Across the Endless River

by Thad Carhart

  Baptiste smiled at the exaggeration, shaking his head as he greeted the others. Clearly in good humor, Paul continued in a spirit of badinage. “Baptiste has stalked the American bison and the grizzly bear, the elk and the Louisiana jaguar. But today will be his first experience of a true chasse à courre in the European manner. I hope it will be a fruitful hunt.”

  The men looked at Baptiste, awaiting his response.

  “Duke Paul honors me with his account, but I assure you, gentlemen, my experience is commonplace in America. I am looking forward to the day’s hunt.”

  Small crystal glasses holding the same strong brandy they had tasted at Prince Franz’s house were distributed. The prince proposed a toast to their host and the master of the hunt, Monsieur de Chêneville. An older man standing to Paul’s left inclined his head to acknowledge the honor, then proposed his own toast to a successful hunt, and added, “My warden tells me that three large bucks have been sighted on our territory. The auspices are favorable!” A murmur of approval passed through the group and they drained their cups.

  What kind of a hunt is this? Baptiste wondered. How do they know those bucks will stay around, especially this late in the morning? Where I come from, it’s too early for drinking and too late for hunting.

  The barking of dogs broke through his thoughts. A pack of hounds burst around the far corner of the manor house, tumbling over one another in their eagerness to join the group of men and horses. The dogs were all hounds whose white coats showed large splotches of black and brown. Forty of them trotted among the hunters, barking shallowly with tails wagging, keeping away from the horses’ hindquarters, eager for the hunt. Three grooms in bright blue coats and white breeches accompanied them and, with a series of high shouts and feinting gestures, assembled the pack in a rough semblance of order on one side of the green. One of the grooms carried a large black whip coiled over his right shoulder. The dogs’ coats had been closely clipped on the right side of their abdomens to make the letters HC, the monogram of Henri de Chêneville, stand out from the slightly longer fur. Baptiste widened his eyes and whistled softly. He had seen designs worked into the hindquarters of horses, but never the coats of dogs.

  The hunters stood together in front of the house, facing the church across the grass. A quiet descended upon the group, as if by some hidden sign. The man next to him motioned to Baptiste to remove his hat; he hadn’t noticed that the others had already done so. Six men dressed in the same livery as the dog handlers appeared from around the corner of the house and strode onto the grass. Each carried a large brass horn draped diagonally across his chest, and they arrayed themselves in a shallow V at right angles to the group of hunters. The servants had stopped their work and drawn back behind the hunters; a cluster of villagers watched from the far end of the grassy common. The doors of the church opened and a priest emerged wearing a white surplice over a black cassock, a violet biretta on his head. He was attended by two young boys, also in surplices and cassocks, one bearing a small silver bucket filled with water, the other carrying a silver censer that he held low to the ground by a chain and from which a stream of smoke issued forth. Baptiste recognized the accoutrements of a Catholic ceremony from his time among the Jesuits in St. Louis, but he couldn’t imagine what they were doing here as the hunt was about to begin. The priest stepped onto the grass, flanked by the two boys, and then faced the hunters.

  A blast from the six horns startled Baptiste, and a flock of birds in the surrounding trees noisily took flight. The six men played a kind of fanfare, all striving to hit the same notes yet never quite doing so. The effect was strange, but still Baptiste felt a deep vibration in his gut and delight at the strange beauty of the horns echoing into the forest. The fancy dress of the players and the fierce decorum of the listeners added to the sense of occasion. He thought of the hypnotically loud drumming and full-throated shrieks of the Mandan and of the convulsions they experienced in their dances before a major hunt. A final discordant passage echoed in the dying notes of entreaty.

