Up to now, this book has been mostly Findlater. However, when my father died in 1962 my mother quietly suggested that the Wheeler side of the family were not such a bad lot! And she was right. While the Findlaters were mainly merchants, the Wheelers, and one Knox, were predominantly medical people, eight to date, two of whom attained the Presidency of the College of Surgeons.
The Wheeler family in Ireland trace their roots back to the Rev. Jonas Wheeler DD, who was appointed Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin, in 1594 and was Protestant Bishop of Ossory from 1613 to 1640. He was Chaplain to Queen Elizabeth 1 and King James 1. He died in his ninety-seventh year on 19 April 1640 and is buried in St Canice’s Cathedral. His direct line is now extinct. Our line is descended from the Bishop’s nephew.
Great-Grandfather, Surgeon Wheeler
Harry Wheeler’s father William Ireland de Courcy-Wheeler, known as Surgeon Wheeler, was the eldest son of George Nelson Wheeler and his wife, Williamza Florence Ireland, of Annesborough House, Robertstown, Co. Kildare.* George Nelson met a tragic end while shooting on the bog in Robertstown. He was shooting game with a muzzle-loading hammer. He fired once and the gunpowder failed to ignite. Then he did just what one is taught not to do. He looked down the barrel to see what was going on, and—boom—off went his head!†
Surgeon Wheeler was born in Co. Kildare and received his earlier education by private tuition and subsequently at Dr Fleury’s well-known school in Leeson Street. He entered Trinity College in 1862 and studied medicine both there and in the Royal College of Surgeons, graduating in 1866. In 1867 he entered the Army Medical Service, and studied at Netley where he obtained the highest marks, winning honours in military science and other subjects. After a short term of duty at the Royal Hospital, Kilmainham, he set off with the expeditionary force to Abyssinia (now Ethiopia) in 1868, where he served with distinction, receiving the Abyssinian Medal for the meteorological reports compiled during the expedition. During his army career Surgeon Wheeler became well known for both his medical expertise and his physical prowess. He was one of
* She was the daughter of William
Ireland of Low Park, Co. Roscommon. He in turn was descended from
William Ireland, who married Hon. Margaret de Courcy, sister and
heiress of Almericus,
23rd Baron of Kingsale, by his wife Dorothea. William Ireland
Wheeler assumed the name de Courcy-Wheeler in 1897. The de Courcys
hail from the village of Courcy in Normandy
and one Richard was a General with William
the Conqueror in the Battle
of Hastings (1066).
†That was one of a pair of guns that were subsequently converted to breech-loaders and remained in the Wheeler family into the second half of the 20th century.
the strongest men in her Majesty’s Service. One of his ordinary feats in the gymnasium at Canterbury was to take a 56lb weight in each hand, and then rise from a sitting posture on one leg, elevating the weights at arms’ length. He was frequently seen to lift from the ground a 120lb dumb-bell, and elevate it with extended arm without a jerk, which was regarded as an extraordinary performance.
After leaving the Army he became Doctor of Medicine, Master of Surgery, and Member of the Royal College of Physicians of Ireland. He was appointed demonstrator of descriptive and surgical anatomy to the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland and shortly afterwards surgeon and lecturer on clinical and operative surgery to the City of Dublin Hospital.
It was soon after this appointment that he was appointed assistant to the eminent surgeon and university lecturer on operative surgery, Richard Butcher.* Chosen by Butcher to assist him in all of his operations Wheeler became known as ‘the Butcher’s boy’.
Surgeon Wheeler in the robes of the President of the Royal College of Surgeons
Surgeon Butcher
During this period he also achieved considerable success working with Dr Stoney, a successful medical teacher: their pupils obtained outstanding distinctions, three of them winning at the same examination first places for the British, Indian and Naval medical services.
In 1882 he was elected Vice-President of the Royal College of Surgeons of Ireland, and in the following year—the centenary of the College—he was elected President. An incident in his career brings us back to troubled times of the early 1880s. Surgeon Wheeler was sent by the government to attend a wounded
* Richard G. Butcher was President of the RCSI in 1866. In 1879 Surgeon Wheeler accompanied him to Fenit on Tralee Bay in County Kerry where he presented the community with a new lifeboat and lifeboat station in remembrance of his father Admiral Samuel Butcher RN and of his brother Samuel Butcher Bishop of Meath.
The launch of the ‘Admiral Butcher’ lifeboat, Tralee bay, 1879
landlord at his residence beyond Belmullet, the most westerly town in Co. Mayo. The landlord, a Mr Shaen Carter*, had been badly wounded by moonlighters— illicit distillers, who were probably also poachers. The journey to the north-west had to be undertaken under police protection, especially the forty mile drive from the station through the desolate countryside. On his arrival Surgeon Wheeler found his patient’s knee joint badly shattered and promptly amputated the leg. The actual operation took only sixteen seconds but there were several return visits, and each journey to the west took a day and a half. He charged 125 guineas a visit and 50 guineas for the operation. The total bill came to £1,147.15.0. The government contested the fees, but after Butcher was called as an expert witness the court directed that the account be settled in full.
