by R S Surtees
Scarcely has Mark brushed away the mud-specks, and rectified the little derangements of the road, greeted his acquaintance, and made a general survey of the scene, ere the hounds heave in sight, lobbing along in long-drawn file on either side of the road, in the careless indifferent sort of way fox-hounds travel to cover. There are only a couple of scarlet coated men with them, Horneyman the first whip, who would be huntsman if his master ever gave him a chance by being away, and “Michael,” who, like Mark, most likely has some other name, if one did but know it.
Horneyman is a slight, slim, middle-aged man, while Michael is a little, short-legged, roundabout fellow, who sits like a sack, and looks us though he might be rolled about any where without hurting. And many rolls, and bumps, and thumps he gets in the course of the, season, for he has no notion of turning, and has many a rough line to fight for himself. Lord Marchhare has been known to make a special expedition into the vale for the sole purpose of having a cram across country with Mr. Jessop’s men, old Halth and Contentment never indulging his lordship’s taste that way.
The gay cavalcade approaches, and now a gentle rate from Horneyman stops old Gidan, who as usual is well in advance of the pack, and all at once the head recedes, the tail advances, and twenty couple of great lushing fox-hounds arrive in a solid mass instead of in the loose straggling lines in which they had been travelling. Gladsome now throws his tongue joyfully as if to announce their arrival, and Chorister takes up the note with redoubled vigour.
“Ge-n-tly, old Noisy,” says Homeyman, with a smile and a shake of his head, and Chorister, knowing the reproof is all moonshine, makes another proclamation, louder, if possible, than before.
Horneyman then, turning off the road, takes up a position on the deserted Aunt Sally ground, a little on the left of the hill, where on the comfortable flat the hounds have ample space to roll and refresh themselves. The foot people now gather round criticising and identifying their favourites, and making the acquaintance of those they had not seen before. Horneyman then looks at his watch, and giving the exact time, — twenty minutes past ten, — a general drawing out of watches ensues, whose time is as various as their make, the Lockerby blacksmith’s hour being noon, Cooper, the gentleman with the calves, eleven, Skittle’s ten, Willowford’s nine, and Savage’s a little after seven. The shepherds and countrymen who go by the sun expressing their opinion that Horneyman’s watch will be right, the rest set theirs by it, and fresh reinforcements of horse and foot arriving, a large ring is now formed, hounds, Horneyman, and Michael inside, foot people in front, grooms and second horsemen hovering around.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
THE UNION HUNT.
THE FIRST PERSON or thing to arrive anywhere is sure to attract more attention and to make a greater impression on the bystanders than any who come after. The first lady at a ball, the first soldier at a review, the first horse on a race-course, the first carriage at a drawing-room, all stamp themselves upon the mind, and become prominent features of the whole. The rustling pink moire antique, with its lace and flowers, as it descends from the carriage, under the guidance of both fair hands, seems richer and finer than any of the silks or satins or moire antiques that follow, so the first soldier who trots into Hyde Park is regarded as a hero, and the first carriage that rolls down St. James’s Street is sure to hold a beauty — though she may be all feathers and flowers.
The first real great man to arrive at Hassocks Heath Hill on this occasion was one that ordinary individuals would call the Duke of Tergiversation’s stud-groom, but whom the Duke himself dignified by the title of his Master of the Horse. This was Mr. Hawkins —
MR. HAWKINS,
MASTER OF THE HORSE, he put upon his cards, a stout, solemn-looking, grey-whiskered, grey, headed man — we beg pardon, gentleman — in scarlet, leathers, and cap, who the servants called “Sir,” and touched their hats to. If Mr. Hawkins had only had a few decent horses to be master of, he would have filled the office remarkably well, as it was he was very weak in the department over which he professed to preside. That, however, was more the Duke’s fault than his, his Grace having no notion of the division of labour and insisting upon Hawkins’s horses doing everything — hunting, hacking, outriding, leather-plateing — anything — even going to the Post if required. Then, as his Grace was not in great repute as a paymaster, the farmers did not press their produce upon him, and Hawkins was often obliged to put up with only indifferent forage. He now comes to cover at the head of half-a-dozen screws which would be much better condensed into three. There are two for the Duke, two for the Earl, and two for the Prince, our old white friend with the triumphant ends, Timour the Tartar, as he is called, being one of the two for the latter. It is to be hoped that their numbers impose upon somebody, and tend to keep up what the Duke calls his po-o-sition in the county.
