and to hurry along the road. I knew who it was, and that it was his
duty to see to certain arrangements, before the train came through
which would pick them up. The man who was standing apart also heard the
noise, and called to the others; then, without another word, they all
hurried to where the trucks were standing.
‘A near chance that,’ I said, turning to the captain, but stopped in my
speech, from the shock his changed appearance gave me. He was deathly
pale.
I began to feel more uneasy in my new undertaking than I had hitherto
been, especially when I heard another step approaching and saw that
some one bearing a light was coming to the hut.
I thought it was a second search, and felt that we could scarcely
expect to repeat our success. However, it was only Charley Pearse, the
night-goods foreman, who had come down to send the trucks off, and had
crossed over to my box to tell me of a ‘rum go’ he had had with some
queer-looking strangers, who had insisted on searching the trucks.
‘If they had been civil,’ said Charley, with a knowing wink and nod,
evidently directed at my companion, ‘I might have told them something
good; but they were preciously uncivil, talking to me as if I was a
nigger or a convict, so I sent them to the _Pike and Perch_’—this was
a beer-house some two miles off—‘and so, you know, if any gent’s in
trouble and wants to clear out, now’s the time.’
It was at once clear that Charley knew, or pretty closely guessed, what
was afoot. The captain looked anxiously at me. By a sudden inspiration
I saw how to make a benefit of this new danger. ‘Charley,’ I exclaimed,
‘this is Captain Laurenston, who thrashed the major. You know all about
him, I am certain, for we have often talked about the affair.’
Charley nodded.
‘If he does not get away to-night,’ I continued, ‘he will be caught,
for there are spies about him everywhere.’
‘Well, what is the captain going to do?’
‘You can help him, Charley,’ I said. ‘Your brother goes down with
the night-goods, and I know his wife’s brother is steward aboard the
French packet. Get the captain down with the goods and smuggle him
aboard.—Here! this will make it worth your while.’ As I said this,
I drew out the watch and chain from my desk and pushed them towards
Charley. His eyes sparkled, and I saw the business was as good as done.
Charley made a feeble objection to taking such valuables; but there was
no time for fencing of this kind, so he picked the treasures up, and
left, telling the captain to go outside and wait under the signal, as
dangerous eyes might be upon the box.
The captain took his advice, after shaking my hand, and saying: ‘But
what are you going to have for yourself, Waltress?—Well, never mind, I
will see to that; you know I will do so, I hope.’
‘One thing is quite certain,’ I replied, ‘that I would not rob Miss
Cleabyrn of her valuables, if they were a hundredfold as valuable.—Now,
don’t argue, captain; but go and wait where Charley tells you.’
With another clasp of my hand, he went; and I was more nervous than I
ever remember to have been before in my life, until the engine came
and commenced ‘shunting;’ and then it was actually worse. Every moment
I fancied I could hear a struggle, and I thought the engine had never
been half so long over its work. But it went away at last; and its
puffing was still faintly heard in the distance, when, without the
slightest warning, the door of my hut was thrown open and there were
the strange men again.
The leader exclaimed fiercely: ‘Now you, sir! where is the man who was
here just now? We are up to your tricks. Where is he?’
‘Hush!’ said one of his companions, and whispered to him.
‘No proof!’ he exclaimed; ‘the scoundrels are all in league together. A
woman with a man was seen coming towards this box, and where are they?
We will have them; and you too, Mr Signalman, if you attempt any tricks
upon us.’
I could see that half-measures or timid words would not do, so
I boldly—in appearance at anyrate, although I was a good deal
frightened—defied him. I told him point-blank that if I did know, or
could know, where the persons he wanted were, I should not tell him.
This conduct was the best I could have adopted; the party were
convinced I knew nothing of the fugitive, and so went away. But after
they were gone, I felt horribly nervous; it had been so near a thing,
that I would not have passed through the same excitement again for any
money.
