PUNCHESTOWN
"I tell ye, I bred her myself, and it's every hair in her skin I know,
when I kept her on the farm till she was better than three year old.
Will ye not step in here, and take a dandy o' punch, Mr. Sullivan?"
The invitation was promptly accepted, and its originator, none other
than the breeder of Satanella, dressed in his best clothes, with an
alarming waistcoat, and an exceedingly tall hat, conducted his friend
into a crowded canvas booth, on the outside of which heavy rain was
beating, while its interior steamed with wet garments and hot whisky
punch.
Mr. Sullivan was one of those gentlemen who are never met with but in
places where there is money to be made, by the laying against, backing,
buying, or selling of horses. From his exterior the uninitiated might
have supposed him a land-steward, a watch-maker, or a schoolmaster in
reduced circumstances; but to those versed in such matters there was
something indisputably _horsey_ about the tie of his neck-cloth, the
sit of his well-brushed hat, and the shape of his clean, weather-beaten
hands. He looked like a man who could give you full particulars of
the noble animal, tell you its price, its pedigree, its defects, its
performances, and buy it for you on commission cheaper than you could
yourself. While his friend drank in gulps that denoted considerable
enjoyment, Mr. Sullivan seemed to absorb his punch insensibly and as a
matter of course.
"There's been good beasts bred in Roscommon beside your black mare,
Denis," observed this worthy; "and it's the pick of the world for
harses comes into Kildare this day. Whisper now. Old Sir Giles offered
four hundred pounds, ready money, for Shaneen in Dublin last night. I
seen him meself!"
"Is it Shaneen?" returned Denis, with another pull at the punch.
"I'll not deny he's a nate little harse, and an illegant lepper, but
he wouldn't be in such a race as this. He'll niver see it wan, Mr.
Sullivan, no more nor a Quaker'll never see glory! Mat should have
taken the four hundred!"
"Mat knows what he's doing," said Mr. Sullivan; "the boy's been forty
years and more running harses at the Curragh. May be they're keeping
Shaneen to lead the Englishman over his leps; and why wouldn't he take
the second money, or run for a place annyways?"
"An' where would the black mare be?" demanded her former owner. "Is it
the likes of her ye'd see coming in at the tail of the hunt, and the
Captain ridin' and all! I wonder to hear you then, Mr. Sullivan."
"In my opinion the race lies betwixt three," replied the great
authority, looking wise and dropping his voice. "There's your own mare,
Denis, that you sold the Captain; there's Leprauchan, the big chestnut
they brought up here from Limerick; there's the English horse,--St.
George they call him--that's been training all the time in Kilkenny.
Wait till I tell ye. If he gets first over the big double, he'll take
as much catching as a flea in an ould blanket; and when thim's all
racing home together, why wouldn't little Shaneen come in and win on
the post?"
Denis looked disconcerted, and finished his punch at a gulp. He had
not before taken so comprehensive a view of the general contest as
affecting the chance of his favourite. Pushing back the tall hat he
scratched his head and pondered. "I'd be thinkin' better of it, av' the
Captain wouldn't have changed the mare's name," said he. "What ailed
him at 'Molly Bawn' that he'd go an' call the likes of such a baste as
that Satanella? Hurry now, Mr. Sullivan, take another taste of punch,
and come out of this. You and me'll go and see them saddle, annyways!"
Leaving the booth, therefore, with many "God save ye's" and greetings
from acquaintances crowding in, they emerged on the course close to the
Grand Stand, at a spot that commanded an excellent view of the finish,
and afforded a panorama of such scenery as, in the sportsman's eye, is
unequalled by any part of the world.
