by R S Surtees
“You were going the wrong way,” said the man, as he overtook Scott.
“Yes,” replied Scott; “how far will it be from here?”
“Not above half an hour,” replied the man, putting his best leg first.
“You’re taking your dog to assist the hunt, then?” said Tom, looking at his black and tan comrade.
“Ay, Muffler, can’t do without Muffler; can they, old man?” asked he of the hound, clapping him on the back in return for the look up he gave on hearing his name. “The captain has no dog in his pack like Muffler,” added the pedestrian.
“And yet he has some good ones, I suppose?” observed Tom.
“Ay, but he always sells the best,” rejoined his companion; “he’s o’er fond of money’s the captain.”
So Tom and his new friend journeyed on in the usual unreserved freedom of fox-hunters, the captain’s character not improving as they went.
* * * * * *
“Yon’s the bridge,” at last exclaimed Scott’s companion, as a sudden turn of the road brought them full upon the beautiful valley stretching away to the foot of the lofty Bevis Mount. The sun was lighting and sparkling up the broad expanse of the shallow streams, which narrowed about the centre, where a low bridge of many arches was thrown.
This bridge carries the cross road over the valley, from the left hand side of which Mr. Scott’s guide intimated the hounds would come.
Already the rough battlements and the greensward at either end of the bridge gave indications of the coming sport. Groups of foot people, mostly in the costume of Scott’s companion, mingled with the horsemen, among whom were already a slight sprinkling of red coats.
Tom and his companion were presently among them.
After a fairish wait, “they come! here they come!” at last burst from a dozen voices, as a hound or two in advance emerged from the mountain pass, followed by a scarlet-coated horseman, surrounded by the body of the pack. Nothing could be more beautifully picturesque than this sudden emergence from an unknown land, as it were, — nothing more lively than the gay colours of the group contrasting with the sun-bright scenery of the mountain pass.
“But what long ears the horses have!” exclaimed our friend Tom as they approached, and a sidelong glance showed them flopping about. “great heavens, they’re mules!”
And so they were — great, dark, glossy-coated, mealy-legged mules.
“Well, I think!” exclaimed our friend. “What will Mr. Neville say! The master and servants of the Stout-as-Steel hounds mounted on mules!”
The cavalcade advanced at an ambling sort of pace, and the whole were presently within scanning distance; at least for people with the use of their eyes, though half the world should be put under “Titmarsh” to learn how to see things.
Captain Cashbox, the master, was a distinguished officer in the horse marines, and he still retains some of the characteristics of that anomalous service.
“ — Avast there! avast!” exclaimed he, as the hounds neared the bridge, and he wanted to turn aside to “heave anchor” on the green.
He was a fierce, square built, chuckle-headed looking little chap, with a coarse black fringe of beard all round his face, and the gills of a blue striped shirt turned down over a gaping mohair stock, with the dickey strings staring out behind. Scott couldn’t help thinking what an admirable study he would have made for the sign of the Saracen’s Head on Snow Hill. Though the day was serenely fine, scarce a cloud hanging round even the highest mountain top, he yet sported a shining glazed hat, and had a black oilskin cape tacked on to the brass-bound pommel of his saddle. His coat was the old uniform one of the hunt in Mr. Squander’s time — scarlet with dark blue collars and cuffs; a mixture that looks better than it reads, at least the portrait Scott had of his cousin in it does not look amiss; but how Stultz or Nugee would have laughed at the grotesque contortions of the captain’s cut. Coat, it could hardly be called, it was more like one of those respectable, old gentlemanly articles of dress called a “spencer,” with short square laps tacked on. It was plentifully sprinkled with buttons, not even omitting some at the bottom of the laps; which would afford great satisfaction to the captain’s seat when he happened to alight upon them of a sudden. He had a boatswain’s whistle attached by a blue ribbon to a button hole, and carried a telescope in a spare stirrup leather across his shoulder. His waistcoat was made of seal skin, and what little breeches were visible above a pair of gaping, green-lined, fishermen’s boots, fastened up at the side like overalls, appeared