by R S Surtees
These they began flopping and beating with their flail-like whips, while Trumper and Joe drew the hounds across and across the fallows and enclosures.
Hares were not very plentiful, and half an hour elapsed ere Simon Driblets telegraphed a find.
Unlike a fox, the hare puts no one in a fluster or hurry about a start. She is generally so accommodating as to wait till she is set a-going by some one turning her out of her form.
So it was in this case.
Mr. Driblets having seen Trumper and Joe’s backs turned across the field again with the hounds in their wake, just started her quietly, and let her steal away at her leisure.
All was on the silent system. No views, no hallooing, no heads staring up in the air. The hounds were never taken off their noses.
Mr. Trumper just drew them across the line, and, as if by magic, they struck the scent; after a wild scream of delight, that thrilled through the field, the hounds went away at score.
Puss, though far ahead, was still within hearing distance, and having had a round with them before, mended her pace, and pressed away for the open.
The field had now got gathered together from their respective beats, and each man was hugging his horse as though he were bent on destruction.
Mr. Trumper rode first, and they all fell into places, like a troop of horse, the chaplain and Joe bringing up the rear.
“This way, young man!” cried Trumper to Scott, seeing he was going to take the line of the hounds, instead of following a field road through a line of gates that rather bent away from them. “This way,” said he, pointing with his whip, “she’ll turn at you pasture end and skirt the turnips,” said he, “and we shall catch them up at the cowshed in the field but one beyond.”
Trumper was right. The hounds ran to the very point he predicted, and came out into Newsell’s-lane by the cowshed — all busy and bustling like bees.
“You never saw better hounds than those!” observed Mr. Trumper, sotto, pointing to them in ecstasy.
“Ne,” said Joe, who happened to be within hearing.
Presently the pace mended, and the trot that had been pertinaciously maintained was converted into a canter, some of the fatties standing up in their stirrups as if for the purpose of easing their horse’s, though as yet they had done nothing.
Still they kept the lanes and field roads, which appeared to turn up most accommodatingly whatever way puss pointed.
Sometimes, indeed, they seemed to turn their backs on the hounds, and to be riding away from them altogether; but it was only momentary, and they presently found themselves at some pet gap or friendly rail, which, succumbing to the heavy-hammered whips, set them on the line again.
So they went on, from lane to field, and from field to lane, for some time, the pace being occasionally good, but never great — the music beautiful.
Having run the length of Green-pasture Valley, and crossed Stockenchurch Hill, near the village or hamlet, a cur dog had got sufficiently near puss’s quarters to cause her serious uneasiness for her safety, and had forced her off her line, to the astonishment of the field, who, not knowing what had happened, were calculating upon Maddingly Common as a certainty. Indeed, Michael Hobble-trot had cut away for the common at once on reaching the village, instead of turning short to the left at the blacksmith’s, as the others did, Michael not being quite sure that the gap by the pond had been opened out, and reckoning he would save time by riding a little about instead of waiting his turn in case the gap had to be re-established. We believe we may add that Michael is rather given to “nicking.”
Well, great was the astonishment of the field, when, after a short check, where the hounds overran the line, Twister, with something between a note and a yell struck the scent down a newly built wall pointing direct for the moors.
“Great heavens! She can’t have gone for the hills!” ejaculated Tom Hobbletrot, with a lively recollection of a deep bog he had been in on the moors.
Towler, Lovely, Ruffler, Cottager, Guider, all the unerring ones of the pack, however, confirmed the surmise, and that, too, with an energy leaving no room for doubt.
The scent had improved, and they went away at score. They packed beautifully — close as turnips.
“We shall be in trouble,” ejaculated Hobbletrot, as he got half way down the side of the next field, and saw that Coldbrook Bum was inevitable.
A brook is the only thing in the list of hunting obstacles that admits of neither hope nor palliation. It is a regular “take it, or leave it,” affair, and Coldbrook Bum is one of the deepest, nastiest, and most twisting in the country — it seems to be everywhere.
