Aware of the danger in the stallion’s restlessness, Henry wanted to warn her. Yet he was afraid to speak lest his voice might upset the Black still more. He waited, fearing a furious kick that would break her ribs, stave in her chest, batter her face.
The Black sniffed the air. His eyes quivered. He swung his head toward Pam, undecided, uneasy. He continued pawing the ground and snorting with impatience, but he did not strike out or move away.
Pam stroked his muzzle with one hand while putting the other over his left eye. Her gaze met Alec’s and she nodded to him. He quickly cupped his hands. She was on the stallion’s back in a single flowing movement, every joint and muscle from ankle to neck acting as one.
“Okay, Alec,” Pam said, “turn him loose.”
The Black tossed his head and tried to unseat her. She stayed in the saddle, her hands and seat firm.
Henry expected the Black to erupt with a stranger on his back. If he got away with it now, he would in the race as well. But the Black made no further attempt to unseat Pam. Henry watched her ride off, slim, collected and very proud; he saw no childishness in her face, only strength and resolution. For the moment, he decided, she had made it.
The Black went forward with a long, quick, clean-cut pace. Then, as he went through the gap in the fence, he quickened stride. The stands loomed on the far side of the track, a hovering bulk of steel and concrete and emptiness. Even without the tumult of the crowd or band music, he became excited. He flared his nostrils as he would have done in racing air.
“Easy,” Pam said, when he broke into a run. There was no easiness in her own body as she sought control. She must not be just a passenger on his back, not if she intended to race him on Saturday. Alec and Henry were watching. She must be in charge.
The Black had no equal in strength as well as in speed. He wanted to be free of all restraint. His muscled neck was tense and his ears lay back as though the wind of his speed was already whipping past them.
Pam’s hands did not yield to him as he asked for more rein. She leaned over his neck and told him to wait. Her eyes were almost closed and her skin was drawn tight about her high, jutting cheekbones. She listened to the sound of his teeth against the steel bit.
Going around the far turn, she cautioned herself, “Not too tight a hold. Don’t fight him. Ask him. There, that’s better.”
The Black went into the homestretch under control, as Alec and Henry wanted. Pam’s world had never looked so beautiful as it did just then, riding the champion past tier upon tier of empty stands. It made no difference to her that nobody was there to watch.
She loosened rein and thrust her knees into his sides, going under the finish wire. At the same instant she called, “Go!”
In spite of the strength of the Black’s rush, the shock of his leap, she held on. It was comparable to nothing she’d ever known before, the fury of his run coming with the first stride. Almost before his hoofs struck the packed dirt of the track, he leaped again, throwing her high upon his neck. Her legs saved her from falling and she regained her balance, sitting firm in her seat, and shortening rein.
The Black’s speed could not be checked by her snug hold, and his strides became less a racing run than flight itself. His great body stretched in the air, touching ground only to leave it again in a single strike of his hoofs.
Pam’s blood caught fire. She released her hold on his mouth. Never had she known anything like it, a furious, magnificent soaring flight! She pressed her face hard against his neck, her body light, almost fluid like his. She was one with him, flying with him, and she had no wish but to soar forever, wherever he would take her.
Coming off the first turn, Pam saw Alec and Henry in the distance and shortened rein. The Black didn’t take kindly to the sudden hold on his mouth but he responded by slowing his strides. She had found that with all his great speed and strength, the Black was no wild-eyed monster grabbing the bit and rushing headlong around the track. He would respond to the reins if his rider was strong enough to handle him.
But Pam’s arms were beginning to ache from his tremendous pull. The Black took an inch more rein from her and lengthened stride. The inner rail became only a blur, her eyes dimmed by the rush of the wind; his black mane whipped her face, stinging her flesh, hurting her.
A growing numbness came to her arms, weakening her hold on him. Yet her voice was strong as she called repeatedly in his leveled ears, “Easy … easy …”
The reins slipped again, and the black stallion thundered on. He had the steel bit hard against the bars of his mouth and his incredible speed mounted as he began digging into the track still more.
