Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 5

Wednesday, February 5 was fair, in the midthirties, and began with a glorious welcome sunrise. Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Tootie walked the hounds from the kennels along the farm road. On their right was a large pasture with stone ruins in the middle of it, a huge tree beside the ruins. The old fence line had three stout logs as a jump not too far from the ruins, all that was left of the first tiny dwelling from the mid 1780s. Horses took this log jump seriously, whereas an airy jump, some spindly sticks, often set them off.

The group walked on foot. To their left reposed a lovely apple orchard, its trees gnarled. Inky, a black fox, kept a cozy clean den here, from which she would sally forth at night for hunting as well as to visit the kennels. She enjoyed chatting with hounds as long as they were on the other side of their heavy chain-link fencing.

A huge old walnut growing at the edge of the ruins provided a spacious accommodation for Comet, a gray fox. While not as good a housekeeper as Inky, he wasn’t a total slob like Uncle Yancy, a red fox who threw everything out of his den. Even a human not well acquainted with wildlife would know whoever lived in Uncle Yancy’s den was messy.

Foxes, like people, evidenced distinct personalities and habits.

Asa, an old hound beloved by all, walked up front. He could only hunt one day a week now but he still hunted well. Then, like many an old gentleman, he needed some extra rest, the canine version of Motrin, and a bit of extra love.

“Inky, I know you’re in there,” Asa good-naturedly called as the pack walked by.

A voice from within the den hollered, “And I’m staying in.”

“Saucy devil.” Sister laughed as she heard the little yip.

On the right side of the pack, Shaker grinned. “The only thing better than being a fox on this farm would be being a hound or a horse. Then again, being a human isn’t so bad.” He looked over toward the ruins, where Comet did not stick his head aboveground. “Give any thought to breeding Giorgio?” The huntsman greatly admired this hound.

“I have. I’m not sure yet to whom or if we should take him to another club. You know, Princess Anne has some wonderful girls, old Bywaters blood.” She mentioned an exciting hunt located on the mighty Lower James River.

Sister, like any Master who breeds, studied bloodlines. Since childhood, she had favored Bywaters blood, a hound bred for Virginia’s demanding conditions. She also strongly liked Orange County blood, another Virginia hound bought from William Skinker, the Virginian who bred them, by a rich northerner, Harriman, over one hundred years ago. That old, fine blood coursed through Orange County’s kennels.

They walked on, the dirt road firm.

Tootie glanced up toward the top of Hangman’s Ridge. “Looks like it’s blowing up there.”

Betty also looked up. “Hard.”

“That’s what’s so odd,” said Sister. “Sometimes the wind will barrel right down the edge to us and other times it literally skims over our heads. You’d think after living here all these decades I’d have figured it out.”

Walking out hounds, always a high spot in the day for the staff of The Jefferson Hunt, seemed to put things in perspective. Each time Sister would walk along with her friends and hounds, she knew how lucky she was to be strong and healthy and, best of all, to live out in the country where she could open her door to a beautiful world unfolding before her. She often thought of the millions of people all over the world whose primary view was a set of red taillights in front of them only to be followed by a computer screen. And then there were how many millions of women in Africa who walked miles to a well for a bucket of water? Were taillights an improvement over such hardship? Sister feared urbanization and had no answers to counter the destruction of so many unique environments. But she did know she’d fight like the devil to protect Virginia.

“Did you read in the paper about the next bypass meeting?” Betty inquired. “This western bypass has been in contention for, what, forty years?”

“Actually, I didn’t read it,” said Sister. “I did find out from O.J. that there was an entire man’s body in the horse’s grave. I told you that, though, didn’t I?”

“You left a brief message. Well, whoever he was, God rest his soul,” Betty intoned. “Seems to me all they have to do is go through the papers from 1921 to see who went missing.”

“I don’t know but I do know we’ll be hunting from Tattenhall Station tomorrow and I will bet any of you one hundred dollars that Crawford will hunt from Old Paradise.”

“He did that last season and at the beginning of this one, and made a fool out of himself both times,” said Shaker. “He can’t be that stupid.” He laughed because Crawford would lose his pack or more accurately, whoever was hunting his hounds would lose the pack. Now on his fourth huntsman in three years, Crawford couldn’t stop from meddling, from thinking he knew more than the person he hired to hunt his hounds.

