by ben mcculloch hord
[the incidents in connection with this great race, so graphically described by the writer, were given him by an old turfman who at that time was a young jockey and witnessed the race.—ed.]
at the time of which i speak, there were a number of famous horses on the turf, necessarily producing much rivalry between their various owners and friends. the most prominent that i can call to memory now were boston, duane, decatur, vashti, balie peyton, fannie wyatt, charles carter, lady clifton, clarion, etc. boston was just beginning to win the fame that afterward made his name a household word throughout the racing world, and nearly all of the best horses of the day sought to measure strides with this distinguished son of timoleon. in the language of an old turfman, they were laying for him. at this time boston belonged to mr. nat reeves, of richmond, va., and after decatur had defeated fannie wyatt in a four-mile heat race at washington, d. c., mr. james long, a great admirer of boston, and a close friend of mr. reeves, proposed to captain heath, the owner of decatur, to match boston against him, four-mile heats, for a purse of $10,000, to be run at camden, n. j., provided that he could get the use of boston for the race. the match was accepted and $1,000 forfeit put up. mr. long went over to long island, where mr. reeves had boston attending the spring meeting, and made known his match, which was agreed to. decatur was at washington, while duane and charles carter, both in the same stable, were gathering turf laurels at other places. boston had never gone four miles up to this time, and there were many prominent turfmen who doubted his ability and courage to negotiate this distance in good company, consequently as soon as the match between him and decatur became known it made the latter largely the choice in the betting, he having recently defeated that good mare, fannie wyatt, in the four-mile race above referred to.
messrs. reeves and long, however, were not slow in finding out boston’s courage—they were already satisfied as to his speed—so they gave him a trial, which was entirely satisfactory, he having defeated in this trial his stable companion, the celebrated atlanta, 108 times the length of mr. long’s walking stick, a novel way, certainly, to measure distance, but it was certainly done in this case, and in those days horses were tried with horses, and not by the watch, as now.
just before the match came off, the boston party concluded not to run, but to pay forfeit, which they did. their idea was that they could bet their money to better advantage in the four-mile purse race, which was to come off in a day or two, and in which both horses would enter, knowing that decatur would be largely the favorite in the betting, and even more so, as they had paid forfeit to him. on the day of the race the track was quite heavy. this also lengthened the odds on decatur. but boston won, after a close contest, and largely enriched his friends. he was now considered the champion racer of america, and he was sent over to long island to attend the second spring meeting, to come off in a few weeks.
in the meantime duane and charles carter had been winning fame and most of the large purses in maryland and virginia, under the management of that shrewd and competent horseman, billy mccargo. they were now turned toward the metropolis, with a view to catching this new champion at long island and taking a measure of his courage and speed. mccargo thought either of his horses was better than decatur, and as good, if not better, than boston. at long island he decided to make his first battle on boston with charles carter, the lesser light of the two stars of the turf. the horses came together in a four-mile purse race, and for the character of the soil and condition of the track, it was the most fiercely-contested four-mile dash i ever saw. the first three miles were run in 5:36, the fastest, notwithstanding the poor condition of the track, ever made up to that time. as they passed out on the fourth mile the horses were going like a matched team, and the contest appeared in great doubt, but on the back side boston began to draw away and won easily by half a dozen lengths, and when carter came in it was seen that he was broken down and had run his last race.
boston and his friends now crossed over to hoboken, followed by mccargo, with duane. over the new race course on beacon heights it was decided that duane should give the champion a beating or the race of his life. mccargo had managed his fight on boston with consummate skill. he had selected the weaker of his two horses, charles carter, to make the first assault, and it was evident from the terrific fight he had made over the long island track that he hoped, even if he could not win with carter, to at least run boston such a race that he could beat him with duane on beacon heights. therefore they were quite sanguine of victory and freely took all bets offered.
