Hunt “Runners.”
II.
DAVID SWINTON AND DICK BAKER.
Successive generations of Belvoir Hunt followers will remember the
beaming countenance of old David Swinton, the enthusiastic foot-hunter.
He always dressed in black, with a clerical-looking wideawake, and
carried a stout oak staff. Swinton takes us a long way back into hunting
history, for his first day’s sport with the Duke of Rutland’s hounds was
in the middle ’thirties, when he was a lad at school. To-day, as he sits
by the fireside, approaching his eightieth birthday, he is still hale
and hearty, though not an active pedestrian, and is in the unique
position of one who has enjoyed sport with the Belvoir hounds under the
mastership of two Dukes of Rutland, Lord Forester, and Sir Gilbert
Greenall. Though the classic pack can boast of huntsmen who served long
tenures of office, Swinton has reminiscences of five since 1836, namely,
Thomas Goosey, Will Goodall, James Cooper, Frank Gillard, and Ben
Capell. Generations of sportsmen have come and gone in that time, and
there are not many of Swinton’s early contemporaries left, though
foxhunters are a long-lived race.
Until a season or two ago we still had with us Mr. John Welby, the
Squire of Allington, one of the best that ever crossed a country, Lord
Wilton, and Sir Thomas Whichcote, who were undefeated horsemen in their
day. Another hardy old sportsman who rode up to the last, and only
joined the great majority a few years ago, was Mr. John Nichols, of
Sleaford, who, like Swinton, was entered to sport by Thomas Goosey, and
would hunt with no hounds other than the Duke’s. The old runner had just
the same sentiment, and although he has had a look at other hunts, he
was always loyal in his allegiance to the ducal pack.
The Belvoir, so far as we know, have never had a paid runner, but
Swinton became an institution, and certainly during Frank Gillard’s term
of office was most useful in performing many little duties which help to
keep the internal machinery of a hunt in smooth working order. Though
scarlet-coated runners are to be seen with the Belvoir on the
Leicestershire side, dividing their attentions between the packs that
hunt within distance of Melton, they are never seen so far afield as
Lincolnshire. The reason for this is that the area traversed is very
wide, and the going is so much heavier that a man on foot would have
little chance of keeping in touch with the hunt.
David Swinton dates back to the days when there were active pedestrians
in the land, his keenness to see a hunt carrying him through a day’s
fatigue such as the rising generation would never dream of. He thought
nothing of going on foot ten or twelve miles to a fixture, and would
“shog” home at hound pace with the pack at dusk, cutting corners when
possible, but often arriving at his destination as soon as they did.
Until three seasons ago, when in his seventy-sixth year, he often came
out to get a sight of the sport he loved so well. His last appearance
was at a Caythorpe fixture, where, he relates, our present field master,
Mr. E. W. Griffith, found him out, and noting that he looked tired after
walking, presented him with some money, that he might drive on the next
occasion, and save his energies.
[Illustration:
DAVID SWINTON.
(Fifty Years Runner with the Belvoir.)
_Photo by H. L. Morel._
]
The other day we found old David in his cottage at Ancaster, the
unquenchable fires of the chase burning brightly within him as he
revived memories of many a happy day. “I enjoy hunting as much as ever,
though now I can only read Mr. Tally-ho’s letters in the _Grantham
Journal_; but I follow hounds, for I know every yard of the country,”
said the old man, as he leaned on his famous oak staff. “My first sight
of the Belvoir hounds I remember as well as if it were yesterday. I was
a small boy, standing by Fulbeck Gorse, which was a very thick covert,
and old Thomas Goosey, the huntsman, told one of his whips to go in on
foot and see to the earth. The sharp gorse was not to his liking, and
laughing, I said, ‘Why, he can’t half go through it!’ To which old
Goosey replied, ‘It would fetch the bread and butter out of your fat
legs, you young rascal!’ That was in 1836. After that I never missed a
chance to run with hounds. I was a tailor, and had lots of work to do,
but I planned it to see as much hunting as possible, my wife and I often
being up nearly all night stitching, to get clothes finished off.”
Lord Forester held the mastership of the Belvoir from 1831 to 1857, and
Swinton reminds us that he was “a tall, fine gentleman, and a splendid
horseman, who rode right up to the pack.” He used to stutter when giving
his huntsman orders. Will Goodall carried the horn in those days; he had
been second whip to Goosey, and was promoted over Tom Flint, who had
“developed a thirst.” Those were long days for hunt servants at Belvoir,
for the rule was to draw covert while daylight lasted, no matter what
might be the distance back to kennels.
Swinton in those days had a tailor’s shop at Ropsley, where they had a
half-way kennel for hounds when hunting the wide fixtures on the
Lincolnshire side of the country between twenty and thirty miles distant
from Belvoir. Thus he saw a good deal of Goodall and his whips, for
after making the hounds comfortable for the night, they used to refresh
at the Fox Brush Inn. About eight o’clock at night Goodall used to mount
an old brown hack mare, and gallop the fourteen miles back to Belvoir in
the hour, to be ready to hunt a fresh pack on the Leicestershire side
next morning. He always took a whipper-in with him. Goodall was a very
daring horseman, and he took his fatal fall when only forty-one years of
age off a horse called Rollison; it happened on the first of April, and
he died on the first of May. “I made his last pair of breeches, poor
chap!” says David.
