CHAPTER XV

A PYTCHLEY GALLOP

By Sir Charles Frederick, baronet

‘THE Pytchley hounds have had a run—Io Triumphe! The Pytchley hounds have killed their fox—once again Io Triumphe!” Thus did Whyte-Melville open the first chapter of probably his best and certainly his most popular novel, and after such a beginning it is small wonder that the boy read and re-read Holmby House to its final page. For as the book starts so we expect it to go on and a sticky beginning is calculated to discourage the reader as surely as an ugly bullfinch will thin out the ranks of the hunting field when encountered before horses are properly in their stride.

Well, history has repeated itself to-day and the story must be told while the memory of it is fresh in mind. Hounds on this Monday morning in November, met at Brixworth, a township renowned as the headquarters of the famous pack since the break-up of the old Hunt Club at Pytchley somewhere about 1825. Besides the old-fashioned and somewhat shabby-looking kennels, the village boasts, if the term is appropriate, a palatial “Union,” poorhouse, workhouse (call it what you will), which rears its head somewhat arrogantly in front of the huntsman’s modest dwelling as a permanent warning to successive Masters of the Hounds of the penalties resulting from extravagant living. Brixworth is also celebrated, and more rightly in this case, for its parish church, reputed to be the oldest or second oldest in England. From its wonderful position on the hilltop one may look down upon mile after mile of the most beautiful grass in the Shires and on a landscape dotted with numerous coverts and spinnies, in any of which from Creaton beneath us to Haselbech on yon distant hill, fancy may depict a fox as lying curled up in fancied security. On this morning of which I speak the elegant spire has served, like a magnet, to attract all the dwellers in Pytchleydom from far and wide, and long before the advertised hour of meeting streams of horses have been pouring into the village from every point of the compass. After these follow the motor cars of their owners to thread their way through the narrow, winding, and now crowded streets. Let us seek escape from the general turmoil and passing through the gates of Brixworth Hall ride into the green oasis of the little park. Here, in front of the fine old house, sits Frank Freeman surrounded by his hounds, eighteen and a half couples of the mixed pack consisting of the dog hounds and some of the bigger bitches. Let us glance over them and see what friends we can recognise. Here are Homer and Harlequin, Statesman, Sparkler, and Spinner with Hebe and Handy of the bitches and without difficulty we could doubtless pick out many more. There it is best to stop, however, for while it has sometimes been the custom for the chronicler of a day’s hunting to enumerate the company, great or small, distinguished or otherwise, who “grace the fixture,” it would be setting a new fashion to begin the story with a hound list. Besides, the church clock proclaims it eleven o’clock and the Master has given the order to move. Passing out of the gate we shall spare a moment to shake hands with the old gentleman, grey-bearded and somewhat bent of back, who leans on his stick there, intent on watching the cavalcade pass by and anxious to wish his friends good luck.

In him we recognise a fine old sportsman of a generation that is past and one of the best men to hounds of his day. On leaving the village the route lies for a mile or so along the ridgeway towards Holcot before we turn down to draw the stout little thorn covert to which the latter village gives its name. It stood on the fine estate of Overstone in former days but when Lady Wantage, that great lady, died and the property was sold the covert and surrounding land was purchased by Mr. Rose of Brixworth and by no chance could it have gone into better hands. He and no other is fated a few minutes later to holloa our fox away, and whatever the day may bring forth for us we know that one good man at least will go home happy. I shall not concern you at length with the subsequent proceedings for, truth to tell, I have something up my sleeve and another tale to tell. Let it suffice that hounds cross the brook (close to a convenient ford) into the neighbouring gorse of Walgrave. Here Master Reynard hangs about for a bit and then when the attentions of the pack become too pressing sets off by a devious course for Sywell Wood, where he eventually contrives to shift responsibility on to one of the many foxes who dwell therein. But for this I think Freeman would have laid hold of him for there is an undeniable scent and the dog pack had pressed him hard. Anyhow, the ladies and gentleman of the Hunt have enjoyed a merry ride mainly over firm grass and have negotiated a goodly number of fences both great and small. Indeed should hounds not chance to find another fox there is no one in the company who would vote his or her day’s sport a failure.

Meantime the Master is looking anxiously at his watch, for darkness falls swiftly on these short November afternoons and there yet remains an important call to pay.