The rain had cleared off. White fleecy clouds, drifting across the
sky before a soft west wind, threw alternate lights and shadows over
a wild expanse of country that stretched to the horizon, in range on
range of undulating pastures, broken only by scattered copses, square
patches of gorse, and an occasional gully, marking the course of some
shallow stream from the distant uplands, coyly unveiling, as the mist
that rested on their brows rolled heavily away. Far as sight could
reach, the landscape was intersected by thick irregular lines, denoting
those formidable fences, of which the nature was to be ascertained
by inspecting the leaps that crossed the steeple-chase-course. These
were of a size to require great power and courage in the competing
animals, while the width of the ditches from which the banks were
thrown up necessitated that repetition of his effort, by which the
Irish hunter gets safely over these difficulties much as a retriever
jumps a gate. A very gallant horse might indeed fly the first two or
three such obstacles in his stride, but the tax on his muscles would be
too exhaustive for continuance, and not to "change," as it is called,
on the top of the bank, when there is a ditch on each side, would be a
certain downfall. With thirty such leaps and more, with a sufficient
brook and a high stone wall, with four Irish miles of galloping before
the judge's stand can be passed, with the running forced from end to
end by some thorough-bred flyer not intended to _win_, and with the
best steeple-chase horses in Great Britain to encounter, a conqueror
at Punchestown may be said to win his laurels nobly--laurels in which,
as in the wreath of many a two-legged hero, the shamrock is profusely
intertwined.
"The boys has got about the big double as thick as payse," observed
Mr. Sullivan, shading his eyes under his hat-brim while he scanned
the course. "It's there the Englishman will _renage_ likely, an' if
there's wan drops in there'll be forty of them tumblin' one above the
other, like Brian O'Rafferty's pigs. Will the Captain keep steady now,
and niver loose her off till she marks with her eye the very sod she's
after kickin' with her fut?"
"I'll go bail he will!" answered Denis. "The Captain he'll draw her
back smooth an' easy on the snaffle, and when onc'st he lets her
drive--Whooroo! Begorra! it's not the police barracks nor yet the
County Gaol would hould her, av' she gets a fair offer! I tell ye that
black mare,--Whisht--will ye now? Here's the quality comin' into the
stand. There's clane-bred ones, Mr. Sullivan, shape an' action, an' the
ould blood at the back of it all."
An Irishman is no bad judge of good looks in man or beast. While the
Roscommon farmer made this observation, Miss Douglas was leaving Lady
Mary Macormac's carriage for the stand. Her peculiar style of beauty,
her perfect self-possession, the mingled grace and pride of her
bearing, were appreciated and admired by the bystanders as, with all
her triumphs, they had never been on her own side of the Channel.
The crowd were already somewhat hoarse with shouting. Their Lord
Lieutenant, with the princely politeness of punctuality, had arrived
half an hour ago. Being a hard-working Viceroy, whose relaxation
chiefly consisted in riding perfectly straight over his adopted
country, he was already at the back of the course disporting himself
amongst the fences to his own great content, and the unbounded
gratification of "The Boys." Leaping a five-foot wall, over which his
aide-de-camp fell neck and crop, they set up a shout that could be
heard at Naas. The Irish jump to conclusions, like women, and are as
often right. That a statesman should be wise and good because he is a
bold rider, seems a position hardly to be reasoned out; yet these wild
untutored spirits acknowledged instinctively that qualities by which
men govern well are kept the fresher and stronger for a kindly heart to
sympathize with sport as with sorrow, for a manly courage that, in work
or play, trouble or danger, loves always to be in front.
So the "more powers" to his Excellency were not only loud but hearty,
while for _her_ Excellency, it need hardly be said of these impulsive,
chivalrous and susceptible natures, they simply went out of their
senses, and yelled in a frenzy of admiration and delight.
Nevertheless the applause was by no means exhausted, and Miss Douglas
taking her place in the ladies' stand, could not repress a thrill of
triumph at the remark of a strapping Tipperary boy in the crowd, made
quite loud enough to be overheard.
"See, now, Larry, av' ye was goin' coortin', wouldn't ye fling down
your caubeen, and hid her step on to't? I'll engage there's flowers
growin' wherever she lays her fut."
To which Larry replied, with a wink, "Divil a ha'porth I'd go on for
the coortin'--but just stay where I am!"
Our party from Cormac's Town formed no unimportant addition to the
company that thronged the stand. Amongst these neither Norah Macormac
nor Mrs. Lushington could complain they had less than their share
of admiration, while St. Josephs observed, with mingled sentiments
of triumph and apprehension, that a hundred male eyes were bent on
Satanella, and as many female voices whispered, "But who is that tall
girl with black hair?--so handsome, and in such a peculiar style!"