“No one’s going to bet me one hundred dollars?” Sister wheedled.

“I will.” Tootie took her up on it.

“And if you lose the bet, where are you going to find the money?” Sister smiled at her.

“Betty will lend it to me,” the beautiful young woman teased.

“Ha.” Betty loved Tootie, as did they all.

“I’ll bet one hundred dollars,” Trident offered, the young hound listening in.

“You don’t have anything worth that much,” Dragon, a few years older, taunted him. “You aren’t even worth a hundred dollars.”

At that, the pack laughed that funny dog laugh where they puff out a little air, their eyes brighten.

“Just wait,” said Trident. “I’ll show you all tomorrow that I’m worth more than one hundred dollars.”

And so he would.

Tattenhall Station, a clapboard train station with lovely Victorian flourishes, rested on the west side of the Norfolk and Southern rail line. The Western County Volunteer Fire Department sat across from this on the eastern side of the tracks. It was the westernmost fire station in the county.

Tattenhall, once busy thanks to passenger trains, had fallen into disuse, and was finally abandoned by the railway in the early 1960s. Kasmir Barbhaiya bought the station, all the land abutting it on the south side, and had added bits and pieces of more property over the last two years. His holdings, now two thousand acres, give or take, bordered such historic properties as Old Paradise to the west, Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred to the south.

Across from this charming station, restored by Kasmir, sat the picturesque Chapel Cross on the northeast quadrant of the crossroads that bore its name. Apple orchards abounded along with pastures. Across from the church, shielded by pines, Binky and Milly DuCharme’s Gulf Station still sported the old blue and orange Gulf sign. His son, Art—in his midthirties, often called Doofus behind his back—sometimes acted as a go-between for the brothers, as did Margaret, Arthur’s daughter. The two cousins got along just fine, despite feuding fathers.

Horse trailers parked in the paved lot at the station. Sister knew the fixtures around here as well as her own farm. She’d hunted them for over forty years, thinking of her landowners as a large family, filled with old stories, resentments, loves, dreams.

Across from the fire station, Mud Fence was yet another fixture, so Sister had thousands of acres at her disposal, barring Old Paradise now controlled by Crawford. Recently, she’d also picked up some new fixtures.

The DuCharmes were desperate for money; what choice did they have but to turn out their old friend Sister when Crawford offered to pay big bucks to hunt there? This was also a violation of MFHA strictures. Land had to be offered, not paid for. Knowing this, Sister bore no grudge but she sorely missed Old Paradise. Crawford rented it, improved it, but did not own it … yet.

Phil Chetwynd, Mercer Laprade, Ronnie Haslip, Gray, the Bancrofts, were a few of the people whose trailers Sister had noticed as she drove in earlier. People were out in full force, for the day looked promising and February could wind up with snowstorms canceling hunt days. Why miss a good day?

Once everyone was mounted, Sister quietly said to Shaker, “Hounds, please,” the traditional request from Master to huntsman meaning, “Let’s go.”

Looking down at all those upturned faces, Shaker smiled, and replied, “Hup-hup.”

He trotted up the slight hill behind the station, calling out, “Lieu in,” then blew the note followed by four short ones. Hounds moved out in a semicircle going forward, noses down.

Trident spoke loudly. Never one to be outshone by any other hound, Dragon checked the line. Trident was right. Dragon, fussy because he didn’t go out Tuesday, tried to push ahead of the well-built tricolor but Trident was a touch younger and fast. All of Sister’s younger hounds had speed. She had deliberately picked up the pace in these last three hound litters.

The pack ran so close together one could have thrown a blanket over them, as the old foxhunting saying goes. The horses followed. Shaker rode Kilowatt, purchased for him by Kasmir, and felt as though he’d gone from 0 to 60 in three seconds. A few in the field parted company from their mounts, as the acceleration caught them off guard.

Bobby Franklin always assigned someone to ride tail to pick up the pieces. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but there’s always that delay for a person on the ground to mount, which is why someone stays back. The field must move on, and move on they did.

