Chapter XII.. Great Australian Horses.

Great Australian Horses. The Barb v. Carbine.

For we did produce, once upon a time, animals fit to take their places in the ranks against the greatest that the world could bring. Although the Hon. James White failed in his patriotic invasion, many individual racers reached the shores of Great Britain and showed the racing world what we are really capable of.

To begin with, there was Merman. This horse was bred by Mr. W. R. Wilson when his St. Albans Stud was in the zenith of its fortunes. He was a chestnut colt, foaled in 1892, by Grand Flaneur, who, great horse as he himself was, was not an unqualified success at the stud, from Seaweed, by Coltness out of Surf (imported). He showed some fair form in Australia, winning a couple of two-year-old handicaps in his first season out of half a dozen starts; the July Handicap, at a mile, in nine attempts as a three-year-old, and the Armadale Handicap, one mile, the Rosstown Plate, 5½ furlongs, the Yan Yean Stakes, a mile, and the Williamstown Cup, one mile and three furlongs, out of seven efforts, as a four-year-old. That erudite judge, Mr. William Allison, then purchased him on behalf of Mrs. Langtry, and in England he proved himself a stayer of the very first water by winning the Ascot Gold Cup, 2¼ miles, the Cesarewitch, 2¼ miles, the Goodwood Cup and the Goodwood Stakes at two and a half miles each. This was the highest form imaginable, and was an excellent advertisement for the Australian horse.

Newhaven, our Cup and Derby winner, won the City and Suburban Handicap at Epsom, a race which the fiddle-headed old gelding, The Grafter, also appropriated, while Maluma, the sister to Malvolio, won races. Aurum, a son of Trenton, was, without doubt, the best representative we ever sent to the Old Country, but, unfortunately, he went wrong and never had a chance. He was the greatest three-year-old I ever saw, and at three years old ran third to The Grafter and Gaulus in the Melbourne Cup, two miles, at the beginning of November. This was such a good performance that I must append the weights, so that you can thoroughly appreciate the magnitude of the effort:—

Gaulus, 6 years 7.8 (1) The Grafter, 4 years 7.0 (2) Aurum, 3 years 8.6 (3)

Had they been meeting at weight-for-age, their respective imposts would have been:—

Gaulus, ch. h., 6 yrs. 9.6. The Grafter, b. g., 4 yrs. 8.11. Aurum, br. c., 3 yrs. 7.6.

It will thus be seen that this three-year-old was asked to give The Grafter, a horse capable of winning a City and Suburban, no less than thirty-nine pounds, calculated on the weight-for-age basis, and Gaulus forty pounds. It was no less than astounding.

A New Zealand colt, Noctuiform, perhaps almost as good a colt in his three-year-old days as Aurum, also travelled to the Old Country, but went all to pieces, and was a complete failure. That was the fortune of war, but the Dominion avenged herself when Mr. S. H. Gollan took a steeplechaser, Moifaa, across the wide seas to Liverpool, and put down all England, aye, and Ireland, too, over that unique and difficult course. Yes, I assure you we can breed the best in the world here, if we would but take the greatest pains. That is where we fail, and fail badly. English stud management can give us a couple of stone and a handsome beating.

We often hear men arguing on the subject of “Which was the best horse ever bred in Australasia?”

The subject is an interesting, if a somewhat profitless one for discussion. It is impossible to decide the point, for the horses of old had perforce to contend with conditions which their more pampered brethren of to-day are never called upon to meet. But I should say that the champion laurels hover between the brows of Carbine and The Barb. The time occupied by each in running the Cup, two miles, can scarcely be compared. The old-timer won, as a three-year-old, carrying six stone eleven, in three minutes and forty-three seconds. Carbine, a five-year-old, with ten five up, finished in three minutes twenty-eight and a quarter seconds. The pace in The Barb’s year was probably not fully on until approaching the Abattoirs, when the winner and Exile came away from the field and, locked together, they fought out every inch of the last hundred yards. In Carbine’s year they hopped off with a full head of steam on, and the last five furlongs were covered at the tremendous speed of one minute and two seconds. But the going in The Barb’s race, no doubt, could not be compared with what it is in our day, although we must remember that, after all, there was only an interval of twenty-four years between the two eras. It will be interesting to briefly run over the careers of the rivals.