Charley and his friends were true to their trust. This was greatly
to their credit, as there was a large reward out, which they could
have earned by a few words; and _they_ had not been in love with the
captain’s sweetheart, as I had been. Charley brought me a note on the
next day, written by the captain on board the French boat, and on the
day following I got another from France; so Laurenston was safe.
I took an early opportunity of seeing Miss Cleabyrn as she was walking
near her home, when I told her how I had disposed of the watch and
chain. She looked at me with her old smile, which I remembered so
well—remembered then!—why, I have not forgotten it now!—and said I must
have my own way; but she would try to find a mode of conciliating even
my disinterestedness; and she did so.
I heard nothing for some few weeks of any of the parties in the affair
which had been so exciting to me; indeed, Miss Cleabyrn must have
left home directly after the interview I have just spoken of, for I
never saw her again—not for years, at anyrate. But I had a letter
from her, a thing I had never dreamed would happen to me. It was
dated from Boulogne, where she had arrived, she said, the previous
day; and after thanking me for my services, and saying that Messrs
Primer, her solicitors, had instructions to write to me, the letter was
signed—I could hardly believe my eyes!—Oswald Laurenston and Beatrice
Laurenston! So the secret was out!—they were married.
When I recalled the little scene in my hut, her passionate,
unrestrained farewell, I felt that I ought to have known it then; but,
if I may indulge in a philosophical reflection, I would say that all
through life you are always looking back and blaming yourself for not
having seen more plainly the things which were passing before your eyes.
Well, this was nearly the end of my adventure with Captain Laurenston;
yet one or two incidents which remain to be told were perhaps as
important to me as any that had gone before. There was at the end of
our lane a cottage, somewhat larger than its neighbours, with quite a
nice piece of ground attached, a great deal superior, indeed, to the
others. To my amazement, Messrs Primer, of Lincoln’s Inn, sent down a
clerk with the title-deeds of this house and land, which were actually
presented to me as from Captain Laurenston.
It made my fortune, I may say. I was married to Patty within six
months, and with her I have been thoroughly happy. But it was many a
long day before I told her as much as I have written here. The captain
and his wife must have had excellent information from some one in the
neighbourhood of what went on—which was easy enough, as they were on
friendly terms with old Mr Cleabyrn—for they sent Patty a beautiful
silk dress and an amethyst brooch as wedding presents.
After a good many years, they returned to England, when Major
Starley—who had been forced to resign—was dead, and the affair had
blown over. They lived a long way off, however, and I only saw them
once or twice. When I met Mrs Laurenston, leaning on her husband’s arm,
or saw her riding in the pony carriage with some of her six pretty
children, why, I laughed. But once I could not have laughed.
ROWING AT OXFORD.
Great interest is generally shown throughout the country about the
month of March in the preparations that are made at our two chief
English universities for the annual boatrace; but few of those that
read the newspaper accounts of the daily practice of the two crews
know how much energy and time have been devoted by their individual
members to acquiring the skill which will qualify them for a seat in
the ‘’varsity eight.’ Hence we propose here to give a short account of
rowing at Oxford, and the different college races that a man has almost
invariably taken part in before he is even tried for ‘the ’varsity.’
The academical year commences with the October term, and it is in that
term that the majority of freshmen come into residence; accordingly,
this is the time chosen by the captains of the various college
boat-clubs for testing the rowing capabilities of the freshmen of
their college, and ‘coaching’ all those who wish to go in for boating.
Every afternoon during the greater part of this term, the captain and
other members of the college eight may be seen standing up in the stern
of ‘tub-pair’ or four, instructing and exhorting their crews, as they
paddle swiftly down to Ifley lock, or toil up again against the swollen
stream. Towards the end of the term, the men who have been coached in
this way are formed into regular crews; and after one or two weeks’
practice together, these crews row against each other in ‘tub-fours’
for the Silver Challenge Oars, or some prize given by the college
boat-club.
Passing over to the next, that is the Lent term, we come to the first
eight-oared college races, which at Oxford are better known as the
Torpids. In these races, the colleges compete against one another for
the honour of first place or ‘head of the river.’ No man who has rowed
in his college ‘eight’ in the previous year is eligible to row in his
Torpid; the majority of the crew consist of men who have received
coaching in the October term, and have taken part in the four-oared
races described above.