Surgeon Wheeler married Frances Victoria Shaw, daughter of Henry Shaw and grand-daughter of Bernard Shaw of Sandpitts, Co. Kilkenny (related to the Shaws of Bushy Park, Terenure and first cousin of the author George Bernard Shaw. They lived at 32 Merrion Square, which was integrated into Holles Street Hospital in 1932, many years after the Wheelers left.† Their country home was Annsborough‡ in Co. Kildare where they played an active part in local life, Surgeon Wheeler serving as JP and as High Sheriff of the county in 1892. They had nine children. Surgeon Wheeler died on 25 November 1899 of typhoid fever
* William Henry Carter, probably Shaen’s father, was recorded in 1824 as being the sole proprietor of one third of Erris covering 47,500 Irish acres. It was also stated that he was the second of his family that ever visited their Mayo estates, ‘though in their possession upwards of a century’: Erris in the Irish Highlands and the Atlantic Railway P. Knight, Dublin: Martin Keane & Son 1836.
† In the intervening years No 32 was used as a book depository for Carnegie Libraries.
‡ Annesborough was the original house of the Robertstown estate. The Wheelers had rented it from the Irelands until Surgeon Wheeler’s purchase of the estate, in which it was included.
aged fifty-five, two years after his wife. His eldest daughter Wuzzie (Williamza Florence) then managed the household. I gather that they had quite a wild time. Ho-Ho (Horatio) was eleven, Hillary thirteen, Diamond (Robert) fifteen, Frances seventeen, Billy twenty, Gerry twenty-two, Harry twenty-seven and George in exile twenty-eight. (Martha Kathleen died in infancy.)
The Shaw Family
My Shaw great-grandmother, Frances Victoria, was known as Coo in the family. Her father Henry (born 1819) was a wealthy Dublin merchant, who lived at Tullamaine, near Waterloo Road. He was descended from William Shaw, who was a captain in Sir Henry Ponsonby’s regiment at the Battle of the Boyne (1690). During the battle Ponsonby led a charge over the Boyne, galloping before his men with sword uplifted, when a musket ball knocked him from his saddle. William was nearby and lifted his commanding officer on to his back and carried him to safety beyond the mêlée. He was rewarded with a grant of land in Kilkenny. According to Burke1, Ponsonby had married, in 1674, Dorothy, daughter of a Captain Shaw of Drogheda, so the two men may have been related, or connected by marriage.
The Shaws had their share of financial misfortune. Henry’s father Bernard, father of fifteen children, spent much of his time in the country in his function as High Sheriff of Kilkenny and neglected his Dublin legal practice. On hearing that his partner had absconded with his clients’ money, he collapsed and died of shock.
His widow, Frances Carr Shaw, daughter of the Rev. Edward Carr, had to cope with the upbringing of the eleven surviving children. She was helped by her late husband’s first cousin, Sir Robert Shaw, who was hopelessly in love with her, although to no avail. He provided her with an attractive place to live in Terenure called Harmony Cottage, near to his residence, Bushy Park.* Sir Robert was a partner in Shaw’s Bank in Foster Place, which became the Royal Bank in 1831. His father, also Robert, had been a Director of the Bank of Ireland at the time of his death in 1796.
Despite losing £60,000 [almost €5m] on a coal-mining venture Henry was still able to leave his family reasonably well off. He contributed generously to the building of Christ Church in Leeson Park, Dublin. Not so fortunate was the playwright’s father George. He had a partnership in a corn mill at Dolphin’s Barn. It did not prosper and was almost put out of business by the bankruptcy of a debtor. The richer members of the family seem to have had little compassion for George who was thought of as a boozer and he was left to fend for himself. His wife’s family were no more sympathetic. The playwright remained a teetotaller for all his ninety-four years.
* My Findlater aunts Doris and Sheila used to bicycle up to Lady Shaw for tea in the late 1940s and returned to their home, Glensavage in Blackrock, with their bicycles heavily laden with rare and interesting plants. Bushy Park is now a fine public park and leisure area.
The Wheelers of Robertstown
Some of the family thought that Harry had come into a fortune from his sponsor, Miss Wigstrom, but the reality was that any fortune he might have inherited had been dissipated before he got it and he was always selling pictures, glass and silver to make ends meet. He wanted to keep both Robertstown, which his father had purchased from William Ireland (his father’s first cousin), and Annsborough, the other house nearby. He liked living in the country and participating in local activities,* but did little with the land. As it happened, he was perhaps as well off as those who did. Agricultural Ireland in the 1930s was in a most appalling state because of the economic war with Britain. It ruined the farmers. One of his friends had marvellous land, but always said that during the Economic War they would have gone bust but for the fact that they bred Prince Regent, one of the all-time National Hunt greats.
Harry was not a bit commercial in the running of the estate. He had a number of tenants on the land at Robertstown and every Friday he would receive the rent from them, 10d per week or whatever it was. He was well liked by them and fair handed in his dealings. When a tenant paid his rent, Harry would give him a bottle of beer. Of course there were occasions when the tenant came in and said: ‘We haven’t got the money this week, can we come back next week and pay?’ To which Harry would reply: ‘Of course you can, and here, have a bottle of beer!’ The price of the rent was 10d and the value of the bottle of beer 6d!
Selina Knox, Harry Wheeler’s wife, was the daughter of Hercules Knox of Rosslare in Co. Sligo and Rappa Castle in Co. Mayo and Harriet who was the daughter of Rev. John Fox of Fermanagh. She and her sisters were great hockey players. She won six caps for Ireland between 1899 and 1902 and her sisters Elise and Anita, seven each. When she married Harry and moved to Robertstown, she formed the Kilmeague hockey team and later the midland branch of the Irish Ladies Hockey Union. When she died, in 1928, reputedly as a result of a blow from a hockey ball while playing for Kilmeague, both these organisations were dissolved.