to be of canvas or unbleached duck. The boots had a miserably harsh, hackney-coach-head, lack-lustre look, which was unnecessarily heightened by his Britannia metal looking spurs, being newly rigged out with patent leather straps with broad pads. The mules we have already spoken of as fine animals of their sort; while between Enoch, the old huntsman, and the hounds, there was a striking similarity of appearance. The hounds were of a breed now rarely seen, save in hill or mountainous countries, being bright-coloured, wiry-haired, rough-muzzled animals, combining the power, mettle, and endurance of the fox-hound, with the hard-bitten pertinacity of the terrier. Enoch Tiphill was just such another looking piece of goods. A little, light, wiry, grey-muzzled, keen-visaged old man, looking as though you might trundle him down, mule and all, from the top of Bevis Mount, over rocks, crags, precipices, and points, without hurting. The memory of man runneth not to the contrary when other than Enoch hunted the Stout-as-Steel hounds. In Mr. Squander’s time he had a little mountain-bred grey mare, on which he performed such feats of activity and daring as could only be equalised by a chamois, or by the enterprising Mr. Gomersal in the character of Timour the Tartar, Napoleon Bonaparte, or some such vigour-requiring service.
We once heard a gentleman who had wandered into a strange country, give an account of the establishment he there found, and as it contrasts with the opinion our friend Tom passed upon the captain, we will repeat it here. After speaking favourably of the meet, the field, and the style of country, the gentleman entered upon the more delicate one of the master and establishment. “The hounds,” said he, “were really very goodlooking animals, and in very good condition, the men were smart, clean, and well mounted; in short,” added he, “there was nothing ridiculous about the establishment until they threw off!” —
So let it not be said of the Stout-as-Steel! Let not Captain Cashbox’s incongruous garments prejudice a hunt that Scott’s cousin, Squander, spent the best part of his fortune in supporting. But let us away to the hills, and enjoy the brief sunshine of the hour!
The captain having eyed Scott with the suspicious curiosity masters — with the fear of pen-and-ink men before their eyes — regard strangers, until they are recognised by some of the field, honoured him with a touch of his glazed hat, as he saw him shaken hands with by two or three of his members; after which he jocosely observed, that he “supposed they might weigh anchor.”
Scott then for the first time began to look for the cover. Woods there were none, at least none with any lying; what little apologies of trees there were, scattered on the more rugged parts of the hills, being so open at the bottom as to show all the stones in which they were stuck, and though there might be patches of gorse here and there, they did not seem large enough to hold much temptation to a fox.
“What do we draw?” asked Scott of one of his friends, whose face he knew, but whose name he either never knew or had forgot.
“Oh, just draw the hills,” replied the interrogated, nodding his head towards a great plum-puddingey-shaped one, with some fern and brushwood about the middle, towards which Enoch was steering with the hounds. “Foxes lie all about,” added he.
So Enoch seemed to think, for he steered all ways as if trying for a hare.
“You don’t pay much for cover rent in this country, I imagine,” said Scott to his friend.
“Nor for damage either,” replied he.
“They’ve got a scent,” continued he, shortly after, as the hounds began feathering towards the fern and
brushwood on the before-mentioned hill.
“Ay, you shepherd by the fire on the opposite hill views him,” added he, just as the outburst of melody from the pack proclaimed they had found the fox. —
Down the hill reynard came pouring with his great bushy tail whisking in the air, as much as to say, “I don’t care a copper for any of you;” and hard upon him followed Enoch, full tilt on his mule, with three couple of hounds, Enoch blowing his horn, and screeching like an owl for the rest.
They came pouring over one another like a waterfall!
The fox got such an impetus that he cleared the high stone wall and burn at the bottom of the hill like a greyhound, and commenced the ascent of the opposite hill with a stoutness that looked like wind and condition.
“Hooray!” cheered a party of miners, at a fire on the crags towards which he was pointing, causing him to alter his line, and run the hill side.
