by R S Surtees
The sight acted electrically on the party: Mr Sterling finished his tea, Mr Romford took the woodcock leg in his fingers, and old Bags quaffed off his half-cup of coffee at a draught. They were then presently up and at the window. Bridget went out with the bread, cheese, and ale on a tray, while Mr Sterling unlocked the cellaret, and produced cherry brandy and liquors for those who chose to partake of them. In came Bonus, and Dennis, and Bankford, and two or three other never-miss-a-chancers. Meanwhile our host and his guests are off to the stable, where the horses are turned round in the stalls all ready for a start. They mount and away, Romford on the Baker, late Placid Joe, Bags on his eighteen-years-old bay horse, still called the “colt,” and Mr Sterling on a five-year-old iron grey of his own breeding. Thus they come round to the front, to receive the “sky scrapes” of the men, and the “mornins” and “how are ye’s?” of the field. Then more horsemen came cantering up, and more went into the house. At length the time being up — say a quarter to eleven — and Mr Facey making it a rule never to wait for unpunctual people, be their subscriptions ever so large, now gives a significant jerk of his head to Swig, which, communicating itself to Chowey, the two instantly have their horses by the head with the lively hounds bounding and frolicking forward the way the horses are going. The foot-people run and open the white gates, the parti-coloured cavalcade follow in long-drawn file, and the whole are presently in front of Light-thorn-rough — a cover so near the house and yet so secluded as almost to look like part of the premises. A deep triangular dell of some three acres in extent, abounding in blackthorn, gorse, broom, and fern, presenting in every part dry and most unexceptionable lying. The bridle-gate leading to it was always kept locked, and there was no foot-road within three quarters of a mile of it. Here indeed a fox might repose. Some persons are always certain that covers will hold a fox — even though they may have been shooting in them the day before — and keep repeating and reiterating the assertion up to the very moment of testing its accuracy. “Sure to be there! — sure to be there! Certain as if I saw him!” perhaps with a view of hiding their delinquency. Mr Stanley Sterling was not one of the positive order. He knew the nature of his wild animal too well to be bail for his appearance. So in answer to numerous inquiries if they are likely to find, he merely says he “hopes so,” and then takes up a quiet position for a view, a point from whence he can see without being seen himself.
“Cover hoick! — cover hoick!” now cries Mr Facey Romford, and in an instant he has not a hound at his horse’s heels. The “Hurl’s” man, and the man with the mouth too, have deserted him, the former to take up a position by the beeches above, the latter to hide his ugly face in the dip of the dell.
“Eleu in there! — eleu in!” cheers our Master, as Gamester and Woodbine take a flourish towards a slope of close-looking gorse.
“Very likely place to hold a fox,” observed he to himself, pulling a sample out of his beard and inspecting it. “Please, gentlemen, keep together! and don’t holloa!” now cries he, looking round at the chatterers, — Mr Bonus asking after Mrs Hemming’s horse, Mr Daniel Dennis wondering if it was going to rain. He has got his best coat on, and forgotten to look at his weathercock to see whether it is a safe venture or not.
Like the Ashby Pasture gorse in Nimrod’s celebrated Leicestershire run, the cover soon begins to shake in various parts, the obvious effect of some twenty couple of hounds rummaging about it. The vibration increases with more activity towards the juniper bushes in the centre of the cover.
“Have at ’im there!” cheers Mr Romford, with a crack of his whip, as if to awake a sleeping fox from his trance. “Have at ’im there!” repeats he, in a still louder key, now standing erect in his stirrups, contemplating the rich sea of bright undulating gorse. The vibration of the bushes increases, varied with the slight crackle from the snapping of rotten branches in the more open parts. “Fox, for a ‘underd,” muttered Mr Romford, now buttoning the second top button of his “Tick,”— “Fox, for a ‘underd!” repeats he and scarcely are the words well out of his mouth ere the short sharp yap, yap, of Pincher the terrier is followed by the deep sonorous voice of old Thunderer proclaiming the fact. “Hoick to Thunderer! hoick!” cheers Mr Romford, now standing on tip-toe in his stirrups, gazing intently on the scene, his eyes raking every corner of the cover, like Daniel Forester’s on dividend-day.