I have fond memories of her elder brother, my great-uncle Jack. When I called on him in retirement in Sefton, Liverpool, he liked to reminisce on his rugby playing days. He was capped ten times for Ireland. His father had been a keen rider to hounds and his brother was twenty-five-mile cycling champion of Ireland by the time he was eighteen. As he told me:
I took up rugby at the age of twelve. We used to challenge anyone willing to play us. I contemplated retirement after breaking my leg in 1898 but changed my mind and went on to represent Trinity College Dublin, Lansdowne and Leinster in addition to playing international rugby against all the home countries and Gallaghers original All Blacks.
When I was at the High School in Harcourt Street, Dublin, I played right wing three-quarter until my last year at the school. Feeling that I would not get anywhere in
*Like his father, he was a JP and served as High Sheriff of the county in 1906.
Harry and Selina
senior rugger, I played in the forward ranks and front row of the scrum. Being a very fast mover, I became the hooker, a position that I enjoyed tremendously and proved successful, being awarded an international cap against Wales in 1904.
I shall always remember the match against the All Blacks (New Zealand) at Lansdowne Road in 1905. Firstly, when the ball was burst, the scrum collapsed and the ball could not be found; the forwards of both sides were battling for a shapeless scrap of leather! Secondly, the speed with which the All Blacks ran and passed and re-passed the ball from one end of the three-quarter line to the other. The match was a very clean game—no sparring and no fisticuffs nor dirty work. One could only take objection when an All Black player was tackled with the ball and three or four of his team mates would fall down behind him and thus form a barrage to prevent the Irish forwards going through to the All Black goal line. New Zealand won three goals from the conversion of three tries.
After graduating at the Trinity Medical School I moved to the Merseyside in 1907 where I took a post at Bootle General Hospital. The Irish weather didn’t agree with my health. The sky always seemed to be sitting on my head so I moved here and joined the Liverpool Club. I may add I have never regretted it.
Neither did Merseyside. They gained a brilliant player who used to train by running up and down alongside the hoardings and catching the ball as it rebounded at speed. He was also an unofficial international scout for most of his lifetime and self appointed medical officer to the Liverpool Club for forty-five years. In this latter capacity he once revived the great H. C. Catcheside, later President of the English Rugby Union, by commandeering a bottle of champagne and tipping it down the victim’s throat after the latter had seemed destined for the hospital: ‘It certainly did the trick. The next minute he was back on the field and scoring the winning try!’2
Black and Tans and the Civil War
Between the arrival of the Black and Tans in 1920 and the end of the Civil War in 1923 at least 210 mansions and country houses were deliberately burned in the twenty-six counties, most of them belonging to the Protestant community. This represented only a very small proportion of the total number in the south of Ireland but the ‘mania of house burning’ vividly marked the end of a long era of ascendancy rule in Irish history.3
In 1922 Robertstown came under threat.
My mother recalls:
My father heard them coming up the drive and leaned out the dressing room window, which was over the hall door. Our governess, Miss Bradley, was there and so enraged was he that she held onto his legs for fear that he would fall out the window. He shouted: ‘One step further and I’ll blow your heads off.’ He had his revolver in his hand. So they paused and retreated. On another occasion they came to the hall door which we covered in corrugated iron every night and also the windows. This particular night someone knocked on the door, father said ‘Who’s there?’ and they said ‘We have come to burn down your house—get everybody out’ and he said ‘Show your authority from Michael Collins under the door; and I will let you in.’ There was no reply. Nothing happened. They retreated. In my father’s eyes, Collins was a good man. [Collins was amongst those from the GPO whose surrender he had recorded in 1916.] And my mother admired Collins and she was sorry when he was killed and I was also rather upset, even at that age.
On another occasion I can remember rushing into my father in his study and shouting that his friend Lord Mayo’s house had been burnt down. He remained totally unmoved and did not look up from his papers having thought that I said: ‘The Lord Mayor’s house had been burnt down.’ When mother entered with the same news he reacted as if electrified and shot off in the direction of Naas in his model T Ford to see what assistance he could be to his friend.
As a Senator, Lord Mayo was a prime target to have his house burnt. An order had gone forth from republican headquarters that, in a desperate attempt to bring the government to its knees, the houses of senators were to be destroyed. Because it was a cold night they came wearing the woollen jerseys which Lady Mayo had recently given them. She was given time either to retrieve her jewellery from her bedroom or her fowl in the yard; she chose the latter.4 Their house was Palmerston House near Johnstown outside Naas in Co. Kildare.
During the troubles when my father was out and about in the Ford he brought with him a spade and two planks, to get across trenches dug across the road and a saw to cut through the branches where trees had been felled. We sometimes had to climb over two or three trees getting from our house in Robertstown to the church in Kilmeague,
‘Liberated’ by Harry from the ruins of Liberty Hall, this sewing machine served the family well for many years (National Library).
two miles away, on Sundays. It may have upset our parents but it didn’t upset us. That was life—it was fun!
And one night we heard a terrific gun battle going on and in the morning we went down with our nanny to our other house called Annsborough, which was at the bottom of the hill. It was empty at the time and one military had occupied it overnight, I don’t know which, and the other party had attacked it. There was a terrific gun battle and we went down in the morning to see where the bullets had gone into the wall.