The hounds having once got together, there was no further call for hooping or hallooing, or blowing the horn. Away they went at a pace that showed how good was the scent, and how hopeless the attempt to follow them. Eclipse himself could have done nothing on the rough, stony, steep mountain sides; and the hounds streaming away in full cry, with old Enoch toiling along on the mule, furnished an apt illustration of the fable of the hare and the tortoise — the further he went, the further he was left behind.
“This way! this way!” screeched little Cashbox, in a state of excitement bordering on phrensy. “This way!” repeated he, ramming his mule down a rutty hill side, and working his arms like a telegraph. So the field rattled and clattered away in his rear, for his mule was in a good humour, and went at a pretty good bat. They soon got into the valley of Dol Velin, along the margin of whose bright stream a broken track-road ran, for there are few places so uncivilised as not to have roads of some sort, if people could but find them out. This most accommodating one led them straight through the mountains, on the left range of which the hounds were running with a breast-high scent, to the astonishment of the goats, and sheep, and ponies, herding on the sides.
Though the devious course of old reynard, now ascending, now descending, now going straight ahead, was in their favour, still the pace was too good to allow of much halting to look. The Captain, who led the way with his telescope set, occasionally indicated, as he put it to his eye, which hounds were leading and after they had pursued the chase in this peculiar way for some five miles, the Captain having given the foreground a good raking, proclaimed that he saw the fox himself. “He’s tried the great earths at Stetley Crags, where the fire is,” said he, halting and holding the telescope in the direction of the far-off fire, “and is now stealing down the hill among the sheep and cattle.”
Just then a movement among some distant dots indicated the Fox’s whereabouts, and presently the hounds came pouring down upon the spot followed by a drove of ponies, who seemed to join the chase to show how soon they would be beaten off.
The hounds were well called the Stout-as-Steel, for they ran as hard now after traversing so many miles of rough moorland country as they did at first. Let stag-hunters say what they will, five miles hard running is no joke.
The field had now a perfect panoramic view of the chase, without more trouble than they would be put to at the Diorama, or any London show. A splendid sun, lit up the wild mountain scenery, while a slight tinge of frost rarefied the air, bringing distant objects near, and causing the music of the hounds to fall like thunder on the scene — reverberating like Mons. Jullien’s band of a hundred and twenty performers at a “Bal Masqué.”
Presently they had fox and all in view, and beautiful it was, watching the unerring truth with which the pack followed his every twist and turn and bend. There he was creeping and stealing along, not at the high galloping defying pace at which he started, but coolly and collectedly, as though conscious of the work he had to do.
So he returned about a hundred yards below the line he had taken in going, followed by a large flock of his old enemies, the crows, who kept a noise up overhead second only to that of the hounds behind. Luckless reynard, when so pursued, for you rarely escape destruction!
So it was this day. The striving pack gained on him just as one race-horse gains on another. The fatal view at last ensued! a dodge, a snap, and a cataract of hounds as usual ended the scene!
CHAP. IX.
MR. JENKINS JONES.
“WHO-HOOP!”
“Who-hoop! that’s a queer way of beginning a chapter, Mr. Author!”
“So it is, Mr. Reader, but you’ll have a good many more of them before you are done.”
Our last left the Stout-as-Steel hounds in the act of running into their fox on the far hill-side, the field viewing the feat across the water. Not a soul appeared near them, but ere the “worry” was complete, old Enoch dropped as it were from the clouds, and dived into the middle of the pack. To be sure the latter part of his descent was visible enough in the shape of a red thing sitting as it were on the back of a rabbit, sliding on its hind quarters down the mountain.
Having reached the pack, up went the fox, and baying leaped the hounds, the group forming a lively speck on the wide expanse of mountain scenery.
Few people are willing to admit that a fox has been killed, unless they see him — at all events seeing him seems to add considerably to their satisfaction; and away Captain Cashbox cut, followed by the field for ocular demonstration. Through the water splashed the mules, over great boulder stones, enough to throw down an elephant, across the rushy, rugged bottom, and now up the steep hill-side — clatter, clatter, clatter, they went among the loose rumbling stones — blob, blob, blob, they floundered on the unsound ground beyond.
