Lost & Hound, page 2
Cast. Hounds spread out in search of scent. They may cast themselves or be cast by the huntsman.
Charlie. A term for a fox. A fox may also be called Reynard.
Check. When hounds lose the scent and stop. The field must wait quietly while the hounds search for the scent.
Colors. A distinguishing color, usually worn on the collar but sometimes on the facings of a coat, that identifies a hunt. Colors can be awarded only by the Master and can be worn only in the field.
Coop. A jump resembling a chicken coop.
Couple straps. Two-strap hound collars connected by a swivel link. Some members of staff will carry these on the right rear of the saddle. Since the days of the pharaohs in ancient Egypt, hounds have been brought to the meets coupled. Hounds are always spoken of and counted in couples. Today, hounds walk or are driven to the meets. Rarely, if ever, are they coupled, but a whipper-in still carries couple straps should a hound need assistance.
Covert. A patch of woods or bushes where a fox might hide. Pronounced “cover.”
Cry. How one hound tells another what is happening. The sound will differ according to the various stages of the chase. It’s also called giving tongue and should occur when a hound is working a line.
Cub hunting. The informal hunting of young foxes in the late summer and early fall, before formal hunting. The main purpose is to enter young hounds into the pack. Until recently only the most knowledgeable members were invited to cub hunt, since they would not interfere with young hounds.
Dog fox. The male fox.
Dog hound. The male hound.
Double. A series of short, sharp notes blown on the horn to alert all that a fox is afoot. The gone away series of notes is a form of doubling the horn.
Draft. To acquire hounds from another hunt is to accept a draft.
Draw. The plan by which a fox is hunted or searched for in a certain area, such as a covert.
Draw over the fox. Hounds go through a covert where the fox is but cannot pick up its scent. The only creature that understands how this is possible is the fox.
Drive. The desire to push the fox, to get up with the line. It’s a very desirable trait in hounds, so long as they remain obedient.
Dually. A one-ton pickup truck with double wheels in back.
Dwell. To hunt without getting forward. A hound that dwells is a bit of a putterer.
Enter. Hounds are entered into the pack when they first hunt, usually during cubbing season.
Field. The group of people riding to hounds, exclusive of the Master and hunt staff.
Field Master. The person appointed by the Master to control the field. Often it is the Master him- or herself.
Fixture. A card sent to all dues-paying members, stating when and where the hounds will meet. A fixture card properly received is an invitation to hunt. This means the card would be mailed or handed to a member by the Master.
Flea-bitten. A gray horse with spots or ticking that can be black or chestnut.
Gone away. The call on the horn when the fox leaves the covert.
Gone to ground. A fox that has ducked into its den, or some other refuge, has gone to ground.
Good night. The traditional farewell to the Master after the hunt, regardless of the time of day.
Gyp. The female hound.
Hilltopper. A rider who follows the hunt but does not jump. Hilltoppers are also called the Second Flight. The jumpers are called the First Flight.
Hoick. The huntsman’s cheer to the hounds. It is derived from the Latin hic haec hoc, which means “here.”
Hold hard. To stop immediately.
Huntsman. The person in charge of the hounds, in the field and in the kennel.
Kennelman. A hunt staff member who feeds the hounds and cleans the kennels. In wealthy hunts there may be a number of kennelmen. In hunts with a modest budget, the huntsman or even the Master cleans the kennels and feeds the hounds.
Lark. To jump fences unnecessarily when hounds aren’t running. Masters frown on this, since it is often an invitation to an accident.
Lieu in. Norman term for “go in.”
Lift. To take the hounds from a lost scent in the hopes of finding a better scent farther on.
Line. The scent trail of the fox.
Livery. The uniform worn by the professional members of the hunt staff. Usually it is scarlet, but blue, yellow, brown, and gray are also used. The recent dominance of scarlet has to do with people buying coats off the rack as opposed to having tailors cut them. (When anything is mass-produced, the choices usually dwindle, and such is the case with livery.)
