FRED ARCHER AT NEWMARKET.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1743, 20 September 1879, Page 3

FRED ARCHER AT NEWMARKET.

It is Sunday evening at Newmarket (says the “ World ”), one of those evenings of early summer on which the town sacred to horseflesh looks the best. Quiet at night—at least for several years past—Newmarket is especially delightful as the shades descend upon Sunday. All is clean and neat, and stillest, neatest of all is Heath House. The trees are daintily pruned, there is a spice of primness in the fresh gravel, of trimness in the accuracy with which the flower-beds are planned, or severity in the high polish of the brass-work on the door. There is nothing of the horse, horsey, about this side at least of Heath House; and, as the sound of a hymn, sung by youthful voices, catches the ear of the visitor, ho marvels whether the tales he has heard of Newmarket can be true. No sooner, however, does he cross Mat Dawson’s threshold than he recognises that he is in a dwelling where the merits of the “noble animal, very useful to man,” are thoroughly appreciated. Passing by a neat rack of whips, above which lies the famous whisk constructed of the tail of that good horse, Thormanby, who won the Derby in a year of “ clinkers,” he enters Mr Dawson’s sanetnm, with every inch of wall-space covered with portraits of famous race horses, and finds ensconced in ample arm-chairs the master of Heath House and his friend, Mr Harry Hall, by whose pencil most of the portraits in the equine Valhalla have been wrought. To them enters presently a tall, slender young man of some twenty-two years. His general costume is, like his manner, exceedingly quiet and unassuming. There is nothing horsey in his raiment, in the fashion of his dark hair ; nor does he wear a scarf tied in a coaching fold with the almost inevitable fox tusk pin, the place of this eminently sporting article of costume being filled by a sailor's knot. Nor is Fred Archer afflicted with the Newmarket air, the five-to-two carriage of the head, so offensive in the successful light weights of the old plunging days. It is odd that really great jockeys never wear a jaunty air, preferring to leave that kind of thing to the feather weights suddenly lifted to fame by the winning of a few handicaps. As he enters, dressed in a suit of dark clothes, relieved only by the chain which holds the magnificent watch presented to him by Mr Dawson when he was “out of his time,” with his overcoat thrown back, and his billycock-hat held in his left hand, Fred Archer might easily be taken for a rising young clerk in a thriving bank dropped in to take his chief orders on some important business. Success appears to have steadied rather than unsettled him, and nothing is more pleasant than to witness the deferential air of the moat successful jockey of the day towards his former master and present friend and part employer. That it may not be thought Fred Archer’s quiet and modest demeanour is dwelt on overmuch, it may be well to mention that his present income, entirely his own, as he is out of his apprenticeship some four or five years, is about as great as that of a Queen’s Counsel in midcareer; of a “special” surgeon; of any Royal Academician, beating perhaps five ; and almost half as great as that of an Italian tenor singer. It is quickly earned, without long delays, expectations, and disappointments ; for when he is put in charge it is not long before the event is decided. His great causes depend on the application, within the space of a minute, of his nice judgment of pace ; his successful operations on the display of consummate nerve and courage in tearing down a perilous declivity, or in hugging the rails at an awkward turn ; his great pictures are dashed in with a single stroke, as when he drove Jannette through the leading pair at Doncaster; his sensational effect when ho brings a despised outsider like Charibert to the front, and makes mincemeat of his field. A very large income, the unbounded confidence of employers and of the public, might help to turn many heads just arrived at legal manhood ; but Fred Archer quietly goes his own way, and studies diligently to improve in his calling. It is about eleven years since his father brought Fred Archer to Mat Dawson’s to launch him in his career. The lad was, in Newmarket parlance, bred to race. His father, Billy Archer, who won the Grand National on little Charley, was a well-known steeplechase rider, a contemporary of Tom Oliver