Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  Then at evening inspection Mr de Mestre checked him over again. He was concerned still, but said he had great faith in Paddy Egan. He could work wonders with injured horses.

  Tonight I asked Tom if I could maybe sleep near Archy and make sure he was all right in the night, and he said yes. I hope that liniment works. There can’t be much smells worse. Flattus got one whiff of it and hasn’t been seen since.

  Thursday 24th October

  Archy’s leg was still bad this morning and he was limping a lot. Barney and Tom took the other two walking, but this afternoon Tom said we should get Archy doing a little exercise so he doesn’t stiffen up.

  We walked him slowly round the block and you could smell the liniment still. Then we noticed people staring at him and whispering, maybe thinking he was one of the visiting racehorses limping. So he’d be no match for the Melbourne favourite, Mormon, now short-priced with the bookies.

  We passed one couple whispering and I said out loud to Tom, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have made Archer walk all the way from Terara. It must be 500 miles. He’ll be too done in now to win the Melbourne Cup.’

  The couple looked at each other and hurried off, maybe to their bookmaker. Tom went red to the roots of his hair, he was so angry. Then he stopped and started to laugh—a real big belly laugh—slapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Clever thinking, Robby. That’ll have them guessing.’

  And he said not to worry. We’d get Archy down to the beach soon for more swimming. That’d be good for him and would help him heal.

  I hope he’s right.

  Friday 25th October

  The other horses can smell the liniment and they don’t like it one bit. They back away from Archy when he comes near them, but if it works and makes him well so he can race, who cares how it smells!

  This morning we lead him back to the forge so Paddy can check him. He says the leg’s coming along ‘foine’ and once the bandage is off Archy can go swimming. We’re about to leave when Paddy wants to show me something. He takes an envelope and in it there’s a dried-up little plant—green still, but pressed and with four heart-shaped leaves. I ask what it is and he puts his hand on his heart.

  O the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock,

  Chosen leaf of bard and chief,

  Old Erin’s native shamrock.

  I’m none the wiser till he says it’s come all the way from Ireland and if I hold it in my hand and wish for something really hard, it’ll come true.

  So I wish for Archy to win the Cup and Inheritor to come second. Then Paddy tells us the bandage’ll be off tomorrow and if Tom cares to bring him back on race morning he’ll fix Archy up with some special racing plates he’s made. I can see Tom wondering why Archy needs plates, till Paddy says, ‘You want him to fly loik the wind? These are light surely. There’s not another blacksmith in Melbourne makes them as light.’ Tom says he’ll have to ask Mr de Mestre and if he says yes, we’ll be back with two horses to be shod for the Cup.

  ‘That being the case,’ says Paddy, ‘you’d best come at the crack o’ dawn, since there’s others to attend to.’

  Monday 28th October

  Soon as the bandage came off we had Archy down swimming yesterday and again this morning, and you can see already he’s much better. I asked Tom what Paddy meant by racing plates and he said they were something new—horseshoes lighter than normal, to make it easier for a horse to run fast. But not so light that they can’t walk on the road to the course. Mr de Mestre says they’re worth a try.

  ‘But what’s special about Paddy’s plates?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by him. Paddy’s a businessman. He probably tells all the owners his special plates will make their horse win the Cup.’

  Archer’s not back racing yet, but Barney and Tom took the other two to the park this afternoon to warm them up. I stayed with Archy.

  Thursday 31st October

  When Mr de Mestre came to do his inspection this evening, he told us he’d been to the Victoria Turf Club today to find out which horses will be running. Fifty-seven were entered from New South Wales, South Australia and Victoria, but it’s now down to twenty-something running and there’ll be more scratchings still.

  He said some of the papers aren’t keen on this Cup. They’re saying that having a handicap as the biggest race of the year is like taking a brumby out of a mob and selling it for 30 shillings, then claiming it’s as good as or better than the best horse in the land. The papers reckon it’s a mad idea and is bound to fail.

  Mr de Mestre laughed when he told us this. So did Tom.

