CHAPTER LXXIII

THE UNION HUNT

THE first person or thing to arrive anywhere is sure to attract more attention and to make a greater impression on the bystanders than any who come after. The first lady at a ball, the first soldier at a review, the first horse on a race-course, the first carriage at a drawingroom, all stamp themselves upon the mind, and become prominent features of the whole. The rustling pink moire antique, with its lace and flowers, as it descends from the carriage, under the guidance of both fair hands, seems richer and finer than any of the silks or satins or moire antiques that follow, so the first soldier who trots into Hyde Park is regarded as a hero, and the first carriage that rolls down St. James’s Street is sure to hold a beauty—though she may be all feathers and flowers.

The first real great man to arrive at Hassocks Heath Hill on this occasion was one that ordinary individuals would call the Duke of Tergiversation’s stud-groom, but whom the Duke himself dignified by the title of his Master of the Horse. This was Mr. Hawkins—

MR. HAWKINS,

Master of the Horse,

he put upon his cards, a stout, solemn-looking, grey-whiskered, grey-headed man—we beg pardon, gentleman —in scarlet, leathers, and cap, who the servants called “Sir,” and touched their hats to. If Mr. Hawkins had only had a few decent horses to be master of, he would have filled the office remarkably well, as it was he was very weak in the department over which he professed to preside. That, however, was more the Duke’s fault than his, his Grace having no notion of the division of labour and insisting upon Hawkins’s horses doing everything —hunting, hacking, outriding, leather-plateing—anything —even going to the Post if required. Then, as his Grace was not in great repute as a paymaster, the farmers did not press their produce upon him, and Hawkins was often obliged to put up with only indifferent forage. He now comes to cover at the head of half-a-dozen screws which would be much better condensed into three. There are two for the Duke, two for the Earl, and two for the Prince, our old white friend with the triumphant ends, Timour the Tartar, as he is called, being one of the two for the latter. It is to be hoped that their numbers impose upon somebody, and tend to keep up what the Duke calls his po-o-sition in the county.

The first real accredited sportsman to arrive is our old friend Mr. Archey Ellenger, who has lain all night at farmer Hobday’s, at Dumbleton, and Hobday having had to breakfast early in order to attend Mayfield market, has caused Archey to turn out earlier than he liked. His old rusty red coat and cords contrast badly with Mr. Hawkins’s smart scarlet and leathers, and Hawkins returns Archey’s familiar “good morning” with a sort of salute that as good as says, “I don’t know whether I’ll touch my cap to you or not.” Horneyman and Michael merely move theirs a little, as though they were not quite comfortable on their heads. Meanwhile the plot thickens and there is presently a great muster of horsemen, gentlemen in black coats, gentlemen in green coats, gentlemen in grey coats, gentlemen in pea-jackets, gentlemen in over-coats, and in every variety of legging. At length the red coats begin to arrive, those on cantering hacks showing their grandeur openly, those on wheels covering themselves up with warm wraps and rugs,—the yellow collars of the Duke’s men distinguishing them from the plain reds of Mr. Jessop’s hunt. Of the former we have several of our old shooting acquaintance, the Duke having expressed a wish that as many of his friends should attend as possible. Our old friend, Captain Cambo, has invested his fat person in a very tightly-fitting old dress red with the yellow silk lining taken out, very fragile-looking white cords, and Rhinoceros-hide-like Napoleon boots. Then there is Tonguey Thomson, as noisy as ever, in a bran new yellow collared red coat, but a very seedy brown cap, also Mr. Daintry, both Brown, and Black White, George Wheeler—the crack man of the Duke’s hunt, who can beat everybody—also Captain Ambrose Lightfoot, on leave of absence from Freeland’s Lawn, Mr. Woodross, Mr. Young, Colonel Nettlestead, Mr. Leyland Langford, and several others all bent on distinguishing themselves in some way or other.

Punctual to the minute, up drove Mr. Jovey Jessop, with his Jug, the red hot boots of the latter corresponding with his own rubicund face, and after a standing up stare in the vehicle, to see if Mr. Bunting was come, Mr. Jessop chucked off his poncho and stood out the sportsman. Then there was the usual hailing and welcoming, and where-are-you-from-ing? and how’s old so and so? and have you seen Smith? and does anybody know anything about Mr. Bunting? Then somebody had seen a stranger on a bay coming very slowly, and Mr. Jessop wished Mr. Bunting mightn’t have mistaken the hour, thinking they met at eleven instead of half-past ten; and after consuming some ten minutes in unprofitable talk, he at length hollowed out to Mark, “Well, give me my horse; and you,” addressing the Jug’s lad, “stay here till Mr. Bunting comes, and then show him the way to the cover.”

“Horse!” exclaimed Mr. Archey Ellenger, “horse! why, don’t you know the Duke’s coming?”

