CHAPTER LXXXIV
A DAY FOR THE JUVENILES
AS usual the departure of the hounds operated like the bursting of a pent-up cataract; there was a general rush and hurry after them. First went the keen fustian and smock-frocked countrymen with their staffs, and their poles; then the anxious few-days-a-season-men, desirous of seeing as much as they could, next the easy-going regulars who despised the banks and were only out because it was a fine day, followed by a few second horsemen and the homeward bound grooms. Mr. Boyston was presently left alone in the quarry with the youngsters and their Mammas. Then there was a fresh appeal to his sympathies on behalf of Albert Arthur, sweet William, and others, each Mamma declaring she would be so much obliged to Mr. Boyston if he would look after her boy. Oh, she would be so much obliged!
Billy Rough’un, not being a horse that liked being left behind, very soon began fidgeting and turning tail to get after the hounds, so Mr. Boyston having assured the ladies that they might rest perfectly satisfied of the safety of their darlings, marshalled his forces as quickly as possible, saying, “Now, boys! follow me, and whatever you do, keep clear of the horses, for they often kick ponies when they wouldn’t kick one another.” So saying, he took off his hat to the ladies, and led the way out of the quarry, followed by the miniature field, the rear being brought up by some very sedate-looking family servants with large stomachs, large whips, and a great many large crest-buttons on their party-coloured coats. Then the ponies, like their riders, began showing which had a turn for the chase and which not, some ambling and curveting to get on, others plodding carelessly along, as though there was nothing particular astir.
It is strange how hunting runs in families, some boys taking to it quite naturally, others never having the slightest idea of anything of the sort. There is young Lob, for instance, so lively and gay, sitting quite at his ease, though his skew-bald pony is excited and keen, while Master Bowderoukins (nephew of our esteemed friend) has called in the aid of his round-about red-vested man to see if he can’t make his old brown pony go quieter, though it has no more life in it than a cow. Even little Eglantine, who is two years younger, and has never been out before, laughs at Bowderoukins, and asks if he is tired already. Joe Walker, who has been out hunting four times, and is quite an old sportsman, holloas out, “Never say die!” as flourishing his right arm he trots past Bowderoukins, now busy eating a bun.
Mr. Boyston, meanwhile, looks them all over, thinking which will make sportsmen and which not.
“And what do you call your pony?” asks he of Lob, as the keen little animal darts up alongside the great striding Billy Rough’un.
“Atalanta,” replies Lob, swinging along quite at his ease.
“Rather fresh, isn’t it?” asks Mr. Boyston, eyeing its impetuosity.
“I’ll soon cure it of that,” replies Lob, patting its arched neck—“wait till I get it upon grass.”
“And what do you call your pony?” asks Mr. Boyston of little Honeybrook, as the latter on his white now draws up on Mr. Boyston’s left.
“Lily of the Valley,” replies the boy, pleased with the notice of the red-coat.
“Lily of the Valley,” repeats Mr. Boyston—“Lily of the Valley—a very pretty name, and a very pretty pony too. Mind,” added he, addressing himself conjointly to his companions—“mind you keep out of the crowd, and don’t let your ponies touch the horses, and tell the other boys to do the same.”
“I will,” says Lob.
“And whatever you do, keep clear of the hounds— Mr. Jessop wouldn’t lose one of those dogs if it was ever so.”
“I will,” says Lob, now turning his pony off the road for a probationary gallop up the grass-siding. Away went Lob, followed by Honeybrook, Walker, and two or three others.
“Come on! come on!” cries Mr. Boyston, looking back, and waiving his arm to little Bowderoukins, and others in the rear, to advance.
“Get on, Master Charles! get on, Master George!” urge the attendant servants, and forthwith there is extra exertion of elbows and legs, and the party press up towards the safe pilot.
“Hold hard!” now holloas Mr. Boyston to those in advance, and forthwith Lob and his tail pull up, and turning their ponies, take a return gallop towards him.
“G-e-ntly!” cries Mr. Boyston, holding up his hand as they advance—“g-e-ntly!” repeats he, as the hurrying boys try to outstrip one another. After shooting past a few paces, the racing-party pull up, and wheeling round, rejoin their companions, when the juvenile party is again complete.
Meanwhile Mr. Jessop having jogged on with the hounds, is now approaching the end of the little spinny which runs down into the banks. It is a nice warm sheltered place, with a variety of comfortable ambush, which our master always makes safe before drawing the wood Hopping over a low fence, his gallant chestnut horse, Star of the West, applies himself vigorously to the steep ascent as though he liked the exertion of climbing. Arrived at the top, the hounds dash eagerly into cover, dividing and spreading like a rocket. The field follow in long-drawn file, but Mr. Boyston recollecting that there is an awkward bottom to cross, halts his little party to the infinite mortification of Lob, who does not like leaving the hounds.
