AT FAULT.
In the first ten minutes of a run with hounds everything else must needs
be forgotten, for in these minutes men cast to the winds all earthly
considerations but one, viz., how to get as close to the chase as
possible, and keep there! It is not too much to say that a league of
heather had been traversed at speed ere Parson Gale found he could spare
a thought for anything but the holding together of Cassock, and the
making the most of that good horse's powers.
His skilful riding, however, and intimate knowledge of the country, soon
enabled him to draw rein on a slope of rising ground, while the line of
chase, bending towards him where he stood, afforded a general survey of
the whole pageant as it swept on.
The hounds, stringing in file through its tall luxuriant heather,
threaded the deep, dim coombe he had skirted so judiciously, in a
sinuous line, like some spotted serpent of gigantic length. Seen from
the vantage ground above, they seemed to be running at no great pace,
though with much energy and determination; but John Garnet, who had
plunged into the valley at their sterns, could have told a different
tale. It taxed even Katerfelto's powers to keep on terms with them as
they rose the opposite hill, Tarquin and Tancred swinging along at head
with a steady persistency that implied endurance till the close of day.
Except the stranger on the grey horse, not another rider was within a
mile of the pack. Abel had adopted the same line, though not quite so
skilfully, thought the Parson, as himself, and was leading his active,
cat-like little horse up a precipitous ascent to regain the ground he
had lost. Mistress Nelly could be seen on the white pony, a speck in the
distance, making for some rocks on the moor, where her experience taught
her the deer was likely to pass, and was followed by no inconsiderable
cavalcade. Other sportsmen rode at speed for other points, some in bold
relief against the sky-line, some mere spots of red on the brown expanse
of moor, all with their horses' heads in different directions, yet each
persuaded that his own line was the best and would eventually land him
alone with the hounds!
Alas for the fallacies of experience itself when pitted against chance!
Alas for the caution of age and the cunning of wood-craft! Alas for the
heavy-weight rider and the horse that knew not how to gallop! After this
one turn, of which the Parson so readily took advantage, the stag never
paused nor wavered, but sped across the open straight as an arrow, six
miles on end, without halt or hindrance, and the hounds ran him without
a check.
"Curse him! curse him! how he rides!" muttered the Parson, watching that
grey horse sail over the moor, in smooth and easy stride, like the
stroke of a bird's wing, while John Garnet sat home in the saddle, and
chose his ground with the judgment of one born and bred in the West.
Katerfelto carried his master without difficulty alongside of the
hounds; Parson Gale, half-a-mile off, with no immediate prospect of
getting nearer, admired and envied the daring rider, even while he swore
to have his blood.
Half-a-mile astern, in an enclosed country, is bad enough but to be
half-a-mile behind a good horse crossing Exmoor at speed with a pack of
hounds in front, is virtually to be in another kingdom! To save his
life, the Parson could not come within hailing distance of his foe, do
what he would.
Yet he tried his wickedest! Cassock's sides were scored with the
unaccustomed spur. Cassock's speed was taxed unfairly up steep incline
and over level marsh. The black nag was as good a beast as ever looked
through a bridle, but he carried a stone and a half more weight, and had
neither the blood, nor the size, nor the speed and scope of Katerfelto.
"He's a heavy deer," muttered the Parson, with an unclerical oath and a
strong pull at his horse. "He'll hang in Badgeworthy woods, or 'soil' in
Badgeworthy water. It's the only chance in the game now, for at such a
pace as this, the farther I ride the farther I am left behind!"
Not once in a season, not once in ten seasons, had the Parson been so
out in his reckoning. The wild red deer while he is the noblest and most
courageous of those forest creatures that trust for safety to their
speed, is also the most eccentric and unaccountable in his flight. Let
us borrow the grey-speckled wings of the moor-buzzard hunting leisurely
overhead, and accompany our stag through the rush-grown swamps of
Exmoor, as he crosses its undulating surface at that free pitching
gallop which he seems so rarely to hasten in alarm, or to modify from
fatigue.
