Fox River (43 page)

When I awoke late the next morning, it was to a commotion in the stableyard. At the window, I saw Duchess being led into a ring and Ian giving instructions to a groom.

W
ith Fish’s help, Christian placed the hounds selected for the opening hunt into a run to be loaded into the hound truck. The distance to the meet was short, but Peter had decided to truck in the animals. As they entered the run, each hound was fitted with a tracking collar, and the number was recorded on a list of names that Fish would carry in the pickup. If Christian wasn’t able to locate a hound, Fish could track it and hopefully pinpoint the animal’s location.

Gorda fed and comforted those hounds remaining as Christian and Fish opened the door and waved the chosen ones into place. From inside the truck one hound—Chipper, Christian guessed from the timbre of his voice—loudly proclaimed his excitement.

The day was cold, exactly what Peter had hoped for. Clouds as gray as Williamsburg pewter hung low, and dawn worked under heavy mists to lighten the sky. Under his cape-shouldered oilskin Christian was warm enough, but Fish complained bitterly as they latched the door.

At the barn, Samantha had tacked up the horses and was probably loading them now. As superb a rider as she was, she had never hunted. Today she was coming along to see what the fuss was about. Peter hoped to make her a first-class whipper-in.

They completed preparations and started up the hill from the kennel. With a wave, Samantha pulled a custom gooseneck trailer into position behind the hound truck, and the little caravan drove to the starting point.

Christian arrived as the inevitable stragglers backed their horses down ramps and made frantic last-minute searches for gloves, stock pins and riding crops. Hunting with Mosby meant strict adherence to rules of dress and etiquette, but never more than at the opening meet. Everything white had been bleached to perfection. Everything metal had been polished until it glowed. Buttons on coats had been counted—three for subscribers, four for the master, five for hunt staff—and stocks pinned vertically for staff or horizontally for the field. A few scarlet weaselbellys and black cutaways worn with top hats were in evidence, some of which had been handed down through generations of Mosby hunters.

The riders who had earned it wore Mosby’s royal-blue on their collars, but there were also guest riders from neighboring hunts, wearing their own colors. The field was larger today than it would be again for some time. Some were riders who were either out of practice, out of shape or simply beginners. More were first flight, and clearly Peter, as their leader, would have his hands full today. There were foot followers, too, dozens of them in country casual clothing. Christian wondered if the entire population of Ridge’s Race had come for the event, but he knew at least one person was missing. Julia.

There was no time to dwell on that. The Sutherlands had made certain Christian would be welcomed as huntsman. He was greeted with deference, and when Samantha brought Night Ranger down the trailer ramp, the horse was admired for his gleaming silver coat and tightly braided mane and tail. Christian had debated the pros and cons of using Night Ranger, but in the end he hadn’t been able to leave the horse behind on opening day. Christian knew the value of friendship.

“Looking good.” Samantha examined the horse with a practiced eye before she handed over the reins.

She was looking good, too, in tan breeches and a black coat she had borrowed from a club member who would never be size three again. “Thanks for helping this morning,” Christian told her.

“Something tells me it’s the only thing I can do for you these days.” She smiled to let him know she wasn’t hurt. He was grateful.

Christian glimpsed Peter, who had ridden over on Jack’s Knife. He was chatting on horseback with a group of directors, including Bard and Frank Sutherland. Peter touched his hat with his crop in salute, and Christian nodded before he turned away to unload the hound truck. He had glimpsed the stern set of Bard’s jaw and remembered Julia’s warning.

The hounds seemed to sense the importance of the moment and stayed on their best behavior as they exited. New hounds who were just being entered this season seemed to look to the experienced hounds for protocol, just as the new hunters looked to the older ones. There was a strict pecking order for both groups, and by now Christian was convinced Mosby’s hounds were nearly as intelligent as its riders.

“Christian?”

He looked up to find Peter, still mounted on Jack’s Knife, beside the truck. “Good morning, Master.”