The first real accredited sportsman to arrive is our old friend Mr. Archey Ellenger, who has lain all night at farmer Hobday’s, at Dumbleton, and Hobday having had to breakfast early in order to attend Mayfield market, has caused Archey to turn out earlier than he liked. His old rusty red coat and cords contrast badly with Mr. Hawkins’s smart scarlet and leathers, and Hawkins returns Archey’s familiar “good morning” with a sort of salute that as good as says, “I don’t know whether I’ll touch my cap to you or not.” Horneyman and Michael merely move theirs a little, as though they were not quite comfortable on their heads. Meanwhile the plot thickens and there is presently a great muster of horsemen, gentlemen in black coats, gentlemen in green coats, gentlemen in grey coats, gentlemen in pea-jackets, gentlemen in over-coats, and in every variety of legging. At length the red coats begin to arrive, those on cantering hacks showing their grandeur openly, those on wheels covering themselves up with warm wraps and rugs, — the yellow collars of the Duke’s men distinguishing them from the plain reds of Mr. Jessop’s hunt. Of the former we have several of our old shooting acquaintance, the Duke having expressed a wish that as many of his friends should attend as possible. Our old friend, Captain Cambo, has invested his fat person in a very tightly-fitting old dress red with the yellow silk lining taken out, very fragile-looking white cords, and Rhinoceros-hide-like Napoleon boots. Then there is Tonguey Thomson, as noisy as ever, in a bran new yellow collared red coat, but a very seedy brown cap, also Mr. Daintry, both Brown, and Black White, George Wheeler — the crack man of the Duke’s hunt, who can beat everybody — also Captain Ambrose Lightfoot, on leave of absence from Preeland’s Lawn, Mr. Woodross, Mr. Young, Colonel Nettlestead, Mr. Leyland Langford, and several others all bent on distinguishing themselves in some way or other.
Punctual to the minute, up drove Mr. Jovey Jessop, with his Jug, the red hot boots of the latter corresponding with his own rubicund face, and after a standing up stare in the vehicle, to see if Mr. Bunting was come, Mr. Jessop chucked off his poncho and stood out the sportsman. Then there was the usual hailing and welcoming, and where-are-you-from-ing? and how’s old so and so? and have you seen Smith? and does anybody know anything about Mr. Bunting? Then somebody had seen a stranger on a bay coming very slowly, and Mr. Jessop wished Mr. Bunting mightn’t have mistaken the hour, thinking they met at eleven instead of half-past ten; and after consuming some ten minutes in unprofitable talk, he at length hollowed out to Mark, “Well, give me my horse; and you,” addressing the Jug’s lad, “stay here till Mr. Bunting comes, and then show him the way to the cover.”
“Horse!” exclaimed Mr. Archey Ellenger, “horse! why, don’t you know the Duke’s coming?”
“Ah, true, I forgot,” replied our now somewhat crest-fallen master, wincing at the persecution he felt he would have to undergo. “Well,” said he, flopping his broad chest with his arms, and stamping to get his feet warm, “I suppose we must wait. It will give Mr. Bunting a chance too, so let’s have a run up the hill and see if we can see anything of them.” So saying our master started up hill like a stag, followed by several dismounted equestrians, who all found running in boots was not quite so easy
as running in shoes.
There was no Duke visible, but Mr. Bunting was coughing his way on the Exquisite in a most uncompromising manner.
“By Jove, what a cough that horse has got!” muttered Mr. Jessop, thinking he would not like to ride him. He then ran down the other side of the hill, and greeted our hero with a hearty shake of the hand.
“I’m sorry your horse doesn’t mend of his cold,” observed Mr. Jessop, thinking, as he now looked at him, that it would be very odd if he did.
“Why, no, he doesn’t,” replied Mr. Bunting, still unwilling to admit that he had been imposed upon.
“Well, you’ve got here, at all events,” observed our master; adding, “and I’ve brought you a horse that can go — ride him just as you like, you know. If you want to go first, you’ll follow my whip — if you want to go safe, you’ll follow my friend, Mr. Boyston, who knows every gate and gap in the country. By the way,” continued he, “let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Boyston,” leading Mr. Bunting onward to where the Jug still sat slouching and smoking in the dog-cart.