  Tom said later, no offence to Mr de Mestre, but most races are for owners and fancy horses. The Derby in England is for the rich, but this race is different. A handicap means that every horse will have a chance.

  The papers don’t mention Archer. They know he’s from Sydney, but they don’t know how good he is or that his grandsire, Touchstone, won the English St Leger.

  We had the horses out early this morning exercising them along the beach. The sand was hard packed, so we knew Archy wouldn’t stumble. Tom said if it was good enough to test the Cobb & Co coaches on when they first came out from America, it was good enough for our racehorses.

  Afterwards we took them swimming.

  Archy’s getting better every day.

  Friday 1st November

  When we were out walking the horses this morning, Tom insisted on buying a newspaper to see if they were mentioned. He plans to get one every day now till the Cup, so we’ve got something to keep when it’s all over. But there was nothing.

  The paper only says that it’s a four-race programme on Thursday, with the Melbourne Cup on third. And it tells people how they can get to the course, so there’s no excuse not to go. There’ll be coaches along the Fleming Road, leaving Bourke Street next to the Albion Hotel. Then trains from Spencer Street Station. A return ticket to Saltwater River Station, that’s on the course, costs 1/6d First Class, or Second Class 1/- return. If you buy a return ticket you can afford to lose all your money at the races and still catch the train home!

  There’ll be some people who’ll go by river steamer and others will want to row themselves upriver. The rest will go the same way we do—by shanks’s pony. Walking.

  We’re hoping a really big crowd turns up on Cup day.

  Saturday 2nd November

  I’ve been giving Archy extra walks—nothing too hard, but to make up for what he’s missed on account of his sore leg. As we walk I talk to him about the race and remind him how hard he’s been training. I tell him he’s won lots of races already, so he knows what this is all about. Then I say that we’ve come all this way and it’s the first time there’s been a Melbourne Cup. That it’s a big race and it’d be really nice if he won it. Exciting, too, since he’ll be able to go back to Terara and tell all his stable mates how well he’s done. Archy nods and his tongue hangs out a bit like he’s really thoughtful, so I think maybe he does understand what I’m saying.

  Tuesday 5th November

  This morning when Tom and Barney come back from walking the other horses, they’ve got these long faces. Then they say everyone in Melbourne is sad. They’re all glued to their newspapers, reading. So Tom bought The Age to see what’s got them so gloomy, and it’s Wills’s diary. He was with Burke on the expedition and his diaries tell all about how Golah the camel was too weak to go on, so he got left behind. Then Billy the horse couldn’t walk any more, so they killed and ate him. He tasted tender, but there was no meat on him. And Rajah, the last camel—when he couldn’t get up, they ended up eating him too.

  Tom was right about how those animals would suffer. The expedition was all Burke’s idea. The horses didn’t ask to go on it. Any more than racehorses ask to race. But at least racehorses are treated well. And fed.

  When Tom’s finished with the paper, I read what Wills wrote last.

  Clear cold night, slight breeze from the E, day beautifully warm and pleasant. Mr Burke suffers greatly from the cold an
d is getting extremely weak; he and King start to-morrow up the creek to look for the blacks, it is the only chance we have of being saved from starvation. I am weaker than ever. Nothing now but the greatest good luck can save any of us; and as for myself I may live four or five days if the weather continues warm. My pulse is at forty-eight and very weak and my legs and arms are nearly skin and bone. I can only look out, like Mr Micawber, ‘for something to turn up’.

  And that chokes me up. Mr Micawber from David Copperfield always reminds me of Pa, still waiting for his bit of land to turn up.

  Tom’s looking a bit down, too, and says suddenly, ‘You know what this means? No-one’s going to feel like going to the races on Thursday.’

  ‘Not even for the Melbourne Cup?’ Barney asks, but all Tom says is that he hopes he’s wrong. It’ll be terrible if we’ve come all this way and no-one turns up.

  Then this afternoon we take the horses out walking and I see what he means. The whole city’s come over sad. It’s like a grey blanket’s been spread over everything. Black banners and rosettes are up on all the bluestone buildings, they make them look even sadder. You can almost feel the gloom, like we’re wading through thick black mud. No-one’s talking about the Cup. Maybe it’ll be called off. How awful.

