American Rifle - Alexander Rose [105]
Accordingly, the press made much of the “aristocratic” Irish versus the self-made American businessmen. In fact, the Irish team wasn’t a particularly noble one, consisting as it did of three merchants, two gun-makers, and a jeweler alongside just two country gents. But an unfortunate photograph of them spoke a great deal more than a thousand words: looking for all the world as if they’d just taken a break from administering their sprawling estates, the Irish were lounging around in tailored shooting jackets nursing hugely expensive, custom-made rifles. They presented a jarring contrast to the Americans, who were outfitted in identical suits and appeared suitably serious. Among the Americans, the papers loved to point out, only Dakin did not work for a living, and that was solely because he had retired. The gunsmith Hepburn was promoted as a humble mechanic who had made good through his own efforts and talents, whereas his unfortunate Irish opposite, Rigby, was cast as a haughty plutocrat who owned a large gun company.
Even so, the tensions of the past could not wholly be erased. In the press, westerners carped at the ascendancy of easterners on the team; eastern newspapers chortled that the New York boys excelled at the “intellectual” sport of riflery while westerners dumbly plinked at tin cans and massacred Indians; and southerners, infuriated by Reconstruction and ignoring a plea from the NRA to come to New York “to revive the feelings of fraternity between North and South,” simply refused to attend.
Intrigued by the sensational reports of a world-shaking showdown, more than five thousand people traveled to Creedmoor on September 26 to cheer their heroes. The rules were straightforward: The sharp-shooters were allowed no practice or sighting shots, and no artificial rests. Each rifleman was to fire fifteen shots at three-foot-square bull’s-eyes set at 800, 900, and 1,000 yards; the bull’s-eye was in the middle of a “center” ( six-foot-square) section, which in turn was surrounded by an “outer” area extending three feet on either side. In total, the target measured six feet high by twelve feet across. Shooters would earn two points for every shot in the “outer” area, three in the “center,” and four for the bull’s-eye. Thus, the highest possible score for a set of fifteen shots would be 60 points, and a team’s perfect score would be 360.
After the first eight-hundred-yard round, the Americans were in the lead, 326 to 317, but the bookies following the telegraphic results around the world weren’t surprised, since they had been heavily favored at the shortest range. During the second round, however, the Irish pulled off a 312-to-310 win. The third and last round proved the hairiest. Milner, for Ireland, made a rare and terrible mistake when he scored a bull’s-eye—on the wrong target. Zero points. But thereafter the Irish scored almost perfect bull’s-eyes, compensating for Milner’s error. Then only the American, “Old Reliable” Bodine, was left to shoot. The bookies’ nails must have been bitten to the quick, because after fourteen excellent shots, the score was Ireland 931, America 930. Everything—the whole match, and a colossal number of wagers—hinged on Bodine’s very last shot.
And that was when he, parched on this hot and humid summer’s day, asked for a sip of ginger beer.31 A teammate passed him an unopened, and inadvertently shaken, bottle. When Bodine pried off the cap, the glass exploded, sending shards of glass into his hand. Gore flowed from the shredded veins, staining his starched white cuffs. How could he now hope to save American honor?
In one of those immortal sporting moments, as delicate ladies swooned and hearty