Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  The bracken was dying. Everywhere there stretched a sea of ruddy gold fronds and many rabbits bounded off as he pushed through it. Now and again he stopped to listen, and to get his bearings, but all he heard was the occasional thump of a chestnut and the faint cawing of rooks. He saw the latter at a great altitude above the Chase, wheeling about in wide circles in the way rooks have in fine October weather.

  From their vantage point they must have been able to see the whole eleven thousand acres of woodland spread like a carpet below them, a multicoloured rug which every day assumed richer and more colourful hues.

  Pigeon after pigeon clattered from the oaks about him as he went forward, their blue-grey bodies visible for an instant against the background of trees.

  Even at this late time a few ragged butterflies were on the wing; red admirals and a tortoiseshell or two, flopping about as though drugged, looking, no doubt, for some cosy crevice in which to hide.

  After much wandering Bunting smelt the reek of a fire and hopefully bent his steps thither. He was surprised to find himself stepping out into the clearing in which was Smokoe Joe’s abode; he had not expected to find the place so soon. The old man was busy slamming the earth round one of his mounds or ‘ovens’ with the flat of his spade and he did not see Bunting until the latter shouted a cheery ‘good afternoon’. Gyp came growling and barking from behind the shack, all his hairs on end.

  Smokoe straightened his back and for a second did not recognize the sergeant, for the sun was in his eyes. Then he leant on his spade and spat. ‘It’s a grand afternoon, Sergeant,’ he said at length. Bunting was thinking Smokoe’s nose was bigger, much bigger, than when last he saw it. What a hideous old creature he was! Bet he knew something about the boys and wouldn’t tell!

  ‘You ain’t claimed the fifty quid then, Smokoe?’

  Smokoe spat again and countered with, ‘No, ’ave you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ answered Bunting, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. For a moment or two he stood watching the smoke from the kiln going straight up in a blue, swiftly moving column, high above the forest trees. ‘I just thought I’d take a walk through the Chase, it’s such a grand day for it. Never knew it was so good in autumn.’ Bunting indicated with a wave of his hand the rusting trees which hedged them round.

  ‘Ah, it’s all right,’ grunted Smokoe, continuing with his work. ‘You gets used to it yer know, livin’ ’ere, year in, year out.’

  ‘I suppose so. You ’eard ’ow one o’ they Dower ’Ouse boys was seen in Brendon and ’ow ’e got away in the baker’s cart, I suppose?’

  Smokoe laughed. ‘No, I ’adn’t ’eard that; got right away did ’e!’

  ‘Ah, a rare old hunt they ’ad. Those boys are in this Chase, Smokoe,’ said the sergeant with sudden conviction. ‘I’ve no doubt at all o’ that. One thing, with winter coming on, they won’t stick it long.’

  ‘Mebbe they won’t, if they are around anywheres.’

  ‘You’ve got yer dog back agin then,’ said Bunting, eyeing Gyp distrustfully.

  ‘Ah, ’e cum back all right, cum back one day last August. ’E’d bin off huntin’ I expect, the young devil. Well, I’ll ’ave to be leavin’ ye now, Sergeant; I’ve got some poles to fell in Duke’s Acres.’ Smokoe nodded to Bunting. He shouldered his spade and whistled Gyp who still growled low growls deep inside.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said Bunting. ‘Well, good day, Smokoe, don’t ferget to kip your eyes skinned!’

  He stood watching the old fellow go off through the trees and sat down on a log to finish his cigarette. The smoke from the fire had thinned to a faint blue column, like a very slender thread of moving vapour. He looked up and saw some midges dancing overhead. How quiet it was! How warm here, in this clearing among the trees! His eyes roved over the shack. A mean dwelling, not fit for a stable! No wonder Smokoe was queer in the head.

  Humming a little tune Bunting got up and wandered carelessly round the hut. He glanced in at the window but the curtains hid the dim interior. Bunting stopped and looked in the direction which Smokoe Joe had taken. He felt as though he was prying indecently, but after all it was his duty.

