CHAPTER XIII

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!"]