The first week or two of this term is occupied by the captain in
selecting and arranging his crew; when that is made up, regular
practice is the order of the day, for the most part on the stretch of
water between Oxford and Ifley, but occasionally varied by a ‘long
course’ to Abingdon, a distance of seven miles. Coaching is done by
members of the ‘eight,’ who run with the boat along the towpath,
shouting at the top of their voices to the different members of the
crew, and sometimes, when the floods are out and the towpath is
covered, splashing through water nearly up to their knees. Practice of
this kind is continued daily, no matter what the weather is, until the
races take place, which is usually about the middle of the term. Each
college is represented by one boat, and in some cases by two boats, so
that there are generally from twenty to twenty-five boats entered, and
these are divided into two divisions. The races occupy six days, each
division rowing once each day, the second division always commencing.
The boats are placed one behind the other in the order in which they
left off the year before, with a clear space of about two boat-lengths
between each. The object aimed at by each boat is to overtake the boat
in front and bump it. If successful in doing this, these two boats
at once draw out of the way, and leave room for those following to
pass; and on the next day they change places. The head boat of the
second division is called the ‘Sandwich’ boat, and rows again the same
afternoon at the bottom of the first division, in this way forming a
link by which a boat may pass from one division to the other.
Having paddled down to their respective positions, the boats are
turned, and preparations are made for the race. A line attached to
the bank is held by the cockswain, and this, with the assistance of
a waterman with a long pole, helps to keep the boat in position and
prevents it drifting out of its place. Meanwhile, the first signal-gun
has been fired, and the crews are divesting themselves of jackets and
mufflers. Soon the second gun is heard, and there is now one minute
before the signal to start is given. What an anxious minute that is,
so much depends upon getting off well, especially with a crew in which
many of the men are rowing in one of these bumping races for the first
time. A bad start causes flurry and unsteadiness in the boat, and
then there is sometimes a risk of being bumped before the men settle
down together to a long and even stroke. Bang! The starting gun has
fired, and off go the dozen or more boats in a long line; the towpath
is crowded with men, running with their respective college crews,
shouting, blowing horns, and making use of every conceivable instrument
of noise to urge on and encourage their representatives. By the time
the barges, which are crowded with spectators, are reached, great
gaps will have appeared in the line, as most of the bumps take place
below; though here too, sometimes, a most exciting race is witnessed,
when some boat, almost overlapped by its rival, is seen struggling to
reach the winning-post without being bumped. Nor is this bumping so
easy as it might at first seem; but a good deal of skill is required
on the part of the cockswain to effect it. In the first place, there
is always the danger of making the shot too soon, in which case the
boat, missing the stern of the one in front, shoots half-way across the
river, and thereby loses a good deal of ground. Again, when one boat is
overlapping another, the cockswain of the first, by pulling his rudder
towards the bow of his rival, can cause such a wave of water to wash
against the latter as to ward off for a time the actual bump; then, by
a judicious spurt on the part of his ‘stroke,’ when the rudder is again
straightened, he may be enabled to draw away and steer his boat in
safety past the winning-post.
These races conclude the rowing for this term, though sometimes the
last few days are spent in coaching the best men from the Torpid on
‘sliding seats,’ by way of preparation for the next term’s practice for
the ‘eight.’
We now come to the summer or May term, the pleasantest term of all, as
far as boating is concerned. The most important races during this term
are those in which the college eights compete. They are carried out
in exactly the same manner as the Torpids described above, the only
difference being in the kind of boat used. The Torpids row in what are
called clinker-built or gig-boats, which have a small keel, and of
which the seats are fixed; whereas the ‘eights’ are rowed in smooth,
keelless boats—the bottom somewhat resembling that of a small canoe—and
fitted with sliding seats, by which the stroke can be lengthened and
more use made of the legs. The extremities of the boat are covered with
canvas, to prevent the water washing in over the side. The crew of a
college eight is composed of the best men the college can muster, all
of course being members of the college.