On yet another occasion, when the family were having breakfast in Robertstown House, a platoon of British soldiers suddenly rushed into the house, tore around the house and tore out again. They were looking for a fugitive and a few minutes later a little officer came panting in and asked had we seen his platoon. He had lost it. Maybe that was during the Black and Tans.
I had a wonderful childhood. I remember walking through the woods beside Robertstown and thinking there is nothing I want—I have wonderful parents, a horse, hockey, and tennis. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted. I must have been thirteen or fourteen then. I had no friends but I didn’t miss that because I didn’t know anything about friends. There were six of us and we did everything—I didn’t know what to do when I met a girl my age.
There was a loft in Robertstown about 100 feet long with a beautiful polished floor and we used to have hockey matches and roller skate there when we were teenagers. Father was a classical scholar, a Greek and Latin gold medallist. He didn’t have anything on his fields except a cow that gave us milk and retired horses. He had won the high stone wall championship in the RDS in 1904 on a horse called Sportsman. He stood 14-2. Sportsman lived out his retirement in great comfort at Robertstown. I used to ask father why we did not farm our land like our neighbours but to no avail.
I kept hens and I used to give Mr Greening, the Rector, a couple of dozen eggs to take up to town to his friend who liked fresh eggs. That way I earned pocket money with which I could buy more hens or something I needed. I got my father to buy me a hen house and I paid him back dutifully. My egg money! Then the foxes came one night and took all my hens. That was the end of that! And at another time I had a beautiful white cock that I kept in a cage. I washed his legs and gave him a bath and polished him up. I trained him and I had lots of people looking at him and talking to him. Then I sent him to the RDS with my father and he was shown. My father sent me a telegram to say that he had been very highly commended. I was thrilled. It was the simple things that gave pleasure compared to now.
I never went to school. I had a governess until I was about twelve and then I went
to the Rector who taught me along with students who were preparing for Trinity entrance. He taught me Latin, maths but not much English, French or history. I learned history with my governess—the kings of England and some Irish geography. The Rector’s son came to teach me Irish but that wasn’t very successful. I was then sent up to the French School in Bray to sit for the junior Cambridge. I was staying with Aunt Mabel, uncle Diamond’s wife, at Monkstown Castle. He was the local GP and attached to Monkstown hospital. I was late for the exam because the bus was late! I passed the exam into Trinity because I had done quite a lot of Latin, a bit of Greek and was quite good at writing English. I played a lot of hockey at Trinity and later with Maids of the Mountain and we won all before us. I got my International cap for Ireland on tour in America in 1936.
After I graduated in 1932 I married Dermot. My brother Annesley qualified in the Trinity Medical School and Wiggie did his apprenticeship in Mitchells of Kildare Street, Wine Merchants. At the outbreak of war Wiggie signed up with the Irish Guards and trained as a Commando in Scotland. After the war he reverted to the wine trade, in Wolverhampton and Kidderminister. My sister Joan married Oliver Lloyd who, late in his career, was appointed head brewer in Guinness.
Harry had a model T Ford. It was beautifully kept and he had his crest on the front driver’s door. He was a conscientious committee member at the Royal Irish Automobile Club and played a prominent role in the organisation of the Irish International Grand Prix motor races in Phoenix Park in 1929, 1930 and 1931. He was assistant race Secretary to Walter Sexton.* 150,000 spectators watched the event in 1929 and there was great excitement on account of the presence of Malcolm Campbell. The previous year at Daytona he had broken the world land speed record averaging 207 mph. However he failed to finish in the Irish Grand Prix.† The government of President Cosgrave was very enthusiastic and saw the Grand Prix as a wonderful shop window in the world press. The loss in 1929 was £3,256 [€210,000] in addition to which £7,000 [€440,000] was spent on the roads in the park. However de Valera’s government, which came into power in 1932, baulked at having to subsidise the event, and it ceased.
* Walter Sexton was an original member of the club in 1901; Honorary Secretary from 1913 to 1933 and active until his death in 1941. He was a goldsmith, jeweller, silversmith and watchmaker at 118 Grafton Street.
†A Russian, Boris Ivanovsky, driving an Italian Alfa-Romeo at an average of 75.02 mph won the 1929 race. He drove daringly and skidded here and there because he knew he was being pressed and had to take risks at the corners.
Turf cutting
The new government turned up trumps when Harry conceived the idea of the first National Turf Cutting Competition. The object was ‘to bring the Turf Industry to the position which rightly belongs to it as one of the country’s greatest assets’. The turf producing communities were organised into co-ops by the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society in conjunction with the Turf Development Board.
As part of this campaign he initiated the competition, and persuaded members of the Fianna Fáil government (some of whom he had first met accepting their surrender in 1916) to honour the event by their presence.
The programme of the competition included seven contests. Of these, the first two, devoted to the ‘breast slane’ and the ‘wing slane,’ were the most prestigious. ‘Breast slane’ involved the cutting of sods, eleven by four and a half inches, from the face of the bog with the special type of spade used by turf-cutters. ‘Wing slane’ involved cutting from a lower level and placing the sods to dry in a different part of the bog. There was also a ‘footing’ competition—the building of sods in small piles of twelve or so for drying; a ‘camping’ contest—the erection of sods in ‘camp’ formation, so that the rain would run off the rounded roof, and wind get in beneath to hasten the drying process, and a bog-clearing competition— the clearing of the bog surface of the upper layers of earth and heather preliminary to the actual cutting operation.
