The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 1 2

Tradition binds us to the dead for good or for ill. Hunting defines human cooperation. It was probably the first large-scale enterprise we undertook as a species. Language and technology started with the chase. Architecture developed later, agriculture is even more recent in the lurching progress of Homo sapiens, agriculture being perhaps fourteen thousand years old.

Drawings on Egyptian tombs show hounds walking out on long couple straps prior to being released to chase, by sight, their quarry. Homer mentions hunting with hounds in The Odyssey. Asian and European civilizations hunted, but it took the English to raise hunting to an art.

Then as now, the money flowed to those who could handle hounds, horses. Blacksmiths, saddlers, bootmakers, tailors, purveyors of foodstuffs for humans, horses, hounds, real estate agents all benefited from hunting. Herdsmen did, too, as hunts removed their fallen stock, saving the farmer or shepherd a great deal of effort.

Originally hunting foxes fell into the lower class of venery. Stag hunting, boar hunting had pride of place. By the end of the seventeenth century, at the dawn of the great eighteenth century, foxhunting took over. The venue for those seeking to make a place for themselves in politics, in society, now rested with a cunning foe, the fox.

The Enclosure Laws ensured that the fields of England, for the most part, were divided into lovely squares bound by hedges, fences, or double ditches. The rest of Europe kept to the old village-and-commons system, which is apparent if one flies low over France. But England went her separate way just as she went her separate way over religion during the reign of Henry VIII. Both divergences ensured a nation of freethinkers or, as a foxhunter would say, people who take their own line.

Chasing that red devil meant one would soar over wooden fences, oxers—a type of double jump—bullfinch (nasty) hedges, the odd gate, stone walls, deep ditches, and whatever else the farmer had constructed to keep his stock where it belonged.

The English also believed in giving the quarry a sporting chance. Americans refined this even further, in part because their lands were and remain much wilder. Also, cattle not sheep are the dominant animal in American pastures. The fox isn’t a pest in America unless you keep poultry. There is no need to kill foxes. The English farmer is within his rights to kill them as they destroy his newborn lambs just as a Wyoming sheep farmer is within his rights to shoot a coyote.

The traditions for the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada, Australia, in fact, wherever English is the language, remain unchanged. If a fox is viewed, hounds not yet on the line, the huntsman, ideally, should count to twenty before swinging hounds that way. Give the fox a fair chance to get moving. No hole, drain, or culvert can be stopped. The fox has every opportunity to pop down whatever underground chamber appeals to him. This has been the case in America but has only recently been put into practice in England.

The other tradition is that hounds have the right-of-way. There is no exception to this. A horse who kicks a hound must leave the field.

In counties where hunting is prevalent, those driving a car automatically slow. People should anyway as a matter of course, but those who don’t, if recognized, soon find themselves verbally accosted or in the social deep freeze. Hounds always have the right-of-way.

Never speak to a hound. Even if you were present at its birth, even if you walk out the pack daily, never speak to a hound. Only the huntsman and whippers-in may speak to the animal. Too many voices can confuse the hound and, worse, your big flannel mouth may cause the animal to lift its head.

The sound of “Hike to him,” “Hark,” or “Leave it” from a member of the field has caused huntsmen to just go off, a torrent of abuse following. Other, more diplomatic huntsmen, if hearing the sin, call the hound to them as quickly as possible. But the tradition is as it was in the time of the pharaohs: Never speak to a hound when hunting.

The animal wants to chase a fox, has been bred, trained, and loved so that it will do its job. There are more less-than-perfect-weather days than perfect, which means the hound is trying very hard to get a line, a thin enticing ribbon of scent. It never fails: the slow days are the days when sooner or later, the field starts talking. If ever hounds needed quiet, it’s on the difficult days. On great scenting days, even if some damned fool is blowing her mouth off, hounds won’t be distracted. The problem is, for true foxhunters, that most of the field hunt to ride instead of riding to hunt. If they aren’t tearing across the countryside, lurching over jumps, they’re bored. Good hound work means nothing to them. In fact, they don’t know it when they see it. And not one member out of a hundred will know the signs of a dishonest huntsman or master, ones who “arrange” for foxes or scent to appear. Honest masters and staff tolerate the rider types because they pay their subscription fees, which keep the whole show in business. It would be a barefaced liar of a huntsman or master who would say they didn’t love the days best when the field was small, weather bitter or iffy. The people in the field then are the true blues, the ones who love hounds, love the game.

By tradition, not only should one not speak to hounds, but one should not speak to the other hunters, especially at a check, when they sit and wait for hounds to recast themselves and find scent. Rarely is this observed, and even the best field master, if the field is huge, can’t enforce silence without sending an offender home. No one likes being draconian, but sometimes someone must be sent home because of bad manners. It certainly wakes everyone else up.

