SPORT IN IRELAND
Roller-skating had become the fashion in England, and three or four of us
became anxious to introduce it into Ireland. We formed a small company
and appointed our directors, whose business knowledge was about equal to
their knowledge of the art of roller-skating at that moment. However, all
went well. The rink was opened at Dublin. A club of the nicest of the
nice was formed. The members practised very hard, day after day, and
evening after evening, with closed doors, until we became quite artists.
Then came the time to inform the public at large that the rink would be
open to them every afternoon and evening, reserving Tuesday and Thursday
nights for the members of the club.
From the very jump the rink was a success. The members of both sexes gave
exhibitions. We played tennis on roller-skates; we danced on
roller-skates; we held athletic sports on roller-skates, including
steeple-chases and obstacle races. In a very short time the public at
large became quite as good skaters as those who taught them, if not
better. Then came the usual development that has attended similar
enterprises ever since. Fancy dress balls, gymkhanas, carnivals and such
like, and--what was more satisfactory to the company--money rolling in
all the time. The expenses were not heavy but the dividends _were_, and,
to our surprise, we members of our company, very few in number, found
ourselves absolutely drawing a regular monthly dividend. As we were
mostly poor soldiers this was highly gratifying. I remember investing my
first dividend in buying a mate to "Mick Molloy." He was much more
expensive, you can guess, and I named him, following upon the naming of
Mick Molloy, Larry O'Keefe.
The success of our venture in Dublin led us to thirst for further
triumphs, and, at an especial meeting of the company in Dublin, it was
decided to repeat the success at Limerick. So it came about that the rink
at Limerick was started. We followed the same methods that had been
carried out in Dublin, only we had not to undergo the probationary stage
of learning to roller skate. A large party arrived from Dublin, and after
one week of real joy and fun soon made the rink a success. This made us
bold, so we exploited Cork and Waterford and our pecuniary successes
increased daily, and some of us began to think that it would be worth
while to throw up our military careers and become professional
roller-skating rink promoters. That was really my first business venture.
Others followed later on, as you will hear by and by, but not with the
same result.
Let me tell you now what happened to Mick Molloy. He was certainly a good
horse and a splendid jumper, but he had one bad fault and that was that,
every now and again, apparently for no reason whatever, except the same
cussedness that held him when he wouldn't go up the hill, he would hit a
bank or a wall full hard and turn head over heels into the next field. As
the weather, as a rule, was moist, and there was plenty of mud about when
Mick Molloy performed his athletic feat and I picked myself up from the
soft ground, I generally succeeded in attaching to my person a fairly
considerable amount of Irish soil. At this particular time one of the
great demands by Irishmen was for what they then called "fixity of
tenure." Can you wonder that, after my repeated attempts to annex as much
of Irish soil as Mick Molloy could help me to, the members of the hunt
christened me "Fixity of Tenure"?
I had a visit from one of the best riders in Ireland at that time who was
quartered at the Curragh, whose riding at Punchestown Races was always
good to watch and who had come down for a few days' stay with us. There
was a meet of the hounds; he wanted a ride. I offered him Mick Molloy,
who was in good form just then, and he accepted the offer. I warned him
of his one peculiarity. The morning of the hunt we rode out together. It
was in the direction of Ballynegarde. There was often a trap to be met in
the way of a sunken ditch over-grown with gorse, and unless one knew the
lay of it a horse was apt to rush through instead of jumping and find
himself and the rider at the bottom of the sunken ditch. I had forgotten
to warn the rider of Mick Molloy of this fact. We had a fine seven-mile
run in the morning and killed one fox. My friend was delighted with Mick,
for he had carried him to the kill without a fall. He was full of praises
of old Mick.
The hounds had a spell and, once more, they were thrown into covert. In a
short time "Gone away" was heard and the hounds streamed out, following a
good scent, across a beautiful piece of country. I got into difficulties
very early. Old Larry and I had a difference of opinion about a stone
wall. He wouldn't have it at any price. I had got out of the line and,
unless I could get over that particular wall, I was going to be out of
the run. So I made up my mind that over the wall Old Larry must go, with
the result that I got over the wall all right but Old Larry didn't. Not
only that, but, after giving what I thought at the time was a very
impertinent sniff, he put his head and his tail up in the air and trotted
off across the field, leaving me in full possession of the wall. That run
was over for me. Another belated huntsman caught Old Larry and, as it was
late in the afternoon and the hounds were well out of sight, we turned
our horses' heads towards home. The hour for dinner came. It was dark. It
was raining, but neither my friend nor Mick Molloy had turned up. We
dined heartily and well, and it was not till about ten o'clock, when the
port wine was going round merrily, that my brother officer came in. Yes,
he was wet and weary. He carried a saddle and a bridle in his arms,
but--alas! also there was no Mick Molloy. In the second run he had come
across one of these sunken ditches. Mick Molloy rushed it, fell into it,
and the weight of his rider had broken his back. Such was the end of good
old Mick.
