CHAPTER LXXIX

MR. JONATHAN JOBLING’S HARRIERS

MR. JONATHAN JOBLING had two distinct countries, hill and vale, the hill formed of fine open undulating downs, the vale of very stiff, cramped, awkward enclosures. On a clear day nothing could be finer than a gallop over the sound turf of the downs, swelling and falling sufficiently to give zest and impetus to the horse without endangering the neck of the rider. Here, indeed, a man could see hunting in its wildest openest form, there being nothing to distract his attention with regard to progression, there not being even the fear of a water furrow in the bottoms. He could go sailing away wherever the hounds went—seeing the find, the forward, the double, the triple, the Gordian knot itself unravelled.

Jonathan was a real great man, stood six feet two in his stocking feet, and weighed twenty stone, at least, that was his reputed weight, for he had declined the scales for many years before the period of our story. He had begun hunting when bed-gown coats were the order of the day, a fashion that he still retained, and now had as much cloth in each lap as would make a moderate sized modern exquisite a coat. How many bed-gowns, the great white mother-of-pearl buttons with the black hares engraved upon them had worn out, it was impossible to say; Jonathan himself having lost all count of them. They were numerous, and yet Jonathan was not the man to give up a coat upon slight provocation. They descended gradually, the shiney No. I. of sunny weather, being a long time before it became the faded No. II. of doubtful days, still longer ere it was the patched and tattered No. III. of desperate wet and stormy ones. Number IV. generally occupied the post of a “flay craw,” in the fields. His boots and breeches corresponded with his coat, large, roomy, and rough, drab with brass buttons, and boots brown without effect, while his ponderous hammer-headed whip in the hands of a misguided man, would be enough to make the blood curdle in one’s veins. His horses of course were of the largest, most formidable order, and to see Jonathan tearing away after his hounds with his great coat laps flying out, followed by the usual miscellaneous assortment of a harrier field gave him much the appearance of a gigantic hen and chickens. But we are going to have a day or rather half a day with him at Missendon rubbing Post, so we had better be getting on as he is a man to a minute, and never waits for any one.

The rubbing post was at least five miles from Appleton Hall—that is to say, five miles by the road—but the Jug with his great geographical knowledge and acquaintance with gaps and short cuts could ride it in three and a half or four. First he took the liberty of going through the Rev. Mr. Spintext’s glebe, then he was sure Widow Weatherly would have no objection to their passing along the top of her seeds, though he knew Widow Weatherly had the greatest possible objection to anything of the sort; next he cut off a large angle equal to a quarter of a mile, by trespassing up Squire Cracklow’s carriage road, and boring through his young plantation into the Burtreeford turnpike, which latter, however, he quickly forsook for a pet line of gates through Mr. Blatherwick’s farm, then past the Punch Bowl Inn, through Thurlestone fivelanes to the little village of Barrymore at the foot of the downs, whose ascent he then made by the zig-zag road up the sides, passing up into an entirely different region to the one they had left—wild, open, undulating downs, with nothing but plovers and tinkling-belled sheep to disturb the serenity of the scene. Billy Rough’un then applied himself vigorously to the sound turf, and went snorting and cantering away in evident enjoyment of the change, accompanied by little Merry-legs, who seemed equally pleased.

Having thus opened their pipes by some three-quarters of a mile gallop, the Jug looked at his fat watch, and finding they were in plenty of time, the friends pulled up just as Jonathan appeared with his hounds on the brow of the opposite hill, attended by farmers Brushfield and Jacobstow, all straining their eyes and wondering who the deuce these strangers could be. As they approached, Jonathan saw it was the Jug, whereupon he gave his old sugar-loaf shaped cap an upward poke off his brow, and said he hoped Mr. Jovey Jessop was well.

“Quite well,” replied the Jug, “thank you;” adding, “you’d better come and dine with us after hunting and see.”

“Humph!” grunted Jonathan, “what time does he feed?”

“Six thirty,” replied the Jug, “six thirty to a minute.”

“Dinner!” exclaimed Jonathan, raising his eye-brows, “soouper, I should say.”

“Get an omelette soufflée,” added the Jug, recollecting his own order.

“What’nt a thing’s that?” asked the master of harriers, erecting his great whip like a column on his leg.

“Come and see,” said the Jug.

“No-r, batter puddin’, if you like,” muttered Jonathan, after a pause; “batter puddin’ if you like, but none of your messes.”

Up then came the old customer, Cordey Brown, with his spurs in his hat, thinking nobody would know he had gone out to hunt, followed by Jack Pole, Billy Brickworth, and Tom Talford, the tippling farrier, who has lain overnight at the sign of the Punch Bowl, and has very much the appearance of one himself. All are either dressed in green coats or the dark clothes and strong lower garments of men bent on defying the united attacks of weather and woods. There was nothing like a white top-boot, let alone a pair of white cords amongst them. A hunt was what they wanted and came for.

