Under Two Flags

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Rake at that instant darted, panting like a hot retriever, out of
the throng. "Mr. Cecil, sir, will you please come to the weights--the
saddling bell's a-going to ring, and--"

"Tell them to wait for me; I shall only be twenty minutes dressing,"
said Cecil quietly, regardless that the time at which the horses should
have been at the starting-post was then clanging from the clock within
the Grand Stand. Did you ever go to a gentleman-rider race where the
jocks were not at least an hour behind time, and considered themselves,
on the whole, very tolerably punctual? At last, however, he sauntered
into the dressing-shed, and was aided by Rake into tops that had at
length achieved a spotless triumph, and the scarlet gold-embroidered
jacket of his fair friend's art, with white hoops and the "Coeur
Vaillant se fait Royaume" on the collar, and the white, gleaming sash to
be worn across it, fringed by the same fair hands with silver.

Meanwhile the "welsher," driven off the course by a hooting and
indignant crowd, shaking the water from his clothes, with bitter oaths,
and livid with a deadly passion at his exile from the harvest-field
of his lawless gleanings, went his way, with a savage vow of vengeance
against the "d----d dandy," the "Guards' swell," who had shown him up
before the world as the scoundrel he was.

The bell was clanging and clashing passionately, as Cecil at last went
down to the weights, all his friends of the Household about him, and
all standing "crushers" on their champion, for their stringent esprit de
corps was involved, and the Guards are never backward in putting their
gold down, as all the world knows. In the inclosure, the cynosure
of devouring eyes, stood the King, with the sangfroid of a superb
gentleman, amid the clamor raging round him, one delicate ear laid
back now and them, but otherwise indifferent to the din; with his coat
glistening like satin, the beautiful tracery of vein and muscle, like
the veins of vine-leaves, standing out on the glossy, clear-carved neck
that had the arch of Circassia, and his dark, antelope eyes gazing with
a gentle, pensive earnestness on the shouting crowd.

His rivals, too, were beyond par in fitness and in condition, and
there were magnificent animals among them. Bay Regent was a huge raking
chestnut, upward of sixteen hands, and enormously powerful, with very
fine shoulders, and an all-over-like-going head; he belonged to a
Colonel in the Rifles, but was to be ridden by Jimmy Delmar of the 10th
Lancers, whose colors were violet with orange hoops. Montacute's
horse, Pas de Charge, which carried all the money of the Heavy
Cavalry,--Montacute himself being in the Dragoon Guards,--was of much
the same order; a black hunter with racing-blood in his loins and
withers that assured any amount of force, and no fault but that of a
rather coarse head, traceable to a slur on his 'scutcheon on the distaff
side from a plebeian great-grandmother, who had been a cart mare, the
only stain on his otherwise faultless pedigree. However, she had given
him her massive shoulders, so that he was in some sense a gainer by her,
after all. Wild Geranium was a beautiful creature enough: a bright bay
Irish mare, with that rich red gloss that is like the glow of a horse
chestnut; very perfect in shape, though a trifle light perhaps, and with
not quite strength enough in neck or barrel; she would jump the fences
of her own paddock half a dozen times a day for sheer amusement, and was
game for anything[*]. She was entered by Cartouche of the Enniskillens,
to be ridden by "Baby Grafton," of the same corps, a feather-weight,
and quite a boy, but with plenty of science in him. These were the three
favorites. Day Star ran them close, the property of Durham Vavassour, of
the Scots Greys, and to be ridden by his owner; a handsome, flea-bitten,
gray sixteen-hander, with ragged hips, and action that looked a trifle
string-halty, but noble shoulders, and great force in the loins and
withers; the rest of the field, though unusually excellent, did not find
so many "sweet voices" for them, and were not so much to be feared; each
starter was, of course, much backed by his party, but the betting was
tolerably even on these four--all famous steeple-chasers--the King at
one time, and Bay Regent at another, slightly leading in the Ring.

[*] The portrait of this lady is that of a very esteemed
young Irish beauty of my acquaintance; she this season did
seventy-six miles on a warm June day, and ate her corn and
tares afterward as if nothing had happened. She is six years
old.