Happy for a fast start, Sister felt Aztec stretch out underneath her. Like so many Thoroughbreds, Aztec had a long stride, so compared to other horses in the field it looked as though he wasn’t laboring or trying very hard. And like all Thoroughbreds, he was born to run. The hounds charged into the thick woods a half mile from where they picked up the fox. Narrow trails necessitated slowing and taking some care, lest you leave your kneecap on a tree trunk.

Even with leaves off the deciduous trees, Sister couldn’t see well. Behind her, Bobby’s voice, loud and clear, stopped her short.

“Tallyho,” came his booming, deep voice.

This was followed by a chorus of the same.

Sister couldn’t easily turn around. She heard hoofbeats coming toward her. Aztec didn’t want to back into the woods with its low bushes, but a hard squeeze did the trick.

“Huntsman!” Sister shouted.

With difficulty, people got their horses into the woods, heads pointing outward. In this way, the huntsman and Kilowatt didn’t risk a kick. A hard kick could break a leg.

Flying as fast as he could given conditions, Shaker, mindful of the members, touched his crop to his cap. As he burst out into the open he saw Bobby, horse turned toward the north, cap off in his right hand, arm extended fully. This told the huntsman the line of the fox.

Sister was still in the woods and not liking it. She shot out of the underbrush to Aztec’s delight, then thundered past the people in the woods. Following by placement, one by one, they emerged. Phil Chetwynd, who had ridden right behind Sister, was the next out. Ronnie Haslip, the club’s treasurer, was next, and so they went. This is a sensible arrangement because usually horses in the rear are slower than horses in front, so if the people in the back came out first they would slow everyone down.

As she reached the pasture, Sister saw nothing. Bobby, as he should, followed the huntsman. She hit the rise, looked down and saw hounds, huntsman, Betty on the right, Sybil on the left, and Bobby leading Second Flight behind. As Sister rode down, hard, Bobby veered off to the side so she could slip behind Shaker, leaving a good forty yards between huntsman and herself. The faster you rode, the more space you left, just in case.

Once the entire First Flight emerged, Bobby fell in behind them. The fox, which no one saw, crossed the railroad tracks and cut north into Mud Fence farm.

The riders had to cross above the railroad tracks, then carefully cross the tertiary road, climb a small bank, take three steps, and pop over a coop that, having sunk with age, couldn’t have been more than two and a half feet high. Sister was over in a flash, as were those close behind her, including the Bancrofts who, nearing eighty, were always perfectly mounted for their abilities, high, and their ages, also high.

Bobby knew where a hand gate was. This cost him a good ten minutes even though the last person with a companion closed it so he could get forward. You never leave anyone alone at a gate when horses are moving off. So it’s always two people.

Bobby heard the horn blowing “Gone Away” again. Standing in his stirrups to see over the rise, he beheld all in front of him and pushed on.

Sister, flying, just flying, reveled, in her element. The fact that this was a fox they didn’t know also excited her. Given the hard winter, breeding season had been interrupted by heavy snows, so she was sure this was a visiting dog fox.

She passed a collapsed shed, then the entire pack, Trident still in front, turned west, headed for Chapel Cross. A narrow ditch divided the church land from Mud Fence and it was full of running water from melting snows higher up. Aztec leapt it. Sister didn’t look down. Never a good idea to look down.

They clattered by the graveyard, right past the small lovely church and had to cross the north/south road, which meant Sister was right at the Gulf station. Apron on, Milly stood in the picture window with DuCharme Garage written in the top. She waved to the people, which made a few horses shy.

Sister waved back but kept moving. The fox crossed the east/west road almost at the crossroads, shot into the edge of Old Paradise, and ran along the snake fencing. A roar above them announced Crawford Howard’s Dumfriesshire hounds, who joined them.

To Sister’s relief, the two packs ran together. The music was incredible. The cry of these hounds must have reverberated over the mountain all the way to Stuarts Draft.

The new, larger pack soared over the snake fencing, crossed the road again, this time a good mile from the crossroads. Trident was still in the lead and to Sister’s surprise, Dreamboat was pushing his way forward.

Sister was so proud of him. His great day at Oakside had emboldened him. He now believed he could lead and he was right up there.

She easily jumped over the snake fence, hit the road, slowed for a moment, then rode along the three-board fence marking Kasmir’s land. A new coop beckoned; it was stout. Again, as it was close to the road, she had only a few strides to hit it right and sail over, which she did; but like any rider, a little wiggle room was always desirable.

