Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (27 page)

T
HERE WERE GOOD FOXES IN
Doubleimupshire, only they required a little finding. They lay in queer out of the way places, old buildings, ivy-mantled crags, and one gentleman had his billet up a hollow box-tree.

Some men are good at finding foxes and bad at hunting them; others are bad at finding, and good at hunting them while others again are good at neither operation. Mr Facey Romford combined both qualities, he could find as well as hunt. He had an intuitive knowledge of the nature and habits of the animal, and seemed to say to himself as he approached a cover—his little pig eyes raking it in all directions—“Now, Francis Romford, moy beloved friend, if you were a fox, where would you lie? Would you choose the east side by the road, with the chance of intrusion from every stray cur and stick-stealing besom-maker; or would you take the west, where it is quieter with worse lying; or would you mount half way up the hill where there is a sunny sand bank to bask upon, with a nice close gorse in the rear?” and whichever part of a cover Facey fancied, there generally was to be found the fox. Sometimes he would whip them out of places that nobody ever thought of trying, straggling bushes, briary banks, angular nooks—quarters that offered the benefit of seclusion without attracting notoriety by their size. “How can you be sure he's not there,” Facey would say, “if you don't try?” Not that he went with the pack, and the
posse comitatus
at his heels, but he sent Swig or Chowey or someone to whip the place in passing. He never gave a keeper a chance of saying that he drew over his foxes, or left them behind.

Whitstable Wood was a sure find—at least as sure as anything can be that is dependent upon the will of a wild animal, and, not having been disturbed for some time, expectation ran high on the point. Moreover, after two or three failures, even the funkers begin to wish for something better than the mere cheer of the huntsman or the rate of the whips. It is being hurried into hot action, without a moment's preparation, or time to get on terms with one's horse, that makes people quake and wish themselves out of it. A great staring stone wall or a bottomless brook to begin upon are sad dampers to ardour and energy. Leaping should be gradual and progressive. A little one first, then a somewhat larger, and a little bigger after that, and so on. Not a great choker at starting. It should be conducted on the principle of a French dinner, where the grand
pièce de résistance
comes last.

But we are now at the cover—a twenty-acre wood of stately oaks, with capital lying, and already Romford & Co. have dissolved partnership, Swig taking the right, Chowey the left, each keeping wide of Mr Romford, so that, as Beckford says, a single hound may not escape them. Facey coaxes as many of the field as he can into cover, but the rides being deep and the clay holding, it is not a popular measure. Mr Joseph Large never went into a wood, because he never could find his way out again; but, on this occasion, thinking the holding clay might be serviceable to the fractious chestnut horse, he went boldly in, determined to give him a bucketing if he could. Still Joseph's example was not seductive—very few followed him. Mr Kickton wanted to ride against Mr Pyefinch, who had said he was a tailor; while Mr Blanton, Mr Bullpig, and Farmer Tuppen wanted to be ready to slip down Lavenham Lane, in case the fox went to the west. Each man has a pet reason for not going in. And as few now-a-days care to see a fox found, Facey has it pretty much to himself. On he goes, slowly and carefully, inwardly hoping that his gratuitous pack might distinguish itself. If there was any truth in breeding they would, and he knew he had spared no lies in getting them.

And the hounds had not been long in cover ere the feathering of Trumpeter and Tuneable (both from the Badminton) satisfied our distinguished master that a fox was at home, and, getting the Baker horse by the head, he dashed into the thickest of the brushwood, followed by such of the pack as had witnessed the move. “
Yooi, push 'em up!
” cheered Facey with a slight crack of his whip, and on the instant a great ruddy-coated, white throated, irate-looking dog fox dashed out of his grassy lair in full view of Trumpeter, who raised such an exclamation of joy and surprise as electrified the rest of the pack, and brought them pell-mell to the spot to share in the crash and the triumph. What a commotion was there! A pack of vigorous fox-hounds, all getting a whiff of the scent by turns, each particular hound giving as it were a receipt in full for the whole. What a crash they make! and the old wood echoes and reverberates the sound with most usurious interest. Then the critics, both hostile and friendly, began cocking their ears for censure or for praise, while the unprejudiced sportsmen sat revelling in the melody, half wishing the fox would break cover, and yet half that he would stay, and have a little more taken out of him ere he fled. And sly Reynard, apparently considering the matter, and leaving the dreadful clamour behind him, thought he had better get a little further a-head before he ventured to leave his comfortable quarters, so, running a couple of liberal rings, he so foiled the ground as to bring the clamorous hounds to their noses, and give him a much better chance of escape. And as the music sensibly lessened and some were beginning to abuse the scent, and Facey was cheering on the hounds that could hold it, the twang of a horn came softened through the wood, changing the whole course of the performance.