A proud man, though, doubtless, was the General, walking after his
young lady with her shawls, her glasses, her parasol. Choosing for her
an advantageous position to view the races, obtaining for her a card
of the running horses, and trying to look as if he studied it with the
vaguest notion of what was likely to win.
A match had just come off between Mr. McDermott's "Comether" and
Captain Conolly's "Molly Maguire," of little interest to the general
public, but creating no small excitement amongst friends and partisans
of the respective owners. "Molly Maguire" had been bred at Naas--within
a stone's-throw as it were. "Comether" was the pride of that well-known
western hunt, once so celebrated as "The Blazers." Each animal was
ridden by a good sportsman and popular representative of its particular
district. The little Galway horse made all the running, took his leaps
like a deer, finished like a game-cock, but was beaten by the mare's
superior stride in the last struggle home, through a storm of voices,
by a length.
The crowd were in ecstasies. The gentlefolks applauded with far more
enthusiasm than is customary at Bedford or Lincoln. A lovely Galway
girl, with eyes of that wondrous blue only to be caught from the
reflection of the Atlantic, expressed an inclination to kiss the plucky
little animal that had lost, and blushed like a rose when a gallant
cornet entreated he might be the bearer of that reward to the horse
in its stable. The clouds had cleared off, the sun shone out. The
booths emptied themselves into the course. A hungry roar went up from
the betting-ring, and everybody prepared for the great race of the
day--"The United Service handicap, for horses of all ages, _bonâ-fide_
the property of officers who have held Her Majesty's commission within
the last ten years. Gentlemen riders, Kildare Hunt Course and rules."
Betting, alas! flourishes at every meeting, and even Punchestown is
not exempt from the visits of a fraternity who support racing, it may
be, after a fashion, but whose room many an Irish gentleman, no doubt,
considers preferable to their company. On the present occasion they
made perhaps more noise than they did business; but amongst real lovers
of the sport, from the high-bred beautifully-dressed ladies in the
stand, down to lads taking charge of farmers' horses, and "raising a
lep off them" behind the booths, speculation was rife, in French gloves
and Irish poplins, as in sixpenny pieces and "dandies" of punch. Man
and woman, each had a special fancy, shouted for it, believed in it,
backed it through thick and thin.
The race had created a good deal of attention from the time it was
first organized. It showed a heavy entry, the terms were fair, a large
sum of money was added, public runners were heavily weighted, the
nominations included many horses that had never been out before. In one
way and another the United Service Handicap had grown into the great
event of the meeting.
The best of friends must part. Denis could not resist the big
double, taking up a position whence he might hurl himself at it, in
imagination, with every horse that rose. Mr. Sullivan, more practical,
occupied a familiar spot that commanded a view of the finish, and
enabled him to test the merits of winner or loser by the stoutness with
which each struggled home.
Neither had such good places as Miss Douglas and Miss Macormac. Norah
knew the exact angle from which everything could best be seen. There,
like an open-hearted girl, she insisted on Blanche taking her seat,
and planting herself close by. The General leaned over them, and Mrs.
Lushington stood on a pile of cushions behind. She had very pretty
feet, and it was a pity they should be hid beneath her petticoats.
A bell rang, the course was cleared (in a very modified sense of the
term), a stable-boy on an animal sheeted to its hocks and hooded to its
muzzle (erroneously supposed to be the favourite), kicked his way along
with considerable assurance, a friendless dog was hooted, a fat old
woman jeered, and the numbers went up.
"One, two, five, seven, eight, nine, eleven, fifteen, and not another
blank till you come to twenty-two. Bless me, what a field of horses!"
exclaimed the General, adding, with a gallant smile, "The odd or the
even numbers, ladies? Which will you have? In gloves, bonnets, or
anything you please."
The girls looked at each other. "I want to back Satanella," was on the
lips of both, but something checked them, and neither spoke.
Macormac, full of smiles and good humour, in boots and breeches, out of
breath, and splashed to his waist, hurried up the steps.
"See now, Norah," said he. "I've just left Sir Giles. He's fitting the
snaffle himself in Leprauchan's mouth this minute, and an awkward job
he makes of it, by rason of gout in the fingers. Put your money on the
chestnut, Miss Douglas," he continued. "Here he comes. Look at the
stride of him. He's the boy that can do't!"
