“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,
That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”
We were trotting leisurely to cover, one morning, when I remarked that
Trimbush was more serious and silent than usual.
“What are you thinking about?” said I.
“We’ve got our work cut out to-day,” replied he, “and I was just
turning a few matters over in my brain, to untie some of the knots and
difficulties which always beset us when we draw Berry brake.”
“Is that our first draw?” said I.
“Yes,” returned my companion, “and a sure find. For the last four
seasons we have challenged the same fox, and, as he lives, I need not
say that he has, hitherto, beaten us.”
“But how?” I asked. “He must be something extraordinary to beat ye
four whole seasons.”
“He is,” added Trimbush: “but he must be more than _that_, even to live
till sun-down to-day.”
“Tell me all about him,” said I, “and what your plans are; for I see
your mind is made up for mischief.”
“Why, in the first place, then, I should tell you,” replied my friend,
“that Berry brake is the strongest cover I ever was in. It cuts our
chests and sterns, and makes our heads swell terribly, to get through
at any pace. The scent, too, is very good in it, and from having given
Old Charley some good dusting, he will not hang a moment now. This, in
so far as the strength of the cover is concerned, is all the better
for us; but he is so wary that he bolts at the slightest noise, and
has taken to his pads long before Tom has been even able to occupy his
station at the upper part of the cover. Whatever his tactics may be,
however, he invariably breaks away fresh, and with a good start, and
being as strong a fox as ever stood before hounds, he has managed to
outrun and beat us up to this time.”
“Is he a big one?” I inquired.
“I have viewed many a one in my day,” replied Trimbush; “but never
did I put eyes upon such a wolf-like looking animal. He’s as black as
thunder, and as long as a rope-walk. You can’t mistake the devil’s own,
as Will Sykes christened him, if you chance to view him; but we have
not done so for the last six times of hunting him.”
“View or no view,” rejoined I, “we’ll stick to him.”
“For a month, if we can but hunt, yard by yard, inch by inch,” said the
old hound, with fixed determination expressed in his proudly erected
head and lashing stern.
“You’ve got some manœuvre or artful dodge in store for him, I know,” I
remarked.
“I have,” responded my companion, “and you shall not only hear what
it is, but shall join in the scheme. As I told you a short time
since, most foxes hang in cover as long as they dare or can. It is
their nature to screen themselves as much as possible, and they
face the open only when compelled and pressed. A fox that has been
often hunted, however, is of course more shy than one who has not,
and the devil’s own, having invariably met with a precious rattling
whenever he attempted to thread the covers, never hangs fire now, but
sweeps straight through them. In order to be on good terms with him,
therefore, we must act in the same manner, and to lose no precious
second of time, remember, that the moment we reach a cover, the chances
are a hundred to one that he is already through. If not, we shall
instantly know that the pull is in our favour by his hanging, for, if
it was not for the general rule of foxes hanging in covers, they would
serve us, in nineteen cases out of twenty, as the devil’s own does, and
run us clean out of all scent.”
“Being so crafty,” returned I, “I’m surprised that they don’t depend
more upon that which would save them, _their speed_.”
“The reason is this,” added Trimbush. “Although much faster than we
are, and with power of equal endurance, they cannot bear the heat of
the day as well as we can. It should be recollected also, that we have
rested the night before, and commence our work with empty bellies in
the morning; but the fox has been on the pad foraging for food when we
were asleep, and, perhaps, is gorged at the moment we unkennel him. He,
therefore, feels himself in no condition for racing, and tries all his
cunning to elude us in preference to facing the open. I don’t know,”
continued he, “how the devil’s own regulates his meals; but I fancy he
must sup early, and go to bed long before cock-crow.”
At this moment Will Sykes glanced round, and hallooed, “Give them more
room, Ned, and let them empty themselves.”
“Ay, ay,” replied Ned, checking his horse to leave greater space
between himself and the huntsman.
“That’s right,” observed Trimbush. “There should always be plenty of
room between the second whip and the huntsman, so that we may not be
hurried when we want to stop.”
