Full Cry
Rita Mae Brown
CHAPTER 1
A bloodred cardinal sparkled against the snow-covered ground. He’d dropped from his perch to snatch a few bits of millet still visible by the red chokeberry shrubs scattered at the edge of the field. The snow base, six inches, obscured most of the seeds that the flaming bird liked to eat, but light winds kept a few delicacies dropping, including some still-succulent chokeberry seeds.
Low gunmetal gray clouds, dense as fog in some spots, hung over the fresh white snow. In the center of this lovely thirty-acre hay-field on Orchard Hill Farm stood a lone sentinel, a 130-foot sugar maple. Surrounding the hayfield were forests of hardwoods and pine.
Two white tail deer bolted over the three-board fence. Deer season ran from mid-November to January 2 in this part of Virginia. Those benighted humans who had yet to reach their legal bag limit might be found squatting in the snow on this December 27, a cold Saturday.
Bolting across the field in the direction opposite the deer came two sleek foxhounds. At first the cardinal, now joined by his mate, did not notice the hounds. The millet was too tasty. But when the birds heard the ruckus, they raised their crests and fluttered up to the oak branches as the hounds sped by.
Before the birds could drop back to their feast, four more hounds raced past, snow whirling up behind their paws like iridescent confetti.
In the distance, a hunting horn blew three long blasts, the signal for hounds to return.
Jane Arnold, Master of Foxhounds for the Jefferson Hunt Club, checked her advance just inside the forest at the westernmost border of the hayfield. The snowfall increased, huge flakes sticking to the horse’s coat for a moment, to her eyelashes. She felt the cool, moist pat of flakes on her red cheeks. As she exhaled, a stream of breath also came from her mount, a lovely bold thoroughbred, Rickyroo.
Behind her, steam rising from their mounts’ hindquarters and flanks, were fifty-four riders. Ahead was the huntsman, Shaker Crown, a wiry man in his middle forties, again lifting the hunting horn to his lips. The bulk of the pack, twenty couple—hounds are always counted in twos or couples—obediently awaited their next order.
Sister cast her bright eyes over the treetops. Chickadees, wrens, and one woodpecker peered down at her. No foxes had just charged through here. Different birds had different responses to a predator like a fox. These creatures would have been disturbed, moved about. Crows, ravens, and starlings, on the other hand, would have lifted up in a flock and screamed bloody murder. They loathed being disturbed and despised foxes to the marrow of their light bones.
On Sister’s left, a lone figure remained poised at the fence line. If Shaker moved forward, then the whipper-in, Betty Franklin, would take the old tiger trap jump and keep well to the left. Betty, a wise hunter, knew not to press on too far ahead. The splinter of the pack, which had broken now, veered to the right, and the second whipper-in, Sybil Hawkes, was already in pursuit well away across the hayfield.
Whether Sybil could turn the three couple of hounds troubled Sister. A pack should stay together—easier said than done. Sister blamed herself for this incident. It takes years and years, decades really, to build a level pack of hounds. She had included too many first-year entry—the hound equivalent of a first grader—in today’s hunt.
First-year entry sat in the kennels for Christmas Hunt, which had been last Saturday. Christmas Hunt, the third of the High Holy Days of hunting, overflows with people and excitement. Both she and her huntsman, whom Sister adored, felt the Christmas Hunt would have been too much for the youngsters. Today she should have taken only one couple, not the four included in this pack. Shaker had mentioned this to her, but she had waved him off, saying that the field wouldn’t be that large today, as many riders would still be recuperating from the rigors of Christmas. There had been over one hundred people for Christmas Hunt, but she had half that today, still a good number of folks.
The hounds loved hunting in the snow. For the young entry this was their first big snow, and they just couldn’t contain themselves.
She sat on Rickyroo who sensed her irritation. Sister felt a perfect ass. She’d hunted all her life, and, at seventy-two, it was a full life. How could she now be so damned stupid?
Luckily, most people behind her knew little about the art of foxhunting, and it was an art not a science. They loved the pageantry, the danger, the running and jumping, its music. A few even loved the hounds themselves. Out of that field of fifty-four people, perhaps eight or nine really understood foxhunting. And that was fine by Sister. As long as people respected nature, protected the environment, and paid homage to the fox—a genius wrapped in fur—she was happy. Foxhunting was like baseball: a person needn’t know the difference between a sinker and a slider when it crossed home plate in order to enjoy the game. So long as people knew the basics and behaved themselves on horseback, she was pleased. She knew better than to expect anyone to behave when off a horse.
She observed Shaker. Every sense that man possessed was working overtime, as were hers. She drew in a cold draught of air, hoping for a hint of information. She listened intently and could hear, a third of a mile off, the three couple of hounds speaking for all they were worth. Perhaps they hit a fresh line of scent. In this snow, the scent would have to be fresh, just laid from the fox’s paws. The rest of the pack watched Shaker. If scent were burning, surely Cora or Diana, Dasher or Ardent would have told them. But then the youngsters had broken off back in the woods. Had the pack missed the line? With an anchor hound like the four-year-old Diana, now in her third season, this was unlikely. Young though she was, this particular hound was following in the paw prints of one of the greatest anchor hounds Sister had ever known, Archie, gone to his reward and remembered with love every single day.
