Henry watched the filly. “Let her go ahead, if she wants to,” he said.
“She doesn’t want to,” Alec returned, clucking to her, urging her.
He was right. The only effect Napoleon’s presence had on her was that she constantly turned her small head toward him, not to nip but seemingly to carry on a conversation with him. She actually neighed, snorted, and whinnied while they circled the track.
Alec said glumly, “She’s a great one, she is. I can just see her trying to start a conversation with Golden Vanity as he booms past her in the Derby.”
Henry glanced angrily at Alec. He hadn’t thought the remark funny at all. His face grim, he rode Napoleon alongside the filly for another mile. Then, going around the track for the last time, he clucked to the old gray horse and began moving ahead.
Alec watched Napoleon go out a length, then started urging the filly to step up her gallop. There was no response. Napoleon could have lapped her for all the interest she showed. Perhaps she didn’t care. Or perhaps she sensed what they were trying to do. At any rate, she never once moved out of her slow, effortless gallop.
Coming down the homestretch for the last time, Henry slowed Napoleon, allowing Black Minx to catch up again. His face was grimmer, more disappointed, than Alec had ever seen it. Henry had sincerely expected the filly to extend herself a little with Napoleon running beside her.
The trainer didn’t meet Alec’s gaze. Instead he concentrated on Black Minx’s feet, watching her strides carry her over the heavy mud. No doubt about it, she could handle herself well on a muddy track.
They slowed their mounts at the end of the two-mile gallop. When Alec had Black Minx in a jog, he said, “She seems to take to the mud, all right. But you know, Henry, her feet barely touch it before she has them up again. She acts as though she doesn’t want to get them dirty. It’s just about what we should expect of her, I guess.”
“She won’t be able to keep so clean if she lets a field of horses get in front of her,” Henry said, anger and disappointment in his voice.
Never before had Alec heard him talk that way about the filly. Alec was disturbed but he kept quiet, knowing there was nothing he could say that would help.
They were almost at the barns when Henry said, “Well, we know we can get the speed out of her another way.” He sounded more like himself again, but Alec recognized the feigned lightness of his voice.
“Sure we can, Henry. It doesn’t matter how we get it out of her just as long as we get it.” He wasn’t kidding himself any more than Henry. It did matter. He wanted the filly to respond in the face of competition, to have her sire’s will to win. But he knew this was foolish optimism. Reaching down to Black Minx’s chest, he removed a piece of mud that had already caked in the hot sun.
Henry said, “It’s all right to trick her into running as long as she doesn’t run herself out in the race. I got to figure a way of conserving some of her energy.”
There it was out in the open—the problem of rating the filly during the running of a race. It was the same problem Alec himself had considered some nights ago while working on his field chart. He hadn’t come up with any answers. Would Henry?
Black Minx swerved but he brought her back in line. He turned to Henry. He wanted to help. “Do you think it would be possible to take the bit away from her when she needs rest, and then give it back to her when we want her to move on again?”
Henry shook his head. “That might work when we start breezing her and have all the time in the world. But it wouldn’t work in a race, when every second counts. She’d fight before the bit could be taken from her, and besides getting no rest would lose plenty of ground. Also, she might get wise to what’s being done. No, once she takes the bit it’s best to leave her alone.”
Upon reaching the filly’s barn, they unsaddled her. Alec put a blanket over her warm body. A light breeze blew and he thought he detected the scent of new grass from the fields. It was only early March, so he must be mistaken. Yet he could feel something in the air—perhaps it was the languid stir of an early spring.
They were walking Black Minx and Napoleon, cooling them off, when Alec said, “Henry, I wonder if we could keep her right behind the front runners? If she couldn’t get past them, she couldn’t run herself out.”
Henry thought for a moment. Then, “That might do it,” he replied eagerly. “It just could.” He paused. “It would take delicate handling and fine riding so nobody would get hurt. Yet I might find a jockey who could do it.” He stopped again, this time studying Alec’s face. Finally he said, “All the time you’ve been saying we, Alec. You didn’t mean you were thinking about riding her in the Derby? You wouldn’t want to leave the farm, even for a short while, would you?”