beacon heights was a new course just opened near new york, easy of access, and costing only a trifle to get from the city there and to see the race. excitement was intense over the coming race between these two famous southern champions, both sons of virginia, and i am confident that a hundred thousand people witnessed the race. they came from every section of the united states, and all classes were represented. mr. van buren, who was then president, and all of his cabinet occupied a conspicuous place in the grandstand, as did also nearly all of the foreign legations, who were out in full force. the beauty and chivalry of the nation had assembled to witness what was expected and what proved to be the greatest horse race that ever occurred in this or any other country. the great sea of humanity was kept in the best of humor by lively music from a number of bands, the most noted being the united states marine band, which had been sent out in honor of the assembled dignitaries.
in those days there was but little betting done until the day of the race, and most generally not until the horses were on the track. on this occasion commodore stockdon, who, besides being a commodore in our navy was also a true sportsman and a prominent breeder and importer of thoroughbreds, and who owned and raced some prominent horses of the day, proposed on the evening before the race to mr. pringle, the most noted sporting man of that day, in washington, that he would bet him $5,000 on duane, provided he liked the looks of the horse the next day. the bet was promptly taken, and the next day when the horses were brought out, after carefully inspecting duane, the commodore told pringle it was “a go.” this settled it. no money passed, and rarely ever did with big bettors. in those days men’s words were sufficient. what a striking difference between then and now! here a commodore in the navy bets $5,000 with a noted gambler, with nothing more than the word “go” between them, and yet either would have sold the clothes off his back rather than to crawfish out of the bet, or in any way defraud the other. this even bet seemed to make the mark for others to go by, and the money went on even up, and by the cartload in sums from fifty to five and ten thousand dollars a side. as a rule the southern contingent backed duane, while the new yorkers piled their wealth on boston. mccargo’s mulatto boy, steve, who had ridden carter against boston, at long island, was now up on duane to make another desperate effort to down the champion, while cornelius, boston’s old rider, a negro boy who belonged to mr. reeves, the owner of the horse, was in the pigskin on his favorite.
after having gone through the racing season, running from two to four mile heat races every week, the two horses, as they stepped out on the track, looked like two gamecocks made of whalebone and steel. every muscle and sinew stood out as if carved by an artist’s chisel, while their glossy coats, bright eyes and light, springy step indicated that both were on edge and ready to run for a king’s ransom or a woman’s love. boston was a red sorrel, about fifteen hands three inches high, both hind ankles white and a white strip on his face that broadened out over the nose; hence the nickname of “old white nose” afterward given to him by his friends. he was a horse of immense driving power, but so very symmetrical in his proportions and so evenly balanced that it was only noticeable in the eyes of a critic. as he moved about under cornelius quietly, but with a supple, catlike step, bearing lightly on the snaffle, with his red coat gleaming in the sunshine like burnished gold, he was as beautiful and grand-looking a specimen of race horse as ever gladdened the eyes of a turfman. duane, the son of imported hedgford, was the counterpart of boston in every respect, except in color and markings. he was a dark brown, almost black, with tan muzzle and flanks. while boston’s coat shone like gold, duane looked like polished bronze. he had no marks, except a small spot of white in his forehead that shone like a diamond, and as he was led out on the course by his old negro trainer, lazarus, with yellow steve in the saddle, followed by their manager, billy mccargo, they presented a picture that will live forever in the memory of every turfman who saw them. gilpatrick, the most distinguished jockey of his day, afterwards the rider of boston in all of his races, and who rode lexington in his memorable race against time, and i, both young riders then and fast friends, pooled our hard-earned wages, amounting to $13, and bet it all on boston, and with beating hearts we worked our way through the crowd and took position under the wire directly opposite the judges. hon. john c. stevens, one of new york’s most prominent citizens, an accomplished gentleman and the most competent starter of his day, was in the stand and ordered out the horses.
first heat.
