A GRAND NATIONAL VETERAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 3830, 9 August 1927, Page 58

A GRAND NATIONAL VETERAN.

TWICE KILLED.

STILL MUCH ALIVE.

By

Wayfarer.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) “ Hamilton Station, 9.10, Thursday.’’ This message was characteristic of Tommy Sheenan. Brief, definite, imperative, it reminded me more vividly of my friend’s personality than did a frayed photograph which had kept him in memory for 30 odd years. Two days previously I had written asking Sheenan to meet me at some place convenient to himself as early as possible- In my ignorance of the lay-out of the Waikato district I had underestimated the facilities he enjoyed. His message left me with only one opportunity of reaching our selected meeting place at the appointed time —a train steaming out of Wellington within a couple of hours—and urgent affairs which previously had seemed of so much consequence had to be relegated to the limbo of forgotten things. OUR BETTER ACQUAINTANCE. My intimate friendship with Sheenan, interrupted only by our different spheres of activity, began dramatically. Had chance been in a less beneficent mood there and then in the same circumstances our previous nodding acquaintance easily might have terminated tragically. Of course, we had met before—in the hunting field, about Riccarton, at country race meetings, on the broacj highway—and we had exchanged the same old salutations in the same old fashion without being greatly interested in one another. Sheenan always was a reticent fellow, habitually wearing a half-challenge to the assumption that he wanted to know anyone. It was an incident at an Ashburton race meeting in the early ’eighties that brought ps closer together. In those spacious days the Ashburton Club had an open steeplechase on its autumn programme, and made up for the insignificance of the stake by providing the biggest fences away from Riccarton. Sheenan, no doubt, had been looking about for such an opportunity to school a young horse, which, in his rosy dreams, he had as-.eiated with the National. At any rate, he and the horse turned up on the appointed day, and it was my privilege to show my acquaintance over the country. He was disappointed with the sod wall, .< mere incident some four feet high and three across the top, fronted by a cavernous ditch; and positively scoffed at the improvised 12ft water jump guarded by a stout gum sapling; but his ey glistened with satisfaction as he passed his hand caressingly along a 4ft 3in post-and-rail fence. “My fellow will come a terrible cropper here,” he said, as if he were anticipating a most delectable experience, “ but it’s beautiful falling ground, and it will do him a world of good.” And his protege did come a terrible cropper, as I was there to witness, and in due course won his National. The discovery of a man seeking such an adventure was a unique revelation to me, and I took “ Tommy ” to my heart forthwith. IN THE BEGINNING.

As the 9.10 train ran into the Hamilton Station, on schedule time, I liscovered my friend on the platform of a foremost carriage, a clean-shaven, alert young fellow, waving an arm in ready recognition, who well might have passed for his son, but for a limp, well remembered, which remained with him as a legacy from his hard-riding days. And what a day o£ reminiscences we had together I At 70 odd, and with a farm and cows to worry him, Sheenan can talk of horses and men as fluently and as interestingly as he did at 30, and perhaps a little more frankly, though he goes further afield only to speak a kindly word of an <_.d patron or m former rival. His owr career, uninspired, unobtrusive, and unsung, is in itself a romance. Born in Tasmania in the later ’fifties “ of poor but honest parents,” as ho tells you, smiling parenthetically in recollection of the earlier history of the island State, he took to riding as the proverbial duck takes to water, and in his middle ’teens had reached the dizziest heights of his ambition by being employed as whip to the pack of hounds maintained by Mr T. B. Clark, a great Australian squatter, at Quorn Hall, Campbelltown, for the entertainment of all the hard riders within reach of the kennels. Among the lad’s’ miscellaneous duties were the riding of “ rough ’tins ” brought in from his employer’s stations and the schooling of “ raw ’tins ” belonging to natr of the hunt. His father, however, had different ideas concerning the equipment of a worthy colonist, and parental authority at that time being held in greater regard than it is in these days the stripling woke up one morning to find himself apprenticed to two farming brothers. But his new employers were not aver- to their “ rouscabout,” within reason, making use of such accomplishments as he already had acquired, and while still indentured to these worthy pioneers he won his first race, a catch weight match between two local ponies, and followed this up by finishing second in a hurdle race at Campbelltown, and winning a flat race at the same place. There ende-i the Fad’s exploits on the Australian turf, !•. aving him a master of horsemanship without any of the affectations of the racecourse. COMES TO NEW ZEALAND.