And now the melody increases — twofold, threefold, fourfold, fivefold, tenfold — now it’s all melody together —
More nobly full and swell’d with every mouth,
as Somerville — not our fair friend, but the poet — sings.
“Now,” as Romford asks, “where are all your sorrows and your cares, ye gloomy souls! or where your pains and aches, ye complaining ones! One holloa will presently dispel them all.”
“Hark! there it is! Talli-ho! a-w-a-ay! Talli-ho a-w-a-a-y — a-w-a-ay!” The “away” stretched to the length of the rope-walk. It’s Daniel, the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale’s Daniel, holloaing at the very top of his husky voice, each succeeding note becoming louder and better.
And now little Tom Chavey unfurls at once his proboscis and his flail-like whip, and with repeated “Get away, hounds! — get away!” seconds the sporting-like twang of Mr Romford’s horn. Then what a scatter there is of the late combined forces. The late clustered phalanx is dissolved; its component parts are flying here, there, and everywhere, each man looking after his own particular leader, to whom he trusts for that knowledge of the country that his flurry effaces. Where’s Jack? Where’s Joe? Where’s Tom? Then Mr Saddlebags rises greatly in public estimation, and whispers are heard among the uninitiated of “Stick to old Bags!”— “Follow Bags!”— “Bags knows every inch of the country.” And the Octogenarian gets the colt by the head and slips out at a corner into the grass fields on the left of the cover. There he commands the pack as they break — Thunderer first, Resolute next, Prodigal third, all the rest in a lump. Thunderer strikes the scent by the side of the wall, Prodigal endorses his dictum, and the rest of the pack adopt the same. Away they go like beans. And just at the critical moment the Honorary Secretary, who is riding a bay runaway with a dead side to its mouth, which has passed through half the hands in the country, gets the Pelham bit between its teeth, and charges into the thick of them, knocking over Rosamond and Rallywood, and scattering the rest right and left.
“Rot ye!” roars Romford, flourishing his whip, as he bounds over the stone wall that separates them— “Rot ye! what are ye after now? C-o-r-n-found ye, you riband-dealer,” adds he, as he gets up to him, “what brings yer out here?” exclaiming with a scowl, as he passes on, “you should be condemned to shop with two old maids for a month!”
Then, as the astonished hounds get themselves scrambled up, and the pack gathered together, our Master caps them on to where a countryman is halloaing the line of the fox from a gate.
“That’s him! — that’s him!” shouts the man, as Traveller and Trumpeter strike the scent just as the body of the pack come up, when, heads and tails being again united, and the scent first-rate, every hound settles to his fox, and away they go with the stream of the chase up at very high pressure. “Away! — away!” is the cry. The hounds seem to fly over the country like pigeons, now at Oakforth Green, now at Broadpool Banks, and anon at the wooden bridge over the Brent. Romford is with them; Swig and Chowey not far off; and Stanley Sterling is a little on the left, each going on his own particular line. The Baker has had the benefit of two holding clayey fallows, and may now resume the taking name of Placid Joe, while Mr Sterling’s five-year-old grey, after a few tail first presentations, begins to face his fences, and seems to enter into the spirit of the thing. He gathers courage as he goes. That is more, however, than some of the field do, for Bonus and Brankford, and two or three others who started with the hounds thinking it was a case of plain sailing, begin to tail off as fences supersede field-gates, and occupation-roads run out into the privacy of fold-yards. Then there is a grand diverge
nce either to the Corsenside Lane, down which Mr Saddlebags’ broad back may be seen hustling along in extremis, or in the direction of Heathery Top, towards which Mr Hubbock, the fat farmer, is gallantly leading. Either way will bring them to Berrington Hill, for which, if the fox is not pointing, he “did ought to be.” But the leaders are right! Ah, yonder yokel, leaning on his plough-stilts, has seen him pass through the sheep on the netted-off turnips, sending the stupid muttons scampering together in a crowd. Now they wheel about as if they are going to charge. Chaw halloas at the top of his voice, regardless of the fact that the hounds are in as full cry as the racing nature of the pace will admit.