Moreover, the horrors of a brook are materially increased by a previous acquaintance with it; for a bold leader will frequently entice a funking field over a place when it comes unexpectedly in chase, at which many would crane and measure, and measure and crane, and ultimately turn away, if encountered in crossing from cover to cover. A brook is a thing at which no man can do any thing for another — unlike a wall, or a rail, or a hedge, or a locked gate, the brook stands boldly on its own merits, as big a leap to the last corner as to the first, nay, sometimes bigger, for rotten undermined banks are apt to give way under the weight of horses. Brooks being formidable customers at all times, we need hardly say that they were considerably aggravated by the autumnal rains; indeed, places that in summer well-nigh suspend payment altogether, begin running and roaring and behaving in the most riotous manner imaginable. Coldbrook Burn may be mentioned as a particular instance of a refractory streamlet; for its course being deep, and its bank sedgy, it is well calculated for holding an uncommon quantity, and when Mr. Trumper reached it this day, he pronounced it a bumper. Scott observed, however, that Trumper did’nt seem a bit put out on coming to it. On the contrary, he was more intent on his hounds, who had thrown up on the bank, and were trying for the scent up and down.
“Yooi over, good dog!” hallooed he to Risker in delight, as his dark head and back rose above the stream. Gleamer, Guider, Rachael quickly followed, and then went the body of the pack. “Yooi over, all on you!” halloed Trumper, hat in hand, trying to get the young ones to follow.
The field sat in mute attention, watching the proceedings on the opposite side.
Risker first snatched the scent, and there was a rare splashing and scrambling among those in the brook to get at him. “Now you wild fox-hunters,” said Mr. Trumper, turning to Scott as he sat eyeing the hounds, shaking themselves on the opposite side, would try to leap that burn. Now I’ll show you what us hare-hunters do,” continued he, seeing the hounds putting their heads for the moors; saying which he gathered his reins, touched his horse with the spur, and bustled away to Bewdley wooden bridge, about a mile off, followed by the whole of the field as hard as ever they could lay legs to the ground.
* * * * * *
“That’s far better nor gettin a wet shirt!” exclaimed Trumper, as his ponderous horse clattered over the wooden fabric, making it shake again with his weight.
“But we’ve lost the hounds!” observed Scott.
“Fiddle-te-de!” exclaimed he; “I know where they’ll be to a nicety. Come up, horse!” cried he, as his nag began shying at the stone steps, at the taking-off end of the foot-bridge.
Having effected a landing, he forthwith gathered his reins, and, tickling Golumpus freely with the spur, set off at a good round pace, the old nag indulging in a sort of make-believe kick in his canter.
They were now upon the moors, with nothing to fear but bogs and holes, and ruts, things that did not seem to be included in the list of casualties of the Goose and Dumpling Hunt, for all the members began charging abreast instead of following in the goose fashion they had been pursuing before.
The hounds were long out of sight; indeed, they had run up a ravine, from which the détour by Bewdley Bridge had interposed a hill; but the fatties saw by the staring of the sheep the line they had taken, and the field jogged on in high exultation at the splendour of the run, and delighted
at the idea of astonishing the stranger.
Presently they got within sight of where sheep were still running, or rather wheeling about, and then a shepherd’s hat on the sky line of a far-off hill announced where they were.
The riding was only awkward, the heather hiding both stones and holes, and the turf on the bare places, particularly on the hill-side, being extremely slippery. Nevertheless they clattered on, trusting entirely to their horses for safety.
Presently they heard the cry of hounds.
“Hold hard!” exclaimed Mr. Trumper, “they are coming towards us. Hark!” exclaimed he (pulling up short, and holding up his hand)—” now, Mr. Scott, if you’ll come here, I’ll show you the hare,” said he.
Accordingly, Scott followed him through a narrow defile to the left, and, looking over a hollow in the rocky hill upon the country below, he saw poor puss dribbling along in a listening sort of canter.
The field followed to partake of the treat.
