Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 23

Aztec picked his way over timbered acres; an inviting snow-covered pasture beckoned the horse to the western side. Hounds drew through the slash. This last Tuesday in February proved that February was actually the longest month in the year, with grim, cold, sleety, snow-filled days. However, fox breeding was in full swing so frozen toes or not, a true foxhunter gladly mounted up.

Soldier Road ran east to west, with Hangman’s Ridge on the south of that paved road. When Sister hunted from Cindy Chandler’s farm, Foxglove, the ridge loomed as ominously as it did from her farm on the other side of the high, long, flat former execution ground. Driving toward Charlottesville on Soldier Road, one would arrive at Roger’s Corner, a clapboard convenience store at the first crossroads going east from the Blue Ridge. Traveling west, if you drove a four-wheel vehicle you’d eventually come to dirt roads but you could snake your way up and over the Blue Ridge Mountains, finally reaching a two-lane paved state road between Waynesboro and Verona. A turnoff on the left side of Soldier Road would take you to Route 250, a much easier passage over the Rockfish Gap.

All along this Appalachian chain, rounded by time, gaps allowed inhabitants before colonists to travel east to west and vice versa. However, the Native tribes on either side of the famous fall line engaged in killing, capturing, and harassing one another, so little traffic took place.

The fall line runs roughly southwest to northeast, traveling northward. The angle, not acute, allows a sense of direction even for those born without this sense. Then again, if you can see the mountains, you always know where you are. However, you can’t see them from the fall line where the state of Virginia lowers to the Atlantic Ocean many miles away. There the soil changes, the land flattens out. The three great rivers—the Potomac, the Rappahannock, and the James—enriched those flat lands. Even heading west, the alluvial deposits were generous.

On the east side of the line lived the Algonquin-speaking tribes; to the west were Sioux speakers.

Sister often thought of different peoples colliding—be they Indian or European, and then the later importation of Africans. Somehow out of bloodshed, truces, broken truces, and the superior technology of the Europeans, Virginia became what she now saw, a state of breathtaking beauty laden with natural treasures.

Like Aztec, she peered over the slash to the pasture beyond, distinguished by snake fencing, an inviting yellow clapboard house circa 1816, a true white stable and a red barn in the distance. She was excited. She had wanted to hunt this new fixture before the season ended mid-March. Close Shave was so named because survival there had been a close shave.

She’d hunted since childhood and had been a Master for close to four decades. She knew not to rush into a new fixture, throw up jumps everywhere. You needed at least a year to study the land and your foxes—or perhaps coyote—as Close Shave sat hard by the mountains. Once a Master and huntsman had a grasp of the fox’s running patterns, jumps could be put in the best places to keep close to the fellow. Naturally, the foxes figured this out but by that time, the humans knew the territory well enough to compensate for the latest clever ruse.

Today’s field, just fifteen people, did make it a bit easier. A large field on a first day can be as difficult for staff as it is for the field.

Mercer, Kasmir, Freddie, Alida, Phil, Tedi and Ed, Walter, Cindy Chandler, Sam Lorillard, Ronnie, Xavier, Tootie and Felicity, and Gray, all wore their heaviest coats, and were eager to see the new territory. Staff had ridden it at the end of the summer and once again mid-fall to get their bearings. Cindy Chandler had secured this place for the club, as it abutted the westernmost part of Foxglove. Like Tollgate, it was owned by new people; middle-aged, neither Derek or Mo Artinstall rode. Cindy, charm personified, shepherded them to social-club functions, sent a personal invitation to the panorama of Opening Hunt while giving them glorious coffee-table photograph books of foxhunting. They had such a good time, they gladly gave permission for the club to ride across their land.

Cora stopped at a large walnut. The timbering in these parts had been select cut, and were pine only. “Damn, this is a tough day,” said the hound.

Diana touched the same spot. “Old. But if we fan out, maybe this line will heat up.”

Ardent, also in her prime, inhaled. “A signature. A calling card. I say we’ll get lucky. Come on, girls.”

Trident grumbled behind these three to Trooper. “I really get sick of the girls thinking they are better than we are.”

“Me, too!” Trooper agreed.

Thimble, sweet but not always as astute as one would wish, piped up. “We have more drive. Shaker and Sister always say that.”

The two males whirled toward her with angry faces, and the sweet girl dropped her ears and eyes.

“Sorry.”

