One beautiful morning at the very end of September our Stag was lying
in the short plantations above the cliffs in a warm sunny bed of which
he had long been very fond, when his ear was disturbed, as had so
often happened before, by the cry of hounds. He did not mind it so
much now, for he knew that it meant at any rate that they were hunting
some other deer than himself. And it was plain to him that they had
found the stag that they wanted, for not two or three couple but
seventeen or eighteen were speaking to the scent. Therefore he lay
quite still, never doubting that before long they would leave the
covert. And so it seemed that it would be, for presently the cry
ceased, and he had good reason to hope that they had gone away. The
only thing that disquieted him was that the horses seemed always to be
moving all over the plantation, instead of galloping over the moor. He
was still lying fast when he heard two horses come trotting up to
within thirty yards of his lair; and peering carefully through the
branches he saw them and recognised them. One of them was the fair man
whom he had seen so often before, still riding the same grey horse,
which was grown so light as to be almost white. But the man was
greatly changed. His face was thin and hollow, and would have been
pale if it had not been burnt brown; the tiny hair on the upper lip
had grown to a great red moustache; and the blue eyes were sunk deep
in his head. And he rode with his reins in his right hand, for his
left was hung in a sling, so that he could hardly hold his whip. But
for all that he was as quick and lively as ever, and his eyes never
ceased roving over the plantation. And by him rode the beautiful girl
whom he had seen with him before, her face aglow with happiness; and
she seemed so proud of him that she never took her eyes off his face
for an instant, except now and then to glance pityingly at his wounded
hand. They pulled up not far from the Stag and waited.
And presently a hind came up, cantering anxiously through the
plantation, for she had laid her calf down and did not wish to go far
from him. She blundered on so close to the Stag that he would have
got up and driven her away if he had not been afraid of being seen.
But she passed on, and very soon the hounds came up after her. Then
the man brought the white horse across them, trying hard to stop them
from her line, but he could not use his whip; and they only swerved
past him, still running hard, straight to the bed of the Stag. And up
he jumped, his glossy coat gleaming bright in the sun, and every hound
leaped forward with a cry of exultation as he rose.
He went off at the top of his speed straight through the plantation,
for he knew that he had the better of the hounds through the thicket.
But they ran harder than he had ever known since the day when they had
driven him to sea as a yearling, and, as he could wind no other deer,
he made up his mind to cross the moor for the friendly valley where he
had lived so long. So turning his head from the sea he leaped out of
the plantation, and ran down to the water below. He would gladly have
taken a bath then and there, but the hounds were too close; so
splashing boldly through it he cantered aslant up the steep hill
beyond as though it had been level ground. And when he gained the top,
he felt the West wind strike cool upon him, and saw the long waves of
heather and grass rise before him till they met the sky. Then he set
his face bravely for the highest point, for beyond it was the refuge
that he sought.
And on he went, and on and on, cantering steadily but very fast, for
though he heard no sound of their tongues he knew that the hounds were
racing after him, as mute as mice. The blackcock fled away screaming
before him, the hawk high in air wheeled aside as he passed, but on he
went through the sweet, pink heather, without pausing to notice them.
Then the heather became sparse and thin, growing only in ragged tufts
amid the rank red grass and sheets of white bog-flower. He had lain in
this wet ground many times, but no deer was there to help him to-day.
Then the wet ground was passed and the heather came again, sound and
firm, sloping down to a brown peat-stream. Never had its song sounded
so sweet in his ears, never had he longed more for a bath in the amber
water, but the hounds were still racing and he dared not wait. So he
splashed on through the stream and up another ridge, where the heather
grew but thinly amid a wilderness of hot stones. The sun smote
fiercely upon him, and the air was close as he cantered down from the
ridge into the combe beyond it, but he cared not, for he knew that
there again was water. He ran up it for a few yards, but only for a
few yards, for the hounds were still running their hardest, and he
must wait till the great slope of grass before him was past.
So he breasted it gallantly, up, and up, and up. The grass was thick
over the treacherous ground, but his foot was still too light to
pierce it, and he cantered steadily on. His mouth was growing parched,
but he still felt strong, and he knew that when the hill was crossed
he would find more water to welcome him. At last he reached the
summit, and there spread out before him were Dartmoor and the sea, and
far, far below him the haven of his choice; and the cool breeze from
the sea breathed upon his nostrils, and he gathered strength and hope.
