“A policeman.”
“Hold on, and let me have a thump at him.”
“Git along out of this, and find a policeman for yourself!”
Having referred to the Royal Irish Constabulary, I may not perhaps be regarded as more than usually discursive if I add my expression of admiration for this splendid Force to the many pages of commendation which it has received from time to time from those whose opinion carries weight with it—which mine does not. The men are the flower of the people of Ireland. They have a sense of discipline—it has not to be impressed upon them by an occasional “fortnight’s C.B.” Upon one occasion, I was the witness of the extent to which this innate sense of discipline will stretch without the breaking strain being reached. One of the most distinguished officers in the Force was parading about one hundred men armed with the usual carbine—the handiest of weapons—and with swords fixed. He was mounted on a charger with some blood in it—you would not find the same man astride of anything else—and for several days it had been looking down the muzzles of the rifles of a couple of regiments of autumn manoeuvrers who had been engaged in a sham fight in the Park; but it had never shown the least uneasiness, even when the Field Artillery set about the congenial task of annihilating a skeleton enemy. It stood patiently while the constabulary “ported,” “carried,” and “shouldered”; but so soon as the order to “present” was given, a gleam of sunlight glanced down the long line of fixed swords, and that twinkle was just what an Irish charger, born and bred among the fogs of the Atlantic seaboard, could not stand. It whirled round, and went at full gallop across the springy turf, then suddenly stopped, sending its rider about twenty yards ahead upon his hands and knees. After this feat, it allowed itself to be quietly captured by the mounted orderly who had galloped after it. The orderly dismounted from his horse, and passed it on to the officer, who galloped back to the long line of men standing at the “present” just as they had been before he had left them so hurriedly. They received the order to “shoulder” without emotion, and then the parade went on as if nothing had happened. Subsequently, the officer remounted his own charger—which had been led up, and had offered an ample apology—and in course of time he again gave the order to “present.” The horse’s ears went back, but it did not move a hoof. After the “shoulder” and “port” the officer made the men “charge swords,” and did not halt them until they were within a yard of the horse’s head. The manouvre had no effect upon the animal.
I could not help contrasting the discipline shown by the Irish Constabulary upon this occasion with the bearing of a company of a regiment of German Infantry, who were being paraded in the Thiergarten at Berlin, when I was riding there one day. The captain and lieutenant had strolled away from the men, leaving them standing, not “at ease,” but at “attention”—I think the officers were making sure that the carriage of the Crown Prince was not coming in their direction. But before two minutes had passed the men were standing as easy as could well be, chatting together, and suggesting that the officers were awaiting the approach of certain young ladies, about whose personal traits and whose profession they were by no means reticent. Of course, when the officers turned, the men stood at “attention”; but I trotted on to where I lived In Den Zelten, feeling that there was but little sense of discipline in the German Army—so readily does a young man arrive at a grossly erroneous conclusion through generalising from a single instance.
It is difficult to understand how it comes that the splendid services of the Royal Irish Constabulary have not been recognised by the State. I have known officers who served on the staff during the Egyptian campaign, but who confessed to me that they never heard a shot fired except for saluting purposes, and yet they wore three decorations for this campaign. Surely those Irish Constabulary officers, who have discharged the most perilous duties from time to time, as well as daily duties requiring the exercise of tact, discretion, judgment, and patience, are at least as deserving of a medal as those soldiers who obtained the maximum of reward at the minimum of risk in Egypt, South Africa, or Ashantee. The decoration of the Volunteers was a graceful recognition of the spirit that binds together these citizen soldiers. Surely the services of some members of the Irish Constabulary should be similarly recognised. This is a genuine Irish grievance, and it is one that could be redressed much more easily than the majority of the ills that the Irish people are heir to. A vote for a thousand pounds would purchase the requisite number of medals or stars or crosses—perhaps all three might be provided out of such a fund—for those members of the Force who have distinguished themselves. The right adjudication of the rewards presents no difficulty, owing to the “record” system which prevails in the Force.