A GALLOP OVER THE WALLS.
"Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size."
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The next morning you are up betimes, for the hounds meet at the house at
nine o'clock. You are not sorry on looking out of your window to see
that a thick mist at present envelopes the country. With the ground in
the dry state it is in, this mist, accompanied as it is by a heavy dew,
is your only chance of a scent. How else could they hunt the jackal in
India if it was not for this dew? Thus reflecting, you recall pleasant
recollections of gallops over hard ground with the Bombay hounds, and
comfort yourself with the thought that the ground here to-day cannot be
as hard as that Indian soil. You are soon into your breeches and boots
and down to breakfast. In the dining-room a large party is already
assembled, for there are five men and two ladies turning out from the
house, whilst one or two keen sportsmen have already put in an
appearance from afar.
The hounds turn up punctual to the appointed time. How beautiful and
majestic they look as they suddenly come into sight amid beech and ash
and walnut, whilst the bright pageant advances leisurely and in order
over the ancient ivy-covered bridge which spans the silent river, where
the morning mist still hangs, and the grass shines white with silvery
dew. In good condition they look, too--a credit to their huntsman, who
evidently has not neglected giving them plenty of exercise on the roads
during the summer. You greet the genial master; then in answer to his
enquiry as to where you would like him to draw, you point to the hanging
wood on the brow of the hill, and tell him that as you heard them
barking there this very morning it is a certain find. No sooner are the
words out of your mouth than a holloa breaks the silence of the early
morn: the gardener has "viewed" a cub within a hundred yards of the
house. Desperately bold are the cubs at this time of year, before they
have been hunted. Their first experience of being "stopped out" for the
night does not seem to have frightened them at all. They have been
kicking up a rare shindy most of the night in the covert close to
the house.
"Alas I regardless of their doom,
The little victims play."
By to-night they will have become sadder and wiser beings. Several
people will be glad of this, the keeper included: for the fowls have
suffered lately; there have also been one or two well-planned and
carefully thought out sallies on the young pheasants--without much
damage, however. Not long ago a bold young cub spent some time in
breaking open the lid of one of the coops, in which were some late
pheasants. He actually forced the wire netting from the roof of the
coop, although it was firmly nailed to the woodwork. But he could not
quite get his head in, for when the keeper arrived on the scene at five
o'clock a.m., there he was, clawing and scratching at the birds. His
efforts met with no success, however, for not a single bird was badly
injured, though some damage might have been done if Master Reynard had
not been interrupted at this critical moment. Young cubs are like
puppies, very mischievous. There are plenty of rabbits about, and they
are the food foxes like best; poultry and pheasants are pursued and
killed out of pure love of mischief.
We must return to the hounds. Our huntsman wisely determines not to go
to the holloa, for he prefers to let the young entry draw for their
game. Besides which, if this cub has gone away, he is one of the right
sort, and does not require schooling. For as we all know, one of the
objects of cub-hunting is to teach the young foxes that if they don't
leave the covert when the hounds are thrown in, they will get a rare
dusting. So, the hounds having been taken to the "up-wind" end of the
wood, the huntsman begins drawing steadily "down wind." Let them have
every chance now; it will be quite early enough to begin drawing up wind
when the leaf is off and Reynard has got a bit shy. Blood is an
excellent thing for young hounds, nay, for all hounds, early in the
season; but we don't want to chop any cubs before they know where they
are or what it all means.
And soon the whole valley re-echoes with hound music, as the pack come
crashing towards us through the thick underwood. We get a splendid view
of the proceedings--for the covert is a long, narrow strip of about ten
acres, running in the shape of a bow round the hill immediately above
the place where we are stationed. There is another small wood of about
the same size on the other side of the little valley. For this our fox
makes, the hounds dashing close after him through the brook. Round and
round they go, and it is evident that this cub (unlike several of his
brethren who have taken their departure, viewed by the whole field, but
_not_ holloaed at) does not intend to face the open country. Scent is
good in covert, perhaps because there are at present few of those dry
leaves on the ground that spoil scent after the "fall of the leaf"; the
result is, we kill a cub. This will be a lesson to the rest of the
family when they return to-night and discover the fearful end that
befalls foxes that "hang in covert." Another cub having gone to ground
in a rabbit-hole, the keeper is given injunctions to have this hole,
together with any other large ones he can find, stopped up, after
allowing a day or two to pass, especially making sure, by the use of
terriers and also by the tracks, that he does not stop any cubs in.
