Hunt “Runners.”
IV.
BUTLER OF THE NORTH COTSWOLD.
There are few more picturesque hunting scenes than the country around
the Cotswold Hills in the fair county of Worcestershire, which is hunted
by Mr. Charles McNeill and his famous pack of Belvoir-bred bitches. This
Eden of foxhunting is a much sought after possession, wild and rugged
with variety of scene on hill and dale, pasture and woodland. It has
often been said that farmers are the backbone of foxhunting, and these
Worcestershire sportsmen, bred and born to it, are a community whose
fame for staunchness to sport is known far and wide. The majority of
them, or their sons, ride to hounds, and wire is practically unknown in
their country, whilst foxes are preserved as they ought to be, the best
of good feeling prevailing between sport and agriculture. All the same,
we did not expect to find a farmer in the capacity of runner to the
hunt.
Many countries are going begging for a master, but not so the North
Cotswold, which has been so successfully presided over by Mr. Charles
McNeill for the past five seasons, the announcement of whose retirement
was received with universal regret. When it became known there was a
vacancy for next season, twenty-two applicants for the mastership came
before the Hunt Committee; showing how hunting men appreciated a
community of farmers who plump solid for sport. Sir John Hume Campbell
is to be congratulated that he has been chosen to succeed Mr. McNeill.
Butler, the runner to the Hunt, wearing the cap and scarlet coat of
office, is a typical Worcestershire dairy farmer. Born in the Heythrop
country close by, he has followed the hounds on foot for the past twenty
years, which occupies the reign of three masterships—Mr. Algernon
Rushout, Captain Cyril Stacey and Mr. Charles McNeill. Before that time
he had five years in the saddle making young horses, “hunting oftener
than his master did,” as he put it, and a coachman’s place for six
months in the heart of Birmingham was the last straw that compelled him
to give up domestic service, and take to the wild, free life of a
runner, with farming as a mainstay. On a hunting morning Butler is up
before daybreak to get his cows milked, pigs and poultry attended to, so
that the institution of a bicycle to ride the long distances to and from
covert has been a great saving of time and exertion.
Our first sight of the North Cotswold Hunt in the field was at a
picturesque fixture, Cheevering Green, in the hill district, and there
we made Butler’s acquaintance when he stood holding open the gate as
horsemen drew up from far and near. A middle-aged man, with a dash of
grey in his side whiskers, and keen, penetrating brown eyes, foxhunting
is written in every line of a face evidently intended by Nature for a
hunting cap. Sporting the primrose collar of the Hunt, and the coronet
on his button dating back to Lord Coventry’s mastership, Butler, with
his sturdy black and white terrier, makes a pleasing adjunct to a Hunt
which is appointed in Leicestershire style. There is no gainsaying the
fact that the countryside appreciates a Hunt that is well found in all
departments, and a scarlet coat is still a passport which will admit its
wearer where others would be less welcome. It was the late Duke of
Beaufort who used to say that every man who goes hunting ought to pay
the chase the compliment by putting on his best clothes, even if it be
his Sunday suit. Though the North Cotswold is a Hunt far distant from
Leicestershire, yet Mr. McNeill has aimed at perfection in every
department, and by doing so won everybody’s gratitude; for, after all,
the pomp and pageantry of the chase tends to its popularity in a marked
degree, which more sterling qualities can hardly boast. When the
Master-huntsman rode up in the middle of his pack of seventeen and a
half couple of bitches there was a cheery word all round, and expectancy
which preludes a good day’s sport. As usual, the Hunt runner had a quiet
word for the ear of the Master, news of an outlying fox which a
neighbouring farmer had viewed every morning for the last week. These
North Cotswold bitches, for Mr. McNeill has no doghounds in his pack,
have done well this season, killing seventy-two foxes up to the middle
of January, in a country that is fourteen miles long and eight miles
wide in the middle, being a good deal less top and bottom. All Belvoir
in colour and type, they are triumphs of breeding, proving their worth
by winning prizes on the flags at Peterborough, and golden opinions in
the field, where they are remarkable for tongue and drive, a pack that
mean catching their fox at the end of a gallop. Mr. McNeill is a
Leicestershire man, who acquired the greater part of his skill as a
huntsman studying the methods of Tom Firr, and he is as quick as
lightning, inspiring hounds and followers with confidence.
