Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  ‘He was,’ said Robin, with gusto. ‘We salted him in a trough made out of an old tree trunk – we pinched the salt from a field outside the Chase where it had been put down for the cattle and we smoked the hams. They were about the best thing I’ve ever tasted, Smokoe!’

  ‘You ain’t tasted my smoked venison yet, master,’ said Smokoe with a wink.

  Later that evening all three outlaws foregathered at the shack and helped Smokoe skin the deer. It was hard work but Smokoe managed it in a remarkably short space of time. It was obviously not the first time he had done the job. When at last the skin was off and the stag jointed up, Smokoe straightened his back with a grunt.

  ‘A grand skin that, master, better’n than that badger skin wot was give to Doctor Bowers. ’Ee told me about it. But don’t go givin’ this away. I’ll cure it fer you and it’ll make you a good mat to take ’ome with you.’

  ‘An’ don’t forget,’ said the old charcoal burner, as they said goodnight, ‘you’re all a-cummin’ to me fer Christmas! You leave the venison with me!’

  20. The Bells of Brendon

  To the dweller in the wilds who has any understanding of nature, there is no such thing as ‘bad’ weather. Snow and frost may be nasty things in the great hive of a city – indeed, they are most unpleasant. If snow falls in the busy streets during the night it has lost its freshness in an hour or two and becomes like coffee pudding. But out in the wild woods it is very different. The only type of weather which can be termed in any way depressing in the country is when it rains steadily from a grey winter sky. Such rain in summer is often very refreshing and delightful, but when the skies are leaden and the air chill nothing attractive can be said of it.

  These sparkling days of snow which now came to the Chase so seasonably were quite as beautiful in their way as the loveliest days of early summer; indeed the snow-laden trees and thickets were more picturesque. And after the heavy fall there came frost, hard glittering frost, powdering the snow into tiny crystals which winked and flashed in the pale winter sunshine.

  Against the sunlit snow the trees and bushes glinted also; every twig and branch was covered in a film of ice. Each day was to a pattern now. Soon after eight o’clock the large crimson sun appeared, mounting in a low arc over the forest. Then, as evening advanced, and the sun reddened once again, the snow, where the rays caught it, likewise took on a rosy light. In the shadows it changed to blue. Few people realize how blue is the tint of snow. The dense thickets and brakes were purple-black against this dazzling background; the mystery of the trees was increased.

  Yet men did not trouble about this beauty; not a soul thought it worthwhile to venture into the cold, silent Chase. Why should they? There was nothing to see there but endless aisles of oaks, twisting ridings and knee-high drifts which made progress wearisome. Those folks with town minds would have been acutely unhappy in the Chase, just as the outlaws would have almost expired if they had found themselves transported to the middle of a great city, with brilliant shops all about them and the din of wheels in their ears.

  The smell of the Chase was more poignant now winter had come. As soon as the frost and snow arrived the old smells of damp musty leaves and sodden trees were replaced by an indescribable odour. That smell of the snow … there is nothing to describe it! It was a keen lung-shrivelling aroma; above all, it was a clean pure smell, like a disinfectant manufactured by nature. Just as the great expanse of sea gives off its own perfume, so the vast acres of that snow-covered forest land had their own particular essence.

  The outlaws now presented a very pitiable appearance. Their underclothes would hardly hold together. Their stockings were useless. In a very short time after they came to the Chase they had had to discard the latter. The heels had worn through and they had no patient squaws sitting in the camp to remedy such matters.

  Their coats made from rabbit skin answered well enough, but the kilts were not so successful. These they had now – with great labour and the help of Smokoe – converted into trousers which reached to their ankles. There was never any shortage of rabbit skins. And they had also made leather leggings which fastened with little hoops. Buttons defeated their ingenuity and though Smokoe had suggested he should buy some for them in Cheshunt Toller the boys found that the sewing of them to the leather was beyond them. It was not so much that they could not sew the buttons in place, but that they would not stay put and twigs and briars wrenched them off.