We now leave the home coverts and start away for a withybed about a mile
up the river, where we are told there is a litter. Here, however, we do
not find, though it is the likeliest place in the world for a fox. As
the hounds dash into the withybed a whole string of wild ducks get up,
circle round us, and then fly straight away up stream in the shape of
the letter V--a sight unsurpassed if you happen to be a lover of nature.
Our next draw is an isolated artificial gorse of about six acres. If we
find here, we must have a gallop, for there is no covert of any size
within a four-mile radius; a fine open country lies all around; walls to
jump and large fields of fifty acres apiece to gallop over. There is
some light plough, but each year the plough gets scarcer, for the
Cotswolds are rapidly being allowed to tumble back into grass or,
rather, into _weeds_.
A great proportion of the stone-wall country hereabouts consists of
downs divided into large enclosures; when the walls are low there is no
reason why the pace should not be almost as good as it is in an
unenclosed country. Happily to-day we seem to be in for a quick thing,
for before the whip has had time to get to the end of the covert, hounds
are away, without a sound, and we start off fully two hundred yards
behind them.
The old fox, for a fiver! But there is no stopping them; so, knowing the
country and the earth he is making for, you make tracks, as hard as
your horse can pelt, in the direction in which the hounds are going, and
very soon they turn to you, and you find yourself almost alongside of
them. They are running "mute," with their noses several inches off the
ground; it almost looks as if they had "got a view" of him. But this is
not the case. Scent is "breast high." Two old hounds that you know
well--Crusty and Governor--are leading, though you are glad that one or
two you do not know (evidently some of this year's entry) are not
far behind.
The country, which has so far been rather hilly, now opens out into a
flat tableland. You fly on, thankful that you are on a thoroughbred, and
that he is in good condition. It pays well to keep a horse "up" all the
summer in this country, for some of the quickest things of the season
take place in October. Scent is often good at this time of the year,
because the fields are full of keep: there is plenty of rough grass
about. Later on they will be pared down by sheep, and the frost will
make them as bare as a turnpike road. Then again that abomination, a
"carrying" plough, is not so likely to be met with in October; the white
frosts are not severe enough. Later on they are a constant source of
annoyance to a huntsman, and invariably cause a check.
But your horse, well bred and fit though he be, is doing all he can to
live with the hounds. Fortunately, you know that he is too good to
chance a wall, even when blown. At the pace hounds are going you have
not much time to trot slowly at the walls in the orthodox fashion; you
must take them as they come, high and low alike, at a fair pace, taking
a pull a few strides before your mount takes off. Oh, how exhilarating
is a gallop in this fine Cotswold air in the cool autumnal morning! and
what a splendid view you get of hounds! Here are no tall fences to hide
them from your sight and to tempt a fox to run the hedgerows, no boggy
woodlands where your horse flounders up to his girths in yellow clay, no
ridge and furrow, and no deep ploughed fields.
What is the charm which belongs so exclusively to a fast and _straight_
"run" over this wild, uncultivated region? It does not lie in the
successful negotiation of Leicestershire "oxers," Aylesbury "doubles,"
or Warwickshire "stake-and-bound" fences, for there need be no obstacle
greater than an occasional four-foot stone wall. Perhaps it lies partly
in the fact that in a run over a level stone-wall country, where the
enclosures are large and the turf sound, given a good fox and a "burning
scent," hounds and horses travel at as great a pace as they attain in
any country in England. Here, moreover, if anywhere, is to be found the
"greatest happiness for the greatest number," the maximum of sport with
the minimum of danger; the fine, free air of the high-lying Cotswold
plains; the good fellowship engendered when all can ride abreast; the
very muteness of the flying pack; the onslaught of a light brigade, or
of "a flying squadron under the Admiral of the Red" sailing away over a
sea of grass towards a region almost untrodden by man; the long sweeping
stride of a well-bred horse; the unceasing twang of the horn to
encourage flagging hounds beaten off by the pace and those which got
left behind at the start; lastly, the _glorious uncertainty_! Can it
last? Where will it all end? Shall we run "bang into him" in the open,
or will he beat us in yonder cold scenting woodland standing boldly
forth on the skyline miles ahead? All these things add a peculiar
fascination to a fast run over this wild country.
