The Memoirs of Admiral Lord Beresford
devil are the hounds, sir?" and so forth, is always nervous. I have
sometimes answered, "Keep calm, sir, keep calm. It's not a general
action."
For a short time I was acting-Master of the Buckhounds, in place of my
brother Waterford, when he was laid up with an accident in the hunting
field, from which, poor fellow, he never recovered. As he was
galloping through an open swinging gate, the gate closed on his horse
as the horse was level with it. The jerk injured the base of the spine.
One day with the Buckhounds we were hunting a very twisting, slow stag,
when, observing a charming country-woman of mine, I asked her if she
had another horse out. As she said she had not, I advised her to go to
a certain spot, where the deer-cart held another stag, wait there for
me, and we would have a good run, and with luck we could get back to
the station and catch a train. Sure enough, we had a splendid run,
half an hour as hard as we could go; the stag ran into the lost
property office in Slough railway station, and a train bound for London
came in at the same moment: a prophecy fulfilled.
I was one of the original number that first played polo at Lillie
Bridge, in the early days of polo in England. We played on little
13-hand ponies, with a bamboo root rounded {526} off as a ball. I do
not think that there are many of the original number now (1913) alive;
but among them is Lord Valentia, who very kindly sent me the following
account of the introduction of polo into England:
"The first polo match ever played in Europe was between the 9th Lancers
and 10th Hussars at Hounslow, July, 1871, but the 10th had played polo
for years then. The first game ever played was at Aldershot, on Cove
Common, in 1870; where Colonel Liddell says in his _Memoirs of the 10th
Royal Hussars_: 'The game was introduced into England by the officers
of the 10th, from a description of the game as played by the Manipuri
tribe in India which appeared in _The Field_ newspaper. Lord Valentia,
Mr. Hartopp, and Mr. George Cheape of the 11th attached to the 10th,
were the originators.' I believe the Lillie Bridge Club was formed in
1872. I well remember a day at Lillie Bridge when I think you, Bill,
and Marcus were playing, and your mother was looking on. Bill Was
knocked out by a crack on the head, and carried into the dressing room,
where he lay unconscious for a short time. Your mother was in the room
with him, and heard Tom Fitzwilliam in the next room shouting out so
that everyone in both rooms could hear, 'Oh, it's only Bill knocked
out. No matter, you can't kill a Beresford!'"
I had entered to ride my horse Nightwalker in the steeple-chase at
Totnes, which is the most difficult course in England, up hill and down
dale, and along a narrow path beside and across the river. Just before
the race, I was warned that a plan had been formed for the jockeys to
ride me out at a post on the river at the bottom of the hill. Had I
been ridden out, I could never have recovered the ground. I kept a
vigilant look-out accordingly. Riding along the tow-path, a jockey
began to hustle me. I told him to pull back, warning him that unless
he kept clear I would have him in the river. He returned no answer,
but continued to hustle me: whereupon I pulled my horse on to him,
cannoned into him, and over he went, horse and all, {527} into the
water. Falling on a rock, he broke his thigh. I won the race. Then I
went to look after the injured jockey. Nightwalker was one of the best
horses I ever owned. I sold him to Lord Zetland, who told me that "the
horse was one of the best he had ever had, and no price would buy him."
In 1882, while I was in command of the _Condor_, a gymkhana was
arranged which had the unfortunate and wholly unforeseen result of
bringing me into serious disfavour with an agitated husband. We rode
upon side-saddles, dressed in ladies' attire: habits, chignons, and
tall hats complete. I had a capital pony, and had won the race, my
chignon and hat blowing off on the way, when up comes an indignant
gentleman, to accuse me of insulting his wife. I had, he said, dressed
up to imitate the lady, on purpose to bring ridicule upon her.
Naturally, I assured him that he was mistaken, and that nothing would
have induced me to commit so discourteous an action. But my gentlemen
waxed hotter than before, and violently demanded an apology. He
declined to accept my assurance; his language was highly irritating;
and I became angry in my turn.
"You don't appear to understand the situation," I told him. "How dare
you come to me and tell me that I looked like your wife? Either you
apologise to me at once for that most improper suggestion, or..."
He saw reason. He apologised. The biter was bit.
While I was commanding the _Condor_ in 1882, a famous Italian
long-distance runner came to Malta, and issued a challenge, of which
the conditions were that he would run on foot any mounted man over a
twenty-mile course, himself to go any pace he chose, but the horse to
trot, canter, or gallop, not to stop or to walk. I accepted the
challenge, and went into hard training.
I trained on ponies, confiding the pony which I was to ride in the race
to a midshipman of light weight, and reduced my weight to 10 st. 8 lb.
The greater proportion of the {528} Maltese, whose dislike of the
English was still strong in those days, were in favour of the Italian.
They assembled in vast crowds on the Marsa upon the day of the race.
We ran and rode round and round the great open space--afterwards the
parade-ground--and although my adversary tried every trick of his
trade, such as suddenly stopping, or lying down, I succeeded in winning
the race.