  They had made themselves moccasins of fox skin and very good they proved to be. Their old shoe leathers served as a foundation, much patched and padded, but they could not devise waterproof footgear and now the snow had come they suffered agonies. But so healthy had been their life and so gradual had been the hardening process, they took no harm. Not one of them had had a cold since they had come to the Chase. Each boy possessed a fine pair of squirrel-skin mittens. All these articles of clothing were stitched with the cobbler’s thread which Little John had brought from Brendon.

  A great argument arose over the stag which Robin had shot, whether or not to use the skin as a rug – as Smokoe suggested – or cut it up for clothing. The latter course was decided upon and when Smokoe had cured it and made it supple – I am afraid the outlaws had been too lazy to cure it themselves – they constructed some very workmanlike moccasins which were much better than their old outworn makeshifts. Now that winter had set in they suffered from cold at night, despite the fact they had numerous pelts of their own trapping which served as blankets. But Smokoe procured them some old sacks stuffed with straw and these proved warm mattresses.

  Somehow or another, despite all this glorious snowy weather and the sparkling days, the outlaws felt a vague sadness. They knew this idyllic existence could not last forever. It was all very well to lie on one’s back and watch the firelight leaping like red and orange antlers, and say, ‘We’ll live here always, we won’t go back to the old life.’ Alas! They knew that in England at any rate such an ambition was utterly impossible. A ‘civilized’ people in a highly cultivated island had advanced beyond that stage. One had to work and work and not lead a selfish existence such as theirs. They knew that in the New Year their people were coming back, and then it would be goodbye, perhaps forever, to this free forest life.

  But in the case of the boys their passion for hunting and fishing and – for Robin especially – their love of the open air and nature had got the better of them. Perhaps they were throwbacks to the time when every man and woman lived as they were living, hunting for food and dwelling in caves and holes in trees. There are worse things in life than that.

  To these three boys had come the opportunity to live that wild savage existence for a while. They had seized it, rightly or wrongly, damning the consequences.

  The Blind Pool was frozen over at last. Smokoe told the outlaws that in all the time he had lived in the Chase he never remembered it happening before, and he had seen some pretty severe winters. The outlaws bored round holes in the thick ice of the pond, and lowering wriggling red worms impaled on fish hooks, caught many red-finned lusty perch and one small jack of one pound weight. Even the wildfowl ceased to frequent the pool, for every particle of moisture was locked fast. All save the Blindrush, which still flowed gallantly under a roof of green ice. The outlaws broke open the stream to get their water and one morning Big John actually flushed a snipe from one of these water holes within fifty yards of their camp. And there was evidence in the snow that other creatures came to drink during the still and silent hours of night: deer and foxes, stoats and weasels, and other wild woodland creatures.

  The nights were now so cold that after supper the outlaws usually huddled in the tree instead of lying round their fire. But they had a camp fire just the same and it was grand fun roasting chestnuts in the embers and watching the wonderful effects of the firelight on the snowy trees and bracken.

  One night, exactly a week before Christmas, they were sitting thus in the tree after supper talking about the coming Christmas dinner at Smok
oe Joe’s.

  ‘It won’t be much good hangin’ up a stocking,’ said Little John, ‘even if we’d got one to hang up, and there won’t be any presents for anybody.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of Christmas trees, anyway,’ said Robin with a grin, ‘and I don’t see any reason why Father Christmas shouldn’t come along just the same to put something in your stocking, Little John, or anything else you care to hang up. My gracious, what fools we were to believe in Father Christmas! When I learnt there was no such person I felt the grown-ups had played us a dirty trick!’

  The Blind Pool

  ‘I’d like to give something to Smokoe though,’ said Big John. ‘Can’t we think of something?’

  ‘No more going into Brendon thank you!’ said Little John. ‘I’ve never had such a narrow squeak in all my life. That reminds me, I think we ought to give Doctor Bowers something, he’s been awfully decent not to give us away. But there you are, there aren’t any shops in the Chase.’

  ‘No, thank heaven for that!’ exclaimed Big John with fervour. ‘I’d like to give Smokoe a rifle like Rumbold’s. He’d give his eyes for it. I’ve seen him looking at it often. But there you are, we can’t give anybody anything this Christmas,’ he ended gloomily.

