XI.—SKEWBALD’S JUMPING
October had been wet. Rain in the forest is, at all times of the year, depressing. When the sun shines on purple heather, emerald fern, and the ruddy stems of fir-trees, moorland and hillside are gay enough, but in wet and stormy weather the landscape is the more gloomy by contrast; the lowering clouds, the black sobbing pines, the pools of water, the soggy tussocks squelching underfoot, make up a dull and cheerless scene, although in the eyes of the forest lover it is perhaps then at its best. The damp atmosphere intensifies the local colour, and gives a sense of vastness and distance to the perspectives.
The forest ponies dislike rain. They have to seek food most of their day, and cannot afford to stand idly in shelter like their more favoured relations. Also the boggy ground gets still more shaky and uncertain, and the wary creature is cut off from the areas which might supply him with food. In long continued rain the ponies leave the open moor or hillside, and betake themselves to the woods, where, under the umbrellas formed by the great oaks, beeches, and firs, they find shelter, especially from what most living creatures detest—a cold driving rain.
Skewbald, therefore, was with his companions in the woods, nosing round for clumps of sweet grass, or, in the wettest spells, taking shelter under overhanging trunks. His coat had grown thick during the autumn, and with his dense mane and tail he was as well protected as a pony could be.
The colt-hunter also disliked rain, for apart from the discomforts of the chase in wet weather, rounding up the ponies is vastly more difficult in the woods. On the open moor the chase is not always successful. Not seldom one may drive ponies from miles away to within sight of the open gate, and then something may arouse their mistrust, may cause them to break away, and the work has to be done over again. But, all things considered, the chase on the moor is a picnic compared with driving ponies out of the woods. In the open one has the great advantage of being able to view one’s quarry from a distance, and formulate beforehand a plan of campaign. But in the woods one must search and search until the ponies are chanced upon, and then stick tenaciously to their heels until a capture is effected. In the denser parts, one may beat about all day, and although the ponies may be near, and even heard and seen, yet they may change their ground so evasively that night may fall and still find them uncaptured.
It was not raining much when the colt-hunter and his boy rode out one morning, but the sky gave every promise of a downpour later on. “Wet skins for us to-day, Tom,” said his father, as he donned an old mackintosh, and a wide-brimmed hat, which would divert the rain from his neck. Like other people who are out in all weathers, he had no use for caps, which in heavy rain let the water trickle down one’s back. Both riders had bread and cheese in their pockets, for they might be out all day, if they were not fortunate in the chase. It had been arranged that they should meet the agister, who wished their help in locating and catching some yearlings and older ponies. At this time of the year ponies are caught in some numbers, and sent to the autumn and winter sales.
The colt-hunter, by long experience and a good memory for the forms and hues of ponies, knew most of the many hundreds in the forest, and their pedigrees. He was acquainted also with the likely places where a wanted pony might be found at any time of the year.
The hunters, with a cheery good-bye to Mother and Molly, rode some distance across the moorland and through the rides in the woods, skirted bogs, and then made their way up a stone-strewn hillpath to the south, past the spot where the young airman, flying from the training-ground on Beaulieu Heath, had stooped at a great white cross of gravel, marked out on the hillside, and had nose-dived to the ground, crumpling up his machine and breathing his last in the arms of a visitor camping near by. Father and son rode across the barren plateau of Blackdown; to the east the great tumulus stood dark and plain on the skyline, but in front of them Wood Fidley was almost obscured by driving clouds of rain-mist coming from the south-west.
When they reached the main road, they found the agister waiting for them. He had on his buckled hat, but his official coat was hidden under his horseman’s cloak. He also foreboded bad weather and a long drive through the woods. They crossed the road—now firm and smooth, very unlike its stone-strewn surface during a dry summer—took a winding path over the moors, and so into the woods.
The colt-hunter led the way into the deepest recesses, where great oaks and beeches leaned one against the other, while the ground was encumbered with undergrowth. As they slowed down to a walk, they saw ponies, half-hidden by the bushes, stealing away. “There’s one of those we’re after,” said the agister, “and there’s another.”
Skewbald was not one of the wanted animals, but of course he was not to know that, and made off with the rest. It was now raining hard, the wood full of driving mist, and the going very heavy. The fugitives had the best of it, for the ridden ponies sank below their fetlocks in the wetter parts, while fallen branches, tangles of briers and brambles, and drooping holly boughs impeded their progress.
Tom’s pony, as keen as her rider, and not so heavily weighted, made but little of the heavy ground. She made straight for the fugitives directly she heard or saw them, without waiting for Tom’s directing hand on the reins, and several times he was literally pulled from the saddle by projecting boughs of holly, thorn, or oak. But he held on to his mount, though torn, scratched, and wet through. Then, when separated from the other riders, he saw his opportunity, for he came upon Skewbald and a wanted yearling which had got away from them earlier in the day, sheltering behind some dense holly bushes. Off they went, with Tom close on their heels, and after some amount of twisting and turning, the fugitives came out on a grassy drive, with a gate at the far end.