The furlong poles sped by. Alec and Henry were only blurred images as Pam swept past. She leaned her body with the stallion’s as he whipped around the turn and entered the homestretch again.
Ignoring the shooting pains in her arms, she guided him away from the rail and more to the center of the track. She could not check his speed but she could direct it where she wanted; it was like aiming a rifle and sending a bullet speeding on its mark.
The Black raced down the homestretch without needing the roar of a crowd to urge him on. The emptiness of the stands echoed to the rapid beat of his hoofs. He swept past the finish pole, running for the love of running, and Pam rode him for no other reason than to share that love.
Going into the first turn again, the Black slowed of his own accord and Pam threw both arms around his neck and pressed her face against him.
Henry had watched in total silence as the stallion’s speed had increased to an almost impossible level. He had never seen the Black go so fast and he believed it was because of the girl’s weight, the lightness of a quail. But her balance, too, had been precisely, delicately right for the stallion’s greatest freedom and speed. She had been able to check him some, if not rate him as she should, and she’d been able to guide him, direct his tumultuous charge.
“What do you think?” Alec asked, his voice choked with concern, and almost willing to abide by Henry’s decision. He didn’t want Pam hurt.
Henry did not take his eyes from Pam as she rode the Black toward them. “I’ve never seen him go any faster,” he said finally. “I guess … if you want to take the gamble and she does too …”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt how she’ll feel about it,” Alec said.
“Good,” Henry said quietly, “then it’s all right with me.”
“I’m not sure how good it is,” Alec answered.
DARK SATURDAY
23
From the beginning there was an air of unreality to Saturday’s race. The day was dark, dismal and dripping as the call to the post sounded and the horses and riders came onto the track for the running of the Empire State Handicap. At times they were unrecognizable in the rain-shrouded gloom, emerging eerily from the wispy mist.
Henry pushed his way through the swarming crowd standing before the grandstand despite the drizzling rain. He worked his way toward the middle of the cement apron, realizing it would have been much easier to have watched the race from the press booth. But he didn’t want to go up there today. For some reason he wanted to be alone, and the swirling crowd afforded him the most privacy. He didn’t want to see the whole race, just the end when it was all over. Why only that? Was he afraid? Of what? For Pam or for himself?
He felt the increased beat of his heart as he listened to the announcer’s voice over the loudspeakers, introducing the horses in the feature race. The field was turning in front of the clubhouse and coming back at a canter. He caught a glimpse of the Black, the fifth horse in the field of eight. Alec, riding Napoleon, accompanied the stallion and had a firm hold on his bridle. Pam sat very still on the Black, so small that she hardly seemed to be there at all in the murky light.
“Good luck,” he had wished her in the paddock, and he’d meant it. With the day what it was and the track deep in slop, she would need all the racing luck coming to her.
He was aware of the hush that fell
over the huge throng as Pam’s name was given as the Black’s rider. The announcement was followed by loud cheering mixed with catcalls and boos, and a hum of comments regarding girl riders, some good-natured, some not.
Henry’s gaze took in the crowd around him, aware of a restless undercurrent, a feeling of fearful anticipation of what might happen. He was responsible for Pam’s being out there. He could have convinced Alec it wasn’t safe for her to race.
Suddenly Henry felt nausea sweep over him. What had he done? Why had he allowed it? The fact that Alec had wanted her to ride was no excuse. He was older. He should have known better.
Now it was too late, much too late. Only the waiting was left, and the minutes would pass intolerably for him. He shoved his way through the crowd, hauling, pulling, determined to reach the rail. “I shouldn’t have allowed it,” he told himself angrily. “She’s only a kid, a little kid. I’ve been a fool … an old fool.”
* * *
The starting gate loomed before Alec like a rain-cloaked monster. Suddenly, Napoleon almost toppled beneath him as the Black swerved hard against the gelding. Alec steadied Napoleon, then his eyes turned to Pam to see how she had taken the jolt. She sat straight in her saddle, gazing neither to the left nor the right, her eyes on the track between the Black’s pricked ears.
