in the boat I could lay hold of to keep myself on board. Only those
who have sailed punts can imagine the rapidity of their movements, and
my first attempts were certainly exciting, as only having the tiller
to hold on to, which naturally was not of much use, it came over with
me. I several times nearly went backwards into the river. After this,
Commodore cut a square out of the well, so that my feet could just fit
down, and framed it in with water-tight canvass, and so altered matters
that my real joy in sailing began. The feeling of being run away with
in a boat is glorious, and a good punt is hard to beat at this. The
excitement keeps you in a glow, though the water breaks all round and
over you. The first race in which I steered we won, and then began a
record on our own river. Punt after punt was built to beat us, but
still _Sea Maiden_ came in first. Emboldened by our wins, we took her
round to the Thames to try her against the half-raters. Our first race
was over the circular course off the Royal Corinthian Club, at Erith,
in a very strong wind. As we stepped on board the _Sea Maiden_, the
waterman, from a little grey steamer that was being repaired, begged
us to be careful, as it was blowing very hard and we should find more
sea on the other side. Mr. Hope thinking _Lotus'_ mainsail too big
for her, hoisted one belonging to a dinghy, the other boats starting
closely reefed. _Lotus_ led the first round, with _Sea Maiden_ a close
second, but the wind gradually lightening, _Lotus_ increased her lead.
We saw it was absolutely necessary to shake out our reefs, which we
dared not do whilst close-hauled, so we could only wait impatiently
as the stern of the leading boat grew smaller and smaller. At last we
got round the buoy, and out came our reefs in a minute. The effect was
magical, and we ran up to _Lotus_ hand over hand, till by the time we
reached Crayford Ness mark we were close astern. Mr. Hope could not
stand this, so began shaking out his reefs, but we now had a turn to
windward and at once passed him, and throughout the remainder of the
race kept the lead. The boat was looked at with great curiosity as we
came alongside the causeway. She was called a "Thing," an "Eggbox,"
and other uncomplimentary names, but all agreed that she could go in a
breeze.
[Illustration: _A. Debenham._ _Cowes._
_SEA MAIDEN._]
Next day was almost a perfect calm. A racing tide was running down the
wind to Greenhithe, and we were all mortally afraid of being drifted
over the line before gun-fire. Nevertheless, we thought it best
to risk it, and consequently stood away close hauled right into the
middle of the stream, the other boats meanwhile keeping in a little
eddy close to the shore. When the gun did go they were over the line
long before us, but we were in the middle of a swinging tide which
swept us away at four miles an hour, whilst the others were all trying
to work out of their little slack. On reaching Greenhithe we found we
had left our instructions behind, and could not remember on which hand
to leave the buoy, so to make no mistakes rounded first to port and
then to starboard. Unfortunately _Lotus_ came in sight as we rounded
the wrong way, and having also left her instructions behind was led
astray. Our very light draught enabled us to skirt the mud out of the
tide all the way back, and brought us in first again with a very long
lead. Our third race was sailed in a moderate breeze which fell to
almost a dead calm at the last. _Lotus_ led for the three rounds of the
circular course, and do what we would it seemed impossible to pass her;
however, at the very last, a stretch of strong tide had to be crossed
to reach the line, _Lotus_ left the slack first, sailing straight
for the mark. Seeing it was our last chance we kept away in the slack
much further down, then started across keeping the line on our weather
beam and the tide on the lee-bow, we slowly drifted crab-wise across
the broad stretch of river. It was a moment of intense excitement, the
wind had died down to a mere breath and a crowd of tugs, huge steamers
and drifting barges were coming up with the tide, we had to pick our
way through these as we both converged towards the bobbing flag-boat.
_Lotus_, seeing her mistake, set a spinnaker and tried to stem the
tide, but it was too late, and again _Sea Maiden_ took first gun, and
the Muriel Challenge cup for the best of three races.