Skewbald made the pace for his companion, and Tom put on a last spurt, trying to get even with his quarry. Skewbald, as he approached the barrier, glanced back at his pursuer, then, acting under an overmastering impulse to escape, went at the gate, cleared it, and was at once lost to sight in a forest enclosure. Tom went right on, charging full tilt into the other pony, which he pinned against the gate, nearly knocking the wind out of both animals. Before the yearling had recovered himself Tom had him haltered, and a safe prisoner.
In the New Year Skewbald again used his jumping powers, and this time saved his life thereby. He was feeding with two other young ponies in a rough part of the forest, when a stray hound, a deserter from the kennels, alarmed them. The intruder, perhaps wishing for company, ran towards them, but the ponies, not relishing his advances, set off at a trot. The hound followed, and the trot became a gallop. It chanced that an artillery company, training in the forest, had dug some pits which had not yet been filled in. The ponies are, as a rule, quite able to take care of themselves. They have a good sense of geography and know the dangerous spots, as bogs and pits, but, being driven away from the training-ground, they were unaware of the existence of the excavations.
As Skewbald fled, through gorse, tall heather, and bog myrtle, the pony in front of him disappeared with a cry, and, the next moment, he found himself at the edge of a deep and wide pit, with no time to turn. But the accident to his companion had given him that fraction of a second of preparation which was enough for his nerve and muscle. He made a spasmodic leap, and just managed to land his heels on the far side. The third also leapt, but fell short.
When the hound, hearing the ponies’ moans, looked down, he fled with a yelp of dismay. Later, the huntsmen, searching for the truant, found the two ponies, one dead and the other grievously hurt.
Longdown Moor.
XII.—CHANGING THE BRAND
In the rougher corners of the forest are the tents of the gipsies, kept by authority as far as possible from the more frequented beauty spots. One comes across these encampments in little groups of two or three wigwams, each being built on the same principle—a framework of rods bent semi-circularly, over which are thrown blankets and any odd lengths of stuff that can be so used. At one end is the “baulk”—a square tapering tower of blanket or canvas open to the sky. This is the chimney, the fire being built on the ground inside, so that the inmates can prepare their food in the dry, and enjoy the heat radiating into the tent proper. Generally there is another tent beyond the fire, so that the baulk is in the middle of the erection.
On a fine Sunday, one sees the weekly wash drying and bleaching on the bushes, children playing with the dogs, the women cooking and the men in their best clothes. Many before and after Borrow, looking at the gipsy, have been impressed by his fixity of type, his adherence to his mode of life in a country gradually losing its open spaces, and maintaining himself in face of restrictive and sometimes oppressive regulations. To many the standing marvel is that he can live at all outdoors, not only in summer heat, but when frost is in the earth, or when the ground shakes like a quagmire and the ditches run like rivers. But nowadays millions of men who came through the war remember how in the course of their training, or under the actual conditions of warfare, they slept outdoors without even a gipsy tent, by fair and foul, in wet and cold, and remember, too, their astonishment that they suffered no harm, and, bullets apart, thrived on the régime.
But the gipsy has this in common with the town dweller, that he, too, gets his living there; to the town he must go to sell his produce or manufacture, his flower or fern roots, his brooms, mats, baskets, etc., and therefore a cart of some sort is almost a necessity, and to draw the cart, a pony. The forest pony is thus of great importance to the forest gipsy; she is hardy, gets her own living, is cheap to buy when young, and is a source of wealth. Every forest gipsy is a potential breeder and dealer; the pony is at once his passion and his temptation. If he has no ponies to sell at the autumn sales, there is less money to tide over the winter.
Therefore the ponies wandering at will, unnoted by their owners, as free to wander as the wild creatures, have a great interest for the gipsy, who regards the products of the forest as his lawful tribute. The plover’s eggs, the rabbit, hedgehog and squirrel, the flowers and ferns, either supply him with food or put money in his pocket. But the pony is marked and tail-cut, plain signs that it is the acknowledged and registered property of its owner, and not to be appropriated with impunity. Of course, by far the greater number of gipsies are strictly honest in regard to ponies, having learned like the rest of us, from experience, that honesty is the best policy; but to some an unmarked yearling pony must be a temptation, when a branding-iron is always present in the shape of any iron bar handy, to be thrust in the fire kept constantly burning.
One autumn, on the edge of the forest just outside a sheltering wood a small encampment consisting of three gipsy tents and a caravan nestled. As night fell the noise of people talking and children playing ceased, for the gipsies go early to bed, and rise betimes. The evening meal had been eaten, the youngsters snuggled to sleep in corners, and only a few men and women sat around their fires smoking, for most had had a long day going to town to sell their wares, and were glad to seek repose.
