Noble House

In the uproar in the stewards' room Dunross, whose binoculars were rock steady, called out, "It was Kingplay who fell . . . King-play, Street Vendor and Golden Lady… Golden Lady's on her feet but Christ the jockey's hurt . . . Kingplay won't get up … he's hurt . . ."
"What's the order, what's the order?"
"Butterscotch Lass by a nose, then Pilot Fish on the rails, Winning Billy, Noble Star, nothing to choose amongst them. Now they're going into the last turn, the Lass's ahead by a neck, the others hacking at her . . ." Dunross watched the horses, his heart almost stopped, excitement possessing him. "Come on, Alexi . . ." His shout added to those of others, Casey as excited, but Bartlett watching, uninvolved, his mind below.
Gornt in the Blacs box had his glasses focused as steadily as the tai-pan, his excitement as controlled. "Come on," he muttered, watching Bluey White give Pilot Fish the whip in the turn, Noble Star well placed on the outside, Winning Billy alongside the Lass who was a neck in front, the angle of the turn making it difficult to see.
Again Travkin felt the lash on his hands but he dismissed it and eased a little closer in the bend, the remaining five horses inches apart, Butterscotch Lass crowding the rails.
Bluey White on Pilot Fish knew it would soon be time to make his dash. Ten yards, five, four three two now! They were coming out of the turn and he gave Pilot Fish the whip. The stallion shot forward, inches from the rails, flat out now as Butterscotch Lass got the spurs and whip an instant later, for all the jockeys knew it was now or never.
Travkin, stretched out parallel to Noble Star's neck, leaned forward and let out a cossack scream near Noble Star's ear and the filly took the primeval call and lengthened her stride, nostrils flared, foam on her mouth. Now the five runners were pounding the stretch, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching ahead of the Lass, all their withers sweat-foamed, now the Lass, now Pilot Fish ahead, and now the dappled gelding Lochinvar made his bid to conquer and he took the lead from Pilot Fish, taking the post position, all whips out and spurs in and only the winning post ahead. One hundred yards to go.
In the stands and on the balconies and in the boxes, there was but one voice. Even the governor was pounding the balcony rail— "Come on come on Butterscotch Lasssss!"—and down by the winning post Nine Carat Chu was almost crushed against the rails by the press of the crowd craning forward.
Ninety yards, eighty . . . mud scattering, all runners flat out, all caught by the excitement and the crescendoing roar. "The Lass's pulling away . . ." "No, look at Pilot F—" "Christ it's Lochinvarmr . . ." "Winning Billy . . ." "Come on come on come on …"
Travkin saw the winning post bearing down on them. There was another flash of lightning. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lochinvar ahead by a neck, then the Lass, now Winning Billy, now Pilot Fish easing forward taking the lead, now Winning Billy, Lochinvar crowding him.
Then Bluey White saw the opening he'd been promised and he gave the stallion the final whip. Like an arrow he darted for the opening and swung up alongside Butterscotch Lass, then passed her. He was ahead by a neck. He saw the Lass's jockey, not in the know, give the mare the whip, shouting her onward. Travkin screamed exultantly and Noble Star put out her final effort. The five horses came down the final yards neck and neck, now Pilot Fish ahead, now Winning Billy, Noble Star closing, just a neck behind, just a nose, just a nostril, the crowd a single, mindless raving lunatic, all the runners bunched, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching away, the Lass closing, Pilot Fish closing, now ahead by a nose.
Forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . fifteen . . .
Noble Star was ahead by a nostril, then Pilot Fish, then the Lass then Noble Star . . . Winning Billy . . . and now they were past the winning post not one of them sure who had won—only Travkin sure he had lost. Abruptly he sawed the bit a vicious two inches and held it left in an iron hand, the movement imperceptible but enough to throw her off her stride and she shied. With a shriek she barreled down into the mud and threw her rider at the rails, the Lass almost falling but holding, the other three safe. Travkin felt himself sailing, then there was an impossible chest tearing, head-splitting blackness.
The crowd gasped, the race momentarily forgotten. Another blinding flash of lightning, pandemonium swooped over them, the downpour increased, mixing nicely with the thunder above.
"Pilot Fish by a nose …"
"Balls, it was Noble Star by a hair …"
"You're wrong, old boy, it was Pilot Fish …"
"Dew neh loh moh …"
"Christ what a race . . ."
"Oh Christ! Look! There's the stewards' objection flag . . ."
"Where? Oh my God! Who fouled . . ."
"I didn't see anything, did you . . ."
"No. Difficult in this rain, even with glasses . . ."
"Christ, now what? Those bloody stewards, if they take victory from my winner by Christ . . ."
Dunross had rushed for the elevator the moment he saw Noble Star fall and throw Travkin. He had not seen the cause. Travkin was too clever.
Others were excitedly crowding the corridors waiting for the elevator, everyone talking, no one listening. "We won by a nostril
"What's the objection for chrissake? Noble St—" "What's the objection, tai-pan?"
"That's up to the stewards to announce." In the uproar Dunross stabbed the button again.
Gornt hurried up as the doors opened, everyone packing in, Dunross wanting to bellow with rage at the slowness. "It was Pilot Fish by a nose, Ian," Gornt shouted above the uproar, his face flushed.
"What a race!" someone shouted. "Anyone know what the objection is?"
"Do you, Ian?" Gornt asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"It's against my Pilot Fish?"
"You know the procedure. First the stewards investigate, then they make an announcement." He saw Gornt's flat brown eyes and he knew his enemy was suddenly blind with rage that he wasn't a steward. And you won't become one, you bastard, Dunross thought, enraged. I'll blackball you till I'm dead.
"Is it against Pilot Fish, tai-pan?" someone shouted.
"Good God," he called back. "You know the procedure."
The elevator stopped at every level. More owners and friends crammed in. More shouts about what a great race but what the hell's the objection? At last they reached ground level. Dunross rushed out onto the track where a group of ma-foo and officials surrounded Travkin who lay there crumpled and inert. Noble Star had fought to her feet, unhurt, and was now on the far side galloping riderless around the course, stable hands scattered and waiting to intercept her. Up the track on the last bend, the vet was kneeling beside the agonized roan gelding, Kingplay, his back leg broken, the bone jutting through. The sound of the shot did not penetrate the roars and counter roars of the impatient onlookers, their eyes fixed on the tote, waiting for the stewards' judgment.
Dunross knelt beside Travkin, one of the ma-foo holding an umbrella over the unconscious man. "How is he, Doctor?"
"He didn't slam into the rails, missed them by a miracle. He's not dead, at least not yet, tai-pan," Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, said nervously, used to dead bodies, not live patients. "I can't tell, not until he comes around. There's no apparent hemorrhaging externally. His neck . . . and his back seem all right … I can't tell yet . . ."
Two St. John's ambulance men hurried up with a stretcher. "Where should we take him, sir?" Dunross looked around. "Sammy," he said to one of his stableboys, "go and fetch Doc Tooley. He should be in our box." To the ambulance men he said, "Keep Mr. Travkin in the ambulance till Doc Tooley gets here. What about the other three jockeys?"
"Two are just shook up, sir. One, Captain Pettikin, has a broken leg but he's already in a splint."