The punt went on winning after this, till we were afraid of being
disliked on our own river, so put her in a railway truck and took
her down to the Solent, where the storm drum was up and a sou'wester
blowing in heavy squalls. As we started across from Portsmouth Harbour,
we reefed down small, for the sea was the biggest I had ever sailed
the boat in, the waves breaking completely over us, filling my bucket
and drenching us both to the skin. A strong tide too was running to
windward, but we got into the shelter of Wooton Creek in a very
short time, and were most hospitably received in the Canoe camp and
dried bit by bit. Our first race on the Solent was at Ryde, for the
hundred-guinea cup, presented by Mr. West. And here we met our old
enemy, _Lotus_, which had been doing wonders against the Isle of Wight
craft.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hope exclaimed as we came up, "Hullo, Mrs. Wyllie, I
think the race lies between the Thames and the Medway today." Now this
was most unlucky, as we have always found that wherever any bragging
is done we are sure to lose; and so it proved. Keeping an eye on the
time ball on Ryde Pier, _Sea Maiden_ was first over the line, the wind
was terribly light with a nasty bobbly swell which seemed to knock the
life out of her. The boats with heavy lead keels went through it better
than she did, and it was not long before we were passed. After rounding
the Stourbridge it was a close pinch to Gillicker point, with the
tide racing out and the sun blazing and dazzling one's eyes with its
reflection in the oily heaving water. It was a weary time, and as we
became mixed with the lagging members of the large fleet of one-raters
which had started before us, our chances for that day were lost. It
took the best part of a day to sail the one round. The Thames and
Medway were not in it, _Sea Maiden_ finishing an inglorious seventh.
[Illustration: _PUNTS RACING._]
Next day there was a little more wind, and _Lotus_ came in a very good
first, _Sea Maiden_ second, and _Wee Winn_ third. The moment the race
was over, the helm was put up and we ran across to Portsmouth hard,
and in two hours from the finish, the boat was safely placed on the
truck that was to take her to Burnham-on-Crouch, where we were to do
some racing, and where _Lotus_ took first each time. There we had a
week of first-class sport, some of the races being very exciting, one
especially so, for there was a long run in a heavy sea, ending up in
a jibe round the buoy which some did, and some did _not_ do. It was
a breathless moment as the boom came over and we careered away at a
tremendous pace, the boat rocking wildly from side to side, and the
waters seething all round and over us. Suddenly I found I had no grip
on the helm, the rudder having floated up on our following wave. She
broached to at once, and though, thanks to Commodore's prompt letting
go of the sheet, we managed to save a capsize, it was a close thing.
That year we sailed twenty-seven races, winning fifteen firsts, six
seconds, and two thirds, and ending the season on the Medway with a
series of matches in which we all changed boats and crews. It was on
a lovely autumn afternoon that we anchored our barge yacht under the
wood as committee boat, with tea, something stronger, dry clothes, and
a party of friends on board. In every case and with every crew _Sea
Maiden_ came in first, till we persuaded Lord Charles Beresford to sail
his _Undaunted_ with our sail, when she at once turned the tables. Next
year there were a number of new punts built, namely: _Mosquito_, _Star
Fish_, _Water Lily_, _Princess May_, and _Tartar_. The Royal Engineers,
too, built the _Terrible_ and _Powerful_, sister ships, with long
overhanging sterns, and Captain Mareney, R.E., with his own hands built
_Bébé_, which has proved the fastest of her class. In a strong wind the
_Bébé's_ speed is something quite phenomenal, and one race she sailed
in a hard gale, surprised everyone who saw her. Mr. G. C. Kerr's punt,
_L'Espérance_, besides being good-looking, sails very fast; and on
one occasion, in a light wind, beat the seventeen-ton, _Buccaneer_,
in a race to Sheerness and back, without time allowance. Owing to the
drawing of our punt, which appeared in the _Field_, there have been
many imitations of our flat-bottomed class started in different parts
of the world. The Puffins at Plymouth, a little fleet at Weymouth,
the new class at Southampton, and individual boats in Scotland,
Northumberland, Anglesea, Florida, and even distant Hong Kong. There
was a rumour that a challenger for the Seawanhaka Cup should take the
shape of a long flat punt, and for this purpose a drawing was made by
one of our most celebrated designers, but the Canadian holders of the
cup have accepted the American challenge, instead of that of the Minima
Yacht Club, so, this spring, the sound of the hammer will not be heard
in our loft.