In 1873 Tommy came to New Zealand in charge of a thoroughbred horse—l

think Messenger—imported .om Tasmania by Larry Markey, and for a year or two he was associated with that most delightful of all delightful Irish sportsmen settled in this country, at Kowal Pass in the Malvern district. It was during this period that he “ made ” that wonderful “ lepper ” Mousetrap, the gallant little fellow that shared with Royalty the honours of the first Grand National run at Riccarton, and two years later won the jumping blue-ribbon decisively himself. Before this, and during the schooling process, Tommy had steered Mousetrap to victory in a couple of flat races and a couple of hurdle races in his own circuit, and had given the public an exhibition of the grey pony's marvellous versatility by winning the Linwood Steeplechase over one of the stiffest lines of natural country ever flagged off in this country. After passing the winning post in this memorable event Mousetrap went on, in spite of all Sheenan’s efforts to stop him, until he dived into a 12ft venerable gorse fence with a deep ditch in front, and rolled over on the other side. The story runs that Mousetrap was anything but a tractable pupil during the early stages of his tuition. It is said that he would shy at a rail lying on the ground until one day the exasperated Larry picked up the rail, and broke it over his quarters. After that, so the story concludes, he would not turn his head at a house if it happened to be in his way. Needless to say, I did not mention this tradition to Sheenan. He stands bareheaded at the mention of Mousetrap's name, and to defame his idol would be to imperil a friendship of half a century. But, whatever the merits of this story may be, there is little doubt that in negotiating the water jump at the first Grand National, which was faced by a 3ft Gin rail, Mousetrap cleared at least 3Gft, which at that time was equal to the world’s record, and is, I think, still. A subsequent measurement made Mousetrap's jump a good foot more, but by the time it was taped the landing was a perfect quagmire and the hoof-prints confused.

BIGGER GAME. He makes no complaint on his own account, but Sheenan had much less than his fair share of luck in his attempts upon the Grand National. He had no mount in the big event when it was inaugurated at Riccarton in 1576, but a sporting lady already had discovered the quality of the young man that did things, and in her colours he steered Zetland into second place behind Moose in the Maiden Plate, and brought him out again to win the Consolation Handicap. He had been turning his hunting experience to good account, and was jotted down by many a critical observer as one of the very best pilots of the day on an extremely difficult course. In the following year the trysting place was on the outskirts of Timaru, where the local sportsmen, hard-riding fellows themselves, had taken care that the line of country was sufficiently exacting to try the mettle of the best of the competitors. Poor old Fred Hedge’s unexpurgated account of his ride taat day on the veteran Ivanhoe was one of the choicest gems in his ever-entertaining fireside repertoire. Sheenan, on Shillelagh, a rank outsider, survived all the mishaps by hill and dale that assailed the whole of the big field on the sodden ground, and finished second to Fakir, the only four-year-old to win the race, that some years later won Hunt cups for Horry Lunn, and gave him many a pleasant ride to hounds. Next year Sheenan was on a h< rse of his own, Shark, but it was Mousetran’s day of atonement, and the little fellow, ridden by Pat M’Coy, another good Irishman, got home comfortably from Moose and Zetland, two winners of minor events, as already mentioned, at the inaugural meeting. Oamaru was the scene of the 1879 contest, and Sheenan, on Royalty, being the first to emerge from a ‘‘ water jump" swollen by persistent rain into a veritable mud lake, counted confidently upon getting home first; but many willing hands extricated Agent from the seethin. pool, and this great, good gelding, catching Royalty at the last fence, beat him by a narrow margin. There was some talk at the time of the propriety of the assistance given to Agent in his predicament, but Sheenan is not the sort of man to dwell on a detail of that kind. UPS AND DOWNS.

Nor was my friend's ill-luck yet exhausted. The Nation-. 1 was back at Christchurch in 1880, and curiously enough Agent and Royalty agai filled the roles of winner and runner-v > respectively, Horry Lunn riding the former and Sheenan the latter. Agent also won the succeeding race at this meet-

ing, the Hunt Cup, the popular idol at this stage in his career being simply irresistible. Sheenan again rode a horse of his own in the race at Timaru in 1881, when Clarence won through Agent coming down at the last fence but one, and was on Mousetrap in 1882, when the game little fellow, only a shadow of his former self, jumped the course with some of his old dash behind Katerfield, Clarence, and Quamby. My friend's persistency prevailed in the following year, when Kosciusko, the chief performer in the little incident at Ashburton to which I referred at the beginning of this story, carried him safely over a rough and sodden course at Timaru, in which metalled roads and stubbled paddocks had to be crossed twice over to reach the winning post. Clarence, ridden by Charlie O’Connor, New Zealand’s prince of starters, and Canard, ridden by Horry Lunn, were much better fancied than the wjnner, but weight and generalship were on the side of the outsider. A happening