The next huntsman, James Cooper, was a little fellow, sharp as a needle,
and a very fine horseman who loved a good horse, having one of his own
called Turpin. In those days David used to work very hard making
liveries; this gave him the chance to stay at villages on the far side
of the country for a week together, and he managed to see much hunting.
He has been out on foot four days in succession, doing sometimes thirty
miles in the day; but of course that made a hard week’s work. He did not
care how he got out so long as he could go. For a time he had a little
white pony which could go any distance, and he used to lead through gaps
and keep going on the road to make his point, not being very far behind
at the finish.
The most memorable day’s sport he ever had was March 6th, 1871, when the
Prince of Wales, now King Edward VII., hunted with Squire Henry Chaplin
and the Blankney hounds. It was a very rough morning, and David, though
doubtful if they would hunt, walked from Ropsley to Navenby, fifteen
miles, on the chance. He made for Wellingore Gorse, where he met the
Rev. —— Peacock, rector of Caythorpe. A few minutes later a fine old fox
came into the gorse with his tongue hanging out, as if he had been a bit
dusted. So David walked about, wide of the covert to keep him there, and
be sure to see if he left. Not long afterwards Charley Hawtin, the
Blankney huntsman, came up with hounds hunting the line into the gorse.
Well, they got him away, and ran for the best part of three hours,
although he returned to the gorse twice. At last he got to the end of
his tether, and David viewed him crawling into the gorse dead beat. As
Mr. Henry Chaplin rode up with the Prince of Wales and Lord Brownlow,
the smothered worry could be heard going on. The gorse was very thick,
but David crawled in on hands and knees and got the dead fox away from
the hounds, bringing him outside. “You are a rum fellow,” said the
huntsman, “not one in fifty dare do a thing like that, you might have
got killed yourself.” “Its all right,” said David, “naught never in
danger, but I should like one end of the fox now I have rescued him!”
They gave him the mask, which he had set up in memory of the Royal day.
Mr. Chaplin asked him if he intended to eat it.
It was a long spell of fine sport they had during the twenty-six seasons
Frank Gillard was huntsman, 1870 to 1896; he was in touch with all the
country side, and people did all they could to further a day’s sport.
Many is the half sovereign David had from Gillard to see that earths
were stopped or gates shut after hunting. When it came to digging out a
fox it always meant five shillings to distribute amongst those who
worked at the job. “Frank Gillard could always trust me,” said David;
“he used to say when he heard my halloa, ‘There’s old Dave’s voice, true
as a clock!’ You know I never barked false! What long days Gillard did
make to be sure, he was never tired of hunting! I have often spoken to
him in Ancaster Street, as he rode through with his hounds at eight
o’clock at night, and often it was raining hard. He had to get on to
Grantham where the three-horse van was in waiting for the hounds, and
that meant reaching Belvoir kennels at nine o’clock or after.”
After hunting three years on foot without a ride, David was given a
mount by a friend on a nice little horse, and as he rode up to the meet,
old Tom Chambers and the whips shouted: “Hurray, we’ve got old Dave
mounted at last! What are you doing up there old friend, are you
purchasing?” “How the swells did laugh to be sure!” adds David.
One of the hardest days he ever did on foot was a hunt from Barkstone
Gorse. They found at twelve o’clock, and never stopped going until three
o’clock. David thinks he did not stand still five minutes, and for an
hour and a half he had the Rev. —— Andrews, of Carlton, running with
him, till he said, “I can’t stand it any longer. Swinton, you’re killing
me!” Hounds kept running in big circles out to Sparrow Gorse, and David
viewed the fox several times, and never really lost sight of the hunt
for more than ten minutes at a time, as he managed to keep inside the
circle. Well, hounds hunted him right well, getting him very tired, so
that he returned to Barkstone Gorse. He viewed him again coming away,
but before hounds had run two fields they threw up, and David could not
make head or tail of it, no more could the huntsman, though he did all
he knew to help hounds to recover the line. “Well,” I said, “Gillard,
he’s done you!” To which he rejoined, “I think by the looks of you he’s
done you twice over!” “No mistake, I did have a doing that day.”
Times have altered since those days, and since Sir Gilbert Greenall
became master nine years ago. With Ben Capell huntsman, a day’s sport is
very much faster, and David has got very much older. He tells the whips
to-day that they live like gentlemen, compared with what the Belvoir
hunt servants had to do in the past, for everything now is planned to
save wear and tear to horses and men.
The old runner’s experiences give us an outline of two different phases
in the history of foxhunting, which might be termed the ancient and
modern systems of conducting a day’s sport. Though there are some left
to tell us of the great changes that have come over our sport, still
Swinton’s story goes to prove that hunting people are as kind and
generous to-day as they were seventy years ago, for the old runner has
many good friends to help him in his declining days.