Right Royal | Page 8

took hold,?His teeth were chattered, his hands were cold,?His joy to be there was mixed with dread?To be left at post when they shot ahead.?The horses sparred as though drunk with wine,?They bickered and snatched at taking line.
Then a grey-haired man with a hawklike face?Read from a list each rider's place.?Sitting astride his pommely hack,?He ordered them up or sent them back;?He bade them heed that they jump their nags?Over every jump between the flags.
Here Kubbadar, who was pulling double,?Went sideways, kicking and raising trouble,?Monkery seconded, kicking and biting,?Thunderbolt followed by starting fighting.
The starter eyed them and gave the order?That the three wild horses keep the border,?With men to hold them to keep them quiet.?Boys from the stables stopped their riot.?Out of the line to the edge of the field,?The three wild biters and kickers wheeled;?Then the rest edged up and pawed and bickered,?Reached at their reins and snatched and snickered,?Flung white foam as they stamped their hate?Of passionate blood compelled to wait.
Then the starter shouted to Charles, "Good heaven,?This isn't a circus, you on Seven."?For Royal squirmed like a box of tricks?And Coranto's rider, the number Six,?Cursed at Charles for a green young fool?Who ought to be at a riding school.
After a minute of swerves and shoving,?A line like a half-moon started moving,?Then Rocket and Soyland leaped to stride,?To be pulled up short and wheeled to side.
Then the trickier riders started thrusting,?Judging the starter's mind too trusting;?But the starter said, "You know quite clearly?That isn't allowed; though you'd like it dearly."
Then Cannonade made a sideways bolt?That gave Exception an ugly jolt.?Then the line, reformed, broke all to pieces.
Then the line reforms, and the tumult ceases.?Each man sits tense though his racer dances;?In a slow, jerked walk the line advances.
And then in a flash, more felt than seen,?The flag shot down and the course showed green,?And the line surged forwards and all that glory?Of speed was sweeping to make a story.
One second before, Charles Cothill's mind?Had been filled with fear to be left behind,?But now with a rush, as when hounds leave cover,?The line broke up and his fear was over.?A glimmer of bay behind The Ghost?Showed Dear Adonis still there at post.?Out to the left, a joy to his backer,?Kubbadar led the field a cracker,?The thunder of horses, all fit and foaming,?Made the blood not care whether death were coming.?A glimmer of silks, blue, white, green, red,?Flashed into his eye and went ahead;?Then hoof-casts scattered, then rushing horses?Passed at his side with all their forces.?His blood leapt up but his mind said "No,?Steady, my darling, slow, go slow.?In the first time round this ride's a hunt."
The Turk's Grave Fence made a line in front.
Long years before, when the race began,?That first of the jumps had maimed a man;?His horse, the Turk, had been killed and buried?There in the ditch by horse-hoofs herried;?And over the poor Turk's bones at pace?Now, every year, there goes the race,?And many a man makes doctor's work?At the thorn-bound ditch that hides the Turk,?And every man as he rides that course?Thinks, there, of the Turk, that good old horse.
The thick thorn-fence stands five feet high,?With a ditch beyond unseen by eye,?Which a horse must guess from his urgent rider?Pressing him there to jump it wider.
And being so near both Stand and Post,?Out of all the jumps men haunt it most,?And there, with the crowd, and the undulled nerves,?The old horse balks and the young horse swerves,?And the good horse falls with the bad on top?And beautiful boldness comes to stop.
Charles saw the rush of the leading black,?And the forehands lift and the men sway back;?He steadied his horse, then with crash and crying?The top of the Turk's Grave Fence went flying.?Round in a flash, refusing danger,?Came the Lucky Shot right into Ranger;?Ranger swerving knocked Bitter Dick,?Who blundered at it and leaped too quick;?Then crash went blackthorn as Bitter Dick fell,?Meringue jumped on him and rolled as well.?As Charles got over he splashed the dirt?Of the poor Turk's grave on two men hurt.
Right Royal landed. With cheers and laughter?Some horses passed him and some came after;?A fine brown horse strode up beside him,?It was Thankful running with none to ride him;?Thankful's rider, dizzy and sick,?Lay in the mud by Bitter Dick.
In front, was the curving street of Course,?Barred black by the leaps unsmashed by horse.?A cloud blew by and the sun shone bright,?Showing the guard-rails gleaming white.?Little red flags, that gusts blew tense,?Streamed to the wind at each black fence.
And smiting the turf to clods that scattered?Was the rush of the race, the thing that mattered,?A tide of horses in fury flowing,?Beauty of speed in glory going,?Kubbadar pulling, romping first,?Like a big black fox that had made his burst.
And away and away and away they went,?A visible song of what life meant.?Living in houses, sleeping in