  He came closer to the window and peered in under cupped hands. He saw the stove glowing red and the little iron range against the wall. The deal table, well scrubbed, the tumbled apology for a bed in the corner. Up on top of the cupboard, right in the corner, he saw a whitish object sitting to attention, and saw with a little start it was Smokoe’s pet owl.

  Bunting went on whistling. Nothing suspicious there, nothing at all! Yet that old man knew something, Bunting was certain of it.

  By now the golden afternoon was beginning to chill. A few cirrus clouds were visible, far up in the west, and from a distance he heard the ringing clap of an axe. Smokoe at work in Duke’s Acre, no doubt.

  He wandered away from the clearing, back the way he had come, his large feet brushing through the numberless leaves which lay thickly in the ride.

  Then there came to him, as he walked along, a distant grunting roar, almost as if a wild beast, escaped from a menagerie, was at large. Bunting stopped in his tracks, puzzled. What a strange sound! It came again from among the trees on the left of the path. It was a sound between a cough, a bark and a roar, all rolled into one. How very curious!

  Bunting decided to investigate. He pushed through the yellowing hazels, knocking off the polished brown nuts until he came upon a grassy open space. And there, in the centre of the clearing, a magnificent fallow buck was pawing the ground. Its eyes were rolling white, and it was thrusting its horns into the matted bracken and moss.

  Bunting was interested. The animal was not more than thirty yards distant. He stood for some time watching it, not daring to move in case he should scare it. Then he whistled. The buck immediately raised its head and stared about it. Bunting was amused. Then it turned its full dark eyes and gazed directly at him, its muzzle held high in the air as it tried to wind him.

  Bunting stood without moving, a cigarette in his right hand. How strange! He always thought that deer were shy of men, but this one was certainly not. Indeed it was far otherwise, for it actually took several paces towards him, grunting, roaring and stretching out its neck. Bunting thought it looked quite fierce; he even began to feel a little nervous. It was time to show the beast who was master. So he waved his arms suddenly, like the sails of a windmill, and shouted, ‘Hey up!’ Then all at once the buck charged. It came so quickly and so unexpectedly that Bunting was taken completely by surprise.

  He let out a startled shout and dodged aside as the buck, which was almost on him, gave a savage sideways jab with its horns which missed him by half an inch. By Jove! Unless he got out of this pretty quickly it would be serious, for with a grunting bellow the buck had turned and was making ready for another charge.

  Bunting, now thoroughly startled, made a leap for the nearest tree, a chestnut. He swung himself up into one of the lower branches and had barely got astride it when the buck came at him again. Its horns actually jarred the bough on which he was sitting. Bunting moved to a higher perch like a frightened fowl. And underneath the tree the buck stood, gazing up, grunting, pawing the ground, and now and again tossing up the moss and bracken. Then it walked rapidly round the tree as though on sentry-go. It had no intention of leaving his victim, no intention at all! Bunting, perched on his bough, deliberated on the best action to take.

  The watchful buck still mounted guard below and there he looked like staying. Bunting thought of many things. He had better return to Smokoe … no, Smokoe might not be at home. At any rate, he wouldn’t be back until dark. No, he must somehow get rid of this infernal beast, and make his way back to the road.

  Already the sun was down to the horizon, the forest was growing chill. Up in his eyrie poor Bunting felt both cold and foolish. And still the buck made no move to leave.

  Bunting shouted and bellowed. He broke off a rotten branch and hurled it at his tormentor – and missed. At last he called aloud on Smokoe to come an
d release him, for he had thrown all dignity to the winds. He did not care now if he was discovered perched up in a tree like a hunted cat, he felt he could not stay there much longer.

  To add to his misery some mistle thrushes and jays, hearing the racket, came and perched on adjoining trees and scolded at him. They thought no doubt he was a new form of owl and regarded him as vermin.

  He even desired that the boys might come to his rescue. But only the echoes mocked him. Owls began their melancholy hootings and in the west the sun had gone down, leaving a yellow flared sky against which the half-bare forest trees were thrown in sharp relief.

  But that maddening beast still pawed and grunted below. It still did sentry-go round the tree. He stared down at its broad barrel of a body with the thick hair as dense as the pile of a handsome rug.