Sooner or later there is a sudden check, a couple of sharp turns, and
the spell is gone. Hounds may run back ever so well, to the very covert
whence an hour ago they forced him. The pleasure of watching them work
out a scent, growing rapidly colder, may indeed be left to us; but the
glorious possibilities, which lasted as long as a gallant though
invisible "quarry" was leading us _straight away_ from home into
unfamiliar regions, have passed away; the record run, which we thought
had really commenced at last, far, far into the unknown land, into the
country leading to nowhere, is not yet attained,--probably it never will
be, for it existed in the human imagination alone during that thrilling
thirty-minutes' burst, and was beyond the compass of foxes, horses,
and hounds.
As a set off to this it must be admitted that fast runs do not take
place every day on these hills. Perhaps there will not be more than half
a dozen "clinkers" in a season with a "two-day-a-week" pack. For this
reason, as regards all-round sport, the wall country cannot compare with
a vale: a stranger might hunt there for three weeks in March, and at the
end of that time take himself off in disappointment and disgust,
declaring these fast-flying runs he had heard so much about to be an
invention and a myth, and the wall country only fit for fools and
funkers. For good scenting days in this hill country are few and far
between, and a bad day in the wall district is the poorest fun
imaginable. For this the field have generally themselves to thank, since
they will not give the hounds a chance.
But there is a burning scent this morning, as there generally is when
the dew is just going off. For twenty-five minutes hounds do not check
once. The earth our fox has been making for is fortunately closed. This
causes a moment's uncertainty among the hounds, but not a check, for
they drive straight onwards, and it is evident that he is making for
some earths five miles away in a neighbouring hunt's territory, which
instinct tells him will be open.
There they go, old T.K. and J.A., and several ladies, past masters in
the craft of crossing a country with the maximum of elegance and skill
and the minimum of risk to their horses, themselves, or their friends.
Though the hounds are travelling at their greatest possible pace, they
ride alongside them, looking as cool as cucumbers (too cool, I think,
for their own enjoyment; for the more excitable though less experienced
rider probably enjoys himself more). Note how each wall, varying in
height from three to four and a half feet, is taken at a steady pace by
those well-schooled horses; even a five-foot wall, coped with sharp,
jagged stones pointing straight upwards, does not turn them one hair's
breadth from the line. And please note also that each has two hands on
the reins, and no whip hand flung high in the air, or elbows thrust
outwards, you gentlemen who are fond of painting pictures of hunting
scenes for the press!
A good rider sitting at his ease on horseback,
"As if an angel dropped down from the clouds
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship,"
resembles a skilful musician seated at a piano or an organ. There is the
same kind of communication between the man and the instrument, whereby
the stricken chords respond to the lightest touch of the master, who
guides as with a silken thread the keys that set the trembling strings
in motion. For the rider's keys are curb and snaffle, and his hands, by
means of the bridle, control the sensitive bars of his horse's
mouth--the most harmonious, delicate organ yet discovered on earth, but
too often, alas! thumped and banged on to such an awful extent by
unsympathetic, heavy hands, as to become considerably out of tune,
whereby discord occasionally reigns supreme instead of sweet
melodious harmony.
Goodness gracious! what's up? Our horse, which has never refused before,
has stopped dead at a wall. We stand up in the stirrups and peep over,
and there below us is a narrow but deep quarry, a veritable death trap
for the unwary sportsman. This is indeed a merciful escape; and how can
we be too thankful that a horse--wise, sagacious animal that he is--has
been endowed with an extraordinary instinct whereby he can _smell_
danger, even though he cannot see it. Writing of this--one of the
numerous escapes a merciful dispensation of Providence has granted us in
the hunting field--we are reminded that no less than five good men and
true have been killed suddenly with the V.W.H. hounds during the last
eighteen years. The list commences with George Whyte Melville, prince of
hunting men, who broke his neck in a ploughed field in 1878. And it is a
very remarkable fact that Mr. Noel Smith was killed in 1896, on
precisely the same day--viz., the first Thursday of December--as that on
which Whyte Melville lost his life eighteen years before.