at the tap of the drum the battle began. duane was first on his stride and showed the way around the turn. here boston made a run and shortly after entering the stretch was on even terms with him. head and head they passed the stand. a mighty shout went up from the vast crowd and as they started on the second mile you could hear, “$500 on duane!” “a $1,000 on boston!” “watch him run him out!” “stay with him, old white nose!” and a thousand other such exclamations from the friends of each. rounding the lower turn, duane having the track, cornelius took a slight pull on boston, but on entering the back stretch he made a run and at the half they were nearly lapped. rounding the upper turn, however, duane shook him off. another shout from the backers of duane and more money goes up. entering the stretch the game son of timoleon makes another run at his flying antagonist, and, although he closes up the space, he can only get on duane’s hip, and in this order, head and hip, they pass the stand and swing around the turn. cornelius is content to hold this position until he enters the back stretch, when he again calls on boston; slowly but surely the red coat of boston inches up and at the half is hid behind duane. so even are they running that it looks like one horse and one rider; in this position they ran around the upper turn, down the home stretch and enter the fourth mile as even as a carriage team with the deafening shouts of the multitude following them. rounding the lower turn steve for the first time takes a pull on duane, evidently with a view of saving him for the finish; cornelius on boston moves to the front, intending to take the track, but steve has no idea of giving up this advantage, and he keeps duane moving just close enough to keep boston on the outside. in this position they race to the head of the stretch. here steve begins to make a run; down the stretch they come, hip and head, but in spite of all cornelius’ efforts and in spite of the long, tireless strides of boston, the brown son of hedgford overhauls him when half-way down the stretch, but it has taken the last remnant of his reserve power to do this, and head to head, leap for leap, they strain their hardened muscles. a child’s blanket would have covered them. both riders were rolling in their saddles from exhaustion, but were lifting and urging all they could. boston had been running purely on his courage. cornelius had neither whip nor spur. steve had on spurs that had more than once in the finish drawn the claret from duane. “a dead heat!” “a dead heat!” shout the crowd. no. one more stride with a savage dig that sent the rowels home in the quivering flanks of his horse and at the same time lifting his head steve sends duane under the wire a winner by a scant head, in 7:52.
remarkable time for a new track filled with roots and sprouts. both horses showed distress when the boys returned to weigh out. it had been a battle between giants, and their heaving flanks gave evidence of the great physical strain they had undergone, but the same gamecock look flashed from their eyes, showing that while the flesh might be weak their courage could never die. the riders were scarcely less distressed. steve, the rider of duane, fainted when taken down, and cornelius was in but little better condition. so popular was the victory of duane that mr. wm. friend, of virginia, bought him before the next heat was called, paying his owner $12,000 for him.
although he had lost a heat boston’s friends asked and received no odds, but still covered duane money, even up.
second heat.
when the horses were called for the second heat they came up looking well. both had cooled out admirably. johnny hartman, a white jockey, and one of the best riders on the turf, was upon duane, steve not being able to resume his mount. up to this time boston had never been marked by whip or spur, except in his first race, when he sulked when touched with a spur. he had won all of his races running purely on his courage. col. wm. r. johnson, the “napoleon of the turf,” who was managing him in this race, procured a cowhide, and when he mounted cornelius gave it to him with instructions to use it if necessary from start to finish. there was no delay at the post; the drum tapped, and they were off, followed by the continuous cheers of the crowd. i doubt if a more closely contested match for four miles was ever run over any course than was waged between these two great horses in this second heat. it was literally a fight to the death. with every muscle strained, every sinew drawn to its utmost tension, they raced head for head the entire distance. duane was on the inside and held it to the finish, although boston made repeated efforts in every mile to take it. it was drive, drive, drive; death or victory. first the head of gold striped with white would for a moment show in front, then the head of bronze with the white spot gleaming like a star of hope would take the lead, but never more than a scant head would at any time divide them. as the head of either horse would show in front their respective friends would give a ringing cheer, but as mile after mile of the mighty contest was measured off by the long, low, powerful strides of these great racers and the desperate character of the race became more and more apparent, the excitement became too intense for shouting, and as the horses turned into the stretch on the fourth mile for the run home nose to nose, bit to bit and stride for stride a stillness as of death came over the crowd. not a shout, not a word, not a whisper was heard. the stable boys and rubbers with bated breath and bulging eyes stared with almost agonized expression on their faces up the stretch where the desperate battle was being fought. the lemonade vender gave up all thoughts of trade, and even the wily pickpocket forgot his calling for the moment, and his hand, still clutching his ill-gotten gains, trembled with excitement as he watched the flying stallions and heard the ceaseless patter of their hoof strokes.
