’Twas the Christmas season and the air was soft and balmy, sweet with the
fragrance of the soft southerly winds.
The next day, much to our delight, promised to dawn bright and clear.
Colonel Malcolm Gilchrist, of Courtland, and Major Otis Hennigan, of
Leighton, had done me the honor to be my guests at “Kittikaskia,” my
home, and to bring along their superb packs of hounds, it being our
intention to go in quest of “Old Blaze,” a big red fox that lived in the
Jarman fields four miles to the west. This crafty red had for several
years eluded hunters and hounds by seeking refuge in the caves of the
Tennessee River hills, but we had planned for the morrow a scheme to
change his course, and to put him on his mettle to outstrip the hounds,
or else succumb in the brave attempt.
“Old Blaze” always ran through the same stand on his unerring way to
the river hills, and so, in anticipation of this, we had secured half a
hundred dusky denizens of the cotton fields to go to his crossing, form a
line, and yell after the lusty manner of their kind, when they heard the
hounds coming. We believed that the bedlam they would raise would divert
the fox from his beaten track, and turn him toward a level, open country,
where the chase could be followed with ease, seen and enjoyed.
It was an eager anticipation of sport most glorious that infused our
hearts with happiness as we donned our hunting regalia that eventful morn.
The South is the natural home of the true fox hunter. The lords and
ladies of the British Isles who came to this country settled along the
Atlantic Coast. And as westward the star of empire wended its unrelenting
way, their posterity cut through the forest and founded here a happy,
a peaceful and a prosperous land—where oftentimes one man’s estate
rivals in area and grandeur a modern principality. Descended from these
grandees who brought to America the best strains of race horses, hounds
and gamecocks, the sport-loving fraternity of Dixieland still retain in
their pristine purity the same strains their noble ancestors Imported and
loved.
The Southern fox-hunter loves his hounds. He enjoys seeing the
individuals of his pack race together. And we were to see tested the
speed and endurance of the prides of our respective packs—Colonel
Gilchrist’s “Fashion,” Major Hennigan’s “Prompter,” and the writer’s
“Alice.” Three faster and gamer hounds were never before matched in
Alabama (and the fastest and gamest hounds on earth are here), and the
coming struggle for victory was intensified most thrillingly by our
natural love for the hunt.
As we rode toward the foxes’ rendezvous, o’er the distant hills frolicked
the resonant tones of the hunter’s horn, its plaintive notes awakening
the sleeping echoes that set the woodland dells ringing with the sweetest
of mellow music.
The shafts of the new-born day quivered high in the heavens, as the
stars one by one paled of silvery lustre as the sun kindled the eastern
forests with flames that swept and glowed away the dawn. The hunters were
splendidly mounted, and their horses bounded away with a spirit that
thrilled the hearts of the riders, for oft before had they been ridden
in the chase, and each horse seemed instinctively to know that excellent
sport was ahead. The frost sparkled on the Bermuda, bespangling it with
tiny icy prisms, while not a cloud in the heavens marred the perfect
glory of an ideal hunting morn.
The hounds were held in check until the vicinity of the foxes’ lair had
been reached, when the hunting signals were given to forty fearless
hounds that eagerly bounded away to search field and fell for traces
of Sir Reynard. The course was directed up the ivy-bedecked banks of
Kittikaskia, whose clear waters flow into those of the murkier Tennessee.
Soon the course was changed toward the Jarman fields and “Morgan,” the
Nestor of the packs, sounded the first tocsin of game. Singly, and in
pairs, the hounds chimed in, for they knew that Morgan never cried a
false track, and all confidently and diligently worked to solve the
problem of a very cold and indifferent scent. Now all the hounds join in,
the scent grows warmer, and Prompter has given tongue. When he cries the
trail, the fox is sure to be rousted.
Then, like the notes of a single instrument swelling into the magnificent
crescendo of a grand orchestra, the hounds jumped the fox from his mossy
lair and sped away in swift pursuit, filling the hills and hollows with
music, wild yet thrillingly in tune. Fond of detouring the level fields
before his jaunt to the river hills, and proud of his fleetness of foot,
the spirited red began an elaborate journey by leaving the woods and
swinging out into the plantations, now vocal with the anthems of the
happy darkies, whose sweet songs of contentment are cadences to the time
to which they gather the snowy cotton.
We rode to the yelping pack, each steed seeming eager to outstrip the
field. With nostrils red, steaming and distended, eyes dilated and
flashing wicked fire, they bear their riders to the density of the
thickening cry. The world seems vibrant with the music of the cascades
of glorious enthusiasm, and hunters are oblivious to all save the
inspiration of the matchless moment. We are now within easy view of the
running pack, that dashed high into the air the melting frost which
descended like a shower of diamond sparks, while Alice—game little hound,
her wild-goose notes pealing out far above the unbroken cry—led the pack
at a killing pace. Fashion was at her flank, with Prompter not a length
behind, and across the valley’s fertile expanse the race for victory
began.