His taper head and noble antlers are thrown slightly back, his dark and
gentle eye seems fuller than in repose, but brightened by a
consciousness of intelligence rather than by the tension of anxiety or
distress. His nostrils are spread to catch the taint of an enemy in the
breeze, and his mouth is open, while he is yet fresh and full of
strength. When he closes it, there will be many a reeking flank besides
his own, for wind and limb will have failed at last, and the only force
left him then will be the courage to die. In the meantime he is all
energy, vitality, and speed. To be hunted is but a generous rivalry that
tests the powers in which his spirit takes pride, that wages his own
endurance and sagacity against the hostile instinct of his natural enemy
the hound. Speeding over the moor, it seems that he can mock at the
untiring hate of Tarquin, Tancred, and their comrades, yelling on his
track, fierce, busy, and persevering, but many a furlong in the rear.
Badgeworthy woods and copses frown darkling before him. Badgeworthy
water brawls in foaming jets and rippling eddies at his feet. The covert
would seem to offer safety and concealment, the river to afford at least
refreshment and temporary respite from pursuit. With a strange and
wilful pertinacity, for which Parson Gale, labouring hopelessly behind,
is at a loss to account, he shoots away from this tempting refuge of
wood and water, coasting a precipitous hill that overhangs the stream,
to speed along its dangerous incline at a pace that seems but to
increase with the prospect of fresh exertions in an open country,
unbroken by coombe, covert, or ravine for miles.
Even John Garnet, standing in his stirrups and easing Katerfelto, who
has not yet demanded any such indulgence, begins to ask himself how long
this kind of thing can last.
The sun is already high in a blue, cloudless heaven--blunt, grey
boulders studding the steep hill-side stand out in high relief, shilt
and shingle glitter on the bare tops above, and bushy tufts of heather
fade to a dusky purple below; but here and there green moss lies dank
and soft round many a bubbling spring, while a breeze from the north
fills lungs and nostrils with its cool, clear air, so that the deer,
taking the wind sideways as it takes the hill, bounds on with
ever-increasing speed, refreshed, invigorated, full of strength, and
running still! The dark, impervious glades, the deep precipitous ravines
of Widdecombe are frowning yonder in the distance, though many a mile of
moorland intervenes; they seem to offer a secure retreat, and even if he
should be driven through that stronghold, and forced into the open once
more, shall he not make his point in the cliffs beyond Combe Martin,
steering for yonder thread of blue on the horizon, that promises death
or freedom in the Severn Sea!
Who shall say that all this calculation, this strategy, this reflection,
is so far below reason, as to be called instinct? Even Red Rube, many a
mile behind on his pony, taxing his resources of intellect and cunning,
backed by the observation of fifty years, that he may arrive somehow at
the finish in time to hear the "bay," confesses he is but a fool when
his wits are pitted against those of a deer driven to its last shifts.
He is riding slowly and doggedly, due west, without a soul in sight. He
could not explain why he should have chosen this direction, but some
mysterious instinct of the hunter tells him that thus only has he the
slightest chance of seeing any more of the chase.
In the meantime vexation, confusion, and distress prevail for many a
weary mile of rocky steep, tangled heather, and holding swamp. Here a
good horse, floundering to the girths, emerges from the mire with a
throbbing flank and staring eye that tell too plainly their own sad
tale. His master, pretty well exhausted also in the struggle, standing
hopelessly on foot, while friends and neighbours, in but little better
plight, come labouring past, each man riding faster than his horse, and
pointing eagerly forward to that distance he must never hope to reach.
The last of the string, whose powers are dying out like the flame of a
candle, sinks from a false and labouring trot to a reeling walk, which
soon collapses in a dead stop.
"I've shot my bolt too, neighbour!" says the defeated sportsman to his
comrade in distress. "It's many a long day since we've seen such a brush
as this over Exmoor, and I'd try to finish the run now in my boots, only
I've grown so plaguy lusty for climbing these hills!"
So they lead their horses homeward despondently enough, with many a
longing, lingering look at those lessening forms that are yet far in
rear of the actual chase, and many a speculation as to when it will end,
what direction it will take, and who are the lucky ones with the hounds.
There can be no run so good in reality as that which we lose in
imagination when beaten off by exigencies of country or pace.