Mask. The fox’s head.
Meet. The site where the day’s hunting begins.
MFH. The Master of Foxhounds; the individual in charge of the hunt: hiring, firing, landowner relations, opening territory (in large hunts this is the job of the hunt secretary), developing the pack of hounds, and determining the first cast of each meet. As in any leadership position, the Master is also the lightning rod for criticism. The Master may hunt the hounds, although this is usually done by a professional huntsman, who is also responsible for the hounds in the field and at the kennels. A long relationship between a Master and a huntsman allows the hunt to develop and grow.
Nose. The scenting ability of a hound.
Override. To press hounds too closely.
Overrun. When hounds shoot past the line of a scent. Often the scent has been diverted or foiled by a clever fox.
Ratcatcher. Informal dress worn during cubbing season and bye days.
Stern. A hound’s tail.
Stiff-necked fox. One that runs in a straight line.
Strike hounds. Those hounds that, through keenness, nose, and often higher intelligence, find the scent first and press it.
Tail hounds. Those hounds running at the rear of the pack. This is not necessarily because they aren’t keen; they may be older hounds.
Tally-ho. The cheer when the fox is viewed. Derived from the Norman ty a hillaut, thus coming into the English language in 1066.
Tongue. To vocally pursue a fox.
View halloo (halloa). The cry given by a staff member who sees a fox. Staff may also say tally-ho or, should the fox turn back, tally-back. One reason a different cry may be used by staff, especially in territory where the huntsman can’t see the staff, is that the field in their enthusiasm may cheer something other than a fox.
Vixen. The female fox.
Walk. Puppies are walked out in the summer and fall of their first year. It’s part of their education and a delight for both puppies and staff.
Whippers-in. Also called whips, these are the staff members who assist the huntsman, who make sure the hounds “do right.”
CHAPTER 1
September 23, 2022, Friday
The long slanting rays before sunset illuminated the dancing milkweed seeds, silver white, turning them gold, then scarlet, and finally a rich lavender. Jane Arnold, Sister to all, stood in her twenty-acre wildflower field watching the rising, falling, twirling milkweeds. The temperature cooled as the sun set. She hugged her old cashmere sweater, thin but warm, tighter to her as she walked back toward the farm road.
The field contained black-eyed Susans announcing fall had truly arrived. Jerusalem artichokes, coneflowers, their blue contrasting with the yellows; towering above all were the Joe Pye weeds. Sister never considered Joe Pye a weed but that was the title. Underfoot were the remains of lavender.
The light faltered. As it did so, the electric lights came on in the original log cabin of Roughneck Farm, built back in the early seventeen hundreds. Later, money rolling in, the owners added a clapboard addition, all of this settling on a stout stone foundation.
Breathing the cool air, Sister felt a tug of melancholy. Today was the day after the autumnal equinox. She always paused, as she felt the equinoxes gave us stillness, a time to reflect; look back and look forward. And she did.
Stepping onto the red clay farm road, some ruts deepening, she noted the apple orchard across from the log cabin. Over the generations it had been tended, pruned, restored, new trees planted when the old finally produced their last fruits, always with a flourish. One knew it was the end. She wondered was this the same for humans. How could one know?
A black fox, Inky, kept a large, tidy den in the apple orchard. Comet, another fox, gray, lived under the log cabin in cozy quarters. Not only did the warmth somewhat radiate downward, but Comet had also stolen every old coat, scarf, and saddle pad left unwatched. Target, a red male, who floated between two dens, and two farms, the other being After All due to his vixen who refused to live near the Jefferson Hunt Kennels, often bunked up with Comet. Target flirted with thievery, occasionally dragging off a pillow left on an outside chair or, better yet, the tattered remains of a hard-used blanket.
Inky, while not lacking for comforts, could not match the clever paws of the two boys. Were they human, they would have been called light-fingered.