For the first draw we commenced hill-climbing to the larch plantations
up above, an experience that made one appreciate the sagacity of a
well-trained hunter.
These hill districts must require a considerable amount of stopping
before a day’s hunting, but it is not a duty now performed by the
runner. Butler’s mission is to bolt the foxes when they get to ground,
and for this he receives half-a-crown on every successful occasion.
Years ago he carried a big, white buck-ferret, and worked him on a line
when foxes sought the shelter of stone drains. Unfortunately, the ferret
came to an untimely end; making a hole in the bag in which he was being
conveyed home one wet night, he escaped and, perishing of cold, was
found dead next morning.
From the hill-top we were rewarded with a beautiful view of a
far-stretching panorama of country in the vale beneath, and quickly the
sonorous music of the big-framed bitches lent enchantment to the scene.
A second or two later the whipper-in’s silver whistle was ringing out
the glad “Gone away,” and Butler, with a smile of satisfaction on his
face, was holding up his cap; there were no confusing halloas. Though
the North Cotswold country is anything but a good scenting one, except
when there is a bite of east in the wind, the bitches rattled their fox
out of covert, and keeping his head up wind as they slipped down into
the vale, spread-eagled their field in a hunt of thirty minutes to the
Croome country on the opposite hillside. It was a ride full of new
experiences, giving us, alas, but a distant view of the Master and
hounds as they skimmed over the stone walls that divide the seventy-acre
pastures. A rain-cloud blotted us out at the finish, enveloping the
hillside in a dense wall of fog, robbing the pack at a critical moment
of well-earned blood.
[Illustration:
WITH THE NORTH COTSWOLD.
]
Stone-wall jumping is a characteristic of the North Cotswold country,
and it is surprising how well hounds’ legs and feet stand the trial,
proving the worth of good bone and breeding, which, like first-class
machinery, can go at the highest pressure and last. In the vale there is
a beautiful line of grass with upstanding fences, equal to anything to
be found in Leicestershire, so that a hunt is seen under all sorts of
conditions, and a pack that can do well here is fit for any country.
Talking of runs brings up a wealth of reminiscences, for it is a
district in which the keenest interest is taken in the doings of hounds
by the non-hunting fraternity, who are sportsmen to the very core. To
set the runner and his friends talking hunting is like putting a match
to gunpowder, and two brilliant bursts we noted down would make the
fortune of a season’s sport. Finding a fox near Hyatt’s Spinney, the
bitches, with tuneful chorus, drove him along into the open country of
large acred fields surrounded by stone walls. There was a burning scent,
and so good was the pace that hounds could keep their fox travelling up
wind, whilst Mr. McNeill was viewing nearly the whole of the journey in
a hunt of twenty minutes.
It was a regular Belvoir burst, and the pilot had to go straight in the
race for his life, losing no time over the walls, he ran up the middle
of each field in a desperate effort to gain on his pursuers. Such a high
state of tension could not last for long, and the huntsman at last saw
the fox miss his footing at a stone wall and fall back from distress.
Though the mistake only made a matter of a few seconds, it cost a
gallant fox his life, for before he could clear in a second attempt, a
bitch called Housemaid dashed up, and seizing hold of his brush, pulled
him back, but herself went over the wall, where she lay, knocked out. An
electrifying cheer from the master put a finish to the fastest burst of
this season, under the wall near Springhill.
Another good gallop this season, both from a thruster’s point of view as
well as the huntsman’s, was from Gallipot Gorse in the Vale. An old
customer, who had on several occasions led the pack a dance, always to
save his brush by getting to ground, was not so fortunate on this day.