The last meet of the Limerick Hounds which was held that season gave the
opportunity to some bright members of the club to play off a practical
joke on the members of the Hunt. If the weather was suitable after the
close of the season, and the Master so wished, a few extra meets were
arranged for by him. No regular notice was given for such meets; the
secretary of the Hunt generally informed the members by post-card that a
meet would be held at such a place next day. This particular year April
Fools' Day was on a Tuesday. The members duly received a post-card on the
Monday that an extra meet of the hounds would take place at a place
called Tervoe, about five miles from Limerick, on the Wednesday. Later on
in the afternoon on the same day members received telegrams to say that
the meet would take place on the Tuesday instead of Wednesday. On Tuesday
morning members turned up and wound their ways towards Tervoe. At the
barracks we had to rearrange our plans as to who could get away for this,
perhaps the last meet of the year. It was finally settled, and those of
us who could be spared rode off.
On the way to Tervoe we overtook a couple of other members, and after
riding a little distance they said, "You fellows had better go back. This
is a sell. Don't you know it's April Fools' Day? Go back." Well, we
believed them and turned back, for they told us they were only going out
to see the fun at Tervoe.
We were going back when we met some other members going out, so we told
them, "Don't you go. This is all a sell. Don't you know it's April Fools'
Day?" They looked at us in surprise and said, "Well! How can you fellows
have been made fools of like this? Those two chaps are just making April
fools of you. Come along, let's hurry on or we'll be late." It was in no
pleasant mood that we trotted again towards Tervoe. We were anxious to
interview our two kind friends. Then we arrived at the Meet to find that
it was a sell all right, and that the whole of the members of the Hunt
had been sold. We only had one satisfaction left, and that was that _we_
had been sold twice that morning instead of once.
I must leave dear old Ireland, pass over my stay in Cork; the glorious
days in Queenstown Harbour; how we dropped two fourteen-ton guns, the
first of their kind, which we were to mount at Carlisle Fort, into the
bottom of the sea and how we picked them out again; the late nights and
the early mornings at the Cork and Queenstown clubs; the beautiful girls
for whom Old Ireland is so much noted; the meetings of the South United
Hunt Club at Middleton, where the Murphys, Coppingers and other splendid
riders lived. And I must also pass over the six weeks of what in those
days appeared to me as the term of solitary confinement right away at
Greencastle Fort at the entrance to Lough Swilly. I went up there in the
winter. Greencastle village was a small summer resort for the people of
Londonderry. There was an hotel, which was open in the summer, and was
managed by a man and his sisters. In the winter it was shut up. A few
small cottages were also closed up. The population consisted of the
policeman and three or four fishermen.
There was nothing to do for the men at the fort, except a little
gun-drill. The nearest village was Moville, some four miles off. It was
too rough as a rule to go fishing with any degree of comfort, so it was
that I learnt how to play marbles. The old policeman, a couple of the
fishermen and the hotel-keeper, when he was sober--which was not
often--were quite experts, and taught me the game. They called it
Three-Hole. The idea was this: you had to make nine holes, and the one
who was last in doing so had to stand drinks, and, in addition, to put
his hand down on the ground, with the knuckles facing the others, each
one of whom had three shots at him with a good hard marble. This may be
of little interest, indeed, as far as the game is concerned, but it shows
one how different were the lives of us young officers then from what they
are nowadays.
After my stay at Greencastle I proceeded to take charge of our detachment
at Carlisle Fort, Queenstown Harbour. Have you ever been there? If not,
go when you get the opportunity. Certainly Carlisle Fort itself--it lies
on the left-hand side of the exit from the harbour--is difficult to get
to. Either you had to cross by sailing-boat from Queenstown--there were
no motor launches--or else drive right round the long arm of the harbour,
at the end of which is Rostellon Castle. In the summer either trip was,
as a rule, quite enjoyable. If one wished to go to Queenstown or Cork, an
hour or so with a fair wind would land you at Queenstown. If, on the
other hand, time was no particular object, the drive to Middleton, the
headquarters of the hunt, was a most pleasant one. You passed Aghada
Hall, then Rostellon, farther on. You could rest at the Sadleir Jacksons'
hospitable home. But in the winter it was not so pleasant. The hunting
country was all on the inland side of the harbour. One's mounts had to be
sent round by Rostellon the day before the meet. And then, if those of us
quartered at Carlisle wished to get to the meet in time, we had to make a
very early start in our garrison boat, so as to reach Queenstown for an
early breakfast at the club, and then a long drive to the meet. Sitting
in an open boat at 4 A.M. on a dark winter's morning, with perhaps a head
wind and four miles of a choppy sea to battle against, required a
considerable amount of endurance and keenness, but we did it all right.
It used to strike me as an odd circumstance in those days that the
Tommies who manned the boat were so pleasant over the job. They were not
going to hunt. They were not out to enjoy themselves. We were. Yet there
were always volunteers, who apparently found pleasure in helping their
young officers, though at very considerable inconvenience to themselves.
But then the right Tommy is, and always has been, a good chap.
