Grand National (2 page)

The loudspeaker blasted over the crowd. “Mr. Cobb. Mr. Stanley Cobb. At the judges’ stand, please.”

Still Jack held onto the reins. He had to get through to his son. “Stan, I know what I’m talking about.”

“All right, Dad. Of course, you’ve ridden far more than I have. Only I know more about this horse than you do.”

The loudspeaker blared again. Abruptly and angrily Stanley left his father holding the reins. Jack Cobb watched him shove through the crowd past Marshall Smith, who stood with his hands casually in his pockets. His boots were perfection, his blue silks glistened in the afternoon. He was tanned, fit, and looked unbeatable. Stan squeezed his way outside the rails to the judges’ enclosure, and Smitty, slapping his whip against his boots, nodded at him. Jack noted with satisfaction that Stan ignored the other man.

Obviously the starter’s question was a minor one, for very soon Jack could see the boy edging back through the crowd toward him. He squeezed through and without a word put his foot in the irons and vaulted up. How like me at his age he is, thought Jack as he watched his son.

Jack Cobb watched his boy intently as he took Quicksilver to the barrier. Perhaps this race would be Stan’s last for a long while. Buzz Scott brought Jet Plane sharply under control.

Then they were off.

Jack wondered if Stan would follow his advice. Somehow he thought not. And perhaps the boy was right. Maybe the turf was too soft on the inside today. Quicksilver was a heavy horse and might not do well on the inside. Dear God, help him to place at least, Jack thought. He’s simply got to place.

Seven horses, weighing almost three and a half tons, jammed into the first fence, and together they were all over it. Then Jet Plane, beautifully handled by Buzz Scott, took a challenging position.

Jack Cobb had found a position on the crest of the hill, where the entire course lay at his feet, each fence distinct and visible. For a moment he lost the leaders in his glasses. Then someone near him in the crowd remarked, “Did you see him bump Stanley at that last fence? Just as they were about to go up, too.”

From above Jack Cobb caught the field in his glasses once more, watching Stanley as he came down. The boy controlled the horse well, and then tore on, taking the next fence faultlessly.

“That was rough,” said someone. “Always the same with Smitty. He has to win.”

Suddenly a horse stumbled and took a downer. Jack Cobb, watching anxiously, saw that Stanley was staying on the outside. The boy is playing it safe. And what’s more, he’s cutting Smitty down. No, he isn’t. Yes, he is too. The heart of the father jumped. He’s gaining. There’s no question of it.

They were once around now, and the field, with Smitty leading, was scattered out behind. They crossed the tanbark spread over the Tufton Road, and there were not too many fences left. But Stanley was coming on. With a burst of speed, he brought his horse to a challenging position. Jack Cobb leaned forward tensely.

“Keep cool, boy. Keep cool,” said Jack to himself, as Stan raced in from the far outside. He swung up to Jet Plane and set out for Smitty. Was there still time? Watch the old bastard. Stan surged past Jet Plane and Ground Mist as though each were standing still, and Jack saw him drawing closer to Smitty.

Together the two animals rose in the air. And then Jack saw the older man below using the whip furiously. Now Stan was up to Norman Blood’s girth. Now he was gaining by inches. They came toward the roaring crowd on each side of the red snow fence. Stanley seemed as cool as possible.

They entered the stretch absolutely even. But surely Stan was gaining by inches. All at once Jack realized the surge and pull of Quicksilver. He could hear the beating of Smitty’s whip above the roar of the crowd. Suddenly Jack saw that the other horse could do no more. Smitty’s face was red and contorted with rage, as he lashed Norman Blood with fury, but the animal had reached her limit. Imperceptibly at first, then faster and faster, Smitty fell back. The noise of the whip receded. All at once there was the finish, and the shrieking crowd was all that could be heard.

Up on the hillside, Jack never moved. Then he took off the gray cap he always wore at race meetings and held it silently in the air. Did anyone ever want to win a horse race as much as he did that afternoon? Ever?

T
HE PREDICTION OF
his father the week before the Maryland Hunt Cup that Stanley’s name would soon get back to his draft board proved exact. Within a few weeks he was taking basic training in a camp in New Jersey. Next he was transferred to Vietnam.