  ‘You’re not suggesting that we go back to Cherry Walden for Christmas, are you, Big John?’ enquired his elder brother.

  ‘Heaven forbid! What do you take me for? Anyway, we should all be locked up and have bread and water instead of venison. I’m not worrying; we shall knock up some fun with Smokoe.’

  Nobody spoke. It was an absolutely windless night, so still you could have heard a mouse rustle on the other side of the clearing. It was freezing again too and the snow was as deep as ever. As they lay there they were aware of a distant musical hum which came and went, and it was some time before any of them realized what it was. Then it suddenly dawned on Robin. ‘Why, my merry men, those must be Brendon bells! Listen!’

  Yes, indeed they were the bells, practising for Christmas! There had been no other time during their whole stay in the Chase that they had felt so homesick as they did then. Each boy was thinking of the lighted windows in the village, the brave display in the post office window at Cherry Walden. The usual rows of bottled sweets and picture postcards, Cherry Walden Church, The Vicarage, The Willow Pool, would have given place to brightly painted toys, yellow pop guns, toy soldiers, crackers and holly, and down four strings stretched from top to bottom of the window panes little blobs of cotton wool which were meant to suggest snow to the more imaginative minds.

  They thought of the steaming turkey and the holly sprigs over the Roundhead’s helmet in the hall, and the morning service in Cherry Walden church with the Whiting, redder in the face than ever, preaching his Christmas sermon.

  And then the sentimental Big John fell to thinking of the wonderful dance at the Bramshotts’, the breathtaking magnificence of it all, the huge Christmas tree with a present for everyone and Squire Bramshott talking to peppery old Sir William Bary about his pheasants. And then of course – Angela, and the dance. Ah me!

  Little John’s thoughts were busy with food, food of all kinds in such plenty that made mockery of the human stomach; turkeys, plum puddings, mince pies, pork pies, sausages, bread sauce – he was quite passionate over bread sauce – and, inwardly, he sighed too.

  Robin was thinking of the Brendon pantomime. That had been the high spot last Christmas.

  ‘I say, chaps, d’you remember Jack and the Beanstalk last year? My, but I enjoyed that. D’you remember the funny old red-nosed clown, dressed up as a tramp, who came and tried to sit next to Aunt Ellen and give her a string of sausages, and how everyone laughed?’

  The clearing rang with mirth at the long-forgotten incident.

  ‘Yes, when he moved off, Aunt Ellen had that “Spit, children” face!’ said Big John, choking until his eyes ran.

  ‘Yes, and d’you remember the fat lady who flew? It was the funniest thing in the show!’

  ‘I liked the giant best,’ said Little John. ‘D’you remember how he brandished his big spiked club and roared? I thought that was grand!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin after a pause, ‘and to think that it’s coming to Brendon this week – why,’ he exclaimed, ‘it will be on tonight, the first night!’

  ‘Ah well, don’t let’s talk about it,’ grunted Big John, ‘what’s the use, we’re poor outlaws, right in the middle of a forest, and we can’t go in this get-up anyway; besides we haven’t a penny left. Smokoe had the last shilling I had to get some bread with last time he went to Cheshunt. That fifteen bob lasted us jolly well though.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Robin. There was a pause. ‘The bells have stopped now!’

  ‘How quiet it is,’ whispered Little John. ‘I’m glad I’m not here alone!’

  ‘There’s the Plough up there,’ said Robin staring up, ‘and there’s the Pole star up above him and Orion’s belt. That’s Orion’s belt way to the right. I don’t expect you can see it, Big John, from where you’re sitting, but it’s that little cluster of stars all close together.’

  ‘If I look too long,’ said Big John, ‘I get scared and don’t know where I am, or what I’m here for, or how I came here or anything. It’s rather a beastly feeling. Hark! There’s a fox barking, hear him?’

  Far away they heard the ‘augh augh’ of an old dog fox.

  ‘He’s over in the Crown larch woods,’ said Little John. ‘We’ll track him tomorrow and get his skin.’