Behind the tents, in a little blind lane with high hedges ending at a gate, a mare was tethered. She had been deprived of her foal and grieved noisily, whinnying loudly ever and again. Away on the moor ponies were grazing, and hearing the repeated call of the bereaved mother, they put up their heads for a moment. At last Skewbald, now a two-year-old, and another pony of the same age, a dull bay, could stand it no longer, and sidled away from the herd in the direction of the call. As they approached the silent tents, the bay whinnied, and the mare responded so appealingly that the two quickened their pace to a trot. A big lad, lounging by the fire in the nearest tent, looked out as they passed, and then crawled away silently.
Skewbald and his companion went right up to the mare, which tried hard to get away from her tether, whinnying repeatedly, so that the two-year-olds did not notice several dark figures creeping towards them in the obscurity of the ditch. But when a man stumbled, the two ponies made off up the lane, only to be brought up short by the gate. Their pursuers, close at their heels, threw themselves at their necks, and soon the two were haltered and secured.
An older man came out and examined the captives. Then in no measured terms he abused the captors for troubling to tie up a pony marked like the skewbald, an animal of such striking colour and pattern, and probably well known to commoner, keeper, and agister. It was as good as giving themselves up to the police to have it in their possession for a moment, and he ordered the crestfallen young fellows to release it at once. This was done, and, with a stripe on his flank to help him along, Skewbald was turned loose, and made off towards the herd. Then the man gave his attention to the bay, and pronounced him ordinary enough to keep. But what were the marks, if any? A lantern was brought, and the capitals C. F. were found on the shoulder. A bar was heated and it was not difficult to convert the marks into O. E., though much to the discomfort of the young bay. His tail marks were cut right away as well. Then it was mooted whether the pony should not be taken off at once, but this was pronounced against, as likely to arouse the suspicion of the police, if met with on the way. In a day or two a huckster would come along with a string of ponies, and among them the bay would not attract notice.
But unfortunately for the gipsies, the agister of the district, in tall hat with buckle in front, and green coat with brass buttons, happened to ride by next morning, on his way to clip the tails of some ponies lately caught in.
As he passed, he noticed a young bay tied up behind a tent. Now, the agister knew all the ponies of his district, and many others in the other districts as well. Ponies were a passion with him. He knew them not only by their brands and their colours, but by their shapes, gait, and size. A pony once seen by him was never forgotten, and he could recognize a wanted animal more than half a mile away. He paused and scrutinized the bay. Yes, that was Charles Finch’s two-year-old. He had known it since its birth, and could not be mistaken. Its tail was short, but not cut after the fashion of any of the three forest districts—in itself a suspicious circumstance. He went closer and read the letters O. E. No one he knew of in the forest used such a brand. He got off his pony and pressed his thumb in the lowest arm of the E, and the pony winced.
That was enough for the agister, who turned to several lowering but silent lads and men collected in a group. “Who claims this pony?” he asked. There was no answer. “I am positive it’s Charles Finch’s pony. I shall take it with me if no one objects;” and he tied the pony to his own, and trotted away.
After he had done his business, he took the pony to its owner, who, of course, recognized it at once. “Now,” said the agister, “this must be stopped, or some rogues will give the gipsies a bad name. It’s your duty to prosecute the men where I found the pony.” More he urged of similar argument on old Finch, who heard him in silence, and then flatly declined to take any proceedings whatever, “I got the pony back, thanks to ye; and much obleeged, I’m sure. But I does business with the gipsies, and most of ’em are a pretty good sort, and stick to their bargain. If I prosecuted e’er a one of them, we should never get on again. I’m out for peace and quietness with my neighbours, and I shan’t let a pony come between us.” And though the agister, having to take an official view of the matter, protested, at heart he felt there was much to be said for the old man’s decision.
The Path to the Rufus Stone.
XIII.—THE BROKEN LEG
One wet afternoon towards the end of September, the colt-hunter was in his stable mending some harness. A yell from his youngest boy made him jump, and he half-rose to see what was the matter, but turned to his work again, as the boy’s little sister let forth a shriek of delight. “Up to some lark,” he muttered, then started, as both children shouted at the top of their voices, “Peter! Peter!” At the same instant the gate slammed, the sound of a heavy boot was heard, and the man tumbled outside, with the harness in his hand, to find himself face to face with his eldest son in full kit, tin hat, rifle and bandolier, and slung around with billycans, etc., his boots still coated with the white slime of the French hills.
