Song of the Spirits (58 page)

“The festival wasn’t my idea if you’re really asking me why there’s money for entertainment but not for safer explosives,” Timothy replied
reluctantly. He had just been fighting with his father over the matter, and had made no headway as usual.

“A festival is much more important to these miners than their working conditions,” Marvin Lambert had insisted. “Bread and games, my son, even the ancient Romans knew that. If you build them washrooms, tomorrow they’ll want a new hoisting cage or better mine lamps. But if you offer them a proper horse race, roast an ox, and let the beer flow in rivers at your own expense, they’ll be singing the praises of it all for weeks.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Matt said, trying to placate Timothy. “It’s just not at all like the old boss to put on a big festival for Saint Barbara’s Day. It’s never happened before, and I’ve been here three years.”

Timothy shrugged. “We’ve talked about it before. The unions are making progress. People have heard about the uprisings in England, Ireland, and America. It would just take the right leader and we’d be in trouble.” Timothy emptied his beer faster than usual and ordered a whiskey. “My father thinks he can prevent that with bread and games.”

“But a horse race? We don’t even have any racehorses,” Matt said as Ernie and the smith, Jay Hankins, joined them at the table.

Timothy raised his eyebrows.

“We don’t have any greyhounds either,” he remarked calmly. “So we also couldn’t have a dog race. Unless we had Miss Keefer’s Callie run against Mrs. Miller’s poodle.” Timothy smiled and cast a glance at the small dog underneath the piano.

Callie heard her name, stood up, and trotted over to him, tail wagging. If nothing else, he had won Callie’s heart over the course of the last few weeks, though not by being above bribery. Callie loved the little sausages Timothy’s mother enjoyed serving for breakfast.

“But there are undoubtedly a few horses around here that can gallop, and my father means to offer the people something to gamble on. If we don’t want to stoop to cockfights, horse races are our only option. Besides, they’re easy to organize. The roads that lead around the mining complex are relatively flat and good for riding. The whole
area around Lambert Mine is called Derby, after all. Anyone can compete, anyone can bet, and the fastest horse wins.”

“Then let’s do it ourselves,” Jay Hankins, said grinning. He owned a long-legged mare, and Timothy’s gelding had thoroughbred ancestors.

“I can’t ride in the race,” grumbled Timothy. “How would that look?”

This was another discussion he’d had with his father. The elder Lambert was not only of the opinion that his son should participate in the race but that he had to win it as well. The way he saw it, the miners should bet on a Lambert and triumph with him. That was supposed to create a feeling of common purpose and help the men develop a sense of loyalty to their employer. Marvin Lambert was even seriously considering purchasing an extra thoroughbred.

“How should it look?” Ernie asked surprised. “You have a horse and you’re competing—like everyone else in town whose nag can still manage to trot around the mine, I imagine. You wouldn’t want to miss out on that, would you?”

For the miners, it wouldn’t all just be good fun. Timothy knew that they were planning to place large bets. A week’s pay could be lost in a flash, and no one could know who would win such an unconventional race.

“Well, our Lainie’s competing anyway,” Florry, the barmaid, remarked as she placed new pint glasses on the table. She had been listening to the conversation.

The men laughed.

“Miss Keefer with that pony?” Jay scoffed. “We’re dying of fear!”

Florry looked at him disparagingly. “Just wait until you’re eating Banshee’s dust,” she spat. “We’re going to bet everything on her.”

“That won’t make the little horse go any faster,” Matt teased. “Seriously, though, where did she get the idea to race?”

“Lainie can ride better than any fellow here,” Florry crowed. “She told Madame Clarisse that she’d like to, and Madame Clarisse said if she wanted to, she should. We’re going to put colorful bows in Banshee’s mane, and then she’ll be a running advertisement for the Lucky Horse. Lainie was a bit uncertain about it at first, but we’re all
going to be rooting for her, and Banshee’s definitely going to be the prettiest horse there.”

“And Miss Keefer the prettiest rider,” Timothy said with a smile before Matt and the others could tease the barmaid further. Florry was not the cleverest girl in the room, and she may not have grasped the difference between a horse race and a beauty pageant. But to Timothy, this was an interesting development. During the race, Elaine would have to talk to him, jockey to jockey so to speak. He raised his glass and drank to his friends.

“All right, fine. Tomorrow I’ll put my horse on the list too. May the best man win!”

Or the best woman, thought Elaine. While playing a few simple songs, she, too, had been following the men’s loud conversation. And she had no intention of making herself the laughingstock of the mine. She had checked out the course the day before. The race covered three miles over varied terrain—hard and soft, wide and narrow, uphill and downhill. It would not simply come down to who was fastest; it would also hinge on the sure-footedness and condition of the horse and the skills of the rider. Elaine cast a glance at Timothy Lambert, flushing when he noticed and winked at her.

All right, fine. He wanted a ride together. On Saint Barbara’s Day, he would get one.

T
he fourth of December, dedicated to the patron saint of mining, landed at the height of the New Zealand summer. Even in rainy Greymouth, the sun had appeared, and it was beaming down on Marvin Lambert’s men, who had transformed the mine compound into festival grounds. Decorated with garlands, little flags, and balloons, the offices, headframe towers, and piles of coal did not look as dilapidated as usual, and the compound roads in between were finally dry. Decorations were also strung from temporary stalls, where beer was being given away, along with tea for the ladies. Whole oxen were being roasted on the spit over large fires. Men were competing at darts and trying their hand at horseshoe-throwing and nail-hammering competitions.