“If you want me to, I’ll ride her,” Alec said.
Henry turned away, and they continued walking Black Minx and Napoleon. “I want you, all right,” the trainer said softly, and the grimness was gone from his face.
THE FLAMINGO
10
Later that same afternoon Alec and Henry sat before the television set, watching the ceremonies that were taking place at Hialeah Park, Florida. The running of the Flamingo Stakes was an important and colorful event, and the track management was making good use of its television time before the horses went to the post.
On the screen a large party of Seminole Indians was parading within the track’s infield. Men, women and children, dressed in flowing capes and skirts, walked with stately dignity past the grandstand. Then they turned and went back up the infield to sit down upon the grass.
Alec didn’t pay much attention to them. He was anxious for the race to start. Now that he had told Henry he would ride Black Minx in the Derby he was more interested than ever in watching the colts he’d be up against. He turned to Henry but his friend’s eyes were closed and, like Alec, he was taking no interest in the pre-race ceremonies.
Henry had said nothing more about Alec’s decision to ride in the Derby. Nor had Alec expected him to go into it more fully. Again, it was one of those things that needed no discussion between them. Henry knew that Alec was most happy here at the farm, away from the racetrack with all its pulsating drama, excitement and glamour. Therefore, Henry realized that Alec would be riding the filly in the Derby only because he had confidence in his ability to get the best out of her and because Henry needed him.
Henry opened his eyes, found Alec’s gaze upon him and asked, “Are the Seminoles still parading?”
Alec glanced at the screen. “They’ve just about finished,” he said.
Henry grunted, closing his eyes again. “The track’s publicity department considers it colorful stuff for Flamingo Day, and the crowd thinks the Seminoles are a bunch of wild Indians from the Everglades. Nothin’ wild about them except that they come from the wilds of a tourist trap called Musa Village just off one of Florida’s most traveled highways. They get paid for coming over to the track on Flamingo Day and putting on their act.”
Alec’s gaze returned to the screen. “Nevertheless, it is colorful,” he said.
The picture shifted from the Seminole Indians to the crowded grandstand, the cement apron in front of it and then to the clubhouse and bleachers.
“The season’s largest crowd is here today,” the announcer told his television audience. “More than thirty thousand people are now awaiting the running of the Flamingo Stakes.”
Henry opened his eyes.
White shirts and blouses dominated the color scheme; the day was apparently hot. As a protection against the sun, many of the fans standing before the grandstand and sitting in the bleachers wore hats made from newspapers.
The television cameras left the packed thousands to show the grass and small infield lake which lent the only cool note to an otherwise sweltering day. Five hundred long-legged flamingos had been chased from the lake and were being herded together. A crew of ten men moved the rare, beautiful birds across the grass in the direction of the stands.
The
announcer said, “The parade of the flamingos is about to begin. This show is put on only once a year, the day of the running of the Flamingo Stakes.”
The birds paraded before the stands, their handlers chasing them until finally they rose in hurried flight. The screen was filled with flapping wings, long extended necks and trailing legs. Finally the birds descended and scampered back to their unmolested haunts in the infield lake. The show was over but the cameras remained focused on the flamingos until a roar from the crowd announced the arrival of the horses on the track. Quickly the picture shifted to the post parade.
For the first time Henry showed some interest in the proceedings. He pushed himself forward in his chair, one large hand covering his jaw. “There’s Silver Jet,” he said.
There were seven colts going to the post but Alec watched only Silver Jet, for here was the top-rated three-year-old in the country and the early favorite to win the Kentucky Derby. He saw a well-finished gray with long flowing mane and tail. The colt was tall but not oversized, and his walk was easy and swinging. He wore blinkers and his head was small, sitting well into a short, muscular neck. Although Silver Jet had style he showed none of the high-headed air of arrogance which had so marked Golden Vanity, the winner of the Santa Anita Derby. Instead he moved in an unruffled yet confident way.