“Ah, true, I forgot,” replied our now somewhat crestfallen master, wincing at the persecution he felt he would have to undergo. “Well,” said he, flopping his broad chest with his arms, and stamping to get his feet warm, “I suppose we must wait. It will give Mr. Bunting a chance too, so let’s have a run up the hill and see if we can see anything of them.” So saying our master started up hill like a stag, followed by several dismounted equestrians, who all found running in boots was not quite so easy as running in shoes.

There was no Duke visible, but Mr. Bunting was coughing his way on the Exquisite in a most uncompromising manner.

“By Jove, what a cough that horse has got!” muttered Mr. Jessop, thinking he would not like to ride him. He then ran down the other side of the hill, and greeted our hero with a hearty shake of the hand.

“I’m sorry your horse doesn’t mend of his cold,” observed Mr. Jessop, thinking, as he now looked at him, that it would be very odd if he did.

“Why, no, he doesn’t,” replied Mr. Bunting, still unwilling to admit that he had been imposed upon.

“Well, you’ve got here, at all events,” observed our master; adding, “and I’ve brought you a horse that can go—ride him just as you like, you know. If you want to go first, you’ll follow my whip—if you want to go safe, you’ll follow my friend, Mr. Boyston, who knows every gate and gap in the country. By the way,” continued he, “let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Boyston,” leading Mr. Bunting onward to where the Jug still sat slouching and smoking in the dog-cart.

“Boyston!” cried Mr. Jessop, “Boyston! Let me introduce Mr. Bunting. Mr. Bunting, Mr. Boyston; Mr. Boyston, Mr. Bunting.” Whereupon Mr. Boyston showed Mr. Bunting his bristly black head, and Mr. Bunting returned the compliment by uncovering his welltended curls. The acquaintance was then perfected. “I’ve been telling Mr. Bunting,” continued Jovey, addressing the Jug, “that you can pilot him safely if he’s inclined to put himself under your care.”

“No man safer!” exclaimed Archey Ellenger, who always liked to throw in his word—adding aside, “and run him to ground in somebody’s kitchen”—the Jug and Archey sometimes clashing in their predatory exploits.

Mr. Jessop now looked at his watch, and finding it was above half an hour after time, a most unusual circumstance with him, exclaimed at the top of his voice, “Does anybody know that the Duke of Tergiversation is coming? I say, you sir!” addressing the pompous-looking yellow-collared stud groom, “Do you know that the Duke of Tergiversation is coming?”

“Yes, sir, his Grace is coming,” replied Mr. Hawkins confidently; “also the Earl of Marchhare, and His Royal Highness the Imperial Prince Pirouetteza. These horses are for them,” added he, putting his own a little forward, as if to astonish our master with the number and importance of the establishment.

“A bonny lot they are,” sneered Mr. Archey Ellenger, sufficiently loud for Mr. Hawkins to hear; an observation that was duly reported to Mr. Cucumber, and entered on the chronicles of the castle. Archey’s chance of a dinner there then became extremely small.

Ten minutes more elapsed, and as the most patient of even the Duke’s men were beginning to wax weary, and to ask Mr. Jessop how long he would wait, the glad word “coming” was heard, which speeding from mouth to mouth, put a little animation into the party, and caused them to make preparations for a start.

They were, however, somewhat premature in their movements, for the Duke, treating Mr. Jessop’s hounds quite as his own, after the usual lofty salutations were over, his Grace called to Mr. Jessop to bring the hounds up to the carriage for the Prince to inspect. And the Duke’s covers being good,and of great use to Mr. Jessop, he had no alternative but to submit with as good a grace as he could, and hear the Duke and the Prince pass their opinion upon them. They asked the name of this hound and of that, their dams and their sires, talked of their colour, their size, and their general appearance. “Pretty tails,” said the Prince, “tipped with pink.” At length the Prince, thinking to say something agreeable to his Grace, observed “Dat dey ver not quite all so moch of von same size as de oders,” pointing to Ginger and Viper in confirmation of what he said. Whereupon Mr. Jessop, unable any longer to restrain himself, exclaimed, “Why, dash it, man, those are the terriers!” and immediately recollecting himself, with a slight whistle and a wave of the arm he got the hounds away from the carriage, and making his way to his horse jerked his head to the Duke’s stud-groom as a hint for him to advance with his Grace’s. Getting them mounted, however, was easier said than done, for upon the gallant war-horse being again presented to the Prince, His Highness declared emphatically he would not have him—He vod no more Timour de Tartars— dat he had bomped him till he vas sores. And though Mr. Hawkins tried to cajole him that he was only to ride him the first part of the run, the Prince absolutely refused to have anything more to do with de Tartar; exclaiming, “No, no, get me anoder horse! get me anoder horse!” So Hawkins was obliged to substitute Rob Roy, who had rather a critical leg, and required careful riding, which he was not very likely to get at the hands of the Prince.