There was still one more hollow to be crossed before he reached the
long slope down to the valley, but there was water in it, and he might
have time for a hasty draught. So still he pressed on with the same
steady stride, hoping that he might wait at any rate for a few minutes
in the stream, for thirst and heat were growing upon him, and he
longed for a bath. But no! it was dangerous to wait; and he turned
away sick at heart from the sparkling ripple, and faced the ascent
before him. And now the grass seemed to coil wickedly round his
dew-claws as if striving to hold them down; and he tugged his feet
impatiently from its grasp, though more than once he had half a mind
to turn back to the water. But he had chosen his refuge, and he
struggled gamely on.
At last he was at the top, and only one long unbroken slope of heather
lay between him and the valley that he knew so well; and he turned
into a long, deep combe which ran down to it, that he might not be
seen. Down, and down, and down he ran, steadying himself and
recovering his breath. At every stride he saw the trickle of water
from the head of the combe grow larger and larger as other trickles
joined it from every side, and he knew that he was near his refuge at
last. Presently he came upon a patch of yellow gorse, which had thrust
up its flaming head through the heather, and he plunged heavily
through it, knowing that it would check the hounds. Another few
hundred yards and he was within the covert, in the cool deep shade of
the oak-coppice, with the merry river brawling beneath him.
And he scrambled down eagerly through the trees and plunged into the
brown water. How delicious it was after that fierce race over the
heather, running cool and full and strong under the shadow of the
coppice! He hardly paused to drink, but ran straight down stream, for
his heart misgave him that the hounds had gained on him while he was
struggling up the last steep ascent. And the water carried him on, now
racing down his dew-claws, now lapping round his hocks, now rising
quiet and still almost to his mane, sometimes for a few seconds
raising him off his weary legs and bearing him gently down.
Only too soon he heard the deep voice of the hounds throwing their
tongues as they entered the wood, but he kept running steadily down,
refreshed at every step by the sweet, cool water, and screened from
all view by the canopy of hazel and alder that overhung it. At last he
left it, and turning up into the woods ran on through them down the
valley. Once he tried to scale the hill to the next valley, but he
found the air hot and stifling under the dense green leaves, and he
felt so much distressed that he turned back and continued his way
down. Presently there rose up faintly behind him the deep note that he
knew so well of the old black and tan hound; then the voices of other
hounds chimed in together with it, and he knew that they had hit the
place at which he had left the water. He heard the sound of the horn
come floating down the valley, and tried hard to mend his pace, but he
could not; and at last he was fain to leave the wood and come back to
the water.
Again he ran down, and again the friendly stream coursed round him and
revived him. So he splashed on for a time and then he sought the woods
anew in hope of finding help, but he could not stay in them long, and
returned once more to the water. At last, on turning round a bend in
the stream, he came upon a Heron, standing watching for eels, and he
cried out to him, "Oh! stand still. I won't hurt you. Stand still till
the hounds come, and the men will think that I have not passed." But
the Heron was too shy to listen, and flapped heavily away. Then he
came to a bridge, where his passage was barred by a pole, but he threw
his horns back and managed to jump between the pole and the arch,
without touching anything, and though he could not help splashing the
pole, he made his way down without leaving the water.
At length he came to the end of the woods, and here he hesitated,
longing for some one to tell him about the stream further down, for
it was strange to him. And he remembered Aunt Yeld's words, "May you
never know what it is to look for help and to find none." But he could
hear nothing of the hounds, and almost began to hope that he might
have beaten them. So at last he found a corner thickly overhung with
branches, and there he lay down in the water. And then whom should he
see but the Lady Salmon making her way slowly up the stream, the very
friend who could tell him what he wanted to know.
But before he could speak to her she said, "Beware of going further
down, for there is a flood-gate across the stream which you cannot
pass. Have you seen my husband?"