  The priest broke the ensuing silence with a short prayer in Latin, to which his acolytes chanted “Amen.” The three approached the hunters and the priest bestowed a blessing in French as he sprinkled holy water on their heads, and the hunters blessed themselves. Baptiste made the sign of the cross in imitation of the rest of the group but noticed that Paul and Prince Franz did not do likewise. Baptiste had the impression that the priest made a particularly vigorous gesture with the holy water as he passed by the visitors from Württemberg. The priest sprinkled the dogs as well, and the boy carrying the censer swung it in a wide arc, dispersing a thick cloud of pungent blue smoke that hung above the pack in the still morning air. Then the incense reached their sensitive noses and they shied at the smell; one of the dogs sneezed three times in rapid succession. The priest moved back toward the center of the green and motioned with his short silver baton to the far side of the square, where grooms held the horses. He mumbled a prayer in their direction, and then he and his assistants returned to the front of the church, where he recited the Pater Noster in a loud and quavering voice.

  With one more aspersion of holy water across the grass, it was over. Monsieur de Chêneville briskly crossed to greet the priest; then one of the grooms placed an envelope in the priest’s hand and inclined his head respectfully. The master of the hunt strode back toward them and the priest and his attendants disappeared into the church. Monsieur de Chêneville put on his hat and said loudly, “Messieurs, chassons!” giving the order for the hunt to begin.

  The company of hunters headed for their horses, divided itself into half a dozen smaller groups, and rode off in different directions. Paul invited Baptiste to accompany him and the two rode together with three others. Baptiste was intrigued at their methods, which didn’t correspond to anything he knew about tracking animals. He reasoned that the whole group could not pursue the deer together since they were not in open plains, where horses would have a chance of overtaking part of a herd. Nor were they stalking the animal as Baptiste was used to doing in forested terrain; there was certainly no pretense of stealth after the horns had resounded across the landscape and the hunters noisily rode off into the woods. He asked Paul how they proposed to find game under such conditions. Paul laughed.

  “We don’t need to find the game, Baptiste. That’s already been done. The only question is, Which of the bucks will be our prey?” Paul gestured toward a group of riders in blue tunics.

  “Those men are Monsieur de Chêneville’s warden and his assistants, and they’ve just completed a full circuit of the domain. They know this forest like the inside of their vest pockets and they’ve been riding all morning. Batteurs have been posted on each side of the forest, so we’ll soon have an indication of where the deer are.”

  Baptiste was beginning to understand, though he found it hard to believe that so much effort was being devoted to the taking of a single deer. At home, the rigor of the hunt and the wiliness and luck required to find game included the possibility of returning empty-handed. Today’s hunt, he saw, was something else entirely.

  Suddenly there came through the trees three sharp blasts of a horn. Paul held up his right hand and the riders stopped abruptly, sitting their horses silently, waiting for something that Baptiste didn’t understand. Then there came another report of the horn, followed by three lower tones in rapid succession. Long descending cries from other hunters echoed through the woods, and then they heard the dogs, a deep baying from one or two amid a general tumult of barks.

  “They’ve sighted a buck and he’s headed south,” Paul told him, whispering, as if their voices could scare off game. The commotion continued, but it was moving away from where they now stood. Over the next couple of hours there ensued a series of similar alarms that gave rise to momentary excitement and short bursts of frenzied activity and, soon after, a disappointed calm as the distant hunt took still another turn. Paul explained that the dogs were pursuing one of the bucks within a large perimeter o
f Monsieur de Chêneville’s property. Only when the pack drew close enough would all hunters be called to the chase. “This is the classic chasse à courre,” he told Baptiste.

  Occasionally the dogs flushed animals other than the buck, all of which would bolt across the road in their headlong flight. Rabbits by the score crossed the allée, and several of the tiny deer they called chevreuil, which Baptiste had never before seen. Once, a family of wild boar burst from the forest not more than twenty yards from where they stood, a blur of black bristles, long snouts, and curved tusks. The horses shied at the surprise, but no one raised his gun. “We’re not after boar today,” Paul said equably.

  Eventually the pack again came in their direction. This time the message of the horns was clear to Baptiste. Paul cried, “They’re on him now. All hunters join. Let’s go!”

