"DEAR COLONEL,
"As you all know, this is the morning of the race. Something has
happened. For God's sake ride over and see me at once.--
"Yours faithfully,
"P. O'ROONEY.
"Clough-bally-More Castle, Friday morning."
"There, gentlemen, what do you think of that?" cried the Colonel, as
Fortescue slowly folded up the letter and returned it to him.
"Something in that--no race for a guinea."
"Race or no race," said Lord Plunger, "the money is lodged with you. It
is a p.p. bet, and must be paid."
"Mare gone amiss," put in Bradon. "I knew he was giving her too much of
it. This is a hard, stony country; horses won't stand much continued
work. Poor brutes! they are galloped shin sore--all the life and energy
taken out of them--sweated to death, and made as thin as
whipping-posts, and they are said to be in condition. Serves him
right."
"Hold, Bradon, my boy," interrupted Lord Plunger, "you do not know that
such is the case. The mare was all right last night, that I am certain
of. She is about six miles from here, at a Mr Blake's. I am inclined to
think O'Rooney has got into trouble."
"At any rate we shall soon know," returned the Colonel; "for here is my
horse coming round. I shall be back in an hour or a little more. I'll
look after your interests, Fortescue," he continued. "It is only
half-past ten now. The race is not till three. Keep cool, and don't
take too many brandy-and-sodas, till you see me again." And so saying,
he took his departure.
What was up? Had the mare broken down? Was O'Rooney arrested? It must
be one or the other. It could not be about the stakes, for these were
lodged to the Colonel's credit in the Bank of Ireland. What could it be
then?
"I cannot help thinking, Fortescue," said Lord Plunger, "that somehow
or other you will have to don the new colours, doeskins, and tops, and
give us a sight of your way of crossing the Galway country." As he was
speaking, one of the mess waiters came in and said a few words to
Fortescue, which made that gentleman immediately leave the room. On
reaching his quarters he found seated there a sly-looking little man in
a large drab overcoat.
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger to the officer as he entered.
"You know me, I think?"
Fortescue slightly inclined his head.
"The object of my coming," continued the sly-looking little man, "is to
tell you that there is a writ out against Captain O'Rooney for four
hundred pounds. He will not show up to-day. He is a _Sunday man_:
now the race is ours--yours I ought to say--you will only have to go
over the course. Good-morning."
But he was not allowed to depart in that way. He was soon in the
mess-room, and all were put in possession of the facts.
In the meantime the good Colonel rode on at a rapid pace, wondering at
the contents of the note, and conjuring up all sorts of things.
Five-and-twenty minutes brought him to the gate, or what should have
been the gate, of Clough-bally-More Castle, but it was gone. Cantering
up the neglected wilderness-like avenue, he was soon in front of a
ruinous-looking pile. This was Clough-bally-More Castle--a place best
described by a quotation from Hood's beautiful poem of "The Haunted
House"--
"Unhinged the iron gates half open hung,
Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters,
That from its crumbled pedestal had flung
One marble globe in splinters.
* * * * *
"With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd;
The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after;
And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd
With naked beam and rafter."
Getting off his horse and walking up the broken, moss-covered steps,
the Colonel rang the bell, which gave forth a melancholy sound that
scared a colony of jackdaws who had established themselves unmolested
for many a year in the chimneys and uninhabited rooms.
On the second summons a shock head was cautiously poked out of an upper
window. "Sure now, it's no use at all, at all, av yer ringing away like
that: the master's gone abroad these six months; he told me to say so
last night. Divil a writ can you serve him wid, my honey; av ye don't
be off the master will be after shooting ye for a thafe from the hall
windy."
"I'm no writ server," returned the Colonel. "I come in consequence of a
note I received from Captain O'Rooney this morning."
"Troth, then, ye are the English soldier colonel. His honour the master
will be wid ye at onst," and the head disappeared.
Presently that of the Captain protruded.
"See now, Colonel," said he, "ould Mat thought you were a Bum. I'm
sorry to say I'm a _Sunday man_ now. The thundering thieves they've
been about the place all the morning to serve me. I wish they may get
it. Nabocklish! catch a weasel asleep. I'll let you in."