Thirty-two starters were hoisted up on the telegraph board, and as the
field got at last underway, uncommonly handsome they looked, while the
silk jackets of all the colors of the rainbow glittered in the bright
noon-sun. As Forest King closed in, perfectly tranquil still, but
beginning to glow and quiver all over with excitement, knowing as well
as his rider the work that was before him, and longing for it in every
muscle and every limb, while his eyes flashed fire as he pulled at
the curb and tossed his head aloft, there went up a general shout of
"Favorite!" His beauty told on the populace, and even somewhat on the
professionals, though his legs kept a strong business prejudice against
the working powers of "the Guards' Crack." The ladies began to lay
dozens in gloves on him; not altogether for his points, which, perhaps,
they hardly appreciated, but for his owner and rider, who, in the
scarlet and gold, with the white sash across his chest, and a look of
serene indifference on his face, they considered the handsomest man in
the field. The Household is usually safe to win the suffrages of the
sex.

In the throng on the course Rake instantly bonneted an audacious dealer
who had ventured to consider that Forest King was "light and curby
in the 'ock." "You're a wise 'un, you are!" retorted the wrathful and
ever-eloquent Rake; "there's more strength in his clean flat legs, bless
him! than in all the round, thick, mill-posts of your halfbreds, that
have no more tendon than a bit of wood, and are just as flabby as a
sponge!" Which hit the dealer home just as his hat was hit over his
eyes; Rake's arguments being unquestionable in their force.

The thoroughbreds pulled and fretted and swerved in their impatience;
one or two overcontumacious bolted incontinently, others put their heads
between their knees in the endeavor to draw their riders over their
withers; Wild Geranium reared straight upright, fidgeted all over with
longing to be off, passaged with the prettiest, wickedest grace in the
world, and would have given the world to neigh if she had dared, but
she knew it would be very bad style, so, like an aristocrat as she was,
restrained herself; Bay Regent almost sawed Jimmy Delmar's arms off,
looking like a Titan Bucephalus; while Forest King, with his nostrils
dilated till the scarlet tinge on them glowed in the sun, his muscles
quivering with excitement as intense as the little Irish mare's, and all
his Eastern and English blood on fire for the fray, stood steady as a
statue for all that, under the curb of a hand light as a woman's, but
firm as iron to control, and used to guide him by the slightest touch.

All eyes were on that throng of the first mounts in the Service;
brilliant glances by the hundred gleamed down behind hothouse bouquets
of their chosen color, eager ones by the thousand stared thirstily
from the crowded course, the roar of the Ring subsided for a second,
a breathless attention and suspense succeeded it; the Guardsmen sat on
their drags, or lounged near the ladies with their race-glasses ready,
and their habitual expression of gentle and resigned weariness in nowise
altered because the Household, all in all, had from sixty to seventy
thousand on the event; and the Seraph murmured mournfully to his
cheroot, "that chestnut's no end fit," strong as his faith was in the
champion of the Brigades.

A moment's good start was caught--the flag dropped--off they went
sweeping out for the first second like a line of Cavalry about to
charge.

Another moment and they were scattered over the first field. Forest
King, Wild Geranium, and Bay Regent leading for two lengths, when
Montacute, with his habitual "fast burst," sent Pas de Charge past them
like lightning. The Irish mare gave a rush and got alongside of him;
the King would have done the same, but Cecil checked him and kept him in
that cool, swinging canter which covered the grassland so lightly; Bay
Regent's vast thundering stride was Olympian, but Jimmy Delmar saw
his worst foe in the "Guards' Crack," and waited on him warily, riding
superbly himself.

The first fence disposed of half the field; they crossed the second in
the same order, Wild Geranium racing neck to neck with Pas de Charge;
the King was all athirst to join the duello, but his owner kept him
gently back, saving his pace and lifting him over the jumps as easily
as a lapwing. The second fence proved a cropper to several, some awkward
falls took place over it, and tailing commenced; after the third field,
which was heavy plow, all knocked off but eight, and the real struggle
began in sharp earnest: a good dozen, who had shown a splendid stride
over the grass, being down up by the terrible work on the clods.

The five favorites had it all to themselves; Day Star pounding onward at
tremendous speed, Pas de Charge giving slight symptoms of distress owing
to the madness of his first burst, the Irish mare literally flying ahead
of him, Forest King and the chestnut waiting on one another.

In the Grand Stand the Seraph's eyes strained after the Scarlet and
White, and he muttered in his mustaches, "Ye gods, what's up! The
world's coming to an end!--Beauty's turned cautious!"