  They set off into the forest at a gallop and headed over a low rise in the woods toward the others. It was exhilarating to ride through a forest cleared of undergrowth, unconcerned about obstacles. They topped the rise easily and came directly upon a large buck running up the hill from the other side, pursued by the pack of dogs and at least a dozen riders.

  “Turn him! Turn him!”

  The cry came from the approaching riders, and as Baptiste watched from the crest of the hill, Paul and another rider descended in a mad gallop through the trees, storming down the incline at a diagonal and forcing the buck to turn to the left rather than continue up the hill and through their ranks. Paul pressed his advantage, pursuing the buck at close quarters. Baptiste spurred his horse forward and fell in behind Paul. They continued at full speed with the buck in sight; then they heard horns and cries in front of them. The buck stopped, his head held high, turning nervously in a small clearing. Paul burst from the trees and the buck lowered its head. The animal was winded and was waiting until the last possible moment to bolt. He sprang again into the forest and down a small incline to a stream. Other riders appeared on the high ground opposite the stream and the buck headed down the watercourse, kicking up water and slipping noisily on rocks as he desperately sought refuge.

  The stream emptied into a small lake, whose near side was covered in rushes. Half a dozen riders were at the edge of the lake, and the first dogs ran up, feinting and snapping at the buck’s hindquarters in the shallow water. He lowered his rack and rolled his head menacingly at the dogs once or twice, then turned toward the lake as if contemplating an escape. The rest of the dogs came on, barking with a demonic intensity as they kept their distance in the shallows. One of the young dogs broke from the pack and lunged at the buck’s rear flank, and in a sudden explosion of water, the stag kicked furiously, catching the dog’s head on the second kick and sending its lifeless body arcing through the air to land with a splash several yards away. The pack went wild with excitement and the buck eased into the lake and began to swim, followed warily by several of the dogs.

  Riders appeared on the far bank of the little lake, no more than a hundred yards across, and three or four of them urged their horses into the water, forcing the buck to turn and then head back to the shore from which he had started. Baptiste watched the animal’s labored breathing, and the shallow waves that spread from his chest as he held his head and antlers high above the water. He reached the bank and stood once more in the shallows, his coat dripping and glistening in the feeble sun. The entire hunt had arrived, a good thirty riders assembled on the lake’s muddy shore, with four or five others on the opposite bank, closing off all possibility of flight. The buck still occasionally lowered his head and swung his rack of antlers heavily in the direction of the tormenting dogs, but it was clear to Baptiste and to the deer that there was no more to do than stand his ground and await the inevitable.

  Monsieur de Chêneville hailed Paul. “Monsieur le Duc, à vous l’honneur!” he cried, gesturing with his arm toward the stag at bay.

  Paul inclined his head, acknowledging the courtesy, and dismounted. When he asked Baptiste to hold the reins of his mount, he saw the look of profound unease on the young man’s features.

  “What is it, my friend? I’ve been given the honor of dispatching our quarry.”

  Baptiste looked at the stag, which was too run-out to be defiant, then narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Take care of that animal.”

  Monsieur de Chêneville handed Paul a long, thin dagger whose polished blade flashed in the pallid gray light. Flanked on either side by a uniformed warden bearing a pike, Paul approached the exhausted stag with a resolute step. The animal stood unsteadily, its mouth open wide and its head held low. The wardens braced their pikes forward against the stag’s heaving sides. Paul crouched low between them, paused to gauge his mark, then lunged forward with a splash, catching the buck’s rack of antlers in his left hand as he thrust the dagger into its neck with his right. The shouting stopped, the horses turned in rigid attention; even the dogs seemed to sense a pause in the frantic activity that had brought all of them to this still point under the wintry midday sun.

  The buck staggered once, then its head shook convulsively in Paul’s embrace, and the two stood motionless. For a long moment, man and beast were suspended in a breathless arc that connected the hunters to the stag before them. Paul leaned his right arm against the furry coat, the dagger plunged deep within, his back straining mightily. Baptiste wondered whether the wound had been fatal. Then the animal rolled its head to the left, as if listening for a sound it alone could hear. Paul withdrew the dagger and stepped back quickly, and the buck collapsed. A splash rose noisily in the air and a wave broke on the bank. Men and dogs found their voices at the same time: a cheer arose spontaneously and the pack barked with a new frenzy. The water was quickly stained with blood, reddening the dun-brown reeds that covered the shore.

