Rarely had the going been so favourable for the hooded rider who was carrying a scythe instead of a whip. Never had his pale horse bore him more soundly; never had his purpose been more steadfast. He came from the mouth of darkness, and his name was Death.
The Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse was about to pay a call on another, more worldly, rider - but one equally as devastating in the execution of his craft. Frederick James Archer had been Champion Jockey for twelve years between 1874 and 1886. He was the greatest flat jockey of his day, and arguably the greatest of all time. But on November 8, 1886, at the tragically young age of twenty-nine, Fred Archer faced a showdown with the unbeatable foe.
Archer's rise to the summit of his profession had been astonishing. To have become the leading exponent of his art in the tough world of racing while still a teenager was a case of beating the odds of any bookmaker alive. Sensitive and thoughtful as a boy, the homesick young Fred had survived the early loneliness of apprenticeship at Heath House, the Newmarket training establishment of the firm-but-fair Matt Dawson, to be rewarded with the honour of First Jockey to the stable in 1875.
Dawson knew a good jockey when he saw one; whether or not he knew at that stage he had nurtured the talents of a genius is another matter. Within a year or two, however, even the hard-bitten Scottish trainer must have realised that Fred Archer had been touched by the gods. And as Archer reached back up to them in pursuit of excellence and perfection, few would say that he was often denied. In his seventeen-year career, he averaged one win in every three rides. He bagged twenty-one classics in his overall tally of 2,748 winners. Darling of the public, feared but admired by his colleagues, here was a true sporting hero.
Such towering success, however, seldom comes without the attachment of a price-tag. Fred Archer, at five feet and ten inches, was unusually tall for a jockey. To make the required weights, he had to engage very early in his career in an unavoidable battle with the scales. This endless covenant with dietary vigilance brought tragedy as its final reward.
Countless jockeys down the years have been obliged to suffer the burden of constant wasting. In Archer's day, without the medical care and knowledge that is available today, many were forced out of the game, old before their time and with their health permanently damaged. Fred was a strong, fit man, but as he reached his late twenties he was feeling and showing the strain. The tall, bony frame was bent forward; the intelligent face - once fresh and engaging - was hollowed and sad.
How long can a man last when his typical daily diet is a tablespoon of hot castor oil, half an orange and a single sardine, albeit washed down with a glass of champagne? It sounds a silly question. It sounds even sillier when a punishing session in the sauna is added. It gets positively ridiculous when the spectre of a strong laxative raises its head to get rid of whatever may remain in the system. Fred had his own special laxative made up for him by a Newmarket doctor. It became known as 'Archer's Mixture'; some who were brave enough to try it simply called it ''Dynamite'. Moreover, where others took their purgatives by the spoonful, Fred took his by the glassful.
A turning point came in late 1884. Fred's wife, Helen Rose Archer, died after giving birth to their daughter. They had already lost a young son a year or so before; this latest blow shattered Fred and threw him into despair. He began to talk of suicide, doubting that life would ever again be worthwhile. The die was cast.
Fred, although wealthy enough to retire from the saddle if he wished, carried on riding. A champion is never willing to surrender his crown, and this one knew he was still the best. But an already weakened body was now working in tandem with a depressed mind: and working too hard and fast to boot. For two more years the enigma that is genius paraded on its mystical tightrope, until the precarious balancing act could go on no longer.
On Thursday, November 4, 1886, Fred Archer felt unwell during a meeting at Lewes and decided to give up his remaining rides for the day. He sent a telegram to his home, Falmouth House in Newmarket, telling his sister Emily he was on his way. He took a little brandy with some arrowroot at Liverpool Street Station, then slept on the train en route to Cambridge.
On arrival, Fred didn't appear to his sister to be too bad. He went to bed at half-past eleven but during the night he worsened. Too weak to get out of bed the next morning, he agreed to see the doctor. Dr Wright found his patient to be in a state of restlessness, and prescribed some medication. When the doctor returned at 2.00pm, Fred was running a raging temperature and his condition was causing some concern; so much so that Wright insisted on a second opinion, and Dr Latham of Cambridge was sent for.
