OCTOBER had been wet. Rain in the forest is, at all times of the year,
depressing. When the sun shines on purple heather, emerald fern, and the
ruddy stems of fir-trees, moorland and hillside are gay enough, but in
wet and stormy weather the landscape is the more gloomy by contrast; the
lowering clouds, the black sobbing pines, the pools of water, the soggy
tussocks squelching underfoot, make up a dull and cheerless scene,
although in the eyes of the forest lover it is perhaps then at its best.
The damp atmosphere intensifies the local colour, and gives a sense of
vastness and distance to the perspectives.
The forest ponies dislike rain. They have to seek food most of their
day, and cannot afford to stand idly in shelter like their more favoured
relations. Also the boggy ground gets still more shaky and uncertain,
and the wary creature is cut off from the areas which might supply him
with food. In long continued rain the ponies leave the open moor or
hillside, and betake themselves to the woods, where, under the umbrellas
formed by the great oaks, beeches, and firs, they find shelter,
especially from what most living creatures detest—a cold driving rain.
Skewbald, therefore, was with his companions in the woods, nosing round
for clumps of sweet grass, or, in the wettest spells, taking shelter
under overhanging trunks. His coat had grown thick during the autumn,
and with his dense mane and tail he was as well protected as a pony
could be.
The colt-hunter also disliked rain, for apart from the discomforts of
the chase in wet weather, rounding up the ponies is vastly more
difficult in the woods. On the open moor the chase is not always
successful. Not seldom one may drive ponies from miles away to within
sight of the open gate, and then something may arouse their mistrust,
may cause them to break away, and the work has to be done over again.
But, all things considered, the chase on the moor is a picnic compared
with driving ponies out of the woods. In the open one has the great
advantage of being able to view one’s quarry from a distance, and
formulate beforehand a plan of campaign. But in the woods one must
search and search until the ponies are chanced upon, and then stick
tenaciously to their heels until a capture is effected. In the denser
parts, one may beat about all day, and although the ponies may be near,
and even heard and seen, yet they may change their ground so evasively
that night may fall and still find them uncaptured.
It was not raining much when the colt-hunter and his boy rode out one
morning, but the sky gave every promise of a downpour later on. “Wet
skins for us to-day, Tom,” said his father, as he donned an old
mackintosh, and a wide-brimmed hat, which would divert the rain from his
neck. Like other people who are out in all weathers, he had no use for
caps, which in heavy rain let the water trickle down one’s back. Both
riders had bread and cheese in their pockets, for they might be out all
day, if they were not fortunate in the chase. It had been arranged that
they should meet the agister, who wished their help in locating and
catching some yearlings and older ponies. At this time of the year
ponies are caught in some numbers, and sent to the autumn and winter
sales.
The colt-hunter, by long experience and a good memory for the forms and
hues of ponies, knew most of the many hundreds in the forest, and their
pedigrees. He was acquainted also with the likely places where a wanted
pony might be found at any time of the year.
The hunters, with a cheery good-bye to Mother and Molly, rode some
distance across the moorland and through the rides in the woods, skirted
bogs, and then made their way up a stone-strewn hillpath to the south,
past the spot where the young airman, flying from the training-ground on
Beaulieu Heath, had stooped at a great white cross of gravel, marked out
on the hillside, and had nose-dived to the ground, crumpling up his
machine and breathing his last in the arms of a visitor camping near by.
Father and son rode across the barren plateau of Blackdown; to the east
the great tumulus stood dark and plain on the skyline, but in front of
them Wood Fidley was almost obscured by driving clouds of rain-mist
coming from the south-west.
When they reached the main road, they found the agister waiting for
them. He had on his buckled hat, but his official coat was hidden under
his horseman’s cloak. He also foreboded bad weather and a long drive
through the woods. They crossed the road—now firm and smooth, very
unlike its stone-strewn surface during a dry summer—took a winding path
over the moors, and so into the woods.
The colt-hunter led the way into the deepest recesses, where great oaks
and beeches leaned one against the other, while the ground was
encumbered with undergrowth. As they slowed down to a walk, they saw
ponies, half-hidden by the bushes, stealing away. “There’s one of those
we’re after,” said the agister, “and there’s another.”
Skewbald was not one of the wanted animals, but of course he was not to
know that, and made off with the rest. It was now raining hard, the wood
full of driving mist, and the going very heavy. The fugitives had the
best of it, for the ridden ponies sank below their fetlocks in the
wetter parts, while fallen branches, tangles of briers and brambles, and
drooping holly boughs impeded their progress.
Tom’s pony, as keen as her rider, and not so heavily weighted, made but
little of the heavy ground. She made straight for the fugitives directly
she heard or saw them, without waiting for Tom’s directing hand on the
reins, and several times he was literally pulled from the saddle by
projecting boughs of holly, thorn, or oak. But he held on to his mount,
though torn, scratched, and wet through. Then, when separated from the
other riders, he saw his opportunity, for he came upon Skewbald and a
wanted yearling which had got away from them earlier in the day,
sheltering behind some dense holly bushes. Off they went, with Tom close
on their heels, and after some amount of twisting and turning, the
fugitives came out on a grassy drive, with a gate at the far end.
Skewbald made the pace for his companion, and Tom put on a last spurt,
trying to get even with his quarry. Skewbald, as he approached the
barrier, glanced back at his pursuer, then, acting under an
overmastering impulse to escape, went at the gate, cleared it, and was
at once lost to sight in a forest enclosure. Tom went right on, charging
full tilt into the other pony, which he pinned against the gate, nearly
knocking the wind out of both animals. Before the yearling had recovered
himself Tom had him haltered, and a safe prisoner.
In the New Year Skewbald again used his jumping powers, and this time
saved his life thereby. He was feeding with two other young ponies in a
rough part of the forest, when a stray hound, a deserter from the
kennels, alarmed them. The intruder, perhaps wishing for company, ran
towards them, but the ponies, not relishing his advances, set off at a
trot. The hound followed, and the trot became a gallop. It chanced that
an artillery company, training in the forest, had dug some pits which
had not yet been filled in. The ponies are, as a rule, quite able to
take care of themselves. They have a good sense of geography and know
the dangerous spots, as bogs and pits, but, being driven away from the
training-ground, they were unaware of the existence of the excavations.
As Skewbald fled, through gorse, tall heather, and bog myrtle, the pony
in front of him disappeared with a cry, and, the next moment, he found
himself at the edge of a deep and wide pit, with no time to turn. But
the accident to his companion had given him that fraction of a second of
preparation which was enough for his nerve and muscle. He made a
spasmodic leap, and just managed to land his heels on the far side. The
third also leapt, but fell short.
When the hound, hearing the ponies’ moans, looked down, he fled with a
yelp of dismay. Later, the huntsmen, searching for the truant, found the
two ponies, one dead and the other grievously hurt.
[Illustration: _Longdown Moor._]
[Illustration]