It was Daniel! the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel! doing with his horn what he was unable to do with his husky voice, and its notes were caught and immediately drowned by the clamour that followed them.

The fox was indeed away! Well away; for he must have been a bold one to return in the face of such a yelling.

Meanwhile Daniel was on with the leading hounds, leaving Facey and Chowey to bring the rest after him. There was a rare scent, and he chuckled to think they would never catch him up. So he sailed gallantly over Mapperton Meadows, taking Babington Brook in his stride. Then Romford, who had nothing but his quick ear to guide him—never having seen a yard of the country before—settled himself in his saddle, and went tearing and crashing away through the cover to where he thought he heard the last notes of the horn, while the well-informed field diverged to the right or the left, according as their former experience guided them; some thinking the fox was away for Heslope Hill, others that he was sure to go to Hurlestone Crags, and the leader of each detachment coursed over the country, so as to lead his followers to the point with as little risk to life or limb as possible. Each party came in view just as Romford, with a gallant effort, superseded Swig, who now fell back upon the mouth-extended, gaping Chowey. “For-rard! for-rard!” was the cry, though it was scarcely possible for hounds to go faster.

Most hunts have their crack rider, a man whom they think can beat everybody; and Captain Spurrier, of Cherrymount, had long held that honourable office with the old Larkspur Hunt. Not that it is usual to ride at the master or huntsman; but the other Mr Romford not having the reputation of being a great horseman, the Captain thought it might be well to show him how they did things in the far-famed Doubleimupshire. But for this he would have preferred retiring into private life now on the accession of a new master, for a strong tinge of hoar-frost had shot across his once dark-brown whiskers, and hardish falls had somewhat quenched the love of leaping. Still, men don't like admitting they are not so good as they have been, and persevere on, in hopes that it is only a temporary depression, from which they will speedily rally. Each time they go out they think they will just show off that day, and be done; but somehow they always think they will just have another last day, and then one more, and so on, till they get beat, and give up hunting in disgust.

Happy are they who go out to please themselves, and not to astonish others.

So thought Mr Joseph Large, as, having taken the fiery edge off the chestnut in the deep-holding clay rides of the cover, he gained the hard road, and resolved to stick to it as long as ever he could. “Pretty thing it would be for a man of his means to break his neck after a nasty, crafty, hen-stealing fox.” So saying, he knotted his curb-rein, and letting it drop, proceeded to take his change out of the chestnut, now that he had got him subdued. He even ventured to spur him, not very severely, but still sufficient to let the horse know that he had a pair on.

With the before-mentioned erroneous impression of the prowess of friend Facey, Captain Spurrier hustled his horse and hardened his heart, determined to ride as of yore; and great was his surprise when, on clearing the cover, he saw the pusillanimous Romford, as he thought, sailing away, taking the large bull-finchers just as they came in his way, without swerving either to the right or the left.

“Spurting rider!” muttered Spurrier, grinding his teeth, adding, “he'll change his tune before he gets to Collington Woods for which the hounds seemed then to be evidently pointing. So saying, the Captain put spurs to his little thorough-bred steeple chase horse, and shot in between Facey and Daniel Swig, who was now careering along in the wake of his master.