Cautious, indeed--with that giant of Pytchley fame running neck to
neck by him; cautious--with two-thirds of the course unrun, and all the
yawners yet to come; cautious--with the blood of Forest King lashing to
boiling heat, and the wondrous greyhound stride stretching out faster
and faster beneath him, ready at a touch to break away and take the
lead; but he would be reckless enough by and by; reckless, as his nature
was, under the indolent serenity of habit.

Two more fences came, laced high and stiff with the Shire thorn, and
with scarce twenty feet between them, the heavy plowed land leading to
them, clotted, and black, and hard, with the fresh earthy scent steaming
up as the hoofs struck the clods with a dull thunder--Pas de Charge rose
to the first: distressed too early, his hind feet caught in the thorn,
and he came down, rolling clear of his rider; Montacute picked him up
with true science, but the day was lost to the Heavy Cavalry man. Forest
King went in and out over both like a bird and led for the first time;
the chestnut was not to be beat at fencing and ran even with him; Wild
Geranium flew still as fleet as a deer--true to her sex, she would not
bear rivalry; but little Grafton, though he rode like a professional,
was but a young one, and went too wildly; her spirit wanted cooler curb.

And now only Cecil loosened the King to his full will and his full
speed. Now only the beautiful Arab head was stretched like a racer's in
the run-in for the Derby, and the grand stride swept out till the hoofs
seemed never to touch the dark earth they skimmed over; neither whip
nor spur was needed, Bertie had only to leave the gallant temper and the
generous fire that were roused in their might to go their way and hold
their own. His hands were low, his head a little back, his face very
calm; the eyes only had a daring, eager, resolute will lighting them;
Brixworth lay before him. He knew well what Forest King could do; but he
did not know how great the chestnut Regent's powers might be.

The water gleamed before them, brown and swollen, and deepened with the
meltings of winter snows a month before; the brook that has brought so
many to grief over its famous banks since cavaliers leaped it with their
falcon on their wrist, or the mellow note of the horn rang over the
woods in the hunting days of Stuart reigns. They knew it well, that long
line, shimmering there in the sunlight, the test that all must pass who
go in for the Soldiers' Blue Ribbon. Forest King scented water, and
went on with his ears pointed, and his greyhound stride lengthening,
quickening, gathering up all its force and its impetus for the leap that
was before--then, like the rise and the swoop of a heron, he spanned the
water, and, landing clear, launched forward with the lunge of a spear
darted through air. Brixworth was passed--the Scarlet and White, a mere
gleam of bright color, a mere speck in the landscape, to the breathless
crowds in the stand, sped on over the brown and level grassland; two and
a quarter miles done in four minutes and twenty seconds. Bay Regent
was scarcely behind him; the chestnut abhorred the water, but a finer
trained hunter was never sent over the Shires, and Jimmy Delmar rode
like Grimshaw himself. The giant took the leap in magnificent style,
and thundered on neck and neck with the "Guards' Crack." The Irish mare
followed, and with miraculous gameness, landed safely; but her hind legs
slipped on the bank, a moment was lost, and "Baby" Grafton scarce knew
enough to recover it, though he scoured on, nothing daunted.

Pas de Charge, much behind, refused the yawner; his strength was not
more than his courage, but both had been strained too severely at first.
Montacute struck the spurs into him with a savage blow over the head;
the madness was its own punishment; the poor brute rose blindly to the
jump, and missed the bank with a reel and a crash; Sir Eyre was hurled
out into the brook, and the hope of the Heavies lay there with his
breast and forelegs resting on the ground, his hindquarters in the
water, and his neck broken. Pas de Charge would never again see the
starting flag waved, or hear the music of the hounds, or feel the
gallant life throb and glow through him at the rallying notes of the
horn. His race was run.

Not knowing, or looking, or heeding what happened behind, the trio tore
on over the meadow and the plowed; the two favorites neck by neck, the
game little mare hopelessly behind through that one fatal moment over
Brixworth. The turning-flags were passed; from the crowds on the
course a great hoarse roar came louder and louder, and the shouts rang,
changing every second: "Forest King wins!" "Bay Regent wins!" "Scarlet
and White's ahead!" "Violet's up with him!" "A cracker on the King!"
"Ten to one on the Regent!" "Guards are over the fence first!" "Guards
are winning!" "Guards are losing!" "Guards are beat!"

Were they?