And he told her, "Yes," and she swam on, while he lay still and made
up his mind where he would go if the hounds came on. The hounds indeed
had dropped behind him, for the men could not believe that the Deer
could have leaped the pole under the bridge, and had taken them to try
for him somewhere else. But the old black and tan hound had tried to
walk along the pole to wind it before they came up, and having fallen
into the water and been swept on past the bridge, was still trying
downward by himself. And thus it was that while the Deer was lying in
the water the old hound came up alone. He seemed to have made up his
mind that the Stag was near, for he stopped and kept sniffing round
him in all directions till at last he crept in under the bank, caught
sight of him, and threw his head into the air with a loud triumphant
bay. The Stag leaped to his feet in an instant and dashed at him, but
the old hound shrank back and saved himself; and then the Stag broke
out of the water, for he had made up his mind to breast the hill, and
push on for Bremridge Wood. He knew the way, for it was that which the
Partridge had shown him, and he felt that by a great effort he could
reach it.
And as he slanted painfully up the steep ascent he heard the old hound
still baying with disappointment and rage; for he could not scramble
up the steep bank so quickly as the Deer, and the more he bayed the
further he was left behind. Further up the valley the Stag could hear
the horn and hallooing of men, but he pressed on bravely and gained
the top of the hill at last. But when he reached it his neck was
bowed, his tongue was parched, and his legs staggered under him. Still
he struggled on. He was in the enclosed country now, but he knew every
field and every rack, and he scrambled over the banks and hurled
himself over the gates as pluckily as if he had but just been roused.
Thus at last he reached the familiar wood. A Jay flew screaming before
him as he entered it, but he heeded her not. His head was beginning to
swim, but he still knew the densest quarter of the covert and made his
way to it. The brambles clutched at him and the branches tripped him
at every step, yet he never paused, but shook them off and went
crashing and blundering on, till at length with one gigantic leap he
hurled himself into the thickest of the underwood and lay fast.
After a time he heard the note of a hound entering the wood, and he
knew the voice, but he lay still. Then other hounds came up speaking
also, and he heard them working slowly towards his hiding-place. But
as they drew near the thicket the voices were less numerous, and only
a few hounds seemed to have strength and courage to face it. He caught
the voice of the black and tan hound speaking fitfully as he came
nearer and nearer, and more impatiently as he struggled with the
brambles and binders that barred his way. At last it reached the place
from which he had leaped into his refuge, and there it fell silent.
Still the hound cast on, and from a path far above came the voice of
a man encouraging him, and encouraging other hounds to help him. But
the Deer lay like a stone, while the hounds tried all round within
only a few yards of him, when all of a sudden the old hound caught the
wind of him and made a bound at him where he lay. The Deer jumped to
his feet and faced him, and the old hound bayed again with triumph,
but dared not come within reach. So there they stood for two whole
minutes till the other hounds came up all round him. Then one hound in
his insolence came too near, and in an instant the Deer reared up, and
plunging his antlers deep into his side, fairly pinned him to the
ground, so that the hound never moved again. Then he broke through the
rest of them, spurning them wide with horn and hoof, and crashed on
through the covert towards the valley.
And as he came to the edge of the wood he heard the song of the
peat-stream rise before him, and knew that he had still one refuge
left. Reeling and desperate he scrambled out of the wood and leaped
down into the park at its foot. The Fallow-Deer were not to be seen,
for they had heard the cry of the hounds in the wood and had hidden
themselves in alarm among the trees, but the Stag heard the voice of
the stream calling to him louder than he had ever heard it, and he
heeded nought else. And he ran towards the place where he heard it
call loudest, and found it rushing round a bend, very smoothly and
quietly, but very swiftly. At every foot below it seemed to rush
faster, till fifty yards down it struck against a bridge of three
arches, through which it raced like a cataract and poured down with a
thundering roar into a boiling pool beneath.
And the Stag leaped in and set his back against some alders that grew
on the opposite bank, choosing his place cunningly where he could
stand but the hounds must swim. Then he clenched his teeth and threw
back his head, and dared his enemies to do their worst. And the brown
stream washed merrily round him, singing low, but as sweetly as he had
ever heard it.