M. A. Wyllie.
[Illustration: _MRS. PENN-CURZON._]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Mrs. Wyllie's invalid daughter.--Ed.
IN RED DEER LAND.
Books and Magazine articles dealing with the Chase and the habits of
the Red deer, are so many and so excellent that I feel diffident about
attempting to say anything on a subject that has been so thoroughly
thrashed out. In old days, or at any rate twenty-five years ago,
very few people wended their way Westward in the months of August
and September, to see what has now become such a popular sport. The
crowds at the present time are now enormous, often worse than the Quorn
fields, and the riders all full of zeal and desperately anxious not to
miss anything from find to finish, thus often causing the Master no
little anxiety, and trying his patience sadly.
In case my readers are not acquainted with the method in which
stag-hunting is conducted, I will try to give a brief history of a
day's sport. In the first place the deer must be harboured, that is
"slotted" or tracked into covert, and this requires great knowledge of
woodcraft on the part of him to whom the business is entrusted. The
harbourer's business is to find out that his deer is a warrantable,
_i.e._, a runnable, stag, which he can tell by the size of the slot,
or footprint on the ground, and he must also make sure that his quarry
has not passed through the covert. To do this he must search carefully
for a slot leading out of the wood, or if the covert be too large he
must make good as many of the paths round where he thinks his deer is
lying, as he can. The difference between the slot of a hind and a stag
is almost imperceptible to the ordinary eye, but if closely observed it
will be noticed that the slot of a stag is larger and has a wider heel
and blunter toes, also that an old heavy deer has his toes frequently
uneven in length, while a hind's toe is pointed, and she has a narrow
heel. In an old deer there is generally also a little space open
between her toes. The harbourer can tell whether a stag or hind has
been feeding, and though the signs believed in by some are disputed,
one infallible test is whether the ash shoots have been nibbled or not.
For while the hinds and young deer do not affect them, stags have a
perfect passion for them, and the delicacy seems to be as irresistible
to them as oysters and caviare are to a human gourmet.
The harbourer generally goes to the scene of action the day before the
meet, and gleans what information he can from those whose knowledge he
can rely on. With regard however to the feeding ground of the deer,
he will do well to depend entirely on his own eyes, and to form his
own conclusions. Next morning he must be afoot in the small hours,
and look for any fresh slot pointing towards the covert, made by the
deer returning from feeding. Should he see what he thinks belongs to
a warrantable deer, he must next make sure the animal has not gone
through the covert, and if the woods be very large, he must try and
localise him as much as possible. The late Miles, who was the harbourer
in the Devon and Somerset country for so many years, was a marvel in
doing this, for he seemed to know the habits of the deer as well as
they did themselves. His loss to the hunt was irreparable, for apart
from the harbouring, he was of unbounded assistance during the run, and
often when the deer seemed hopelessly lost, and Master and huntsman
were in despair, have I heard Miles's whistle and his cheery holloa,
saving the day at the eleventh hour.
For the business of tufting, as finding the deer is called, four or
five couples of the strongest hounds are required, as they will have to
run with the pack afterwards. Also, it is well to select those hounds
most inclined to throw their tongues, as their deep notes are more than
welcome in the big coverts, where they get out of sight. If the deer
has been well harboured and is inclined to leave covert quickly, so
much the better, but patience is often sorely wanted in stag hunting,
when a cunning old deer will double back into covert time after time,
and turn out his younger relations to try and get hounds off his line.
We will suppose, however, that the deer has chosen to break covert
quickly, and the welcome sound of Anthony's horn means that the body of
the pack, till now kennelled in a convenient barn or stable, will be
laid on. If the deer has chosen a good line, that is over the forest,
we must pull ourselves together and save our horses wherever possible,
knowing that we may gallop for eighteen or twenty miles or more.
It is wonderful how two or three miles over holding ground will
steady a field, and weed them to within reasonable bounds. I consider
Exmoor the worst possible country for a stranger to take his own line,
the best man to hounds on earth cannot tell some of the crossings by
instinct, many of the combes having only one even decent crossing, and
that has to be negotiated with care. Most people, however, seem to come
down with the idea that Exmoor is one vast bog, which is all nonsense,
for most of it is quite rideable, or at any rate you can pick your way
over it. The crossings are the worst drawbacks to riding straight to
hounds. A large majority of the field ride to points, and most annoying
it is, after you have galloped your hardest at the tail of hounds, to
see a batch of tourists who have been piloted by someone who knows
every inch of the country, and who has guessed the stag's point, with
comparatively fresh horses, while your own, no matter how carefully you
have nursed him, has pretty nearly had enough.
