by B. B.
And then again, the smell of these winter woods gripped him, and he would lie with nose pressed among the dead leaves. No flower smelt as sweet he thought, and there was no more smell to the woodlands now winter had come.
Once, as he was coming home to camp by a new route, he found himself in quite a little coombe, where ash poles grew and masses of furze clothed the steep banks. The place might once have been a quarry or possibly a mine.
It was a wild autumn night; the sky was lowering and dark before its time, mad leaves spun high above the treetops and the ash poles squeaked and clattered, rocking like pendulums. Something reddish caught his sight, lying on a brambly bank. On going to investigate Robin saw it was a dead fox, a magnificent animal with a perfect coat and brush, apparently in its prime. It lay as if quietly asleep, the sightless eyes wide open, but grey and dull like unwetted pebbles.
Robin had never thought about death before. Somehow, as he stood there looking down at this wild woodland child, the mystery and the pathos of it arose and gripped him.
Those ears, once so finely tuned to catch every sound, were as deaf as wood; those eyes, which lately were as keen as a falcon’s, dim and blind; that nose, which once conveyed to the brain all manner of exquisite scents, now no more than a hollow dead stalk. And he looked at the slim black legs, all sinew, built for speed, like a greyhound’s, now rigid and still.
Was it the turbulent trees and blustering wind, the rocking ash poles and the darkling night in this wild place which made Robin think more particularly on these sad things? Was it the contrast between the movement of the bushes and the clouds and this still object, lying among the brambles, which brought the ancient mystery of death home to him?
Robin never had these thoughts when he shot a rabbit or a bird – why should he have them now?
There was no mark upon the fox, no sign of injury. Perhaps it had been raiding a hen roost and had been poisoned. He passed on, stumbling through the briars. But once again he looked back at that pathetic smudge of red down among the still green bramble leaves moist with rain.
And later that night, when he was back in camp and was lying in the oak with his brother outlaws, he heard the wind in the forest, surging and dying, and he thought of that dead forsaken fox lying motionless, away there in the dingle, alone in the heart of its secret world of trees and brake where it had spent all its conscious life. And Robin was afraid. He almost thought he should never again kill any wild thing by his own hand, and he hated himself. Yet, when next morning the sun shone and the clouds and wind had gone, he forgot the incident and his own puzzling thoughts, and was the same old Robin Hood once again, full of the zest for hunting and his wild free life in the ‘greenshaw’.
Though all times of day and night were beautiful in the Chase, it was towards evening he loved the forest best. When Gyp had lived with them he had noticed the animal was also affected when night approached. The little dog would sit very still, save for his head, which turned to this side and that at every little twig’s crack or rustle, the ears cocked, nose working, and eyes open wide with excitement. To hear the first blackbirds start to ‘zink’ made a warm surge pass through Robin, a curious wave of intense excitement, a feeling of breathless suspense.
Standing under some tree or thicket which he knew well, he would watch the soft grey winter sky flush to the pale sun’s setting and the etched crowns of the oaks grow more delicate and minute against the dying light. He would see the pigeon flocks come home to roost. Now December had come they repaired each night to the forest in countless thousands; sometimes the sky was darkened by them. These vast flocks were not British-bred birds, but hailed from the pine forests of northern Europe. Though the home-bred birds were common in the autumn they seemed to disappear after November was out and their place was taken by the smaller ‘foreigners’. He watched the big flocks settle all together with a great clattering and then, after they had digested the contents of their bulging crops, they would drop down one by one into the lower growth. Any oak which still retained its leaves was a favourite roosting place, and when dusk had fallen he could walk right under the tree and see their portly bodies puffed out above him. They were nearly blind then. But their cooing voices no longer filled the forest with sleepy sounds; they were silent now.