Henry said, “He’s wearing bandages in front.”
Alec noted the bandaged legs from knees to fetlocks. “Do you think he’s been hurt?”
“No. They wouldn’t be running him if he was. I suppose they’re just being careful.”
“Has he raced much in Florida?”
“Three times,” Henry replied. “Won ’em all, easy.”
The announcer said, “They’re asking just two questions about today’s race. How far will Silver Jet win? And will he break the Flamingo record of one minute, forty-eight and one-fifth seconds?”
Alec turned to Henry. “That time is one-fifth of a second faster than Golden Vanity won at Santa Anita.”
“Florida tracks are hard and fast too,” Henry said, without taking his eyes off the screen. “They’re not easy on a horse’s legs.”
The colts were going into the starting gate.
“That’s Danny Seymour up on Silver Jet,” Alec said.
The picture showed a close-up of the gate and Alec had no trouble recognizing the mature, wizened face of the veteran jockey who sat on the back of the gray colt in the number 2 starting stall. He watched Seymour’s quiet skill in handling Silver Jet as the colt became uneasy.
The starter’s assistants had the last horse in the gate now. Any second they’d be off. Alec kept his eyes on Seymour and the gray colt. He noticed that Silver Jet was still moving within his narrow stall. Seymour was trying to quiet him down. An assistant starter straddled the partition between the stalls in an attempt to help the jockey. Alec wondered that Silver Jet could be so docile on his way to the post and yet so fractious in the gate.
“Is he always that way?” he asked Henry.
“No, not quite as bad as he is today. Usually he acts up a little in the gate, then settles down fast. He’s quick in the break. He likes to run in front or up near the front, anyway. Same type of runner as Golden Vanity. Their meeting, whenever it comes, should be a good show.”
Silver Jet settled down in his stall.
“The start will come now,” Alec said. “They’re all quiet.”
But simultaneously with the opening of the stall doors and the clang of the starting bell, Silver Jet reared, his head turned sideways. In a fraction of a second Alec saw Seymour straighten him out. Nevertheless, Silver Jet broke from the gate with his head still partly turned to one side. Seymour had lost his stirrups in all the excitement and was trying to find the irons again as Silver Jet set out after the field. Recovering his stirrups, Seymour sat down to ride.
As the field approached the first turn Silver Jet was five lengths behind, yet Seymour made no move to hurry his mount.
Alec said quietly, “Watch him, Henry. Lots of riders would try to make up all that lost ground in the first quarter of a mile. But not Seymour. He’s keeping his head. He’ll let the colt get warmed to his work, and then move him through the stretch.”
Henry nodded in agreement but didn’t take his eyes off the race.
Alec ignored the front runners. He watched Silver Jet. He watched Dan Seymour. Here was an experienced jockey, aged compared to the eighteen-year-old Nino Nella. Now he was sitting tight over his colt’s neck, making no move with hands or feet or whip to hurry him. The horses swept around the first turn and into the backstretch, and Silver Jet was still a good five lengths behind the bunched field.
Henry swayed in his chair as though to urge Dan Seymour to move his colt. But the jockey remained quiet in his saddle. For a second Alec visualized Nino Nella instead of Dan Seymour astride Silver Jet. He knew, from having watched the Santa Anita Derby, that Nino Nella would be working his hands and feet all the way in an attempt to catch up with the field.
The gray colt caught up with two lagging colts by the middle of the backstretch. It wasn’t that Seymour was moving Silver Jet faster, merely that the two colts were tiring. Saving precious ground, Seymour squeezed Silver Jet between them. Only when the gray colt’s blinkered head emerged from the narrow hole and he was free and clear did Alec glance quickly at Henry to find the trainer’s eyes meeting his.