“Peter!” “Father!” came out at one breath, and as they grasped hands, their faces came together, and they kissed—an odd thing, perhaps, for forest men to do, but a son coming home from the war unexpectedly was a thrilling moment, and apt to break down even the reserve of a lifetime. Peter, never forgotten for a single day, though not always mentioned by his parents, suddenly appearing, as if from the skies, was enough to make his father gasp, unable to utter more than, “Well, lad!” Then Mother, apprised, came rushing forth, full of joy, and yet of wrath at not being the first to salute her firstborn. She hugged and kissed him until he begged for mercy. “The lad’s tired, Mother,” said the father; “let’s in, so’s he can get his things off, and have a wash;” and Peter wanted this last badly. How the youngsters revelled in the tin hat and its dents, while the father spent some time cleaning his son’s boots. “Quite a bit of France,” he said, as he carefully swept the chalk off the bench into an empty matchbox.
You should have seen Peter eat, when he got among his mother’s tarts and cakes. It appeared that he had the usual fourteen days’ leave, of which some time had already expired since he left Havre. “What a shame!” exclaimed his mother. “However, we won’t think of going away yet;” and everyone was happy, though later on, as Peter inquired for first one and then another of his old schoolfellows, faces fell, and answer was made sadly. After tea Peter felt a bit sleepy, so the youngsters were sent off to play elsewhere, while he stretched himself on a couch before the fire. He had to be wakened for supper, but he didn’t mind, and said he would rather be called anything than late for meals.
The next morning, of course, Peter wanted a mount, and inquired what ponies were about. “You know the three in the stable,” said his father; “and there’s a blue roan mare in the paddock, but she’s not properly broken in yet, and you’ll find her rather skittish.” Whereupon Peter, like a true forest lad, declared she would be just the thing for him, and with the aid of his two brothers, drove her into the yard and secured her.
When he mounted in the paddock, the mare treated him to a few plunges, which he did not repress too sternly; and once out in the open, went off at a great pace, her rider leaving her to go where she listed, sure that she would keep away from unsafe ground. But after letting off her steam with a good run over the heavy ground, the mare slackened her speed, and Peter could take stock of the old familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps the forest never looks so lovely as in autumn, and especially when well soaked. The heather still purpled the moor—a rich purplish-brown flecked here and there with jewel-like pools. Towards the uplands, and in the woods, the wet bracken had changed its usual autumnal orange for a rich sienna. Once Peter glimpsed a pony, all deep chestnut, with mane and tail of the same, a “self-coloured” animal, hardly visible against a bank of bracken. Only its movements betrayed it, and then its foal, dark of hue, was discovered where before it had been “lost” in the obscurity of a holly-brake.
Out in the open, the lad took all to his heart, its beauty and its appeal. A green woodpecker loped away from an ant heap where it had been probing, and a covey of partridges scattered from the pony’s hoofs. The forest ponies, singly or in groups, gave life and focus to the landscape, and Peter saw that it was good.
Then as the mare started to run again, his hat was twitched from his head by a holly-branch. He reined the pony in, and essayed to pick up the hat with his whip, but having no crook to the butt, could not manage it. “Hold on, old girl,” he said, dismounting. But it was precisely at this moment that Skewbald, now a three-year-old, grazing at a little distance by himself, and feeling lonely, gave vent to a loud call. The grey whinnied, and began to move off, just as Peter retrieved his hat, then, as he pulled on the reins, she kicked sharply, getting the lad on the right shin. There was a sharp crack, and Peter let go the reins with a grunt, stood motionless a moment, and then slithered gently to the ground. As he did so and disturbed the broken leg, he shouted with pain, and the mare, already making off, increased her pace, the reins dangling from her neck.
* * * * *
A girl was bowling along a forest road on a bicycle. Joan Barton, V.A.D. nurse in the forest hospital, had changed out of her uniform, and was taking advantage of her spell off to get some open-air exercise. She admitted to herself, as she spun along, that her own Surrey commons, beautiful as they are, could not compare in extent and wildness with the forest. She noted how the road wound, and led the eye over the moors and hills, and what a fine surface mere sand and gravel made, resilient and mudless in spite of recent heavy rain. As the forest people say, the more it rains, the better the going. Much better than in dry weather, when the surface gets loose and covered with stones.
Presently a grey pony, saddled yet riderless, and standing by a dead tree a little from the road, caught her eye.
She looked right and left for a rider, but saw no one. Then, acting on an impulse, she got off her bicycle, and went up to the pony. It moved as she came close, and she saw that the reins were held on a snag. “Funny way to tie up a pony,” she said half-aloud; she knew something about horses, and had acted as groom in a remount stable while waiting for a vacancy in a hospital.