“Then you intend,” said I, resuming the subject, “then you intend----”
“To fly straight to the farthest end, or opposite side of every cover
he points for,” interrupted he, “and especially the moment we are
thrown into Berry brake, in order to be on good terms with him at the
burst. It’s our only chance,” continued the old hound, “and if he
beats us to-day, with the ground in the order that it is, and this
mild velvety wind, hang me if I shall have any hope of breaking up the
devil’s own.”
“Have you made known your plan to any of the others?” I inquired.
“Yes,” replied my companion, “two couple and a half of the right sort
stand in with us, and it will go hard but we’ll give a better account
of him than he has met with yet.”
We had not to travel far to the meet, and soon after Trimbush ceased
speaking we came in sight of it. The Squire had just trotted up on his
hack, and was dismounting at the moment of our arrival.
“Well!” said he, addressing Will Sykes, “is the devil’s own to beat us
again to-day?”
“He may, sir,” replied the huntsman, giving a cursory glance at us, as
if to direct his master’s attention to the draft; “but if he does, I
shall think Tom’s suspicions are right.”
“And what are they?” asked the Squire.
“That he bears a charmed life,” replied Will, “and no hounds ever bred
could run into him.”
Our master laughed heartily at this, and said, “We must try to break
the charm.”
I felt all on fire as the cover appeared, and could scarcely refrain
from dashing after Tom when he trotted off to take his station.
Trimbush, seeing my impatience, said, “Gently, my lad, gently. There’s
nothing like spirit; but wait for orders, and never yield to the
impulse of committing a breach of discipline.”
Notwithstanding this reasoning, however, I could see that he had enough
to do to keep a check upon his own inclination to break away. But our
impatience was not kept long upon the stretch. Will was as anxious to
begin as we were, and no sooner had the whips taken their places than
he threw us into cover, but without the slightest noise being made.
There was not so much even as the crack of a thong.
“That’s right,” said Trimbush, going like a bullet through the furze,
“although I should not wonder but he’s gone.”
The hounds, instructed by Trimbush, and agreeing to adopt his
proceedings, were Dashwood, Hector, Loyalty, Wildboy, and Rubicon, all
old friends of his. We went together in a body full swing, more as if
we were flying to a view halloo than drawing a cover, and just when
about the thick of it, a whimper from Chancellor announced that the
devil’s own was afoot.
“Tally-ho!” now rung from Tom Holt’s throat.
“Shoot to the right,” said Trimbush, leading, and in a few strides we
were outside the thick, almost impenetrable gorse.
“Tally-ho, tally-ho!” again hallooed Tom.
“Come along,” said the old hound, “we are close to his brush this time
at any rate.”
Racing to where the whipper-in stood with his cap in the air, we picked
up the scent and found it sweeter than fresh-pulled flowers.
Settling to him, and with a bunch of our companions, who likewise made
play to the halloo as we did, away we rattled at the pace which only a
burning scent and hounds bristling for a kill can show.
For an hour-and-a-half we burst him along, and not one fox in a
thousand could have stood before us for such a time and over such a
country, in which there was not so much as a spinny to hide him; but he
kept on at just the same rate, and a halloo, every now and then, told
us that he was only just a-head. Several of us were tailed off, and
some never reached the main body at all. The burst was so quick, that
the field, too, couldn’t get well away with us, and the consequence was
that nearly all the horses were run to a stand-still before getting
their second wind.
“I begin to think,” said Trimbush, still the leader of the chosen few,
“that his point’s Gretwith rock, and if so, there’s not a bush to hold
him for fifteen miles as straight as the crow flies.”
“He can’t last the distance,” replied Rubicon. “We shall run him from
scent to view in less than another mile.”
“So I think,” rejoined Wildboy. “His red rag’s hanging from his jaws
worse than mine, I know, and that feels like dried chalk.”
“We shall come to soil presently,” returned Loyalty. “There’s the Loam
stream not far a-head.”
“Egad!” added Dashwood, “but I wish it was in my next stride. I’m
blistered with thirst.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Trimbush, “to find him try an artful
move at the Loam. Be careful, my hearts, and don’t flash forward on
the opposite bank. Feel for it as you go, and make good inch by inch,
rather than be in doubt. We shall save time by the trouble.”
Thus schooled, we took especial care, upon refreshing ourselves in the
Loam, to follow the instructions given, and our first cast was along
the verge down stream, which, also, chanced to be down wind.
