Patrick was extraordinarily pleased when he was put up on Constant, a promising seventeen- hand bay with a great deal of sparkle, for the match suggested that Mr. Angus might be testing his abilities, as well as those of the horse. Constant was a stable favorite, usually exercised by Arch Adams, another apprentice jockey who had already ridden in several races at Newmarket. Arch and his friend Jim gave Patrick a disgruntled look as he shortened the stirrup leathers (Patrick rode short, in the style of the American Tod Sloan) and when he went into the saddle, Jim muttered something derogatory under his breath. But Patrick did his best to ignore them and concentrated on settling onto the horse, which danced and fidgeted under him.
When all the lads were mounted, the string departed for the gallops on the west side of Newmarket at Southfields, not far from the racecourse. They crossed the Bury Road and went behind the other stables and right through the town, taking the High Street. This was the regular route to the Heath taken by all the stables, and often they encountered other strings on their way to exercise. But they were early this morning, and when Southfields came into view, it was empty.
It was full light now, but cloudy and gray, with a slight drizzle. The air was cool, the ground soft but not slippery, the breeze quiet-the very best sort of morning to exercise horses. Mr. Angus began immediately with the canters, watching carefully to make an assessment of the individual horse’s capabilities. As always, the touts and tipsters had arrived early, too. They watched from their distant stations up the hill and along the road, peering through their field glasses, collecting tidbits of information on the health and performance of one horse or another to pass along to the bookmakers and racing papers. There was nothing that could be done about this peering and prying, and the stables had learned how to turn it to best advantage by showcasing some horses and concealing others, thereby influencing the odds.
Canters completed, the string rode back through the town to the stable, where Patrick unsaddled Constant, rubbed him down, washed the dirt out of his hooves, rugged him up, and carried water and oats to his box. Then it was time for more chores, lunch, and then the afternoon string-and here it was that the gray day became suddenly much brighter, for while Mr. Angus was making assignments, his nephew Pinkie came out to join him. There was a hurried conference, Mr. Angus shaking his head and Pinkie gesturing emphatically, and Patrick was put up on Gladiator.
Then, while the head lad marshaled the string and headed off to Southfields, Patrick rode Gladiator behind Mr. Angus and Mr. Pinkie to the trial ground beyond the Limekilns, accompanied by Arch Adams on a four-year-old colt named Rag who had won well the previous year, and Jim on Cannon, a promising, eager chestnut, another stable favorite. No one said a word, but Patrick knew that they were going to run a full-scale trial to see how well Rag would do against Cannon, and whether Cannon had as much promise as he seemed to have. He leaned over and patted Gladiator’s neck, hoping that the horse would run well. He thought briefly of Johnny’s fair, bright face and smiling optimism, and felt a stab of sadness. But he had to put that out of his mind, for Johnny was gone now. And if he felt any fear that Gladiator might suddenly turn savage, as he had at the Derby, Patrick put it away too. What had happened in that race happened because of the doping, and today Gladiator was as calm as could be, and perhaps even a little lethargic.
The mist was clearing and the sun breaking through the silver clouds when the group reached the trial ground. Three men on horseback were watching from the brow of the hill through field glasses as Mr. Angus rode on to the end of the course and reined in where he could observe. After a few moments, the watchers were joined by several more. Mr. Pinkie stayed with the three runners, giving them brief instructions.
“Don’t ride ’em into the ground,” he said. “We don’t want any injuries. If there’s faltering, ease off.” He looked at Arch Adams. “But let ’im run ’ard if ’e wants,” he said.
The riders nodded, the horses danced eagerly, and Mr. Pinkie dropped a red handkerchief to signal the start. They were off quicker and faster than Patrick expected, accelerating in a hard run, Rag opening up a strong lead, Cannon running second. Loping lazily, Gladiator did not seem compelled to keep up until Patrick, seeing the distance to Cannon open to ten lengths, loosened the rein, crouched forward on the horse’s withers, and whispered urgently, “For Johnny, boy, go!
