THE HARE—_Continued_
THE COURSE
AT last the looked-for day—the third of November—arrived, and
fortunately it broke fine, without sign of mist or fog. Not that any
weather, however bad, would have kept away the keen men who from all the
parishes around were making towards Sancreed. From St Levan, Sennen,
Morvah, Madron, Zennor, Paul, Gulval, they came in goodly numbers, to
say nothing of Buryan and St Just, till not only the town-place—the
square in front of the Bird-in-hand—but also the roadway that skirts
the high church-yard wall were filled with a more excited throng than
ever gathered there in olden days to witness a miracle play.
By the dial on the church-porch it was ten o’clock when Digory Strout,
accompanied by two friends, drove down the “Beacon” road into the
town-place. He raised his black billycock hat and stood bareheaded for a
moment, in acknowledgment of the cheers of his supporters. He was well
dressed; and his brown velvet waistcoat emphasised the rich yellow of
the watch-chain, made out of the first nuggets he had found in his
creek. He wore a big moustache, otherwise he was clean-shaven, save for
the tuft of hair on his under lip, which, with his sallow complexion,
gave him a far-travelled look. Everyone but Farmer Pendre was now
present, and whilst men were speculating why he was so late, the
penetrating notes of a horn were heard above the din, and shortly after
the crowd fell back on either side as his tandem dashed up the road into
the Square.
Pendre, whose Sunday-best suit was set off by a brand-new white hat and
crimson neck-tie, created a favourable impression by the smart way he
handled the two chestnuts; but it was the fawn-coloured greyhound,
arrayed in a green coat on which fifteen balls had been worked in yellow
silk, that fixed the gaze of the St Just men. He carried himself as if
conscious that all eyes were on him, and no one could deny that he was a
grand dog, or that his head, perfectly set as it was on his graceful
neck, was a collection of good points.
The rousing cheer that rose from the throats of the Buryan men was
tauntingly answered by the St Just men crowding the upper half of the
Square; but at the moment when things threatened a fray, the venerable
parson, who had been standing under the trees near his gate, walked
across between the hostile ranks, and shook hands with each of the
owners. This well-timed act was not without its sobering effect on the
crowd; but it was remarked that Strout and Pendre did not exchange any
form of greeting, though they stood side by side on the broad granite
flagstone before the inn door.
No time was lost in making the necessary arrangements. Five men were
chosen on each side to find a hare, and a great compliment it was deemed
to be one of them. The places of honour at the ends of the line were
assigned to Matthey Thomas of St Just Churchtown and Bethias Wallace of
Buryan. The ten were driven to Chapel Cairn Brea; the slipper followed
with the greyhounds; and close behind rode Mr Heber, the well-known
judge, who had come straight from the great meeting at Amesbury. It had
been decided to search Cairn Brea, Bartinney, Caer Bran, and the Beacon,
in the order named, and a more picturesque setting for the day’s sport
could not have been chosen. Nowhere has nature fixed more graceful
curves against the sky than those presented by the undulating outline of
these last four of the Cornish heights. Let the reader imagine four
cones, with bases wide for their height, forming a row parallel to the
length of a table on which they are placed. He will then have a rude
representation in miniature of the conformation of the country, washed
on three sides by the sea, which the hills overlook.
The top of Bartinney was soon crowded with spectators, so too were the
old earthworks on Caer Bran, and a big crowd followed the beaters. These
were extended in a line on the western slope of Cairn Brea, and working
the ground in front of them as they advanced up the hill was Ben Corin’s
harrier Tuneful, a dog reputed to have the best nose in the nine
parishes. The slipper held the greyhounds in a leash in the middle of
the line, and the judge rode a little on one side to the rear. Of the
crowd on Bartinney that eagerly awaited their appearance on the
hill-crest, Parson Grose was perhaps the only one who turned his
thoughts from the sport to scan the tableland, so rich in vestiges of
the past, which lay spread out like a map some four hundred feet below.
To him it was the forlorn refuge of the ancient Celt, a scene of the
early Church’s activity, a land of legend and romance. The old
antiquary’s eyes wandered from the grey towers of the mediæval churches
to the site of holy well and ruined baptistery, wayside cross and
sanctuary, monolith and stone circle, cromlech and cave-dwelling. Once
indeed he raised his eyes from the narrow promontory to the far western
horizon, where a broken line, dimly discernible, marked the position of
the Isles of Scilly. But his attention was soon recalled by a murmur
that ran through the crowd gathered round Digory, at the sight of the
judge on horseback and the beaters as they showed on the skyline before
descending the eastern slope. Stunted furze and heather, with here and
there a patch of golden bracken, clothe the sides of the hills, and the
Lidden’s pool, encircled by rushes and sere grasses, gleams in the
trough below them. On reaching the sheet of water the St Just men take
to the left, the Buryan men to the right, and with the latter go the
slipper, in charge of the dogs, and the judge. Scarcely have they
separated when Bethias ‘pricks’ a hare; again its track is seen by a
Buryan man, and simultaneously on the other side of the pool the harrier
begins to feather on a line, and once she throws her tongue. Every clump
of rushes, every patch of coarse grass, is carefully searched; and just
as every one begins to fear that the hare has passed over the hill, from
the extreme left of the St Just line comes the almost whispered
exclamation, “See-ho!” It is Matthey Thomas who has viewed the hare
where she sits some twenty yards ahead, and instantly withdrawn his
gaze.
