by R S Surtees
Next day Tarquinius Muff having come into town to see his aunt, get his hair cut, or something of that sort, met Rasher in the High Street, sabretache swinging, heel-spur ringing, bonnet staring under, as usual, and confirmed the opinion.
The verdicts of the others, our readers will perhaps excuse our entering on the “record.”
They were generally delivered’ in the laconics, “Oh my!”
“No go!”
“Not-possible!”
“Won’t believe it!”
“Hookey Walker!”
“Tell it to the marines!” and so on.
We may, however, add, that our friend Tom was so delighted with it, that he wrote a long account of it to his lady love, instead of one of the three-cornered laconics with which he generally favoured her.
CHAP. XIII.
THE BLANK DAT.
IT’S FOUR YEARS since last February, though our friend Tom says he remembers it as if it were but yesterday, so rare are the calamities of blank days in the catalogue of his misfortunes.
The Duke of Tergiversation, having the Prince of Spankerhausen, Mynheer Von Cled, and several other great Dutch swells, whom he wanted “galvanizing,” had written to Lord Harry Harkaway to bring his unrivalled hounds to Fast-and-Loose Castle, on that most forlorn of all forlorn speculations, the “chance” of finding a fox.
Dukes are people that generally have their own way, let them be ever so unreasonable; and even if Lord Harry had been inclined to object to trashing his hounds and horses such a distance, the offer of hospitality to himself and establishment would have caused him to think that he might as well avail himself of the opportunity for paying the duke and duchess a visit.
Accordingly the hounds were advertised to meet at Fast-and-Loose Castle on “their” day of the week, with a non-hunting one on each side of it, though what that day was, we don’t pretend to say, dates and distances being things we seldom trouble our head about.
It was the first season of Lord Harry’s hunting the country, the hounds having just come out of Yarnshirewith the usual high-flown renown of new packs.
Fast-and-Loose Castle, indeed the whole Tergiversation territory, had long been looked upon as extra-parochial in the hunting line, neither Sir Charles Wildblood nor his predecessor Lord Heavy-sop, ever having thought it worth while to play at drawing his grace’s covers a second time. Not but that his grace is a patron of fox-hunting, a patron in his own peculiar way, — just as he is a patron of racing, to uphold which, he keeps two or three wooden-limbed brutes that go the rounds of the district. Fox-hunting he looks upon in much the same light as racing; a sort of amusement of the hour, that requires no care or consideration during the rest of the year. He therefore gives hounds leave to draw his covers, on certain set days of the season — the 15th of December, the 15th of February, and again on the 15 th of April, provided none of those days fall on a Sunday, in which case, the hunt stands adjourned to the Monday.
But the system will develop itself with the narrative.
The talk people make about anything new, especially anything new in the hands of a nobleman, made Tom Scott take a fancy for seeing Lord Hark-away’s hounds, and though the distance from Hawbuck Grange is great, five and thirty miles to the kennel, yet the town of Barkeston being within easy distance of the castle, by lying out a couple of nights, he could easily accomplish his object, especially as like Lord Harry, he could kill two birds with one stone — get a hunt, and pay a visit to his old friend the Rev. Peter Blackcoat, the worthy rector of Barkeston.
Accordingly Tom arranged it so.
It was not until he got to Barkeston that he heard the exact state of the fox question. His grace having lately made one of his periodical changes of politics, Tom thought he had very likely turned over a new leaf in the hunting book too, and that things were going to be different.
“I am afraid you’ve come on a forlorn hope,” observed Peter Blackcoat, wringing Tom’s hand, as he met him at his neat parsonage gate.
“How so?” asked Tom, fearing the whole thing was put off. “The duke hasn’t changed his mind, has he?”
“Oh no,” replied his friend; “the thing is to take place; that’s to say, there’s to be a grand spread of a breakfast, cherry brandy — cheese, and so on — but as to finding a fox, there isn’t such a thing in the parish.”
“The deuce there isn’t!” exclaimed Tom; “then what are the hounds there for?”