Some distance away was a herd of ponies scattered over the moor. Among them she noticed one patterned in bright chestnut and white, with the passing thought, that she had not before seen this striking coloration among all the forest pony hues. She went to her bicycle and stood scrutinizing the landscape, but she saw no one. Then her attention was drawn to a patch of white like a piece of paper dangling on a bush. But as she looked she saw the white patch wave to and fro like a flag, and with a sudden jump of the heart she realized that it was a flag, and spelling out letters. She knew the code, being an enthusiastic leader of Girl Guides, and watched the flag spell out the letters h-e-l-p. That was enough for Joan. Close to where she stood, a pony track meandered in the direction of the signal, and mounting her bicycle she bumped along it, almost falling off in her anxiety to watch the flag. It disappeared, but again showed itself wagging to and fro, then wavered and fell. She had to get off her bicycle, and pushed it hurriedly along. There behind a bush lay Peter, his face wrinkled with pain, yet full of relief at the welcome sound of the girl’s approach. He was the first to speak. “Morning, miss;” and he made shift to smile. “My pony got me on the right tibia. But a clean fracture, I think.” Peter got this out all in a breath. He had had enough warning of the girl’s approach to concoct his speech, and was rather proud of his knowledge of anatomy picked up in the first-aid class. Joan smiled too, pleased to find her new patient collected and cheerful. “Been here long?” she asked. “Not more than an hour, miss. I live over there,” he went on, “but it’s a matter of three or four miles away.” “All right,” said Joan, “but your leg had better go in some sort of splints before we can think of your being moved.”
Then in response to a certain shade of anxiety on Peter’s face, she added, “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. I’m a nurse at a V.A.D. hospital.” “A nurse,” chortled Peter; “it seems I’m having all the luck.”
“Well,” she laughed, “it doesn’t seem like it. I don’t think I’ll take the puttee off. I’ll look for some stuff for splints.” She hunted round for some straight sticks, and Peter lent her his great knife, which he had to open for her, so that she could remove the knots. Then she put on the splints, using Peter’s other puttee. “Don’t be afraid to make a noise if I hurt you,” she said, but Peter made no sign of pain except for a grunt or two. As she worked she talked. “It was clever of you to signal,” she remarked. “Cleverer of you, miss, to see and understand,” responded Peter; “ ’twas a good job Mother put out white hankies for me this morning. My khaki ones went into the washtub.”
Joan told him of the grey pony on the hill, and Peter recounted the cause of his accident. “How long, nurse, before I’m able to go back?” he asked.
“You’ll not be much use under two months. Your stay in Blighty will be longer than you expected.”
“What’ll my sergeant say?” chuckled Peter. Joan made a cushion of bracken for the injured leg and put another armful under his head. “Now,” she said, “I’ll go back to the road for help.”
“But what’s that, nurse?” exclaimed Peter, and Joan also heard a man’s call. A moment later a waggon laden with logs emerged from a wood, some distance away, a man and a boy in attendance. Joan ran across to them, and explained the situation. “Why, that must be young Peter,” said the man; “I met him yesterday, all loaded up, on his way home. We’ll do what we can, miss, but our wood-waggon ain’t no use, you see, for it’s got no bottom. What’ll we do about shifting him on to the road?”
But the boy was not a Scout for nothing. This was his moment, and he made the most of it. “Why, dad,” he said, “that’s easy. You cuts down two poles, and I gets them two sacks we’ve got on the seat, and makes holes in the corners. Then we puts the poles through the holes to make a stretcher, and carries him up to the road.” The elders agreed that this was feasible, but without enthusiasm, for fear of engendering pride in the young.
The man got his axe and cut down two young birches, remarking that he s’posed “they” wouldn’t mind his cutting green wood for once, while Joan and the boy prepared the sacks. When the stretcher was ready, they laid it on the ground beside Peter, and carefully placed him in it, packing his legs and feet with bracken, so that the injured limb should not be jolted.
Then the man taking the poles at the head, and Joan and the boy a pole each at the other end, they marched slowly up the hill, Peter insisting on their keeping step, and giving an imitation of his sergeant’s pronunciation. Once, as they crossed a little forest bridge, he gave the order, “Break step,” but they refused, for fear of jarring his leg, whereupon he promised them all C.B.
When nearly at the road, they heard the noise of an approaching car, and all shouted together, the boy nearly letting go in the excitement of the moment. The driver both heard and saw. He stopped, and matters were soon arranged. The patient was carefully deposited in the car with Joan as attendant. The boy was to go back to fetch Joan’s bicycle and ride it to the hospital, then, returning, would ride the grey mare back to Peter’s home. Joan was much averse to this arrangement, protesting that the pony had done enough mischief already that day. But the boy grinned, for he could ride anything in the forest barebacked, and his family mantelpiece was adorned with cups and trophies won in the forest junior competitions. Remarking that he wouldn’t “come to no harm,” he dashed down the hill for the bicycle, while the man, after seeing that the grey pony was properly tied, returned to his waiting team.
Then came Armistice Day, or rather, in this quiet corner of Britain, Armistice Night, for in the forest was not to be seen such ebullition of spirits as in Regent Street, where, for instance, two middle-aged clergymen, with ribbons in their clerical hats, danced along the pavement playing tin whistle-pipes. But a great fire was to be lit on the hill above Peter’s home, and all that afternoon men and boys had been carting up logs and branches gleaned from the woods.