Tancred and Tarquin are leading no longer. The grandson of the former,
nearly an inch higher than himself, has come to the front, and for the
first time since his puppyhood vindicates the purity of his lineage, and
proves the staunch, determined qualities of his race. He has never
hitherto run at head, but now, when the pace is best, he takes the scent
from his grandsire by sheer force of nose and wind and speed. Not
another hound in the pack can wrest from him his post of honour in the
front; and it is a pity that John Garnet, who knows nothing about him,
and cares as little, should be the only man near enough to mark the
excellence of his performance. Were they but there to see it, the young
hound's dash and style, tempered by undeviating steadiness in pursuit,
would fill Abel's eyes with tears, and call forth a blessing from Parson
Gale's lips!
That keen sportsman is cursing volubly instead, though none the less
does he take every advantage of ground, cut off every angle, and avoid
every swamp in the line; therefore Cassock gallops steadily on at a
fair, regulated pace, which neither increases nor decreases the
disheartening interval between his rider and the hounds.
"I would give five years of my life," mutters the Parson, "to be lifted
up by some supernatural power and set down half-a-mile, just half-a-mile
farther on!--ten to be riding that grey horse instead of the man who
owns him! But the reckoning must come at last, and may my right hand
wither at the wrist if I make it not the fuller and deadlier for every
hour it is delayed!"
John Garnet, speeding away in front, on excellent terms with the hounds,
and as happy as a king, little thought of the malice and hatred
following in his track, little thought, indeed, of anything--unless it
were Nelly Carew's blue eyes--but the keen enjoyment of his favourite
pursuit. He was far too practised a horseman, however, to forget in his
enthusiasm the normal rules of his art, and reflected more than once
that although he had never ridden an animal to be compared with him, yet
Katerfelto was but a horse after all, and so far like other horses that
at last his long powerful gallop must come to an end. Therefore he
spared him as much as was compatible with his resolution not to leave
the hounds, and kept his eye forward with considerable judgment and
sagacity, so that when opportunity offered he might never throw a chance
away.
Thus, while the pack, guided by Tancred's grandson, who bore the
imposing name of Thunderer, dived into a precipitous ravine, he rode
judiciously along its edge, and pulled his horse into a trot, while he
watched them swarming and bustling through the gigantic growth of
heather that fringed several hundred feet of an almost perpendicular
incline. From thence he scanned the ground in front to find a more
practicable descent, and down it he plunged without hesitation so soon
as the hounds, giving tongue freely, dashed into the water below. It was
a shallow, darkling stream, breaking and brawling over ledges of granite
between high, steep banks, clothed in tangled underwood, and John Garnet
could not but hope that now the deer had taken soil, and soon would
burst on his ear that loud and welcome chorus called the "bay." It
disappointed him a little to observe the pack cross the stream, borne
downward by its current, wading, swimming, shaking their ears and
sides, while Thunderer informed them loudly that he was in possession of
the scent.
It disappointed him still more when the grey horse had splashed and
struggled through from bank to bank, that the hounds, whose noses had
never yet been off the line for an instant, should be looking about them
on the further side with heads up and wistful faces gazing in his own as
though half ashamed of failure, half pleading for assistance. There was
no doubt they had come to a check, and appealed to the horseman for help
he was unable to afford. The ground rose steep and high, the darkling
copse that clothed these abrupt hill-sides shut out the light of day.
John Garnet was at a loss. Had the deer lain down? or was it forward
still, and in which direction? He naturally looked for Tancred to inform
him, but Tancred was nowhere to be seen.
The Parson, meanwhile, labouring doggedly on, had caught a distant
glimpse of the hounds even as they disappeared over the brink of this
precipitous coombe, in time to play a bold stroke that merited success.
He determined not to cross the valley at all, but to steer for that side
of it on which the line of chase now seemed to lie, and so hoped to come
in on the deer, refreshed by the bath he never doubted it had indulged
in, as it rose the hill once more and made for the open moor. Urging
Cassock to further effort, he increased the pace for a stretch of
another mile, but when he halted his good horse--who stopped willingly
enough at the wished-for station--not a living object was to be seen
dotting the brown expanse, not a sound to be heard but the wail of the
curlew flitting softly over the waste. Deer and hounds and John Garnet
must have sunk into the earth! The solitude seemed unbroken, the chase
had come to a standstill, and the Parson was at fault!