“Oh, she’s a fine un!” exclaimed Mr. Trumper, his eyes sparkling as he spoke; “but she’s pretty well beat,” added he; “she’ll most likely begin to play some of her tricks: these things have far more cunning nor foxes,” added he. “Now this is the time,” continued he, addressing himself seriously to Scott, “that you wild fox-hunters would take advantage of, for the purpose of cutting short the diversion, by mobbing, and shouting, and taking every advantage of him; but we do the thing differently. We let our hounds hunt; and if they can’t kill a hare fairly, why they lose her.”
The hounds had now descended from the hills and turned the corner of the last angle that shut them out from view. They were working a middling scent, which they caught and lost and lost and caught alternately.
Puss heard them, and regulated her pace by theirs.
Presently she began the tricks Mr. Trumper anticipated. Having got into a small fallow, she dribbled up a furrow above which her back was scarcely visible, and having run the length of it, she deliberately returned the same way, and with a mighty spring landed in a thick hedge-row.
“That’ll puzzle them,” said Mr. Trumper, “for the scent is but cold at best, and the wet of you furrow won’t improve what little there is.”
“But you’ll let them hunt it of course?” observed Scott, thinking Mr. Trumper was paving the way to a little assistance.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Trumper, with a deep sideway inclination of the head—” undoubtedly,” repeated Trumper, “We’d scorn to take an unfair advantage of her. But look how they hunt!” added he, “Did you ever see hounds work better; no babblers, no skirters, no do-nothing gentlemen here; twelve couple, and all workers; we keep no cats that don’t catch mice, Mr. Scott. Oh, but they’re beauties!” added he in ecstasy, as they came hunting her as true as an arrow.
When they got upon the fallow it certainly was not propitious. There wasn’t a hound that could speak to the scent, and Twister and Towler alone guided them on the line.
“Those hounds are worth two hundred thousand pounds a-piece to Prince Albert, or any of the royal family who really know what hunting is,” whispered Mr. Trumper. “See what confidence they all have in them. Hark! Cottager threw his tongue. That’s the first time he’s spoke since he came into the field, but he’s had the scent the whole way. Oh! hare-hunting is beautiful sport, the most delightful amusement under the sun,” added he. “There’s nothing to compare to it. Is there, Beaney?” continued he, looking over his shoulder to our friend Beanstack, who with the rest of the field were now clustered behind in ardent admiration of their darlings.
“ — Nothing! nothing! Nothing!” was vociferated by all.
The hounds had now got to the end of the double, and several of the young ones dashed beyond. Not so Twister and Towler, who cast a small semicircle in advance, and then returned to the spot.
“That’s hunting now!” exclaimed Mr. Trumper, “your wild fox-dogs would have been half over the next parish by this time, but those hounds won’t move an inch without a scent. See how they hunt it back; That’s something like now. Far better than getting a hold of them and pretending to tell them what, you keep them to tell you, which way the hare went.”
“Ah, that’s all very well,” observed Scott, “with the hare sitting in the hedge-row; but a fox, you know, keeps travelling on. There’s no time for dawdling with him.”
“You don’t know but that hare may be in Jollyrise township by this time,” snapped Mr. Trumper; “it doesn’t follow because she took the hedge-row, that she’s there still. But we are in no hurry. Fair play’s the universal motto of hare-hunters. We even have it on our buttons,” added he, turning up a great pewter-plate-looking thing with a hare and the words “Fair play” underneath.
“The gentleman does’nt seem to understand much about the thing, I think,” observed Michael Hobbletrot, who had got dribbled up from his detour by Maddingley Common, after a most enjoyable ride of the line.
“Fox-hunters seldom do,” rejoined Simon Driblet.
“More at home at a steeple hunt, p’raps,” suggested Gosling.
The currant jelleyers were getting personal, and there is no saying to what lengths they might have gone in the wild moorland region in which they now had their unhappy victim, had not Twister fortunately obtruded his nose so near puss’s hind quarters, as to cause her to bound out of the hedge to the galvanisation of the pack, who, with heads in the air, struck up a strain that set the now freshened horses a-frisking. Away they went in view.