“Go on, Fashion!” yelled Colonel Gilchrist, tiptoeing in his stirrups,
his hat off. She heard and heeded his shout of encouragement and
gradually lessened the lead of Alice. But Alice, long an invincible
leader, was not to be vanquished without a desperate struggle. The main
pack was spread out like an open fan. A blanket could have covered the
thirty-seven demons that raced together to be the first to cry the
burning scent that crazes the brains of the hounds, and converts them
into yelping, frenzied fiends.
The fox and hounds entered a strip of woods and for the moment are lost
to view. A meadow was being crossed and Fashion, like a dart from an
Indian’s ashen bow, flashed up to Alice, and Colonel Gilchrist set up
a yell that seemed to split the azure dome of the sky. Prompter had
fallen back and was running with the pack. The course of the fox was now
directed towards the river. The chase was one hour old, and hard pressed
in open country, he would seek refuge in the crags and cliffs that
overhang the beautiful, the picturesque, the turbulent Mussel Shoals.
“Follow me and see the fox!” I shouted, and dashed away, followed by the
other hunters to a stand where the fox was sure to cross. We reached the
place not a moment too soon, for Sir Reynard, with long, poetic leaps,
came splitting down the vale. His head was held defiantly in the air,
his handsome amber brush was carried proudly high. Like a red streak he
flashed into the woods and was lost to view in its density. The hunters
remained silent until the hounds had passed. They were heard coming fast
behind, like a maddened musical avalanche, with Alice leading Fashion by
several lengths. While Fashion continued the valiant fight for supremacy,
her slender black neck, ringed with white, elevated, her shapely head
was thrown back like the antlers of a frightened deer, dashing from the
hunter’s snare to sweet security. All the hounds but Scott’s were well
packed.
Away speed the hunters! Faster fly the hounds.
At once there arose so wild a yell,
“As if all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had pealed the banner cry of hell.”
The fox was approaching the crossing to the river. The negroes on guard
had heard the hounds coming and were endeavoring to turn him back.
Old Blaze was terrified at the outcry, and swerved to the right and
sought safety by endeavoring to show to the pack a burst of speed that
would soon place him so far ahead as to leave behind only a very cold
trail. But the hounds were equal to the emergency, and turned with the
fox without a momentary bobble, and back to the Jarman fields proceeded
the electrifying march, “full cry” being rendered by the grandest of
musicians, whose music has inspired kings and peasants alike, infused
them with nobler ambitions and attuned their hearts and primed their
souls to the songs caroled by angel voices. Prompter has left the pack
and now challenges Alice and Fashion. It becomes indeed a killing race
for victory.
The chase is now two hours old. The fox found that he could not outstrip
the pack. His revengeful pursuers could not be evaded by swift running
tactics, for the air was damp and still, and he left behind him a
scorching trail. One hope only now remained for him—he must make for
the river hills, or else succumb. The fox on his circle back toward the
river ran two miles west of where he had formerly tried to cross, and
ere long the chase was on the bluff overlooking the river, whose broad
expanse was dotted here and there with islets that seemed to float like
graceful gondolas of green, and each echoed the notes of the hounds and,
altogether, sounded like a hundred packs running in the river. Alice
still maintained the lead. As the hounds dashed down a steep declivity,
in sight of all, she is seen to strike her shoulder against a cruel
projecting rock that causes her to tumble. She quickly got up and made an
effort to follow the track, but her shoulder refuses to respond to her
will and her foot hangs limp—her shoulder was broken. On three legs she
follows far behind, crying the scent.
I hastily dismounted and caught her in my arms, giving rein to my
mount. I was determined that she should see the finish, she who was so
unfortunately deterred from brilliantly winning.
It is two miles to where the fox intends to go to earth. Fashion is
crying the lead not sixty yards behind the quarry. The pack, with flaming
tongues, is just behind, giving vent to short, defiant yelps. My horse is
intensely excited and determined to outstrip the hunting field.
Ho! hear that defiant, agonized cry!
It is a sight race!
The hounds see the fox. His requiem is being sounded at every note. The
fox is within a few hundred yards of his place of safety. The hounds seem
to know it, and are running with an inspiration that means death to the
fox. Little Alice in my arms cried pitifully and struggled tenaciously
to be released, that she might endeavor to go to the vortex of the
revengeful cry.
The hounds are closing in on the fox, and the splendid red turns toward
his frantic pursuers, and rushes into the steel-hinged jaws of Fashion,
meeting death as only the courageous die—facing it without a murmur.
Prompter is the next hound to catch the fox, and soon his destruction is
complete. In the midst of great delight, there is passing regret, for we
deplore the fact that a creature so graceful, so noble, so courageous
should forfeit his life after the splendid sport he had afforded us on
that grand December morning.
Huntsville, Ala.
[Illustration]
Arbitration.