and Jem Mason, and put the lad on a horse almost as soon as he could walk, Billy Archer kept a hostelry very well known to the last generation of hunting men—to wit, the King’s Arms at Prestbury, near Cheltenham. From Prestbury sprang the Archers, Olivers, Holmans, Reeves, and Jack Jones. Little Freddy Archer soon learned to go like a bird across the country, and when “ quite a baby ” rode a famous pony called Mossrose in two races at Great Malvern, in which it may interest the backers of Archer’s mounts to know that he was not successful. Better luck attended the next venture, when he soored his first win on Maid of Trent, a pony belonging to Mrs Wilans. Accustomed to ride across country from the age of eight, young Archer attracted the attention of Mr Leterrier, who at last recommended him to go to Mat Dawson and try his hand at the “legitimate” racing business. Freddy soon showed his superiority over the other boys by his pluck in mounting any kind of awkward horse, and clinging to his seat when ho got there. Allowed to exhibit in public, he soored a win on Athol Daisy at crooked-spired Chesterfield, and next rode his first winning race on the flat under Jockey Club rules in a £IOO plate at Newmarket for his new employer. His first great handicap win was with Salvanos for the Cesarewitoh, and he next succeeded poor Tom French as Lord Falmouth’s first jockey. Ho rode but 6st 111 b on the day he won the Two Thousand Guineas on Atlantic—after a long consultation as to the fitness of so light a jockey for such an important mount—and was only the same weight when beaten a head on the Truth gelding for the Cesarewitch in the autumn. Since then he has won every one of the classic races, and almost innumerable handicaps and plates, receiving by the way very large presents in addition to his pay and retaining fees. It was only in last Chester week that Peck gave him a diamond pin for breaking the ice with Maximilian, the high-priced animal who up to that time had never been able to get his head in front. Archer has won the One Thousand twice, on Spinaway and on Wheel of Fortune ; the Two Thousand twice, on Atlantic and on Charibert; the Derby as yet only once, on Silvio ; the Oaks twice, on Spinaway and on Jannette ; the St. Leger twice, on Silvio and Jannette. He won also the sensational Cesarewitch on Rosoberry. Middle-aged racing men recollect the mania for backing Fordham’s mounts, irrespective of weight, ownership, quality, or price, and how one “Cokey’’made a fortune at that peculiar game, and therefore wonder but little at the more recent mania for backing Archer without considering the animal ho bestrides. It is, like all betting and gambling systems, mere madness ; but it has method in it. Cokey and others knew that Fordham always rode to win on favourite or outsider; and the men of to-day know that Archer always tries his uttermost, and has hitherto done so with far greater success in classic races than his predecessor in popularity. So far as skill and honesty are concerned, the persons who back jockeys instead of horses and money could hardly have a better representative than Fred Archer. It is true that at this moment he is somewhat restricted as to weight. Age 22, and standing sft Srjiu, ho weighs Sst 51b, and can therefore never ride a promising three-year-old in a handicap. It is also true that between good jockeys the difference is said by many acute judges to be so slight, theoretically, that not one can give the other 51b. But this profound conclusion of veteran racing men does not affect the position. Five pounds is an easy langth and more; and as weight accumulates in geometrical proportion, a jockey who is 101 b better than another is several lengths before him. Now a good jockey can give a bad one a stone, and it is difficult to say how much this moans in practice. No sooner is the flag down than he slips his field and has already a stone in hand in distance, irrespective of the advantage of taking up his own ground, of knowing exactly the pace he is going, and of nerve to “cut it fine ” round the turns. Immature jockeys do not “get off;” and many experienced brothers of the craft “funk” the awkward turns at Chester, and at the dash down the hill to Tottenham Corner, which puts the water at Lodore out of court, ride as if they wore in fear of their limbs. Hackers of Archer know that he is a very Gallic as to these things, and holds that it safer to “keep going” and dash for a good place than to muddle along in the ruck.

