Highest Stakes (69 page)

  Retribution moved to retaliate, but his rider again intervened. Roberts swore through gritted teeth, "If that's how the blighter wishes to play, we'll teach him a trick of our own, my boy."

  The incident had again unsettled the entire herd. Horses bumped and jostled one another as they attempted once more to form some reasonable simulation of a line.

  Once ready, the trump sounded, and the pack of restless, gleaming beasts exploded off the starting post to charge abreast down the field.

  Roberts was acutely aware of the need to set the perfect pace. If too fast, they would lose steam and become vulnerable to a strong closer in the final furlongs. If too slow, they would have to fight their way through the crowd to gain the fore. The distance race, more than any other, required a savvy rider as much as a strong horse. Roberts and Retribution characterized the best of both.

  By the time the field of runners approached the first bend, the line had folded inward toward the coveted rail. Roberts maintained his outside position, choosing to make a wider sweeping turn rather than fighting and weaving through the crowd, but as he made the arc, Tryal's jockey, whipping and spurring, came hard upon them. Sweeping across their path, he crowded and bashed into Retribution, simultaneously striking Roberts with a bony elbow to the stomach.

  Roberts had been caught completely off guard. The blow paralyzed his lungs and very nearly knocked him from the galloping horse. Unbalanced, winded, and gasping for air, Roberts wrapped his arms about his horse's neck, clinging precariously while fighting to re-expand his lungs.

  The race temporarily forgotten, he hung on the horse's left side while Retribution fought to keep his own balance, losing precious ground with every stride. The pack grew farther and farther distant before Roberts, breathing regulated, recovered enough for action. Here he was, dangling alongside his horse while the race was being run without them!

  Roberts felt his dreams and carefully laid plans slipping away with every stride, but he could not give up. Not after all he had worked for. He knew to win this heat would be impossible, but if they could only regain the field, third place would be enough to advance them to the final heat.

  He had never felt his weakness more than in that moment. With full use of his right arm, he could have easily pulled himself back into the saddle, but it was simply not up to the job.

  In a feat worthy of a circus performer, he would have to use his legs to propel himself back into position, at the calculated risk of being trampled beneath his mount.

  Grasping a tight fistful of mane, he blocked his mind to all but the rhythm of his galloping horse. Pulling his left foot free of the stirrup iron, he dropped, touching both feet to earth, and sprung. In one fluid motion, he had vaulted back into his seat! Deftly sliding his feet back into the irons, he took up the reins, crouched low over the colt's neck, and urgently called him back into the fray.

  He would have to call on every ounce the colt had in him. Did he dare take such a risk? In his training, Roberts had yet to find Retribution's limits. He had demonstrated the heart of a runner, but he had never dared push such a youngster to the edge of his endurance. But now in twelfth place, with the rest of the field barely within their sights, he had no choice.

  "Playtime's over, Son; I need all you've got!" Dropping flat to the wind, setting his rhythm with Retribution, he frantically urged the colt with hands, legs, and voice. Roberts rode like never before, incessantly encouraging, pressing, driving.

  Responding to his rider's call, Retribution answered. With his ears snapping alertly, he accelerated to a formidable clip and hurled himself down the track. With his nostrils flared and eyes transfixed, he steadily crept up. Gaining little by little, Retribution moved to chase upon the heels of the chestnut filly in eleventh place. Snipping away at the distance, they were now running neck-and-neck and then suddenly hurtling past.

  Roberts edged in toward the rail, seeking any advantage to make up what they had lost. Over the ensuing mile, stretching and straining anew, forelegs slicing the air, Retribution relentlessly stalked the field, picking off his prey one by one. By the final lap, he had gained a distant fourth place.

  Retribution's body was now darkened, nearly black with the sheen of sweat; his mouth was frothing, his eyes glazed and nostrils flared red with blood, but he showed no sign of quitting. Heart and soul, the roan was giving his all.

  With renewed confidence, Roberts studied the three still holding the advantage.

  Selima and Jenny Cameron had run a hard race, as predicted, and were holding strong with one another in their contest for the lead. In third place was Tryal, lagging behind by nearly a furlong and noticeably showing strain.

  Roberts needed only third, and usurping it from Tryal would be nearly as great a reward as a win. With his foe in sight, Roberts had no need to coax Retribution. With steely determination, the colt gained on the bay, his every stride drawing them closer, first by inches, then by feet, and finally yards, they closed the gap.

  Tryal, now furiously blowing, bared his teeth as they came alongside and matched him stride for stride. Retribution tensed, desiring nothing more than to spring, but Roberts kept him back to taunt the stallion. They clung, and the bay fought for all he was worth, screaming to break free. His sides heaved. His jockey frantically spurred and flailed the whip, but Retribution held fast.

  The struggle intensified. Tryal and his jockey strained in their exertions to pull free and regain third. Roberts released an inch of rein, and it proved the final blow.

  Retribution lunged forward and clipped past Tryal. The stallion's eyes rolled back in his head. Blood issued forth from his inflamed nostrils, and he plunged to his knees, somersaulting onto the track, his rider crumpled beneath. The stallion's heart had ruptured under the severe strain of his efforts.