Dasher, an older male, coming up behind this little knot, cheerfully said, “Hey, who cares what anyone says? If there’s a fox, we’ll find him.”

Hounds spread out. Reaching the snake fencing, they jumped over, continuing to search through the pasture.

Dreamboat, right up with Diana and Cora now, pushed toward a brook, not really wide enough to be a creek. On the western side of this fast-running water were rock outcroppings. Blue ice frozen from the crevices stood like a wall. These deep gray rocks, a few two stories high, contained larger crevices, suitable for housing critters. The rocks continued on for forty yards, then abruptly stopped, giving way to firm ground in heavy woods.

Dreamboat flung himself into the brook.

Diana trotted to the edge of the brook as Dreamboat crawled out under the rocks. “Cora, he’s on a roll.”

He was, too. Dreamboat had finally come into his own, out from under the shadow of his aggressive brother, Dragon, who’d been left behind at the kennel that day.

Sister and Shaker found out the hard way that when you assemble your pack for the day’s hunt, you had to select with care. Not every hound would hunt with Dragon. Maybe they should have drafted him out, but he was brilliant. Sister always thought of this as her batting lineup for the game. Dragon was Number 3 while Diana was Number 4 when together. Apart, they did better and both could be number 4s, no jostling for position.

Cora hit the water, too. Within two minutes, the twelve-couple pack worked on the rock side of the brook.

Tails feathered. Hounds moved faster. Noses touched the ground, lifted up a moment, then touched again.

“Let’s boogie!” Trooper shouted with glee and off they ran.

From their exploratory rides, Shaker knew where a nice crossing was. He quickly got over. Betty and Sybil found the going a bit harder because once over the water, they needed to find some kind of deer trails. The undergrowth was almost impenetrable, easily as bad as Pattypan Forge.

Sister followed Shaker. That summer, the club had cut a big cross through the woods, a trail large enough for horses and one that terminated on each of the four sides of the large woods.

In front of the hounds ran twenty wild turkeys. Hounds ignored them. A few horses found the sharp-eyed birds unnerving.

The lead turkey, an old turkey hen, cast a hard, bright eye at Aztec, the imposing horse leading the field.

“Mind your manners. I can fly right up in your long face.”

“Bother,” exhaled Aztec, who saw turkeys in the pasture often.

“Pauline, don’t start something,” the turkey immediately behind the lead turkey advised.

“This is our territory. These creatures need to be put in their place.” Pauline flickered her long tail, but she did scurry away just a bit faster.

X-man, a green horse ridden by Sam Lorillard, snorted. “What if they all fly up? I hate that sound.”

Sam would ride Crawford’s green horses with The Jefferson Hunt to season them. As it was his day off, Crawford felt he was getting free labor although he was loath to admit a day with Sister helped a horse more than a day with him.

Nighthawk, Kasmir’s beloved best mount, advised X-man, “They have brains the size of a pea. Ignore them.”

“I resent that. You’re the peabrain.” The last turkey at the rear of the line clucked as she hurried to catch up.

As the line disappeared in tall grass their movements reminded Sister of that old dance the Turkey Trot, except that the turkeys did it better.

Right after the turkey parade, a confused squirrel paused for a moment, then prudently shot up a tree.

Far ahead of the field, hounds continued their cry, but the line was fading. They lost it at the edge of the woods.

“Dammit!” Trooper cursed.

The racket disturbed a barred owl, now awake and crabby. The golden-eyed bird looked down at them from her hole in the tree trunk.

“Vulgarians,” she issued her verdict.

The vulgarians, confused and irritated, sought the line in a 360° radius. Finally reaching the hounds, Shaker held up to watch. Anyone can thrill to their pack in full cry but to watch them work was Shaker’s joy, and Sister’s as well. Given the narrowness of the passage she stopped fifty yards behind him, but some of the hounds worked back toward her.

The huntsman allowed them ten minutes, deemed it futile, and called them to her.

Sister looked behind her. “Huntsman.”

Shaker yelled out before people tried to back into the mess. “Master, just turn around and go out. Let’s get back in the pasture.”

When they reached the pasture, hounds cast again. They tried for another hour but to no avail.

Not about to brave the cold, Close Shave’s new owners waved from the kitchen windows when the field rode by. Shaker took off his hat and Sister tapped hers with her crop. The field followed suit.

A stiff wind rolled down the mountains. Clouds backed up on the crest.

Shaker blew hounds back to him and rode up to Sister. “I think we’re done. This will be a very good fixture.”