  What was he to do? Drop to the ground and trust to his own speed? Impossible! He would not stand a chance!

  Why had not Smokoe warned him that the wild deer, usually so timid and full of fear, behaved like this when the flames of sexual passion roused them?

  He now recalled other tales of men treed by deer. A distant relation of his had been a keeper in Windsor Park and had, in like manner, been driven to desperate straits by a rutting buck. He remembered the story well, of how that unhappy man had been up in the tree for many hours and was only released when a fellow keeper shot the deer.

  All about among the bushes little birds were hopping and peeping. They were preparing for the night but feared the monster up in the chestnut. Blacker grew the twisted branches of the trees against the sky, darker and darker grew the forest. Should he try and reach Smokoe? Would the buck see him when darkness came? Could they see in the dark? All these things he thought of as he watched the pacing beast below.

  Bunting at last edged down the branch. It overhung some nut bushes. He might drop into those and get away under the thickets. But the buck saw the movement and came forward, grunting and roaring, its breath pluming on the cold air. Bunting edged prudently back. A crescent moon appeared over the trees, objects became indistinct, the stars came out, wide-winged silent owls flew by, hooting hollowly.

  Then, from far away, Bunting heard another challenging buck. It meant deliverance. His guard below the tree pricked its large ears and moved slowly off. He could hear its indignant grunts as it trotted away through the trees. At last Bunting was free! Very painfully he scrambled to the ground. His limbs were so cramped he found he could barely walk. To try and find Smokoe would be to court disaster for there was little light now in the sky and one path looked very like another. But he thought he could find his way to the Blind Pool and so to the road.

  He reached his bicycle at last and with half-frozen fingers unlocked the padlock. Why did such humiliating things happen to Bunting? This wretched Chase was alien, threatening him with evil. And it all boiled down to those unspeakable Dower House boys!

  And that was the last time he ever went to the Chase alone.

  16. The Badger Skin

  The glory of autumn in the Chase was not wasted on the outlaws. They had never dreamt it could look so enchanting. Even at midsummer a great forest can be rather monotonous in form and tone; there is no vivid contrast of colour, each tree and bush is very much the same shade of green. And in the greater part of the Chase the trees were of a uniform height; it was only in Duke’s Acres, where the boys had their secret encampment, that there was any disparity in the size of the oaks.

  But as soon as the first frosts got to work, each bush, each tree, was of a different hue. The brambles flamed a deep rose, the maples a clear singing yellow, the larches torches of amber flame – there were few larches in Duke’s Acres, but many in the Crown forest adjoining – the chestnuts abundantly magnificent and generous of fruit. Besides horse chestnuts there were sweet chestnuts and filberts. The outlaws ate nuts until they were tired of them. Nuts are like chocolates, you can go on eating vast quantities until you feel you never want to see another. The boys dug a hole in the ground and stored therein, like squirrels, a large quantity.

  The beech was uncommon in the Chase for it is a tree which delights in light soil and the soil of the Chase was heavy clay. This was curious, as not far away was the Weald where the subsoil was entirely chalk. Beeches grew there in profusion. Even in Brendon Park the beech was the predominating tree.

  So the few beeches which were found in the Chase were much admired by the outlaws. The ground below was invariably thick with finches, which came after the beech mast. The boys saw some bramblings there at the end of October. They thought at first they were chaffinches but when they flew up they showed the white rump. They were colourful little birds, as richly patterned as the autumn leaves.

  There seemed more to do in the forest now autumn had come. All the butterflies had gone and with them many of the summer birds, but other winter migrants came to take their place. And one of the most beautiful spots in the whole Chase was, of course, the Blind Pool. The sight of the solid carpets of gold and red leaves floating on the black water was perfectly enchanting. Robin would often sneak away to the pool, not to fish or shoot, but simply to watch, by the hour, the rich colours reflected in the water and those silent weeping trees. Sometimes the wind blew and showers of leaves filled the whole sky, and even in that sheltered retreat the dark waters were ruffled and the floating leaf rafts blown to one side. At other times it was deathly still, with the leaves wavering downwards softly and directly to earth, or maybe lighting with a fairy kiss upon the bosom of the pond.