“Yonder she goes! Yonder she goes! Yonder she goes!”
“Lauk, what a dog is that Twister!” with which exclamations the bed-gown wearers began climbing on to their horses much in the style that Punch represented the old French King climbing on to “Artful Dodge.”
Fairly and coolly down the hill-side now they went “who-a-ing” and “gent-ly-ing” to their horses as they unravelled the zig-zag mysteries of the track.
The pack, meanwhile, were screaming and streaming away in the distance.
When they had all landed at the bottom and shaken themselves, and those who had “led down” re-mounted, the hounds were fairly out of sight; but Mr. Trumper, nothing daunted, tickled Go-lumpus into a canter, and putting his head the reverse way of what Scott had seen the hounds going, cut down a long slip of grass land lying between the rocky hills and the enclosures, and taking a sudden twist to the left by the corner of a turf fence, shot away like a meteor to the north, through a long line of white field gates, whose pleasing perspective opened in the distance.
Where these would have ultimately led to we know not, for when they had got through about half a dozen of them, Mr. Trumper suddenly stopped short as if shot — an evolution so quickly followed by the rest of the cavalry, as to have the effect of shooting several of the loose riders on to the pommels of their saddles.
Trumper saw the hare! Indeed they all saw her; but Trumper saw her first.
She was bearing right down upon them, in a style that would most inevitably have led to a collision, had they not pulled up. Full of what was going on behind, she never thought of looking ahead, and nearly ran into them. Poor thing! She came so close, that they distinctly saw the curl of warmth on her soiled fur, and the big heaving of her anxious breast.
A hare is a curious mixture of cleverness and stupidity. We see them lobbing and staring along as if they hadn’t an idea in their heads, and then all at once they perform tricks worthy of a wizard.
“She’s a fine-un,” observed Mr. Trumper, sotto voce, as he sat, whip erect, staring her out of countenance.
The noise he made had the effect of awaking her to a sense of their presence, and caused her to pop through a meuse in the hedge.
“She’s about done,” observed he, eyeing the performance, for Trumper can calculate the amount of “goment” left to a nicety, — Tom Hobbletrot then pulled out a great turnip of a watch from his fob, of which having made a good open exposure, he shut it up, with the observation that “it was about time.” —
The hounds now came towling and picking along with the weak scent of the sinking animal.
Just as Twister and Towler were again eliciting the admiration of the field at the way in which they unravelled the line, a loud shrill hoop! hoop! hoop! from the rising ground in the next field but one, got up the hounds’ heads, and caused them to work their ways through the high hedge to get at the halloo.
Great was the horror and perturbation of the field, as the hounds flew away, and greater still their disgust at seeing a great fat man in white leather trowsers, and bright heel spurs, with a gold-banded blue cap, and a registered paletot, capping them away at a canter.
“Hold hard, Sir,”
“hold hard, Sir,”
“God bless you, hold hard, Sir!”
“God d — n you, hold hard Sir!” were shouted and vociferated by the indignant field, now rendered perfectly furious, by not being able to get at him, unless they either charged a tolerably sized fence that looked to them like an impregnable barrier, or rode two hundred yards “t’other way,” to get through at the old established gap.
In vain Trumper, having dived into the bottom of his bed-gown, fished up the little bugle — in vain he blew, in vain he screamed, in vain he imprecated. There wasn’t an evil or an adverse element that Trumper didn’t wish the stranger visited with.
The hounds topped the hill, and were out of sight in no time.—’
Fury, unspeakable fury, was depicted on the faces of the field; nor was it diminished by seeing the hunted hare pop out of the hedge, as they moved away to ride for the gap.
Moreover, she accompanied them as far as their joint lines lay, in the direction of the hills, almost as it would seem for the purpose of deriding them. As they pounded and clattered down the stoney, rutty field-road, she kept working her way up a furrow, about twenty yards to their left, in the next field. Doleful were the looks our friends cast on her as they passed on the alteration of their lines.