It was out with the Cork South United Pack of fox-hounds that I first met
with a serious accident. I was riding a ripping mare, which I had named
Kate Dwyer, and which, up to the day of this accident, had not given me a
fall. The hounds were running up a long gully. The fox did not seem to
have made up his mind as to which side of the gully he would break. Some
of us thought it would be to the right, and we were following the crest
of the gully on that side. We came to a stone wall on the slope of the
hill. It was a thin wall--daylight through it. One had only to give the
stones a push to make a very easy gap. I walked the mare up to it quietly
and was leaning forward to push the stones down with my whip, when, I
presume, the mare thought I wanted her to move on. So she tried to make a
standing jump of it. It was a failure. She struck it and we fell
together, my right leg being crushed by her weight falling on it on some
of the displaced stones. The leg was not broken, but the flesh and
tissues were all torn below the knee, and the bone pretty well lacerated.
I was taken to Middleton, the then home of the Murphys and the Coppingers
and many other good sportsmen, and, after having my injuries patched up,
went to hospital. The mare, I am happy to say, had hardly even a scratch
on her. She was the best bit of horseflesh I ever threw my legs across. I
sold her afterwards to a friend from Northumberland, who, having married
an Irish girl, used to come every year to put in a couple of months' hard
riding in Limerick. He bought her from me at the end of the season and
took her home to Northumberland. She did well in the summer, but, on the
opening day of their season, she fell down dead in the middle of their
first run. Poor old Kate.
My accident proved more severe than I anticipated, and I was sent home to
Scotland on sick leave. After two months my leg mended up and I returned
to Old Ireland in the early summer. Our company's annual training and the
landing and mounting of the two first "Woolwich infants"--fat, six-inch
muzzle loaders--at Carlisle Fort filled up the time till the autumn
months. As I was very keen on shooting and was given three weeks' leave,
I returned to Limerick, in the neighbourhood of which sport was of the
best. I never had anywhere in the world a better day's woodcock shooting
than the O'Grady family gave me in County Clare. Long narrow belts of
wood in an undulating country were full of the so-called best sporting
bird in the world. Hard to down; best to eat. Equally good with the
woodcock shooting in Clare was the wild-duck shooting in the quaking bogs
of County Limerick, and away in the loughs, westwards, towards the mouth
of the Shannon.
Before proceeding further, I have to make an admission. My readers will
have no doubt have discovered by this time that I am faithfully recording
what comes to my mind of the old days. If the incident I record tells
against me I am quite content to accept the blame. Why not? No one
really knows where the hand of fate is leading one. Thank God we know not
what to-morrow is going to bring forth. All pleasure and zest in life
would be gone if we only knew what to-morrow was going to do for us. Yet
we have to behave to-day--or should behave to-day--so as to secure a
pleasurable and profitable to-morrow, in case we are permitted to be
alive on the morrow. It seems to me how wonderful it is that any act on
one's part--quite unpremeditated, or only if done just by chance--can
have so great an influence on all our to-morrows. It may ruin all our
prospects or may make us the happiest of mortals. It may bring the
saddest of morrows to those dearest to us, or it may shower
blessing--unintentionally, of course--on our worst enemies.
[Illustration: The First Issue of "Turf Tissue"]
Well, no more sermons. What is the admission I was going to make? Well, I
will now tell you, right off. I fell in love. Quite hopelessly,
desperately in love. It was very annoying and distressing, for had I not,
up to then, loved so many that I loved no one in particular, at any rate,
except for short periods of time. What was coming over me, I wondered?
Oh, but, whatever it was, it was indeed sweet, and, if love is freely,
wholly given, and is returned, then is it not heavenly bliss on earth?
Yes, no doubt. But, what about to-morrow?
There was, unfortunately, no chance of a happy to-morrow for us. Except
our love, all else was against us. She was young, sweet as only a real
colleen can be, her Irish blue-violet eyes set in her lovely forehead,
fringing which her glorious gold chestnut hair sparkled in the sun with
the richest tints. To watch her on horseback was a dream. But--and now
your sympathies will, I hope, be given to me--she was married. She cared
not for her husband; her husband evidently did not particularly love her.
It was the old story. Two young people marrying young and then
discovering that they had been too hasty and that they could not live
together happily. There was nothing new in this situation. It seems to be
always happening. I have come across such happenings more than several
times since the days I am now writing of. The Divorce Court appears to be
useful in such cases and relieves the sufferings of those affected, at
times. But the Divorce Court cannot reach every one, can it? There is not
enough time nor are there enough Divorce Courts to get round.
But let me get on with my affairs before I start a discussion as to what
love is. Let it suffice that I was suffering from a violent attack of it.
However, something else was to claim me and set me on to fresh fields.
Just then, as the result of the evenings and moonlight nights spent
wildfowl shooting in the bogs in the cold, I got rheumatic fever, and
once more returned to hospital. My illness, which became very serious,
led to my being ordered the longest sea voyage I could take, in the hopes
of regaining my strength. This necessitated my resigning my commission
and taking my passage for a trip to New Zealand, though the doctors did
not seem to think I should reach that far-off land. Thus ended my second
romance. And now for fresh worlds to conquer, if Providence only gave me
health.