Maida Vale hospital for Nervous diseases 1865
The room was cold and bare. The old man lay on a stained straw mattress with a label tied to his foot identifying him as a ’Lunatic pauper’ The nurse sitting by his side had been on duty for eight hours. Her day off wasn’t for another ten days. She was tired, hungry and sick of ill people.
‘This one’s drunk himself to death, he stinks’ thought the nurse as she roughly wiped the drool from the mans mouth.
The old man lay with blank eyes, unmoving, his breath labouring like a winded horse.
‘Come on, you can do it. Come on. ’ the crowd roared in the old mans head head.
…………………………
From the Liverpool Courier February 12th 1836.
A new horse race is to be run at Aintree on Monday February 29th. The race to be called The Grand Liverpool will see ten runners. Two o’clock start. Beer tent and refreshments.
Monday February 29th 1836.
It was ten o’clock and the sun was trying to burn off the early morning mist that rose from the Mersey and twisted itself around the two men, chilling their bones to the marrow. They raised their arms in greeting as they approached each other across the flat wind swept field. The movement startled a flock of rooks, rummaging in the short turf for leather jackets. The birds took flight cawing crossly to each other as they flew across the large field and settled in a wind stunted hawthorn tree. Their twenty gimlet eyes watched the men and horses suspiciusly.
‘Good morning Captain Becher glad you could make it’ said Mr.Sirdefield shaking him firmly by the hand
‘Glad to be here. Your horse looks bloody marvellous’ the man replied appreciatively.
Captain Martin Beecher was 38 he had survived Waterloo and now wanted to make some money. His bones ached from the falls and he knew his racing days were coming to an end. He needed to make his money now and perhaps this was the horse, this was the race and this was the day to do it.
His mount ‘The Duke’ stood skin twitching with excitement, skittering from foot to foot, his breathing raising clouds in the sharp February morning. Trained by Mr.Sidefield and kept in the stables of the George Inn, Crosby. The horse was as fit as a flea. Its diet supplemented by the beer slops from the pub, trained on the smooth sands of the banks of the Mersey this horse looked the business.
Beecher felt his heart soar.
‘I’ve put a lot of money on this and you’d better deliver’ said Sirdfield. ‘Mr. Lynn wants this to be a big race and a good show today and we’ll be made. He’s planning to make more on the booze and pies than on the race entries. If it works he says it may be an annual event. I can’t see it myself people prefer the greyhounds, but he’s a canny bastard. If he fell in the Mersey he’d come out smelling of roses.’
A short squat figure picked his way towards them through the mud.
‘You talking about me’.said William Lynn. ‘What do you think about my Grand Steeple chase then Becher?
‘Looking good sir’ replied Beecher.
‘Coming up to eleven o’clock and look at all the hungry thirsty punters. This is going to be bigger than the Great St.Albans. We’ll show those southerners how to run a race.’ Lynn congratulated himself.
‘You going to win it then Beecher? My moneys on Laurie Todd. Now that’s a horse and Powell, that bloke’s a winner. With a name like Horatio Nelson Powell he’s got to be a winner or a nancy boy. I think you’re a bit past it mate, Boney gave you too much of a battering. You can ride that’s for sure, I just think you’ve had too many Waterloos.’ Lynn cackled at his own joke and then having amused himself decided to explore the comedic value of the topic further.
‘And as for your horse. Your horse is worth more as glue, Sirdefield. You’d get 57 pots out of him. You could wallpaper that whole pub of yours with that thing and stuff a couple of sofas.’ Pleased with this final flourish, he stomped off in the direction of the pie tent, to count the takings so far.
Becher said nothing but forced the toe of his cavalry boot into the soft Liverpool mud.
He’d known Powell since Waterloo. Powell was there when Beechers horse was blown away from under him. The bits of horse bone embedded in Beechers thigh although healed, still ached, making him part man, part horse. Powell was a pal, a blood brother, a fellow jockey who understood the nature of the job they did, not like the punters, the owners, the trainers. It was men like Powell and Beecher who risked their necks, their lives for the sport. Blokes like Sirdefield and Lynn had no idea what it was like, but Horatio Nelson Powell despite his stupid heroic name did.
It was 1 o’clock the race started at 2pm. Powell and Becher were sitting on bales in the scabby stables that constituted the weighing in room at this event
‘Have you put the bet on? asked Powell
‘No I haven’t I’m not that daft, I got some bloke to do it for me. Bought him a round, he was happy to do it. A favour for a war hero.’ Becher snorted.
‘What odds?
‘Laurie Todd 9 to 1. You’re the favourite’
‘How much’
‘Fifty quid. Twenty five each’
‘Fifty quid at 9 to 1, to win, that’s four hundred and fifty pounds.’
They looked at each other in silence.
Then Beecher said thoughtfully ‘If we pull it off that’s our pub Powell. That’s easy street, that’s wine women and song. That’s no more risking our necks in this caper.’
Powell looked furtively around him checking no one was with in ear shot and said ‘But how are we going to do it. How will we fix it?’
‘It’s a dangerous looking course, lets not make a move too soon. Let’s keep to the back of the field away from trouble. Let the nutters kill them selves on the first circuit. Keep close to me, but let me lead. Wait until we’re on the second circuit. Make your move when we are through the last open gate that leads to the run back on to the race course. I’ll start to pull Duke up and slow down. It’s far enough away from the stands no one will see us, and then you take the lead. Win by a few lengths nothing too obvious. Don’t worry you’re the favourite no one will suspect.’