A great and wide-spread avalanche of sportsmen followed, some by one route, some by another, the programme widening towards its base, just like the pyramids of Egypt, or a lady's petticoat. The ground sloped gradually to the sight, giving all those who had time to look after anything but themselves a fine panoramic view of the chase,—hounds in a cluster—Romford close up—Spurrier hard upon him—Swig next Spurrier, and Chowey mixed up in a miscellaneous group of horsemen,—now a red coat leading, now a black, now a red again. The air was bright and rarefied, and echo multiplied the music of the hounds. It was both a good seeing, a good scenting, and a good hearing day,—quite a bespeak for an opening day.

The further they went, the more Captain Spurrier was lost in astonishment at Mr Romford's masterly performance. He didn't seem to care a halfpenny for anything. All he looked to was being with his hounds. Brooks, banks, walls, woods, all seemed equally indifferent to him. “What nonsense people talked about Romford not being a rider,” thought he. “Was just about the hardest rider he had ever seen. Little Spratt was nothing to him.” And Spurrier inwardly congratulated himself upon not being bound to beat Mr Romford. Such a back and such shoulders he had never seen in conjunction with such a powerful horse. Altogether, Spurrier pronounced Romford a very formidable opponent. And he wondered if Romford would introduce him to Lord Lovetin. Mrs Spurrier would like it very much, if he would. So they sailed away over Sharperow and Strother lordships, past Tasborough, leaving Thirkeld on the right and Welbury on the left, till the ploughed lands of Portgate slackened their paces and brought the hounds to their noses.

“Hold hard!” was at length the cry, and gratefully it sounded to the ears of the forward; grateful it was, too, to those behind, who by now putting on might yet hope to get a saving view of the scene. So they hurried forward in clamorous vigour, determined to be able to say how it was up to Heatherwicke Green, at all events; and a great wave of sportsmen surged to the front ere Mr Romford, having let the hounds make their own cast, now essayed to assist them in full view of a panting but still critical field.

We are all great judges of hunting. Romford, nothing flurried, had employed the brief interval in watching the spreading and trying of the hounds, and surveying the same.

“Francis Romford,” said he to himself, “if you were the fox, what would you do under these circumstances? You may have been headed by that noisy long-tailed team, with the man riding on the stilts, or you may have been chased by that ill-conditioned cur, who has a very felonious look about him; but, any how, I think, Francis Romford, with that range of rocky hills in front, you would get on a-head, and try to ensconce yourself amongst them.” So saying, Facey determined to make a wide cast in front, and try to recover his friend. And the perspiring field sat watching the move—if successful, to call it a good one; if not, to denounce it as the wildest cast that ever was made.

Facey didn't get his hounds together like a flock of sheep, but allowed them to spread and use their own sagacity, going at a very gentle pace, without any hurrying or blustering from the whips. Two fields ahead brought him to the rapid-running eddying Fleet, now even with its banks from the effects of recent rains. It was neither jumpable nor fordable, but it was swimmable, and as such Facey took to it.

He blobbed in and scrambled out. Swig blobbed in and scrambled out. The hounds blobbed in and scrambled out.

Chowey declined.

It suddenly occurred to him that Raschid was missing.

Captain Spurrier looked at the still agitated water, and said, “Ah! that would not have stopped me, but I've got a dose of camomile in me this morning.” He then joined the ruck, and rode round by the bridge at Beltingford Burn. A hard road here favoured them, and as the field clattered along, they commented in fragmentary ejaculations on the rashness of swimming, and the general disagreeableness of water in winter.

“He must have viewed the fox,” said Mr Tuppen, “or he would never have risked his life in that way;” adding, “Have known many a man drowned in that river.”

“Or is going to a halloo!” suggested Mr Markwell, who had just joined.

“A rare un to ride!” observed Mr Joseph Large, proud of his
protégé
.

But Romford had neither viewed the fox nor heard a halloo. He was simply following his own instinct that the fox was forrard; and if he didn't find him forrard, he would have swum it again to try back.

But Fortune does favour the brave, and Facey had no occasion to give his new coat-laps or Bedford cords another wetting; for, after a hearty shaking, the bustling pack again spread to pursue their sniffing investigations on the south side of the river; and at a reverse in the second hedge-row dividing a ploughed from a pasture field, the Beaufort Brilliant gave such a note of exclamation as electrified the pack, and in an instant the rickety fence cracked and bent with their weight.