“Hold your row!” shouts Mr Romford, brandishing his whip, but he might as well speak to the winds. The hounds, however, heed him not, and bustle forward on the scent with lively intrepidity Liberty leading, now Lucifer, now Old Sportsman coming to the front with his unerring nose. A sheet could cover them. Facey eyes them with pleasurable emotion, for he knows he has at least one man in the field who will appreciate their performance.
“For-rard! — For-rard! that’s the way of him!” shrieks he, as they again stretch into telescopic point towards the head. “There they go for the Darby!” shouts he.
Now he takes a startling stone-wall, at which the Baker bounds so as to hit his rider’s head against the branch of an impending ash and knocks his old hat right down over his nose.
“Rot the beggar!” exclaims Romford, spurring him across a rough fallow, extricating his head as he goes. He is now with the sheep and the chaw. The hounds rather falter on the turnips from the stain of the former, and the latter would infallibly have exercised his lungs again, only Mr Romford, keeping outside the nets, holds up his hand and enjoins him to silence, threatening to cram his whip down his throat. Old Sportsman applies himself diligently to the dilemma, and presently pilots them on to pure ground beyond.
“That’s the way on ’im!” cries Chaw, unable to contain his delight.
“Oi know it,” retorts Romford, digging his spurs freely into the Baker.
The hounds snatch themselves into progression, and away they strive as before, — Liberty leading, with Lucifer and Lavender contending for places. They are all of this year’s entry — or rather stealing — and he couldn’t have had better if he’d bought them.
“What’s the use o’ botherin’ and breedin’ and buying’,” thinks Facey, eyeing them, “if ye can have such as these for axin’ for? For-rard!” cheers he, “for-rard!” as Benedict and Brilliant now press to the front. “For-rard, all on ye! Wouldn’t take a hatful o’ money for ye!” adds he, now sousing himself luxuriously into his capacious saddle. The Baker and he have fairly settled the moot question which is master, and go quite amicably together.
Meanwhile the McAdamites and riders to points poured on in their respective pilgrimages, each hoping to jump with the hounds at some convenient point or other of the now prosperous chase, and be able to say they were well up at Howell Burn, or close to the hounds down Dovecot Lane.
This independent customer of a fox, however, we are sorry to say, did not conform to the long established custom of the country, and instead of crossing Fairyclough Fields, through Winforth Rig, and out at the back of Mr Heavycrop’s farm at Milkhope, which would have joined Saddlebags’ tail at Monkridge side-bar and Hubbock’s a little farther on, with head in air and distended brush, he took over the fine grassy moorland country, straight for Roughfield Hill, some three miles to the north; and the farther Bags and Hubbock went, the farther they got apart from the pack. At length, pulling up on Marygate Green, Mr Saddlebags, shading the sun from his eyes, sees the last of the field disappearing over the brow of Ravensdoune Hill, each individual horseman looking about the size of a marble.
“Bad job,” muttered the old man, pulling the colt short round, amid the “Which way-ings?” the “Oh dear-ings!” and “What a bore-ings!” of his followers. A pilot, like a prophet, never gets thanked. If he rides his tail right, they take the credit of it themselves; if wrong, then they blow him up sky high. “Bad job,” muttered old Bags, putting the colt at a stiffish, newly-switched fence. “Come up!” exclaimed he, spurring him freely, as the old horse winced and intimated his objection to the thorns. Then, perhaps thinking the fence the lesser evil of the two, he just bucked himself over into the next field. Bags then saw his line, and set off as hard as ever his horse could lay legs to the ground. Some follow, some say he is an old fool, and pull up, having had enough of the fray. Hubbock then takes another line, sorely pressed by his partisans.