But soon after crossing a road, hounds suddenly check. After casting
themselves beautifully forward right-and left-handed until they have
completed a half circle, they throw up their heads and look round for
the huntsman. By a sort of instinct, the result of previous observation,
the foremost riders anticipated that check, and did not follow hounds
over the road, though one or two later arrivals press forward rather too
eagerly. The huntsman, who is not far off, seeing at a glance that there
is no other cause for checking, as the hounds are in the middle of a
large grass field, immediately decides that the fox has turned sharp
down wind (he has been running up wind all the way), and casts his
hounds left-handed and back towards the lane without much delay.
"And now," to quote from Mr. Madden's "Diary of Master William Silence,"
"may be seen the advantage of a good character honestly won." Crusty is
busy "feathering" down the road, and as he is an absolutely reliable
hound, the rest of the pack are not long in coming back to him, and
soon, cheered by their huntsman, they are in full cry again.
Our fox has run the road for a quarter of a mile. This manoeuvre has
probably saved his life, for it has given him time to get his breath
back. In addition to this, the instant Reynard turned down wind the
scent changed from a very good one to a most indifferent one. How often
this happens in a run! And it is one of the fox-hunter's chief
consolations that there is scarcely a day throughout the season on which
a run is impossible, if only a fox will set his head resolutely _up
wind_, just as in a ringing run there is a certain amount of consolation
in the thought that a fox _must travel up wind part of the way_.
It is evident that, being beaten, Reynard has given up all idea of going
for the earths three miles away. He is beginning, like all tired foxes,
to twist and turn. There is no scent on the road; the hounds are
therefore laid on in a grass field, and feather across it in an
uncertain sort of way. This gives an opportunity to a sportsman who has
just arrived by the road to proclaim that "as usual they are hunting
hares." However, there is some pretty hunting done by the pack up a
hedgerow and across a ploughed field; but with scent growing less and
less, as is always the case with a tired, twisting fox, we do not get
along very fast. Hares are jumping up in all directions, and a terrible
nuisance they are on this sort of occasion! That hounds will stick to
their fox, twist and turn though he may, in spite of hares, is a fact
that is often proved in this country, when a lucky view has once more
put them on good terms with the hunted fox, at a time when half the
field have been crying "hare." But when a fox's scent has gradually
diminished until it tends to vanishing point, it is useless to attempt
to hunt him. This appears to be the case this morning, for the sun has
scattered the mists, and has been shining the last ten minutes with
tremendous vigour. We are glad when the master decides to give it up,
for we hope to have some more runs with this old fox later on in the
season. Hounds and horses have had enough for the time of year. So we
turn our horses' heads to the cool breeze that is ever present on the
Cotswolds, making the climate there one of the most delightful in the
world in summer and autumn. And as we ride slowly homeward over the
hill, past golden stubble fields, there is much that is picturesque to
be seen on all sides: for some late barley is not yet gathered in;
horses, drawing great yellow waggons, and old-fashioned Cotswold
labourers are busy amongst the sheaves; and there is an air of activity
and animation in the fields that is absent a month or two later. Bleak
and desolate does this country sometimes look in winter, though when the
sun shines it is fair enough. And suddenly, as we ride along, a lovely
valley is seen below: old-world farmhouses and gabled cottages come into
view, nestling amid stately elms and beech trees already touched by
autumn's hand. As we gradually descend the hill, everything looks more
beautiful than ever this morning; for we have had a gallop. For to-day
at least we shall be in a thoroughly good temper. Whatever the morrow
may bring forth, everything will appear to-day in the best possible
light. Such an excellent tonic is a fast gallop over the walls for
banishing dull care away.
[Illustration: The Old Mill, Ablington. 152.png]