As the shout rose, Cecil's left stirrup-leather snapped and gave way; at
the pace they were going most men, aye, and good riders too, would have
been hurled out of their saddle by the shock; he scarcely swerved; a
moment to ease the King and to recover his equilibrium, then he took
the pace up again as though nothing had chanced. And his comrades of the
Household, when they saw this through their race-glasses, broke through
their serenity and burst into a cheer that echoed over the grasslands
and the coppices like a clarion, the grand rich voice of the Seraph
leading foremost and loudest--a cheer that rolled mellow and triumphant
down the cold, bright air like the blast of trumpets, and thrilled on
Bertie's ear where he came down the course, a mile away. It made his
heart beat quicker with a victorious, headlong delight, as his knees
pressed close into Forest King's flanks, and, half stirrupless like the
Arabs, he thundered forward to the greatest riding feat of his life. His
face was very calm still, but his blood was in tumult, the delirium of
pace had got on him, a minute of life like this was worth a year, and he
knew that he would win or die for it, as the land seemed to fly like a
black sheet under him, and, in that killing speed, fence and hedge and
double and water all went by him like a dream; whirling underneath him
as the gray stretched, stomach to earth, over the level, and rose to
leap after leap.

For that instant's pause, when the stirrup broke, threatened to lose him
the race.

He was more than a length behind the Regent, whose hoofs as they dashed
the ground up sounded like thunder, and for whose herculean strength the
plow had no terrors; it was more than the lead to keep now, there was
ground to cover--and the King was losing like Wild Geranium. Cecil felt
drunk with that strong, keen west wind that blew so strongly in his
teeth, a passionate excitation was in him, every breath of winter air
that rushed in its bracing currents round him seemed to lash him like a
stripe--the Household to look on and see him beaten!

Certain wild blood, that lay latent in Cecil under the tranquil
gentleness of temper and of custom, woke and had the mastery; he set
his teeth hard, and his hands clinched like steel on the bridle. "Oh,
my beauty, my beauty!" he cried, all unconsciously half aloud, as they
cleared the thirty-sixth fence. "Kill me if you like, but don't fail
me!"

As though Forest King heard the prayer and answered it with all his
hero's heart, the splendid form launched faster out, the stretching
stride stretched farther yet with lightning spontaneity, every fiber
strained, every nerve struggled; with a magnificent bound like an
antelope the gray recovered the ground he had lost, and passed Bay
Regent by a quarter-length. It was a neck-and-neck race once more,
across the three meadows with the last and lower fences that were
between them and the final leap of all; that ditch of artificial water
with the towering double hedge of oak rails and of blackthorn, that was
reared black and grim and well-nigh hopeless just in front of the Grand
Stand. A roar like the roar of the sea broke up from the thronged course
as the crowd hung breathless on the even race; ten thousand shouts rang
as thrice ten thousand eyes watched the closing contest, as superb a
sight as the Shires ever saw; while the two ran together--the gigantic
chestnut, with every massive sinew swelled and strained to tension,
side by side with the marvelous grace, the shining flanks, and the
Arabian-like head of the Guards' horse.

Louder and wilder the shrieked tumult rose: "The chestnut beats!" "The
gray beats!" "Scarlet's ahead!" "Bay Regent's caught him!" "Violet's
winning, Violet's wining!" "The King's neck by neck!" "The King's
beating!" "The Guards will get it!" "The Guard's crack has it!" "Not
yet, not yet!" "Violet will thrash him at the jump!" "Now for it!" "The
Guards, the Guards, the Guards!" "Scarlet will win!" "The King has the
finish!" "No, no, no, no!"

Sent along at a pace that Epsom flat never eclipsed, sweeping by the
Grand Stand like the flash of electric flame, they ran side to side one
moment more; their foam flung on each other's withers, their breath
hot in each other's nostrils, while the dark earth flew beneath their
stride. The blackthorn was in front behind five bars of solid oak; the
water yawning on its farther side, black and deep and fenced, twelve
feet wide if it were an inch, with the same thorn wall beyond it; a
leap no horse should have been given, no Steward should have set. Cecil
pressed his knees closer and closer, and worked the gallant hero for the
test; the surging roar of the throng, though so close, was dull on his
ear; he heard nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing but that lean chestnut
head beside him, the dull thud on the turf of the flying gallop, and the
black wall that reared in his face. Forest King had done so much, could
he have stay and strength for this?

Cecil's hands clinched unconsciously on the bridle, and his face was
very pale--pale with excitation--as his foot, where the stirrup was
broken, crushed closer and harder against the gray's flanks.

"Oh, my darling, my beauty--now!"