“Boyston!” cried Mr. Jessop, “Boyston! Let me introduce MR. Bunting. Mr. Bunting, Mr. Boyston; Mr. Boyston, Mr. Bunting.” Whereupon Mr. Boyston showed Mr. Bunting his bristly black head, and Mr. Bunting returned the compliment by uncovering his well tended curls. The acquaintance was then perfected. “I’ve been telling Mr. Bunting,” continued Jovey, addressing the Jug, “that you can pilot him safely if he’s inclined to put himself under your cure.”
“No man safer!” exclaimed Archy Ellenger, who always liked to throw in his word — adding aside, “and run him to ground in somebody’s kitchen” — the Jug and Archy sometimes clashing in their predatory exploits.
Mr. Jessop now looked at his watch, and finding it was above half an hour after time, a most unusual circumstance with him, exclaimed at the top of his voice, “Does anybody know that the Duke of Tergiversation is coming? I say, you sir!” addressing the pompous-looking yellow-collared stud groom, “Do you know that the Duke of Tergiversation is coining?”
“Yes, sir, his Grace is coming,” replied Mr. Hawkins confidently; “also the Earl of Marchhare, and His Royal Highness the Imperial Prince Pirouetteza. These horses are for them,” added he, putting his own a little forward, as if to astonish our master with the number and importance of the establishment.
“A bonny lot they are,” sneered Mr. Archey Ellenger, sufficiently loud for Mr. Hawkins to hear; an observation that was duly reported to Mr. Cucumber, and entered on the chronicles of the castle. Archey’s chance of a dinner there then became extremely small.
Ten minutes more elapsed, and as the most patient of even the Duke’s men were beginning to wax weary, and to ask Mr. Jessop how long he would wait, the glad word “coming” was heard, which speeding from mouth to mouth, put a little animation into the party, and caused them to make preparations for a start.
They were, however, somewhat premature in their movements, for the Duke, treating Mr. Jessop’s hounds quite as his own, after the usual lofty salutations were over, his Grace called to Mr. Jessop to bring the hounds up to the carriage for the Prince to inspect. And the Duke’s covers being good, and of great use to Mr. Jessop, he had no alternative but to submit with as good a grace as he could, and hear the Duke and the Prince pass their opinion upon them. They asked the name of this hound and of that, their dams and their sires, talked of their colour, their size, and their general appearance. “Pretty tails,” said the Prince, “tipped with pink.” At length the Prince, thinking to say something agreeable to his Grace, observed “Dat dey ver not quite all so moch of von same size as de oders,” pointing to Ginger and Viper in confirmation of what he said. Whereupon Mr. Jessop, unable any longer to restrain himself, exclaimed, “Why, dash it, man, those are the terriers!” and immediately recollecting himself, with a slight whistle and a wave of the arm he got the hounds away from the carriage, and making his way to his horse jerked his head to the Duke’s stud-groom as a hint for him to advance with his Grace’s. Getting them mounted, however, was easier said than done, for upon the gallant war-horse being again presented to the Prince, His Highness declared emphatically he would not have him — He vod no more Timour de Tartars — dat he had bomped him till he vas sores. And though Mr. Hawkins tried to cajole him that he was only to ride him the first part of the run, the Prince absolutely refused to have anything more to do with de Tartar; exclaiming, “No, no, get me anoder horse! get me anoder horse!” So Hawkins was obliged to substitute Rob Roy, who had rather a critical leg, and required careful riding, which he was not very likely to get at the hands of the Prince.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
BRUSHWOOD BANK.
AT LENGTH THEY all get mounted to their liking, Prince, Earl, Duke and all, and his Grace having followed up his pretended supremacy by telling Mr. Jessop to draw Brushwood Bank first (which Jovey always did) the cavalcade was formed, hounds leading, the field following in long-drawn file, with a strongish inclination of sportsmen towards the Prince. That great man was as affable as usual, asking a variety of sensible questions, and hoping they would exterminate those diabolical foxes, and so give de chickens peace and repose. He seemed to consider it a monstrous grievance that they should be fed upon fowls. Tonguey Thomson supported His Highness’ view, and gave a variety of instances of Reynard’s extravagant housekeeping, such as killing a whole brood of turkeys at once, and helping himself to the earliest lambs, all of which the Prince thought very improper, but could not for the life of him understand why it was necessary to keep so many dogs to kill him—” Vot for dey didn’t get de gon?”