His intention is, if possible, to draw Old Poors gorse, a stout blackthorn covert from which foxes are often reluctant to budge, and it is desirable therefore to have a little margin of time to spare. Freeman is engaged at the moment in transferring his horn from Brunette’s saddle to that of old Pilot, and if any of us can boast of a second horse we had best requisition him at once and follow on without loss of time. The covert we are going to draw belongs, as its name implies, to the poor of the parish of Old or Wold and is rented from the trustees by the Pytchley Hunt. It is bounded on the north by a lane where the field are accustomed to stand, but as the wind is blowing from the south-west to-day the Master halts them at the north-east corner, so as to leave the down-wind side clear. For my part, I am delighted to comply with his request and take up my stand at the far corner where I can keep an eye on the grass field that borders on the covert and the lane. Before many minutes have passed we are heartened by the sound of Sparkler’s voice and are reminded of the remarkable gift that the old dog possesses of knowing just where a fox will be lying. The others are quick to join in, and the chorus swells. Now silence falls for a moment and then Gordon’s view-holloa rends the air. He was posted at the bottom of the covert and it is there that the fox has elected to break. The field in the lane have heard the signal as plainly as I have and there is only just time to dart through the little hand-gate before the avalanche is upon me. As we gallop down the side of the covert we can all see the elegant form of Reynard as he sets out on his way and note what a fine old fellow he is. Freeman has hounds on the spot in less time than one would have thought possible, but strange to say they cannot settle to the line at first. Why it should be so I cannot tell, but three or four fields are crossed before they begin to run. Meanwhile their huntsman refuses to hurry them and the Master is holding the field well back in order to give them room. Now they have hunted up to and through a lane, and in a flash there occurs a miraculous transformation. Suddenly galvanised into life, they dash away from us and are over that ugly bottom and racing up the slope beyond, before we realise what is happening. Two or three of the front rank have forced a way over the obstacle and the majority are glad to avail themselves of the hand-gate which offers a convenient outlet. Before us in the middle distance is a green hog-backed ridge capped by some ancient elms, a little squat church, and the cluster of cottages which are all that is left of the once important village of Faxton. Beyond, on the skyline, there is the outline of Shortwood flanked by the farmhouse with its conspicuous tower. Towards this, hounds are racing as surely they have never raced before, while the company galloping in their wake are striving their utmost to keep on terms. After all, it appears, our fox is not going to enter the wood. Hounds, instead, are bearing a little to the right of it and a moment later they are over the Foxhall road. Maybe he is making for Blue covert now and will enable us to sample a fair and favourite line. It is not, as we are quickly to learn, Reynard’s intention to continue far in that direction, and hounds after running hard down to the Harborough—Northampton railway check for the first time under Maidwell. Matters are soon adjusted. The fox had run along the line for a couple of hundred yards, a fact which Statesman is not slow to discover. He it is who shows his fellows where their leader left the metals and guides them over a couple of cold scenting fields beyond. Now they are off again and there is no further hitch till we come to the road junction at the corner of Scotland Wood. Here the traffic on the high road has turned our fox, causing him to skirt the highway till he sees an opportunity of crossing it in the hollow at the lower corner of the covert. Now hounds are over and away again, and once their nostrils are free of the smell of petrol which pervades every roadway nowadays, are settling down again to run in their own sweet way. After travelling across half a dozen strongly fenced fields in the direction of Talli-Ho they swing leftward over the Haselbech road, and I who had made a fortunate nick as they came away from Scotland Wood shall take advantage of my good fortune and see what is happening in the front line. As hounds pass yonder red farmhouse with its monkey-puzzle trees, I catch a glimpse of old Nero disappearing through a fence as black as himself. The Masters of the Hounds are there in their right and proper place and old Pilot is carrying Freeman in effortless fashion to the fore. Three grey horses catch the eye. The one who is bearing the scarlet coat so prominently on the right hails, I know, from Husbands Bosworth, while the fair riders of the twain on the other flank, the old grey mare nearly white now and the little short-tailed horse, are recognised as coming, respectively, from Flore and Weedon.

A few minutes later the pack have vanished into Haselbech Dales to reappear again on the green hilltop beyond, leaving us scarcely a moment to thread our way through in pursuit of them.

What a glorious view meets the eye as we gain the crest! Below our feet is the little covert of Blueberry Bushes and beyond it the fairest of green vales stretching away to Brixworth whose old church, earlier mentioned, catches the eye on yon distant hill. Into these Elysian fields hounds are running hard with their heads to the fresh sou’wester and our horses, who have had little respite in the last half-hour, will need to put their best foot foremost if they are to live with the pack.

The latter are disappearing round the shoulder of a tree-capped hill and are now on the fringe of Cottesbrooke Park. The enclosures are of immense size and if we can only gallop now, the fences need not seriously trouble us.

Creaton Covert lies ahead and for its shelter our gallant fox is clearly making. Despite the fading light we can already discern his dark form and note that hounds are gaining rapidly on him now. In Cottesbrooke Big Field the end comes; and as he turns to face the music, the wave, black and white and tan, surges over him, bringing instant and merciful oblivion.

The sun is already sinking beyond the ridge of Creaton and soon the light will have gone. So let us not to tarry now to fight our battles over again but, tendering our hearty congratulations to the Master and to Freeman, seek our way home ere darkness falls.

On the crest of Brixworth Hill there is an old seat by the wayside: not a thing of beauty or of grace but a welcome resting-place no doubt for the marketer who has carried her basket to the top of the steep ascent from the railway station below. Someone is sitting there now. On closer acquaintance it proves to be the old gentleman whose good wishes followed us to the covert side this morning. From his point of vantage he was able, thanks to a pair of field-glasses, to see something of the later phases of the hunt and the cry of hounds in the vale has, so he persuades himself, brought youth back if only for one precious moment. The final issue was hidden from his eyes and he will brave chills and rheumatism and all the penalties that the climate of cold Northamptonshire can inflict rather than go back until he has waylaid the homecoming pack and learnt whether hounds have killed their fox.

He is soon to know. The sound of horses’ feet and the whipper-in’s voice tell him that they are coming, and as he rises to meet them (not without an effort alas!), a velvet cap rises above the shoulder of the hill. The question which his lips had framed is answered without the need to put it and a hearty congratulation is offered instead. For in front of the tan shapes which cluster round their huntsman’s horse trots Statesman, head up and stern erect, and grasped between his jaws with a gesture that proclaims to the world his triumph, he carries the mask of the gallant fox from “Old Poors” gorse.