Within seconds she was right back in the woods and hounds just tore through those woods, finally losing their fox at a small meadow with large fallen trees on it bordered by a tributary feeding into a larger creek.

How did the fox lose them? Scent vanished.

Hounds cast about, Shaker patiently waited, moving a bit here, a bit there, but that boy was gone.

Everyone pulled up. Some slumped over, trying to catch a deep breath.

The two packs kept trying to pick up a lead. Shaker called them over and Crawford’s hounds followed, as though part of the Jefferson pack. He headed the group south, and try as he might for the next hour, their efforts were fruitless.

They’d been out for three hours, so Shaker turned back toward Tattenhall Station. Once again, hounds opened.

This brief run took them down to the larger creek. After fifteen blazing minutes, that was over.

Although she had hunted since childhood, Sister never deluded herself into thinking she understood scent. Only the fox understood scent. Hounds could smell it but they didn’t understand it either.

Oh, she knew the basics. She knew a fox could jump into the creek and run in the water to destroy scent, which this fox may well have done. A clever fox with some den openings into a creek bed could get in and out without leaving much of a trace, or so Sister thought. He could roll in running cedar or cow dung, which threw hounds off for a time. He could also, if he knew where one was, go straight to a carcass. That never failed to confuse hounds.

But those thoughts were the thoughts of reason. The fox didn’t care what she thought.

The group of humans chatted excitedly on the way back to Tattenhall Station. If hounds had spoken, the people would have quieted. Sister had them well trained. Crawford’s hounds merrily tagged along. A gabby field drove her bats. Her people respected tradition. The human voice can bring a hound’s head up, the last thing you want to do. They need their full powers of concentration. The only thing worse than bringing a hound’s head up was kicking one. Turning a fox back into the hound pack ranked right up there with these cardinal sins as it meant certain death for the fox. Sister didn’t want to kill foxes nor did most other Masters.

Fortunately The Jefferson Hunt people, most all of them, rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride. Observing hounds when they could was a goal for many of them.

Sister motioned for Tootie to catch up to her.

“See anything?” she asked.

The younger woman shook her head, then added, “Well, I did see Lila Repton take that coop on the road. Her horse didn’t.”

“She all right?”

“Yes. I stayed back to get her up.”

“Could she make the jump then?”

“She was a little put off so I jumped her horse over. She climbed on the coop and mounted up while I untied Lafayette from the fence line. He’s so good, that horse.”

“Well, that was good of you.”

“Lila is desperate to ride First Flight. I figured maybe this would help.”

“Mmm. Good run.” Sister beheld both packs walking quietly up ahead. “How long before he tears down here with his hound trailer and raises holy hell?”

Turns out, Crawford didn’t show up.

Sister, Shaker, and the whippers-in put up the Jefferson Hounds and Phil Chetwynd kindly allowed Crawford’s hounds to rest in his horse trailer. His horse and Mercer’s horse, Dixie Do—tied outside, happily munching away at feed bags—didn’t mind.

The station had a long kitchen at one side. Kasmir had outfitted the place so the club could enjoy hot breakfasts. Old railway benches pushed up to long tables provided seating. Once people selected what they wanted from the food tables outside the kitchen, they were glad to sit and not stand holding plates. There was also a cook in the old kitchen to scramble eggs, flip pancakes, fry bacon. This was pure luxury.

The old station exuded an ambience of time gone by. To Kasmir’s credit, he did not dispense with the sign over a door that said Ladies Waiting Room nor the old one that spelled out Colored. He talked to many hunt club people about it but Gray settled the issue for him. Gray simply said, “It’s our history. Let’s not hide it.”

History infused the place. As people excitedly replayed the hunt, some could imagine ladies in long dresses, bonnets, repairing to their waiting room where their delicate sensibilities would not be offended by the unwanted attentions of men.

The Southern concept is that every man surely wants to be in the company of a lady.

Sister figured there was some truth to that and she swept her eyes down the long tables to see the women, flushed from the exercise, exuberant. Even those not especially favored by nature became attractive. And then there were the ones like Tootie, so beautiful, so young and sweet, that she took a man’s breath away. Tootie had no idea of this. That made her even more beautiful.