"_Come down with me, come. Oh! merry and free_
_Is the race from the forest away to the sea._
_The pool is before me; I hark to its call_
_And I hasten my speed for the leap o'er the fall._
_The Salmon are waiting impatient below,_
_I feel them spring upward as over I go._
_Come down with me, come; why linger you here?_
_You know me, the friend of the wild Red-Deer._"
Then the voice of the water was broken, for the black and tan hound
came bounding down in advance of the rest over the grass to the water,
caught view of the Deer where he stood, and throwing up his head bayed
loud and deep and long. And other hounds came hurrying down through
the wood, speaking quick and short, for they were mad with impatience;
and bursting through the fence straight to the black and tan hound
they joined their voices in exultation to his. Then a few, a very few,
men came up hastening with what speed they might on their weary,
hobbling horses, a man on a white horse leading them, and they added
their wild yells to the baying of the hounds, while ever and anon the
shrill tones of the horn rose high above them all in short, quick,
jubilant notes. Soon some of the hounds grew tired of baying in front
and flew round to the bank behind him, still yelling fiercely in
impotent rage; and the maddening clamour rang far up the valley
through the sweet, still evening. The Fallow-Deer huddled themselves
close among the trees, and the pigeons hushed their cooing and flew
swift and high in the air from the terror of the sound. But the Stag
stood unmoved in the midst of the baying ring, with his noble head
thrown back and his chin raised scornfully aloft, in all the pride
and majesty of defiance.
But all the while the stream kept pressing him downward inch by inch,
very gently but very surely. Once a hound, in his impatience, burst
through the branches and ran out on the stem of an alder almost on to
his back, so that he was obliged to move down still lower. And there
the stream pressed him still more strongly, though never unkindly, and
he went downward faster than before; and he heard the full voice of
the torrent, as it thundered over the fall, chanting to him grand and
sonorous in a deep tone of command.
"_Nay, tarry no longer; come down, come down_
_To the pool that invites you, still, peaceful, and brown._
_One plunge through the rush of the shivering spray_
_And the dark, solemn eddies shall bear you away_
_From the rustle of bubbles, the hissing of foam,_
_To a haven of rest, and a long, long home._
_Come down with me, come; your refuge is near;_
_I call you, the friend of the wild Red-Deer._"
And he heard it and yielded. The water rose higher, and the strength
of the current grew more urgent about him, till at length the stream
lifted him gently off his weary feet and bore him silently down. For
a moment he strove with all his might to stem the smooth, impetuous
tide as it swept him on; then he gave himself up to the friendly
waters, and throwing his head high in air in a last defiance, he went
down swiftly over the fall.
And the wild baying ceased; and he heard nothing but the chorus of the
waters in his ears. Once he struggled to raise his head, and the great
brown antlers came looming up for a moment through the eddies; but as
he passed down to the deep, still pool beyond the fall, the water
called to him so kindly that he could not but obey.
"_From my wild forest-cradle, through deep and through shoal,_
_You have followed me far, and have reached to the goal._
_Now the gallop is ended, the chase it is run,_
_The struggle is over, the victory won._
_The fall is o'er-leaped and the rapids are passed,_
_Come rest on my bosom untroubled at last._
_Nay, raise not your head, come, bury it here;_
_No friend like the stream to the wild Red-Deer._"
So the waters closed over the stern, sharp antlers, and he bowed his
head and was at peace.
Then men came and pulled the great still body out of the water; and
they took his head and hung it up in memory of so great a run and so
gallant a Stag. But their triumph was only over the empty shell of
him, for his spirit had gone to the still brown pool. And indeed the
stream has received many another wild deer besides him, which, I
suspect, is the reason why ferns, that love the water, take the shape
of stags' horns and of harts' tongues. So there he remains; for he had
fought his fight and run his course; and he asks for nothing better
than to hear the river sing to him all the day long.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original edition did not contain a table of
contents. A table of contents has been created for this electronic
edition. Also, the following corrections were made to the original
text.
In Chapter III, "got old of a whole hind-leg" was changed to "got hold
of a whole hind-leg".
In Chapter VIII, "presently he stopped swiming" was changed to
"presently he stopped swimming".
In Chapter IX, a missing quotation mark was added before "Well, you
see", and "The man looked a littlle older" was changed to "The man
looked a little older".
End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of a Red Deer, by J. W. Fortescue