In addition to the pigeons, large flocks of rooks and jackdaws also roosted in the Chase, though their habits were different. For half an hour before sunset they made a great to-do, winging and bugling their way in large companies back and forth over the treetops before settling down for the night. Sometimes they held long conversations and noisy meetings in one of the taller forest trees. They never really settled down until it was almost dark. At first light they would stream away to the fields; they were nearly always the first birds to leave. It is beyond any writer’s powers to do justice to that winter forest and the magic spell it exercised. So many things are beyond description, a mere string of words can conjure up only the faintest image of its beauty.
By now the bracken had died down, but where it was damp it lingered, buff and gold and red. The smell of it was as delicious as the spicy wet leaves which lay under every tree and brake.
It was a supreme experience for Robin to see the mysterious night settling slowly down, to watch the long vista of a ride shorten as the shades advanced and all the regimented trees so still and black arranged against the sunset.
Robin’s sight was exceptionally keen, which was one of the reasons he was such a good shot. Not only was it keen, but it was sensitive to colour and colour harmonies. A mass of autumn leaves beneath his feet would pull him up short, and those soft blending colours would hold him absolutely spellbound. He found the way to appreciate the rich patterned tones of the leaf-strewn ground was to half close his eyes and then the pinks, golds and reds merged and blended; every outline was softened into an exquisite mosaic, enchanting and rare.
Towards the middle of the month the outlaws noticed many woodcock had come into the Chase. They flopped out from under the thick red-berried hollies and dodged away between the tree stems, but even Robin’s skill with the rifle could not bring them down. The rifle was only used for sitting shots.
But the advent of the woodcock meant one thing – hard weather. The boys awoke one morning to find the forest white. They had suffered during the night from cold, despite their warm pelts which covered them, and their soft bracken beds. When Robin – whose turn it was to cook the breakfast – removed the door to the tree opening he was quite dazzled by the whiteness of it; the Chase was completely transformed. The snow was still falling steadily and unremittingly, each bough and branch was ridged with a white fur.
It was intensely exciting, more so to Robin than to the others. He remembered last Christmas holidays at the Dower House, how Aunt Ellen had forbidden them to go out of doors because it was snowing and they might have got their feet wet. He remembered the agony of that enforced confinement with the magic world of white, that fairyland, beckoning outside. Now they were as free as wild birds, to go where they listed. He exulted, the old warm surge of excitement passed through him. His first reaction was to grab the rifle and go hunting and when the others grumbled, he said they would have to ‘lump it’ and find something else to do.
‘Visit the trap lines,’ he suggested to them, ‘that’ll take you most of the day. You haven’t visited the deadfall for two days. We may have caught another badger. And if we have, Big John, don’t go and give the skin away to the doctor. I can’t think why you did it!’
‘Well dash it,’ snapped Big John, ‘he saved Smokoe Joe, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose he did,’ said Robin grudgingly, ‘but it was the best skin we’ve trapped; we shan’t get another. Anyway, it’s too late now, all the badgers will have gone to ground. I can’t help it, chaps; it’s my turn to shoot today, you know, and I like hunting on my own. I’ll be back at dusk. If the snow’s still here tomorrow you can go out together, if you like, I can always find plenty to do.’
&nbs
p; So after breakfast he set out.
The first thing he did was to stalk the Blind Pool. Being so sheltered it was only partly frozen over. He sat for a long time watching the snowflakes descending on to the black water until he was quite dizzy and his toes and fingers numb with cold. The falling featherlike snowflakes wavered straight into the black water, snuffing out as suddenly as match flames. On the damp ice they glowed for a minute then faded; on the dry ice they lay fuzzy white and did not melt. There was a bunch of hardy starlings having a bath where the stream ran out at the far end. They were amusing rogues, covered with gay stars, very vulgar, always bustling and mimicking other birds.
Some were hopping about in the bare branches of the willows – they roosted there at night – shaking off the snow, powdering it down in showers, clapping their bills and mimicking every bird they had ever heard: jays, jackdaws, partridges and even the bleat of sheep. There were no ducks on the pond. Robin had hoped there might be, but the usual gaunt heron rose up with a loud ‘Frank!’ and sailed off into the blizzard, sending a jet of white droppings squirting out behind him in his fright.