Each team entering for the various competitions consisted of three persons— a ‘cutter,’ a ‘catcher’ and a ‘wheeler’. The major award was a silver perpetual cup, presented by Alex Findlater & Co. for the ‘wing slane’ competition. A cup for the ‘breast slane’ contest was offered by Odlums the flour millers of Naas and Sallins.
In April 1934 President de Valera cut the sod and inaugurated the first turf-cutting competition which was held at Allenwood, Robertstown, Co. Kildare. All the members of the Free State Executive Council, as well as deputies of all political parties, were present. The competition, which was the first of its kind in Ireland, and probably in the world, was organised by a representative committee, under the chairmanship of Harry de Courcy-Wheeler, ‘on nonpolitical lines, as a purely industrial and social event.’ Its object was to popularise the use of turf.
The President and members of the Executive Council were entertained to lunch in one of the marquees erected on the bog for the occasion and the No. 1 Army Band played musical selections during the afternoon. The day ended with a ceilidhe and an aireadheact. Seán Lemass, Minister for Industry and Commerce, spoke at the festival, and addressed the question of grates designed to maximise the benefits of coal being less effective with turf:
As a fuel peat is very suitable for a sitting room. In this connection it is worthy of note that fireplaces in most of the Georgian houses seem to have been constructed more for the use of turf than coal. They are certainly roomy enough to burn turf satis
Éamon de Valera with Harry (above competitor 97) at the first turf-cutting competition in 1934.
factorily. Modern fireplaces, except those of the basket type, are not quite suitable for peat fuel. On basket fireplaces the turf burns as easily as it does on the hearth. The best type of turf grate or fireplace has yet to be discovered, but we understand that the Industrial Research Council is investigating the matter.
The festival was held again in 1935; this time Lemass said that he had been reliably informed that there was on exhibition in one of the Baltic countries a house and furniture completely made from peat, including even the carpets. He was pleased that such things could be done but he wanted to know if they could be done at a price that would permit of commercial exploitation. Rather oddly, given the rural setting, Eamon de Valera in his speech chose to give a lecture on commercial morality:
We have not had much experience as a people of widespread commercial activity— we have not had any long industrial tradition. Those people who have those traditions know that there is no such thing as getting rich quickly. If they try to do that they are going to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. It is only by strict honesty, keeping to bargains, scrupulously fulfilling contracts and being in time with orders that we really can succeed in business. If we are going to be self-sufficient we must have a very high standard of commercial morality. If I were asked what is the greatest benefit that can be given to our people by our schools I would say that it is by teaching the simple virtues of truth, honesty and fair dealing, one with another.
On one of these occasions de Valera confided in Harry that he, Dev, was extremely fortunate in 1916 not to have been arrested by him. On being queried why, Dev reminded Harry that all the leaders that he arrested had been executed!
In 1938 The Irish Independent opened its lengthy coverage by recording that ‘Four hundred men carrying sleans, which glinted in the fitful sky—the march past of competitors—providing a striking scene at the National Turf-cutting Competitions at Allenwood, Robertstown, Co. Kildare yesterday.’ It noted that thousands of people were present in the morning at the opening ceremony by the Minister for Local Government, Seán T. O’Kelly, who said that
in the last five years the term bog-trotter had become one of patriotism and honour. This change of opinion was chiefly due to the great work of turf development undertaken by Major de Courcy-Wheeler and his committee. He understood that an effort was being made to make these competitions international. He also said that five years ago they were made aware that in the bogs of Ireland they had a treasure, and thousands were successfully put to work in co-operative societies. There is no limit to the good that work will do. Good clean work will be made available for thousands of men and the public will have a cheaper and cleaner fuel than coal and when the bogs are exhausted there will be a lot of new land on which crops can be grown.
During the Emergency (1939–45) shipments of coal to Ireland were restricted, as Britain needed all that they could produce for the manufacture of munitions. The Bog of Allen, and the skills honed by the Turf-Cutting Competitions, provided the solution. An army of turf cutters housed in temporary accommodation along a twenty mile stretch between Newbridge and Edenderry cut turf for Dublin’s half million inhabitants. Twenty-nine new wooden canal barges were ordered and the stock conveyed to Phoenix Park and built into enormous ricks on both sides of the main thoroughfare—now named the New Bog Road.
However, there was a cloud on a far off horizon that would take some sixty years to cast its shadow. In 1938 the new Turf Development Board had learned from their visits to Russia and other countries that better and cheaper turf could be obtained by machine cutting. Over the next thirty years Bord na Mona became an increasingly efficient lifter of turf, and was a major employee in the midlands. But there was a price to pay.
Half a century later (August 1998) a circular from the Chairman of the Irish Peatland Conservation Council landed on my desk:
As I write to you the great Bog of Allen is no more. In front of me stretches the vast brown expanse of a dead bog—consumed by our modern need for energy. This brown desert was once a magnificent wilderness area that stretched from the outskirts of Dublin to the Shannon River. Here was an Irish Eden for plants, insects, birds and mammals. We will never explore this lost landscape or learn about the wealth of animal and plant life that was found in it, nor the secrets it contained.
Alas, we were warned. In an edition of the Lady of the House in 1903, the year 2003 was predicted: ‘The bogs of Ireland during the next century will be completely used up for fuel and manufacturing purposes, and a wealth of gold ornaments and antiquarian remains, drawn therefrom, added to our local museum collections’.