In saving his colt a few feet of extra ground, Seymour had taken a long gamble on his ability to slip between the two lagging horses instead of going around them. It had been an example of fine riding, with no loud cries of “Coming through!” or pumping of hands and legs. The jockey had done it skillfully, easily, with his head never leaving the gray’s neck, his hands barely moving.
Alec and Henry saw immediately why Seymour had used the “hole.” He was on the rail and taking Silver Jet inside the colts ahead whose speed caused them to bear out going around the last turn. Only then did they see Dan Seymour’s hand move. The jockey brought the whip down once, hard, against the colt.
Silver Jet responded with a burst of speed that took him past all but one of the colts. He hugged the rail, Seymour sitting tight and unmoving in his saddle again. He came off the turn only two lengths behind the brown colt who was leading. With less than a quarter of a mile to go, Seymour used his whip once more. Again the colt responded with terrific speed. He caught up with the brown colt easily; then he was out in front, racing alone, and there was no further need for Seymour to urge him to greater speed. Beautiful and swift, he came down the homestretch all by himself, his strides ever lengthening. Gray mane and tail billowed in the wind. As he passed beneath the wire the tremendous crowd was on its feet paying noisy homage to him.
Alec said, “Seymour is stingy with his whip. He uses it only when he thinks he needs it. He’s one of the best hand riders in the business. He can do more with his hands alone than any other jockey can do with a dozen whips and kicks.”
The time of the race was announced as 1:48 3/5. Silver Jet had failed to break the record, and his time was one-fifth of a second slower than Golden Vanity’s at Santa Anita over the same distance.
“If he hadn’t been left at the post, he might have broken the record,” Henry said. “Like I mentioned before, he runs best up front.”
“How do you like him compared to Golden Vanity?” Alec asked.
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “When they meet, something is goin’ to give.”
“Seriously, Henry, how do they shape up in your opinion?” Alec persisted.
“We got some other colts to watch before Derby time. No sense in going out on the limb for any one of ’em now, Alec.”
“But I think you like Silver Jet better than Golden Vanity.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the fast time, for one thing,” Alec said.
“But he went a fifth of a second slower than Golden Vanity over the same distance,” Henry replied.
“I know. But as you pointed
out, he was left at the post. If he hadn’t been, his time would have been faster by at least a fifth of a second.” Alec paused. “And there’s something else. Silver Jet was carrying a hundred and twenty-six pounds today, the same weight all the colts will be carrying in the Derby. When Golden Vanity won at Santa Anita he carried only a hundred and eighteen pounds. Put all this together and you come up with Silver Jet beating Golden Vanity in the Kentucky Derby. Right, Henry?”
“Maybe,” Henry replied. “Just maybe. Anyway, it’s a long time from the first Saturday in March to the first Saturday in May.”
The announcer had the owner of Silver Jet before the television cameras. They saw Tom Flint’s towering frame and they watched his broad, beaming face as he acknowledged the congratulations of the Governor of Florida, who was making the cup presentation.
“Sure I was thrilled. Who wouldn’t be?” Tom Flint said. “No, there’s nothing wrong with his forelegs. We were just being careful. He’s raced a lot down here. We’re giving him a rest until the Wood Memorial in New York next month.”
“And after that?” the announcer asked, smiling.
Tom Flint placed a big hand on the man’s shoulder. “Then we’ll be heading for the bluegrass country. Today my colt earned his plane ticket to the Kentucky Derby.”
A few minutes later the announcer had Dan Seymour before the camera. The jockey stood there as quietly as he had sat in the saddle during the running of the race. His small, drawn face was turned to the announcer as he rapidly answered the questions put to him. He was completely at ease despite the ceremonies and the acclaim of the crowd. He had been through this before in his many years of riding.
“No, I didn’t have my feet in the stirrups when the gate opened. It wasn’t anybody’s fault that I was left behind. The starter didn’t get a chance to know Silver Jet was going up.” He smiled. “I didn’t, either.”
“Did the colt ever do that before with you?”