Then word came that he had been wounded. Then, three days later, that he had died in a hospital. Nothing heroic, not killed in action or flying in a helicopter to save someone’s life. No, none of that. Merely a native in black pajamas on a scooter roaring up the Avenue de la Victoire, the main artery of Saigon, with a tommy gun concealed under a raincoat. Passing several G.I.’s grouped on a corner, he stopped quietly, put out one foot to steady himself, flipped his raincoat aside, uncovered his weapon, and carefully sprayed them, attentively and accurately. When they tumbled to the ground, he shoved his weapon under the flapping raincoat and zoomed off into the dust and distance before anyone could catch up with him.

Same old thing, said the M.P.’s, who came running up at the sound of the fusillade. Result: two soldiers dead immediately, four badly wounded and out of action, three slightly wounded and hospitalized, and a dozen natives, men, women, and children who were passing by, lying inert on the pavement, bleeding to death. Nobody paid much attention to them at first.

The death of his son affected Jack Cobb severely. At first he couldn’t bear to think about it. Then he began to talk to a few persons. With a handful of his intimates he wondered and speculated on where he had gone wrong. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given Stanley the horse in the first place. The feeling of guilt that he entertained seemed to overwhelm him.

Then within a matter of weeks more bad news came: the failure of the Baltimore brokerage firm of Cobb and Stevenson. Overexpansion, a break in the stock market, and general business conditions were responsible. Jack Cobb had made a fortune and lost it. The big house at Cobb’s Mill was on the market, as well as the stables and all the horses except Quicksilver.

Folks were positive he would spring back. Give him time, everyone said, and he’ll be on top again. What they did not know was that since Stan’s death he no longer had any interest in making money. His heart was elsewhere.

Jack Cobb’s last night in the house was a warm summer evening. He sat alone smoking in the big living room, so empty and desolate now, so full of thoughts and memories for him. A house dismantled is a house forlorn. From a room in that house his wife had gone for good; in this same room he and Stanley had their last conversation and conflict before the boy was drafted. Each piece of furniture had been tagged, the bookshelves were empty, the books packed in cardboard boxes labeled for the public library. The portrait of Dusty Miller over the fireplace was gone, leaving a faded oblong upon the wall. The cups and trophies had vanished, the home where Jack Cobb had lived so many years, gutted, the contents given away or made ready for the auction to be held the next day.

He glanced about the room, everything so meaningful to him, so full of memories of the past. Now he felt his life bent in two and was glad to be alone. Suddenly the telephone rang. Slowly and reluctantly he answered. His old friend Truxton Bingham, who lived down the road, wanted to run over.

Jack Cobb heard himself say mechanically, “Do come over, Trux. Be glad to see you.”

Fifteen minutes later he heard the whirr of car wheels on the crushed stone driveway, the sound of brakes, and the slam of the door. Big Truxton bustled into the room, embracing Jack affectionately. He took a quick, sharp glance around the bare, empty room and fell into a chair, the same chair Stan had slumped in when confessing his “separation” from college.

How fast life moves at times, Jack Cobb thought. Several months before he had been a well-to-do broker with a son who was taking honors at college and was the best young rider in Maryland. Now he was nobody.

Jack Cobb and Truxton Bingham were old friends. They had hunted together, raced together, brought up families side by side. They didn’t need to say much, and for a while they sat smoking in silence. Finally Trux put out his cigarette and came to the point of his visit.

“Look, Jack, we’ve been talking things over in the firm, and we all want you to know there’s a spot for you as a limited partner at our shop. That is, of course, if you’d care to come over.”

Jack Cobb was moved by this offer in his time of trouble. Who wouldn’t be? He passed his hand nervously over his forehead, showing his feelings. “I’m touched, Truxton, deeply touched. At a time like this it helps to have your confidence. Please thank the boys for me, but the fact is that for the moment, anyhow, I’m through with business.”

His friend looked up quickly with a puzzled expression on his face. Jack Cobb retiring? He was only fifty-four; what would he live on? The horses and stable were to be auctioned off, but most of the money from the sale would be owed to the firm of Cobb and Stevenson.

“You mean you’re retiring?” Truxton asked tentatively.

Jack managed a smile. “Not exactly. I’ve hardly saved enough from the wreck for that. No, I have a project in mind I haven’t talked to anyone about, but I’d be grateful for your advice since you know the English racing so well. Briefly, Trux, I want to take Quicksilver to the Grand National.”

His friend opened his mouth, then whistled. The mere thought staggered him. Truxton well understood the reasoning, for to win the National with Stan’s horse would be a tribute to the boy. But the idea was impossible. Taking a horse to Aintree without plenty of money can’t be done.