The farm road, hard, as it hadn’t rained for a week, crunched underfoot as Sister turned right to go toward her house, called the Big House, built during the glory days of Monroe’s presidency. By that time, three generations of bold souls who had originally left the old country, England, had lived here. The third generation riding high after the war debts had been paid off, thanks to Hamilton’s hard work and brainpower, had made enough to build a large, gracious, yet simple home, adorned with enormous chimneys. Virginia winters get cold, especially by the Blue Ridge Mountains. Inky watched the tall silver-haired woman pass by. Inky missed very little, noticing a twilight opossum meandering her way. Inky liked the creature but that girl could talk.
Sister carefully walked past the foxhound kennel so as not to disturb anyone. They knew she was near. Human scent is strong and Sister always wore the same cologne, Green Irish Tweed by Creed. If it was good enough for Marlene Dietrich and Cary Grant, it was good enough for her.
Reaching the herringbone brick walkway, she briskly stepped into the mudroom, peeled off the ancient sweater, folding it on a shelf, then opened the door to the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you take us?” her Doberman, Raleigh, cried.
Rooster, the Harrier, looked on with mournful eyes.
The cat, an impressive long hair, would not lower herself to join the dogs. Sister clicked on the kitchen light, the overhead one above the round table.
“All right.” She put two scoops of crunchies in the dog bowl. Then she peeled open a small expensive cat food container, dumping it in Golliwog’s dish, using a table knife to get all of it.
Golly rubbed against her in thanks. Twilight lingered outside. The changing seasons altered the winds, the light softened, and twilight lingered, coating everything in a silvered dark blue until night finally took over.
She sat down at the table, her cellphone and a cup of hot chocolate on top of the old oak surface. Never pass up the opportunity to drink hot chocolate unless it’s blistering hot.
She dialed her best friend.
Betty picked up. “Saw your number. Ready for tomorrow?”
“Am. Are you?”
“I am. Should be cool for an hour or two. Starting at seven-thirty helps. Of course, a lot of people aren’t going to get out of bed at four or five. Still, we know who the diehards are.”
“That we do,” Sister agreed. “I love those foggy fall mornings. Sometimes scent lays down for you and sometimes it doesn’t, but the early days of cubbing excite me. Tempers that autumn melancholy.”
“Funny how it gets you. I love the coolness, the color of the trees, the wildlife getting ready for winter. So much activity. And yet there is that twinge. The flowers will soon be gone. The winds will pick up from the northwest and sometimes that can cut you to the bone.”
“I am convinced those winds keep our complexions clean. Doesn’t do a damn thing for the wrinkles though.”
“Well, that’s what plastic surgeons are for. You’d think plastic surgeons would be foxhunters. Think of the customers both from accidents and vanity,” Betty declared.
“Ha. Well, who doesn’t want to look younger?”
“Oh, Sister, put on a few pounds, it fills the wrinkles. I don’t know how you do it. How long have I known you? As a friend, not just an acquaintance. Forty years?”
“You aren’t sixty yet. Do your math.”
“Okay. Thirty years. Bobby and I started seriously hunting when I was twenty-five. We thought it would be good for business and it sure was.”
“You do excellent work. The wedding invitations are classic, as are special announcements, people’s stationery. And you know even though people can print on their computers, nothing, nothing looks like expensive paper beautifully colored with the choice of script, or block actually, cut into the paper. I’m not using correct terminology.”
“I love looking at typeface.” Betty used the correct term. “Well, we nearly went under but we did bounce back after close to a decade. No one really wants a run-off wedding invitation. That is the recipient’s first clue as to what kind of wedding it will really be.”
“Now there are gay weddings. More business.”
“Thank heavens. To change the subject, how many hounds are you taking tomorrow?”
“Fifteen couple. I like to take two youngsters at a time until mid-October. Then, as you know, I’ll bump it up. Don’t like overwhelming them. Absorbing the new people on horseback takes some adjustment as well. But thirty hounds, that’s plenty.”
“Tie, colored stock, or bow tie? I’m wearing my tie. Well, Bobby’s tie. He has a zillion.”
