Hunting ReminiscencesPease, Alfred E. (Alfred Edward), Sir
General
Hunting Reminiscences
Pease, Alfred E. (Alfred Edward), Sir
Hunting
Seven minutes, and hounds racing like this! Will they never check?--no,
they never will, and some will never return to the kennel again. The
Abbey is passed in one hour and twenty minutes from the find, with
only one momentary check, and the mountain beyond looks impossible
to negotiate. I cross the stream, and begin the ascent with a few
tail hounds. They have shot their bolt, and are struggling on with
bloodshot eyes, dropping into my wake as I pass them.
“Come on, Jack! You must do it.”
“I can’t. Look at Sligo.”
Sligo was standing rocking at the foot of the hill, with his back
up and staring eye--he was completely done. Could I get up to that
sky-line where the last trailing hounds were disappearing? It looked
desperate, but Faraway did it, and now I must give him a minute. I had
dismounted the last twenty yards to pull him up the top edge of the
scar. I could see about eleven couple filing away along the ridge of
the moor half a mile ahead. Absolutely nothing but range after range of
barren moors was now in sight! Where was this strange fox bound for?
I was astonished to find my horse still full of going, as I got on to
the ridge and on to sound ground, and in a few minutes I was alongside
the leading seven couple. Hounds now bore along for the Farndale head
moors, and one by one the stragglers gave up the chase. Now and then
one of these would pull up all at once. I saw the veteran Hermit roll
into the heather, where he was found cold and dead next day. Still the
leading bunch held on, and Wrangle (from the Oakley) is driving away
first, followed closely by Statesman, Bajazet, Rascal, and Ringwood.
As they crossed a boggy slack, I strained my eyes to see this terrible
fox; it was impossible he could stand up many minutes more. I felt for
my knife--but the end is not to be yet. The thought uppermost in my
mind is, what a wonder my horse is! Is it possible for any animal to
survive this? and yet he is going strong. The moors look endless; I can
see, even in the fast-deepening dusk, miles of desolation in front.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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