  Wednesday 6th November

  Me and Tom and Barney have decided. We’re not going to let it get us down. There are still twenty-one horses entered. Maybe there’ll be some more scratched tomorrow.

  This afternoon we walked them, but Tom says they’re to have a good rest tonight.

  Then later he says we all need cheering up. So he starts playing a few tunes on his tin whistle and then suddenly stops. Says this one’s just for the horses and he puts down his whistle and starts singing.

  De Melbourne ladies sing dis song

  Doo-dah! doo-dah!

  De Melbourne race-track five miles long

  Oh! Doo-dah day!

  I come down dah wid my hat caved in,

  Doo-dah! doo-dah!

  I go back home wid a pocket full of tin,

  Oh! doo-dah day!

  Gwine to run all night!

  Gwine to run all day!

  I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag,

  Somebody bet on de bay.

  And I start shouting, ‘The bay! The bay. Archy’s in the song. It means he’s going to win!’ Archer whipped his head round at this, but quick as a flash, Barney turns on me.

  ‘Inheritor’s a bay, too,’ he says and he thumps me one, hard on the arm.

  I thump him back and Tom says, ‘If you two don’t cut it out right this minute I’ll thump the pair of you myself and neither of you will go to the Cup.’

  That stops us. Dead. Good as gold we are, after that. Then he tells us Archer’s 8–1 in the latest betting and Inheritor’s 12–1. He heard it from Mr de Mestre.

  It’s night now and I’m too excited to be nervous. Archy can do it, I know he can. I just have to be patient till tomorrow.

  Thursday 7th November

  I can’t believe it—it’s midday already! Bright sun, clear sky, gentle breeze. Four horses were scratched this morning, so seventeen will start. Inheritor and Archer are both in. There’s a rumour going round that big money’s been laid on Archy since yesterday. He’s 6–1 and Inheritor’s 8–1.

  I hardly slept last night. By sunrise I was dressed in my new best shirt and jacket, ready to take the horses to Paddy’s for their racing plates.

  ‘Light as air,’ Paddy tells us. ‘Sure and they’ll be dancing down the straight like two of them balleyrinas.’

  Mr de Mestre comes round to the stalls looking a proper gent in a rich velvet coat and topper. ‘The weather is indeed propitious, gentlemen!’ he says and sails off to watch the mile-and-a-half Maiden Plate. Then the Two-year-old Stakes, three-quarters of a mile. The Melbourne Cup’s not on till three thirty-five.

  Tom points out the Clerk of the Course in his pink hunting jacket, which is red, if you ask me. The crowd’s not huge—maybe 4000, Tom thinks—but there have been people pouring in all morning. They’re milling round the refreshment tents mostly and across the river they’re having picnics.

  Barney wants to see the performing monkeys, the giants and bearded ladies, but Tom says we’re here for the racing, not the other sights. But even he wonders if some of the punters will visit the fortune-teller’s tent before the Cup.

  Coaches keep unloading passengers. The huge Leviathan takes twenty-two greys with four postillions riding left. Passengers are hanging out the sides and windows. There are other coaches too, with eight black horses, blue ribbons and rosettes in their manes. They sweep round in front of the grandstand in figure-8s and send the crowd wild. There’s everything from frock coats and silk toppers to red and blue miners’ shirts and the publicans are doing a roaring trade.

  Sir Henry Barkly comes round to the Saddling Paddock to see the horses and talk to the owners. He’s tall, even without a topper, and has this long face with curly side-whiskers above a floppy bow-tie. I wonder if Archer knows it’s the Governor who’s been patting him.

  Mormon’s still short-priced favourite at 3–1 and carrying the top weight of 9 stone 10 pounds.

  I’ll have to stop here. Tom wants me to walk them again.

  Later

  The starter, Mr Watson, in a fancy striped jacket, waistcoat and shiny topper, is on his mount, ready. Owners and trainers are instructing their jockeys. Barney legs McCabe up on Inheritor and he trots him over to the start. He’s wearing black silks but with a red and black cap.