“One of my Ben Silver ties.”
“Does this count as drag? For women?”
A pause followed this. “Why not? Next we could start a TV show. Drag in reverse.”
“Good idea.” Betty actually liked snitching her husband’s ties.
“After hunting tomorrow, if you have time, I’ll take you to the wildflower field. The butterfly flowers I put in I hope have paid off. You’ll see.”
“We might ride through them. Anyways, I’d love to see and hear your plans for planting and replanting. One of the things I really like about the younger generation is how environmentally conscious they are,” Betty said.
“Me too. See you tomorrow.”
Sister clicked off the phone. What a hopeful phrase, “See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 2
September 24, 2022, Saturday
Thick fog stubbornly refused to rise. Usually it began to lift after sunup. Sometimes the fog would linger for a half hour, thick, beginning to thin then lift, a pure white, finally dissipating after an hour or hour and a half. At eight, the clinging fog didn’t budge. Riding through it you felt it sticking to your skin.
At least that’s how Sister felt. Hounds had not picked up anything…which she also felt was unusual…because of the saturated air, the dew on the grass. If that weren’t enough, the temperature, low fifties, felt colder. Fortunately, she’d pulled on a cotton T-shirt under her light blue shirt; a navy stock tie, small red polka dots, kept her neck warm. The thin deerskin gloves felt good on her hands.
By now, pushing through the wildflower field, the small group walked toward the bridge at After All Farm, owned by the Bancrofts. If she hadn’t recognized an odd sycamore tree, Sister would have had no idea where she was. Nor did she know where the hounds were, as no one was speaking. She could hear a clop clop behind her as the small field of thirteen people followed her as best they could, which meant they were too close because they couldn’t see either.
The fog kept people home. Country roads are winding, dangerous. Her field consisted of the Bancrofts themselves…Tedi and Edward…both in their eighties, tough as nails. Behind them rode Gray Lorillard, Sister’s husband, and his brother, Sam, as well as her joint master, Dr. Walter Lungren; Ronnie Haslip, the club treasurer; along with Kasmir Barbhaiya and his fiancée, Alida Dalzell. Bobby Franklin, field master of Second Flight, also known as the hilltoppers, had four people, one being Elise Sabatini. As this was her first day, Sister hoped the conditions wouldn’t deter her. The Sabatinis owned Showoff Stables, a former hunt fixture. The other three, Ed Clark, president of the Wildlife Center of Virginia; Cameron Aldron, a pilot; and Barry Harper, president of a small amphibian and reptile foundation, cheered her on. Bobby did his best to see the rear of Clemson, Walter’s horse.
Betty Franklin rode as whipper-in on the right and Tootie Harris, in her last year at University of Virginia, rode on the left. No one could see anyone.
Sister listened intently to hear her whipper-ins.
She could hear Weevil Blackford, her Huntsman, and the hounds. The occasional toot on the horn proved a big help.
Hounds, Diana in the lead, noses down, pressed on. Fifteen couple hunted today, two of whom were first-year entries, literally first graders. Fifteen couple meant thirty hounds, for hounds are always measured in couples, having been so since the days of the pharaohs, keen hunters.
The silence unnerved Sister. She relied on bird calls, the sound of deer tiptoeing away or running. During fall, squirrels could be crabby, throwing acorns at anyone who disturbed them. Most animals, preparing for winter, ignored the hounds. They knew them. The older ones…raccoons, possums, and rabbits…informed their children as to the habits of hounds, adding that domesticated animals were spoiled and weak. The hounds ignored the rude calls. A few foxes were not above insults when by their den. Otherwise they kept their mouths shut.
Gunpowder’s reverberating hooves made Sister realize they were closer than she thought to the covered bridge. A second set of hooves echoed. Maybe that was Betty following Weevil, on Outlaw, her rock-steady horse. One never knows what’s going on out there. Seeing helps. She didn’t want to run across a deer trail only to collide with a downed tree.