i was a young light-weight jockey then who had won his spurs in more than one hotly-contested field, and to-day am perhaps the only living turfman who witnessed this great match, for nearly sixty years have passed since then; yet in memory’s mirror, i can see that fearful finish as distinctly as my young eyes saw it that day. i can see two horses half-way down the stretch coming as true and even as two arrows from one bow. i can see two outstretched necks and heads, a sorrel and a brown, a blaze and a star. i can see their powerful haunches gathered under them and drive them forward as if they were shot from the mouth of a cannon. i can see the hard-trained muscles playing beneath their thin skins like oiled machinery, and as they come nearer and nearer i see their ears lying back and their bloodshot eyes gleaming with the light of the battle and undying courage. i hear their labored breathing and can see the red flush up their widely-distended nostrils glowing like heated furnaces. i can see johnny hartman, pale as death, riding as if for his life, drive the merciless steel again and again in the panting sides of duane, and at each time the blood spurting from the wounds. i can see the black face of cornelius, drawn as if in mortal agony, his lips parted, his white teeth shining and his eyes fixed on the finishing point only a few yards away. i can see him swing the cowhide, already crimsoned with the royal blood of boston, high over his head and bring it down on the quivering flank of his horse, then, quick as lightning, lift him with the bit. i can see the great son of timoleon crouch lower to the ground, gather his powerful quarters further under him and make the final rush just as cornelius lifts him, and i can see the golden head and white nose cross the wire in front of the bronze and the star. boston wins, but only by a head. then the pent-up excitement broke forth. “boston wins!” “boston wins!” was the shout. yes, he had won, but could he do so again? this was only a heat apiece. another heat was necessary to decide the race, and in the peerless brown stallion he had found a foeman well worthy of his steel, and one that had shown him he could take his measure in any part of the four miles. both horses had been fearfully punished and were dreadfully distressed, and so were the riders. of the two latter hartman was much the freshest, for after weighing out cornelius had to be rubbed out, drenched with brandy and altogether requiring almost as much attention as his horse. but he would have died in the saddle rather than have relinquished his mount, and when they were called for the last heat he came out with his bloody whip, looking as determined as ever.
third heat.
gilpatrick and i took our old position under the wire, with many misgivings as to the fate of our combined fortunes, the $13 that hung upon the result of this heat. for the first time boston began to show the ugly side of his disposition by sulking. as they were led up to start he repeatedly refused to go, and when the drum was finally tapped, having the inside, he bolted toward the fence. cornelius pulled him out, and then he ran diagonally across the track towards the outside. in the meantime hartman was sending the dead game son of hedgford, along, and by the time cornelius got boston straight and on his stride the magnificent brown had taken the track and was running smoothly more than fifty yards in front. these positions were maintained until they reached the head of the stretch. here boston showed another peculiar trait in his disposition, and one for which he afterwards became noted, the shouting of a crowd seemed to inspire him and make him run faster. as they turned into the stretch with duane so far in advance his friends began to cheer. the sound no sooner reached boston’s ears than he began of his own accord to make a run at duane, and so rapidly did he run down the stretch that when they passed under the wire he was only two open lengths away. going around the lower turn both riders eased up their horses, but on entering the back stretch cornelius made a run with boston at duane and at the half mile had closed out all the daylight between them.