While he spoke, Leprauchan, a great raking chestnut, with three white
legs, came down the course like a steam-engine. No martingale that ever
was buckled, even in the practised hands now steering him, could bring
his head to a proper angle, but though he went star-gazing along, he
never made a mistake, possessed a marvellous stride, especially in deep
ground, and, to use a familiar phrase, could "stay for a week." "Hie!
hie!" shouted his jockey, standing well up in his stirrups to steer
him for a preliminary canter through the crowd. "Hie! hie!" repeated
a dozen varying tones behind him, as flyer after flyer went shooting
by--now this way, now that--carrying all the colours of the rainbow,
and each looking like a winner, till succeeded by the next.
For a few minutes St. Josephs had been in earnest conversation with one
of the "jackeens," who earlier in the day, might have been seen taking
counsel of Mr. Sullivan.
"I've marked your card for you, Miss Douglas," said the General. "I've
the best information from my friend here, and the winner ought to be
one of these four--Leprauchan, Shaneen, St. George, or Satanella. The
English horse for choice if he can keep on his legs."
"I _must_ have a bet on Satanella," exclaimed Miss Douglas
irrepressibly, whereat the General looked grave, and Norah gave her an
approving pat on the hand. "Send somebody into the ring, General, to
find out her price, and back her for ten pounds at evens, if they can't
do better, on my behalf."
"I'd like to share your wager," said Norah kindling.
"And so you shall, dear," replied Miss Douglas. "You and I, at any
rate, want him to win, poor fellow; and good wishes will do him no
harm."
"Here he comes!" replied Norah; and while she spoke, Satanella was seen
trotting leisurely down the course, snorting, playing with her bit, and
bending to acknowledge the caresses Daisy lavished on her beautiful
neck with no sparing hand.
The mare looked as fine as a star. Trained to perfection, her skin
shining like satin, her muscles salient, her ribs just visible, her
action, though she trotted with rather a straight knee, stealthy,
cat-like, and as if she went upon wires.
It is the first quality of a rider to adapt himself easily to
every movement of the animal he bestrides, but this excellence of
horsemanship is much enhanced when the pair have completed their
preparation together, and the man has acquired his condition, morning
after morning, in training walks and gallops on the beast. This was
Daisy's case. Satanella, to a sensitive mouth, added a peculiar and
irritable temper. Another hand on her rein for an hour would undo
the work of days. Nobody had therefore ridden her for weeks but
himself, and when the two went down the course at Punchestown together,
they seemed like some skilful piece of mechanism, through which one
master-spring set all parts in motion at once.
"He's an illigant rider," groaned Mr. Sullivan, who stood to win on
Leprauchan. "An' 'a give-and-take horseman's' the pick of the world
when there's leps. But it's not likely now they'd all stand up in such
a 'rookawn,'"[4] he added, "an' why wouldn't the Captain get throw'd
down with the rest?"
Such admiration was excited by the black mare's appearance,
particularly when she broke into a gallop, and Daisy with pardonable
coxcombry, turned in his saddle to salute the ladies smiling on him
from the Stand, that few but those immediately interested noticed
a little shabby, wiry-looking horse come stealing behind the crack
with that smooth, easy swing which racing men, though they know it so
thoroughly, will sometimes neglect to their cost.
This unassuming little animal carried a plain snaffle in its mouth,
without even a restraining nose-band. It seemed quiet as a sheep, and
docile as a dog. There was nothing remarkable about it to those who
cannot take a horse in at a glance, but one of the Household left his
Excellency's Stand and descended into the Ring with a smile on his
handsome, quiet face. When he returned the smile was still there, and
he observed he had "backed Shaneen for a pony, and had got four to one."
Mr. Sullivan, too, as he marked the little animal increase its stride,
while its quick, vibrating ears caught the footfall of a horse
galloping behind it, drew his mouth into many queer shapes suggestive
of discomfiture, imparting to himself in a whisper, "that if he rightly
knawed it, maybe Sir Giles wasn't too free with his offer at all, for
such a shabby little garron as that!"
