by Alex Miller
‘Open it!’ he orders, and three labourers nearly break their necks trying to be the one to do the job for him. The door swings open and here they come! Sixty eager hounds rush out! Falling over each other and yelping and leaping around the place. Fresh! Mad to go and get that stag! Bringing in to the yard with them the stench of their confinement, hot and aggressive. Bristles stiff and erect along their spines, they rush at the tufters, snapping and snarling and sniffing and licking, thrusting their muzzles here and there, urgent for a lingering taste of that magic scent! Perry’s maddening horn has told them a huntable stag has been roused, has been seen, has almost been touched by their privileged comrades! Now they can’t wait to go! Their freedom’s only minutes away. Let’s run and get him!
The tension’s too much for one young horse. Before his rider can grab the reins he drops his head and arches his back and goes leaping and stiff-legging around the yard, scattering people and dogs and horses in every direction, miraculously stamping on no one. What a sight! The Wild West! But the young woman on his back knows what she’s doing and doesn’t even look like coming off him. She just goes red in the face and tenses up.
Perry couldn’t care less about all that stuff. His face is set to what’s ahead of him. He’s blowing his horn again and leading Mrs Allen’s pack of hounds out to stick them on to that stag’s track. Nothing’s going to stop him hunting the beast now! And we’re all falling in behind him. Forming up. Just as keen. It’s a cavalcade. A procession. Show time. The people on foot feel like cheering us. You can see it. We’re crusaders going out. Death and glory! It’s written all over us. We’re pressing and pushing and jostling and bumping each other and we don’t care. We’re enjoying it. We’re getting close to each other. You can smell us. There’s horses letting go all over the place; great for the rhubarb! We should be singing. Who knows a good song? And here’s the woman on the buckjumper, her stirrup clashing against mine. She’s happy now, delighted.
‘You saw him go away, didn’t you?’ She has to shout to make me hear.
‘He galloped down to Winn Brook in the sunlight, towards Withycombe.’
We both laugh.
‘Wonderful!’ she says, gazing, a flame in her eyes, seeing the leaping red stag in her imagination, until the tide of horses pushes us apart again, then waving. She’s a local. She’s only young, but I bet her people have been here for ever. A thousand years. They are all here. They’ve come out of the woodwork for the day. Out of the woodwork and the stonework of the old houses that are stuck away among the coverts and combes and the dark plantations of this place. Not tourists these people, but they’re out in strength all the same. They’re showing their strength! Putting on a show. It’s their customs that have stuck Perry up front blowing that horn and dressed in his threadbare scarlet coat. This business belongs to them. And they’ve dressed up for it too. They’re riding thousand-pound horses whether they can really afford to own them or not!
There’s Cheyne and the Tiger! They’re coming down the road, or trying to. Boxed in behind a mass of vehicles and riders. Tolland’s found his place at the tail of the pack and he raises his cap, waving it and catching Cheyne’s attention. He flags across in the direction of Winn Brook and Cheyne acknowledges the signal gratefully; he and the Tiger at once give up trying to force a passage through the crowd and turn down over the bank of the river. A few others pick up on what they’re doing and follow them. We turn down over the bank ourselves, forced into a bottleneck, and we cross the river.
We are quiet now as we enter the stubble-field. This is it. Everyone subdued by the thought of having to really face up to it. We all know that the weaknesses of riders, as well as of horses and hounds, will be revealed before the day’s out. It’s inevitable. It’s a gruelling business, chasing a mature stag to his death. People have broken their necks trying it. There’s a rider waiting out there in the field. It’s Lord Harbringdon.
As Perry leads the pack to cross the foil of the stag Harbringdon rides to intercept him. Maybe he knows something extra. It’s quite possible. For there’s Mrs Allen’s car, silhouetted against the skyline, already stationed on the Withypool road, way up the hill the other side of Winn Brook! How did she get there? And that’s Grabbe who’s leaning there talking to her, his pony munching the grass on the verge a few feet away, looking rather relaxed from here. Not so much up there to see the stag away, as to watch Perry lay on the pack. I’ll bet those field-glasses are doing their job. Scanning around. Not missing much. And she could still have a view of the quarry as well as of us from there. Who knows what she and Grabbe can see?
