THE MOYCULLEN HOUNDS.
“On the first day of spring, in the year ’93,
The first recreation in this countheree,
The King’s counthry gintlemen o’er hills, dales, and rocks,
They rode out so gallant in search of a fox.”
Blackthorn looked sedately amiable as Tom led him up to the hall door
next morning, and I felt as I looked at him that I might safely trust
him to initiate me into the mysteries of cross-country riding in the
county Cork.
The day was lovely--sunny and mild, with a lingering dampness in the air
that told of light rain during the night. I settled myself in the
saddle, intoxicated by the idea that I was actually going out hunting
for the first time, though I could not help a tremor of anxiety as I
wondered if Willy would find his confidence in me had been misplaced.
I could hear him now in the hall, knocking down umbrellas and sticks in
search of his whip, and presently, in response to his shouts, old Roche
came shuffling to his aid.
“I was putting up your sandwiches, sir,” he said.
“Go on, and give hers to Miss Theo, and hurry,” said Willy’s voice, in a
tone indicative of exasperation.
Roche bustled out on to the steps with a small packet in his hand, a
jovial smile on his face. He looked at me, and his face changed.
“My God! ’tis Master Owen himself!” he said, as if involuntarily. “I beg
your pardon, miss,” he continued, coming down the steps and putting the
sandwiches into the saddle-pocket. “I suppose ’twas the man’s hat, and
the sight of you up on the horse, made me think of the young master, as
we called your father.”
Willy, at all times a carefully attired person, was to-day absolutely
resplendent in his red coat and buckskins, and as we rode slowly down
the avenue, I was impelled to tell him how smart both he and the mare
looked. He beamed upon me with a simple satisfaction.
“Do you think so? Well, now, do you know what _I_ was thinking? That no
matter how good-looking a girl is, she always looks fifty per cent.
better on a horse.”
“That is a most ingenious way of praising your own horse,” I said.
“Ah now, you know what I mean quite well,” rejoined Willy, with a look
which was intended to be sentimental, but, by reason of his
irrepressibly good spirits, rather fell away into a grin.
The meet was to be at the Clashmore cross-roads, and we passed many
people on their way there. White-flannel-coated country boys and young
men--“going for the best places to head the fox,” as Willy observed with
bitterness, and little chattering swarms of national-school children.
Every now and then a young farmer or two came clattering along, on
rough, short-necked horses, whose heavy tails swung from side to side as
they trotted at full speed past us, and an occasional red coat gave a
reality to the fact that I was going out fox-hunting. The cross-roads
were now in sight, and I saw a number of riders and people who had
driven to see the meet, waiting for the hounds to come up.
“Why, I declare, here are the two Miss Burkes coming along in that old
shandrydan of theirs with the bedridden grey pony!” said Willy, looking
back. “Hold on, Theo. I must introduce you to them; they’re great
specimens.”
We allowed the pony-carriage to overtake us, and Willy, pulling off his
hat with as fine a flourish as his gold hatguard would allow, asked
leave to introduce me.
“With the greatest of pleasure, Willy. Indeed, we’d no idea till
yesterday, when we met Doctor Kelly in town, that Miss Sorsefield had
arrived.” This from the elder Miss Burke, a large, gaunt lady with a
good-humoured red face and an enormous Roman nose, and a curiously deep
voice, whose varying inflections ran up and down the vocal scale in
booming cadences.
“You ought to be riding the pony, Miss Burke. She looks in great form.”
“Oh, now, Willy! you’re always joking me about poor old Zoé. You’re very
naughty about him. Isn’t he, Bessy?”
The younger Miss Burke, thus appealed to, replied with a genteel simper,
“Reely, Mimi, I’m quite ashamed of the way you and the captain go on.
Don’t ask me to interfere with your nonsense. We hope, Miss
Sarsfield”--turning a face that was a pale dull replica of her sister’s
towards me--“to have the pleasure of calling upon you very soon. But oh,
my gracious! there are the dogs and Mr. Dennehy coming! And look at us
keeping you delaying here! Good-bye, Miss Sarsfield. I hope you’ll
obtain a fox.”
At the cross-roads we found the master of the Moycullen hunt, a big,
wild-looking man with a long reddish-grey beard and moustache, seated
on an ugly yellow horse with a black stripe, like a donkey’s, down his
back.
“How do you do, Mr. Dennehy?” said Willy, as we rode up. “Nice day. This
is my cousin, Miss Sarsfield. I hope you’ll show her some sport.
Morning, Nugent. How are you, Miss Connie? Do you see the new mount I
have?” and Willy forgot his duties as my chaperon, in a lively
conversation with Miss O’Neill.