but rounding the upper turn duane shook him off and entered the stretch an open length and a half in front. again a great shout went up from the backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again as the sound reached boston it seemed to lend him wings. running true and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced son of timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile his white nose was at duane’s hip. going around the lower turn the boys again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up the stretch and around the upper turn, boston holding his place with the tenacity of a bull dog. but the white star of duane is still in front as they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches duane. half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last heat. it was now the time for boston’s friends to cheer, and if pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. men were simply wild with excitement. they danced about like children; hats, coats and canes were thrown into the air. gilpatrick and i hugged each other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that boston, inspired by the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the track from duane. but to experienced riders like gil and i this sudden change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. we both knew hartman well. he was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse, saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. knowing from our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to the over-sanguine friends of boston shouting: “duane has quit!” “duane has quit!” we knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. so we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with boston leading up the back side and around the upper turn.
just before entering the stretch for home hartman began to move on duane. “he’s coming!” “he’s coming!” gil whispered, for he was too excited to speak, and we both stood speechless watching the fierce battle that was opening a quarter of a mile away. cornelius rides boston a little wide on turning in the stretch in order that his whip hand might be free to drive. hartman sees the opening thus made next the rail and rushes duane in it. it was skillful riding on both sides. hartman had no whip, but rode with spurs, while cornelius had no spurs, for boston would not stand them, but rode with a whip, and if hartman in a tight finish could get so close to cornelius on his whip side as to prevent him from using the lash he would have a big advantage. this cornelius prevented by riding a little out on the turn. the spurt of duane was greeted with the old-time cheer of his backers. “he comes! he comes!” “see him come!” went up from the throats of thousands, but it ceased almost as suddenly as it began, for the red horse is coming with him, and at that moment not a hand’s breadth divides them. but hartman’s judgment in saving his horse now begins to tell, and inch by inch the brown stud begins to slowly but surely draw away. first a nose, then a head, then a neck and shoulders he pushes to the front. hartman’s knee is at boston’s head. duane is a half length in front and only an eighth of a mile to run. can he hold? cornelius shifts both reins to his left hand, the cat-gut whirls above his head and falls upon the flank of boston, cutting the thin skin of the thoroughbred like a knife. maddened with pain and his own desire to win boston bites savagely at duane, but catches hartman’s trousers at the knee and nearly tears them off of the jockey. cornelius pulls him loose, lifts his head, straightens him and again the cruel rawhide tastes his blood. responding to the lash with unfaltering courage, with the shouts of “duane,” “duane,” “duane wins!” ringing in his ears, the great horse with almost human instinct seems to know that the supreme moment has come, as he puts forth the last vital ounce of strength that yet lingers in his powerful muscles and begins to draw up on duane. each weary leap brings him nearer and nearer the head of the gallant brown, whose last rush at the head of the stretch is now beginning to tell upon him. only fifty feet from the wire and they are nose and nose. horses and riders were rolling from side to side, all utterly exhausted. still, with outstretched necks, distended nostrils and eyes yet flaming with passion, the fierce contest goes on as they literally stagger towards the finish, for the pace is now nothing more than a hard gallop. cornelius is reeling from exhaustion in his saddle, but with a last effort he partially lifts the drooping head of boston, cuts him with the whip and—the race is over! boston wins! but so dead tired are both horses that boston, although the winner, actually stopped directly under the wire, and duane walked under it.
fortune has been kind to me since then and given me many of her most choice blessings, but never in her most liberal moods has she given me anything that i appreciated more than the smile she gave me that hot day on beacon heights nearly sixty years ago, when, watching this greatest of all the great races i have ever seen, she doubled my humble fortune.
the reason so little has ever been said or written about this race is owing to the fact that it was not a match or stake or section race, but simply a purse race of four mile heats, in which two of the most noted horses in america met. i helped to carry boston home after the race. we went through by land, and so completely exhausted was the horse that he would frequently fall and we would have to assist him to his feet.