“I’ve asked Bard Warwick to take the hilltoppers.”

Christian was glad. With luck he and Bard wouldn’t have much to do with each other, since the hilltoppers rode at the rear. He suspected this had been Peter’s point, since Bard was normally a whipper-in. “Thanks.”

Peter named two men who would work as the whippers-in instead, both experienced and reliable. The men came over for instruction, then took their positions, flanking the pack to keep the hounds under reasonable control. Their function was to keep them together, off the roads and out of danger. Christian stayed at the front and waited for Peter’s signal, then started toward the cornfield where they planned to assemble before casting the hounds. The procession was both gay and solemn, enthusiasm bubbling just below the elegant surface. Christian held up his hand when Peter motioned to him. “Hold,” he instructed the hounds, and, like the well-trained animals they were, they did.

Peter waited until everyone had arrived and quieted. “Just a few words before we start,” he said to the assembly. “We come together this season to participate in a sport that is older by far than this country. The first time a caveman gave chase to a fox who raided his pterodactyl coop, foxhunting was born.”

Laughter rippled through the riders, and Peter nodded. He was particularly handsome today in his scarlet swallowtail, the white vest he had inherited from his father and gleaming top hat. The formal garments, ludicrous on lesser men, suited him perfectly.

“Honor is a word we seldom hear today,” he continued. “I’m sad to say it’s disappeared in the halls of Washington. Take a drive around the Beltway and you’ll see for certain that it’s disappeared among the drivers of Virginia and Maryland.”

He waited for the next wave of laughter to end. “But honor hasn’t disappeared among foxhunters. So let us behave as honorable men and women today. Let’s watch out for each other and do the right thing in every instance.”

Christian watched Peter’s expression and knew that Peter believed what he was saying. Peter’s gaze fell on him. “We have a new huntsman today, a young man who, from this day forward, deserves only the best this community can offer. Give him your allegiance, allow him mistakes, applaud his successes. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that someday he will be the best huntsman Virginia has ever produced.”

He paused, then nodded at Christian. “Huntsman.”

As tradition demanded, then, and only then, did Christian set his cap on his head, the ribbons trailing down his neck to signal his position on staff.

“Ready?” Christian asked the hounds.

They came to attention, necks arched, heads held high, twenty couple of hounds as perfect as any in Virginia. Despite a mind filled with other things, Christian felt a stab of pride. He turned and started along the dirt road that ran beside the first cornfield. The hounds followed joyously.

They bypassed the cornfields, made their way through the shallow slice of woods replete with hickory, oak and black locust, and turned into the meadow where cows grazed on the western edge. A ridge ran along the northern boundary, and beyond and below it, the narrow creek that was a tributary of Jeb Stuart.

Although he’d thought of little except the morning’s telephone calls, Christian had to concentrate now, unable to think of anything except the job ahead. He was responsible for the safety of his pack and the success of the hunt. He knew his hounds, but not well enough. His tasks were to keep track of them, to encourage them and to let them work using their individual strengths. The whippers-in spread out as they started through the meadow and up to the top of the ridge. Peter had decided to cast here, where thick brush had harbored many a fox and the narrow branches of the creek made for good jumping when the banks weren’t muddy.

One of the whips trotted to the gate and dismounted to open it wide, making way for Christian. Christian moved the hounds ahead, not allowing them to stop or wander near the cattle. They were trained to ignore other prey. They did their job now, moving toward “covert” or the location where they would be cast.

Mosby’s riders were well-trained, too. The first flight stayed well behind Peter, who kept them at a distance so the hounds could work. The hilltoppers stayed behind Bard, and the foot followers stayed well behind them. Most likely they would perch at the top of the hill and watch the fun from their vantage point.