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[Illustration: CHAPEL ST UNY WELL. [_Face page 156._]
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The line stops; the judge, slipper, and dogs come round, pass through
the excited crowd, and join Matthey, who points out the hare, or rather
the spot where she is lying, for he alone can see her. He is then
directed to start her, and with him go the judge and the slipper. When
they are within five yards of the form, out goes the little Jack, his
head set in the direction of Bartinney. The greyhounds strain at the
leash, dragging the slipper with them, but not until the hare has forty
yards’ start does the judge give the word to loose them. Like arrows
released from the bow, they are off, and every eye is on them. Seldom if
ever has a more exciting course been witnessed.
At first the greyhounds gain on the hare, but the rising ground to which
he is leading them is in his favour, for there at almost every bound his
pursuers sink into the stunted furze skirting the narrow “run” he knows
so well.
Near the top of the hill better foothold enables them to hold their own,
but they do not regain an inch of the ground they have lost. At amazing
speed the hare passes the crowd on Bartinney a good thirty yards ahead
of the greyhounds, and takes to the eastern slope. So far not a point
has been scored by either dog, but near the foot of the hill Fleetfoot
turns the hare, and then it looks as though Beeswing must kill. Scarcely
ten yards separate greyhound and hare as they sweep across the two
furlongs of flat ground that runs up to the moorland farm over which the
Jack has so often wandered. A sudden turn lets in Fleetfoot, and the
greyhounds are dead level, with the hare just in front of them, when a
hundred yards from the gate for which he is heading. Surely he will
never reach it . . . yes, for the greyhounds are jumping the gate as he
passes underneath, and even as they are in mid-air he doubles back under
it and follows the cattle-track skirting the boundary-wall of the farm.
When the dogs view him again, he is at least thirty yards to the good
once more, and heading for Caer Bran. Gradually they reduce his lead,
and beyond an open stretch of turf, where, to the surprise of the judge,
Beeswing had given Fleetfoot the go-by, points are scored by both dogs;
and then a wilderness of pits and mounds receives the hare just in time
to save him from Beeswing’s jaws. At headlong speed he threads this maze
just in front of the greyhounds, making the air hum as he dashes along
the rough ways.
On issuing from it the hare turns suddenly to the left, and skirts some
furze-bushes that screen him from the gaze of the dogs. See! they have
lost him, but the high springs they are taking will enable them to sight
him the instant he leaves the shelter of the last furze-bush. Yes, they
view him at once; and the course is resumed under the eyes of the
spectators on Caer Bran. To them, in spite of the twenty yards he has
gained, it seems impossible for the Jack to reach the Beacon, for which
he is now evidently making. Moreover, the steep lane he takes to, in
full view of the greyhounds, is all in their favour and, rapid as is the
pace of the hare, the leaps of the greyhounds are bringing them close to
his scut. They are running neck and neck, and almost mouthing him.
At this critical moment he rushes through a bolt-hole in a single-stone
wall, in clearing which the greyhounds show again in the air together.
He keeps to the rough grass-field on the other side until they are
nearly on him, and then, as suddenly as before, passes through another
opening in the wall, crosses the lane, and threads some scattered
furze-bushes on a narrow strip of common that lies at the foot of
Sancreed Beacon. Whether the greyhounds were exhausted by the long
course, or whether they lost sight of the hare, is not certain; at all
events they were found in a very distressed condition, lying side by
side on a patch of grass amongst the furze, and the little Jack got
clear away.
“Bravo, puss!” were the judge’s words, as he followed the hare with his
eyes as far as the little plantation of storm-bent pines half-way up the
hill. Mr Heber was not the last to view him, for Uncle Johnnie Lairdner,
the sexton, was on the Beacon when the hare passed over it, and has left
it on record that though the Jack was black with sweat, no sign of arch
in his back could he see, and he was goin’ like a ball.
The greyhounds were at once taken to Sancreed Churchtown; and thither
the spectators hurried, across croft and field, every one anxious to
know which dog was adjudged the victor. The excitement in the town-place
baffles description. The St Just men would have it that their dog had
won, and of these no one was more conspicuous than was he whose eyes yet
showed traces of the fight. The Buryan men were not quite so confident,
though they knew that their dog had never run better. Some noticed,
after the rivals had exchanged a few words with the judge, that Digory
looked disappointed and Pendre jubilant; but this was set down to
difference of temperament, and not until at last the judge spoke, did
the impatient crowd know the result of the course.
Standing in a wagonette between the owners, this—and here let me thank
the Editor of the _Land’s End Courier_ for a copy of the speech—is what
Mr Heber said:—
“Gentlemen, I have judged at many meetings, but never at one where so
great an interest has been taken in a single course. You may tell me
that this is the result of parish rivalry, but I strongly suspect that
at the bottom of it lies that love of sport which characterises no
Englishman more than a Cornishman, and no Cornishman more than a native
of St Just.” His voice was feeble for so big a man, but now it sank
almost to a whisper.
