A GREAT DERBY
THE VICTORY OF CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
KING AND QUEEN PRESENT.
In the presence of their Majesties the King and Queen and a colossal crowd, transcending even all previous recollections of vast gatherings on Epsom Downs, the race for the 1922 Derby was won to-day for Lord Woolavington by Captain Cuttle, ridden by the leading jockey, Stephen Donoghue. Second was Lord Astor’s Tamar, ridden by Frank Bullock, and beaten by four lengths. Three lengths further way, third, was Mr. Barclay Walker’s Craiganower, ridden by Michael Beary, and the judge officially placed the favourite, St. Louis, fourth.
The scene had a most wonderful setting. In an experience which is now getting fairly long, I do not recollect a crowd so enormous and impressive because of its size and orderliness. The many tens of thousands had got there somehow, and during the hours that the sun blazed with unrelenting fury they simmered and sizzled over the undulating shadeless expanses, and effervesced with amazing keenness and absorption in the big thing of the moment – the race, of course, and its outcome.
It was only necessary to look out from our admirable Press Stand to have all doubts removed as to the new record that had been created. There may be no means of actually measuring what is regarded as a record, for never before did I see people so completely blot out the face of the big Down. They seemed to change the face of the landscape, and where there were not people there were many thousands of motor-cars. So dense was the pack lining the rails for the first six furlongs that at intervals a view of the field as the big race was being run was completely shut out.
THE START.
The start was rendered indistinct by the shimmering heat which hung over that dark green background, and by the mass of folk that found fascination in this phase of the race. Mr. Allison, the starter, did well, bearing in mind the almost unfair task imposed on him. Re-echo was obdurate and sullen. Once St. Louis went right back, as if he, too, wanted to shirk, but he obeyed his jockey almost at once when he was headed into position again. Bucks Hussar was by no means exemplary, and there were other offenders. And then that staccato shout of “They’re off!” and the dead silence. Those few moments are wonderfully hushed. It may be that everyone realises that the great crowning moment in the drama has come at last.
How had the favourites got off? That was a detail of feverish importance to know, for practically all of them had not been well drawn, and they might get blotted out in the first mad press for position. Re-echo was not badly off at 6; St. Louis was towards the outside at 19, and had for close company on his left Captain Cuttle at 20. Tamar was at 23, and Pondoland at 25. In an instant it was realised that Re-echo had not got well away, though he was not left in the sense that Moyode was – who just refused to start, and so took no part in the race. Pondoland was fairly away, and would not lose on that account if good enough; and St. Louis was away all right. As for Captain Cuttle, I really believe he was the first to leave the barrier, and afterwards Donoghue agreed that it was so. Jacquot and another then headed him, and so, in a rapidly lengthening line, they streamed up that first three or four furlongs of gradient.
Thus did they pass behind the thick veil of people about that part, and, excepting for fleeting glimpses, they were hard to identify until beginning the descent of Tattenham Comer. Captain Cuttle was still “there”; St. Louis was lying about sixth, and Pondoland was about the middle of the now straggling field. As they made the last curve of the famous Corner into the straight for home Jaquot was still in front, but it was Donoghue’s race even then. He must just have moved hand and heel, that signal which the good horse ran respond to, for he went racing, almost flying, as it seemed, into the lead, and began instantly to draw away. It seemed incredible that no others could be going after him to challenge for the Blue Riband, but it was so. No others, apparently, were good enough until, with a few more strides covered, Tamar descended on the scene and flung out a challenge of sorts. But, as Frank Bullock afterwards said, his horse could make no impression. He held him and at the finish was going away from him again. St. Louis – what of him? He was never far away, but he never looked like menacing Captain Cuttle. Nearing the finish he was putting in some great work and looked like getting third place, but fhe faltered again, and Craigangower prevailed for the minor honours.
THE FINISH.
Immediately dense crowds rolled like great waves over the course near to the Grand Stand, cheering the victory and waiting to cheer in horse, jockey, owner, and trainer. Lord Woolavington has doubtless been rehearsing in mental pictures for years the supreme moments when he would lead in a winner of the Derby. Mountain Apple years ago denied it to him; Sarchedon two years ago, and Alan Breck last year had been bitter disappointments. This gallant fellow, Captain Cuttle, had made amends for all, and so, amid all the bottled up excitement, now released and reacting, Lord Woolavington proceeded to live through all the splendid realism and tornado of triumph that he had pictured and hoped for. Behold him, therefore, tall, frail, and pale with excitement, in grey top hat and eye-glasses, clutching in triumph at the leading rem, pressed by the cheering crowd, hemmed in by mounted police, and unceremoniously pushed by the dominating Captain Cuttle, on which sat the triumphant Stephen, his face alight and aglow with unfeigned happiness. Rather was Lord Woolavington led in by the horse, and when that ordeal was over there were the thousand, and one congratulations from friends. And congratulations from their Majesties, shared in also by Donoghue, who is, I am sure, regarded with much favour by the King. Yes, indeed, they wore splendid moments for the leading characters.
I cannot do better, perhaps, than conclude my story of the 1922 Derby by quoting Donoghue’s own brief and pointed story as told to me a few minutes after he had weighed in:
I was first out of the “gate.” I don’t know whether you noticed it, but I was certainly first away, and from that moment I was full of confidence, because my horse strode out as if he was relishing it. Jacquot went on (with my permission!) and I let him and another one make the pace. I had a little doubt as to how he would come round Tattenham Comer and down the hill, but I felt he had only to do that well for there to be no doubt at all. He got a great move on there and my little anxiety went. I knew I could win just as I wanted, and when once headed for home I let him slide along. He was never off a tight rein really, and I had no more to do than ride him home with my hands just as you would ride a horse in a nice speed gallop on the Downs. He ran a great race.