So Robin turned left-handed and made towards the Crown forest. He soon knew when he was there because there were notices of ‘FIRE DANGER’ spaced out at intervals, together with the birch besoms, tied together, in case of forest fires in the summer heat. Moreover the Crown lands were fenced off from Duke’s Acres by miles of fine-mesh rabbit netting. This fence was a deadly place for snares and the boys caught most of their bunnies there. Here and there the rabbits had made holes in the wire and there were plenty of well-trodden runs. Sometimes a woodcutter or a poacher found the snares and pocketed them.
The greatest danger to the outlaws lay in the fact that the sporting rights of this part of the Chase were let to a shooting syndicate, as was testified by the frequent remote pops of guns, and the sight of empty green and orange cartridge cases lying among the withered ferns. Now, in the snow, every track was plain: little green, melted patches, where the rabbits had relieved themselves, little black currants, and numberless pad marks of their back feet, crossed and recrossed in every direction. The outlaws wisely made it a rule never to shoot in this part of the Chase. But on this day Robin was in adventurous mood. It was unlikely that anybody would be about on such a day. Bill Bobman had once told him that a ‘good old coarse day’ was the best for poaching. So he went softly through the snow, just inside the fringe of the bushes, as stealthily as a fox. To have walked down the ride itself would have been to leave a clear imprint of his doings.
And very soon he came upon the slotted spoor of a deer. He trailed it far back into the Crown property and it was with a great sense of relief that he found that the spoor turned back towards Duke’s Acres, for pheasants kept getting up with a great clatter from under the snow-weighted bracken and many jays screamed.
He trailed the spoor all that morning through the snow. Here and there he could see where the deer had stopped to bark a tree. Then he came upon a pile of smoking dung and knew his quarry could not be far.
The animal had evidently sensed it was being followed, in the uncanny way these creatures have, for soon he saw it had quickened its pace. The snow had been thrown out of the imprints in little white particles and balls; also, of course, he could tell from the way the spoor was placed that at times the animal had been trotting.
He followed on, however, full of expectancy. He could have shot a fine cock pheasant as it sat on a snow-covered log, but Robin was after bigger game. He now found himself well back into Duke’s Acres, though exactly where he did not know. The Chase appeared strange under its deep white mantle.
And then, as he came soft-footed round a hazel brake, the snow squeaking under his hide moccasins, he saw his quarry forty yards distant, nibbling at an ash bole with its strong goatlike teeth. Against the blue-white snow the ruddy pile of its coat sang out as a warm spot of almost autumn colour. It was a fine buck and he carried an imposing head.
Robin was so excited he could hardly hold the rifle still. He sank down among the naked hazel wands and rested the blued barrel on a log.
It was of the utmost importance that he should wait for a ‘dead’ shot. In any case, he feared that the animal might go some way before it fell. Hit by a large-calibre rifle a stricken deer will frequently go some distance, even when shot through the heart.
At last the buck raised its head and looked steadily through the trees. It had spied a rabbit hopping along. Robin could see its mouth, which had been chewing, cease all movement. He aimed at a spot the size of a penny just behind the eye. In the ’scope it looked an easy target.
He held his breath – then squeezed the trigger! With one gigantic bound the buck cleared a bramble brake, sending the snow flying in a cloud. Boughs and sticks crashed, he heard the sound of horns striking a tree, and then it had gone.
In a moment Robin was across the clearing, running like a hound on the spoor. He had not far to go, a matter of a hundred yards or so. When he saw the buck, it was dead, lying stretched out in the snow between two birches.
Robin was embarrassed by the sight. So huge a beast! Far bigger than the pig! What was he to do? But he felt wildly excited; he could have executed a war dance!
The skin with its thick fur would make wonderful coats or even a sleeping bag and the horns a grand hunting trophy. Smokoe would show them how to skin the beast and set up the head.