Getting away close at him, they drove along to Toddington without
touching a cover, and running by Worrington Village they crossed the new
railway below Laverton. It was evident to those with hounds that the
pilot meant the earths on the hillside in Burrill Wood, but two fields
from that point the pack suddenly viewed their fox. Up went their
hackles, and giving utterance to that cry of delight which proclaims the
death-knell, their language seemed to convey its meaning to the hunted
one. A curious incident occurred at the finish, which was witnessed by
several members of the Hunt. In the last field, a grass one, when this
gallant fox knew the end had come, he turned round and met the pack with
his hackles up, and made the best fight he could, a game old warrior,
indeed. With gleaming ivories shining defiantly, he died facing the foe,
his teeth meeting in a death-grip directly the leading hound seized him.
So good a fox was honoured with full funeral rites, all wanting a bit of
him, and the Master would not have been half sorry if he had just
managed to beat them at the finish.
When it comes to dislodging a fox, Butler is not the first man with the
spade, for the staff has one better in Padison, the first whip, who is
determined, in the saddle or out of it. Where there is any chance of
handling a fox he goes to work with the fire and dash of a fox terrier,
stripping to his shirt in the effort to get under ground. The kennel
huntsman is old Dan Reid, who looks quite classic in appearance, riding
a long-tailed black thoroughbred; and being of Irish extraction, he has
the dry humour of that race. On one occasion when they were out a
badger, some one remarked that Mr. Brock was scratching in faster than
they were digging him out. Dan replied: “No, but he’s not, for I’ve put
a tarrier dog in to keep him amused.”
One story more about the runner and we have done, for there is always
chaff flying about with the wheat, and this belongs to the lighter
quality. After a mark to ground in a drain, the runner was left with
instructions to get the fox out, whilst hounds went on to draw
elsewhere. Unfortunately, it occurred to him to give the neighbouring
villagers a little entertainment on his own, and soon tremendous
holloaing was heard in the distance. To the master’s horror he saw a
crowd of village women round a red-coated figure who was wheeling a
barrow, in which was a cider barrel containing the unfortunate fox in a
bag. All the party were halloaing, delighted at the prospect of making a
Roman holiday of the arch enemy. It was a moment when the Master showed
his royal displeasure, and the fox was at once enlarged, such a mistake
never happening again.
“The Old Horse.”
Yes, taken all round, he was, without doubt, the best horse I ever
owned. Good at every kind of fence; bold, yet clever as a cat; never
sick or sorry after the hardest day; and nothing too big for him. Oh,
yes, I had a few falls off him. For myself, I have always thought the
horses that never fall rather mythical animals. It has always seemed to
me that the hunter of whom the fond owner proudly says: “He doesn’t know
how to fall,” can scarcely know how to jump. For a horse that can cross
a difficult country without sometimes making a mistake must really be
somewhat uninteresting, like the good people who always do and say the
absolutely correct thing.
That is his picture just above the mantel-piece. Made all over like a
hunter; blood, bone—and look at his girth. Ewe-necked? Just a trifle;
but he put on a lot of muscle there after the picture was done, and I
have noticed that a horse with that formation, or fault, is often a real
stayer.
Perhaps so; those good bits of the past always look a good deal brighter
than when they made our present; but still, I will insist that the old
horse—he will always be “the old horse” to me—was the very best I ever
rode. He had a little temper; but, then, the best horses and men have
that—and women? rather!—and when they are, all through, the right sort,
and generous, it improves them. And the old horse _was_ generous! Why,
if he had been a man, I always thought he would have made an ideal one.