“Who-hoop!” each man exclaimed, on pulling up within “ware-horse” distance of the huge fox, now hanging his head before the pack in all the terrors of grim death. “Wyelled little Cashbox, putting his finger in his ear, as though he were afraid of deafening himself. “WHO-HOOP!” screamed he, still louder, throwing himself off his mule and rushing up to Tiphill for the fox. If the captain had gone on all-fours, and hunted and killed the fox himself, he could not have taken greater credit to himself for the feat. The hounds might kill him, but who brought the hounds? Captain Cash-box — and therefore to Captain Cashbox belonged the honour and glory of the day.
Having got the fox from Enoch, he held him up for some seconds above his head, in the manner of à “Poses Plastique” master, until his little arms tiring, he threw him flop on the ground.
“He’s a terrible length from the snout to the stern,” observed the nondescript little man, stooping and measuring the fox with his whip.
Without announcing the longitude, he proceeded to divest him of his appendages.
Off went the head.
“There’s the head of a traitor!” exclaimed the Captain, holding it up.
Then came the pads, and, lastly, that noblest trophy of them all — the brush!
“Allow me, sir,” said he, strutting out in the most grotesque, puss-in-boots style, towards where Tom Scott stood, “to present you, sir, with the brush of one of our mountain breed — sir, a real ‘stunner,’ sir, as my friend, Joe Banks, would say, sir. Sir, I’m extremely glad, sir, to see you out with my hounds, sir; hope, sir, I shall often have the pleasure, sir — shall be most happy, sir, to present you with our button, sir.”
Flattered by so much attention, especially from a man that he did not expect any from, Tom incontinently replied, on receiving the brush, that he would be most proud to receive the button, and wear it wherever he went.
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, than the Captain, having dived into the trunk of his fisherman’s boots, produced a packet, from which, having blown the silver paper, he exhibited a complete set of large buttons, to which having added a pinch of small ones from his seal-skin waistcoat pocket, he handed the whole over to Scott, observing, that “he might send him a Post Office order for the four guineas when he got home, and that he would be most hap
py to have his name down as a subscriber also.” —
“He’s done you,” whispered a gentleman, with a smile and a wink, as the little varmint “waddled back to his mule, and proceeded to what he would call “hoist himself on deck,” by the aid of a rusty, most disreputable-looking stirrup.
“I don’t know that,” replied Tom Scott, with a grunt, thinking the Captain might, perhaps, get the buttons back instead of the Post Office order.
“Well, we’ve had a very good run — at least, the hounds have,” observed the stranger, who had now brought his horse alongside. “Are you staying in this part of the country?”
“Why, yes — no — yes — not exactly,” replied Scott; “the fact is, I was on this side of the country, and, wishing to have a look at these hounds, lay at Sludgington over night.”
“I pity you,” exclaimed the gentleman; adding, “I wish you’d come to me. Where are you going to now?” inquired he.
“Don’t know till I get back — perhaps stay there again.”
“Come to me,” rejoined he; “we shall be most happy to see you — you’ve plenty of time,” added he, showing our friend his watch, which wanted a quarter to one.
“You are very kind,” replied Scott, feeling little disposed to undergo the persecution of Cake and the noise of the Goldtrap Arms again, though the cuckoo clock nuisance was abated — adding, “I shall be very glad to avail myself of your offer.”
“That’s right!” said the stranger, closing the bargain by a shake of the hand: “we dine at six, and there will be a stable ready for you.” So saying, he turned up a road the reverse of the one that he pointed out as Scott’s, and tickling his horse with the spur was speedily out of sight.
One person in a hurry is very apt to put another person in a hurry, and Scott began to trot too, without knowing why.
“Gently, old girl,” at length said he, easing the old mare down into a walk, to enjoy the scenery, the winding mountain-road having brought him before a fresh range of hills. Just then it flashed across his mind that he didn’t know who his friend was.