Most of the local forest people were there, including Tom, Molly, and the two small children. Peter, now getting about with a stick, having discarded his crutches, was sent up in the pony-trap, the hill being deemed too steep for him.
When the fire died down and people were beginning to disperse, a girl wheeling a bicycle passed Peter and his family. Tom let out a shout: “Miss Barton!” and she stopped. She had seen Peter several times since he had left hospital; indeed, he said his leg wouldn’t get well unless she continued to take a friendly interest in his case. So she had paid visits, when not on duty, Peter and she sitting in the porch, looking on to the forest, talking and reading.
Peter was saying that the hill was too steep and rough to cycle down at night, and his leg felt well enough for him to walk down if Miss Barton would lend him an arm in case he stumbled. Tom would walk the bicycle down, which he was glad to do, though directly he was out of sight he got on, and nearly came a cropper avoiding some people going home.
So Joan and Peter went down together, taking a little path he knew of, and on the way they saw the dim forms of ponies on either side, all with heads down, browsing. Only one, the nearest, looked up, and snorted as they passed. It was Skewbald, and Peter suddenly found his tongue, for neither he nor Joan had had much to say to one another.
“Why, that’s the beggar that upset my applecart,” he said, and proceeded to narrate for the twentieth time how the call of the three-year-old had caused his accident. Then with a flash of inspiration he continued: “Lucky for me that he called when he did.”
“Yes,” said Joan, though she felt in her bones what was coming; “you mean he got you a long leave.”
“I mean,” declared Peter, though his heart thumped, and he had a strange difficulty in articulating, “that if it hadn’t happened, we might never have met.” And so on, but as this is a tale about ponies and not people, it will suffice to say that before they reached the bottom of the hill, they were Joan and Peter to one another, and that soon after Peter was demobilized the wedding took place.
XIV.—HOW SKEWBALD RANG THE FIREBELL
The summer had been hot and rainless, and the beginning of August found the moorland of the forest drier than the oldest commoner had known it. Boggy places which had formerly to be skirted with care were now firm under foot. The tussock grass was white and sear, the fern orange and brown, while the leaves of the oaks were eaten by myriads of caterpillars into delicate lace-like filigree.
The blackberries withered without ripening, except where they grew in the meadow bottoms, still green, though the streams dwindled, until in the gravelly, quick-running parts, there was hardly enough water for the troutlets to scuttle past into the deeper pools.
One midday, on the road between Southampton and Lymington, a tramping sailor was resting by the roadside. He lit his pipe, and being a careful man, blew at the match before he threw it down. Then he rose, and continued his journey. But the end of the match still glowed, and the dry grass in contact with it, fanned by the wind, began to smoke, and then to ignite with a tiny flame, which crawled along the ground, until it came to the dry stump of a fir, its base littered with bits of bark and dead branches. These sputtered, and the fire began to spread. The wayfarer had passed on unheeding, for he was facing the wind, and therefore received no warning of what was happening behind him.
Down under the big trees the colt-hunter and his two boys were cutting the fern for stable bedding. He had the right to get all he wanted, though authority decreed that he was not to pick and choose, not to cut only where the fern grew thick and tall. He must clear his way steadily, even where it was sparse and stunted. This year it was pretty short everywhere. The man used a scythe, the boys were armed with sickles. At intervals they drew the fodder into small heaps for carting.
The father straightened himself and sniffed. “Seems like burning. Another heath fire, I expect. Glad if it burnt up the gorse, but sometimes it burns up other things.” “What things, dad?” asked the younger boy. “Trees which we want for firewood, and barns, ricks, and sometimes homes. Run up the hill, sonny, and see if you can make out whereabouts the fire is.” The boy did not run; it was too hot. As he walked away, a shrill whinny was heard, then repeated again and again. “My word!” exclaimed the man; “that pony is some excited. Seems as if it came from the farm. What’s a forest stallion doing there?” Just then in the quiet air a prolonged whistle was heard. The father laid his scythe at the foot of a tree. “Come on, Tom. Something’s the matter, or mother wouldn’t have blown the whistle.” It was an agreed-on signal. Back the two went, and the younger boy caught them up, saying he had seen a great cloud of smoke, and it seemed right over the house.
“Nonsense,” said his father; “more like five miles away.” They walked quickly along the forest avenue of gnarled oaks, tall beeches, and odds and ends of hollies of no especial shape. “Look at all those ponies outside the gate!” exclaimed Tom. There was a restless, pawing, snorting, whinnying troop of mares and youngsters, but all with head over or turned towards the closed gate. When the three reached the farm, they saw Skewbald standing on the straw heap, surrounded by pigs, poultry, and ducks. Mother was standing at the garden gate with the baby in her arms. The skewbald whinnied when he saw the arrivals and stamped impatiently. The man sniffed again and muttered: “That fire seems closer than I thought. How’d he get in?” he called. “He jumped it,” his wife replied. “I saw him.”