“This way, boys,” cried Mr. Boyston, turning Billy Rough’un’s head in quite a contrary direction to what the hounds are going—“this way, boys,” and passing through a well-established gap, he rides them along Leawood Green, while the occasional cheer of the huntsman becomes fainter and fainter.
“But what shall we do if they find?” now asks Lob, anxiously, trotting up alongside of his leader.
“Oh, I’ll soon catch them up,” replies Mr. Boyston, jogging on.
Lob doesn’t like it, and thinks they had much better stick to the hounds. That, however, he keeps to himself.
Mr. Boyston jogs on briskly, and presently making a short turn to the left, after pursuing the intricacies of a very devious cattle-track through some much mutilated brushwood, he suddenly pulled up on Pebble Ridge Hill with the panorama of the advancing pack coming down upon them.
“Here we are!” cried he, pointing them out to his party. Mr. Jessop’s “yoicks wind him! yoicks push him up!” sounding most musically. So the steady hounds come sniffing here and there and everywhere for the scent, regardless alike of scuttling rabbits, and bouncing hares. Lob’s eyes sparkle with pleasure, but little Bowderoukins dives into his overcoat-pocket, and fishes up a currant-bun, with which he commences regaling himself. Still the cry is “yoicks wind him! yoicks push him up!” varied with an occasional crack, which startles the wood-pigeons and scares an occasional pheasant. And now the steady drawing hounds are parallel with our juvenile party, and the sloping spinny inclines more determinedly to the river.
“Follow me, boys!” cries Mr. Boyston, again turning tail, and cutting away through a ricketty old gate on the left, he strikes down a very indifferent road, which, after two or three tortuous windings, brings him upon the alluvial soil of the fields next the river, just as Conqueror, Traveller, Whimsey, and Whipster round the expanding spinny, and enter upon the well-wooded banks above.
“Now you’ll see everything,” says Mr. Boyston, pointing to the spreading pack with Mr. Jessop and the body of the field riding on the high side of the cover.
Lob draws rein, and sits with eager eye viewing the gay speckled hounds ranging all over the banks; while Honeybrook and Walker propose a race up the field to the opposite gate, and Bowderoukins perseveres assiduously with his bun. There is pretty good lying, and Mr. Jessop gives his hounds plenty of time, never liking to hear that he has left a fox behind, or that one had slipped away at one end of a cover just as he went out at the other.
And now a loud crack of Horneyman’s whip reverberates through the clear atmosphere awakening the distant echoes; and ere its last notes have expired there is such an outburst of melody from the pack, that the horses are thrown into ecstacies, the ponies caper, and Atalanta darts at the bit as if it was determined to be off.
The fox has been snugly ensconced in an ivy-bush, high up in a crag, and came down with a sweep right before Pillager and Champion, and nothing but astonishment at the unwonted descent prevents them annihilating him. Prompter, and Prowler, and Hotspur, and Spanker, and Sportive, too, get a view, and the whole pack rush from their respective lines to join in the general outcry. Twenty couple of lately leisurely-taking-it hounds are thrown into a state of the most frantic excitement, and rush after the hardy old veteran of a fox in the most headstrong violent way. If he was to dash at an express train, or run into a red-hot furnace, they would follow him. The twang of the horn, and the cheer of the huntsmen are drowned in the melody of the pack, and the glad party push on in the hopes that the fox will run up the banks, but not down the banks, as heretofore has been usual. Mr. Bunting is now quite at home on the Bold Pioneer, who is neither too fresh nor too stale, but just in that comfortably subdued state when a horse yields his wishes to his master, and canters merrily along, snorting, and clearing his pipes as he goes.
“Now, boys! look sharp!” cries Mr. Boyston, hugging the teeth-grinding Billy Rough’un, and getting in front of his party; “follow me,” continues he settling himself in his great saddle, feet well home in the stirrups, and proceeding to pound up the gate-accommodating line of fields running parallel with the swiftly gliding river. The hounds are on their right hand, crashing and racing through the well-wooded banks, making the welkin ring with their melody. All operations are suspended at their coming. The birds in the air, the cattle in the field, the countrymen in the fold are all diverted from their pursuits. A magical influence pervades the air, heads are up and eyes are straining to the utmost to get a view of the fugitive.