As a two-year-old The Barb only competed twice. In April Fishhook and Budelight, two Fisherman colts belonging to Mr. H. Fisher, beat him in The Australian Jockey Club’s Two Years’ Stakes. The Barb ran green. A week afterwards Fishhook attempted to give the black colt a stone, at six furlongs, in The Nursery, but was beaten easily by two lengths.

Then followed the Australian Derby in September. The Barb won with the greatest ease by two lengths, Bylong, a chestnut Sir Hercules colt belonging to Mr. John Lee, running second, and Fishhook third. On September sixth, The Barb, still entitled to run in “A Maiden at entry” event, was beaten by a Pitsford horse, Bulgimbar, in the Spring Metropolitan Maiden Stakes, after a fine race, by half a length. Truly the ways of our ancestors were not our ways. Next day at weight-for-age, but carrying his seven-pound Derby penalty, he smothered Fishhook very easily by three lengths at a mile, run in 1.50. Dead slow! Then came the great Melbourne Cup on November 1st, 1886. The Barb won by a short head. Time, 3.43. All-Aged Stakes. One mile. Special weights. Sour Grapes (Mr. C. B. Fisher’s) br. f., 2 years, first. The Barb second. The latter was left at the post. Won by 2 lengths. Time, 1.50.

Twelfth Champion Race. 1,000 sovereigns. Weight-for-age. Three miles. The Barb first, Mr. Tait’s Volunteer second. Cowra, Sea Gull and Fishhook also ran, but Fishhook bolted. Won very easily. Time, 5 min. 38 sec. “Quickest on record in Australia.”

The Homebush Maiden Plate. One mile and a half. For Maidens at time of entry. (The race was run on April 22nd, and so The Barb’s claim to maidenhood would not hold good to-day.) Mr. E. Lee’s Phoebe was the only other starter. “Won in a trot. Time, 3 min. 9¾ sec. The Barb ran in his shoes.”

The Australian St. Leger. At Randwick, May 4th.

Mr. C. B. Fisher’s Fishhook 1 Mr. T. Ivory’s Blair Athol 2 Mr. J. Lee’s Bylong 3

Mr. J. Tait’s The Barb, Old England and Sir John also ran. “Fishhook and The Barb went off with the lead, and raced at a tremendous pace for a mile, when The Barb was beaten.” What the explanation of this debacle might have been, I cannot say, but I am told by one who lived at that time that Fishhook simply “burst him up.”

During the next season The Barb’s career was an uninterrupted triumphal procession. The Metropolitan, the Craven Plate, the Randwick Plate, the Royal Park Stakes at Flemington, the Port Phillip Stakes, the Sydney Cup, and the Queen’s Plate at Randwick, all came his way without much effort. The Royal Park Stakes was a walk-over, and in the Randwick Plate he had only Warwick, a stable companion, to canter along with him. But in the other events he beat Tim Whiffler, Fireworks (not, however, the Fireworks of his three-year-old days), Coquette, Gulnare, Glencoe and Gasworks. He was invincible, and there, at the height of his fortunes, his racing career terminated.

Now let us sum up Carbine as quickly as possible. As a two-year-old he appeared on the course five times, and on each occasion won his race against the best that New Zealand could produce of the same age, and in the Challenge Stakes he also beat Russley, a six-year-old, and Silvermark, a three-year-old.

After arriving in Australia, he was beaten—the most palpable fluke—in the Derby at Flemington by Mr. White’s Ensign. Hales on Ensign won the race; Derrit on Carbine lost it. The latter rider struck his mount (Carbine) with his whip on a tender spot, and paralysed him for the moment.

The Flying Stakes (seven furlongs), the Foal Stakes (a mile and a quarter), beating Melos and Wycombe, fell to him at the same Spring Meeting at Flemington. Then followed a couple of defeats. Carbine, now the property of Mr. Donald Wallace, ran third in the Newmarket, carrying eight stone twelve, to Sedition, a six-year-old mare with seven three on her back, and Lochiel, an aged horse, with nine four. Mick O’Brien always maintained that he should have won this race upon Carbine. It was well known that O’Brien was a partner in another of the runners (Tradition), and he was fancied. Carbine’s jockey was determined that he would beat his own horse at all costs—otherwise, what would the mob say?—and kept the big bay well shepherded. When Tradition was palpably unable to come along, O’Brien clapped on full sail, and came too late. “I should be punished, flogged,” he confessed, after weighing in. In the Australian Cup, Lochiel, giving in actual weight a pound, got home from the three-year-old by three parts of a neck. At weight-for-age Carbine would have received eighteen pounds. The colt now won the Champion Stakes, three miles, in a very slow run race, from Abercorn, Melos, Volley, Lonsdale and Cyclops. Next day he secured, very easily indeed, the All-Aged Stakes at a mile, and, on the same day, the Loch Plate, two miles, by half a head from Lochiel and Carlyon, Carbine carrying a fourteen pound penalty.