They opened the gate, and the ponies surged in after them. Tom ran to slide back the big door, and had just time to flatten himself against the wall, when Skewbald thundered past, followed by the herd, right across the meadow to the ford, which they crossed. Then they turned, faced the wind, and snuffed the air.
“Boys,” the father was saying, “this fire must be nearer than we want. The smoke’s getting thicker every minute. Both of you get a broom, and let’s get beyond the wood.”
The homestead was enclosed to the south-west by groves of hollies and a plantation of firs. If these began to burn, sparks might set the thatched roof and hayricks on fire. Beyond the wood was a level tract of heather and gorse. The fire might not have caught this, and there might yet be time to stop it spreading to the wood. When they got beyond the trees, the gorse bushes at the far end of the open space were burning with a loud crackling, and on the ground a line of smoke, with here and there a sputter of flame, showed that the fire was crawling towards them.
“Spread out, boys, and smack away at it,” was the order.
Then commenced a fight with the advancing enemy, in the face of sparks and thick, pungent smoke. The boys worked bravely, but the wind fanned the embers, and, often, after they had beaten down the flames they had to run back, and put out a fresh outburst. Then, where the grass and heather was longer, the fire began to burn more vigorously.
“Get back, boys; we’ll wait and fight it where it’s shorter,” said the father. “Hooray!” Tom exclaimed; “here they come!” First a man on a pony, then a boy on a bicycle, two more friendly helpers in a trap, all coming to help as fast as they could; and later, a motor-car from the big house on a hill miles away, and crammed with helpers, hooted its arrival.
Some had brooms or beaters, and some took branches, but all fell to with a will, yet as they worked, the cloud of smoke seemed to get blacker and heavier. Instead of mounting into the sky like a pillar of cloud, it hung about their heads until they could hardly breathe. The sky became black, and still the fire defied their efforts.
A boy looked up and yelled, “Rain!” He had felt a drop on his face. Someone felt another, but they were not leaving anything to chance, and smacked steadily away at the smouldering herbage.
Then the rain began to come down steadily until everyone had a wet shirt. When the danger was over the volunteers began to move off, saying they must be going, in spite of entreaties to come back to the farmstead. They knew that the wife with her baby would be sore put to it to entertain so many. But one or two who lived farther off were persuaded to come along, and to these the colt-hunter expatiated a dozen times on the fortunate circumstance of the ponies running from the fire, and taking the road through the wood to the farm. As Tom said, the skewbald rang the firebell for them.
XV.—THE WANDERERS
Skewbald, now a four-year-old, had in late August succeeded to the leadership of the company with which he had been running. The stallion which had lorded it over the herd had been “caught in,” and Skewbald had stepped into his place as the acknowledged superior of the young males. It was destined to be a temporary supremacy, for, as a skewbald, he could not be welcomed as a breeding stallion; his coloration was too pronounced. Self-coloured browns and bays were considered to be truer to the forest type. Skewbald’s lot was to be that of a pit pony.
No young stallion challenged him to battle twice, for Skewbald possessed, besides strength, a spirit, a quickness of movement together with a power of deciding rapidly, and when roused, a fighting temper which boded ill for an enemy.
As a future pit pony he had the merit of not being too tall, but he was perfectly proportioned, and his carriage and ease of movement proclaimed his fitness as an instrument of strength and speed.
Patterned as he was in bold chestnut and cream-white, his coat did not show the high lights rippling over the muscles of a bay or black, but the slinging of his barrel between his shoulders and flanks, the arch of his neck and withers, the action of his fore-legs, and the tension of his hocks, marked him as beyond the ordinary.
His mane, very bushy, and like his tail waved as with a lady’s curling-irons, was white nearly to the regions of his ears, where it turned to chestnut with an intervening streak of purplish-black. His long, ample tail, carried in a drooping curve, was white above and dark below. His on-side had one great chestnut patch covering most of his barrel and flank, and extending below the hock. From a distance, this side was deceptive, because the great brown blotch looked like a pony standing end on. The offside had the neck and face chestnut, and a spot of the same on his barrel smaller in area than on the other side, and leaving his hind-leg white.
But although he looked and acted like a born leader, kept the yearlings and two-year-olds in their places, rounded up the mares and saw that all were on the move when the herd was changing quarters, and, last but not least, glanced continually round the horizon for enemies in the shape of agisters or other colt-hunters, it must not be supposed that he decided all the movements of his company.
Some of the mares were years older than he, and knew the forest infinitely better—the grassy lawns and bottoms, the bare “plains,” wind-swept in hot weather, and the great woods with sheltered recesses in drenching rain. So they, as a rule, took the initiative and decided when to move and where to go. But the direction once indicated, Skewbald took charge and acted as convoy.