Our hero, Mr. Bunting, now mounted on the light-mouthed springey high-conditioned Pioneer — so different to the weak flobl y animal he had come on, was beset by our friend Mr. Archey Ellenger, who was delighted to find Mr. Bunting had come into the country to hunt, and hoped he would give him the pleasure of his company to dinner — Friday, Saturday, Sunday, any day he liked. All were alike to Archey, Mr. Bunting would always find fish, joint, and a pudding at six, and a bottle of Cutler and Ferguson’s best. And though Mr. Bunting did not think that Mr. Ellenger looked a likely man to have a very capital ménage; yet, knowing it was not always safe to judge from appearances, after a good deal of pressing he agreed to accept Archey’s hospitality on the Sunday. And, this preliminary arranged, Archey presently scuttled away looking about for some body to meet him.
Brushwood Bank stands well in the heath, far from human habitation or trespass, the cover being formed in a sort of copse wood oval scoop, stretching half-way up the south side of Thorneyburn Hill, to which our master was now approaching. Whichever way a fox goes, he must he viewed by the whole field, a great recommendation to wavering sportsmen — who like to know what they are riding at. Though Mr. Jessop was constantly drawing it, and almost as constantly killing his fox from it, yet such was its attractions that it was seldom or ever without one. The hounds now approached it in a lively sort-of-way as if they knew they would find him. Having been detained long enough at the meet, Mr. Jessop was not going to give his Grace a second chance by halting at the cover side, so trotting up to the accustomed corner, he gave the glad pack their liberty, and in they went with an impetus that made the old bushes crackle and bend.
“What does he mean by throwing off before we came up!” exclaimed the Duke to Mr. Hawkins, who was now riding respectfully a little behind his Grace.
“Don’t know your Grace,” replied Mr. Hawkins touching his cap, adding “shall I ride forward and see;” but before his Grace could give his commands, a loud sonorous voice was heard exclaiming, “Now, GENTLEMEN, FOLLOW ME, AND DON’T MAKE A BOW!”
It was the voice of the Jug, who was comptroller of the field as well as of the household, and in the execution of his duty was now endeavouring to muster the field in one spot, but it being composed of more unruly elements than usual, the Jug had to repeat his exhortation several times, and even to summons some of the delinquents by name ere he could get them to co
mply with his request. Meanwhile the glad pack has scattered, each taking the line he thinks most likely to lead up his game. Rummager, Speedwell, and Valiant push on to where they found him last time without troubling to try the intermediate places.
One crack of Mr. Jessop’s whip stops their career, and startles old Reynard, who is reposing in a most comfortable reedy grass couch, under the stump of an old tree. Rising up and giving himself a shake, he listens attentively to the echoing voice, and satisfying himself that the cheer he now hears, is the same sound that indicated mischief before, he steps deliberately out of his lair, and looking a-head seeing the coast is clear, resolves to vacate by the line that served him before. So he deliberately passes down the hill, and getting upon the old wood track crouches along the overhanging bushes till he comes to the widening exit place, which, being clear, he dashes boldly out with a whisk of his well-tagged brush, that as good as says, “Now Jovey my boy, catch me if you can.”
Horneyman who is perched up aloft in a thicket, has his cap in the air, the instant the fox appears, and as the assembled field get a view, such a discordant roar arises as would scare a lion from his prey. The Jug’s meeting is forthwith dissolved.
“He’s away for Haselwood Banks,” cries fanner Jackman hauling his great hairy-heeled horse round the reverse way to what the fox is going “I’ll lay a guinea he goes to Castleford Gorse,” exclaims Captain Cambo, spurring and hustling his half-fed screw along as though he were the best horse in the field.
Then there is such a looking out for leaders, and such enquiries as to who knows the way over Elvington bog. Meanwhile Mr. Jessop, Horneyman, with George Wheeler at his heels, Lord Marchhare, with Mr. Black White in attendance on him, have slipped quietly away, and as Michael emerges from the cover with the last of the tail hounds, the line of gallop is formed, and a great amount of daring energy is ready for action so long as there is no leaping.