The characteristics of Archer’s method of riding may be aummoied up in throe words —patience, vigilance, and courage. He is always ready and nearly always fbst at the starting-post, so as to secure the best place. Ho obeys the starter implicitly, and thus avoids irritating the important functionary, and never takes his eye from the flag. He holds false starts and breaks away mere folly, thinking it better to wait till it is really a “go,” and then he is like a greyhound from the slips. Since the days when George Fordham in Captain Christie’s white jacket made the souls of bookmakers to shrivel within them, no jockey has got off like Fred Archer. Instead of pulling his horse’s head off, as he eyes the flag, he leaves it loose, and when the signal drops sends his horse along with a touch of the spur. This is very different from the bustling scrambling style of young jockeys who have been educated after the manner of Joe Saxon. It is said that when old Joe was Jimmy Grimshaw’s master, ho was perpetually impressing the lad with the necessity for “getting off.” Little Jimmy said he was always getting fined and suspended as it was. “ Never thee mind,” was the encouraging reply, accompanied by an ominous flourish of a stout ash-plant; it thee gets fined. I’ll pay for thee; if thee gets suspended, I’ll give thee a holiday ; but if thee don’t get off I’ll break ivery bone in thy infernal young skin ! ” Mat Dawson’s method of teaching is quite the opposite of that of the sturdy old hero of the green and gold. No master in England is more quickly and silently obeyed that Mat Dawson, who, without making the slightest assertion of authority, has his little army of men and boys completely under control. Archer, during his five years’ apprenticeship, gave no trouble. Apparently impressed with the value of that immortal north-country proverb, which ought to be written in letters of gold over every racing stable and a good many less important institutions. 1“ It’s canny to say nowt,” he from childhood kept his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. He has thus by degrees acquired every point of good riding, that of “finishing” well having cost him more time than all the others put together. Many of his best races have been won actually at the start, and more by his marvellous quickness in seeing an opening and his pluck in cramming his horse at it. His fine hands also contribute greatly to his success. A proof of his dainty handling of a horse’s mouth is that he is never run away with. His head is as cool as his hand is light and his heart stout. When he has seized an advantage at the start, in making a sharp turn, or by driving his horse through an opening that nine riders out of ten would be afraid of, his clear head prevents him throwing it away.

He has, however, with all his self-rosses-sion, no lack of earnestness. He is all jockey, from the button of his cap to the tips of his spurs, and rides—as the backers of his mounts know—irrespective of odds. Whether on a six-to-four or twenty-to-one chance he equally strives to win. Across country he goes quite as well as on the flat, and should his present Sst 51b expand so as to put him out of court for the latter he will have a grand career before him as a steeplechase rider. He is frequently to bo found at Captain MachelTs school for jumpers and private course putting horses new to the business over hurdles, and in winter hunts regularly with the Vale of White Horse or the Cotawold. At Melton, Lord Wilton, who has shown him much kindness, always finds him a mount, and takes great delight in the verve of his riding. In the flat-racing season he rides nearly every day in every week, and often after a hard week’s work in this country will run over to Paris to ride on Sunday and be in the saddle again at Newmarket on Monday. For the fatigue of railway travelling he has one unfailing remedy, sleep; and it may be added that, except when riding horses in trials, he is no early riser. Racing is afternoon work, and hard work, often preceded or followed by a long railway journey, and a jockey’s morning is thus his only leisure time except Sunday—that is if it be a Sunday on which there is no big race at Paris. It must of course be obvious to all who have given the subject a thought that a jockey at the height of his reputation must have a wardrobe like an actor, and a dresser to look after the multitudinous jackets, boots, breeches, and saddles. Fred Archer, with his income, might, if ho were thoughtless, require such a person to attend on him alone ; but it speaks well for his good sense and that of his intimate friend Constable that these admirable horsemen halve a "jockey’s valet” between them, and find themselves most efficiently “looked after.” On the “off” Sundays Archer is much at home at Heath House, where he is quite ore of the family, and enjoys a cut of Mat Dawson’s prime homebred lamb, and a glass of champagne, as well as if there were no such limit as Bst 101 b in the condition of classic races.