In a minute or so the front door was slowly and cautiously unchained,
and the Colonel found himself in the hall of Clough-bally-More Castle.
It was a perfect ruin, and, if possible, more ghastly and
miserable-looking on the inside than the outside. The Captain's room
was, however, pretty cosy, and in decent repair. A bright turf fire
burnt on the hearth; a couple of guns adorned the walls; rods,
fishing-tackle, and various other sporting paraphernalia were scattered
about the room in indescribable confusion.
"Be seated, Colonel," said the steeple-chase rider; "I may as well come
to the point at once. D----, of Galway, has a writ out against my
person for four hundred pounds. They tried to serve it on me last
night, and again this morning, the divil fly away with them! May the
flames of----"
"What is to be done, Capt. O'Rooney?" interrupted the Colonel. "You
know it is a p.p. bet, and out of my power to do anything. Mr Fortescue
has only two hundred and fifty on it. The rest is made up by gentlemen
who will insist on the terms of the bet being adhered to. You ridiculed
our offer of scratching the bet for a hundred: far better for yourself
had you done so. I should not like any advantage taken of you, and you
ought to have a run for your money. What is it you propose?"
"See, now, Colonel; the only way is, that if you do not hold me to the
day, we can run it off on Sunday."
"Sir! Captain O'Rooney!" hotly interrupted the Colonel; "you must be
mad! Ride a steeple-chase on a Sunday! Do you suppose, sir, any of my
officers would be guilty of such a thing, or that I would allow it?"
"See, now, Colonel," interposed the Captain, "then there is no other
way but Mr Fortescue letting me off altogether. I've five hundred on it
on my own account. I'll give a hundred and scratch it."
"Quite impossible," said the Colonel; "you know I can't do it. I am
really very sorry for you, but stay, there is yet one way, and if I can
manage it the race may yet come off. D----, who has the writ out
against you, does the wine for the mess. Now, will you agree to
this--that if you win, I pay him the four hundred and the balance to
yourself? If you do not win you shall be exactly in the same position
you are now, namely, locked up in your own house."
"Tare an' ages, a capital idea! Colonel, I agree." And it was forthwith
signed and sealed between them.
"I'll send out to you in an hour," said the Colonel, as he took his
departure. "I will write and tell you how it is to be, race or no race.
Depend on me; I'll do all I can."
The Colonel succeeded, and the terms he mentioned were acceded to by
D----, who thought it was his only chance of ever getting a farthing.
"Hang it, gentlemen," said the light-hearted old officer, "we could
have got the money without a race; but I should not have liked it said
of the regiment that we took any advantage. Now, win or lose, everyone
must say that we have behaved pluckily in this matter."
Such a crowd as there was on the road all the way to the hill of
Thonabuckey, where a good view could be had of the race! Cars,
donkey-carts, wiry-looking horses with wiry and sporting squireens on
them crowded the road--all on their way to see the thousand-guinea
steeple-chase between the English soldier gentleman and the famous
Captain O'Rooney.
Such excitement, such running and jostling of the dirty unwashed to get
along! There was the old blind fiddler, Mat Doolan, in a donkey-cart,
and perched on the top of a porter-barrel, scraping away, and
occasionally giving a song.
"Sure it's himself that can bring the music out of the instrument. He
is the best fiddler in the west," sang out one. Then a chorus of voices
would break in asking for various tunes and songs. "Arrah, now, give us
'Croppies lie down.'" "'Wreath the bowl,'" cried another. "Hell to the
bowl, let's 'ave 'Tater, Jack Walsh,' or 'Vinegar Hill,'" demanded a
sturdy ruffian. "No, no; 'The breeze that blows the barley,' 'St
Patrick's day in the morning,' or 'Garry-owen' for me." "Begorra, no;
'Larry before he was stretched,' is my favourite," said a ragged
urchin.
"Hurrah! here comes the Captain," bawled another; and the dirty
unwashed yelled as he passed in a tax-cart driven by a friend.
"Which is the Captain?" demanded a soldier.
"Death! don't you know him? Musha, why that one forenent ye in the
white caubeen and frieze coat. Troth, he's a broth of a boy! devil a
one in Ireland can bate him on Mad Moll across country. Sure he's an
illigant rider."