Unfortunately, not enough young men hunted but when one did show up in the hunt field he gravitated toward her.

Tootie’s dream was to hunt hounds one day after becoming an equine vet, a dream that infuriated her ever-so-rich Chicago father and didn’t much please her socially-conscious mother either. Why would their beautiful, brilliant daughter want to operate on horses as well as be an unpaid amateur huntsman?

On and on the assemblage chattered. Sister, coat hanging on the rack at the door along with everyone else’s, pulled her grandfather’s gold pocket watch from her vest. Snapping it shut with a click, she laughed, for Phil, Mercer, Gray, and Betty had imitated her with their pocket watches.

“Grandfather’s.” Phil smiled. “I know that’s our grandfather’s.”

Betty chimed in. “Dad’s.”

“What about you, Mercer?” Sister asked.

“Bought it at Horse Country. You know the case of antique jewelry? Couldn’t resist.” Mercer smiled.

“The workmanship on those old pieces is, well, I don’t know if people can make jewelry like that anymore.” Sister again pulled out her grandfather’s pocket watch, admiring the filigree and his initials in script, JOF for Jack Orion Fitzrobin. Sister was a Fitzrobin on her mother’s side and an Overton on her father’s. She’d had a wonderful childhood of hunting with both grandfathers and grandmothers.

Betty, Phil, and Mercer again pulled out their pocket watches, opened them, and then all four clicked watches together, which gave them a good laugh.

After the breakfast, Sister kissed her Thoroughbred Aztec, then along with Betty and Sybil, rendezvoused at the hound trailer, also known as the party wagon.

Betty asked the obvious, “What do we do about Crawford’s hounds?”

“Take them to him. I think they’ll load into our trailer.” Sister put her hands on her hips. She had no desire to see Crawford. However, she would always help hounds.

As his trailer was near the hound trailer, Phil overheard. He and Mercer usually hauled their horses together using a top-of-the-line four-horse conveyance.

“Sister, I’ll take them to Crawford. I pass his farm on the way to mine and our guys will be fine with hounds all around them, plus we have the dividers. As long as they have their hay bags they don’t care.”

Dividers, a padded type of guard hung on a hinge, could be used to separate horses.

“That’s kind of you.”

“I don’t mind a bit.” Phil smiled broadly.

When Phil rumbled down Crawford’s long drive, at the turnoff, Sam Lorillard met him with a truck and led him back to the kennels, on which—like everything else—Crawford Howard had spared no expense.

Phil had called ahead to Sam, Gray’s brother, who worked for Crawford. No one else would give the former alcoholic a job, including his brother. Crawford took a chance on him, paid him handsomely, and was well rewarded by Sam’s loyalty and labor.

Sam unloaded the hounds. “How was the hunt?” he asked.

“Good,” Phil replied. “Where’s Crawford?”

“Up at the house. He drove in about an hour ago.”

“Well, his hounds hunted nicely under Shaker, if that matters to him,” Mercer piped up.

Sam nodded. “He fired the huntsman in the middle of today’s hunt. We will now be looking for number five.”

“Man would have to be a fool to take that job.” Mercer didn’t monitor his opinion.

Grateful as Sam was to Crawford, he knew Mercer was right.

“He’d do better with a woman,” Phil declared.

“Why’s that?” Sam watched the last hound walk into the well-lit kennel.

Phil folded his long arms over his chest. “I think women are better at dealing with difficult people.”

Mercer pulled out his pocket watch and as he did so he told Sam about the four people closing their watches at the same moment. “You know we’d better shoot out of here before he sees us and we hear the lamentations of Crawford Howard,” Mercer advised.

“Something elegant about a pocket watch,” said Sam.

Mercer said, “One of our relations had a gold pocket watch and he walked into a whorehouse and never walked out—remember that old story?”

Phil tilted his head. “Must have been a hell of a transaction.”

Eye on the big house, Mercer recalled, “Great-Aunt Jessamy would shake her head and say they never found anything of Grandpa Harlan’s. They found an empty wallet and his clothes were neatly folded in the laundry room of the establishment. Of course, the authorities couldn’t tell Jessamy that, but they told enough others. Word got around.” He looked at his cousin. “Funny what one remembers.”

Moving toward the driver’s door, Phil said, “Maybe some things are better forgotten.”