“I can tell by your breathless attention that you are anxious to know
which dog I judge the winner of the stakes. That my decision will be
loyally accepted by loser as by winner I have not a shadow of a doubt.”
In the pause which followed, the cock in the glebe farm crowed.
“Gentleman, I have never had a more difficult course to adjudicate on; I
have never seen two better dogs run side by side, I may say, neck to
neck. One of the greyhounds is already famous, having won the blue
ribbon of the Leash; the other, a dog of pure Cornish breed, is known as
the Champion of Cornwall. There is little to choose between these two
wonderful dogs; but there is a difference, if slight, on to-day’s form,
and I declare Beeswing the winner by a single point.”
The applause, renewed again and again by nearly all except the St Just
men, was deafening: it scared the jackdaws away from the church tower.
It was a trying few minutes for the losers, who stared at the elated
winners with angry eyes, their fists clenched, and their faces white.
They might indeed have come to blows if Digory had not spoken; but if
the St Just men were resolved to break the peace the following speech
averted a collision.
“Fellow Cornishmen, I little thought when bidding farewell to the men of
my claim that the next occasion on which I should address an assembly
would be in Sancreed Churchtown. Silence is golden, they say; but
to-day’s proceedings will, in my opinion, be all the better for being
rounded off with a few words of conciliation. First, let me thank Mr
Heber for coming all this way to act as judge. No more competent man
could have been chosen; and though his verdict is against my dog, I
accept it without demur, and frankly own that to-day Fleetfoot was
beaten! Mr Pendre,” said he, turning to the farmer, whose white hat was
tilted on the back of his head, “I congratulate you on your success. I
own that I never thought your dog would be a match for the winner of the
Cup; but believe me, though I confess to being disappointed, ‘nip and
tuck’ race though it was, I find some consolation in the fact that it
was by a dog of pure Cornish pedigree that Fleetfoot was beaten.
“One other thing, gentlemen, let us not forget the wonderful staying
power of that little Jack, which practically ran both dogs to a
standstill.” (Hear, hear, from the judge.)
“The only fault to be found with Cornish hares is, that there are too
few of them. In furtherance of sport in general as well as for my own
pleasure, I purpose, if the farmers do not object, releasing a hundred
hares on the waste land between Mulfra and Kenidzhek. If I settle down
at home, I should like to be able to calculate on our having a good
day’s coursing together. Some people who have never been abroad wonder
that I do not return to the Far West. My answer is, ‘a hare on our own
downses means more to me than a bear on a furrin’ range.’ (Great
applause.) I do not know that I have anything further to add than to ask
Mr Pendre to shake hands with the loser.”
Now, after the hard things that had been said about Digory, this was
considered very handsome on his part; so that even the Buryan men,
whilst emotion swayed them, felt sorry that he had lost, and after the
rivals had shaken hands amidst thundering applause the Buryan men kept
crying, “Pendre, Pendre,” till the farmer, though unused to any meeting
bigger than an Easter Vestry or Balleswidden “account,” felt that, all
“mizy-mazy” as his brain was, he must say something.
“Gentlemen, I never felt so flambustered in all my born days. I’m no
orator like Mr Strout, but I also should like to thank the judge for his
day’s work. Gentlemen, what’s the use of saying to the contrary when you
don’t feel it? I’m glad that Beeswing won, and it’s downright honest
truth, though I say it (great laughter) . . . I couldn’t have lost and
not showed it, like Mr Strout. Maybe that comes of travellin’ in furrin’
paarts, for I’ve never been out of sight of Buryan tower for a whole day
in my life. Now let me tell ee somethin’. It is not the furst, it’s not
the second time that Beeswing has coused that leel Jack; and I knawed un
the minit he jumped up by a whitey mark on the niddick. In conclusion,
let me tell ee to your face, Mr Strout, that you’re a sportsman; and if
I’ve shawed ee any ill feelin’, and I fear I have, I ask ee to overlook
it. I wish ee well, and every St Just man godspeed.” (Applause.)
Thus amicably ended that day’s coursing match, which is now a tradition,
its minutest details accurately passed on by the farmers in the
chimney-corners of the West Country.
Digory was as good as his word; and in the following June a consignment
of a hundred and fifteen hares arrived at Penzance from Salisbury Plain.
These were set free on Bartinney, Mulfra, the Galver, Kenidzhek and the
Dry Cairn, and for some years afterwards the country was well stocked.
Unfortunately the conditions of existence have proved too hard for them,
and little by little they have had to yield in the struggle against
their many enemies, until to-day a hare is as scarce in the Land’s End
district as when Digory returned home from the Rocky Mountains.
Nevertheless, a few hardy survivors are still found on the hills; and
when, as generally happens, the hare outruns the dogs—descendants
perhaps of Beeswing and Fleetfoot—the disappointed sportsman attributes
its escape, not to witchcraft, but to stamina derived from the strain of
the little Jack of Bartinney.
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[Illustration: ZENNOR CHURCHTOWN. [_Face page 166._]
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