THE OTTER—_Continued_
THE HUNT
THE Earthstopper, having snatched a little sleep in his arm-chair, has
returned to the lake to await the hounds. There he is, sitting on the
fallen tree over which the otter passed three hours ago. Its footprints
are marked on the sand between the lines of drift that tell of dwindling
springs on the moorland, and of the winds that ruffled the sinking lake.
In shape, the three acres of water resemble the shadow of a hand with
outstretched fingers. The rhododendrons cover the triangle of ground
between the narrow channel of the inflow and the creek next it; the
fingers of stagnant water are fringed with reeds. The old man is
wondering where the otter, if it has not returned to the cliffs, may be
lying up. His eyes wander to the likely places; to the island, to the
hollow banks, to the clump of bushes, to the reed-bed over which a mist
hangs, half veiling the blush of morning on the stems of the pines
beyond. He does not waste a glance on the bare bank opposite, or its
solitary willow whose tender green foliage stands out against the sombre
hillside. Turning his head he sees the hounds coming down the hill below
the cairn. They are not very wide of the line taken by the otter at
dawn. Only a small field is out. With Sir Bevil, who carries the horn,
are the parson, the doctor, and half a dozen others, keen sportsmen all
of them. Following in their wake are old Sir Lopes and Nute the
huntsman. Let me introduce the pack to you. Those rough-haired hounds
are Taffy and Gellert; the foxhounds are Troubadour, Merlin, Cunoval,
Vivien, Dawnsman, Padzepaw, Sweetlips, Jollyboy, Bucca, and Dozmary.
Better hounds never drew for an otter; but the terriers are the wonder
of this little pack. The one running alongside Dozmary is Vixen, who
never finds a drain too long or too wet. What battles she has fought
underground, her scarred head testifies. Then there is Venom. She is in
her usual place at Sir Bevil’s heels. A treasure she is, for she can
dive and enter the submerged mouth of a drain, and many an otter has she
thus dislodged from its holt.
“Well, Andrew,” said Sir Bevil, “did the otter come up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you manage to keep him up?” This with a smile, for he too had heard
the midnight tooting. “I hope so, but there’s no knowin’, he’s bin
heere,” said he, pointing to the tracks on the sand.
At that moment Jollyboy hits the line of the otter, throws his tongue
and, jumping the fallen tree, takes to the water. The rest of the pack
follows, Sir Bevil cheering them on. Swimming close to the bank, they
make for the head of the lake, the valley resounding with their music as
they pick up the scent left by the otter in his night’s fishing. They
are a pretty sight as they skirt the wall of pale green reeds fringing
the nearest creek and leave the water to enter the yielding cover.
Evidently the varmint has not been there, for excepting the sing-song
voices of the Welsh hounds, the pack is silent. Leaving the reed-bed
they cross the furthest creek and are lost to sight under the dense
rhododendron bushes. From there the few otters found at the lake have
been “put down,” and the field is on the tiptoe of expectation. But
expectations are seldom realised in otter-hunting. Not a sound comes
from the dark green thicket except the cheery voice of Sir Bevil, for
even Taffy and Gelert throw their babbling tongues no longer. Andrew’s
heart sinks within him as the hounds issue from the tenantless bushes
and make across the inflow towards the opposite strand. But why dwell on
his disappointment, now that the united pack—for Troubadour and
Jollyboy have swum over from the island and joined the others—are only
a good stone’s throw from the willow? To all appearance, they might
nearly as well expect to find an otter on an open beach. True, there are
a few bits of hollow bank, but the eye can safely pronounce them blank
at a glance, and as for the tree, it looks as solid as an oak. “Terribly
slow this,” says one of the field to his neighbour; may be it is so for
him; but it is an anxious moment for the listening varmint, whose
forepaws, the water, disturbed by the approaching pack, is beginning to
lap. He is not kept long in suspense. Dawnsman’s bell-like note
proclaims the find, and the next moment the frantic pack is baying round
the willow. Unable to get at the quarry, the hounds swarm round the
half-submerged trunk, pawing the bark in their helplessness; but the
otter does not budge. It is not fear that holds him there. He is
bristling with rage and ready to do battle for his life, but only by
compulsion will he leave his sanctuary. Not one of the field is up to
thunder at his walls with an otter-pole; but Venom, ever at hand, dives
and at last finds the entrance, more than a foot below the surface. The
otter sees the head of the terrier as it fills the hole, sees it rising
through the dark water. “Yap, yap,” followed by a short, sharp scuffle;
and the next moment the parson, who has hurried to the spot, views the
chain of bubbles which betrays the escape of the game. A loud
hew-gaze—what lungs the parson must have!—sends a thrill through the
field, who have already posted themselves at different points around the
lake. Not an eye is turned on the hounds, now following the game, not an
ear heeds their music; no, every one, even old Nute himself, who loves
the hounds and has come out to see them work, is watching the rippled
surface ahead to get a view of the wily varmint when he vents. As if
disdaining the shelter of the banks, the otter comes up in mid-lake and
floats there like a log, the water flush with his long back and his
beadlike eyes gleaming in the morning light. “A grand beast,” says the
doctor without taking his eyes off it. Yes, he is in the full pride of
his great strength and without the help of the field; the pack, good as
it is, would never tire him out. His back is towards the clamorous
hounds, and surely they will seize him; but no, just as Dawnsman draws
near, he dives, leaving a swirl behind him. When he comes up again he is
not thirty yards from the fall. It were tedious to relate every detail
of the hunt which went on for the next four hours, during which the
hounds, aided by the hew-gazes of the field, never give the quarry any
rest. At the end of that time the otter, somewhat exhausted by repeated
dives, which have been getting shorter and shorter, lands on the island.