One touch of the spur--the first--and Forest King rose at the leap, all
the life and power there were in him gathered for one superhuman and
crowning effort; a flash of time, not half a second in duration, and he
was lifted in the air higher, and higher, and higher in the cold, fresh,
wild winter wind, stakes and rails, and thorn and water lay beneath him
black and gaunt and shapeless, yawning like a grave; one bound, even in
mid-air, one last convulsive impulse of the gathered limbs, and Forest
King was over!

And as he galloped up the straight run-in, he was alone.

Bay Regent had refused the leap.

As the gray swept to the Judge's chair, the air was rent with deafening
cheers that seemed to reel like drunken shouts from the multitude.
"The Guards win, the Guards win!" and when his rider pulled up at the
distance with the full sun shining on the scarlet and white, with the
gold glisten of the embroidered "Coeur Vaillant se fait Royaume," Forest
King stood in all his glory, winner of the Soldiers' Blue Ribbon, by a
feat without its parallel in all the annals of the Gold Vase.



But, as the crowd surged about him, and the mad cheering crowned his
victory, and the Household in the splendor of their triumph and the
fullness of their gratitude rushed from the drags and the stands
to cluster to his saddle, Bertie looked as serenely and listlessly
nonchalant as of old, while he nodded to the Seraph with a gentle smile.

"Rather a close finish, eh? Have you any Moselle Cup going there? I'm a
little thirsty."

Outsiders would much sooner have thought him defeated than triumphant;
no one, who had not known him, could possibly have imagined that he
had been successful; an ordinary spectator would have concluded that,
judging by the resigned weariness of his features, he had won the race
greatly against his own will, and to his own infinite ennui. No one
could have dreamt that he was thinking in his heart of hearts how
passionately he loved the gallant beast that had been victor with him,
and that, if he had followed out the momentary impulse in him, he could
have put his arms round the noble bowed neck and kissed the horse like a
woman!

The Moselle Cup was brought to refresh the tired champion, and before he
drank it Bertie glanced at a certain place in the Grand Stand and bent
his head as the cup touched his lips: it was a dedication of his victory
to the Queen of Beauty. Then he threw himself lightly out of saddle,
and, as Forest King was led away for the after-ceremony of bottling,
rubbing, and clothing, his rider, regardless of the roar and hubbub of
the course, and of the tumultuous cheers that welcomed both him and his
horse from the men who pressed round him, into whose pockets he had put
thousands upon thousands, and whose ringing hurrahs greeted the "Guards'
Crack," passed straight up toward Jimmy Delmar and held out his hand.

"You gave me a close thing, Major Delmar. The Vase is as much yours
as mine; if your chestnut had been as good a water jumper as he is a
fencer, we should have been neck to neck at the finish."

The browned Indian-sunned face of the Lancer broke up into a cordial
smile, and he shook the hand held out to him warmly; defeat and
disappointment had cut him to the core, for Jimmy was the first
riding man of the Light Cavalry; but he would not have been the frank
campaigner that he was if he had not responded to the graceful and
generous overture of his rival and conqueror.

"Oh, I can take a beating!" he said good-humoredly; "at any rate, I am
beat by the Guards; and it is very little humiliation to lose against
such riding as yours and such a magnificent brute as your King. I
congratulate you most heartily, most sincerely."

And he meant it, too. Jimmy never canted, nor did he ever throw the
blame, with paltry, savage vindictiveness, on the horse he had ridden.
Some men there are--their name is legion--who never allow that it is
their fault when they are "nowhere"--oh, no! it is the "cursed screw"
always, according to them. But a very good rider will not tell you that.

Cecil, while he talked, was glancing up at the Grand Stand, and when the
others dispersed to look over the horses, and he had put himself out
of his shell into his sealskin in the dressing-shed, he went up thither
without a moment's loss of time.

He knew them all; those dainty beauties with their delicate cheeks just
brightened by the western winterly wind, and their rich furs and laces
glowing among the colors of their respective heroes; he was the pet of
them all; "Beauty" had the suffrages of the sex without exception; he
was received with bright smiles and graceful congratulations, even from
those who had espoused Eyre Montacute's cause, and still fluttered their
losing azure, though the poor hunter lay dead, with his back broken, and
a pistol-ball mercifully sent through his brains--the martyr to a man's
hot haste, as the dumb things have ever been since creation began.

Cecil passed them as rapidly as he could for one so well received by
them, and made his way to the center of the Stand, to the same spot at
which he had glanced when he had drunk the Moselle.