It is just ten years ago to-night since I lost him. Bless me! how time
does go. I had returned, well pleased, after a good day’s hunting. We
had had one of those real old-fashioned sporting runs in which hounds
hunt steadily on, though nothing very brilliant in the way of pace
occurs. I had dined, my coffee had been slowly sipped, my cigar had been
under way some fifteen minutes, and was being enjoyed with that feeling
of extraordinary contentment which a long day in the open air gives to
the sportsman. I had tried several favourite books, and found all
impossible, as usual after a hard day’s hunting; BAILY’S had just
dropped from my hand, and I had given way to a reverie on the
performances of my friends and myself during the day. The wind had been
rising gradually, and now blew in strong and fitful gusts, and again,
with faint moaning “sough” through the trees. I must have been dozing;
but a tap at the door suddenly roused me, and Stablem entered the room
and said: “Please sir, the old ’oss ain’t nearly so well to-night.” I
was alert then. The old horse! He had not been well for some time;
indeed, latterly, he had been failing fast. I had bought him as a
four-year-old, and had ridden him for twelve seasons, but only two or
three days at the beginning of this. He had suddenly seemed to lose all
his form, and got listless, and then he became, all at once—old. He had
since been given only gentle exercise, and passed his time in his box;
and the “vet.” said he could not do very much for him. So, very sadly, I
rose and followed my man to the stables. The old horse was lying curled
up in a corner, more in the way one sees a dog lie. He was moaning, in a
low, crooning key, which to me seemed terribly human. When I spoke to
him he raised his head and tried to prick his ears. I stroked his muzzle
and looked into his eye, once so prominent and bright, now so sunk and
dull. Yet I felt he was glad to see me. Ah, he and I had ever been on
the best of terms. Other friends had sometimes been far from true. We
had found them—those whom we had trusted—mean, and not running straight;
but the old horse, he had ever been the same—brave, generous, and
cheery. He stretched himself out, and lay stiff and flat. Poor fellow!
He looked so small and “gone”; his once rich coat, a mahogany chestnut,
was dry and colourless. He was the mere shadow of his former self—the
slashing, sixteen-hand hunter had shrunk to this.
A hundred memories rushed through my brain of the halcyon days he and I
had spent together. The best runs I had ever ridden had been on his
back. The longest day had never been too long for him. Of course, you
know he was thoroughbred, and up to fourteen stone, and I ride only a
little over twelve, and how game he was! He only refused once, and we
found there was a great quarry hole behind that fence! He was always so
flippant and free, and now—and the thought struck me like a knife—he
would never hunt again.
In perfect health the thought seldom occurs to us that we may never do
this or that thing again; never again see some loved face, nor hear our
friends’ cheery chaff, nor again gaze on some familiar scene. If we
_could_ know, how miserable we should be long before our misery comes.
So it was with the old horse and me, I had ridden him so long that I
somehow seemed to think I should go on riding him. Nothing much had ever
happened him; a few slight cuts, but nothing serious, in all the years
we had been together. A fine feeder, he had gone on like clockwork; but,
at last, the wheels had run down; and I realised, with a grief that some
may consider out of place when only a horse is the object, that our
friendship was being severed. It seemed so strange that we should part;
we who had only parted in our falls; we who had galloped through so many
brilliant bursts and struggled on to the end of so many long runs. It
was hard indeed; but the very strangeness of it seemed greater than my
grief. I had never known how fond I was of the old horse.
To watch a dumb animal die is, in one sense at least, more pathetic than
in the case of a human being. In a way it seemed harder, more cruel,
than if a man lay dying, for then there would be some consciousness of
the coming change or end of things; and, if not, humanity has all along
been educated for this inevitable termination. This is the looked-for
goal, which lies—always far off, of course, but still ever there—at the
further side of life; a something to be seldom thought or spoken of. But
the old horse did not know these things. He did not know that life was
slipping from him. The future, at any rate, had no terrors for him, and
the past brought no remorse. He was even hardly unhappy in the present;
and of pain he had little or none. With him it was almost an euthanasia.
If he thought at all, it was probably of finer and happier hunting
grounds than any he had ever seen; fields that he would cross without
tiring, and where “the going” was all grass and no plough. Perhaps he
dreamt of this as he feebly neighed. I hoped he did. I hoped that, in
some vague, mysterious fashion, the old horse felt that he was going to
be at rest. For surely one who had been so dear to me could never be
allowed to die—to go out—unaware like that he was going to something
better? And, as I watched him, I thought that he was one of the few
hunters who never seemed to have “bad days.” Poor fellow! What pleasure
I owed him! For what pleasure in life is there to be compared to that
which we owe to our hunters? And this union, wherein lay so many
exquisite memories, was to be dissolved. I would still have the
memories, but the old horse was going. He even now seemed suddenly to
get further away from me. A stupor had fallen on him, and, once or
twice, I fancied that he thought he was galloping hard in the same field
as the flying pack. I hoped he did, for it seemed good and right that he
should be there in spirit, as he passed away from me. A few minutes more
and I was alone, for the old horse had gone.