“Yes, it will. God bless Cindy Chandler. We’ve got some work to do, but that’s hunting, isn’t it?” Sister smiled, and turned Aztec as they walked back to the trailers.

A small tailgate marked the first hunt at Close Shave. Derek and Mo Artinstall allowed the club to tailgate in an old well-built, six-stall empty barn. Putting on a hunt breakfast was a great deal of work. Sister and Walter would never ask for such a gift from a landowner. In fact, they were happy to use the barn. Somehow it fit the spirit of the group. Out of the wind, director’s chairs and card tables set up, people were warm enough in their coats, some changing to down jackets for the tailgate.

Taking Tuesdays off, Walter had bought a variety of Woodford Reserve bourbons, each having been aged in different casks. Ribbons in hunt green colors adorned the necks of the bottles. These stood open on one card table with a large card, hunt scene on the front.

“Everyone, sign the thank-you card to celebrate our first hunt at Close Shave,” said Walter. “I’ll drop this off at the Artinstalls when we’re finished.”

One by one people came up, removed their gloves, blew on cold fingers, signed their names.

“How did you like Mumtaz?” Sister asked Alida.

“Ravishing. The mare is one of the best horses I have ever ridden.” Alida glowed.

Kasmir joined the two ladies, bearing two cups of bracing tea. “Would you all like a spike with that?”

Sister kissed him on the cheek. “You’re spike enough, Kasmir. Alida gave Mumtaz a good ride.”

“Ah, my girl needs a good rider. I bump along,” he demurred modestly.

“Kasmir, you’re a wonderful rider.” Alida complimented him honestly, for he was.

“A wonderful man.” Sister dearly loved Kasmir, praying as did everyone who was drawn to him that he would find happiness.

Mercer signed the card, then joined the others. As it was a small field, most everyone crowded around the Master and staff.

“Why don’t we all sit?” Sister invited everyone. “I don’t know why but my legs are tired.”

Those who brought their director’s chairs pulled them over. Always organized, Walter had carried bales of straw on the back of his truck, plus a few in his trailer. He’d placed them around the chairs and everyone gratefully sank onto canvas or straw.

Phil remarked, “It is funny how you can ride hard one day, no aches. Not much another day and you’re shot.”

“Low pressure,” Freddie Thomas offered.

“Well, a nip of spirits should pick up everyone’s pressure.” Mercer held up his plastic cup. “Say, whatever happened to our stirrup cups, the ones with fox heads?”

“Mercer, no one is carrying stirrup cups to a meet unless it’s a joint meet or a high holy day,” said Tedi Bancroft, who always found Mercer amusing.

“We need more elegance,” Mercer declared with conviction.

“Oh, Mercer.” Sam shrugged. “You’ve been saying that since grade school. Since you discovered Hubert de Givenchy.”

The crowd laughed.

Phil offered a toast. “To Mercer, first flight of sartorial splendor.”

“Hear! Hear!” They all agreed.

People wanted to amuse Mercer, especially those who had been at his grandfather’s somber reburial. No one could forget Daniella and most knew how demanding she was of Mercer.

They chattered among themselves.

Seated across from Phil, Sister smiled. “Remind me to carry a director’s chair.”

He wiggled on his straw bale, too. “Sticks right where it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“By the way, thank you for the extensive pedigrees for Matchplay and Midshipman. I enjoy reading pedigrees. Going back through the names brings back memories.”

“Yes, it does,” Phil agreed enthusiastically. “I suppose most everyone measures their life by music, sports, books, movies, special occasions. For us, it’s horses, great runs.”

“That it is. Gray, Tootie, and I were looking at photographs of old horses. It’s interesting how some sires leave a stamp, and others not so much. Given Midshipman’s line, of course, we went back to Navigator. A very nice-looking horse with what was then thought of as a lackluster pedigree.”

Mercer leaned forward. “Proved them wrong.”

“I think it was the Ca Ira blood, the old French Thoroughbred who was Navigator’s sire,” Phil said. “No one knew much about him.”

“Ca Ira.” Kasmir popped up. “An eighty-gun frigate, French, that had the misfortune to battle Lord Nelson.”

“How do you know such things?” Alida was impressed.

“Going to school in England helped.” Kasmir smiled. “You do learn everything about Admiral Lord Nelson.”

“You did. I bet the others all forgot it,” Alida teased him.