At this, Gladiator pricked his ears, gathered his strength, and shot forward, making up length on length against Cannon and then pulling past, working up close behind Rag, and then flying past him too, and passing Mr. Angus in a strong finish, neck stretched out. The other two horses slowed to a canter immediately, but Gladiator continued to run as if he were enjoying the pleasure of it, until Patrick gradually pulled him up and circled back to the others.
“Well,” Mr. Angus said, as if he were surprised. Frowning, he looked at Patrick, then at Gladiator, who was prancing and shaking his head, exactly as if he were proud of his win. “Decided to try at last, did he?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “The start was faster than I expected and I had a tight rein, so I might have held him up some, just from not knowing. But he moved up fast when he was asked.” He wanted to add, proudly,
While Patrick and the other riders let their horses cool, Mr. Pinkie rode up, frowning, as if he were not entirely pleased with the outcome of the trial. He and Mr. Angus pulled off to one side for a brief discussion, Mr. Pinkie speaking with unusual animation. Mr. Angus looked irritated at first, then angry, but finally gave a vexed shrug and seemed to give in, though his look was dark. Mr. Pinkie then turned to the watchers on the hill, who’d had their glasses trained on the entire event, and made some sort of signal. Mr. Angus rode back to the group.
“That’s it for the afternoon, lads,” he said gruffly, not looking at Patrick. “Let’s take ’em back to the stable.”
As they started off, Pinkie motioned to Patrick to ride behind with him.
“That was Lord Hunt up on the hill, watching the trial,” he said. “He wants you up on Gladiator for the ten-furlong handicap on Friday.”
Patrick stared at him, almost uncomprehending. It was what he’d been longing to hear, yet couldn’t quite believe. His first ride as a jockey-not in a trial, but in a real race, and on Gladiator, the best horse in the world!
“Thank you,” he managed at last. “I’ll do my best to win, Mr. Pinkie. And Gladiator will too, I know it.” He thought briefly of the Derby, and swallowed hard. They wouldn’t try to dope the horse again, would they? But now that they’d seen how fast Gladiator could run if he were asked, they had to know that the dope wouldn’t be needed. He could run just as fast, and with a lot more control, without it. And he would watch Gladiator like a hawk before the race. No one would put anything into his horse. If they tried, they would have to contend with
But there was an expression on Pinkie’s leathery face that Patrick couldn’t quite decipher. They rode in silence for a moment; then the man said, “There’s a condition to yer riding, boy. Ye’re to promise to ride exactly as yer told on the day of the race. Ye will follow instructions-or ye’ll not ride again, for this stable or any other. Is that understood?”
“A condition?” Patrick stared at him, at the steely eyes, the hard mouth. He began to comprehend what was being asked of him.
“We don’t need to go into the details now,” Pinkie said roughly. “Let’s just have yer promise, shall we?”
“I don’t-” Patrick swallowed. He could stop worrying about Gladiator being doped, for he understood all too well what his instructions for the race would be: to stop Gladiator from doing his best, to hold him back so that another horse might win. Those men on the hill with Lord Hunt must have been tipsters. They’d seen the horse run well, and they’d carry the message back to the bookies. Gladiator would be short odds. Lord Hunt would bet against him, and would win by losing.
“Speak up, boy,” Pinkie snapped. His eyes were narrowed and dark. “Say it now, or ’is lordship’ll give the ride to Arch Adams. Arch does as ’e’s told.”
Patrick took a deep breath. “I… promise,” he said numbly. He had to. If he didn’t, he’d lose any chance he might have to keep Gladiator safe.
Pinkie grinned and leaned over to clap him hard on the shoulder. “Well, then, buck up, lad! It ain’t every day that an apprentice jockey goes up on a ’orse that nearly won the Derby, is it?”
Patrick nodded. That much, at least, was true.