Little respite does he get, for Padzepaw and Jollyboy, finding him
there, make him take to the water again, but at the expense of frightful
wounds. Then it is that Andrew gets a good view of the creature as he
seeks the shallows and swims close to the sandy bottom. With his
forepaws lying against his body he is propelling himself with his hind
feet. His movements are too rapid for the Earthstopper to see this, and
like a fleeting shadow the graceful creature is lost in the dark water.
It next lands on the muddy margin of the near creek and rests on a mass
of drift lying there. Old Nute is looking down at the fine beast over
the reeds. The pack is nearly on him before he dives, but by swimming
down the lake and doubling he succeeds in throwing off the hounds and
gaining the shelter of the rhododendrons unobserved. A few minutes’
breathing-space only does he get before Merlin, Dozmary and Vivien
discover his whereabouts. Smarting from their wounds, for all three of
them have been gripped by the otter and taken to the bottom of the lake,
they hesitate to attack the infuriated beast as he crouches there,
grinning and showing his blood-stained teeth. Not so Vixen; the moment
she arrives she flies at him and, the hounds closing in at the same
time, a terrible conflict ensues. Badly mauled though he is, the
formidable beast fights his way through his foes, gains the water and
dives with Vixen fastened to him. The terrier comes up after a time, but
the otter disappears as if by magic. Baffled of their quarry, the
maddened hounds draw nearly every hover, except the insignificant one
near the willow where the otter is resting with just his nostrils out of
water. Old Sir Lopes sees him there; but he keeps the secret, though
with some misgiving, to himself. Forty years ago he would have shouted
himself hoarse; but somehow he cannot give the hunted beast away this
morning. Knowing how it must end if he keeps to the lake, the otter
resolves to try and steal away across country to the Newlyn stream. It
is a desperate way out of the straits he is in, for it will probably
mean death in the open; but there is just the chance that he may reach
the safe drain below Buryas Bridge if he can only slip away unnoticed.
But how is this possible? The space between him and the gulley that
seams the steep rise by the ice-house is covered with turf that rabbits
have nibbled close. Uninviting avenue of escape this under the very eye
of the parson now posted near the willow, and with Merlin and Dawnsman
swimming at last towards the spot where he rests, his eyes watching the
hounds’ white legs through the clouded water. Yet at this critical
moment, when renewed hue and cry seem imminent, fortune favours the
hunted creature. A tally-ho—by whom given Andrew was never able to find
out—comes distinct and thrilling from the reed-bed at the head of the
remotest creek, and draws away most of the field and all the hounds. The
tremor of the bank caused by the hurrying feet at first fills the otter
with fresh alarm, but in the quiet that succeeds he raises his head and
listens.