“This is his line,” said Trimbush, evidently puzzled, “and yet----”
“Let us try up wind,” interrupted Dashwood, “he may have headed, as
he’s a sinking one.”
“You flatter yourself,” returned the old hound; “he has as much life in
him as will serve to test your pluck and powers for an hour to come.”
“But he may have headed back,” observed Wildboy.
“He _may_,” quietly added Trimbush; “but make your work good as ye go.
I think,” continued he, “that we have cast to the right, which was the
probable line, far enough. Now let us try the left.”
Will Sykes, Ned Adams, and the Squire, now came in sight; but their
horses could not be spurred out of a trot. Their heads were between
their knees, and their tails shook as if they must drop off.
“How beautifully they work,” I heard the Squire say as he threw himself
from the saddle. “Let them alone; pray let them alone.”
We had now made the cast as far to the left as we had done to the
right, and yet we could not hit him off.
“I’m sure he’s headed back,” said Wildboy, confidently.
“We’ll try,” replied Trimbush; “but I doubt it.”
“It’s now quite clear,” said the Squire, as we failed to touch the
scent in our track, “that the hounds can make nothing of it. They have
had a fair trial; now let me see what you can do, William.”
Will threw his strong, keen eye forward, and his ears were pricked for
any halloo or indication of the line of the fox; but nothing appeared
to enlighten him. He then out with his horn, and was about making a
wider and more forward cast than we had made down wind, when Trimbush
sprang into the stream, and swam to a small patch of sedge and grass,
not a great deal bigger than a man’s hat, and apparently scarcely
large enough to hold a rat, when bang the fox sprang from the middle
and away he raced, whisking the water from his brush like a maid
trundling her mop. We rushed at him in a body, but might as well have
attempted to get to the head of a stroke of soaped lightning.
“A trick worthy of the devil’s own,” said Trimbush, laughing, “but I
proved a match for him this time.”
“How was it that we could not carry the scent down stream?” inquired
I, as the devil’s own became lost to view over the brow of a short but
steep hill.
“Because,” replied my companion, “he reached the water some seconds
before ourselves, and swimming so far _down the stream_, he gained the
little bank of mud, where he squatted, with all the scent _washed away
from him_. We could, therefore, carry it no further than where he took
water, and as he did not break from it, the reason is obvious for our
being unable to act otherwise than we did.”
“I can’t think how you came to suspect that he had laid up there,”
remarked I.
“I never knew a fox to do so before,” returned the old hound. “Soil is
about the only dodge a stag has to try his cunning at; but a fox rarely
hangs in or about water. I, however,” continued he, “was prepared for
any trick with the devil’s own, and my anticipation of a deep one
proved correct.”
We now came to a more enclosed country, and the fences greatly added
to our momentarily increasing distress. The hounds dropped off one by
one, and some, attempting to jump the steep and wide ditches, fell into
them, and there laid, not having strength enough to crawl out again.
It was fearful work, and how I managed to stagger forward is a
mystery to me to this day. Trimbush did his best to cheer us on, and
continually reminded us “that a kill was certain if we only stuck to
him a _little longer_.” But this “little longer” appeared to be a very
indefinite period.
The winter day was waning fast. Objects at a short distance began
to loom through the thickening shades, and the sun’s last rays had
scarcely left a faint tinge of his glory in the west. Still the chase
went on. There was no check, let, or stop. On, on, we flew: the
pursuing and pursued.
“He dies, by the Lord!” cried Trimbush, in perfect ecstacy, as we
flashed a few yards over the scent, and then, turning, hit it off short
to the right. “He dies, he dies!” cried he, throwing up his head, and
waking a loud echo from his deep-toned tongue.
“What do you mean?” inquired I, reeling with weakness, and certain that
my remaining strength was all but spent.
“His point was Gretwith rock, as I thought long since,” replied the
old hound; “but he can’t live the distance. He has now turned short to
run up wind, which proves him to be a sinking one, and if he reaches
Quaffam wood it is as much as he can do.”
Seeing that Trimbush was serious, this sage opinion lent fresh aid to
our flagging energies, and the skeleton of his force, comprising only
Dashwood, Wildboy, and myself, answered his cheer by redoubling our
efforts to run into the devil’s own.
