The Chronicles of a Gay Gordon. Gordon Joseph Maria
induce his horse, a long, rakish, Irish-built bay, to go up. The horse absolutely refused to do so, and each time the old jarvey flogged him he exhibited very considerable agility in every direction except up the hill. I rode up to the jarvey and asked him what was the matter. “Shure, sir,” he said, “I bought this horse to go up this hill, for I am the mail contractor on this road. I’ve got him here these last three mornings, and I’ve never got farther than this. Now I’ll have to go back again and get another horse, and all the people will get their mails late and they’ll report me, and they’ll fine me, and the divil do I know what my ould missus’ll have to say about it. And, shure, yer honour, ’tis all the fault of this donkey-headed old quadruped.”
I asked him whether the old quadruped could jump.
“Shure, yer honour,” he said, “he’d jump out of his harness, traces an’ all, if I hadn’t got him by the bit.”
“Will you sell him?” says I.
“Will I sell him?” says he. “Will I find the fool that’ll buy him, yer honour?”
“Bring him up to the old castle in the morning,” says I, “and I may find the fool that’ll buy him.”
“Begorra, sir,” says he, “yer a gintleman. I’ll be there with him at nine o’clock, with a halter round his old ewe neck.”
Next morning, at nine o’clock, just as the sergeant-major was reporting as usual, “All correct,” I saw my old friend leading his quadruped into the barrack square. He was a quaint looking horse. He was particularly full of corners, for he wasn’t furnished up above at all. But he had good-boned legs. His coat was by way of being a miracle to look at. He had no particular colour to speak of. In some places he was a bit of a roan – Taffy-like; round some other corners he was a dirty bay. In some places, especially where for the last three days he had attempted to get out of his harness at the bottom of the hill, there was no hair at all. But he had a good-looking eye; he had good sound feet; good bone, though his tail was hardly up to Cocker. Most of it, no doubt, was now part and parcel of the car.
I can well remember the look of the correct and austere sergeant-major – who himself was a bit of a sport, but who still considered himself “on parade” – as he cast his eye over that noble quadruped, and wondered what his lieutenant was about. I could see that he was asking himself, “Is he going to run a circus, and is this going to be the freak horse?”
“Mick,” says I, “if I get a saddle on the horse, will you ride him; come out with me and put him over a couple of jumps?”
“Shure, yer honour,” says he, “an’ so I will.”
“Sergeant-major,” says I, “tell my groom to put a saddle and bridle on this Rosinante” (at the mention of which name the sergeant-major looked perplexed) “and get one of the other horses ready for me.”
In a few minutes Mick and I were riding down the old street, making for a bit of open country. We soon came to a high road, bounded on each side by fairly stiff, stone walls. Having come to a gate on one side I pulled up.
“Now,” says I, “Mick, are you game to go into that field and take the double across the road?”
“Shure, I am,” says he; “but ’tis a long day, yer honour, since I had a jump. Would you lend me your whip? The old horse’ll want it, it may be.”
I gave him the whip, jumped off my nag, opened the gate, and away went Mick into the field. It was a sight to do one good. There was Mick, what he called his hat stuck on the back of his head, and what was left of his coat-tails flying in the air behind him, heading for the first stone wall, and, before you could say “knife,” he was over it like a bird, across the road, over the wall the other side, with a “whoop-la” that you could have heard in the cathedral in Limerick.
Just as well to mention that Rosinante’s age was what is known amongst horse-copers as “uncertain,” that is, anywhere between nine years old and twenty-four.
After that (it was not long before we were again at the Castle) I asked Mick Molloy how much he wanted for the horse. He said, “Shure, I’ll just take what I gave for it. He’s no good to me.”
I asked him how much that was, and he said, “Five pounds.”
I was so surprised, that he became quite apologetic, thinking he was asking too much, and quickly began to sing the praises of his mount. I at once disabused him of the idea by telling him that I couldn’t give him less than £7 10s., which might help him a little towards his getting an animal that would pull his car up the hill. The horse became mine, and the late owner left the barracks wishing me all the blessings that our good God and Ould Oireland could bestow on my humble head. The end of Mick Molloy came later on.
CHAPTER IX
UNRULY TIMES IN IRELAND
Affairs in Ireland have always been a source of wonderment to me. Ever since the days I spent there, right through to the present time, the doings – at one time or another – of some of the inhabitants of Ireland have puzzled most people. All the talent of all the Prime Ministers and Members of Parliament, within these forty years, has been unable to ensure for Ireland such political and economic conditions as would have made it the happy country which it ought to be.
When I was there in 1877-1878 the times were full of trouble, and I recall several episodes which show the temper of the people at that day. Some four miles from Limerick is a place called “Woodcock Hill,” where the rifle ranges, for the instruction in musketry of the troops quartered there, were situated. Close to the range was a small Catholic chapel, standing practically by itself. An infantry regiment was quartered in Limerick at the time. It was an English regiment; its depôt, from which the recruits fed it, was somewhere in the North of England, and the number of Catholic soldiers in its ranks was very small in proportion. One Sunday morning the priest attending the little chapel at “Woodcock Hill” found that somebody had broken into the church and stolen some of the altar fittings and – worse from the Catholic point of view – had taken the chalice used at Mass. This, of course, was nothing less than sacrilege in the eyes of the devout Catholic Irishmen.
Rumours soon began to circulate that, on the previous Saturday evening, after some rifle-shooting had taken place, two red-coats had been seen in the vicinity of the chapel. These rumours were not long in being spread throughout the city, and as the regiment was looked upon as being anti-Catholic, reports went about to the effect that the sacrilege had been carried out not so much for the sake of the value of the stolen articles, but purely out of hatred for the Catholics and for the purpose of desecrating the holy place. The consequences of these rumours soon became apparent. Soldiers, returning home late at night, were set upon and hammered in the by-streets. As a result, instead of going about in ones and twos, they would congregate in bigger groups and took every opportunity of retaliating on the civilians.
On a quiet Sunday morning, a glorious day, at about eleven o’clock, red-coats in small groups rapidly began to arrive at the old Castle. I had been out riding and was returning to my quarters about twelve o’clock, and I found that there were not less than somewhere between 150 and 200 soldiers within the barrack gates. It had been the custom for members of other corps to come into the canteen at the “Castle” for a glass of beer or two, after their dismissal from church parade. But for such a number to get together was more than unusual.
In the absence of the major, my commanding officer, the responsibility of dealing with the case fell on me. I determined to send my groom with a message to the officer commanding the regiment at their barracks, which were at the other end of the main street in the town, to inform him of what was going on, and then to order the men off in small groups from the “Castle.” But there was no time, for hardly had I finished writing my message than the whole lot of red-coats left the barracks together and proceeded towards George Street. They had their waistbelts on but fortunately did not carry any side-arms. Still, the good old infantry belts, with their heavy brass buckles, were quite a formidable weapon to use about in a crowd which was unarmed. I jumped on my horse and, riding by side streets, reached the police station, which was in the middle of the town, close to the main street, to inform the police of what was taking place. However,