The races, as we mentioned before, are arranged in the same way as
those in which the Torpids compete, though perhaps more interest is
shown in the eights; and as they come off at a pleasanter time of the
year, and are undoubtedly one of the sights of the university, the
spectators include many more strangers. The ’varsity ‘sculls’ and
the ’varsity ‘pairs’—the former open to any member, and the latter
to any two members of the ’varsity boat-club—conclude the rowing at
Oxford for this term; though it should here be mentioned that two or
three of the boats that have shown themselves above the average in the
eight-oared races, often keep in practice for Henley regatta, which
takes place soon after the close of this term.
We have now given a brief description of a year’s college rowing at
Oxford, that is, rowing in which a college crew competes with members
of its own or other colleges. Starting again with the October term,
we propose saying something about rowing for the ’varsity, the chief
event in which is the annual race with Cambridge. There is, however,
one college race not yet mentioned, which takes place in the October
term—namely, the ’varsity ‘Fours,’ open to all the colleges. For
this event there are not generally more than from six to eight boats
entered, as considerably more skill and watermanship are required
than for the college eight. The boats used, though of much the same
construction as the latter, are of course smaller, and therefore
more difficult to sit; moreover, they do not carry a cockswain, the
steering being done by one of the crew with his feet, by means of
wires connecting the rudder with a lever attached to his stretcher,
so that, by moving this lever with his foot to one side or the other,
a corresponding motion is given to the rudder. This race takes place
in the first half of the term, and immediately afterwards the work of
selecting a crew for the inter-university boatrace is commenced.
With this object in view, the names of two or three of the best men
from each college are received by the President; and the remaining
weeks of this term are spent in testing on the river these fifty or
sixty men and selecting from them the best sixteen; these, again, are
divided into two regular crews, which are known by the name of the
‘Trial Eights.’ A race takes place at the end of the term between these
crews; they are coached by the President, and their rowing is carefully
watched by him and his advisers. Those who have displayed the greatest
‘staying-powers’ and the most perfect style, or are likely to develop
into the best ‘oars,’ are picked out, and, along with any members of
the last year’s crew that may be available, form the material out of
which the ‘’Varsity eight’ is composed.
The process of selecting the actual crew out of these men that have
been chosen from the ‘Trial Eights,’ and arranging them in the places
they are best fitted to occupy, takes up the first few weeks of the
next or Lent term. Their strength and ‘staying-powers’ are tested by
long rows to Abingdon and back, and at the same time they are coached
by the President, or by some ‘old-blue’ who has come up to help him.
By the middle of the term, the crew is generally settled upon, and
on Ash-Wednesday they go into strict training. The old theories of
training on raw meat, &c., have quite died out; a plentiful supply of
plain, well-cooked food is allowed, but only a very moderate amount
of liquor, and smoking must be entirely knocked off. For breakfast
and dinner the crew meet together in each other’s rooms, each man
entertaining the rest for one day in turn while they are still at
Oxford. Lunch is only a light meal. The rowing is almost entirely done
during the afternoon. Ten days or a fortnight before the time fixed
for the race, the crew go up to Putney to complete their practice on
the tidal water and the course over which the race is to be rowed.
Their doings here and the race itself need no description in this
paper. Their daily practice on the London water, the time they occupy
in rowing over the course, even their very movements are watched and
recorded by the daily press. Suffice it to say that this notoriety is
not at all desired by the members of the crews, and that, owing to the
inconvenience and obstruction it sometimes causes to their practice,
the proposal to hold the race on other and quieter waters has been more
than once discussed.
A HOLIDAY IN COUNTY CORK.