Alec said nothing; the time for talking was over. Napoleon continued plodding along, doing his job of rebuffing the Black’s bumps and never giving an inch.
Over the loudspeakers came the announcement, “The horses are nearing the starting gate.”
They went behind the gate but continued toward the top of the stretch, the Black cantering easily. Alec watched his horse’s long, sure strides in the mud, noting the quiet smooth rhythm, looking him over for the final time, trying to make certain as best he could that everything was as it should be. He had put on the stallion’s bridle himself, adjusting it with care. He had made sure the saddle was on right and the lead pad secure, so there would be no sliding backward or forward. He could find nothing wrong. The Black’s legs skimmed the track and his long tail waved behind.
The rain glistened on wet racing silks as hoofs splashed through the mud to either side of them. It was like an underwater ballet with colored silks bobbing past to fade in the mist and disappear altogether on the far turn. The Black tried to get away, but Alec held on to his bridle.
It was nearing post time when Alec turned the Black and led him back toward the open doors of the starting gate. The huge stands loomed to his right like an enormous mountain in the dusk.
Aqueduct fans knew all kinds of weather, he thought. They were resourceful people, well provided with raincoats and umbrellas. Despite the dismal day, they were safe and secure on the other side of the rail. They had nothing to fear from a sloppy track. It was a far different world on this side. Alec looked at the curtain of rain that wreathed the oval track. The start was midway in the homestretch and the distance to be run one mile and a quarter.
A familiar crewman came walking toward them, his rubber boots squishing in the mud. Turning over the Black to him, Alec said, “Go easy with him, John. He’s got someone new in the saddle.”
“I know, Alec. Don’t worry none.”
Alec glanced at Pam. His job was done and the rest was up to her. The Black was in her hands. He watched her pull down the protective helmet more securely on her head. It was an instinctive movement and he did not believe she was thinking of her accident or the dangerous ride before her. She seemed to be conscious only of the Black, rubbing him between the shoulder blades to comfort him and talking all the while, unaware of anyone else, including himself. Her face looked grim but there was a relaxed calmness to her body that comforted him a little.
He supposed she felt as he did when the waiting was over and the race at hand.
“Lots of luck, Pam,” he said.
She didn’t answer but he saw the slight quivers at the corners of her mouth as she tried to smile.
* * *
The official starter, standing on his platform just ahead and to the left of the gate, said, “Don’t bring up that Number Five horse too fast, John. No hurry. Wait for the others.”
The starter didn’t want any mistakes in this race. A bad start could ruin his day. His sagging, grim face betrayed the softness of his voice and his patient instructions to his ground crew. He was an amiable man, of even temperament, as a man must be to have survived fifty years of starting races. Once the horses were in the gate and gone, his job would be finished until the next race. But this was the Empire State Handicap, worth over $100,000, and some eighty thousand people were there to watch it. He glanced at the girl up on Number 5. He had never thought he’d see anyone but Alec Ramsay up on the Black. It was bound to make his job tougher.
He had eight good men working in his ground crew, one for every horse in the race. Each man knew his job and the quirks of every horse. He kept a book on the gate peculiarities of almost every horse racing at Aqueduct and there were more than two thousand of them. He glanced at his program to confirm his notes on this field. No slips today, not in the gate anyway.
The starter was well aware of the television cameras just off the track, focused on the horses as they approached the gate. It wasn’t like the old days when his men carried a switch in one pocket, a rope in another and a bull whip around their necks. Then he could say anything he wanted to the riders without being hauled before the track stewards or even into court. Now everyone knew what went on in the gate, including millions of television viewers.
“Okay, it’s time,” he called to his ground crew. “Bring up that Number One horse, Woody. Keep his head up. He likes to get it down, you know. That’s it. Bring him forward now. Good boy.” Dark Legend was safely in his stall.