Great-Uncle George
Little was spoken about Surgeon Wheeler’s eldest son, George. He had a degree from Trinity, but he was disinherited and banished to Australia, or so the story goes. History does not record his misdemeanour. Perhaps he had an affair with one of the domestic servants, a common reason for banishment. Family tradition has it that he never actually left No. 32 Merrion Square, which was a large house with plenty of people milling around. On Sundays at least a dozen people would sit around the dining room table. Surgeon Wheeler carved the baron of beef while the maids brought the vegetables up from the kitchens. Unobserved by the carver, one of the plates, well-laden, would leave the room and be brought upstairs to the servants’ quarters in the attic. Here George had been secreted away by his mother. Years later, in 1900, he married Christina Oliversson of Southend which suggests he finally went away to England. He died in 1924 aged fifty-three. His funeral was well attended by the family.
Great-Uncle Gerry
Great-uncle Gerry was born on 8 July 1877 and educated in Trinity College Dublin (BA 1897). He became a regular soldier, and rose to become Lt.-Col in the 2nd Royal Dublin Fusiliers and the Welsh Regiment. He served in South Africa 1899-1902 and in the First World War, and was mentioned in dispatches. He married Margaret, younger daughter of Colonel Edward L’Estrange of Sligo. He lived happily in retirement in Foxrock and was an expert bee-keeper.
Great-Uncle Billy
Great-Uncle Billy, Surgeon Wheeler’s fourth son, was a quite different matter. He was a colourful character whose full title was Surgeon Rear Admiral Sir William Ireland de Courcy-Wheeler.* Billy was born on 8 May 1879 at 32 Merrion Square. He was destined to achieve the same high honour as his father, being elected President of the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland for 1922-4. He studied medicine at Trinity College where he gained honours and prizes as well as fully participating in university life. At a meeting of a debating society, he presented a bear’s skull excavated in Connaught. ‘The Bear to which the scull belonged’, he said in a modish comment aimed at the Land League, ‘lived contemporaneously with primitive politicians in the West of Ireland and, if we believe in Darwin, it is hard to see why the politicians survived and the bears became extinct.’
If Billy was guilty of the complacency engendered by good fortune, fate supplied a drastic corrective, an accident in St Stephen’s Green in which a spiked railing damaged an eye beyond recovery. The sight of the other eye was threatened temporarily by sympathetic ophthalmia. His medical studies were interrupted by the necessary treatment and by protracted litigation in the action
* Many of his escapades are recorded for posterity in J.B. Lyons’s History of Mercer’s Hospital and in An Assembly of Irish Surgeons, Lives of Presidents of the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland in the 20th century on which this account of his life is largely based.
against the Board of Works, which was eventually settled in his favour. Then, greatly to his credit, he resumed his studies still determined to follow a career in surgery. Graduating in 1902, he became FRCSI in 1905, having meanwhile visited Doyen’s Clinic in Paris and spent three months with Kocher in Berne.
Billy was just twenty-five and relatively inexperienced when appointed honorary surgeon to Mercer’s Hospital in 1904, one of a group of young appointments, so that Mercer’s became known as ‘The children’s hospital’. But the Governors’ decision to appoint such a youthful staff was justified by their appointees’ performance. Billy’s reputation as an operator and teacher was soon established. He published many surgical papers including the book Operative Surgery which went to four editions.* He gained international renown in the surgical world. Sir John Lumsden† spoke of him as ‘The man who made Mercer’s’.
He married Elsie Shaw, the eldest daughter of Lord Shaw the first Lord Craigmyle‡ in 1909 (no connection with his mother’s family of Shaw). They lived in 23 Fitzwilliam Square and had two children, Tom and Desirée. Billy was surgeon-in-ordinary to the household of the Lord Lieutenant.
Despite his personal charm, some of those in close professional contact found him demanding, irascible and overbearing. He was, for instance, not always polite about the professional skills of his colleagues: indeed it is said that he always wore a small crucifix around his neck, so that if he was knocked down in the street he would not be taken for surgery to the Adelaide Hospital. Nor did his own mishap make him sympathetic to the misfortunes of others. The anaesthetists who worked with him included a Dr Morrison, known to his colleagues as ‘Sticks Morrison’, because disablement by poliomyelitis made him dependent on two sticks. During the course of a difficult operation, Wheeler noticed his hampered movements. ‘I’m afraid, Morrison, you are not up to this kind of case.’ ‘Well, Sir William, it’s a case of the blind leading the halt.’
During the First World War Billy was consulting surgeon to the War Office. He was surgeon to the Duke of Connacht’s Hospital for limbless soldiers and placed his private nursing home, 33 Upper Fitzwilliam Street, at the disposal of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade and the British Red Cross as a hospital for wounded officers.
He was mentioned in dispatches for courage in treating wounded soldiers under fire during the Easter Rising. On Easter Monday, ignoring snipers he made his way across St Stephen’s Green to Mercer’s Hospital to attend an officer with a chest injury. Two days later he attended a soldier at the corner of Dawson
* The Wheeler-Butcher collection of medical books is housed in the Mercer Library of the RCSI. He also provided for the annual award of the Sir William Wheeler silver Memorial Medal in surgery.
† Sir John Lumsden KBE, MD, visiting physician to Mercers 1897-1939, Board member 1939; chief medical officer to Guinness brewery.
‡ Lord Craigmyle was formerly Lord Shaw of Dumfermline. He was a Law Lord and formerly a Liberal MP who, when he retired from the bench in 1929, became Lord Craigmyle. He was in Dublin recuperating from major surgery (performed by his son-in-law) when he got caught up in the 1916 Rising.