Mr. Jessop shoots a-head in the stealing sort of way that so soon leaves a lagger in the lurch, and just gains the brow of Millerton Hill as the fox comes pacing up the green valley leading from the banks to Summercourt Dale, with two crows and a magpie hovering and wheeling on his line.
Our master claps spurs to the gallant Star of the West, and dropping his whip-thong as he goes, meets the fox full in the face at the accustomed turn by which he generally seeks to regain the banks, and with a tremendous crack and a “hoop!” sends him sailing away on to Farmanby Common, and so up to Rawdon Hill, and away towards Finglemoor Edge. This dexterous feat accomplished, a second or two bring up the racing hounds, Fugleman and Firebrand racing for the lead— every hound throwing his tongue—and all in a fine widening phalanx. Away they race, with a breast-high scent. And now two distinct parties emerge from the banks, the one led by Horneyman, comprising the élite of the red coats; the other by the Jug, who being on the low side of the wood has lee-way to recover, and comes tearing up a roughly stoned lane, spattering his little followers with the mud and débris of the surface as he goes.
“Now, boys, follow me!” exclaims he, standing in his stirrups and looking round on the party, as on rising the banks he sees the hounds are racing due north; adding, “and whatever you do, don’t cross or touch other horses, for there are tailors who seek to conceal their incompetence by abusing boys.” So saying, he again settled himself in his saddle, and went bucketing away, with the little ponies after him, in the extraordinary sort of way these little animals keep up with a horse. Thus he went hitting and holding and grinning and watching, running his mind’s eye through all the familiar gaps and gates and nicks of the line.
“Hold hard!” now cries he, as Lob, who is a little in advance, puts Atalanta at a broken down fence over which the rest of the field have passed. “Hold hard!” cries he, turning short to the left, and throwing open the first of a series of gates leading up to Shillingham farm on the hill. Then seeing that Bowderoukins’s Robin-red-breast has caught the gate for his young master, the Jug again sets sail, with Lob by his side, who asks him anxiously, “Why they don’t keep with the hounds?”
“I’ll show you,” says the Jug, rather posed with the question. “I’ll show you,” says he; and after clattering along the field road and swinging open several more convenient gates, he at length passes right through farmer Sweetland’s stack-yard, and presents his followers with a fresh smiling landscape, just as Sweetland’s cur, having chased the fox, has brought the hounds to a stand-still on a large rough fallow two fields below the comfortable well-stocked homestead.
“There!” said the Jug, pointing triumphantly to the hounds, “there,” said he, “you have them without risking your neck over the hedges and ditches.”
“Well, but I like leaping,” says Lob, stealing on and making for the hounds instead of waiting with the Jug to see which way they will go next. Little Albert Arthur follows Lob’s example, but sweet William, Bowderoukins, and the rest remain with our deputy master, Mr. Boyston. Mark, Mr. Jovey Jessop’s second horseman, then detaches himself from the miscellaneous group of servants, and trots gently on with an eye on the adventurous youths. Lob pulls up at a respectful distance from the field, and eyes Mr. Jessop’s proceedings with his hounds, now casting them, now letting them alone. So he holds them round the south side of the large fallow—every hound working his best, but unable to recover the scent. At length Trueman after a precautionary whimper drops his stern with a vigorous proclamation, and dashes at the neighbouring hedgerow as if he expected to find the fox in the middle of it. Life is again infused into the lately drooping pack, and impetuosity supplies the place of care. Horses and riders catch the enthusiasm, and there is a complete electrification of the whole. The hounds dash at the hedgerow, which bends and breaks with their weight. Mr. Jessop follows close on the tail ones, clearing the wattled fence and yawning ditch in his stride. Horneyman does the same, the next man breaks the witherings, the third displaces some cut and laid growers, while the fourth brushes all away together, and nearly reposes after a flounder in the broad black ditch beyond. His horse having at length extricated his hind legs and re-established himself on terra firma, to the great satisfaction of his rider, again sets sail, when the dread place has to be encountered by the remanets, many of whom go w-h-o-a-ing and craneing, wishing themselves well over. That desirable feat accomplished by the next in rotation, he looks back and cries, “There’s nothing to be afraid of!” so the succeeding man approaches it with increasing confidence, his young grey horse, however, throwing such an arch as apparently contradicts the assertion. Still, it is no time for turning; every man hurries his neighbour, either for the purpose of getting over or putting an end to his own fears.