In Sydney, at the Autumn Meeting, in glorious weather, Abercorn beat the champion in the Autumn Stakes, a mile and a half, and The Australian Peer, Lochiel and Cranbrook were behind the pair. Next day, in the Sydney Cup, two miles, Carbine, nine stone, won by a head from Melos, eight stone two, with Abercorn third, nine four, two lengths away, and Lochiel, nine two, eighth. “At the half-mile post Lady Lyon somewhat interfered with Carbine, causing him to drop back last. Time, 3 min. 31 sec.”

Next day Carbine won the All-Aged (a mile) from Rudolph, Russley, Lochiel and Melos, and later in the afternoon beat Lochiel in the Cumberland Stakes, two miles, with Abercorn third. Carbine won by half a head, as you will see if you turn up the Turf Register of the day. What that useful work does not tell you, however, is this: Five furlongs from home the race looked a gift for Carbine, and all the books were laying “ten to one Lochiel.” At this moment Carbine nearly fell, and dropped astern a prodigious long way. Old Mr. Sam Cook, the owner of The Admiral, hearing the fielders still calling “ten to one Lochiel,” dashed in and took all the hundreds to ten he could gather. Running back to the Lawn again he came in sight of the winning post just in time to see Carbine put in the most paralysing run perhaps ever seen, and just catch the leader on the post. One who was down the running tells how, sweeping round the bend, Carbine was literally “ventre a terre,” his belly almost touching the grass. The last half was run under 48 seconds. It was a falsely run race, the two miles taking them five minutes and three seconds. On the last day of the meeting, Mr. Wallace’s colt again beat Abercorn—half a length—Melos, Lochiel, Volley and Bluenose, in the Australian Jockey Club Plate, three miles.

And so ended his three-year-old career. The next season opened for him in the Spring with the Caulfield Stakes. Mr. James White’s three-year-old Dreadnought beat him two lengths over the mile and a furlong, and Mr. White with Abercorn, and Mr. Gannon, by the aid of Melos, stood in Carbine’s way in the Melbourne Stakes. But only a short head and half a neck separated the three. Ah! there was racing in the days of these mighty giants. In the Melbourne Cup, Carbine was set to carry ten stone. Bravo, a six-year-old son of Grand Flaneur, who had been much fancied, went lame a few days before the race, was eased in his work, and went back in the betting to pretty hopeless odds. Recovering, however, and most probably all the better for the let-up, he won fairly easily from Carbine, with the consistent Melos third, carrying eight twelve.