in this race that lingers in the memory is Barbary falling flat on his side as he landed in a quagmired road, bungling through the opposite fence, and finding his rider, a lad named Martin, firmly seated in the saddle when he recovered his feet. The equestrian art provides no such thrills in these times. Sheenan celebrated the turn in his luck by winning the Consolation Handicap on Commissioner; but, after all, the smiles of the fickle dame proved only a respite in the chastening years. In 1884 he finished second on Barbary to Agent, and in the following year, with 5 to 4 laid on his mount, Ravenswood toppled over with him at a flimsy hurdle that completed the course. In 1886 he had an extremely unpleasant ride on Aroha, and that concluded his active participation in the quest for the Dominion s cross-country championship. SMALLER FRY. But it was not in the big jumping races alone, by a very long way, that Sheenan acquired his fame as a fearless, accomplished, and successful cross-country rider. The records from 1873 onward for nearly three decades contain particulars of his exploits in the saddle, and then they gradually merge into a recognition of his achievements as a very capable trainer-owner. As a matter of fact, at an age he and I do not care to keep on reiterating, my friend still takes an unruly horse in hand occasionally, and corrects any exuberance of spirits it may have exhibited, even if the process entails a turn over a fence or two by the way. Among the records I have at my elbow is a report of the North Canterbury meeting in 1883, when, after finishing second with Kosciusko in the Great Northern Steeplechase, Sheenan appropriated the four remaining events on the card, winning the Amberley plate on The Lad, the Farmers’ Steeplechase on Hercules, the Tally-ho Plate on The Lad, and the Consolation Handicap on Nikau. During the afternoon he covered 10J miles in the saddle, and negotiated some 50 stiff, natural fences on rough, undulating country without mishap. Just a year later he won the two principal races at the South Canterbury steeplechase meeting on The Lad, with an interval of little more than an hour between ie two events. Sandwiched in between memorable successes of this kind were rides at remote village meetings, in £lO cups and £5 trots, undertaken out of pure love of the sp and the people- Sheenan was the hero of the big Summer Steeplechase at Aueklan- in 188 G, when, after the first contest over the course had been declared null and void on the ground that the hole field had taken a wrong turn, he pushed the Canterbury gelding Linwood through into second place. That my friend might have bred horses as successfully as he trained and rode them may be gathered from the success he achieved with bis “ one-mare stud ” which gave him, among other good things, Vogcngang, a winner of the ? lie Park Plate, Canterbury Champagne, and the Wellington Cup; but there is no space here for the demonstration of the fact. THE HEART OF THE MAN.

Sheenan practically has been a freelance during the whole of his ridinj and racing careers. He never was bound to an employer; he never served-in a racing stable. His employers in most cases have been his partners, and usually he has been the managing director. He never sought a riding engagement, and in his youth he never refused one. He has particularly pleasant memories of friendcaips with Messrs Brittan, Rutherford, Brett, Markey, Campbell, Ray, Vallance, Pilbrow, Mrs Seabright, and with scores of other bearers of familiar names. He has praise for so many of his rivals in the saddle— Dan O’Brien, Bill M’Kay, Tommy Lyford, Albert Lyford, Horry Lunn, Fred Hedge, Billy Hankins, Alf Keith, and scores of others—that to ask him to place them in order of merit would be a positive outrage. -He counts the disappearance of the amateur rider as a positive calamity to the Empire and the race, which neither military training nor games ever can repair. The average steeplechase course of to-day he regards as bad for the breed of horses, but good for the totalisator, and, he hastens to explain that he considers the machine far and away preferable to the bookmakers. He tolerates the crouch seat on the flat, but deplores its use over fencesOf the National winners he has known intimately he would place Agent a long way ahead of the rest—which is- characteristically generous in view of the fact that this brilliant performer thrice did him out of a successful ride in the big race—and then he would pick out Mutiny, Norton, Canard, Clarence, Paritutu, Master Strowan, and Coalition in that order. He claims places for Kosciusko and Mousetrap in the first dozen, and to a lover so constant in his attachments the concession cannot be denied. He has had many adventures by field and flood. He has had limbs broken on 13 occasions, has been killed twice, stone dead (according to the newspapers), and has been “partly knocked out ” on innumerable occasions. And yet, if he had his life to live over again, ‘lie would live it on his own little farm, with his horses and his friends, free to go where he pleased, and to do as he cared. It is a happy philosophy, the epitome of a span of years crowded with strenuous effort and creditable adventure which a stout heart can contemplate with out reproach and without regret. “ It’s a jolly day we've had,” my friend said as he crunched my hand at the station again. “ and now I must get back to the cows.”