But the paddock for the horse race formed the main attraction, and people had begun to camp out there several hours ahead of time. Many of those wanting to place bets would wait until the last minute to choose the horse and rider they considered most likely to win. The start and finish lines were located right in front of the mine entrance, as was the improvised betting office. It was being managed by Paddy Holloway, the proprietor of the Wild Rover. People could place their bets near the beer stands and follow the end of the race later.

They had selected the patient local pastor as judge—and he had only accepted the job so that he might deliver a sermon about the dangers and godlessness of gambling before the race. For a man of God, he demonstrated exceptional flexibility in declaring himself prepared to hold a service on the morning of the festival in front of the mine, even though, as a Methodist, he had nothing to do with Saint Barbara. But Reverend Lance took a pragmatic perspective: the
men in the Lambert Mine surely needed divine assistance in their daily lives. What they wanted to call this friendly power, he left to them.

Elaine played “Amazing Grace,” a song which—except at weddings—was always a suitable choice.

By that afternoon, as race time approached, the revelers had satisfied their hunger and most of them were a little tipsy.

As Elaine rode her mare into the paddock, she noticed that the audience was overwhelmingly male. Madame Clarisse’s girls, in their colorful, low-cut summer dresses, stood out among the men like flowers in a meadow and cheered her on as she rode past. The few other women in the crowd kept silent. They consisted largely of haggard miners’ wives who had stuck around mainly to keep their men from gambling away all the money. A few of the local matrons sat next to their husbands near Marvin Lambert on the dais. They were already gossiping mercilessly about the presence of the easy women and—even more shocking—about Elaine competing in the race. They had come to the unanimous opinion that it was indecent. But good Miss Keefer had never taken decency all that seriously.

Elaine, who knew perfectly well what the women were whispering about, waved triumphantly at them.

Timothy noticed that and grinned to himself. Elaine could be so self-assured and blithe. Why then did she shrink back like a whipped dog whenever a man spoke to her?

Even now, she lowered her gaze when he greeted her—though she could not hide herself behind a curtain of hair that day. She had put her hair up and had even donned a bold little hat—presumably on loan from Madame Clarisse. Its gray color matched Elaine’s riding dress, and someone had wrapped an indigo-blue ribbon around the brim. Banshee’s mane and tail were likewise decorated with colorful ribbons.

Elaine noticed Timothy’s gaze and begged his pardon with a smile.

“The girls insisted. I think it looks indescribably absurd.”

“Not at all,” Timothy said. “On the contrary, it suits her. She looks like a Spanish matador’s horse.”

“Were you in Spain too?” Elaine asked. She steered Banshee up alongside Timothy’s horse and appeared relaxed compared to her usual self. She was in a crowd of people, and so no more alone with Timothy now than in the pub.

Timothy nodded. “Spain has mines too.”

By this time, the paddock had filled. In all, nine men and one woman were prepared to ride against each other. The field was as diverse as Timothy had expected. He recognized Jay Hankins, the smith, on his high-spirited mare. The stable owner was on a tall, big-boned gelding into whose pedigree a thoroughbred might have erred some years back. Two youths from a farm were riding their father’s workhorses. Two young foremen from the Biller and Blackburn mines had rented horses just for the race. Though one of them sat very skillfully in the saddle, the other appeared to be more of a novice. Ernie, the saddler, naturally, would not be denied a chance to participate, though he hardly stood a chance of winning with his well-mannered old gelding. The last rider, Caleb Biller, however, was a surprise. The son of Marvin Lambert’s main competition, sitting astride an elegant black stallion, was greeted with cheers. His mine’s men would undoubtedly put all their money on him.

“And that may not be such a bad place for it,” Timothy remarked. He was riding next to Jay. Elaine had moved back when she found herself stuck between the two men.

“Biller’s horse looks grand, a real thoroughbred. It’s sure to leave us all in its dust,” Timothy said as he scratched Fellow’s throat.

Fellow was looking around nervously for Banshee. After months of spending practically every evening in the stall next to hers, Fellow did not want to let her out of sight.

Jay shrugged. “The horse alone can’t win a race though. It comes down to the rider. And that young Biller…”

Elaine, too, mustered her competitive instincts. Until that moment, she had believed Fellow to be her most dangerous opponent. Timothy Lambert’s gelding was a lively dapple gray with undeniable Arabian
ancestors. There was no question he would be faster than Banshee on the straightaways. But this blond young man—she had never seen Caleb Biller before—sat astride a true racehorse. However, he did not appear to feel completely comfortable with it. Horse and rider were clearly not a well-rehearsed team.

“Old man Biller bought that nag for him especially for this race.” Ernie Gast and the stable owner were discussing the same subject. “He came out of England but he’s already run the racetrack in Wellington. They want to win by hook or by crook. That will put a little fear in old Lambert. If after this he has to hand the trophy over to his archnemesis…”

There were three miles to go before that, Elaine thought, though she, too, had lost her nerve a little at the sight of the powerful black stallion.

Elaine found a starting position on the outside right, which proved a good choice. A few of the horses, already nervous from being cramped together in the paddock, shied at the starting shot. They did not want to run past the man with the still-smoking pistol and ended up in a kerfuffle at the starting line. The two youths on their workhorses and the foreman on his rental horse could not make their horses do anything. The latter fell off his horse almost immediately but was lucky enough not to end up among the trampling hooves. Jay Hankins was less fortunate. His mare suffered a blow to its fetlock joint and foundered. For him the race was over before it had even begun.