Meanwhile, without the slightest regard to the ease or convenience of his followers, this truly game fox proceeds at the most punishing pace through the open-bottomed fir woods of Brakenside Law, without dwelling a moment, and onwards, still pointing north, up a portion of Kidland Hill, from whence a commanding view of the surrounding country is obtained. Here, having apparently surveyed the
Strange confusion in the vale below,
heard the distant cry of the hounds, the cheer of the hunters, and taken his bearings, he had apparently come to the conclusion that he would be safer in a country that he knew than in taking a turn over the other side of the hill on which he now stood. True, he had been there once or twice on predatory excursions; but when a fox is encumbered with an old fat hen or a goose on his back, he hasn’t time to pick his way to the best advantage. So our friend thought he wouldn’t venture any further that way. And being a fox of a good deal of decision and much firmness of purpose, he immediately turned his head to the west, and, running along a convenient sheep track, had a fine panoramic view of the trouble they were taking to catch him, — the clamorous hounds still pressing on in a cluster, Mr Romford yoicking and cheering them, Mr Stanley Sterling, in close attendance on Romford, Daniel Swig and Chowey riding side by side, and two or three horsemen — one in scarlet, two in dark clothes — labouring and sorrowing after them, inwardly wishing the hounds would throw up. Enough is as good as a feast, thought they. Then along a sandy streak, denoting the township road between Wandon and Ratchford, might have been seen, if he had not been in too great a hurry to look, the broad black back of Mr Hubbock, leading the variegated posse comitatus while the fortunate Bags creeps up with his cohort along the more favourable line of Woodridge and Stobfield House.
But a southerly wind wafts the melody of the hounds stronger and fresher than our friend likes to hear it, and not wishing to give his pursuers the unnecessary trouble of eating him, he casts the country quickly through his mind, and resolves to be indebted to his old friend, the badger at Brockholes, for shelter and hospitality. So, stealing quietly down the hill, and crossing the Bowershield Road unseen, he runs the “flat, dirty, and unpleasant” plain, with its holding drains and deep ravines. Then, having exhausted its conveniences, he creeps over the marshes to Ewesley, and at the back of the “Punch Bowl” at Newfold. So he makes a wide circle of Birdshope, skirting the tempting glades of Rosserton Wood, which, however, he is too hot to enter; and, skirting its eastern corner, he comes in sight of his projected point, the badger’s burrow at Brockholes.
If the badger is at home, he may have a fight for the berth; but still that is infinitely preferable to being dis-brushed, dismembered, and who-hoop’d by Mr Facey Romford and his curs. So, putting his best leg first — and he had four uncommonly good ones — he tottled away in right energetic earnest, stopping occasionally as he reached rising ground to listen what was going on behind. At first he thinks “all is serene,” then that he hears the noisy wretches far behind, next that they are coming his way, and finally, that he had better be going. So away he trots as before. And at a good, steady, holding pace, never fatiguing himself, but husbanding his strength, lest he should either have to fight at the door or pass on in search of repose. He presently reaches the sandy, oak-root-entwined entrance at the high point of Thristleton Wood, where, with right foot erect, he pauses for an instant and listens, to be quite sure that the hounds are coming. He thinks not. All is st
ill. They have apparently had enough of it. Not the first time he has beaten a pack of hounds. Yet hark! Yap, yap, yough, yough! — For-rard! for-rard! there they are again. Confound their pertinacity! how they stick to a fellow’s tail. What a shame! Forty great hounds setting upon one fox. But it was no time for moralising; so, being at the mouth of the badger’s earth, he just popped in, taking his chance of a fight at the door.
Fortunately for our fox, the badger was a great fat plethoric animal, fond of ease and good living, and having several chambers to his burrow, he had laid up in an inner one, so that our friend had nothing to do but pop into an unoccupied room near the entrance. He was an unsociable badger, and seldom saw company. And scarcely had our fox got himself suited, than the loud baying of a hound filled the whole cavern with noise, causing the badger to growl and plant his great head at his bedroom door for self-defence. And further withdrawn, but still most uncomfortably near, arose the general clamour of the pack, the whole now crowned with stentorian yells of “Who — hoop!” and “who-hoop!” It was the voice of old Romford, backed by those of Chowey and Swig, and the badger, being now fully alive to his situation, makes a vigorous dash at the intruder in his entrance hall, and sends Ringwood yelping and yammering out to his comrades.
Then there was a council of war what to do, some wanting the fox dug, others “let alone,” in the course of which Mr Romford’s opinion was loudly appealed to.