So the cracks came sweeping by in quick succession, St. George,
perhaps, attracting most attention from the Stand. A magnificent
bay horse of extraordinary beauty, he possessed the rich colour
and commanding size of the "King Tom" blood, set off by a star of
white in his forehead, and a white forefoot. No sooner did he appear
with his scarlet-clad jockey, than the ladies, to use Macormac's
expression, were "in his favour to a man!" The property of a popular
English nobleman, a pillar of support to all field-sports, ridden by
a gentleman jockey, capable, over that course, of giving weight to
most professionals, in the prime of blood, power, and condition, he
was justly a favourite with the public as with the Ring. In the whole
of that multitude, there were probably but two individuals who wished
he might break his neck at the first fence, and these two sat in the
Ladies' Stand.
"They're all weighed and mounted now but one," observed the General,
studying his card. "What is it? Fandango? Yes, Fandango; and here he
comes. What a hideous drab jacket! But I say, I'll trouble you for a
goer! Why this is Derby form all over!"
"He's a good mile horse anywhere," said the quiet man, who had backed
Shaneen; "but he's not meant to win here, and couldn't if he tried.
They've started him to make running for St. George."
"What a pretty sight!" exclaimed the ladies, as something like a score
of horses, ridden by the finest horsemen in the world, stood marshalled
before the Stand. Though the majority were more sedate in their
demeanour than might have been expected, three or four showed a good
deal of temper and anxiety to get _somewhere_. Amongst these Satanella
made herself extremely conspicuous for insubordination, contrasting
strikingly with little Shaneen, who stood stock-still, playing with his
bit, through two false starts, till the flag was fairly down, when he
darted away like a rabbit, without pulling an ounce. Win or lose, his
jockey was sure of a pleasant ride on Shaneen.
"They're really off!" said the General getting his glasses out, as a
young officer, extricating himself from the betting ring, announced,
breathlessly--
"They've made the mare first favourite, and are laying three to two!"
"What's that in front?" said everybody. "Fandango! Well, they _are_
going a cracker. Fancy jumping at such a pace as that!"
Yet not a mistake was made at the first fence. To lookers-on from the
Stand, all the horses seemed to charge it abreast, as their tails
went up simultaneously, while they kicked the bank like lightning,
and darted off again faster than before, but turning a little to the
right, though the ground sloped in their favour, half-a-dozen were seen
lengthening out in front of the rest, and it seemed as if the pace was
already beginning to tell.
"Fandango still leading," said the General, scanning the race through
his glasses, and thinking aloud as people always do on such occasions.
"St. George and Satanella close behind, and--yes--by Jove it is! the
little mud-coloured horse, Shaneen, lying fourth. Over you go! Ah, one
down--two--another! I fear that poor fellow's hurt! Look at the loose
horse galloping on with them! Well done! They're _all_ over the brook!
St. George second! What a fine goer he is! And now they're coming to
the Big Double!"
But the Big Double is so far from the Stand that we will place
ourselves by the Roscommon farmer on a knoll that commands it, and
watch with him the gallant sight offered by such a field of horses
charging a fence like the side of a house at racing pace.
"Augh, Captain! keep steady now, for the love of the Virgin!" roared
Denis, as if Daisy, a quarter of a mile off, and going like the wind,
could possibly hear him. "More power to the little harse! He's leading
them yet! Nivir say it! the Englishman has the fut of him! Ah, catch
hoult of his head, ye omadawn![5] He'll never see to change av' you're
loosin' him off that way! Now, let the mare at it, Captain! She's doin'
beautiful! An' little Shaneen on her quarters! It's keepin' time,
he is, like a fiddler! Ah, be aisy, you in scarlet! By the mortial,
there's a lep for ye! Whooroo!!! Did ever man see the like of that?"
It was indeed a heavy and hideous fall. St. George--whose education in
the country of his adoption had been systematically carried out--could
change his footing with perfect security on the narrowest bank that was
ever thrown up with a spade. To the astonishment of his own and every
other jockey in the race, his "on and off" at all the preceding fences
had been quick and well-timed as that of Shaneen himself; but his blood
got up when he had taken the brook in his stride. He could pull hard
on occasion. Ten lengths from the Big Double he was out of his rider's
hand, and going as fast as he could drive. Therefore Denis desired
that gentleman to "catch hoult;" but with all his skill--for never was
man less "an omadawn" in the saddle--his horse had broke away, and was
doing with him what it liked.
