Major Taylor by Conrad Kerber

Author:Conrad Kerber
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2012-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

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* Reports of the agreed-upon dollar amount varied widely from one source to another.

Chapter 15

“THE MESSIAH”

Taylor staggered down the gangplank and onto the shores of Cherbourg, France, on the overcast afternoon of March 11, 1901. A large cluster of European photographers and special correspondents, babbling in a polyglot of foreign tongues, escorted him to the rail station. Flashbulbs popped in his ashen face. They hopped aboard a train pointed east. After the usual pleasantries, someone made the mistake of asking him how his first voyage across the beautiful Atlantic had gone. It had been perhaps the most miserable days of his life; he had spent four of the six days dangling over the ship’s railing or the nearest toilet, and had hardly eaten a morsel. His bloodshot eyes rolling in his head, Taylor mumbled something about how he had wanted the captain to turn back to New York, or better yet, to just throw him overboard.

The special train chugged out of the ancient fishing village, past the hedgerows, and into the city of lights, arriving in Paris at one in the morning. At the Gare St. Lazare rail station, every customs official and customs employee—none of whom had bothered to declare Taylor’s blue varnished bicycle case—formed a circle around him, ignoring all other passengers. Taylor learned that he wasn’t the only one feeling a bit woozy. Greeting him there, fresh from Coquelle’s wedding reception, was Breyer, anesthetized by an evening’s supply of vintage champagne. Delighted to hear someone speak fluent English, slurred or not, Taylor greeted him with a handshake. He told him how excited he was to finally be in France, and that he looked forward to seeing the beautiful country he had heard so much about.

As he would be for the next few months, Taylor was grilled for comment about his chances against World Champion Edmond Jacquelin. “They say he’s the best man in the world,” said Taylor, his voice starting to come around. “Well, when I’m in form, we’ll see how I measure up to him right enough.” The ubiquitous question about whether he would ever break his stance against Sunday racing brought a laugh, a shrug, and a classic Taylor reply: “Before I left home, I swore to God that I would never race on the Sabbath, and I don’t like the idea of going to hell.” Taylor seemed surprised when someone asked him if he sailed under an assumed name. “Why would I bother with a fake name?” he asked. “Everybody on board knew who I was.”

At three in the morning, veiled under a thick fog, the woozy party stumbled into the fabulous marble and gilt Hotel Scribe where visiting royalty often stayed. Breyer headed for the bar. Taylor, dying for rest in a motionless environment, went to bed.

Paris rocked.

The Paris Taylor entered that spring was a glittering thing. The final years of the 1890s brought forward so much prosperity, enterprise, and freedom, the French dubbed it La Belle Époque—the beautiful period. Life was humming

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