“Now, Tomkins!” “Now, Jenkins!” “Now, Jones!” So they go at it, each man according to his own fashion; some straight, some sideways, some rushing, some creeping, some blundering clumsily. Now comes Lob, closely followed by little Arthur Honeybrook; and Lob, running his pony well at the place, comes over with a bucking bound that looks as if he was clearing a hedge instead of a ditch. Lily of the Valley then creeps down the ditch and up again; and Lob, seeing Arthur well landed, swerves to the left, and giving his pony its head up the grass, spurts past all the old drab-coated farmers and people, closely followed by the white. So they get to the gate at the tail of the red-coats. Grass succeeds grass, and a small transparent hedge dividing the next enclosures, the sportsmen spread in the independent sort of way peculiar to safety, each man taking the young fence in his line, and Lob flying over it like the rest of the field.
“Well done, young un!” cries Mr. Jovey Jessop, snatching a hasty backward glimpse from his now racing hounds. “Well done, young un!” repeats he, as Albert Arthur, with a less leap than Lob’s, lands on the right side of the hedge too. “Where’s Mr. Boyston?” cries Mr. Jessop, looking further back for the “magister curser” of his hunt. “Where’s Mr. Boyston?” And echo answers, where? A similar return is made to an enquiry after the boy with the bun.
Our friends are now on Cherrytree Hill, with the hounds sweeping round its base, and a shepherd holding up his hat in the distance to denote the line of the fox. The field are inside the semicircle, with a full view of the contesting energies of the pack; the rich coloured Hotspur now leading, now Famous, now Firebrand, now Pillager, the pace being too great for much music. So they sweep over the perennially green meadows up to the point indicated by the countryman. He has not headed him. On the contrary, being what they call a “slee chap,” he dropped down into the ditch, when by the running of the sheep he saw the fox was coming, and had an uncommonly good stare as he passed through a meuse a little below where he was hid. He is a’most sure he’s the varra fox that stole their turkeys i’ the spring.
Countrymen always declare that a fox is dead beat, but upon the present occasion the shepherd was not far wrong in his assertion, for the fox having eat a very liberal late supper, is in no condition to compete with Mr. Jovey Jessop’s fleet stout-running hounds. The scent too is better than is convenient under the circumstances; and altogether, what with surprise at being whipped so unceremoniously out of his ivy-mantled tower, confusion at being stared full in the face by Mr. Jessop and driven from his point, together with not being able to make up his mind whether to shape his course for Chippendale woods or the craigs at Raven’s Hill, he doesn’t exactly know what to do. The cry of the hounds, and the cheer of the hunters, however, keep him going, for he feels it would never do to let them come up with him. So he travels on, trusting to beating them again as he has beat them twice before. Third time, however, they say, is catching time, and it is destined to be so on the present occasion. Steering an intermediate course between the craigs and the woods, he gets into a more populous neighbourhood—a country dotted with hamlets and small farm-houses, with their concomitant curs and other incumbrances. The further he advances the more he gets holloaed and viewed, until the whole country seems raised against him. The roads, too, run conveniently, and the clatter of the horses and the noise of the macadamites makes confusion worse confounded.
The Jug and Billy Rough’un are both in a high state of excitement, the Jug at having laid out of his ground by riding for Chippendale Woods, Billy Rough’un at being kept on the hard road when he wants to be racing in the fields alongside the musical hounds. The Jug has reduced the number of his small friends and increased that of his large ones; Bowderoukins’s pony having peremptorily refused to risk its shins by passing over a tumble-down wall, while Lishman and Brisket of Pittville have turned up from nobody knows where—the “George and Dragon” at Crossfield, perhaps—and are long trotting in the loose stick-out-leg sort of way peculiar to butchers and drovers.
The Jug is red-hot; his face is as red as his coat, Billy Rough’un has bumped and shook him till he feels like a great dish of calves’ feet jelly. What with the excitement of riding the wrong way, and then making up his lost ground, the excitement of being bullied for doing so, the excitement of looking after the youngsters, and the excitement of keeping Billy Rough’un in something like moderate subjection, the poor Jug is nearly overpowered. Added to this, he doesn’t know but that young Lob and Arthur may have come to grief, for which he will be sure to get the blame. Pretty Mrs. Lob will never forgive him. Great is the relief to his mind as, on rising Dickering Hill, he sees the two boys careering away, near enough to the hounds, but yet clear of the crowd. The fox begins to run short, but the hounds turn as short as he does, and the Jug knows by experience that there will soon be an end of the same. So seeing a promising course of gates with a double fence in the distance, he boldly forsakes the road, resolved to be up at the end. His gallant tail follow suit, and there is presently a reunion of the field.