Harbringdon and Perry are having a consultation and we bunch up behind them, waiting. Some impatience starting to show in the ranks.
Jiggling and snorting and prancing around going on. The delay beginning to irritate some. Pushing and shoving too. Positioning, and certain people not as polite about it as they had been earlier. Nastiness coming out here and there. I see Mrs Grant giving a loud-mouthed tourist a fierce look. He’d better watch his manners, or she might hand him something more substantial; capable, I’d say, of swinging her steel stirrup into someone’s teeth.
A few riders decide they’ve had enough of this and they begin heading off up the hill behind us. From what they’re saying, they’re apparently placing their bets on the stag doubling back this way later in the day; but maybe privately, too, they’ve realised they’re not quite as keen as they thought they were for a run with these fresh hounds; saying nothing about that though.
And here we go. We’re off again. Moving along after Perry; like impatient kids in a cinema queue. It looks as though we might be going down to the point of the trees. Harbringdon must have given a convincing reason for all this. Perry doing as he’s told!
Kabara’s close to a start. He’s responding to the tension; munching his bit fiercely, tossing his head and not liking that martingale. A pity I hadn’t slackened it off those couple of notches while I had the chance earlier, while the Tiger was out of the picture. It’s too late now. I’m not getting off at this point. I might never get back on again! Kabara’s Irish blood is heating up fast at the prospect of a big run. He’s going to be a handful-and-a-half in a minute. There’s a mighty surge of energy flowing through the springs and muscles of his powerful body, and he’s not far from doing something spectacular. I hope I can stay with him when he goes. Whatever happens, it’s not going to be my decision. I keep talking to him and trying to ease the situation along the best way I can, somehow convince him to wait for the signal. And hope it’s not too long coming. But I see I’m not the only one round here who’s unsure where he’s going, or when. There goes the buckjumper, having another little fling.
There’s nothing certain for anyone here about the outcome of today. Once we’re away not even Jack Perry can predict the result, though he’ll be doing his best to determine it. And there’ll be plenty of bets riding on him and the Haddon stag. Which is one good reason why, though they’re not coming with us, even those three labourers who were at the kennel door back there won’t be able to settle to their work again until they’ve heard how this business has turned out. They’ll be waiting to hear what gets decided. One way or the other.
Here’s the Tiger, coming in alongside me. His face flushed, his fat hands a little too solid on the reins; the Tiger’s all hard red muscle and veins sticking out. Sixty. Pumped up for action. Finisher’s feeling his oats too and steps in stiffly, sideways, giving us a whinny of recognition, his neck lathered by the constant rubbing of the tight reins and saliva dripping freely from his lips. The Tiger pulls up to look at Kabara, who’s started whistling through his nose, and he stares at him, risen a little in his saddle and wide-eyed, not examining the stallion critically, but gazing at him, holding Finisher forward of his shoulder then, after a minute, pulling back and turning his attention to me. ‘How is he, boy?’
‘Ready to go,’ I say, letting out a nervous laugh. I’m fully occupied. Kabara’s fuse is about to fizzle an
y second. I think I might have my teeth clenched.
‘You’re managing him?’ Is he joking? Like anyone, the Tiger knows this is the moment when temperament is proved. And I suppose that’s what he’s come over to check on. But it’s pretty obvious he’s not really seeing Kabara, or me either for that matter. What’s undoubtedly still mesmerising him, is what he spied back there in the brazen sunlight, next to the rick in Solomon’s; the dangling dream. If he were seeing the real Kabara now, instead of that, he’d forget forever any ideas of hunting on him, and would be thankful for the reprieve from a suicidal notion. Just look at the way he’s holding Finisher in! Binding the horse. Kabara would be in flames at that, up in the air and over backwards in a flash with that kind of pressure on him. It would be so quick the Tiger would never know what had happened to him. Crushed. Blackness. Sudden and complete. No purple stars either! It’s compromise or it’s nothing with a horse like this one. Give and take. But mostly it’s give a little, then give a bit more, until you’ve felt your way through the crisis. A matter of finding a way with Kabara. He hasn’t got a temperament to be mastered. Not even by the strongest hands.