I had a famous horse called Sudden Death, which I bought from Lord
Norris; and the first time I drove him tandem in the lead was on
Portsmouth Hard, where he cut across the first cab on the cab rank,
whereupon all the cabs backed out on the top of one another with
kickings, cursings and squealings. I sold Sudden Death for £15, a case
of infamous sherry, and a life insurance ticket.
The greatest devil of a horse I ever owned I called The Fiend. He
would carry me brilliantly for a day or two, and then, for no earthly
reason, he would turn it up in a run, kick, back, rear and bite at my
foot; and if he could not get me off, he would rub my leg against a
wall or rush at a gate. Once, after carrying me beautifully in two
runs on one day, he flew into one of his tantrums. We were crossing
the bridge over the Clodagh River at Curraghmore, and he actually
jumped upon the parapet of the bridge, balanced himself upon it for a
moment, and then (thank God!) jumped into the road again.
We had a pad groom in the Curraghmore stables, Paddy Quin, called The
Whisperer, because he could control any dangerous horse by whispering
to him. I told Quin to sell The Fiend without bringing my name into
the transaction. He sold the horse accordingly; and when the business
was completed, he told me that he had represented to the purchaser that
The Fiend "belonged to a lone widdy living by the say-side."
I believe that I am the only man who has ever ridden a pig down Park
Lane. As I was returning home from a dance in the calm of a summer
morning, accompanied by a friend, a herd of swine came by, and among
them a {529} huge animal trotted pre-eminent. I wagered £5 that I
would ride that great pig into Piccadilly; dashed into the herd, took a
flying leap upon the pig's back, and galloped all down Park Lane,
pursued with shouts by the swineherd. As I turned into Piccadilly, the
swineherd caught me a clout on the head, knocking me off my steed. But
not before I won my wager.
I was once prettily sold by a sportsman named Doddy Johnson. We were
of a party at Maidenhead, and we laid £5 on the winner of a swimming
race across the Thames, both to swim in our frock coats and tall hats.
My antagonist and I were to start from a line on the lawn at Skindle's,
and the first to get ashore on the opposite bank was to be the winner.
I raced down the lawn and plunged in. About half-way across the river,
I looked back, and there was Doddy standing on the bank. He had his
jest; presumably it was worth a fiver.
One year, three out of four horses in my coach being hunters, I was
obliged to start with the leaders, for if I started in the proper way
with the wheelers, the off wheeler invariably jumped into her collar
and kicked. Being taken to task in the Park one day by a famous
four-in-hand driver, who told me I did not know how to start a team, I
said to him that as he was an authority on the subject, I should be
very grateful if he would be so good as to start my coach for me, and
thus to show me how it ought to be done; adding that if the coach were
damaged or the horses were injured, he must hold himself responsible.
Gladly accepting these conditions, my friend mounted to the box and
settled himself with great nicety and pulled off the leaders. Then he
touched the off wheeler with his whip. The next moment she had kicked
in the boot, and the leaders started kicking, and both fell--a regular
tie-up. The mare capped her hocks and was laid up at a vet's for a
week.
I was driving a coach up from Sandown Races along a crowded road, when
a most unfortunate accident suddenly exposed me to the fury of the
populace. Swinging the whip {530} out in order to catch it up
properly, the thong caught under a lady's chignon, and the whip was
nearly pulled out of my hand. Chignon and hat came away together and
remained dangling. The poor lady must have been sadly hurt.
Instantly, of course, I tried to pull up in order to apologise, when
the mob rushed to the very unjust conclusion that I had insulted the
lady on purpose; there was a deal of shouting, and stones began to fly;
the horses were hit and bolted, so that I never had the opportunity of
making my apology. The Duke of Portland, Lord Londonderry and Lord
Inniskillen were on the coach. We used each of us to horse one coach
in stages for the race meetings near London.
Upon another occasion, when I was driving the Prince of Wales on my
coach to a meet of the Four-in-Hand Club at the Magazine, Hyde Park, a
man who was quite unknown to me shouted,
"'Ullo, Chawley, 'ow are yer? I see you've got 'Wiles' up alongside
yer."
"Some of your friends seem very familiar," said the Prince, who took
the remark with perfect good-humour.
I once laid a wager that I would drive round Rotten row, an exercise
forbidden by the regulations. A party assembled to watch the event;
and while they were looking out for me, a man driving the Park
water-cart came by and turned the water on them. Then the company,
looking closer at the driver, perceived that I had won my bet.
The first racehorse owned by the Prince of Wales was a horse named
Stonehenge, which I bought for him. We were partners in the horse.
Stonehenge had won one or two races, when I went away on leave for a
few days. On my return I found that my groom, against orders, had been
galloping him, and that one of his legs had filled. Having heard that
my uncle, Lord Waterford, once trained a horse which filled his leg, by
swimming him in the sea after a boat tried the experiment with
Stonehenge. The admiral's coxswain, two hands, and myself swam
Stonehenge every {531} day about Plymouth Harbour. The horse got fit
to run for his life, and I rode him in a hurdle race at Plymouth. He
was winning easily, but, alas! he broke down at the last hurdle, and
was just beaten.
In 1883-4, the Duke of Portland and myself, as partners, bought Rosy
Morn, as a yearling. He won several races as a two-year-old, and we
fancied him for the Derby. He was a better colt as a two-year-old than