“Oh, just for the duke to show them to his friends. He’s got a lot of great barge-built Dutchmen there, who can’t speak a word of English, and he’ll persuade them that the hounds are his, and that Lord Harry is a sort of retainer of the castle, and so they’ll go back to the place from whence they come, and tell all the great boundless burgomasters and fellows what a tremendous great man the Duke of Tergiversation is.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed Tom, wishing himself home again.
“Nay, don’t look glum,” replied the parson, patting the mare’s neck. “I dare say the gamekeeper will manage something in the shape of a fox. All the world will be there, and it won’t do to disappoint a whole country side.”
“Manage something in the shape of a foxy mg dear Peter!” exclaimed our friend, in disgust. “You don’t think a fox is like a coat, that you can have to order and turn out when you want it. Believe me, my dear fellow, a fox is very like what the young ladies, bless them! say of love; there is but one real love, though there may be a hundred different copies of it; so there is but one right sort of fox, though there may be a hundred imitation ones.”
This very philosophical observation brought Tom to his friend’s stable door, a comfortable three-stall’d edifice, with a gig and harness room adjoining.
We never get into a parsonage house without thinking if it wasn’t for writing the weary sermons, we’d like to be a parson ourself. They are always so snug, and have such capital port wine!
But we will pass over the feeding and friendship, and proceed at once to the festival.
Tom’s friend said the thing that was true. As he rode away in the morning through the usually quiet little town of Barkeston, all heads were at the windows, those who were to be left behind looking wistfully after those who were going, and one-horse chaises and two-horse chaises were loading and driving away with mirthful parties, to say nothing of an omnibus full inside and out. There were Mrs and the two Miss Sugarlips in their yellow phaeton, driven by young Mr. Whateley, the rising apothecary; and there were Mr. Luxford, the bookseller, and “his lady,” as the genteel ones call their wives; Mr. Kidd, the hosier, rode with Mr. Holmes the saddler, while their respective ladies, with some seven or eight children between them, followed in the public “private” landau of the duke’s arms. The duchess — that is to say, the landlady — had just been confined, and couldn’t show. Nevertheless, every horse they had, both from the hotel and the farm, were in requisition, and great was the demand for saddles, bridles, and tackle generally.
The plot thickened as Tom proceeded, until the road swarmed again. More gigs, more horsemen, more horsemen, more gigs, and pedestrians without end.
The most astonishing thing, however, was the appearance of a troop of yeomanry that came jingling and clattering down the Heckfield-lane on to the turnpike, in all the pomp and terror of carthorse cavalry.
“Who’s dead, and whafs to pay?” exclaimed Tom Scott, as a most insignificant little officer, almost extinguished by his horse-tailed helmet, was borne against him by a great pulling powerful black mare, who seemed fully intent upon running away with him.
“Co-o-o-m-e and s-s-e-e, old b-o-y,” ejaculated the victim, pretending to be quite at his ease.
“Why, Billy Bobbinson! is that you? you little unfortunate devil; what have you been about now, that they have dressed you up in that way?” exclaimed Tom. “Who looks after the shop when you are out soldiering?” but Billy was deaf to the inquiry, and the troop rattled on as if they were going to quell a rebellion or extinguish a fire at the least.
Little thought Tom that they were the Duke of Tergiversation’s cavalry going to form a hunting guard of honour on Mynheer Von Cled and Co.!
Our friend Tom had never seen Tergiversation Castle except from the Cockington Fort road, where it is visible in the usual style of castle visibility, towers above trees, and a flag above towers. Its ground dimensions he had no idea of, neither did he care much, seeing he was not likely to be wanted inside.
The castle certainly had a very imposing appearance, when he got the whole concern mustered in one grand view — body, wings, giblets and all. There was great liveliness and animation apparent, both inside and out, quite relieving the austere frownings of the cloisters, and the heavy Gothic architecture of the building.