‘He’s okay . . . I think,’ I say, that nervous snigger slipping out again. If we don’t go soon, however, Kabara’s going to take off anyway. What a sight that’ll be! Something else for Cheyne and Mrs Grant to remember me by. The fastest second-horseman in history! And a few other flighty ones might decide to bolt with us.
‘Don’t try anything clever,’ the Tiger says, sounding quite concerned—for the horse I suppose.
‘Okay, Boss. Nothing clever.’
‘You’re not to think you can follow Harry Cheyne.’ He’s worried about my good judgement in these matters.
‘I promise.’
‘If you want a pilot, pick someone steady who knows the ground. Charley White’s the man for you to watch.’
‘Right!’ Who’s Charley White?
‘Whatever you do, don’t foul the line! Keep your place and hunt!’
‘Okay.’ Why don’t I tell him? Right now before it’s too late? Why don’t I just yell it at him?
He’s the master. He should know.
There’s a whimpering cry up ahead, then the whole pack opens strongly on the hot scent of the stag. The amazing sound of over sixty hounds all howling and yelling at the same time. A moment of confusion, with some going in the wrong direction, and we’re off down the hill, crashing out over the poor hedge of the stubble-field and pouring over the steep decline beyond. It’s a race to the rocks and the water below! A cavalry charge! Panic! Every man for himself! A solid pounding mass of riders hurtling after the dogs. We couldn’t stop if we wanted to. Where’s the enemy?
We hit the water in a compact body and lunge blindly for the other bank. There’s some floundering and staggering going on among the rocks—someone down I think—but Perry and his hounds are cleanly away, the leaders up already and crossing the road just above Mrs Allen’s car. She’s in the perfect spot. Not another car in sight. It looks steep up there. The youngest hounds are stretching ahead, competing for the lead, their voices mad and out of control with the desire to go. Sorting themselves out.
Now that he’s been released Kabara’s moving well. He’s watching his step, making intelligent decisions and picking a good line through the crowd of hazards. He sidesteps, lunges and leaps and we make it through the water. A hundred yard steep upward pull and we cross the road, losing ground rapidly to the leading hounds, and we charge into a chest-high stand of bracken, picking a twisting sheep path. The stag must have flown over this stuff, hardly touching it. The dogs have disappeared. A riderless horse tries to overtake us, crashing dangerously alongside, eyes wild, straining and struggling up the hill, not seeing where he’s going, then clipping Kabara’s heel and going down with a terrific crash. As if he’s been shot. Spewing up a shower of bracken chips and wet earth. But we’re out of range. Going hard. Kabara taking the slope with great energy. Loving it. Putting his strength into this hill. Ducking and weaving around the sharp twists and turns of the meandering sheep track. I’ve no time to check on who they are, but there are other riders close by; intent, silent, working at this big hill, making hard for the rolling ground on top. The crying of the hounds has settled almost to a melody and I glimpse them every now and then appearing and disappearing through breaks in the stands of bracken, a snaking line of black and white going unchecked for the summit. The scent must be burning on this drying ground after last night’s rain.
A cooler breeze in my face makes me look up, and we’re coming over the steep flank at last and on to the top. Kabara’s drawing breath in great gasps but showing no sign of slowing. We burst out of the last band of bracken and gallop on to the sure, firm going of the low windswept heather and whortleberry—hurtleberry! There’s a dozen others with us and we charge for the skyline, as if we’re obeying someone’s orders, the wind rushing against us, the vast distant rolling hills of the upland moor coming into view. But at our feet, almost a canyon, between us and those remote heights, is the deep wooded valley of the Exe. And there they are! Perry’s red coat! And ahead of him the trailing line of hounds. Flying down along a steep spur and singing and calling and blowing his horn; and the dizzy drop below theml There’s no turning back now. Here we go. Death or glory!
Out on my left someone yells, a challenging call, or a warning to get out of the way, and a blood-red horse pounds through to the lead. No sign of hesitation there! It’s Harbringdon going full tilt for the valley! What a sight! His rush draws us in behind him, giving us a lead we can’t refuse. He’s our leader and we’re a mad tribe of wild savages galloping headlong down the narrow spur into the peaceful valley below! If we fall we’ll roll forever!
I’ve never done this before.