Mr. Dennehy, with what was, I believe, unwonted condescension, began to
speak to me.
“I’m delighted to see you out, Miss Sarsfield,” he said in a slow,
solemn brogue. “I hope we’ll have a good day for you, and if there’s a
fox in Clashmore at all, these little hounds of mine will have him out.”
I did not know much about hounds, but even to inexperienced eyes these
appeared to be a very motley collection. Mr. Dennehy saw me look with
interest at two strange little animals, somewhat resembling long-legged
black-and-tan terriers.
“Well, Miss Sarsfield, those are the two best hounds I have, though
they’re ugly creatures enough. And there’s a good hound. Loo, Solomon,
good hound! That’s a hound will only spake to game.”
Here Mr. Dennehy produced a battered little horn, and with two or three
bleats upon it to collect his hounds, he put the yellow horse at a
yawning black ditch that divided the road from a narrow strip of rough
ground, perpendicularly from which rose a steep hill covered with
laurels. The yellow horse took the ditch and the low stone wall on its
farther side with unassuming skill, and he and Mr. Dennehy were
presently lost to sight in the wood.
Willy now came up to me with Miss O’Neill and her brother, and I was
introduced to the former, a small, fair-haired girl in a smart habit,
with brown eyes and rather a high colour. She nodded to me with cheery
indifference, and continued her conversation with Willy, leaving me to
talk to her brother.
This I found to be a somewhat difficult task. His manner was exceedingly
polite, but he appeared to be engrossed in watching the covert, and we
finally relapsed into silence. At intervals Mr. Dennehy’s red coat
showed between the low close-growing trees as he led his horse through
the covert, and we could hear his original method of encouraging his
hounds.
“Thatsy me darlins! Thatsy-atsy-atsy! Turrn him out, Woodbine! Hi,
Waurior, good hound!”
I felt inclined to laugh, but as no one else seemed amused, I refrained
and waited for further developments. Presently, with a few words to
Willy, Mr. O’Neill put spurs to his big bay and galloped off. In a
moment or two, Miss O’Neill, without further ceremony, followed her
brother to the other end of the covert, and Willy and I remained with
about twenty other riders on the road.
“See here!” he said in low, excited tones. “You keep close to me. Old
Dennehy’s got a beastly trick of slipping away with his hounds directly
they find, and making fools of the whole field, leaving them the wrong
side of the covert. But I think we’re in a good place here. Whisht!
wasn’t that a hound speaking? Come on this way.”
We set off down the road helter-skelter after Mr. O’Neill and Connie,
but were stopped by an excited rush of country boys with shouts of,
“He’s gone aisht! He’s broke the far side!” and at the same instant Mr.
and Miss O’Neill came pounding down a ride out of the covert.
“It’s just as I thought; Dennehy’s gone away with the hounds by
himself,” called out Mr. O’Neill. “A country fellow saw the fox heading
for Lick, and Dennehy all alone with the hounds, going like mad!”
At this juncture I think it better not to record Willy’s remarks.
“It’s all right, Nugent,” said Connie. “I know a way over the hill lower
down.”
“Don’t mind her, Theo,” said Willy in my ear; “just you stick to me.”
We had galloped past the eastern bound of the wood, and as he spoke he
turned his horse and jumped the fence on the right of the road.
Blackthorn followed of his own accord, and I found that an Irish bank
did not feel as difficult as it looked.
Willy turned in his saddle to watch me.
“Well done! that’s your sort,” he shouted. “Hold him now, and hit him!
This is a big place we’re coming to.”
We were over before I had time to think, and to my horror I saw that
Willy was making for a hill that looked like the side of a house,
covered with furze.
“There’s a way up here, but you’ll have to lead. Nip off! I’ll go
first.”
I was fearfully out of breath, but Willy allowed no time for delay. Up
the hill we scrambled, Blackthorn leading me considerably more than I
led him. After the first few seconds of climbing, I felt as if it would
be impossible to go on. My habit hindered me at every step. Blackthorn’s
jerks and tugs at the reins nearly threw me on my face, and the fear of
Willy alone prevented me from letting him finish the ascent by himself.
When at last we reached the top, Willy and I were both so much out of
breath that we could not speak, and I wished for nothing so much as to
lie down. But Willy, with a blazing face, made signs to me to mount at
once, and, jerking me into the saddle, we again set off.
The top of the hill which we had now gained was rough, boggy ground.