“Hillo, Green!” “Holloa, Brown!” “What, Smith! are you there?” proceed from the fieldites, who look at the roadsters much in the manner of hounds when a straggler comes up.
Mr. Bunting, who has been most comfortably carried by the Bold Pioneer, asks Mr. Boyston where he has been?
“Busy with the youngsters, busy with the youngsters,” replies the Jug, leading his little troop outside the now halting horseman. The fox is now running so short, and the enclosures are so queer and cramped, that with a failing scent, it requires all Mr. Jovey Jessop’s skill— science the fine writers call it—to keep the hounds on the line of the scent. The fox has evidently no idea which way he is going, running up Tommy Hoggin’s potatoe field, down Mrs. Mason’s pasture, and back over through farmer Fothergill’s turnips. He has now lain down among the turnips, but mistrusting their flaccid security, he incautiously jumps up just as the hounds enter the field, when a shrill holloa gets them a view, and away they race, Pillager and the fox at length rolling over together down the slope of the adjoining pasture. Firebrand, Absolute, and General, complete the worry; and in an instant the rest of the pack are rumblety, tumblety, head-over-heels, with the fox in the middle!
Mr. Jessop jumping off his horse is presently in the midst of them, and stooping and extricating the fox from their fangs, holds up as fine an old dog one as ever was seen. Then the frantic pack jump and bay at our master, Victory, with a surprising spring, seizing the fox by the brush, and hanging on despite Mr. Jessop’s efforts to disengage him. Horneyman, who is close at hand, gives his horse to a hind, and dashing up on foot, clears a ring round his master, who dropping the fox on the green sward, Victory lets go his hold, and slinks away to his companions around. Then, after a brief inspection and guess at the fox’s age, out comes the old buck-handled knife, with which Horneyman performs the last obsequies of the chase, whipping off his fine head, which he lays on the ground, and handing the brush and pads as he kneels to our master.
The mutilated remains Horneyman then holds up on high, when the wrath of the pack being excited by the hoops and holloas of the horsemen, the carcase is thrown in mid air, and descending is caught by a myriad of mouths.
Worry, worry, worry, rush, crush, growl, snarl, scramble, is then the order of the day.
“Keep away your horses!” then cries Mr. Jessop, fearing for his hounds, when Resolute and Dexterous giving a unanimous pull, the carcase rolls down hill, and the danger is over.
“Now, where are the youngsters?” exclaims Mr. Jessop, advancing with his whip under his arm, and the proud trophies in his hand—“Where’s Lob?” cries he, looking about for the rider of the skew-bald.
“Here!” cries the Jug, who has now got his little party marshalled around him.
“Well, now Lob, here’s the brush for you, my fine lad,” says Mr. Jessop, advancing towards him; “but stop,” added he, “we must blood you first.” So saying, Mr. Jessop made Lob a very fine moustache and imperial with the blood of the fox.
“Now then,” said he, fastening the brush into Lob’s bridle, “you tell your Mamma that you rode like a man.” Then advancing to little Honeybrook, he smeared his face too, and giving him a pad, says he may tell his Mamma the same; after which Mr. Jovey Jessop handed the rest of the pads to his Jug to distribute as he chose.
The hounds meanwhile having finished their wrangling repast, and the whip fastened the fox’s head into the couples, people begin to look at their watches, those who have had enough enquiring their way home, others asking Mr. Jessop what he will draw next. Chippendale Woods being the never-failing resort, the word is given for them, which causes a still further dispersion of the field, one man dropping off at one lane end, another at another, till the Jug, our hero, and our master, are the only red coats that remain. The deep-holding rides— enough to pull a horse’s leg off—are too good a chance for Mr. Boyston to lose for taming Billy Rough’un, otherwise he would have preferred drawing Mr. Walker’s or Mr. Eglantine’s on his way home for a luncheon. As it is he lays the foundation for a future visit by sending his compliments, and desiring the boys to tell their Mammas that he will look in upon them the first time he is passing. He then, consigning them to the servants, takes a good holding grip of Billy Rough’un, as much as to say, now that we are clear of all care, I’ll see whether you or I shall be master. And what with a slack reign, and an occasional touch of the spur, at the end of twenty minutes after they found he certainly was a very different Billy Rough’un to what he was during the first run, and the Jug had the satisfaction of bringing him home very tame. He then added 120l. to his price, 140l. being what he considered him worth to any one who could ride him. And not being disposed to keep more horses than he wanted, he rocked himself asleep at night thinking whom he would suit.