Odd how talent appears in certain hounds, horses, and humans. Diana definitely had it. She now faced the sound of the splinter group, stern level, head lifted, nose in the air. Something was up.
Behind Sister, Dr. Walter Lungrun gratefully caught his breath. The run up to this point had been longer than he realized, and he needed a break. Wealthy Crawford Howard, convivial as well as scheming, passed his flask around. It was accepted with broad smiles from friend and foe alike. Crawford subscribed to the policy that a man should keep his friends close and his enemies closer still. His wife, Marty, an attractive and intelligent woman, also passed around her flask. Crawford’s potion was a mixture of blended scotch, Cointreau, a dash of bitters, with a few drops of fresh lemon juice. Liberally consumed, it hit like a sledgehammer.
Tedi and Edward Bancroft, impeccably turned out and true foxhunters, both in their seventh decade, listened keenly. Their daughter, Sybil, in her midforties, was the second whipper-in. She had her work cut out for her. They knew she was a bold rider, so they had no worries there. But Sybil, in her second year as an honorary whipper-in (as opposed to a professional) fretted over every mistake. Sybil’s parents and two sons would buoy her up after each hunt since she was terribly hard on herself.
Betty Franklin loved whipping-in, but she knew there were moments when Great God Almighty couldn’t control a hound with a notion. She was considerably more relaxed about her duties than Sybil.
Also passing around handblown glass flasks, silver caps engraved with their initials, were Henry Xavier (called Xavier or X), Clay Berry, and Ronnie Haslip—men in their middle forties. These high-spirited fellows had been childhood friends of Ray Arnold Jr. Sister’s son, born in 1960, had been killed in 1974 in a harvesting accident. The boys had been close, the Four Musketeers.
Sister had watched her son’s best friends grow up, graduate from college. Two had married, all succeeded in business. They were very dear to her.
After about five minutes, Shaker tapped his hat wi
th his horn, leaned down, and spoke encouragingly to Cora, his strike hound. She rose up on her hind legs to get closer to this man she worshipped. Then he said, “Come long,” and his pack obediently followed as he rode out of the forest, taking the second tiger trap jump as Betty Franklin took the first. If the pack and the huntsman were a clock, the strike hound being at twelve, Betty stayed at ten o’clock, Sybil at two, the huntsman at six.
Sister, thirty yards behind Shaker, sailed over the tiger trap. Most of the other riders easily followed, but a few horses balked at the sight of the upright logs, leaning together just like a trap. The snow didn’t help the nervous; resting along the crevices, it created an obstacle that appeared new and different.
As riders passed the sugar maple, Cora began waving her stern. The other hounds became interested.
Dragon, a hotheaded but talented third-year hound and the brother to Diana, bellowed, “It’s her! It’s her!”
The thick odor of a vixen lifted off the snow.
Cora, older, and steady even though she was the strike hound, paused a moment. “Yes, it is a vixen, but something’s not quite right”
Diana, her older brother, Dasher, and Asa and Ardent also paused. At nine, the oldest hound in the pack, Delia, mother of the D litters, usually brought up the rear. While her youthful speed had diminished, her knowledge was invaluable. Delia, too, put her nose to the snow.
The other hounds looked at her, even her brash son, Dragon. “It’s a vixen all right, but it is extremely peculiar” Delia advised.
“Well, maybe she ate something strange,” Dragon impatiently spoke. “Our job is to chase foxes, and it doesn’t matter if they’re peculiar or not. I say we give this field another run for their money.”
Cora lifted her head to again look at Shaker. “ Well, it is a vixen and whatever is wrong with line, I guess we’ll find out.”
With the hounds opening, their vibrant voices filled the air with a music as lush to the ear of a foxhunter as the Brandenburg Concertos are to a musician.
No matter how many times she heard her pack in full cry, it always made the hair stand up on the back of Sister’s neck.
They glided across the hayfield, soared over the stone jumps on the other side, plunged into the woods as they headed for a deep creek that fed the apple orchards for which Orchard Hill was known.
The cardinal once again left off the millet and flew back up into the oak tree.
“Bother;” he grumbled to his mate.
“Maybe they’ll turn up more seed,” his shrewd helpmate answered.
The hounds, running close together, passed under the oak, followed by Shaker, then Sister and the field.
They ran flat out for twenty minutes, everyone sweating despite the cold. The baying of the pack now joined the baying of the splinter group.
It sounded queer.
Shaker squeezed Showboat. A true huntsman’s horse, Showboat would die before he’d join the rest of the field. He would be first and that was that.
“What in the goddamned hell!” Shaker shouted. He put his horn to his lips, blowing three long blasts. “Leave him! Leave him!”
The hounds stared up at Shaker. The vixen scent was so strong it made their eyes water, but they weren’t crawling over a vixen.
