ENNIS FLEADH NUA - Comhaltas Archive

entirely hid their eyes and, until theybared their teeth and lashed out withtheir tiny hooves at each other, youcould never have guessed that what youbeheld were miniature horses, perfectand lovely in the smallest detail.Now and then, my father wouldbring home for our childish admiration,a pair of the little horse shoes which thesmith made for them down the pit.Often three inches would be theirgreatest dimension in any direction.They were always stallions and entirelywild - they would stand up on theirhind legs and try to take a bite out ofeach other, screaming and whinnying asthey did so - but, I tell you, they weregrand.The vet would inspect them so thatonly the fittest and strongest and bestwould be sent underground. Therethey would have everything but free ­dom - stables, hay, corn and farriers tolook after them. It was so hot downthere - the deeper you go, the hotter itgets - that it was necessary to shear offtheir thick coats or they would have suffocated.And then - Lord whatugliness was brought into being! Thelovely manes were gone and there wereonly ugly stumps where the beautifulstreaming tails had been. The rich,thick coats were absent - trimmed toan irregular line along the sides of thebelly which was entirely bare. Theywould remind you of a chain-gang ofconvicts at Dartmoor in the old days.One of the first jobs my father gotin the mines was as a "Breaker-in" ofthese wild animals so that they wouldaccept being yoked and worked. It allhad to be done underground because ofthe special conditions obtaining there.The ponies would be used to pull 'tubs'small wagons which held about half-atonof coal - along a miniature railway.They must learn how to stretch theirstride in order to gain purchase on thesleepers which lay beneath the rails.The canvas flaps which hung down fromthe roof at intervals to prevent any flashof ignited gas along the coal face, theyhad to learn to lift with their heads asthey went and to open 'fire doors' inthe same way. And all the time, therewould be water brackish anddiscoloured - streaming and tricklingdown from the riven strata above. Theymust learn not to rear or jerk theirheads too high or they would split theirskulls on the steel girders which stretchedcrosswise supporting the roof.Everywhere they went they had tocarry the "limbers" (the shafts whichcould be detatched from the tube)which hung from their backs togetherwith the collar, draught chains and'britchin', so that when they backedinto the tubs a connection would bemade - much as carriages are coupledwith a locomotive. Of course, there wasbrutality to a degree. Men and animalswere alike bound to the same appallingservitude, but there was often a deal ofcomradeship between them. The menwould take sweets or a bit of lump sugaror even a slice of jam and bread fromtheir 'baits' with them to give to theponies - often these, would be nuzzlinginto pockets for the hoped-for treat.THE BREAKING OF PUNCHOne day, there came a summons formy father to come to the offices. Hehad been day after day asking for ahouse - but the list was long he wastold - always a refusal on one pretextor another. He found Paddy Gallagherwaiting for him. Paddy was the head"Ho ss Man". He had a young stallioncalled 'Punch' which defied everyattempt to break him in. He had eventorn the collar clean off Paddy's shirtwith his teeth and had broken anotherman's collarbone. "You're gettin'Punch to break on Monday, Joe." saidPaddy. "The under-manager has namedyou for the job!". Charlton was theunder-manager; an Orangeman who hadlittle time or love for Catholics. "Yehcan tell Charlton", my father retortedangrily, "that he can break Punch hisaself!He has refused us a house threetimes an' he knows the way we'religin'''. "Now, Joe, you know I can'ttell him that - but you break the ponyan' I'll see ya get a house!", The breaking of Punch was one ofthe great sagas of our family. As childrenwe could have recounted everymove, trom the backing of the devilpony between a couple of tubs so thathe couldnt kick, to my father's demandthat the harness should be entirely ofleather, so that Punch would not realisefrom the jingling that he was beingyoked at all until the job was done.When he did sense that he wasshackled to serfdom, his anger was terribleto contemplate. Even though hisears were laid back wickedly and thewhites of his eyes could be seen rollingin the sockets, Punch did not rear up onhis hind legs, nor did he attempt tokick. He was far too clever to try thethe like. What he did, suddenly andviciously, was to bite with bared yellowteeth sideways at my father's face. Itwas only the grace of God that he instinctivelywrenched his face away orhis cheek would have been torn andripped like Paddy Gallagher's shirtcollar.When dire necessity compels, therecomes a moment when the veneer ofcivilisation is torn aside to show thesavagery of our natures which but rarelycomes to the surface. My father did notpause to consider that here was a poorpersecuted brute which had been drivenfar beyond decency. He had no time to ,reflect that if he let the animal get theupperhand the only chance of evergetting a house fosr the family would begone forever. What he did, instinctivelyand with all the force he could muster,was to strike a fierce blow with hisclenched fist into Punch's nose. Solittle was its expectation of this counterthat the stallion sank back onto itshaunches, blood trickling down itsvelvety muzzle.31