Jack Cobb broke in. “I know what you’re thinking. To win the Maryland Hunt and the Grand National has only been done once before, hasn’t it? Harry Morgan, back in… back in… ’66, wasn’t it?”

“Nope, ’65 I think.”

Cobb waved his hand. “I realize the difficulties, but nevertheless I intend to try. There won’t be much money, because almost everything I own will go into paying the firm’s debts.”

“I quite appreciate that, and I wonder if you’ve considered everything, Jack. You realize you’ll have to train the horse in England too? No matter how good a jumper he is, a horse accustomed to our rails and split fences is seldom much good over those brush and water jumps. I tell you they’re rough.”

“No need to tell me. I’ve seen them.” Jack Cobb knew the whole idea sounded absurd and quixotic to his friend. “Point is, Trux, this was one of Stan’s last wishes. Before the Maryland Hunt he talked about it.”

“Oh, I see,” said his friend. “I see. That does make a difference. Then you’re determined, are you?”

“Absolutely. My idea is to stay the winter with some competent but little-known trainer, a man who runs a small stable and is willing to gamble a bit. In fact, it’s all a gamble. I’d work out there through the winter and hope the trainer can find me a jockey.”

His friend leaned forward. “A grand idea, but the odds are heavily against you, Jack.”

“I realize that.”

“You’ve no idea how the horse will take to English turf or the winter climate.”

“I’m well aware of all you say. But Quicksilver is young, he has power, and if we can find a good rider, if he’s well trained by a real trainer, his chance is as good as anyone’s. The Grand National is a race full of luck.”

“Then more power to you.” A wild idea all right, but the more he thought about it the more it appealed to Truxton Bingham. “O.K., if you’re set on this, I think maybe I know the man for you. He’s a chap a bit over thirty-five, son of a top-class trainer, and he’s starting out for himself with only a few horses. I met him last summer and visited his place on the South Downs. What was the name of that town? Stapleton, Stapleford? Something like that.”

Jack Cobb instantly sat up straight. His face was animated for the first time that evening. “Be a good friend, Trux, write him for me, will you please? He sounds like just the sort of trainer I’m looking for.”

Truxton shook his head. “I’ll call him. That’s far better. My first reaction was against the whole plan, but you’ve convinced me it’s worth a try.”

Then, promising to get in touch with the trainer the next day, he left, waving off Cobb’s thanks.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack, as soon as I’ve talked to this man. Chester Robinson is his name.” Once again Jack was sitting alone in his dismantled living room.

H
E LEFT THE
small train at a tiny station surrounded by rose boughs and flowers abloom. The train beep-beeped and moved on. He looked around. Nobody. Then a figure appeared at his elbow, hand extended.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Henderson, the head lad.” That outstretched hand seemed to say, “I’m a good fellow, and so are you. Let’s make the best of things.”

Jack Cobb grasped the hand and reached down for his bags. The groom was quicker and got to them first. He seemed about fifty, spare, lean, with a tough, weather-beaten face and the walk of a person who has spent much of his life on horseback. He wore a well-cut pair of jodhpurs, polished boots, a sports jacket with a shirt and necktie. On his head was an ancient derby with a wide brim, dating back forty years.

“Mr. Chester sends his regrets, sir. ’E has a client this evening to look over a gelding.” And with that he led the way outside to a small parked car. An Austin, it was so tiny and the roof so low that the head groom had to remove his hat to sit at the wheel. Wedging Jack’s two large bags into the rear seat was equally difficult. The car moved out, and they left the station yard and the village behind. The late afternoon sunshine was pleasant, the air warm and filled with the scents and smells of the countryside.

Although they were not on a main highway, Jack immediately noticed the traffic, a stream of trucks, small cars, and buses all going at about thirty miles an hour in single line. The next thing that attracted his attention were the gently sloping hills down to the sea in the distance. The Downs, so the groom announced. The car soon edged along narrow lanes, past thatch-roofed cottages, brick entrance gates to apparently large estates, and through little villages until at last after twenty minutes they came to a road bordered by high hedges. Turning into a lane only wide enough for one car, they twisted past a small cottage and came to a large, yellow-brick Victorian mansion. At the side was a stable with a dozen box stalls, the horses’ heads protruding from each one. Before the house stood a young, tallish man talking to a couple, quite obviously clients. As the Austin rolled to a stop, the young man disengaged himself and came over to Jack Cobb, who was trying to get out of the car.