Archer must have gone on to spend a terrible night, for when Dr Wright returned in the morning, delirium had taken a grip. Although he had suffered constant attacks of diarrhoea during the night, poor Fred was under the delusion that a meal he had eaten three days before was still in his stomach. Protesting against the reasoning of those around him, he called for his dreaded 'Archer's Mixture'. Not without difficulty, the request was denied.
That evening, Fred was told by Dr Latham that he was suffering from typhoid fever. This may seem odd to us today, for typhoid is usually caught from drinking contaminated water. But the symptoms were consistent with the diagnosis, and the fact remained that the patient was in a terribly weakened state and suffering from high fever. With Fred still insisting there was food in his stomach, Emily was left in charge until the morning.
Sunday passed with delirium alternating with depression. Fred's final day, Monday, November 8, began with a visit from Dr Wright; he left at nine-thirty. Nurse Hornidge was brought in from the Institution in Cambridge to help Emily. A visit at noon from an old friend, Captain Bowling, seemed to lift Fred's spirits, and the Captain left feeling confident the jockey would pull through.
Just what was racing through the fevered mind of Fred Archer is impossible to gauge. Here was a man whose constitution had completely caved in, leaving him at the mercy of his demons. There was nothing left: fame, ambition, physical privation, personal tragedy and the incalculable burden of genius had taken it all.
At about a quarter past two in the afternoon, Nurse Hornidge was relieved at Fred's bedside by Emily. As she was gazing out of a window, Fred suddenly said, 'Are they coming?' As she turned to look at him she saw that her brother had got out of bed and was holding a revolver in his left hand. Emily immediately tried to knock it away from him but Fred threw his arm around her neck and restrained her. He found enough strength from somewhere to hold her at bay while he put the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Fred Archer was dead. The bullet had severed his spinal cord, killing him outright. It had exited from the back of his head and come to rest on the hearth next to the body. A fragment of bone was still attached.
'Are they coming?' What did those words mean? They meant something to Archer, even if born of delirium. Was he referring to his dead wife and son? Was he awaiting the return of the doctors? Had he heard the cries of rival jockeys behind him, yelling at their mounts to try and catch him as he forged towards the winning post?
Something we are more certain of today is that fixations with diet can lead to devastating eating disorders. We know that ritualistic food habits combined with vigorous exercise and prolonged abuse of laxatives are bound to result in dangerous changes to the system. Lack of enough food deprives the body of essential protein and prevents the correct metabolism of fat, producing any number of dreadful physical and psychological side effects. Depression can be one of those mental conditions . . . and so can paranoia.
Why did Archer keep a revolver by his bedside? He told members of his family and household staff that there had been a number of burglaries in the area of late and a gun was a good standby. But would a peace-loving sportsman who disliked trouble really resort to shooting a burglar? Yet it seems he was prepared to use it, for from what we know of events on the fatal afternoon he most probably kept it loaded.
The possibility cannot be dismissed that in a sport awash with big money, Archer at some stage may have made enemies. Racing has always had its share of rogues, desperadoes and organised criminals lurking behind its glamorous facade. Professional jealousy and personal grievances are a fact of life in this Sport of Kings. Threats to a successful and influential jockey were not, and indeed are still not, uncommon. Did Fred Archer have reason to fear or suspect that one day his door would open for him to be confronted by people he wished he had never met? If so, it is not too fanciful to imagine that paranoia, depression and delirium could have combined with a flash of lucidity on that tragic afternoon to ignite the final spark of self destruction.
Death had been forced to ride hard to catch Fred Archer, but once it was upside him it cut him down like a flower. But after death? There have been countless reported sightings down the years of a lanky figure riding a grey horse across Newmarket Heath. Many local people are convinced that Fred's ghost still graces their town and that the horse he rides way out in the open spaces is his favourite old hack, Scotch Pearl. It must be odds-on that it is not the horseman of the Apocalypse on his deadly white charger that is seen emerging from the mist, but the great Fred Archer: clear of the field, out on his own . . . untouchable.
(Illustration): Vanity Fair caricature by 'Spy'
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