Jonathan’s, like Jovey’s, was quite a working establishment, nothing for show or appearance. But Jonathan, unlike Jovey, was a queer morose sort of chap, who could be extremely disagreeable when he liked. If one of the over riding red coats was to tell Jonathan he had seen the hare pass through a gap or a gate, Jonathan would immediately hold the hounds the opposite way, muttering something about it had most likely been a cat. Not that anybody ever was rash enough to come out with Jonathan in red; but he had a certain instinctive knowledge of those who wore it, and always dreaded their jealous rivalry and rushing for a start.

“Bad word it, sir!” he would exclaim. “Do you think I’d bring out these sixteen couple of beautiful arriers if I wanted you to catch the ar? Do, please, hold hard whilst they try to make it out, or at all events get off your horse and put your nose to the ground yourself. Now for our particular day.”

Time being up, and all the field come or accounted for, and Cordey Brown having unbagged and buckled on the clandestine spurs, Jonathan now moved his beautiful hounds to a few acres of fallow on the right of the rubbing post, whose depth of soil had been too much for the farmer to resist, and ere he had gone half over the ground up started puss, with a flounce that sent the sandy soil up into the air, looking as terrified as an old maid when a man offers to shake hands with her without his glove on.

Away she scuttled at best pace, every hound in full view, gaining upon them, and looking as if she would leave her competitors immeasureably in the lurch. A patch of gorse on the brow of the hill hid her from further view and brought the late screeching pack fairly to their noses. There was a good scent with which they swept down in a cluster into the vale, and rose the opposing hill with undiminished dash. Meanwhile the field went coolly and fairly away, all except the Jug, who was borne impetuously along by the over-anxious, boring Billy Rough’un. Getting him down into the bottom, however, with a fine grassy slope in front, the Jug eased him out gently, and ere Billy reached the top the Jug had the satisfaction of feeling his impetuosity gradually subside, when, giving him a touch of the spur, as much as to say, “Come, old boy, we are not done yet,” he at length landed him on the top of the rising ground, with every apparent disposition to be quiet. The Jug then held back a little for Jonathan Jobling and his tail to come up, when falling into the ruck, Billy Rough’un and he went sailing along very comfortably together, along the brow of Lingfield hill, past Silverdown quarry, over Polestar peak by Brockenden barn, sinking the hill, and so down into the enclosures of the vale below. These were large and roomy, and puss having traversed the first, a field of seeds, diagonally swerved to the left, and after making a Gordian knot, finally threw herself with a surprising bound into a ragged boundary fence between Bickington and Fittiss’s farms, composed of the usual confusion of brushwood, dead wood, old harrows, and anything.

The pace having been severe, and the return pretty sure, several of the field, the fat ones in particular, pulled up and sat mopping themselves on the side of the hill, from whence a secure view of the further performance was obtained; but Jonathan, as in duty bound, went skating down the steep side followed by the Jug, Mr. Bunting, and such others as felt sure their steeds could get up again. The hare had now puzzled the pack, and there was nothing for it but patience and letting them try to make it out for themselves. So Jonathan having pulled up at a respectful distance, sat shading his eyes from the sun, watching their bustling anxiety, but inability to proceed.

At length they had so foiled the ground that it was no use letting them persevere any longer, and there was nothing for it but to help them. So, advancing and passing through the familiar gap, he made a forward cast to be certain she was not on, and then returned to belabour the hedge, when a very few cracks of the great whip sent her flying out of her form, one ear lobbing one way the other another, looking as if she didn’t know which leg to put first. Having recovered her surprise, she presently got into her stride, and went bowling away to the joy of the hillsiders, and the excitement of the pack, who strained every nerve as before. Jonathan hugged his great horse Humpty Dumpty, and went labouring after them, grinning with delight at the feat. Billy Rough’un, too, dropped quietly on his bit, and took the enclosures as if conscious he would have to contend with the hills. Nor was Billy out in his reckoning, for the hare now treated the field to a turn round the base of Bossington hill, and then regained the downs by the gorge between it and the Chapel, when, getting breath, she again scuttled along the brow of the general range of undulating hills, the now reunited field following the pressing pack with every demonstration of joy and delight. Foremost went Jobling, grinning and hugging his horse in a high state of enthusiasm at the round he was giving the red-coats, hoping Mr. Boyston would see the marvellous hits of old Lavender, and appreciate the guidance of Leader. On, on they went, all plain sailing and smooth, nothing to hinder or distract the attention, no asking the way over Bartnaby bog, no offering of Huggins to hold Wiggins’s horse while he pulled out a gap or opened a gate for the rest.