  It was at the Blind Pool that Robin saw one of the rarest birds which visit Britain. He had the rifle, loaded, in his hands, but he never dreamt of shooting, though he knew the skin would be worth a great deal of money.

  One evening he stalked the pool, alone as usual, and on creeping among the dying bracken fronds and peeping along the surface of the water he immediately saw a dumpy grey bird standing on the bleached branch of a dead tree at the far end. It had much the same colouring as a heron but was far smaller and the neck was short and thick. Moreover, its back was a glossy blue-black; only the wing coverts were ash-grey.

  Robin knew a lot about birds but this strange visitor momentarily stumped him. He half thought it might be an immature heron and then he suddenly realized what it was: a night heron.

  He was not surprised that he should see so exciting a visitor in this lonely woodland pool, but all the same, the thrill of it was almost more than he could bear. He longed to rush away back to the oak and fetch the others to share his pleasure but he knew if he did so the bird would be disturbed and would probably never come back. For an hour he watched it standing there like a bird carved out of some beautiful grey and white marble or soapstone. When the day faded and the shadows gathered, the night heron seemed to wake up. It dropped off the dead tree into the shallows and began stalking about. No doubt it was searching for frogs. Very soon the light grew so dim he could barely make it out, only the wheeling ripples marked its position.

  Then Robin stole back through the fern and ran back to the camp with the great news. Perhaps it would still be there next morning; it might even make the Blind Pool its home! There was something so essentially right in that secretive woodland heron living in such a place, all alone in the middle of Brendon Chase!

  But when they went back next morning there was no sign of it and Robin even began to wonder whether he had ever seen it, or whether he had dreamt the whole thing. They never saw it again.

  From the cover of the yellowing hazels Robin made some skilful shots at the shy mallards who now haunted the place with greater frequency. He had to wait until the unsuspecting wildfowl cruised near the bank before pressing the trigger and then, with a clean well-directed shot, he would turn them orange paddles up, to be retrieved with a true hunter’s glow of satisfaction. Many an evening there was duck for supper, and appetizing and fragrant smells wafted from the clearing by the old oak. Perhaps it was lucky for the boys that Bunting had ceased to haunt the Chase. Of course the
y knew nothing about the episode of the stag.

  The night heron at the Blind Pool

  So far their efforts to shoot one of these great beasts had been fruitless. They now occasionally caught glimpses of a white ‘flag’ bobbing through the rusty fern, but they never had a good chance of a well-directed shot and this, with their small-bore rifle, was of utmost importance. Had they a shotgun they could have no doubt bagged several but that was not to be thought of. Even Smokoe Joe’s occasional poaching forays after the deer were risky for him. It is true that labourers in the field outside the Chase sometimes heard the roar of his old muzzle-loader but they turned a deaf ear and said nothing. Rumours frequently came to the Duke’s ears of Smokoe’s deer stealing activities, but he did not bother. He took no interest in game preserving and consequently employed no keepers, which was the luckiest thing in the world for the outlaws. Had there been keepers in the Chase the boys could not have lived there for many days without discovery.

  As the cold weather came the tench ceased to feed and consequently the capture of one of these fish became quite an event. But there were still perch to catch and also pike which, now the temperature of the water had fallen considerably, began to show marked appetites.

  With the help of Smokoe Joe, Robin rigged up some pike tackle. Smokoe lent the boys a big white pike float and some gorge hooks, and with small perch – from whose backs the spines had been snipped off – they caught some good ones. The pike bites were even bolder than the perch bites; the white blob of a float would suddenly vanish with a swirl among the golden leaf rafts and the feel of the big fish on the end of the line sent a tingling thrill through the angler.

  They fished with rods – stout hazel wands – and sometimes when they struck their fish it felt as though they had fouled the bottom. Then the great, bronzy-green monster would be hauled in, fighting and splashing, until it was close to the bank and could be hauled ashore by its hideous shoe-shaped head. You can always grasp a pike firmly by the eye sockets. Perhaps the flavour of the pike was not so delicate as the tench and perch, but they were very good, especially if the boys took the trouble to remove the numberless tiny bones.