Will yis stop pushing behind there or you’ll land me into the ditch. Can you see the horses, Mary Ellen? They’re down at the starting post; and I’ll be down in this drain if yis don’t quit shoving. Haven’t you the whole country for a grand-stand, and why must you all crowd me off this one bit of a bank? There’s lashings of room for all, if yis id have a bit of —. Oh, be the lord Harry! They’re off! There’s the hunting horn. Can you hear it, Mary Ellen? Great God, how the sound of it warms my old heart.
What a wonderful start! There’s The Holy Terror lying third with our wee Jamesy riding him. Can you see his green jacket, Mary Ellen? They’re coming to the first jump. God be with the day when I could show them boys how to ride a Point-to-Point: but these old rheumatics—these old rheumatics! Now they’re at it. They’re over. Wee Jamesy’s there, Mary darling, and going like a Trojan. Now they’re coming to the first bank. Jamesy’s dropped back to fourth. That’s what I like to see! Holding his horse together: just what his father would have done. Leave the pace-making to someone else.
Now they’re coming to the drop ditch—a dangerous kind of an ould blind contraption—but, thank God they’re over it safely. Have you a good view, Mary Ellen? Do you know, that gossoon of ours is making wonderful great work! Dang! but they’re after lepping two fences so quickly that I missed seeing them with the talking.Now they’re racing for the big up-bank, a ticklish class of jump. Purty high, too. God save us, the two leaders are down. They’ll baffle the others. Jamesy, son, mind yourself. Steady avick, steady me jewel! Over! Good man! He’s a great lad, Mary darling, a great lad; an’ The Holy Terror’s a tremendous great horse.
What’s that you say, Miss? There’s more room behind? God spare you. Step up here, Mary Ellen, and you can see better. Oh, that’s grand. What’s that, Miss? Did you say the green rider? You backed him? I hope he wins for you. He’s my son, Jamesy; wee Jamesy: and he told me, and his mother here, to wait at this spot above the water-jump. I’m too stiff to fight my way through crowds, and he told us to stay here where it would be middling quiet. And ‘twould give him more courage, too, for whisper, Miss, The Holy Terror is a bit green at water, but Jamesy told us that if he got over the river he’d give the best of them a run for their money.
Now they’re racing at the wall; it’s not too high, but it would be safer not to hit it, just the same. Over they come!—five, six, seven of them. Swooping towards us down the long slope to the river. Jamesy’s moving up. He’s fifth, he’s fourth, he’s third, he’s mad. Does he mean to lead with a green horse over the biggest leap in the country? The two leaders are abreast. He’s using his whip, he’s gaining, he’s stark crazy. Now he’s wedged between them . . . coming to the river . . . thundering at it together . . . he’s into it … No, be the lord Harry! he’s over! ! Me bould man, Jamesy!
Mary Ellen, did you ever see the bate of that for cleverness? Wedged his young horse between two ould stagers so that he couldn’t swerve at the water jump. That’s what you may call a bit of classic riding—but sure it’s not off the bushes he licked it.
Bedad, I didn’t see the two jockeys in the water till now; but sure there’s still five more in the race.
That’s the big double, the second fence over on the hill; when they clear that they turn for home. I’d rather see Jamesy staying a bit closer to the leaders; himself and a grey are the last two in the race. Oh—Oh! someone’s crashed at the double—that leaves four—if the loose horse doesn’t knock The Holy Terror.
Me bould Holy Terror doesn’t want to be knocked, sure he doesn’t, Mary Ellen? See the way he tackled that double? The grey and himself are moving up now. Three fences more and they’ll be into the straight. Be the lord Harry! Isn’t he going great guns entirely? Two fences now and not a length between the four o’ them: you could cover them all with your handkerchief.
The last fence. Mary, darling, the last fence! Lord bless me, if I hadn’t rheumatics how I’d love to run over and cheer that gossoon in green. The grey and a chestnut are over first, but The Holy Terror’s on their heels. Come on, Jamesy! Come on, Jamesy! Ride him, avick! Mary, darling, he’s level with them—and twenty lengths to go. They’re neck and neck at it. He’s going to the front! Mary, he’s going to the front! Come on, Jamesy! Great God, I can’t see a stime . . . it’s all misty . . . can’t even see his green jacket. Mary, the sight’s leaving my eyes! Is Jamesy coming in . . . ?
What’s that you say, Miss? You’ve won your bet? . . . The green jockey? . . . Do you hear that, Mary Ellen? The green jockey! Me bould son, Jamesy! me hardy fella!
Do you know, Miss, he’s a great gossoon. Ach! but sure it’s not off the bushes he licked it!
Posted June 12, 2019
From Echoes of the Hunting Horn by Stanislaus Lynch (1907–1983), The Devin-Adair Company, New York, printed in Ireland at the Talbot Press, Dublin