Leap is not a name suggestive of things Irish, yet the place so called
is as pure a specimen of the primitive Irish village as one might wish
to find. There it was our happiness to spend a holiday in the summer of
1885. During our few weeks’ stay we made the acquaintance of a people
whose character and modes of life have the flavour of an age innocent
of the civilities of the nineteenth century. The village of Leap is
in County Cork, at the extreme south-west corner of Ireland, about
eighteen miles to the east of Cape Clear, and about forty to the west
of the city of Cork. It stands at the head of Glandore Bay, one of the
numberless inlets that are so striking a feature of this part of the
Irish coast.
Glandore Bay is itself worth a lengthened pilgrimage. In Scotland or
England it would have been famous, and would long since have been a
fashionable seaside resort. The transatlantic steamers cross its mouth
at no great distance; and it is an impressive spectacle to see them
flash across in the darkness, with all their portholes lit, and at what
appears to be something like railway speed. The village of Leap is cut
in two by a streamlet, over which a bridge has now been thrown. Across
this stream, we are told, a deer, hard pressed by the hunters, once
took a desperate leap; hence the name of the village. In former times,
this same stream was the limit of English law in Ireland. ‘Beyond the
Leap,’ it used to be said, ‘beyond the law.’ And indeed, the country
beyond the Leap is a perfect paradise for outlaws. The very sight of
it is sufficient to deter the further progress of the most hot-headed
officer of justice. This corner of County Cork, therefore, was the
haunt of pirates, smugglers, and various outlawed persons. There is no
part of the British isles richer in tales of blood and adventure. The
district retained its lawless character down to comparatively recent
times; but in modern days, the private manufacture of a little poteen
is the extent of its misdemeanours.
The country surrounding Leap consists of a hopeless confusion of hills,
none of which, however, have either the shape or the size to give them
any dignity. These hills are in their turn covered with excrescences
in the shape of huge knolls of all possible contours and sizes. As the
natural vegetation is of a rankness quite unknown on the other side of
the Channel, it will be imagined that the general aspect of the country
is singularly harsh and wild. Yet this unpromising region is made to
yield surprising crops of potatoes, and even of grain. From base to
summit, every hill that the spade can scratch is cultivated. In many
cases, indeed, it is but picking the bones of nature. It is pathetic
to watch the desperate struggles of some poor soul to ‘bring in’ a
piece of new ground. To see him with his spade and pickaxe, a stranger
might fancy he was rather about to open a quarry than lay out a field,
where he proposes to rear crops of turnips or potatoes. The crofts
are also of miserable dimensions. Three or four acres must in the
majority of cases suffice to maintain an entire family. Where, however,
there is any depth of soil, we were told on the best authority, it
has a productiveness unsurpassed by the best land across the Channel.
But the whole district is vastly over-populated; and it is extremely
difficult to see how any possible legislation could make the land yield
a comfortable subsistence to the present numbers of its people. Some
years since, an active emigration went on from the neighbourhood; but
it has now almost ceased. As illustrative of the tenacity with which
the Irishman clings to his wretched allotment, a land-steward told us
an experience of his employer. This gentleman was desirous of acquiring
a small croft adjoining his own estate. The rental may have been equal
to about thirty shillings; and fifty pounds were offered as a liberal
price for the land. The owner thereupon declared that to no other
person would he part with his ground but to this particular gentleman,
and that to him he would give it for five hundred pounds! The croft is
still in the possession of its hereditary owner.
It does not seem that the formidable distance of America keeps them at
home, since, judging by their way of talking, one is led to believe
that they think of New York as nearer than London or Liverpool. They
also more readily think of strangers as Americans than Britons. It may
be mentioned in this connection that the most earnest counsel given
to young Irishmen who do emigrate from this part of the country is to
give O’Donovan Rossa and his associates as wide a berth as possible.
That redoubtable personage was born in Rosscarberry, a village some
five miles to the south-east of Leap. It was in Skibbereen, a place
also in the immediate neighbourhood, that he attracted the attention
of Head-centre Stephens by his outspoken and bitter hostility to all
things English. We met several persons who knew Rossa well in his young
manhood, and it is but just to say that they all spoke of him as an
upright and generous fellow. His subsequent career, however, is spoken
of in the neighbourhood in language anything but complimentary.