"Hould yer noise, here comes Squire Gwynne and the ladies in the coach,
and the English soldier gentleman wid 'em. Agra! but he's a mighty fine
young man is that same. Bedad, it's Miss Alice that's looking swate on
him entirely."
It was true: there was Charles Fortescue of the Stiffshire Regiment
going to the scene of action in the Squire's waggonette, and sitting
beside his affianced bride, the beautiful Alice Gwynne with eight
thousand a year the instant she married.
"Hurroo!" shouted the people as the carriage dashed past. "Three cheers
for the Master of Gwynne! And another for the lady!" They were in the
humour to shout at everything and everybody.
The course is reached at last. It is a circular one, and everything has
to be jumped twice; hardly anything is to be seen but dark frowning
walls. Many cars and carriages have got down by the water-jump. There
is no end of youth and beauty. All the county _élite_ are there as
lookers-on. A place has been kept for Mr Gwynne, and also one for the
large waggonette of the officers. Eager spectators are scattered all
over the course, but the big wall and the two water-jumps are the
centre of attraction. The wall is a fearful one, six feet high, built
up of large loose stones. The water-jump is also a pretty good one. A
little mountain stream has been dammed up. It is fifteen feet wide,
four feet deep, and hurdled and staked on the taking off side.
"By Jingo, it is a twister!" said Mr Gwynne, a hunting man, as he
looked at it. "I say, Ally," to his daughter, "you would not like to
ride over that, would you?"
"No, indeed, papa," said the poor girl, with her beautiful eyes full of
tears--she was terribly agitated. "I never shall be able to look at
Charles as he jumps it: it's fearful to look at, and it has to be done
twice too!"
"Never mind, Alice, dear," said Fortescue, "the old horse will carry me
over like a bird. The only difficulty in the whole thing is the big
wall; that is a rattler! but in your colours, of course, I shall get
over all right. Let me do that wall and I am pretty safe, for I know
Screwdriver has the foot of Mad Moll; and these colours, too, they must
not play second fiddle. Cheer up!" and he whispered something that made
the fair girl smile through her tears.
"Now, Fortescue," said George Bradon, taking his friend aside, "let me
give you a little advice: this is your maiden effort: whatever you do
be cool; don't flurry or worry yourself; you have a knowing fellow to
ride against, who is well up to these things. Now the wall is the
principal thing, and my opinion is, he will try and baulk your horse
there; therefore, my boy, don't let him give you a lead over it, _but
lead him_. That you have the speed of the mare there is not a doubt.
Remember, too, you must not go at the wall too fast: keep him well
together, with his hind legs well under him, and pop him over. Now,
with regard to the brook, on no account give him a lead there; if
necessary, walk your horse to it rather than go first. Keep your head,
old fellow, and where you dare, make the pace a cracker, if you can do
it without pumping your horse; the mare is overtrained, and will not
last if she is bustled. I don't know that I can say any more: now, go
and sit by your lady fair till it is time to weigh."
The officers had sent their two cricket tents down, the scoring one for
the scales, and the other for luncheon. The latter one was filled with
gentlemen discussing the merits of the different horses.
"Here comes your nag, Fortescue," said a young sub, running up to the
carriage.
"Oh, what a beauty he is!" said Miss Gwynne. "Who is the little fat man
leading him?"
"That," said Bradon, who had joined them, "is my old stud-groom, one of
the best men in Europe; he says Screwdriver's trained to the hour.
Here, Mason, turn the horse round and show him to the lady."
The old man touched his hat as he did so.
"He's a good 'un, miss," he said, "and nothing but a good 'un; and if
Mr Fortescue rides him patiently, I think that no Mad Moll will have a
chance with him." And touching his hat again he turned and walked the
horse away.
The regimental champion was then immediately surrounded by the men of
the Stiffshire Regiment.
The weighing is over, and Screwdriver mounted. Fortescue's colours are
crimson, with gold braiding. Capt. O'Rooney's are all green. Both
gentlemen look thorough jocks, and sit their horses easily and well;
but there is a look of the older hand about the Captain.
"Who will lay me two to one against Screwdriver?" cried out a
sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "I'll do it to any
amount up to a thousand."