The next thing was to get his magnificent prize back to camp. He kept on saying to himself, ‘I’ve shot my first deer. I’ve shot my first deer.’ He remembered St John’s account of the Muckle Hart of Benmore.
As he stood beside his victim he caught the sound of chopping in the distance. Nobody but Smokoe used an axe in Duke’s Acres. It must be he!
He slipped away in the direction of the sound and a few minutes later found himself on the edge of the cabin clearing. Smokoe had forbidden the outlaws to approach his house during daylight, so Robin worked his way through the snow-laden bushes until he was opposite the old man, who was chopping some firing near the ovens. Robin gave their signal, the long-drawn owl’s hoot, and saw Gyp turn about and prick his ears. Smokoe was hard of hearing but when Gyp ran forward barking, he turned about and followed to see what all the noise was about.
‘Blame me, master, I couldn’t think who it was. Thought it must be that Buntin’ a-snoopin’ roun’. Well, what’s wrong?’
‘Smokoe, I’ve bagged a deer, a beauty!’
‘You young rascal,’ gasped Smokoe, ‘bagged a deer ’ave you? What, wi’ that li’l old rifle o’ yourn?’
‘Yes, he ran about a hundred yards then dropped as dead as mutton!’
‘Blame me! Now I suppose you wants me to come and ’elp you fetch ’im in and gralloch ’im. Where do ’e lay?’
‘Not far off – I’ll show you.’
They went back, following Robin’s footprints, until they reached the stag. ‘Phew! He’s a whacker!’ ejaculated the old man. ‘A whacker – slap through the brain pan too, eh? My – but that’s a useful li’l gun o’ yours. But look ye ’ere. We dursn’t move ’im yet, we must wait until it gets dusky. There’s a risk o’ someone cummin’ along right now. It won’t be dark yet fer a couple o’ ’ours so we’ll let ’im bide wur ’ee lies. Seems to me we’ll ’ave a good Christmas dinner, master.’
Christmas! Robin realized with quite a little shock the nearness of that festive time.
‘My! Smokoe,’ he exclaimed, his eyes shining, ‘won’t we have a feast? Venison for our Christmas dinner!’
‘Aye, that’ll be it, master, an’ you must all come to the shack an’ we’ll ’ave it there ef you liked the idea. We shan’t get anyone a-botherin’ of us on Christmas Day.’
Across the snowy glade, where the flakes still fell thickly, Robin saw a holly decked with clusters of bright red berries. Thrushes and redwings were having a fine old feast, taking no notice of either Robin or Smokoe standing by the stricken stag. What a Christmassy picture it was! Christmas in the
forest! What fun they would have with Smokoe, Gyp and the owl, and holly branches all round the room, and a big fire halfway up the chimney! Oh, how he wished the snow would stay and that it could go on snowing for months, the more the better!
‘I hope we have snow over Christmas, Smokoe,’ he said, voicing his thoughts.
‘Ah,’ said Smokoe, ‘it’ll be snowy all right, I feels it in me bones. I ’ate the stuff ’cos it makes the work so ’ard and it brings back all me old aches and pains. Well, master, you come back later, an’ we’ll ’ave that old stag skinned and gralloched in a brace o’ shakes. Shot a deer afore?’ Smokoe’s eyes twinkled.
‘No, Smokoe, the biggest thing we’ve killed in the Chase is a pig. We’re afraid it was your pig, Smokoe! We ought to have owned up before, but it was just after we came to the Chase and he hung around our camp pinchin’ things. We didn’t know what it was because it came at night, so we shot off where we heard it moving about and killed it. If we’d known it was your pig we wouldn’t have shot it.’
Smokoe, open-mouthed in astonishment, stood gazing at Robin. With his huge purple nose and funny little hat covered in snow, a red kerchief about his neck and his silvery beard, he looked more like a gnome than ever. Then he grinned from ear to ear. ‘Blame me, I wondered where that pig ’a got to! I might ’a known you rascals ’ad ’ad ’im … Blame me! ’Ee was a fine li’l pig too!’ he added dreamily.