At length, on passing Barricane barn, puss met with an impediment. Tom Hollowjaw’s, the shepherd poacher’s stumped-tailed lurcher, Teaser, turned her, and but for the deficiency of helm would in all probability have killed her. As it was he got a mouthful of fur, and sent her flying down Banfield footway instead of pursuing her easier line along the brow of the hill. This greatly aggravated her discomfort, already sufficiently taxed by the vehement clamour of her pursuers behind. Still, like Jovey Jessop’s Brushwood Banks fox, she had been hunted before, and did not despair of escaping again. So she exerted herself to the utmost, and speeding along put as much space between herself and her followers as ever she could. Thus she traversed Towlsworthy Hill, dipped into Watergate Valley, and again made for higher ground on Warleighworth Wold. Still the cry of the hounds and the cheer of the fat huntsman pursued her, and made her wish for a friend to relieve her. There were plenty of hares if one would but get up—plenty of hares if one would but get up! But alas! no friend was by.

The fox is always supposed to be a gentleman, and the hare a lady; and though the sexes are sometimes transposed, the terms remain the same, and exercise a considerable influence in the chase. The fox is pursued with a vehement ardour, if not an inveterate hatred; every body has something to say against him— while a little turnip nibbling and wheat cropping is about the worst that can be laid to the charge of poor puss.

Still a hare takes a deal of hunting, especially on a bad scenting day, and those who have been at the trouble of unravelling her steps, watching the working of Lilter and Tilter and Wonderful, don’t like to be baulked of their prize in the end, even though they are regardless after they have got it. On the present occasion, with two strangers out, of course it would not do to be beat, and Jonathan worked with assiduous care. All the field, too, were careful, each man feeling his credit involved in the performance of the pack.

Our hare, which was a buck and a stout one, had now done the field good service. She had given them a very pretty lead out, or rather round, of some two miles in the first instance, one in the second with a straight shoot out, and a curve for the third. Though the hounds flew over the downs, they made it out tolerably well on the fallows, their merry sterns twinkling when they would hardly trust their tongues to say the scent was there. At length a chalky fallow brought them studiously to their noses, and Jonathan, feeling that killing time was come, crept gently on, to be ready to save her in the last extremity. The field followed their great leader’s example, many of them looking alternately at the hounds and the Jug’s stolid unappreciative countenance. The pace gradually slackened until the hounds almost stopped upon the drab fallow.

Jonathan now drew rein, and sat transfixed. He was sure she was somewhere there. Humpty Dumpty presently gave himself a hearty shake, when up bounced puss right under his nose, and with a desperate effort to gain the opposite hedgerow, twisting and turning from her numerous open-mouthed pursuers, was finally snapped by Mariner, over whom Jollity and Jovial immediately rolled, when the whole pack poured in like bees at a hive, and the kill was complete.

Jonathan was amongst them in the twinkling of an eye, and from a ground worry the scene changed into a high in air trophy with the glad pack baying and jumping and pawing the stout British yeoman.

“Who-hoop!” holloaed Jonathan, with a voice that made the hills echo.

“Who-hoop!” responded Cordey Brown, from the thick of the field.

“Well hunted!” cried Telford, who paid his subscription in flattery.

“Deuced well!” assented Brickworth, mopping his brow.

“Five-and-fifty minutes!” announced Pole, who was time-keeper to the hunt.

Jonathan, having duly exhibited his victim, now proceeded to disembowel her and give his favourites a taste of her blood; after which, having got his hands licked pretty clean, the herculean huntsman advanced to the Jug with the hare in his hand, saying, “You were good enough to ax me to dine off a scoffla—but scofflas are not in my way—but if you’d accept a hunted hare, I shall be very glad to give you her,” holding the hare up to the Jug as he spoke.

“Thank you,” said the Jug, taking her and fastening her into Billy Rough’un’s hunting martingal.

“And make my compliments to Mr. Jessop,” continued Jonathan, helping him.

“I will,” said the Jug.

“No better sportsman than Mr. Jessop,” continued Jonathan, thinking unless it were himself.

“Well, now, we are going to Somerslease Hill,” continued he, when they had got the hare adjusted. “There we shall find another stout ’un, get on to fresh ground, and have another good gallop.”

“I think I must be going home,” replied the Jug, adding, “I’m going to ride this horse with the fox-hounds to-morrow.”

“So,” said Jonathan. “Well, then, sir, I’ll bid you good morning,” tendering him his still rather blood-stained hand as he spoke.

The Jug shook it and said “good morning,” too.

Jonathan then hoisted his great sternpost into the saddle, and, calling his handy hounds together, proceeded onwards, leaving our friends to journey home in the contrary direction.