Seeing the enormous size of the obstacle before him, St. George put
on a yet more infuriated rush, and with a marvellous spring, that is
talked of to this day, cleared the whole thing--broad-topped bank,
double ditches, and all--in his stride, covering nearly eleven yards,
by an effort that carried him fairly over from field to field: nothing
but consummate horsemanship in his jockey--a tact that detects the
exact moment when it is destruction to interfere--enabled the animal to
perform so extraordinary a feat. But, alas! where he landed the surface
was poached and trodden. His next stride brought him on his head; the
succeeding one rolled him over with a broken thigh, and the gallant,
generous, high-couraged St. George never rose again!
The appearance of the race was now considerably altered. Fandango
dropped into the rear at once--there was nothing more for him to do in
the absence of his stable-companion, and indeed he had shot his bolt
ere half the distance was accomplished. The pace decreased slightly
after the accident to St. George, and as they bounded over the wall,
nearly together, not a man on the course doubted but that the contest
lay between the first three--Satanella, Leprauchan, and Shaneen. Of
these, the mare so far as could be judged by spectators in the stand,
seemed freshest and fullest of running. Already they were laying a
trifle of odds on her in the Ring.
Now Daisy had planned the whole thing out in his own mind, and hitherto
all had gone exactly as he wished. In Satanella's staying powers he
had implicit confidence, and he intended, from the first, that if he
could have the race run to suit him, he would win it about a mile from
home. After crossing the wall, therefore, he came away faster than
ever, the leaps were easy, the ground inclined in his favour, and he
rattled along at a pace that was telling visibly on Leprauchan, who
nevertheless kept abreast of him, while little Shaneen, lying four
lengths behind, neither lessened nor increased his distance from the
leaders, but galloped doggedly on, in exactly the same form as when he
started.
"Never saw a steeple-chase run so fast!" said everybody in the stand.
"Why, the time will be as good as the Liverpool."
"It _can't_ go on!" thought Leprauchan's jockey, feeling the chestnut
beginning to roll, while pulling more than ever. "If I can but keep
alongside, she _must_ run herself out, and there's nothing else left in
the race."
But his whip was up when they made their turn for a run in, and he
landed over his last fence with a scramble that lost him at least a
length.
"Leprauchan's beat!" shouted the crowd. "Satanella wins! It's all
over--it's a moral. The mare for a million! The mare! The mare!!"
Blanche Douglas turned pale as death, and Norah Macormac began to cry.
Satanella was approaching the distance with Leprauchan beat off, and
Shaneen a length behind.
Here occurred one of those casualties which no amount of care avails to
prevent, nor of caution to foresee.
The crowd in their eagerness had swayed in on the course. A woman
carrying a child lost her footing, and fell helpless, directly in front
of the black mare.
Daisy managed to avoid them, with a wrench at the bridle that saved
their lives, and lost him some twenty feet of ground. In the next three
strides, Shaneen's brown muzzle was at his quarters--at his knee--at
his breast-plate.
Never before had Satanella felt whip or spur. These were applied to
some purpose, and gamely she answered the call; nevertheless, that
shabby little horse drew on her, inch by inch.
They were neck and neck now, Shaneen's jockey sitting in the middle of
his saddle, perfectly still.
"It's a race!" shouted the lookers-on. "The little 'un's coming up!
He's gaining on her. Not a bit of it! The mare has him safe. Keep at
her, Daisy! Now, Satanella! Now, Shaneen! Did ever ye see such a fight?
Neck and neck--head and head. By the powers, it's a dead heat!"
But the judge gave it to Shaneen by a neck, and when the numbers went
up, though not till then, Daisy and Daisy's backers knew that Satanella
had only taken the second place.
Leprauchan and the rest came lobbing in by twos and threes. Nobody
cared for them. Nobody had attention to spare for anything but the
shabby little brown horse that had beaten the favourite.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: "Rookawn," a general scrimmage.]
[Footnote 5: "You fool!"]