When Carbine was saddled up for the Canterbury Plate on the last day of the meeting, he had one of his fore feet quartered, and consequently he was unable to show his best form, and for once in a way he was beaten out of a place by Abercorn, Sinecure and Melos. His revenge came in the autumn. In the Essendon Stakes he beat Singapore, Melos, Bravo and Chintz, although Melos and Dreadnought finished ahead of him in a slow run Championship. However, on the fourth day of the meeting he made ample amends by taking the All-Aged Stakes, at a mile, from five two-year-olds, and the Loch Plate, over two miles, from Singapore and Fishwife. “Three to one on Carbine.” Then came the Autumn Randwick Meeting. Here, in the Autumn Stakes, Melos once more ran second to the great horse, with Dreadnought third. Chintz, Antaeus and Federation also ran. The Sydney Cup, two miles, came on the second day, and Carbine won easily. He carried nine stone nine, and Melos, nine five, was out of a place. He ended his four-year-old efforts with the All-Aged Stakes, the Cumberland Stakes—both on the same day—and the A.J.C. Plate, three miles, in the last race beating Melos and Dreadnought. The time occupied in running the distance was six minutes and seven seconds, which, of course, was terribly slow. Carbine’s last season was almost, though unfortunately not quite, an unblemished blaze of glory. Briefly, here is the list of his triumphs: The Spring Stakes, Randwick, beating Melos and seven others; the Craven Plate, with Megaphone and Cuirassier behind him. The time for the mile and a quarter was 2 min. 7 sec., a record at that period. The Melbourne Stakes from a large field, including Melos, who must have been heartily sick of the sight of his enemy’s tail. The aforementioned Melbourne Cup—the record Cup; the Essendon Stakes; the Champion Stakes, beating on this occasion the risen sun amongst the three-year-olds, The Admiral; the All-Aged Stakes; the Autumn Stakes, with only Highborn in opposition at weight-for-age. In the great Melbourne race you must remember that Highborn had carried six stone eight to the champion’s ten five. On the second day of this Randwick meeting, Highborn came out and won the Sydney Cup, carrying nine stone three. This is perhaps the most convincing proof that Carbine was very close akin to the super equine. But on the third day of the gathering Carbine made his unlucky “lapsus pedis.” In the All-Aged Stakes, in slippery going, that very great miler, Marvel, beat him easily by four lengths, at his favourite distance. Carbine was extremely disgusted. His faithful and splendidly knowledgeable trainer, Walter Hickenbotham, had sent him out that day without shoes, and he did not seem able to act. When the clerk of the course rode up, as is the fashion in Australia, to escort Marvel into the enclosure, Carbine “went for him” with open mouth. Revenge is sweet indeed. Nor was it long delayed. In the second last race of the same afternoon the pair again met at two miles, when, suitably shod, and with seven to four betted on him, Carbine came home seven lengths to the good. There had been considerable excitement and applause when the black horse downed the great gun at the mile, but when old Carbine fairly vindicated himself in such smashing style, a generous and sporting public went wild with enthusiasm. Hats, umbrellas, even field glasses, were thrown into the air, and the shouts were deafening. Emotion like this, when money is not the incentive, is good. And—last scene of all which closed this strange, eventful history—in the A.J.C. Plate, on the fourth day, at three miles, and with the bookmakers asking ten to one, the great horse cantered home from Correze and Greygown. The curtain had fallen. The racecourse saw the familiar figure no more.

Which champion, then, shall be dubbed “The Champion of Champions?” Men, and good judges, who have seen The Barb, tell us that, as a horse, he was magnificent. Lengthy, but beautifully ribbed up, immense loins, great powerful, muscular quarters, perfect shoulders, the best of legs, and altogether a noble-looking animal. Carbine was scarcely that. He possessed grand staying points, of course. “A loin and a back that would carry a house, and quarters to lift you slap over the town.” His barrel was all that it ought to be, deep, but not cumbersome. His shoulders were excellent, his rein long. But, in proportion to the rest of his frame, he was light in the gaskin, not great in the forearm, small—7¾ inches—and inclined to be round and long in his canon bones. Neither a “pretty” nor a perfect animal. Both horses possessed the temperament that heroes are made of. Courage, coolness, sagacity were theirs. Carbine ran his own race. He seized his own opportunities, and took an opening on his own initiative, when he saw it, through which he might thread his way in a big field. And he recognised the winning post as well as he knew his manger. He was determined to win, and he was perfectly well aware when a supreme effort was necessary. One might almost say, too, that he had the saving gift of humour. As he emerged from the enclosure in order to take his breather before a race, he almost invariably indulged in a little pantomime of his own, partly for his own edification, and partly for the amusement of his friends, the crowd. When he stepped on to the course from the enclosure, he would “gammon” that he saw something up the running which attracted his attention, and he would stand with his ears at full cock, gazing as at an apparition. No effort on the part of his jockey could induce him to walk forwards. Then Walter Hickenbotham appeared from the wings, as it were, and endeavoured to “shoo” him on. No result. Now Walter would flap his handkerchief at him, and the old fellow might walk a few paces, and then take fresh stock of the imaginary object in the distance. Another full stop. Then came the moment when Walter resorted to his ace of trumps. This was an umbrella, kept evidently for the purpose, which was opened and shut rapidly, as near as was consistent with safety to the horse’s heels. This usually produced the desired effect, and Carbine would then proceed far enough up the running to enable his jockey to invite him to turn round and sweep down the course in his preliminary. It was a curious and somewhat entertaining performance, but what the horse thought about it all it is difficult to say. But now, to sum up and deliver a verdict on the question of the merits of Carbine and The Barb. It is possible that The Barb was the better horse, and he was, most probably, the better looking of the two. Yet I fancy I know full well what the verdict of posterity will be. When a statue to Carbine has been erected in Olympia future generations will read in large letters on its plinth, “C.O.M.,” and archæologists of a later age will interpret this to mean: “Carbine, Optimus, Maximus” (“Carbine, Best and Greatest”).