"I'll take you even money for a hundred," said a flashily-dressed man
on a bay horse.
"I want odds, sir," said the little man; "but as I see there is no
betting to be done here, make it two hundred and I'll take you."
"Done," said the other. And the bets were booked.
All is now excitement, for the horses are walking away to the
starting-post. The judge had locked himself up in the little box
allotted to him, which has been lent by the race committee, but little
did he think he would see such a close finish.
"They're off!" is the cry, as the two horses are seen cantering across
a field.
"Fortescue's leading," said Lord Plunger, with his field-glasses to his
eyes.
"Oh, papa, hold me up so that I may see," said the beautiful and
anxious Miss Gwynne.
The eyes of scores were on her as she stood up, for all the gentry were
well aware in what relation she stood to Fortescue.
"Well lepped!" roared the multitude, as the horses topped a wall.
"Capital jumpers both," said the sly-looking little man; "the horse for
my money. Will nobody bet?" he roared out. But all were too eager to
attend to him.
Fortescue is in front, and going at a good rate across some grass. The
first brook is now approached, and the Captain in his turn, leads at a
strong pace. All are anxiously looking to see how Mad Moll will like
it, for she is twisting her head from side to side. Fortescue has taken
a pull at Screwdriver, who is some six lengths behind.
"Hang me if she means jumping!" said Bradon, as he saw the mare's
spiral movements.
But he was wrong: a resolute man and a good one was on her back. She
jumped the brook, but in bad style, her hind legs dropped in, and as
she just righted herself, Fortescue's crimson jacket flashed in the air
and cleared it splendidly, amidst the shouts of hundreds.
"Splendidly jumped!" said Lord Plunger. "Fortescue is a fine horseman,
Bradon, and is riding the horse patiently and well."
"He is," was the quiet reply.
All eyes are now directed to the wall, which the horses are rapidly
approaching. Fortescue is seen to lead at it, and the old horse clears
it at a bound, as did the mare.
"It's all up," said Bradon, as he closes his glasses; "Fortescue will
win in a canter."
"The Captain's down!" screamed a host of voices, as he and the mare
came to grief at the second water-jump.
"May he stick there for the next ten minutes!" muttered the sly little
man, a wish in which not a few joined--a certain fair lady especially.
But he is up and at work again, none the worse. The horses were going
at a great pace, and the jumps were taken with beautiful precision by
both. Bradon began to look anxious, the sly little man fidgety, and
Lord Plunger wore a thoughtful look.
The anxious girl's face was flushed to scarlet with excitement and
emotion, and she trembled fearfully.
"It will be a close thing," said the sly-looking little man; "the mare
is better than I thought."
There were only a few things to be jumped now of any consequence--the
two brooks and the big wall. The horses there turned, ran through an
opening made in the wall, and finished on the flat in front of the
carriages. The brook is now approached for the second time: the mare
comes at it first, jumps it, and topples down on her nose on the
opposite side; the Captain is pitched forward on her ears, but recovers
himself like lightning, and is away again, leading Fortescue at a
terrific pace.
But what is the little sly man doing? As the mare recovers herself he
is seen to dart across the course and pick up something flat, and put
it into his pocket. "By G--d! turn out as it will we are saved," he
muttered. "I'll lay any money against the mare," he screamed out. But
no one took him.
The wall is now approached again; the Captain leads; but as the mare is
about to rise he turns her sharply round and gallops in a different
direction. Screwdriver refuses it too.
"Damnation! I thought it," said Bradon; "there's a blackguard's trick!"
"Oh! poor Charles," ejaculated the beautiful Alice; "my poor colours!"
"The Captain's cleared it!" shouted out the multitude, as the mare was
seen to take the wall splendidly.
"Where's your soldier now?" shouted out a chorus of voices.
"Shure it's myself," said the captain, "could never be licked."
"Most unfortunate!" said the old Colonel, "a dirty trick; and after my
kindness to him, too!"
"The soldier is going at it again!" cried the people; and the horse is
seen to rise gallantly at it, but both horse and rider came down on the
other side.
"Och, wirra wirra, vo vo! Mother of Moses, he's kilt entirely!" bawled
out a countryman; "poor young fellow!"