We haul in and string out single file, as the backbone of the spur narrows, shelving off steeply each side, weathered here and there to the bare red rock. Far below us, Perry and the hounds have disappeared into the woods. A minute later and we crash down the last, almost vertical, incline with most of our mounts sitting down and slithering on their haunches, forelegs stuck out and propping. But not one of us gets off and leads by the reins. It must be the way we feel. Reckless. A band of outlaws. A raiding party from the hills! Leaping and sliding off the final steep bank, through an oak coppice that whips and lashes our faces, we plunge into the river. Straight across and out the other side on to a grassy flat, lunging through breast-high water. The lead pulls up.
What now? Where did Perry go? Not a sign of him or a sound of his dogs either.
The last dripping horse clambers out of the river and we all stand there listening, or trying to, the horses grunting and blowing and wheezing, shaking themselves and rattling the gear, too winded to stand still. We are uncertain. Have we come the wrong way? If it were up to me from here, I wouldn’t know which way to go. But they’re sorting something out. Harry Cheyne’s agreed to head off downstream while Harbringdon and a few others take a look upstream, when Tolland trots into view through the trees, looking unconcerned, his mount considerably fresher than ours, despite the fact that he’s somehow got here ahead of us. But where did he come from? He’s after a couple of hounds that have cast down the water, he says, touching his cap to Harbringdon—no mockery in his acknowledgement—and trotting on, calling over his shoulder that Perry and the rest of the pack have cast up the water on a sure thing. Something about a huddle of startled sheep being spotted in that direction.
So that’s the way we go. Trotting along single file again, by a riverside track through the dense thicket of trees. There must be nearly twenty of us altogether now, though not all from the original hilltop ‘band’. Quite a few others came down the spur behind us. The Tiger was among them, and the girl on the buckjumper too. Mrs Grant, I noticed, was with us all the way. We’re moving quickly, no one talking or wasting any time. We break out of the trees after a hundred yards or so and cross a grassy glade—the sort of hidden place I love to discover on my
solitary explorations—flanked and protected by the hill on one side and by the river on the other, it is sunlit and secluded, entirely enclosed by these coppiced oaks. Normally it must be a little world of its own. But today I’m with this platoon of cavalry trooping through. Keep your heads down till we’ve gone. We may not be friendlies!
Kabara’s ears jerk forward and there’s the horn! The hounds begin to speak too. They must be on to him! It sounds like they’re about half a mile ahead. We speed up, diving into the whippy oaks again, everyone watching out, getting into a fast canter, ducking and weaving along the narrow path. No chance of passing here. Though look at that! There goes Harry Cheyne, cutting off to the right on a diagonal, spurring his horse and crashing through the untracked coppice like a charging beast. And he’s right too. He must have picked it early. There is only a thin band of scrub remaining between him and open ground in that direction. I can see the purplish grey of the hill ahead of him from here.
We stick with the track and emerge from the trees some distance behind him, scattering for the hill ourselves. But he’s snatched the lead from Harbringdon. He takes an extremely steep line, further to the right than us. Then, having got up some way, he cuts back along the inside slope of the hill on the precarious thread of a sheep track, which heads in to the narrow neck of the combe above us. He’s obviously hoping to make a short cut across to the first terrace on the farther spur, and so get on to the stag’s foil that way. And sure enough, there’s Perry on the skyline now, sitting down and fairly cantering up the steep incline, just going in to the terrace that Cheyne’s making for! Cheyne’s guessed it right, but will he get to it? He must negotiate the head of the combe first, round the sharp inside elbow of it, and from here that looks dangerously boulder-strewn and steeper than the roof of a house. One slip there and he’ll be down here again! None of us tries to follow him. But if he makes it he’ll be almost up with Perry. If he makes it! His voice floats down to us from the hill, urging that big grey horse along as he gets into the slippery angle of it. Moor sheep, tracking along single file, have bunched up as they reached the rocks and have poached the ground, creating a mud trap just this side of them. A horrible spot to be sitting on the back of a mettlesome horse! If that grey refuses there’s no room for him to turn round and retreat from it. It’s no wonder the Tiger said not to follow Harry Cheyne! He’s out of my sight for several seconds. I can hear him swearing but I’m too busy riding the hill myself to keep watch.