“Wind him, my boys.” It is the Squire’s voice he can hear in the
distance. Thinking the moment propitious he steals from the water,
dashes across the sward, and presses up the gulley at the top of his
speed. His immediate point is a hover beneath a big rock below Skimiel’s
Bridge. The stream swirls round it, but a dry holt within is known to
all the wandering tribe of otters. Only by a miracle can the slow-footed
creature cover the two miles to it, before he is overtaken. Look at him
as he hurries along under the shelter of that stone wall, as he threads
his way among the furze bushes, as he glides like a monster eel through
the coarse grasses, where the dew lies heavy. You are conscious of the
great effort he is making to save his life. That dark spot below the
high bank is the rock he is making for, and it is the silver thread of
the stream surrounding it that you see sparkling here and there at the
foot of the rugged slope. Till now he has taken nearly a bee-line, but
will he dare to pass before the door of the farmhouse he is heading for,
where an old woman is feeding the geese and a black pig blocks the
narrow way. Do not wonder that this shyest of creatures recked not of
the shaking of the old woman’s apron, that he paid no heed to the pig
which ran him neck and neck for twenty yards before going off at a
tangent. With the lake now more than a mile behind, a posse of
constables should not make him deviate from his line. But hark! Faint
though the cry be, the otter hears it. Full well he knows that his
escape has been discovered, that at every stride the hounds are gaining,
and that there is no twist or turn on his hot trail to check them; but
he cannot add to his best pace. Look, he has left the furze and bracken
that hid his movements and is about to enter the reedy swamp which
separates him from the stream. On landing he does not, like the fox,
dwell to listen. No, some twenty yards below the rock he dives, nor does
he come to the surface until he has gained its shelter. To his dismay he
finds an otter in possession, one with whom he has mated. The cubs,
awakened out of their sleep, hiss at the hunted creature as his head
shows above the gurgling water. Only for an instant does he stay to lick
the bitch’s face with his hot tongue, then, after swimming down stream
for some distance he lands and, reckless for the moment of his own
safety, runs along the open bank in full view of the miller from
Nancothan, who has tottered up the valley to raise the flushet of the
mill stream. See! the old man is waving his white hat to attract the
approaching hounds: he is shouting too at the top of his feeble voice;
but the gallant beast keeps to the open bank, and not until he is past
the shallows where the moorland cattle stand on sweltering days does he
dive, fleeing like a shadow below the surface, more determined than ever
to gain the safe drain he set out to reach. On reaching the stream most
of the hounds take to the water, and just as Venom is getting
dangerously near the rock Cunoval hits the downward line. Rallying to
his cry, the pack flash along the bank and rapidly lessen the distance
separating them from their distressed quarry.
Seeing the direction they are taking, the field, by a short cut, come up
with them by the mill, where they have met with a check. Across the
chord of a bend the hounds recover the line, and taking to the bed of
the stream pass under Nancothan Bridge. The otter hears them coming, but
another check gives him a slight advantage, and surely now he will reach
the drain. Vain hope! Between him and his objective, in the narrow
passage between two rocks that contract the stream, stands the
Earthstopper. On finding that the otter had stolen away from the lake he
guessed it would make for the sea, and has hurried across country to
intercept it. Breathless after his long run, he has hardly taken up his
position before he sees the otter coming towards him, breaking the water
in its frantic hurry. Bang up against his legs it comes, and as it
retreats up stream, the excited hounds come round the bend and swim over
it. Nearly exhausted by its efforts, the beast takes shelter under a
bank facing its old path to the lake, and when Sir Bevil has rushed
past, it dives, crosses the stream, glides between the flags, and
following the track it knows so well, presses up the hill as best it can
towards the plantation where the Earthstopper had found its tracks.
“Se—seen the otter, Andrew?” gasps Sir Bevil.
“Yes, sir, he’s gone up strame, he’s touchin’.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: A HAUNT OF THE OTTER. [_Face page 82._]
* * * * *
The horn recalls the reluctant hounds, revelling in the scent that the
stream carries down. There they come past the Earthstopper. See how
eagerly they are drawing the banks, how impatient the check makes them.
Gellert, who has the best nose of the pack, is getting close to the
clump of iris; the next moment his tell-tale tongue warns the pack that
he has discovered the line of the quarry, and with triumphant clamour
they breast the hillside on its hot trail. The game varmint has nearly
gained the crest, but he can scarcely hope to reach the adjacent valley.
He seems to be standing still, in comparison with the hounds, which,
with hackles up, are now racing for his blood. He is not half-way down
the plantation when they stream over the wall that bounds it.
Troubadour, ever to the fore, gets a view of the beaten creature
struggling on; but above the ominous whimpers of the pack the otter
hears the roar of the fall, and this braces him to a final effort.
Troubadour is all but on him as he springs from the high bank, and the
next instant the spray flies from the pool as otter and hound strike the
water.
Without showing himself the hunted beast seeks refuge behind the roots
of the big elm which, a week before, had attracted the eye of the
Earthstopper. The otter is in sore plight, but little does he fear the
infuriated pack now. They may bay outside his stronghold to their
heart’s content. But he’s not done with yet. Venom and Vixen have just
disappeared between the coils of the roots and are making for a ledge
within, where the creature is resting and breathing heavily. Then Sir
Bevil, the parson, the doctor, and the Earthstopper come rushing down
between the trees. The next moment Andrew is lying at full length and
listening. With his ear close to the ground, he can hear the terriers
yapping six or eight feet below.
“They caan’t get at un, sir,” says he, rising to his feet after a time,
his voice scarcely audible above the clamour of the hounds and the roar
of the fall.
“Then we’ll leave him, we won’t dig. He’s a grand beast and deserves his
life. You look disappointed, Andrew?”
“No, sir, should only a’ liked to a’ seed the pad of un.”
With some difficulty the hounds are called off and the terriers induced
to come out. The otter lived some years after, but Andrew never spurred
him again.