  The crowd hasn’t bothered Archy. There was even a moment I thought he’d dozed off. But I’ve told him, ‘This is serious. You can do this, Archy. Look for the winning-post on the river side and don’t forget to run anti-clockwise!’ And he paws the ground as if he knows. I help Johnny mount him. Cutts is in all black.

  I have to stop. There’s a hush fallen on the crowd. The starter’s raised his flag. They’re all set to go in the Melbourne Cup of 1861.

  Midnight 7th November

  He did it! Archer won. The first Melbourne Cup! It’s midnight and I’m worn out, but too excited still to sleep. Tom’s letting me stay up a bit to finish this. My ears were ringing all through the race, I was shouting so much. And Tom was grinning fit to split as well. Even Barney was churned up.

  But Twilight nearly ruined the start. She came over all skittish before they could get Haynes up and she took off right round the course, leaving the others standing! They caught her and brought her back. But she thought she’d won.

  They lined up again. Got away well this time. Flatcatcher was first, followed by Archer, then Mormon, Prince, Dispatch and the rest in a bunch. Heads were moving up and down as they settled into stride, along the straight and Flatcatcher was two lengths ahead of Archer.

  Round the first sharp turn they went. Medora missed, slipped, her two front legs gave way and she fell heavily, bringing Henderson down with her. Dispatch rounded the turn and, crashing into her, careered headlong into the picket fence, hurling Morrison onto the track, squealing as she somersaulted forward in a heap.

  Horses and riders were lying there still on the track, hooves pounding down around them.

  Twilight made the turn and collapsed into the pile, pulling Haynes down, the rest of the field veering out and round them. The crowd was desperate to pull the jockeys off the track, before they came round a second time.

  Round the turn again and Archer led easily from Antonelli, then Mormon close behind, followed by Prince and Toryboy. Cowan was using the whip and spur on Antonelli and he moved up to take the lead, then came Prince, followed by Flatcatcher starting to fall back. Twilight had struggled to her feet and was off again, dragging Haynes, trying hard to hold her back, till she broke free of her bridle and took off, galloping across the course and was now out of the race.

  Fireaway went after Mormon and Archer, then at the river turn, Cutts gave Archer his head. Antonelli and Toryboy were still close behind, Mormon dropping back a
little, but still in it.

  By the time they reached the abattoir stand Antonelli was starting to tire and fell back. Then Archer saw his chance and took it. The rest of the field was spreadeagled behind him and starting to fall back. It was Archer in the lead, three lengths ahead of the favourite, Mormon, as they headed into the home stretch.

  And then we started to hear it, that roar, the pounding thunder of hooves like a giant rolling underneath us as they raced past the winning-post.

  And it was Archer first, then Mormon—Archer beating the favourite by a full six lengths—followed by Bishop bringing Prince in a close third.

  ‘They wanted him to win!’ I yelled and Tom was shouting, ‘Must have!’ And we were jigging around, hugging each other. Then Cutts brought Archer off the track and I reached up to pat Archy and he bent down and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Three minutes fifty-two seconds. That’s slow,’ said Tom.

  ‘He can do much better,’ I said.

  ‘It’s all that grass,’ said Tom. ‘Half-scythed. They had to race down the middle.’

  Simpson dismounted from Mormon and said he was held up by the fall and the grass didn’t help. It was a foot high in some places, three feet in others.

  Then Mr de Mestre came rushing up and looked like he was about to toss Johnny in the air, he was so excited, till Tom managed to calm him enough to shake hands with the Governor. Then Sir Henry presented him with a hand-beaten gold watch and cheque for £930! Mr de Mestre was grinning so much you’d think he’d won half a dozen St Legers as well!

  Then I turned and caught sight of Barney, his face a mix of tears and smiles. He was happy for me, but he so wanted Inheritor to win, or at least come second, but he came ninth. McCabe led him over and said he was spooked by the fall and never came good after that.