Down to our right lay the gleaming laurel covert, and in front of us the
hill sloped gradually down into a low tract of bog and lakes, with hills
beyond. We could see nothing of any one, but a countryman, on the top of
a bank above the wood, waved semaphore-like directions that the hounds
were running to the north-east.
“Hullo! here’s Nugent,” said Willy, in a not over-pleased voice, and as
he spoke I saw Mr. O’Neill’s bay horse coming along over the hill. He
soon overtook us, looking, I was glad to see, as heated and dishevelled
as Willy and I.
“I knew that way of Connie’s was no use, so I came back and went up the
hill after you. Where are the hounds?”
“Going north-east, a fellow told me. But look! By Jove! there they are
on the hill across the bog, and going straight for Killnavoodhee.”
“There is only one way to pick them up,” said Nugent, with what seemed
to me unnatural calm--“we must cross the bog.”
“But, my dear fellow, I don’t believe there’s a way across, and once we
got in, we’d not get out in a hurry.”
“Do you mind trying, Miss Sarsfield?” demanded Mr. O’Neill.
“Whatever Willy likes,” I said.
“Oh, all right,” said Willy. “Fire away, but you’ll have to pay for the
funeral, Nugent.”
We had now reached the foot of the hill, and we rode rapidly along the
verge of the bog for a short distance till we came to where an old
fence traversed it in a north-easterly direction.
“Here’s the place. If we can get along the top of this, we shall just
hit off their line,” Mr. O’Neill said. He went first, and the horses
picked their way along the top of the bank like cats, though the sides
crumbled under their feet, and sometimes the whole structure tottered as
if it were going to collapse into the deep dykes on either side. At last
it broke sharp off, at a pool of black mire. Our guide dismounted and
jumped down into the bog, pulling his horse after him, and we slowly
dragged our way through the heavy ground to the farther side of the bog.
Here we were confronted by the most formidable obstacle we had yet come
to. It consisted of a low, soft-looking bank, with an immense boggy
ditch beyond it.
“We’ve got to try it, I suppose,” said Willy, “but it’s a thundering big
jump, and there’s a deuced bad landing beyond the water.”
He and Mr. O’Neill remounted, and the former put his horse at the place.
The bay’s hoofs sank deep in the bank, but he took a spring that landed
him safely on the opposite side on comparatively firm ground. My turn
came next.
“Whip him over it!” exclaimed Willy.
I did so as well as I was able, but the treacherous ground broke under
Blackthorn’s feet, and he all but floundered back into the ditch as he
landed.
“Oh, Willy!” I cried, “I’m afraid you’ll never get her over now that the
bank is broken.”
But Willy was already too much occupied with Alaska to make any reply.
She refused several times, but finally, yielding to the inevitable, she
threw herself rather than jumped off the bank, and the next moment she
and Willy were in the ditch.
I was terrified as to the consequences, and was much relieved when I saw
Willy, black from head to foot, crawl from the mare’s back on to the
more solid mud of the bank on our side. Without a word he caught Alaska
by the head, and began to try and pull her out. His extraordinary
appearance, and the fact that he was much too angry to be in the least
conscious of its absurdity, had the disastrous effect of reducing both
Mr. O’Neill and me to helpless laughter.
“I am very sorry, Willy,” I panted, “and I am delighted you’re not hurt;
but if you could only see yourself!”
Willy silently continued his efforts.
“Oh, Mr. O’Neill, do get down and help him,” I continued.
“I don’t want any help, thank you,” returned my cousin, with restrained
fury. “Come up out of that, you brute!”--applying his hunting-crop with
vigour to the recumbent Alaska, who thereupon, with two or three violent
efforts, heaved herself out of the slough. All this time Mr. O’Neill had
been grinning with that unfeigned delight which all hunting-men seem to
derive from the misfortunes of their friends.
“You have toned down that new coat, Willy,” he remarked; “and I must say
the little mare takes to water like an otter.”
“Oh, I dare say it’s very funny indeed!” retorted Willy, leading Alaska
on to the higher ground where we were standing; “but if you’d an eye in
your head you’d see the mare is dead lame.”
“By George! so she is. That’s hard luck. She must have given herself a
strain.”
“Well, whatever ails her, there’s no use in your standing there looking
at me,” replied Willy. “I can get home all right. I don’t want Theo to
lose the run, and you’ll head them yet if you put on the pace.”
His magnanimity was almost more crushing than his wrath. I was filled
with contrition for my heartless amusement, and begged to be allowed to
stay with him. But I was given no voice in the matter; my offer was
scouted, and before I had fairly grasped the situation, I was galloping
up a narrow mountain road after Nugent O’Neill.
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