Phil referred back to the photographs. “Hard to tell too much from those old pictures but you sure could see the good cannon bone on Ca Ira.”

“One doesn’t think of the French when one thinks of Thoroughbreds, or Germans either,” mused Gray.

“Given that those people had been at war with one another for centuries, that makes sense. Never give the other country credit,” Alida remarked, which made most of the others realize she was more than beautiful.

Phil asked Sister, “Must have been a scavenger hunt finding old photographs?”

“Anything is easy when you have Tootie and Gray. Put them in front of a computer.”

Tootie said, “It kind of started with Przewalski’s horse. Dr. Hinson told me I needed to study the evolution of the horse. That led to DNA.” She paused. “Dr. Hinson was so smart and she told me that one really breeds to families more than individuals. She said you needed the right mix. A horse like Benny Glitters from a great family is as rare as Mr. Chetwynd’s Navigator. Dr. Hinson said horses usually breed true. Well, she said people do, too.”

“She was right,” Phil agreed. “I’ll miss Penny. A terrible loss, both as a vet and someone who could see the big equine picture.”

Mercer nodded in agreement. “No date set for her service?”

“Not that I know of,” Sister confirmed.

“Medical Examiner. Takes time,” Sam replied simply.

“Well, how many suspicious deaths can there be in February? They can’t be that backed up.” Mercer put an entire chocolate chip cookie into his mouth.

“Who knows?” Freddie raised her eyebrows. “But you do associate violent crime with hot weather. At least, I do.”

“All the more reason to be a white-collar criminal.” Sam laughed. “Not seasonal.”

“Do you ever think that Crawford made his fortune illegally?” Phil asked.

“No. Not for one minute,” Sam responded instantly.

“Umm.” Phil changed course. “It’s good of him to let you hunt with us on Tuesdays.”

“It’s usually my day off,” said Sam, “but he is pretty good about it, especially if I bring along a green horse. Some learn more quickly than others. The trick is to be consistent.”

“Sam, I still say Crawford needs to get into racing.” Mercer ate another cookie, a pang of guilt accompanying the pleasure.

“He’s not going to hear that from me.” Sam tired of Mercer nudging him, always nudging him.

Phil stood up to look out the large glass windows in the closed barn door. “Windier.”

Cindy Chandler got up, too. “This is the winter that refuses to end, isn’t it?”

Sam and Gray talked to Mercer a bit more as the group started to break up.

“I’ll fold up the tables, put the bales back on your truck so you can go drop off the bottles,” Phil offered. “Otherwise, you’ll be here for another half hour.”

“Thank you.” Walter smiled.

“Mercer.” Phil called to his old friend to help him.

People removed their plastic food boxes from the card tables. No food was left. Mercer and Phil folded the card tables as the others folded their chairs.

Kasmir and Alida walked outside to his trailer. She thanked him again for allowing her to ride Mumtaz.

“Will you be hunting Thursday or Saturday?” He paused. “Of course, you will. You can ride Kavita Thursday and Mumtaz again on Saturday.”

“Kasmir, I can’t take advantage of you like that.”

“You’re not. My horses need to go out.”

“Mumtaz is gray. Did you ever read Tesio?” She named the great Italian breeder of the first half of the twentieth century. “He thought grays a mutation.”

“Yes. Tesio and the Aly Khan are worth study. But I don’t agree with the mutation theory, do you?”

“No. But then I look at paints and pintos, color horses. I don’t really know too much about their backgrounds but they aren’t as refined as Thoroughbreds. Thoroughbreds don’t come as paints. Although I bet there’s one somewhere out there.” She cupped her chin for a moment in her gloved hand.

“Bet not.” Kasmir held up five fingers for a five-fingered bet.

“You’re on.”

They batted this back and forth, each becoming colder by the moment.

Freddie called from her truck. “Alida!”

“All right,” Alida called back.

“I’ll bring your horse Thursday.”

“Kasmir, allow me to come to your stable. I can tack up my own horse. That way I’d get to know her a little bit.”

“Well—”

“Really, I like doing my own grooming and tacking up.”

“All right. Perhaps—Mmm, the fixture is forty minutes from my place—perhaps an hour and a half before the first cast?”

“I’ll be there.” Then with a mischievous glint to her eye she said over her shoulder, “I respect your opinion, but I think mine is better.” She burst out laughing.

He laughed, too, slipped into the cab of his truck, and the tears came. His late wife would say that to him constantly.

“Thank you, my love,” he whispered.