Sun Dancer was next. “George, you won’t have trouble with that Number Two horse if you walk in front of him. Go right into his stall ahead of him. That’s it.” Here was another girl rider, Becky Moore, and he recalled what had happened the last time these two girls had been in the same race. Well, he’d better forget it. What happened after the race began wasn’t part of his job. “Next horse,” he called.
This horse would give him trouble if he wasn’t careful. “Sid,” he said, “remember you’ve got to back that Number Three horse in! Come around to the front and start all over again.” He waited patiently as Artless was brought to the front of the gate and carefully backed into his stall, fighting every step of the way.
“Hold his tail up, Sid, so he won’t rear on you! That’s it. Now you’ve got him. Stay there until he settles down.”
The starter turned his gaze to the Number 4 horse. No trouble here. Challenger walked into his stall without a fuss.
Now for the big horse, Number 5. “Easy with him, John,” he called, “very, very easy. Hand on his bridle lightly. Don’t force him one step. Walk to his side, well to his side. Ramsay, help move him up now … I mean …” He’d forgotten the girl’s name and looked at his program. When he turned back, the Black was in his stall, standing straight and still, with the girl leaning forward, talking to him. Maybe she wouldn’t have trouble after all, he decided. He had to admit that she had a lot of courage to be riding the Black. He called for the next horse.
Sword Master was sluggish; he looked half-asleep. “Shake up that Number Six horse, Cliff. He needs prodding. Give him one. Yeah, that’s it.” Sword Master went quietly into his stall.
The Number 7 horse followed quickly, his handler having no trouble with him. “That’s the way to do it,” the starter called. Royal Pharaoh was in his stall, and there was only one more horse to go.
The starter turned to the Number 8 stall, making certain that the front door had been left open. It was well known that Gallant Teddy wouldn’t enter a closed stall. “Okay, bring him in now, Bill,” he ordered his crewman. “Grab his ear to keep his attention until you get him inside. Fine, that’s the way to do it. Now, close both doors. Easy. Good. That’s it. Okay, we’re all set.”
r /> His gaze swept down the row of closed stalls. It was a good field, no problems other than the usual. But there was lots of tension in a race of this importance. The jockeys were keyed up and the horses sensed it.
The starter glanced at their faces, wet with rain, making certain each rider was well balanced in his seat and ready to go. Willy Watts was young in age but old in experience; he seemed as nervous as Becky Moore, who sat on Sun Dancer in the next stall. Sam Dillon was grim-faced, a veteran rider, old in experience with over six thousand winners to his credit, making him the second best jockey of all time. Tommy Ryan, winner of the Kentucky Derby this year, was having his hands full with Gallant Teddy, who was as full of fight as he had ever known him to be.
“Bill,” the starter called, “give Ryan a hand with that Number Eight horse. Tail him. Get it over the side of the stall. Keep him still or we’ll never get out of here.”
Time was ticking away and the starter turned back to the Number 8 horse with anxious eyes, knowing it was already two minutes past post time. He bit his lip, recalling other races, other years when he’d had bad starts in important races. He mustn’t let it happen this time to mar his record. He’d wait as long as necessary to get a good start.
Gallant Teddy continued plunging despite the crewman and the jockey’s efforts to hold him down. He half-reared and twisted as he came down, almost unseating his rider. Then, suddenly, he plunged forward to break through the door and was running down the track with the red-coated marshal alertly cutting him off before he had gone very far. But it meant more time, waiting for him to come back.
The horses in the stalls had settled down as if they knew the break was not coming immediately. An indication of how smart they were today, the starter thought. They stood there like old cows, waiting for Gallant Teddy to return.
Back in his stall, Gallant Teddy continued fighting both handler and rider. He backed up and tried to pin the jockey against the side of the stall. Tommy Ryan looked scared. He had every right to be, the starter thought. Ryan had been out of action for almost a year after breaking his leg in a fall at Belmont.