Christian and the pack crested the ridge, then continued down toward the creek. The scrub brush ahead was dense, and he knew he had to be careful not to lose a hound, particularly one of the newly entered who might become confused or pursue its own line of investigation. The wind blew from the west, and with any luck a fox’s scent would be drawn toward the hounds. The whippers-in spread out, giving the hounds room to work.

At the bottom and at the thicket’s edge, Christian spoke to the hounds. “Hello, friends, he’s in there.” He lifted the huntsman’s horn, which had been used by generations of Mosby huntsman, and blew a few notes, motioning the hounds into the brush as he did.

He was relieved the notes came out true and clear. Mosby’s former huntsman, Samuel Fincastle, had taught both Robby and Christian to blow the horn signals, and although Robby had lost interest, for Christian the training had paid off.

The hounds bounded into the brush, noses fixed to the ground. Not all of them were visible. Christian could dismount to cast them, but there was no need as yet. Most of them were visible, and a quick perusal told him that those who weren’t were his most reliable. With little to be done about either, he waited for success or failure.

The field was quiet behind him. When moments had gone by, he called out encouragement. “Find him, my friends. He’s in there, I know.” Aware that the hounds were most comfortable knowing his location, he continued to spur them on with sporadic reassurance. “You’ll find him, friends, just keep trying. Move along now, do your work.”

Most of the hounds moved forward and closer to the creek. The others fanned out, as if they had planned this pleasing formation late at night in the kennel. But Christian had no reason to hope they were on a line. They were as silent as the field of riders, noses nearly buried in the earth, seeking anything to start the chase.

Then Darth, the hound that Robby had named, opened with a baritone aria. Christian hesitated, aware that the hair-trigger Darth couldn’t always be trusted, but the hound was joined by a littermate, Daisy, who took up the song. For uninterrupted moments the two sang a spectacular duet. “Ho there, Darth,” Christian called. “Go find him, go find him, go find him….”

The pack began to sing in chorus, and Christian, affected despite himself, raised the horn to his lips again and blew a series of quickly repeated notes. “Forward,” he called as he lowered the horn. “Forward, friends. Let’s find our fox.”

“Holloa!”

Christian looked right and saw the whipper-in at the left flank pointing his hat and turning his horse in the direction of the creek. A fox had been flushed out of hiding and was making its way toward the water. Christian doubled the notes on his horn in the classic “Gone Away” and began to canter in the direction of the creek, the pack in full cry before him.

The hounds bounded through the shallow water, sending spray into the air like showers of diamonds. Night Ranger bunched his powerful body and cleared the creek without so much as a splash.

Christian could see the fox now. He was a big gray, far enough ahead of the pack to give good chase, but not so far that they were about to lose him. He streaked up a hill, brush waving in the wind, and the dogs, noses to the ground, followed behind, leaping over logs and boulders, then scrambling up the bank to make their way through a thicket of blackberry canes and brush.

The terrain was hillier here. The hounds dipped into a hollow lined on each edge with stands of tulip poplars as straight and tall as schooner masts. Some of the hounds gave tongue as they ran, crying their enthusiasm and certainty that they were on the right track. Others were silent until they caught the scent again, then rejoined the chorus.

Night Ranger was reveling in the run. They’d had some good chases during cubbing, but none as exciting as this. The horse stretched out his long body and ran as if he was on the last lap at the Middleburg Spring Races. Christian glanced behind him and saw Peter and a portion of the first flight just far enough behind to give the hounds working room. The rest of the field would straggle in. He was sure the creek had slowed some of them, the blackberry thicket even more. If the chase was strenuous and lengthy enough, some would drop out altogether or, worse, be left behind in the dust.

A stone fence, patiently constructed centuries before, appeared on the perimeter. Christian had lost sight of the fox, but his hounds hadn’t lost the scent. They continued their steady pace toward the fence, scampering over it while Christian watched from the distance and counted tails. All the hounds were accounted for, thanks to the expertise of the whippers-in, who had urged some of the younger hounds along. When it was time to jump the fence, Night Ranger soared like a great gray bird.