Powdered footmen, in gorgeous plum-coloured liveries, bedizened with silver lace, with massive covered dishes, pushed their way among “gentlemen’s gentlemen” and heavy-looking moustached Dutchmen, who seemed as if they had nothing whatever to do but smoke; while occasional glimpses of the “real quality” might be caught through the plate-glass windows of the receiving rooms, and good steady studies made of ladies’ maids staring out of the windows or disporting themselves on the leads and turrets above.
The spacious court-yard behind presented a curious medley of war and pastime, soldiers and fox-hunters. The yeomanry had dismounted, and were busy rectifying the little derangements of dress and appointments incident to the march. Those whose saddles had threatened to come over their horses’ ears for want of the crupper were now slamming them back in their places; others were scraping the frothy sweat off the stinking, hairy-heeled brutes, while some were combing out the manes and tails of theirs, by way of trying to make them look a little decent. There was a strange contrast between the cumbrous, misfitting uniforms of the ploughman soldiers, and the trim neatness of the hunting and stable servants. Nevertheless, the former seemed very well pleased with themselves, and clamped and strutted about the yard in their heavy jack-boots, dragging their noisy swords after them, looking about for admiration from the maids.
The hounds were advertised for eleven, but that hour had long passed without any indications of a move. To be sure, a little after eleven, sundry footmen emerged from the castle, bearing trays, covered with cakes and biscuits, with bottles of Sherry and glass jugs full of water for the schedule B people outside, while bread and cheese and ale, with something in a most profane looking black bottle, circulated freely among the troopers and trampers at the back. The servants of the hunt, being billeted in the castle, surveyed the scene in easy indolent attitudes from the stone steps leading from the offices into the court-yard, and criticised each corner just as the first-class company criticised the outsiders from the windows in front.
Little Billy Bobbinson, with his face all flushed with liquor and tight girthing, conveyed the first symptoms of active animation by floundering along the stone passage in his iron-heeled jacks, with his spurs draggling and his sword banging and nearly tripping him up as he went, to give the word of command for the men to “prepare to mount.” Billy is the most unfortunate-looking little object that ever was manufactured into a heavy dragoon, being split up far too high — all legs, and no body. Still Billy was in great force. He would not have exchanged figures with Hercules, nor his rusty, misfitting, dragging, lace-tarnished scarlet with green facings, or his parchment-looking leathers and lack-lustre jacks, for the outfit of the youngest and smartest officer in the Life Guards.
“Prepare to mount!” hallooed little Billy from the top of the steps, standing on one leg and putting his right hand to his mouth, so as to convey the sound right among the soldiers. “PREPARE TO MOUNT!” repeated he in a still louder tone.
“Hurrah for the cornet!” exclaimed Tom Curlin, the half-drunken farrier, tossing off a third potation from the black bottle, and “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” was shouted and repeated from all parts of the yard.
Billy the hatter and Billy the soldier are very different people, and he does in his red coat what he would never think of doing in his black. Seeing Scott standing in the desolate way a man does outside a great house waiting for hounds, he came with a patronising air of one with the entree, and asked if our friend wouldn’t “walk in adding his conviction, “that the duke would be extremely happy to see him.”
Tom didn’t think the duke would; and not knowing what practical jokes some of Billy’s halfdrunken heavies might play on the old mare if he went to try the experiment, he Contented himself by saying, that “he had breakfasted,” and was anxious to know whether it was to be “a fox-hunt or a review?”
“Oh, it’s a fox-hunt,” replied Billy, quite gravely, adding, confidentially, “the fact is, we are here as a guard of honour on the prince.”
“To prevent the fox eating him, I suppose,” said Scott, as puss-in-boots waddled away to get his men mounted.
All this gathering, and quartering, and liquoring, and soldiering, so unlike the “real thing,” was any thing but encouraging; nor did the prospect appear brighter when sundry postilions in bullion-laced, plum-coloured jackets, spic and span leathers, with tasseled caps, and glass-blown wigs, emerged from the servants’ hall, whips in hand, and wended their ways to the coach-house department in the adjoining court to where the soldiers were.
Presently the tramp of horse announced something coming, and a light-blue landau, drawn by six blood bays with their manes full of ribbons, followed by a barouche and four, drew up in the inner court, for the “army,” as the Irish call a handful of recruits, to arrange themselves around, so as to proceed in proper form to the front.