  The members of the hunt assembled back at the village. The grooms appeared again and took the horses, and a servant passed among them, offering brandy. The front door of the manor house stood open, and the riders strolled across the grass and into the building, laughing and talking loudly among themselves. Inside the arched door was a large timbered hall, its paneled walls covered with the mounted heads of animals up to the open beams in a more rustic version of Prince Franz’s entrance hall. Long tables, draped in dazzling white cloths and laden with platters of food and bottles of wine, were spread around the room. A fire crackled in a mammoth stone hearth. Baptiste blinked to adjust to the dimness, then joined a group that included Paul.

  “Monsieur le Duc, my congratulations,” one of the hunters said with conviction. He turned to the others and extended his glass. “Gentlemen, I give you the health of Paul of Württemberg. He has done honor to our hunt.”

  They raised their glasses and drank while Paul nodded his thanks with an air of modesty. Baptiste thought he looked like a schoolboy who had done his sums properly. A servant entered the room and announced, “Messieurs, la curée!”

  The men finished their drinks and filed out boisterously. As they stepped into the wan sunlight, the laughter and conversation died down and the men arrayed themselves along the greensward. The door of the church opposite was closed and locked, its windows shuttered. What now? Baptiste wondered.

  The horn players stood together as before. At the other end of the lawn, the pack of hounds jostled one another, but none dared cross the invisible line demarcated by the long cracking whip wielded by the master of the hounds. In the middle of the green, the hide of the stag was draped over the bones and flesh that had been its body. The intact head remained attached to it.

  The horn players began another unmelodious fanfare and the dogs quieted. As the notes faded in the crisp air, an identical fanfare arose behind Baptiste. Four of the hunters had taken up horns and repeated the phrases that issued from the group on the grass. This call and response continued through four or five iterations, conferring the dignity of ceremony on the proceedings.

  Two of the uniformed helpers took up positions on either side of the animal’s skin and grasped the top of the rack o
f antlers. Monsieur de Chêneville strode across the green to this temple of death, followed by Prince Franz, Paul, Baptiste, and the other members of the hunt. The servants gave them each a small sprig of evergreen. One by one, the men stooped before the deer’s butchered body and each dipped his twig of pine in the shallow pool of blood that had formed beneath the animal’s remains. A few of the hunters touched the bloody bit of evergreen lightly to their lips before fastening it on the lapel of their coats. Prince Franz and Paul placed theirs in the ribbon of their lowbrimmed hats, the wet crimson needles glistening among the feathers and tufts of badger fur that already decorated the sides of their headgear. Baptiste bent low before the stag, as if genuflecting in church, then took his place with the others. Monsieur de Chêneville said, “The dogs have deserved their reward today. You may proceed.”

  The two men holding the deer’s antlers picked up the head and swayed it back and forth. Then they pulled the hide back to reveal a glistening mass of pure white bones and violet flesh, laced with pearlescent swathes of ligament and muscle. The dogs unleashed their frustration in a convulsion of howls and barks. The master of the hounds held them back for a few seconds more with savage cracks of the whip and threatening cries, as if to fuel their blood lust. Then he yelled, “Allez!” and lowered his whip. The pack exploded, covering the intervening twenty-five yards in an instant and setting upon the remains of their prey. Decorum and reserve had been replaced by the chaos of animals scrambling, jumping, and straining, all fighting to gain access to meat. Paul indicated the deer’s head and antlers.

  “When next you are here, that head will be on the wall inside. A noble trophy for a noble hunt.” He clapped Baptiste on the shoulder and sang out, “Let’s eat! I’m famished, and Monsieur de Chêneville’s hunt is known for its table.”

  THIRTY