My Delight On A Shiny Night

My Delight on a Shiny Night.

By Eddie Don.

During the war, when everything unrationed was priced sky high, I was working a rabbit warren belonging to Squire King near Aylesbury in the County of Buckinghamshire England. I was working this warren, and others on his extensive acres, without permission, since the gamekeeper had been called up to serve in the forces and I thought there was relatively little chance of being caught. Rabbits were fetching 1/9 apiece in 1941, so this was a profitable exercise for a schoolboy on his holliers.

On the day that I am writing about, I went to the bury with Jack, my ferret, Nonny, my Cairn terrier, my old 14 bore muzzle-loader, — cartridges being practically unobtainable during the war — nets, and a sack for the catch. The nets had been set, and Jack introduced into one of the holes whilst Nonny sat patiently by, when who should heave on the scene but Squire King, armed with a 12 bore and doing a little game keeping for himself.

“Here boy” he shouted, but with a quick "Heel" Nonny." I grabbed my ancient piece, and was off across the fields, leaving Jack and the rest of my gear to their fate. Nonny could run as fast, if not faster than I and we were rapidly leaving Mr King 'in the lip" when there was the blast of that 12 bore from behind, and pellets stung me from head to heel. I kept going in spite of the Squire's imprecations and commands to stop. Truth to tell, that shot had made me mad.

We came to a gateway and I dropped behind one of its piers, Nonny pantingly beside me. I let the landowner get within 40 yards and had the muzzle-loader trained on his legs, "BROOMPH" she belched a cloud of black powder smoke and an ounce of No. 6 shot, the dog and I were once more in headlong flight without waiting to see the results. Later we heard that he'd spent two hours in Aylesbury Hospital, with a nurse picking pellets out of his shins. No formal complaint was made, since he had fired first and I had replied in similar coinage, albeit at closer range.

All this must seem long ago and far way to a reader of the ‘Munster Express’, but it was brought vividly to mind some years ago when Peter Roche and I had our lobster pots "poached" one moonlight night in Ballymacaw Bay. It makes one feel a little different when the boot is on the other foot, — i.e. Mr. King's boots on Peter's and my feet. We both well knew there was a notorious character in these ports who used to row his punt prodigious distances on fine moonlit nights for the purpose of hauling other people's pots. Apart from a bit of muscle and sweat, it cost him nothing except some careful observance from the shore during the day, which gave him a good idea of the locations where he could haul his illegal spoils at night.

This particular morning Pete and I went to retrieve our gear and found it up in a heap, for when one "under-runs" a train of pots using a punt, there is not the strain on the head rope to extend them, that is exerted by a motorboat. We got no lobsters and only a few crabs which had probably been left to allay any suspicions. Peter stroked his moustache thoughtfully: "We'll put 'em out in the deep for the morning and haul after dinner — then we'll come back and shoot well in on roughly the same line as last night. We'll set a trap for the son-of-a-bitch, for as sure as God made little apples he'll be back and he’ll be watching us from the shore to know the exact marking. It isn't easy to pick up a dam buoy at night, even in the moonlight."

"And then what are we going to do," I asked, realising full well the old devil had some plan up his sleeve.

"I'll tell ye when the time comes." said Peter. Knowing the maestro I asked no more questions and we returned after lunch to shoot our pots about 150 yards out from the cliffs, just west of Ballymacaw Cove.

It was mid-summer at the time, and there was still a glow in the sky when Willie Lawlor called “time” in Dunmore East that night, and there Peter and I were standing on the front step in the gloaming with a three-quarter moon well up to the East.

"Go up now," said Peter, and get the .22 and your binoculars. Put on a gansey, for there's a bit of a chill in it already. I'll go home for a thermos of coffee, for it could be a long wait. I’ll be looking for ye above at the vice regal lodge, (his own place) when ye’re ready.

I did as bid and we drove over to Ballymacaw and then walked through the dew-drenched fields to the cliff-top overlooking our pots. It was still a brilliant night — in fact an ideal night for poaching on land or sea and I could make out two of our four marker buoys through the glasses.

"For God’s sake, Pete, you don't want me to shoot at the man, do you?' I asked as we lay side by side on the short, sheep nibbled grass. Peter was intent watching through his own binoculars.

"No, no, Eddie, just to give him a. bit of a shock when he gets a hold of the first buoy and then I’ll tell ye what to do."

We lay there expectantly taking the odd swig of rum-laced coffee — Peter never did things by halves — and I smoked surreptitiously, cupping the fag in my hand until around 2 a.m. "Here's the divil coming." Peter had switched his field glasses in the direction of Brownstown Head. Nice and easy, he’s coming, and seconds later I picked up a burly figure rowing a punt in an Easterly direction. He was practically level with us when he pulled one oar inboard and started sculling over the punts stern, towards our first buoy.

When he grabs it put a couple in the water 20 yards in front of his bows," were my whispered orders and I laid my glasses aside to take up the rifle and ease of the safety catch.

“Fire” yelled my commanding officer and the sharp crack-crack of the rifle followed his echoing shout along the cliffs, setting the sleeping gulls to screaming. “Put another two ahint of him,” he cried, which I promptly did, working the bolt as fast as I could and taking good care to be well "ahint" of our friend, who was now plumped down on the thwart and hurriedly getting his oars out. I laid down the rifle and took up my binoculars, the better to witness the rout.

"Holy Mary, Mother o' God. did y’ever see a man put his punt through the water as fast as that — he'd be a credit in the Oxford and Cambridge boat race — Jasus he'd have the two of them bet to the wide," Peter chortled gleefully as your man made off towards Brownstown at about 40 knots. We had no more trouble in that area, but we did experience a somewhat similar case of poaching over on the Wexford Shore. This was dealt with in quite a different, and perhaps more subtle manner. I'll tell you about it sometime.