  Robin had relapsed into thought again. He was not thinking of the stars, but of that lone padding fox slipping along through the crusty snow looking for his supper. ‘I’ll bet Smokoe will see his hens are pretty well barricaded in this weather; the foxes’ll go smelling round at night.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ burst out Big John. ‘Smokoe showed me their pad marks all round his hen house last time we were up there. He told me that he’d had one of his hens taken, too, during daylight.’

  ‘I’ll bet the old chap has been snooping about with Belching Bess just lately. I thought I heard it this afternoon. I shouldn’t be surprised if he won’t serve us up a pheasant on Christmas Day as first course!’

  The others laughed. ‘Yes, and he told me the deer had been at his winter greens, they broke the fence down. And, of course, the pigeons too. Smokoe was swearing away like anything about it.’

  ‘Well, chaps,’ said Robin, ‘it’s very nice sittin’ by the fire like this, but I’m for bed.’

  They stamped out the embers and smothered them with snow and a minute later the door of the tree was shut. It was cosy enough inside and each outlaw snuggled down under his fur pelts. They all slept close together now for warmth. And far away, over the snowy forest and bleak white fields, over the bare wold and the lonely shepherd’s huts, far away in Cheshunt Toller, the village ringers were trooping out from under the old church tower, their glowing lantern making grotesque shadows on the snow-capped gravestones.

  ‘Ah, it’s a sharp ’un agin tonight, Tom!’

  ‘Ah, it is an’ all!’

  21. The Christmas Dinner

  It was so quiet on Christmas Eve that Smokoe and the boys could hear the carol singers in Yoho serenading Doctor Bowers. They came from Cheshunt Toller and toured the district even as far as Martyr Bar.

  Smokoe had promptly turned down a suggestion that they – Smokoe and the outlaws – should go round carol singing on their own. ‘No, no, don’t ye think o’ anything so foolish. I ain’t fergot Buntin’ an’ Cornes ef you ’ave. The perlice ’ave a way o’ bidin’ their time like, an’ then reachin’ out an’ gettin’ yer. Don’t ye do it.’ But the suggestion had only been made in fun by Robin to see what the old man would say.

  ‘No, no,’ said Smokoe again, ‘our carril singers’ll be the ole owls, ’ark at ’em!’ And when they listened they heard them hooting all round the shack. ‘Never known ’em make so much noise,’ said Smokoe. ‘P’raps somethin’s disturbin’ on ’em.’

  ‘Maybe
it’s the cold that makes them hoot that way,’ said Big John, tickling Ben under the chin until he winked his big eyes. ‘Does Ben ever hoot back at ’em?’

  ‘Aye, that ’e do, wakes me up sumtimes wi’ ’is ’ollerin’. But ’ee won’t ever do it while the lamp’s lit, only when it’s dark.’

  The charcoal burner got up and poked the stove and a whole sheaf of bright gold cinders fell into the iron pan beneath. The little shack had been decorated with holly sprigs cut by Smokoe from the big trees near the Crown property. The wood pigeons and blackbirds had taken many of the berries; indeed, with the severe weather, Smokoe had found it quite a job to find enough.

  ‘We thought we heard your old gun go off the other day, Smokoe. Were you doing a bit of poaching?’ said Big John slyly.

  ‘Poachin’?’ asked Smokoe, with mock horror, ‘’Oo ever ’eard o’ old Smokoe Joe shootin’ one o’ ’Is Grace’s pheasants? But ’Is Grace ’as given me a good Christmas box.’

  ‘Our carril singers’ll be the ole owls’

  ‘A Christmas box, Smokoe? What is it?’

  Smokoe winked and went across to the bed in the corner. From under the mattress he pulled out a large bottle of port. ‘Allus sends me that, my masters, every Christmas, and a sovereign as well.’ He put his hand in his pocket and showed them the golden coin. ‘When I goes up to Cheshunt to the shop it’s allus there, every Christmas week, waitin’ fer me!’

  ‘That’s decent of the old boy,’ said Robin. ‘It seems to me that we’re the only ones who won’t have a Christmas box. You’re in luck!’

  Smokoe smiled. ‘Ah, ’Is Grace never fergets me, though I ain’t set eyes on ’im fer – let me see – must be four years now. Ah – must be four years – all that.’