  Roberts was horrified but dared not look back. With less than a quarter mile remaining, Retribution was still running strong, his breathing heavy but still rhythmic and synchronous with his hammering hooves. They had miraculously come from behind to claim third. The finish was in view. Dared he hope?

  There was no time for deliberation. He spread his torso flat over the horse's withers and begged Retribution for everything he had. The game little horse answered the call.

  With his rider's final cue, Retribution locked his eyes on Selima and Jenny Cameron. Roaring within, he welled and surge forth in a final burst of acceleration. Stealing feet with every stride, he closed the distance in the final furlong, bringing them nose-to-tail with Jenny Cameron, but they had run out of track.

  Although finishing a close third, Retribution's rider was no less than elated. The colt had run the last mile and a half at a miraculous clip! Had it not been for Tryal and his rogue jockey, they would have easily won and outdistanced the pack.

  Retribution had persevered when all hope appeared lost. He had rallied after a crippling setback. In a grueling test, the colt had proven himself. Roberts had no doubt the one-miler was his.

  "The time for our journey draws nigh, my boy. The time of Retribution has finally come."

D aniel
Roberts stood with his young wards, Thomas and Benjamin, on the deck of
Venturer
as it dropped anchor in Bristol. Ironic, he thought, that the same ship that had carried him from Bristol to Annapolis nigh on eight years ago would return him to his former homeland.

  Six months ago, he had taken his prized racehorse and tobaccowinnings to Annapolis, where they were loaded aboard the threemasted brigand,
Annabelle,
bound for Liverpool. Roberts had taken great pains to equip the vessel for Retribution's comfort and safety. The horse was the sole occupant of a roomy cargo hold of twelve by fourteen feet and equipped with a sling. In the event of foul weather, the sling would prevent loss of footing in rough seas that would have battered him incessantly against the solid oak walls of his seagoing box. Instead, the sling under his belly would suspend him and gently sway, acting much as a sailor's hammock.

  Roberts's most trusted groom accompanied Retribution to his final destination, where the young horse would spend several months training on English turf under John Jeffries's aegis.

  It had taken Roberts several inquiries to track down the able horseman who had been his mentor, but he had finally located him in Doncaster, where he had found employment after Sir Garfield's death. Jeffries would know how to bring out the best in the young runner. With the finest running bloods residing in England, Retribution must be trained on their home turf and against their kind. He would be properly prepared, and Doncaster was the place to do so. Quietly.

  Although there had been none in the colonies to hold a candle to him, Virginia was not England. The English took their bloodstock in dead earnest, and although many English thoroughbreds had made the transatlantic crossing over the past decade, the very best of English blood would never be exported. It was one of the many ways the English continued to "lord over" the colonists. Roberts would be arrogant and foolhardy to think of accomplishing his ends without due preparation.

  And now, Roberts had arrived to set the wheels in motion.

  For years, he had awaited this moment, and now he would personally see his plans unfurl. Standing at the ship's rail, he gazed sightlessly at the city sprawled before him, lost in his thoughts, until a crewman's colorful expletive awoke him from his reverie.

  "Benjamin! Thomas! Quit the tomfoolery, and stay out of the rigging!" he shouted to the rambunctious boys, who had unwarily provoked the sailor's invective.

  The culprits, seven and nine years old respectively, instantly untangled themselves and trudged guiltily over to their guardian as the crew continued docking procedures.

  "Is this London?" Thomas asked, eyes wide in wonderment.

  "It must be the largest city in the world," Benjamin echoed.

  "'Tis only Bristol, lads, a veritable anthill compared to the great city of London!" Roberts answered.

  "A city bigger than this? That's impossible," Thomas stated skeptically.

  "Impossible? I promise you not, young Thomas. It would only seem so, as your own world has been so very small until now, but we have now crossed an entire ocean to a much older land. You will soon find your universe much expanded."

  Bedazzled, Thomas surveyed the city and digested the words.

  "Didn't you once live in England, Mr. Roberts?" Benjamin queried.

  "I did indeed." He paused, continuing with a touch of melancholy, "I was raised in Yorkshire, a beautiful rolling countryside not unlike our lovely Virginia."

  "I should very much like to see London," Thomas insisted.

  "Have no doubt I shall take you there. Unquestionably, my business shall require it. Speaking of which, most of my affairs have been conducted by Mr. Lee, you know. He has handled my legal and business affairs, as well as your own for some time, but with his father's recent death, I suspect he will soon return to Virginia."

  "Wasn't Mr. Lee also educated in England?" Thomas asked.

  "I wish I were going to an English school," Benjamin added wistfully.

  "You are yet too young, Benjamin, but at this moment, I should not reflect much upon it. We shall likely spend several months here. There is much to accomplish before I contemplate our return," he remarked soberly.

  "Speaking of Mr. Lee, is that not him come to greet us?" Benjamin exclaimed.

  "Indeed it is! What sharp eyes you have." He ruffled the boy's hair carelessly and hailed his old friend, who had indeed come all the way from London.

  "And now, lads, 'twould appear we should collect our belongings and make ready to disembark."