The lump that was Sirdefield appeared in the doorway. ‘What are you two plotting eh’
The two men looked at him in disgust. ‘We are talking through the course you idiot. Neither of us has ridden it we want to know where the turns and the jumps are. This is a dangerous game we need to know what we’re doing’ said Powell.
Sirdefield backed away ‘Alright gentlemen, sorry to disturb you. You make sure you win though Becher’.
‘Bloody amateur’ spat Beecher as the rotund back of Sirdfield retreated back to the beer tent.
The course, if that was what it could be called, consisted of sixteen fences raced over fields jumping farm hedges, gates, ditches and even running alongside the canal. This was a days hunting condensed into a few minutes. The course started and finished on the race course proper, which was a strip of sodden field levelled and railed for half a mile before the open country. This was going to be a race that meant risking your neck with hidden rabbit holes. The riders must run the circuit twice, finishing, by galloping through an open farm gate from the fields back onto the track and to the winning post. There were ten runners, mostly ridden by amateur jockeys. The jockeys were allowed to remount their horses if their horse fell, they were allowed to catch and remount a riderless horse. How ever you rode it was the winning that counted.
This was more dangerous than bloody Waterloo thought Becher.
At 1.45 Becher mounted the duke, the horse caught and ran with the anxiety from the other horses. Dead on two the starter dropped his flag and they were off. Fields, fences and ditches soared beneath him. The Duke was flying, this was the ride of his life the horse was unbeatable
‘The Duke’ raced along with the pack, Beecher keeping him safely towards the back, with Powell a length behind him. They jumped over the second to last fence and came into a field. The horse pounded beneath him. He sensed Powell getting closer. He could feel the heat from Powell’s horse as the ground surged past them. Round this corner, through the gate and they’d have done it. Slow down now Duke. He started to pull back on the reins of the horse who fought him for his head, crazy with excitement.
The horse didn’t want to slow down. He was standing up in his stirrups sawing at the horse’s mouth making it slow down, when, as they surged around the corner, the gate into the next field and the home run had been closed. Not expecting a jump and Becher unbalanced The Duke in a slither of panic churned into the mud as he desperately tried to get enough height to leap over the unexpected obstacle. Becher wasn’t ready. His weight was too far back and he caused the horse to stumble and swerve right into the side of Powell. From the corner of his eye he saw Powell’s horse jump and try to clear the fence. Then he was over and the Duke regained his head and the horse raced ahead unstoppable, mad with fear and excitement. The horse thundered on with Becher struggling to control it. The crowd were screaming with excitement. ‘Come on, Come on’ and he passed the winning post with the sound of distant hooves in their ears.
Sirdefield ran up to him ‘We’ve won, we’ve won. I knew we’d do it, we’ve bloody won.’ He hugged Becher ignoring the blood and spit from the Dukes mouth that flecked his clothes. ‘We’ve won. I’ve hidden your two hundred guineas in your saddle bag’ he whispered.
‘What fucking bastard closed that gate we could all have been killed’, Beecher screamed at him.
‘We won didn’t we. It doesn’t matter now. We won.’ said Sirdefield, ‘The money, it’s in your saddle bag.’’ he hissed.
A shot echoed across the muddy field. Startled the rooks took flight from the ground and flew away lamenting to each other. ‘What was that’ he asked Sirdfield.
Sirdefield shrugged and looked shifty ‘I’m not sure I think it was Powells horse, fell at the gate, must have broken its leg.’
Becher looked around him. Horses and jockeys milled around him, but he couldn’t see Powell. ‘Where’s Powell’ he asked?
Sirdefield shrugged again. ‘We won didn’t we?’
Maida Vale hospital for Nervous diseases 1865
‘Come on, you can do it. Come on. ’ the crowd roared in the old mans head head.
‘Poor old sod, how did you get into this state I wonder, you needed a good woman to look after you. You’d be better off dead than lying here like this. You wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this. You’d shoot it. It won’t be long now old mate, hurry up will you’ said the nurse. ‘and then I can go for a sleep. I wonder who you are and how you ended up here.’
The old man dreamt on.
‘Come on, come on, you can do it’ He could see the winning post he was nearly there, He could hear the horses breath as its lungs battled to pull more air into them, a few more strides and he’d have done it. It would be over.
The nurse leaned over the grey figure and rummaged in his pockets. She pulled out an ancient battered wallet. She opened it. A newspaper cutting fell out. Faded, torn and crumpled it was a race report from The Liverpool Courier, dated February 29th 1836.
She smoothed the yellowed paper out and read….
The Grand Liverpool race ends in tragedy.
‘The runners completed one circuit in safety of this challenging race, but tragedy struck on the second circuit. A gate had been nailed open for the race, but one unknown spectator after the runners had passed through for the first time, prised the nail out and closed and locked the gate. We have to sadly report that Horation Nelson Powell was killed when his horse Laurie Todd failed to clear the unexpected obstacle. The horse fell onto Mr.Powell killing him instantly. The horse had to be shot.
The race was won by Captain Martin Becher on The Duke with a time of 20 minutes 10 seconds. The race is set to become a popular fixture in the racing calendar.’
The old mans breath became more laboured. The nurse saw his lips moving but couldn’t hear what he was saying. She brought her face closer to him. She felt the faint warmth from his breath on her cheek as he struggled to speak
‘I won it didn’t I?’
‘Yes you did Captain Beecher, yes you did.’ she replied.
This is a true story.
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