Right Royal | Page 8

collier-barge,
Trod sideways,
bickering, taking charge.
Cross-Molin, from the Blowbury, followed,

Lucky Shot skipped, Coranto wallowed,
Then Counter Vair, the
declared-to-win,
Stable-fellow of Cross-Molin;
Culverin last, with
Cannonade,
Formed rearguard to the grand parade.
And now, as they turned to go to post,
The Skysail calfishly barged
The Ghost,
The Ghost lashed out with a bitter knock
On the tender
muscle of Skysail's hock,
And Skysail's hope of that splendid hour

Was cut off short like a summer flower.
From the cantering crowd he
limped apart
Back to the Paddock and did not start.
As they cantered down, Charles Cothill's mind
Was filled with joy
that his horse went kind;
He showed no sulks, no sloth, no fear,
But
leant on his rein and pricked his ear.
They lined themselves at the
Post to start,
Charles took his place with a thumping heart.
Excitement running in waves 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