Street in the early morning hours. He also administered to two officers of the Sherwood Foresters who were wounded in Fitzwilliam Street.
While Billy, now Major Wheeler, surgeon to the forces in Ireland, was moving around the city attending to the wounded, his wife Elsie and baby daughter Desirée were in Greystones, desperately worried about her father (Lord Shaw) and she had also heard a rumour that Billy had been killed. She became so anxious that her faithful Scotch nurse was determined to get into Dublin and get news or die in the attempt.
It is an extraordinary story of endurance and devotion. The girl started from Greystones at 2.30 pm on the Thursday carrying for the officers’ home 14 lbs of beef and 4 lbs of butter, as Mrs Wheeler feared supplies would have run short, since nothing could be got in Dublin except at exorbitant prices.
She walked to Bray (five miles) and took a train to Kingstown; here she had to take to the road, as the line beyond Kingstown was wrecked. She walked to Merrion Gates about four miles along the tram line, when she was stopped by sentries. She retraced her steps as far as Merrion Avenue (one mile), went up Merrion Avenue, and tried the Stillorgan-Donnybrook route. Here she got as far as Leeson Street Bridge (six miles), when she was within 800 yards of her destination. Here again she was stopped by sentries and turned back. She walked back to Blackrock (seven miles), when she was again stopped by sentries. She then returned up Merrion Avenue and, seeing that all routes were impossible to Dublin, took the road to Killiney (five miles), where she arrived about 11.30 pm, having walked thirty miles. Here she got hospitality at a cottage and stayed the remainder of the night there, paying for her accommodation with the 4 lbs of butter.
Next day she walked five miles to Shankill, when she met a cart going to Bray via Killiney, so she rode back to Killiney on it and thence to Bray. She then walked the five miles from Bray to Greystones, her starting point. She reached home absolutely exhausted, having walked forty miles, and dropped down saying, ‘There’s your beef, and I never got there or heard anything’. Elsie Wheeler was greatly distressed at her having carried the meat back when so exhausted and asked her why she had not given it away. ‘And what for should I give it away when we’ll be wanting it ourselves maybe?’ Next day Billy managed to get a telephone message through to Elsie and relieve her anxiety.5
No 23, Fitzwilliam Square, where Billy Wheeler lived in the early 20th century was coincidentally next door to Billy Findlater’s residence in the latter half of the nineteenth century, No 22.
In 1931 Billy had a serious accident to his hand, which he described in what Professor Lyons refers to as ‘a most interesting paper.’ ‘Bennett’s fracture of the thumb: a personal experience’ describes how Wheeler was knocked down by a lorry outside Victoria Station in July 1931.
He lost consciousness briefly and, on coming too realised that his left hand, the dominant one, was injured. ‘Only those who have experienced the injury’, he wrote, ‘can appreciate the helplessness which follows, nor is it generally realised how much the function of one hand depends on the co-operation of the other. The pain at the time was of the sickening kind suggestive of fracture but not intense’. The injury had broken the proximal end of the first metacarpal bone, causing the fracture described in 1881 by Edward Hallaran Bennett, Professor of Surgery in TCD. An attempted reduction under local anesthesia was unsuccessful but next day it was reduced under a general anesthesia by Mr W. R. Bristow.6
A short fishing holiday in the West of Ireland followed. Using a miniature Hardy rod, which could be held against the plaster in the palm by the four free fingers, Billy was able to cast effectively. Desmond, his nephew,* takes up the story:
* Dr Desmond de Courcy-Wheeler MB TCD (1945) Anaesthetist and general medical practitioner in south county Dublin and attached to Adelaide and Monkstown hospitals. He and his wife Doushka and family lived for many years in Cooldrinagh in Foxrock, the birthplace of Samuel Beckett. Billy Wheeler, earlier in the century, lived in Carrickbyrne, close by on Brighton Road. Peter Pearson, in Between the Mountains and the Sea, says that Carrickbyrne is perhaps the most outstanding Edwardian house in Carrickmines.
The ghillie gaffing a fine salmon for Desmond some years ago on the Slaney. (Gaffing is no longer legal.)
It was at Lagduff, a fishing lodge on the Owenduff River in Co. Mayo. My father, (Diamond), took Lagduff from Sir George and Frances Murphy each August. I would have been about 10 when Billy came down. He stayed in Mulrany, in the old Railway Hotel twelve miles back the road. On this particular day the river was in flood and Billy was fishing at George’s pool half a mile above Srahnamanragh Bridge. Because of his bandaged left hand he was fishing light-heartedly with the miniature Hardy rod. Conditions were right and Norman, the Ghillie, suggested that they substitute a larger fly—immediately he was into a substantial fish. Although Norman was a big strong fellow and the best weight-thrower in Co. Mayo, the chances of landing the fish seemed slim. In addition to the light rod the silkworm gut could break at any moment. There was no controlling the salmon, it played for two good hours. It ran for a half mile with the flood down river towards and under the bridge. I was watching all this. Norman stripped off and waded half way under the bridge with the rod but could not get through. He was up to his waist in the dangerously fast-flowing river and the fish was mighty big. Even he had difficulty in taking the force of the river. Someone on the lower side of the bridge managed to get hold of the eye of the rod and pull the line off the reel altogether. Amazingly the salmon was still attached but had virtually drowned itself swimming downstream. Because of the high river it ended up in soft water and only needed to be scooped out, all of 20 lbs. Billy asked everyone back to the hotel the following night where we celebrated and ate the salmon. It was an extraordinary event. I have very vivid memories of it.