A deer will nearly always soil once, if not oftener during a run,
and it is marvellous how a plunge in one of the many streams, or a
roll in a peat hole, will refresh him. Stags, especially the older
and fatter ones, generally lie down after they have run for a time
if not pressed, that is if hounds are not laid on at once, and the
master generally gives a big heavy deer a little law. A fresh find is
a beautiful sight, and the tricks and dodges of a wily old stag would
fill many chapters. To anyone fond of seeing hounds work, and not only
anxious for a gallop, the sight of hounds trying to pick out the line
of their deer, when he has gone up or down stream, is alone worth going
out for. It is extraordinary how long a deer's scent will hold on the
moor. It is no uncommon thing for hounds to hunt up to, and kill their
stag, after he has been two hours ahead of them.
[Illustration: _HOUNDS OF THE DEVON AND SOMERSET PACK._
(_From a Picture in the possession of C. H. Basset, Esq., of Watermouth
Castle._)]
One thing in hunting the red deer impresses people very strongly who
have only seen foxhunting, and that is the way hounds tail on the moor.
Several explanations of this are given. One is that the deer running
in a straighter line than the fox, the fastest hound gets in front and
stays there, others say that it is easier to get through the heather
in a string, and again some hold that the scent of a deer being very
sweet, hounds run one behind another to get it all. When they do carry
a head, the sight of the big hounds, none under twenty-four-and-a-half
inches and all unrounded, racing over the heather, is a very fine
one. Deer almost invariably die in the water, either in one of the
numerous streams or rivers, or going to sea. In the last case they
have to be followed by boatmen, and are brought to shore and killed.
This is the greatest drawback to stag hunting, but it is no good being
sentimental about it. The deer do an immense amount of damage to the
farmer's crops, and if they were not killed in the chase they would
very soon be shot, and stag hunting would be no more, so that my advice
to those who cry out about the cruelty to "the poor dear stag," when
they see him being ignominiously towed to shore, is to stay at home, so
that their feelings may not be hurt by the sight.
It is wonderful how the more ignorant portion of the large field of
strangers, who condescend to honour Exmoor with their presence in the
stag-hunting season, grumble unceasingly at the sport. The country,
Master, hounds, and hunt servants, all come in for scathing criticism.
One has a great longing to let them try and hunt a deer themselves,
to convince them that it is not such A B C work as they seem to
think. Also, should the Master persist in remaining in a covert to
hunt the big deer he knows to be there, instead of laying on to the
four-year-old which has just broken away over a tempting line on the
forest, there is a chorus of discontented ones, "Oh, what rot this
is; why can't he go after a decent deer?" The malcontents, either
forgetting or not knowing that it is the fat old sinner now doing his
utmost to save his skin by turning out his younger relations, which
gorges himself nightly on the farmer's best turnips and corn, and
that it will be a poor consolation to the latter if hounds pursue a
young deer twenty odd miles and then lose him, while the author of the
mischief is left, possibly with a keener appetite than ever, after his
unwonted exertions.
There is always a hope that a big fat stag may be run up and killed,
should his whereabouts be a certainty, in time to lay on to another,
and I have often seen two deer killed in one day. A fat stag which
is merely blown and not exhausted, will waste a lot of valuable time
beating up and down the water, too out of breath to breast the hill
and give a gallop, and too strong to be pulled down. This gentleman is
a most unpleasant customer to tackle, as in fact is any deer at bay.
A stag is a grand looking beast when he stands with his back against
a rock, in one of the picturesque streams that abound on Exmoor, with
his lovely head well up, and great, sad, frightened eyes, the pack
baying round him and not daring to come within striking distance of
those death-dealing horns. The sooner then the huntsman, or one of the
willing farmers always at hand and ready to assist, can slip behind the
beast and lasso him, the better for everyone.