"Miss Gwynne's fainted," said a young sub, running into the tent for
water.
"By G--d! he's up and at it again," screamed out the sly little man:
"the mare's baked too; look at her tail."
All faces were flushed and eager. The horse was coming along at a
tremendous pace. The captain was at work: his legs could be seen
sending the spurs deeply into her; and he took an anxious look over his
shoulder every now and then.
"The mare's beaten!" resounded on all sides, as she was seen to swerve
in her stride.
"Oh that the finish were only a hundred yards farther!" said Lord
Plunger.
The winning-post is approached. The old horse has not been touched by
Fortescue, whose face is seen, even at that distance, to be deluged
with blood. He holds Screwdriver well in hand; he sees the mare is
flagging.
"Green wins!" "Red wins!" shouts the crowd.
It is an anxious moment. Both horses are seen locked closely together.
But the strain on Screwdriver's jaw is relaxed, and Fortescue is seen
to shake him up; the whip hand is at work, and they pass the post
abreast. The Colonel dashes off, as does the sly little man, and a host
of others.
"What is it?" said the Colonel, as he galloped up.
"A DEAD HEAT," replied the judge.
The sly little man smiles grimly as he hears these words.
"Is Charles hurt, papa?" said the beautiful occupant of the Master of
Gwynne's carriage, opening her eyes languidly, as she rose from her
faint.
"No, dearest; cut a little, I believe. It is a dead heat."
Both horses were now returning to scale.
"Dead heat?" said the Captain. "Well, we must run it off in an hour. I
won't give in."
"Hurt, sir?" inquired old Mason, as he took hold of the old horse's
bridle and led him back.
"A bit of a cut on the forehead," returned Fortescue, "that is all.
Captain O'Rooney pulled his mare round at the wall--little cad!"
"A scoundrel's trick," said the Colonel.
Fortescue goes to weigh in first.
"All right, sir," said the man in charge of the scales.
The Captain now approaches, saddle and saddle-cloths in hand, and seats
himself.
"Eleven stone eleven," said he of the scales, looking at them intently.
"Three pounds short, Captain."
"What?" yelled out O'Rooney. "Look again, man, look again!"
"Eleven stone eleven," replied the clerk.
"Give me my bridle!" roared the Captain. "What the h--ll is the
matter?"
"Ay, give him his bridle!" said the sly-looking little man; "he can
claim a pound for it; but that won't make him right. Look at your
saddle-cloth, sir. You will see it has burst and a three-pounds lead
gone. You did it at the big water-jump the second time, and I picked it
up. Here it is."
Cheer after cheer rent the air as the fact was announced. The soldiers,
of course, went almost frantic.
"Here, come away," said Lord Plunger and Bradon, seizing Charley's arm,
"Get away as quickly as you can. There will be a row. Your horse has
already gone, with seventy or eighty of our men with him. You rode the
race splendidly, old fellow!"
"That he did," said the sly-looking little man.
The Captain had lost the race. He was short by two pounds, allowing him
one for his bridle. The scene of confusion that followed was
indescribable.
Fortescue was taken to the carriage and quickly driven away.
"Ah, Alice!" said he, "I told you I should carry your colours to the
fore."
"Thank God you did so! This is your first and last race, promise me."
The Captain went back to Clough-bally-More Castle; but in a day or two
he was _non est_, and his creditors were done.
The regiment had a jovial night of it. Fortescue's health was drunk in
bumper after bumper; but he was not there to acknowledge the
compliment; some one else had him in charge.
A short time after the Stiffshire were quartered in Manchester, and the
Colonel one day encountered no less a person than Captain O'Rooney.
"See now, Colonel," said the latter, "you must bear me no ill-will. I
did a shabby trick, I'll allow, at the wall, but I was a ruined man.
I'm all right now. I've married a rich cotton-spinner's widow with some
three thousand a year; but it's all settled on her."
Fortescue and Miss Gwynne are long ago married; and at the different
race meetings that they attended they often saw the celebrated Captain
O'Rooney performing; but in all the numerous races he was engaged in,
he never rode--at any rate in a steeple-chase--another DEAD
HEAT.