I
In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly
organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too
old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who,
from one cause and another, were exempted from military service.
Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting
and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and
hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its
[v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that
terrible time, that the main purpose of the association was to devise
new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that
were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to
relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days
was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling
boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily
the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other
congenial amusements. With the women--ah well! Heaven only knows how
they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering
the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was
a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.
About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected
letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit
to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.
"Young man," he wrote, "they are coming. They are going to give us a
[v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as
discipline--plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven't hesitated to
put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about
it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won't believe
it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and
the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when
she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember
the 15th. Be prepared."
I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had
bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their
dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the
silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hancock county the year
before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent
dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the
hospitality of the plantation home called "Bachelors' Hall."
If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the
announcement in Tom's letter, apart from the agreeable change in the
social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in
"Bachelors' Hall." I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a
favorite hound--Flora--whose care and training had cost me a great deal
of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she
had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members
of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment.
She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia
the "Birdsong dog," in honor of the most successful breeder) and a
Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in
everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the
exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see
her put to the test.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed
Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's programme. Aunt Patience was a
privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free
and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by
ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her
remarks were ludicrously indignant.
"Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain't de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes
on--'way off yander givin' way his vittles fo' he buy um at de sto'!
How I know what Marse Tom want, an' tel I know, whar I gwineter git um?
He better be home yer lookin' atter deze lazy niggers, stidder
high-flyin' wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis
plan'ash'n, hits more'n I knows un. En he'll go runnin' roun' wid dem
harum-skarum gals twell I boun' he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer
what he said he would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up deze
days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss dersef' case dey wuzent
borned men."
"Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as
a pink and as fine as a fiddle."
"Law, chile! you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 'omen. I done
know um fo' you wuz borned. W'en you see Miss Compton you see all de
balance un um. Deze is new times. Marse Tom's mammy useter spin her
fifteen cents o' wool a day--w'en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er
yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word."
Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench,
and went her way--the good old soul--even then considering how she
should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master
in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to
detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success.
It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the
skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he
produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real "manufac terbacker," which
was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.
The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests was one long to
be remembered, not only in the [v]annals of the Rockville Hunting Club
but in the annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally
turned the heads of old men and young boys, and even succeeded in
conquering the critics of her own sex. She was marvelously beautiful,
and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams. It was easy
to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know that every
suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and
aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.
It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was
at once the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom's guests,
could be arranged, but finally everything was "[v]amicably adjusted,"
and the day appointed. The night before the hunt, the club and the
Jasper county visitors assembled in Tom Tunison's parlor for a final
discussion of the event.
"In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests an opportunity
fully to test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided
to pay our respects to 'Old Sandy'."
"And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy'?" queried Miss de Compton.
"He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He
has been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that
he is well-nigh [v]invincible. He is so well known that he has not been
hunted, except by accident, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as
he was two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get within
hearing distance of him to-morrow morning."
"Do any of the ladies go with us?" asked Jack Herndon.
"I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the
ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to
participate actively in the hunt.
"Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. Uncle Plato will
sound 'Boots and Saddle' at four o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Four o'clock!" exclaimed the ladies in dismay.
"At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little
gestures of mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for
the boys.
My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old Sandy" was to be put
through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the
peculiarities of this famous fox--how often when training Flora I had
taken her out and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges, how I
had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew all his weak points.