The head and slots of stags are the Master's perquisite, the skin and
inside and the hinds' heads belong to the huntsman, who generally
shares the liver with the farmers. The carcase is distributed amongst
the farmers on whose land the deer was found, and who highly appreciate
a bit of venison. The Master alone never gets any, and to speak for
myself I have only tasted hunted stag once. This was when my mother
was sent, by a kind neighbour, a haunch of a five-year old deer, which
had given us a run of nearly thirty miles, and very excellent it was.
I have never seen a more vicious stag either than this one, for though
he had run from Cloutsham to within five miles of my mother's home,[2]
he fought desperately and severely injured two hounds before he was
taken. I always remember that gallop too on account of the marvellous
way the puppies worked, with hardly any old hounds to help them, my
father[3] having saved the older hounds for the next day, when he was
meeting in a close woodland country, where he thought the inevitable
crowded field would work less havoc among the older and more sensible
hounds than on the puppies, many of which were hardly way-wise.
There is one delusion that strangers labour under who meditate a few
days with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, and this is, that it
is absolutely necessary to ride "the horse of the country," as they
term it. I think this is quite a mistake. Any horse that looks where
he is going, and doesn't go yawing about with his head in the air,
will go well on Exmoor, at any rate after a time or two, but horses
accustomed to the country certainly get less frightened in soft ground
than strangers. In fact, a moor-bred animal wont go into a bog at
all. I have ridden all sorts and conditions of horses, and I think
I would choose animals that stand about 15.1 or 15.2., short-legged
and strong backed and with good shoulders, for though I have seen a
little straight-shouldered Exmoor pony canter down a hill without a
false step, when most people have been leading down it, yet I never
think it gives you a comfortable sensation to be sitting almost on
your horse's ears. Two things are absolute necessities, blood and
condition, without these one cannot hope to get to the end of a long
moorland gallop with comfort to either man or beast. I know no more
hopeless-looking objects than a poor underbred and underfed hireling,
floundering through the wet ground, remorselessly urged on by an
ambitious but ignorant tripper, whose pedigree will probably bear even
less looking into than his unfortunate steed's. For a very light weight
with extravagant ideas, polo ponies would be ideal mounts, being in
the height of condition, after the close of the season at Hurlingham,
and very fast and handy on their legs, but it is not everyone who can
afford or would care to risk valuable animals on such broken ground.
Some people hold that big horses are better than small ones, but I
cannot say I agree with them. A large horse shakes himself and his
rider to pieces galloping down the hills, and if you would see a long
run well, you must gallop down hills, and take it easy up them; he
also does not recover himself so quickly should he make a mistake over
the rough ground, and is more liable to strains and over-reaches in
the boggy land, to say nothing of the fact that he can frighten you to
death in the tiny narrow paths through the woods, where a false step
means rolling into the river many feet below. A small horse _may_ be
quite as dangerous, but I don't think he feels so clumsy, and again, a
small horse undoubtedly comes to time again sooner after a hard day.
One thing I specially dislike on the moor, and that is a hard puller.
People say, "what does it matter, when there's heaps of room." This is
all very well on a racecourse, but when you are on the verge of almost
a precipice intersected with ruts, peat holes and other trifles, with
either a bog or a river waiting for you at the bottom, it is very poor
fun to be hardly able to steady your horse, much less hold him, and
I have seen some very nasty falls resulting from the inability of an
unhappy sportsman to control his mount.
[Illustration: _PRINCESS, IRISH MARE._
(_Property of Mrs. Lewis Mackenzie._)]
You can also have a nasty fall if you try and descend the steep combes
sideways. It is a golden rule to ride a horse straight down. At the
worst then he can but sit down, but if you are half cantering, half
shambling down a hill sideways, and your mount puts a foot wrong, a
horrible fall is the probable result. It is a wonder to me, looking
at the crowd of people riding, most of them ignorant of the first
principles of horsemanship, why there are not more bad falls than there
are on Exmoor. Now and then it is true a man gets his face cut, or a
rib broken or something of that sort, but really bad accidents are most
rare. I suppose that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, looks
after the welfare of the bold tripper, or perhaps the softness of the
ground has more to do with it.