This was no easy matter; for few of the honest Dobbins’s being accustomed to such lord mayor’s shows, they flew in all directions as the postilion wormed his leaders among them; and more than one heavy dragoon measured his length on the ground. A wicked wag, too, whom Billy Bobbinson had rather “done” in the matter of a hat, had figged the old black, who began lifting her hind quarters as he mounted in a sort of cross between a kick and the action of a dancing horse at Astley’s. Drink! all glorious drink, however, had strung Billy’s nerves, and he rebuked her, and jagged her in a way that plainly said, “he wasn’t the Billy he was when he came.”
At last they all got mounted and under weigh, and a brandy-nosed trumpeter having made the castle courts echo with his battered instrument, Billy Bobbinson gave the order “to draw swords,” and having got his own great cheese toaster hoisted over his shoulder, the cavalcade proceeded to join the greatly-increased crowd in front.
It was now twelve o’clock— “our great-grandfather’s dinner hour,” as Nimrod said in “The Quarterly” — and they had not yet started to find the fox. The day, we should observe, though bright, was clear and cold, with certain indications of frost in the air, just sufficient to make people thump their hands against their thighs, and urge their horses into little backwards and forwards trots before the castle, by way of giving the inmates a hint that they ought to be coming.
After numerous false alarms, at last one of those unmistakeable moves was perceptible in the castle, and ere the lumbering heavies had got themselves into “attention,” a rush of servants threw back the great doors, and the Prince of Spankerhausen appeared, with the Duchess of Tergiversation, in feathers and sky-blue satin, on his arm. The prince was a full-sized, stout, heavy-shouldered, enormously big-chested man, with a great meaningless yellow face, little ferrety blue eyes, straight sandy-coloured hair, and bushy moustachios. He was dressed in a half-uniform, half-hunting sort of costume, a cocked hat and feather, a doublebreasted red hunting coat, buttoned up to the neck, with leather breeches and jack-boots, and wore a small couteau de chasse at his side. The Duke of Tergiversation was dressed in the costume he used to pretend to hunt in when a young man, a loose bed-gowny frock coat, yellow-ochre leathers, coming low down the calf, and very short mahogany-coloured top-boots. —
Having stood on the stone step inside the portico for a few seconds to show themselves becomingly to the crowd, the prince handed
the duchess into the landau, in which she was followed by Mynheer Von Cled, who, as our readers are aware, is encumbered with a cork leg. Two other swells having filled the back seats, the landau moved on, to allow the barouche to take up the ladies, Chop and Change, and a party of juveniles. The prince having seen them all in, mounted his Flemish prancer, sheep-skinned, netted, tasseled, and caparisoned according to the custom of his country, and the duke taking his place on the right, and Lord Harry Harkaway on the left, the army placed itself so as to keep a space open for the great guns to ride at their ease. The brandy-nosed trumpeter announced their departure on his instrument; the emblazoned flag on the tower was lowered, so that all the country round might know that the Duke of Tergiversation and Co had gone forth to give battle to the foxes. Minute guns began to boom from the battlements. Amid all this sporting magnificence, the party proceeded in state up to Tower Hill, which commands an extensive view of the park and neighbouring country.
Lord Harry Harkaway quitted the curious cavalcade as it reached the foot of the hill, to join his poor neglected hounds, now wending their way with the servants in the bottom, his lordship wearing the dejected air of a man under orders to make a fool of himself.
“Well, this is the rummest go I ever saw,” observed his lordship to Tom Tiptop, his huntsman, as he reached the latter.
“Oh, it’s all my eye, my lord,” replied Tom, taking off his cap; “there hasn’t been a fox here these five years;” adding, “they are going to turn down a brace of things on the other side of the hill that have been in a sack these three days, poor things.”
“The best thing would be to make a drag of one of them,” observed his lordship.
“I believe it would,” replied the huntsman, “and so be done with it at once, and then we might draw homewards, for it’ll be night before we get away, if we don’t.”
