bill’s head was down, his tail straight out. Mullagh now was just riding him without any control at all. Bill edged half a length in front at the tape.

  The cheering was more for the excitement of the competitive finish than the joy of anyone backing a winner. Hundreds of spectators looked on in disbelief as Bill, Khartoum and the others thundered by and were directed towards the water trough. Mullagh tried to pull Bill up but he charged past the trough and straight up a high sand dune. He reached the crest and stopped, sweating and snorting. Mullagh could feel the horse’s mighty heart pounding. He expected Bill to attempt to throw him, but instead he stood pawing the sand and settling himself after such an effort. Mullagh waited for a minute. Bill walked along the crest, as if in triumph at his feat. Mullagh eased him down the slope. Close to the trough, Mullagh relaxed, but just as he did, Bill reared up, catching his jockey by surprise. Mullagh was thrown off. He landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle. It brought a roar of laughter from the onlookers near the trough. Mullagh hobbled about cursing and then limped up to Bill.

  ‘You just had to show me who was boss, didn’t you?’ Mullagh said as he led Bill to the water. A swarm of spectators congratulated Mullagh. He kept patting Bill as he drank.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he repeated to well-wishers, ‘it was Bill. He ran his own race. I was only there for the ride.’

  The crowd admired his modesty, even though Mullagh protested that he meant what he said. Seconds later, he received a surprise when the bookie with whom he had placed the bet sidled up beside him. He shook hands with Mullagh, who felt a rolled-up envelope being pushed into his palm. It contained 250 pounds.

  ‘Put that in your pocket and don’t say nothin’ to no one, young man,’ the bookie said out of the corner of his mouth. Mullagh digested the emphatic triple negative and pocketed the money.

  A hundred kilometres west on the coast at Sarona HQ, a cable operator confirmed the placings: 1, Bill the Bastard; 2, Khartoum; 3, Blackham; and 4, Tut 2.

  ‘I’ve won five hundred quid!’ Mulherin said to Legg as they wandered back to their camp in the groves. ‘That big, beautiful neddie!’

  ‘Jeez! That’s enough to buy a couple of good bush properties back home,’ Legg said.

  ‘I’m going to kiss Mullagh when I see him! How did he bloody well do it?’

  ‘Kiss the major too,’ Legg said. ‘He taught Mullagh how to handle Bill.’

  ‘And you can kiss Bill for me!’

  They reached their tents as night fell and were greeted by a major.

  ‘Get some rest, you blokes,’ he said. ‘We are moving out after midnight.’

  Chauvel’s ruse had worked. The Turks believed that the cavalry/Light Horse thrust would be in the east and not the west. Captured enemy intelligence maps as late as 10 am on 18 September, the day of the Jericho Cup meeting, showed that the Australian mounted division and British cavalry were still thought to be at the base in Jericho, close to where the Cup race was held.

  Learning this, Chauvel decided now was the time to strike.

  Darkness turned the lazy countryside east of Jaffa into a seething mass of movement under moonlit skies. The artillery, cars, men, horses, camels and mules brought up to the front in the last few hours jammed every thoroughfare going north. Silence was imposed, although the creaking of wagons, purr of lorries, crunch of boots on metallic roads and the odd groan of the camels and whinnying of the horses could not be avoided.

  The moon set at 4 am on 19 September 1918 as British troops made their last-minute adjustments to weapons and gear. A half-hour later they attacked on a thirteen-kilometre front in from the coast and confronted the Turks less than two kilometres away. They breached enemy lines and the cavalry and Light Horse rode through the gap.

  Chauvel’s force galloped eighty kilometres on 19 September and took a key Turkish communications centre and rail junction at El Afule. He just missed capturing the senior German commander Liman von Sanders, who had been behind the Turkish stand at Gallipoli and was now running the two Turkish armies in Palestine. He escaped the town of Nazareth in his pyjamas, chauffeured out in a Mercedes.

  The Turks were in disarray and on the run north-west with Chauvel’s horsemen in hot pursuit.

  25

  AN HONOUR FOR THE

  10TH REGIMENT

  Shanahan was pleased to receive a letter from Mulherin, for more reasons than one. It told him of Bill’s ride and win with Mullagh as his jockey, and an envelope within the letter contained a hundred pounds. Mulherin wrote:

  If you hadn’t trained the Bastard and Mullagh, they would never have won the Cup. I backed them and won big. Wanted to give you a little gift in appreciation and knowing that you’ll be strapped for cash with that baby on the way—when is it, next month? Also I wanted to tell you another whisper about your little mate Bill. He has become quite a legend in his own hay-loft. We’ve learnt tonight (27 September) that he has been seconded for a special assignment, as a packhorse, I hasten to add, not a battle-neddie. Harry Chauvel is rumoured to have selected the West’s 10th Regiment to take Damascus any day now. There is something big in his decision. He wanted to send either the 10th or the Vics’ 8th because of them being decimated on Gallipoli. He ordained that one of them should have the chance at ultimate glory. You’ve got to admit General Harry cares about us, and history! We hear the two regiments drew straws. The 10th got it. Their 2IC, a Perth dentist, Arthur Olden, will command the attack. I’ve met him. He is a real character! Some reckon he is as mad as a hatter, and he agrees with them! No one knows if he is joking or not! He tells everybody that all dentists go mad eventually because they use me
rcury in dental fillings. He says hatters were called ‘mad’ because they used mercury blocks to shape top hats! At the very least the mercury tale is a cunning excuse for his eccentricity. Olden is taking quite a big force—400 troopers—on the Damascus assignment. He must be thinking they’ll be doing some very big looting! Hence the biggest pack-animals, although this does not explain why his requisition sheet specifically asks for ‘Bill the Bastard’. Anyway Bill has left the depot. He would be somewhere south of Damascus as I write . . .

  The neat, trim Captain Arthur Olden rallied his troopers before dawn on 1 October 1918 and they prepared for what all believed could be the ride of their lives. Most had had little sleep while fellow Anzac troopers high in the mountains of the Barada Gorge fired down on some 4000 Turks and Germans who were trying to escape through the narrow gorge passageway from Damascus west to Beirut. The German commanders would not let their Turkish counterparts surrender. Instead of receiving mercy for giving up, they were met with a shower of bullets from the Australians. Every enemy soldier was killed.

  The noise through the night was hideous, but the resting Light Horsemen preparing for the attack on Damascus were used to it. Many of Olden’s 10th Regiment were hardened warriors who had survived Gallipoli and come on the long ride from Cairo to claim revenge against the Turks. This had taken four years. Sleep or no sleep, they were not going to miss what was ahead. They did not expect the easy ‘kangaroo shoot’, as the previous night’s trooper marksmen characterised the ease of hitting the enemy trying to escape through the gorge. For one thing, there were 20,000 Turks holed up in two garrisons, one in Damascus and the other across the river on the approach to the city. They were rumoured to be out of food and ammunition, but no one could be sure. Besides, they were Mustafa Kemal’s troops. He and they had been unforgiving at Gallipoli. To expect anything less this time would be folly and could end in disaster.