The wood which Trimbush spoke of now appeared at the bottom of a deep
valley, and into the underbush we dashed, confident that the fox must
hang, and also in the hope that he would not live to leave it. I had no
sooner, however, entered the cover than, losing the cool refreshing
wind at my nostrils, I fell to the ground, faint and breathless; but
every effort proved fruitless; and crouching behind the trunk of a
large tree, I was obliged to remain stationary sorely against my will.
For a few minutes I heard my companions driving the devil’s own to the
furthest end of the cover from where I laid, and then, as their cry
approached, I knew they had headed him towards me. Putting my head
close to the ground, I saw the fox creeping along with his back up,
scarcely able to crawl. His tongue was drooping from his jaws, and his
brush dragged along as if there was not strength enough in him even
to lift that. Every now and then he stopped and turned his head, and,
not perceiving me, continued to near the spot where I laid. Close and
closer he came, and, at length, coming within springing distance, I
made an effort which surprised myself, and fastened my teeth right
across the middle of his loins before he had a chance of knowing from
what quarter he was attacked. Catching me by the ear, however, he gave
me a dying grip which made me remember the length of his teeth and the
strength of his jaws for some time to come, and he had not unlocked
them, before Trimbush, Dashwood, and Loyalty came to my assistance, and
quickly put an end to the struggle.
“We’ll break him up presently,” gasped Trimbush. “Let’s get a sob or
two of wind first,” and forming a circle round the lifeless carcase of
the devil’s own, we lay stretched upon the ground, panting and beaten
to a crawl.
At this moment something crashing through the brushwood was heard, and
soon afterwards a labouring man came running up, and seizing the fox,
lifted him above his head, and “who-whooped” most lustily. He then drew
a great clasped knife from a sheath, and cut off the head, brush, and
pads of the devil’s own.
“Ah!” said he, “I heard ye, and thought there was something up more
than common. I can guess all about it. You’ve beaten every one o’ the
field, and tailed off all the rest o’ the pack.”
“You’re right enough, old fellow,” observed Trimbush, “and I wish you
could understand me as well as I can you. But what the deuce are ye
about with the fox?”
The astonishment of Trimbush was caused by seeing the man deliberately
proceeding to skin the fox, as he might the body of a dead cat or
rabbit.
“I’ll soon whip off your jacket,” said the man, “and then they can eat
ye nice and comfortably. Such a skin as this,” continued he, “must be
terribly tough, I know.”
“What a considerate Christian!” exclaimed Loyalty. “Old Mark could
scarcely be more thoughtful.”
“Besides,” resumed the labourer, finishing his job, “such a skin as
this is worth half-a-crown, and it had much better go into my pocket
than down your bellies.”
“Ho, ho!” ejaculated Trimbush. “That’s the secret of your attention, is
it?”
“Who-whoop!” hallooed the man. “Who-whoop!” and throwing the
dismembered carcase to us, we tore it into pieces and demolished, with
more than ordinary relish, the devil’s own.
“Now, what am I to do with ye?” observed the rustic, scratching the
back part of his head.
“Take us to the nearest best quarters,” said Trimbush; “give us a good
supper, plenty of straw, and lead us home in the morning.”
“It’s a long distance,” soliloquized the man; “but I shall get well
paid for my trouble, I know. It can’t be done to-night, howsomever; and
so I’ll get farmer Oatfield to give grub and lodgings, and journey home
with ye to-morrow myself.”
“A capital move,” said Trimbush, “and a sentiment after my own heart.
Come along.”
Most willingly we followed our conductor from the cover, and after
proceeding about a mile, we came to one of those nests of comforts,
a good farm-house. As we entered the yard, two rough and shaggy
shepherd’s dogs ran barking towards us; but upon coming closer,
they wagged their short stumpy tails by way of a welcome, and soon
afterwards we had a famous supper of warm milk and meal, supplied to
us by the hospitable Mr. Oatfield, who heard with infinite glee the
rustic’s account of the way in which he discovered us; and then, by
his orders, some bundles of fresh straw were shaken out, upon which we
stretched ourselves, with that pleasure which only the wearied feel.