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, an............