In the herd was an old rusty-black mare with white forehead blaze and off hind-sock. She had been broken in for riding and was shod, as might be seen by her footprints, the imprint of the double line of the shoe showing out among the single, nearly circular curves of the unshod ponies.
In her time she had assisted in the “catching in” of many a pony, and now that she was again in the forest, although she had lost the timidity of the uncaught beasts, she made up for this by the wiliness of one who knew the ways of man. Time and time again the colt-hunters wished her far away, when they found her in company with ponies they wanted. They might manœuvre the group at a gentle trot across the moor, but just as they approached a tempting open gateway, the mare would check, toss her head, snort, and break away at a gallop, followed by the rest, in spite of shouts and cracking of whips.
She was also a persistent wanderer, a “lane haunter,” “lane creeper” or “romeo” (an atrocious Forest pun)—that is, a pony which escapes from the forest into the lanes to munch the sweet grass of the hedgerows. This is considered one of the worst vices in a forest pony, because she leads others with her. Then the agister may impound the culprits, and the owners have to pay for any depredations, as fence-breaking and crop-spoiling, that may have been committed. Prizes are offered for well-bred ponies in good condition, but are likely to be withheld unless the agister certifies that the selected beasts are no “lane haunters.” Some think that the introduction of alien blood has brought into existence a type of animal unsuited to the rigours of the forest, too delicate to flourish on the meagre fare, and therefore inclined to wander away in search of richer food.
By a mischance, the mare’s last foal had died soon after birth, and because of this, perhaps, she was this season unsettled, restless, and still more inclined to wander. The summer, too, had been hot and dry, so the forest pasturage was meagre and scanty, the ponies having to search continually for their fare.
Whereas a herd keeps usually within an area of four or five square miles, this mare, whether owing to the above reasons or her innate tendency to wander, during this season kept the company on the move by her restlessness and persistence, so that without hurry, or causing fatigue to the youngest, and feeding as they went, the forest was explored from end to end. She was Skewbald’s favourite mare; when she went ahead, he followed, and the herd fell in behind, in the usual column of route.
She knew the forest roads and lanes both as a riding pony and a “lane creeper,” the short-cuts, the hunting bridges, the deep recesses of the woods, and the narrow winding pony paths across the upland “plains,” as if she had the ordnance map in her head.
After whiling away a hot afternoon cooling their fetlocks at Potterne Ford, the herd spent the evening on Blackdown near the great round barrow, and in the early morning, before dawn, the mare led the way southward over bare ridge and through thick woods, until coming out on the Beaulieu road they found the manor gate left open by a sleepy carter, and trooped down in the early morning, past Beaulieu Abbey gateway, pausing at the margin of the beautiful estuary with its wooded banks, and yachts anchored at the bend. All was quiet except for the yelping of a few black-headed gulls questing for food among the pools, fringed with tawny seaweed left by the tide.
Skewbald advanced to sample the water, then snorted with disgust, and retreated, driving his company on to the road again. The old mare had a good drinking-place in mind, and led them up the street until they were stopped by Hatchet Gate. The gatekeeper, just getting up, heard the clatter of hoofs. “More lane haunters,” she said; “I must let them into the forest again, or they will get into trouble.” She hastened down, the herd passed through, trotted on to Hatchet Pond and slaked their thirst.
They spent some days on the great aerodrome of Beaulieu Heath, whence, in the days of war, the aeroplanes buzzed on their way across Blackdown to attack an imaginary enemy plane marked as a cross of white gravel on the ground. Now all was quiet, rows of huts and buildings stood silent and deserted. The lane creeper took the road again and led the troop towards Lymington. Down the hill they went, past the monument to the gallant admiral of the many virtues duly set forth, and hesitated at the toll-bridge, where the collector, waiting awhile to see if any human was following with the toll dues, drove them back. They turned up the road bordering the left bank of the Lymington River, and soon found themselves in the forest again, but on the other side, for they forded the river, went over Sandy Down and crossed the Brockenhurst road, where a sorrel mare nearly lost her foal, which insisted on nosing a chunk of bread oblivious of a charabanc of excursionists. They scattered over Setley Plain, where are the two tumuli with intersecting rings, and crossing under the railway, wandered about the uplands above Sway, with its tall tower, a landmark visible far out to sea. Here, sunning themselves by a narrow forest railway bridge, they encountered another herd, a mere group, with that rarest of forest ponies—a white stallion—in charge. He was white, of course, because of his age; his backbone stood up and his ribs showed; but though he snuffed the air, there was no trouble, for the old fellow had no thought of showing fight, nor was this the season for dissension. All Skewbald wanted, for his part, was to get his company over the bridge, and when the others understood this, they made way willingly enough.