Betty rode up as did Sybil, each staying back a bit so as to contain the pack just in case. Each woman’s face registered disbelief. Betty put her gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a whoop of hilarity.
Sister rode up. There, curled into a ball, was deer hunter Donnie Sweigert. His expensive rifle with the one-thousand-dollar scope was clutched to his chest. His camouflage overalls and coat were encrusted with snow, slobber, and a drop or two of hound markings. She wondered where Donnie found the money for his expensive gear. He was a driver for Berry Storage.
Shaker kept calling back his pack, but they didn’t want to separate from the terrified Donnie.
“What’ll I do?” the cowering man hollered.
Shaker gruffly replied, “Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass good-bye, you blistering idiot!” He spoke sharply to his hounds now. “Leave him! Leave him!”
Shaker turned Showboat back toward the hayfield. The hounds, reluctant at first to leave this human drenched in vixen scent, did part from their odd treasure.
Dragon couldn’t resist a parting shot at Donnie. “And you think we’re dumb animals.”
Sister, as master, couldn’t tell Donnie that she thought covering his human scent with fox scent remarkably stupid. She needed to be a diplomat. “Don, are you in one piece?”
“Yes.” He unsteadily rose to his feet.
The fox scent, like a sweet skunk, was so overpowering even the members of the field could smell Donnie.
“Would you like help getting back to your truck?” She winked at Walter Lungrun. “Walter will take you back. And he’s a doctor, so if anything should be wrong, he’ll fix you right up.”
“I’m fine.” Donnie was still recovering from his fright.
“No one bit you. They would never bite anyone, Don, but, well, you have to admit, the situation is unique.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sighed.
“Tell you what.” She smiled, and what an incandescent welcoming smile it was. “If you want to, come hunt Monday morning at my place back by the peach orchard. Maybe that will make up for our spoiling your sport today.”
He brightened. “Thank you, Sister.”
“And Don, don’t cover your scent with vixen, hear? Just stay on the backside of the wind. I’m sure you’ll get a big one.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
With that, Sister followed Shaker and the hounds back to the hayfield, back to the tiger trap jumps.
“Edward, take the field a moment, will you?”
Tall, elegant Edward Bancroft touched the top of his hunt cap with his crop.
Sister rode up to Shaker, tears in his eyes from laughing.
“Oh, God, that man is dumb as a sack of hammers.”
She laughed, too. “Donnie Sweigert isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but to make amends I’m letting him hunt the peach orchard Monday morning. He’ll forgo eau de vulpus.”
At this they both laughed so loudly a few of the hounds laughed out loud, too. That only made the humans laugh harder. The hounds took this as a cue to sing.
“All right, all right.” Shaker wiped his eyes as the hounds ended their impromptu carol.
“We’ve had a pretty good day, all things considered. Let’s lift these hounds and go home.”
“Yes, boss.” He touched his cap with his horn.
Later at the breakfast held at Orchard Hill’s lovely 1809 white clapboard house, the mirth increased with each person’s retelling of the situation.
Clay Berry told everyone that come Monday morning he’d present Donnie with a bottle of cologne. He’d also give Donnie a fixture card so he could stay away from fox hunts.
“Do you really think humans can disguise their scent? Would a deer have been fooled?” Jennifer Franklin, Betty’s teenage daughter, asked Walter. She had a crush on Walter, as did every woman in the hunt club.
“I don’t know.” Walter smiled. “You’ll have to ask Sister that one.”
He motioned for Sister to join them. Walter was a well-built man; he’d played halfback at Cornell, and even during the grueling hours of medical school and his internship, he had worked out religiously. Sister stood next to him. At six feet, she was almost as tall as he. She’d lost an inch or so with age.
Those meeting Jane Arnold for the first time assumed she was in her middle fifties. Lean, strong, her silver hair close cropped because she couldn’t stand “hat head” from her hunt cap, she had an imposing yet feminine presence.
Walter repeated the question. She thought a moment, then replied as she touched Jennifer’s shoulder. “I expect a deer or any of us can be fooled for a little while, but sooner or later your real odor will rise on up, and then you’ll be standing like truth be
fore Jesus.”
On weekends Jennifer Franklin, a senior in high school, and her best friend, Sari Rasmussen, cleaned and tacked up the horses for Sister, Shaker, and Betty. When the hunt was over, the girls would cool down the horses, wash them if necessary, clean all the tack. When the horses were completely dry, they’d put on their blankets and turn them out, an eagerly anticipated moment for the horses.
The two attractive girls would then attack five pairs of boots, which included their own two. However, this Saturday their high school was having a special late-afternoon basketball tournament, so Sister had given the two girls time off.
During weekday hunts, Betty saw to the horses while Sister and Shaker fed the hounds after a hard hunt. This gave them time to check each hound, making sure no one was too sore or had gotten torn by thorns or hateful barbed wire. If anyone sustained an injury, he or she would be taken to the small medical room, lifted on the stainless steel table and washed, stitched if necessary, or medicated. The hardy hounds rarely suffered diseases, but they did bruise footpads, rip ears, cut flanks.
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