However, after the fishing feat Billy’s hand felt different inside the plaster and before long it was evident that the metacarpal had slipped. The surgeon began to fear that his thumb would never control a scissors again or tie a ligature.
Diamond, in dark jacket, with a group of shooting friends. (Left to right) Desmond Collins, Billy Boydell, Tommy Murphy, Diamond and Claud Odlum.
Sir Robert Jones was consulted. He was within easy reach of Dublin. His method of approach to an injury of this kind was interesting and instructive. He was full of optimism, he refused to recognize defeat, he cared nothing for textbook platitudes; his experience was greater than any other living authority, he could tell the past, present and future of a case of this kind with equal accuracy.
Sir Robert examined the joint under a fluorescent screen and, to Wheeler’s relief, the movements were not impeded. Occupational therapy was commenced. Several times daily he immersed the hand in a basin of hot water with soapsuds added. He practised using scissors and artery forceps and tying ligatures in the easeful heat. He regained his dexterity gradually and after seven weeks was able to operate again, supporting the joint with Elastoplast over which he drew on two rubber gloves.
Billy came through a troubled epoch and in an address he expressed thoughts many would have shared:
There have been times in the recent history of this country when some of us tired of the turmoil, bewildered at the outlook, anxious for the safety of our families, felt inclined and were offered temptations to seek peace elsewhere. The impulse was fleeting for in the whole wide world whether in peace or in war there is no place like the city in which we live.
However, problems with his marriage tempted him to accept an offer of a job in London by his friend Lord Iveagh, with whom he often stayed in Ashford Castle, Co. Mayo. His professional success did not falter in London, where he held posts at All Saints Hospital for Genito-Urinary Diseases and the Metropolitan Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital, but it was suspected that he
missed his friends back in Dublin.
At the outbreak of the Second World War, Billy became consulting surgeon to the Admiralty with the rank of Surgeon Rear Admiral and was posted to Aberdeen in charge of the Northern Command. His duties necessitated much travelling. Though by then in his early sixties, he was active enough to enjoy flights in fighter aircraft and to climb up a ship’s side by the pilot ladder. His death in Aberdeen when dressing for dinner on 11 September 1943 was sudden and unexpected.
Great-Uncle Diamond
Surgeon Wheeler’s fifth son was my great-uncle Robert, ‘Diamond’ to his family, friends and patients. Another of the sporting Wheelers, he showed great prowess on the playing field and was a first class game shot and an international clay pigeon shot. He was also a top class club tennis player. He was an international rugby substitute for three years and unlucky not to win a cap. Later he achieved fame as a referee. In 1922-24 he was President of the Association of Referees and in 1925 he referred the Scotland v. France match in Inverleith.*
Diamond graduated through the Trinity Medical School and Mercer’s Hospital. He joined the RAMC in 1915 and was posted to Malta and France. On his return in 1919 he set up a general practice in Monkstown in south County Dublin and followed Dr Beatty as a doctor in charge of Monkstown Hospital. He developed it into a small acute general hospital.
Diamond lived at 7 Clifton Terrace until 1925/26 when he moved to Monkstown Castle which he rented from the Longford and de Vesci Estate. He married Elsie’s best friend, Mabel Hunter-Craig the daughter of Robert Hunter- Craig, MP for Lanarkshire. She founded the Jersey Society of Ireland and was the second woman to hold a driving licence in Ireland. He also inherited Drummin, near Carbury, Co. Kildare, from a Miss Anne Grattan in 1915, which he passed on to his son Cecil in 1939.
In contrast to Diamond, who was very careful in the handling of a gun, other Wheelers had a rather casual approach, leading to some near misses. I have already told how George Nelson Wheeler lost his life. Harry’s son Annesley† had his own near mishap. He had been shooting on the bog and came back into
* The family had it that the match was in Paris and that he gave so many free kicks against the French that he had to be escorted off the pitch by the gendarmes to avoid a lynching. The French, the story went, were cut out of the championship and that was the last time they played until after the Second World War. In reality France dropped out of the Championship in 1931 but Diamond was not the referee. The moral is to treat family pass-me-down stories with caution. I hope that I have not made too many errors.
† Dr Annesley Eliardo Beresford de Courcy-Wheeler, born in Robertstown 1912, educated at Mountjoy School and Trinity College Dublin. BA 1934, MD 1946. Served in the Indian Medical Service of the Army stationed in the North West Frontier. He became a proficient polo player. In 1949 he joined a medical practice outside London. In 1964 he transferred to Mullingar and took over the main general practice in the town. An active council member of the Irish Medical Union and national Honorary Treasurer. President of the Irish College of General Practioners for one year.
Robertstown through the front door with his gun fully loaded. At that very moment his sister Dorothea, my mother to be, was walking down the corridor directly in front of him and his father was fast asleep in the room above. Annesley tripped over the first step, fell flat along the corridor, the butt of the gun slammed against the floor and both barrels went off, blasting a big hole in the ceiling and rocketing his father out of bed. My mother was directly in the line of fire and might well have received two barrels on her backside had not the butt hit the floor.
I had my own near mishap when Grandfather Harry was showing off the 1916 pistols prior to the presentation to President O’Kelly in 1949. I was playing about with one of the pistols like any twelve-year-old would, when my mother grabbed it, and, to the horror of those present, demonstrated to her father that they were still loaded!
Notes and references