Sister Jane thought of these things as she prepared her kit for Opening Hunt. Always a gala occasion, she wanted to ensure that she presented a good example. Like most masters, she knew the real hunting would begin on the other side of the festive day.

In England, foxhunting begins November 1, the formal season. Americans usually determine Opening Hunt according to their latitude. Someone in upstate New York might start formal hunting in early October. By December the northern hunts, Canadian hunts, often shut down.

In Virginia, Opening Hunt will generally fall on the last Saturday of October or the first Saturday of November.

The Jefferson Hunt held to the first Saturday in November, in part because it’s close to November 3, St. Hubert’s Day, the patron saint of hunting. This particular Opening Hunt Saturday fell on November 5, the feast day of Zachary and Elizabeth, parents of John the Baptist. Still, it was close enough to St. Hubert’s Day.

The legend is that St. Hubert, a dissolute youth, was hunting on Good Friday when an enormous stag appeared, the cross shining between his mighty antlers. Thus was St. Hubert converted. He continued to hunt and breed hounds named for him, even when bishop of Maastricht and Liege. He died in A.D. 727, revered to this day. Churches are named after him, his blessings invoked by those in search of their quarry. Dedicated hunters, regardless of quarry, often have a St. Hubert’s medal tucked somewhere on their person or even a ring, the stag with the cross between its antlers.

Sister wore a St. Hubert’s ring on her wedding ring finger. Raymond bought it for her at a lovely jewelry store in Vienna, right across from the Spanish school. She wore it with her wedding ring. Adorned with oak leaves and acorns on the sides, it had worn down over the last forty years. Her wedding ring finally broke in two, ten years after Ray’s death, which was in 1991. What remained was St. Hubert’s ring, which seemed fitting.

On her right hand, the third finger, she wore a red-gold signet ring, a fox mask beautifully engraved. Her son gave it to her when he was thirteen. He paid for it himself, no help from his father, out of money he had earned repairing tack. RayRay liked working with his hands. Sister, not given to gusts of emotion, cried when she opened the green Keller & George box, to behold the simple, beautiful ring. She never took that ring off her finger. Ray Jr. was dead by the next Christmas.

Like most people, she harbored superstitions. She wore her grandfather’s pocket watch when hunting. Many’s the time as a child when, out hunting, she’d see her grandfather pull out his watch, flick open the case, and check the time.

So often her mind would go back to her husband and her son, two handsome men, in her estimation, anyway, and she’d remember them riding together, flying their fences, big smiles on their faces. She had hoped RayRay would inherit the mantle of master of foxhounds as well as his great-grandfather’s pocket watch.

Life has a funny way of working things out. Last year, after decades alone at the helm, she finally took on a joint master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, her husband’s natural son. It seemed that everyone knew but her. Even Walter’s father, while he lived, knew. When she found out she thought “The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.” As for Big Ray engaging in affairs, she didn’t hold it against him because she was having affairs of her own. However, she didn’t become pregnant. Now she rather wished she had.

Every marriage creates its own world, and while Sister’s marriage wasn’t conventional it was solid. They did love and support each other.

But that was all so long ago, and Opening Hunt was tomorrow. She refocused her attention on her attire.

Her top hat, her black shadbelly, her canary breeches hung in the closet. Her fourfold stock tie, pressed, was folded over a hanger. Her shirt, the banded collar fitting her neck with a half inch to spare, also hung there. Her canary gloves, buttersoft, rested on her Dehner boots, the patent-leather tops gleaming. Her hammerhead spurs sparkled. Her hat cord was already attached to the top hat so she wouldn’t fumble for it in the morning. All she would need to do was hook it on the inside back loop of her shadbelly collar.

She’d been foxhunting since she was six years old. Before that her mother and grandfather would take her out on a leadline. Even so, at seventy-two, she kept a list of everything she needed taped to her bureau. Sister had a horror of being incorrect in any fashion. Her only cheat was the thin garter strap that slipped through the tab at the back of her hunting boots. Before Velcro, a row of small flat buttons closed the breeches on your calf. The buttons ran all the way up to the knee. The garter strap slipped between the upper buttons. There were those who said it should go between the second and third button and those who argued for the first and second button. Centuries ago, the garter strap kept the boots in place. A few people argued that the garter strap kept the breeches in place. She finally gave it up because the leather rubbed her leg. She’d come back from the High Holy Days, Opening Hunt, Thanksgiving Hunt, Christmas Hunt, and New Year’s Hunt, with bloody legs. So far, no one commented on her slight rebellion. Then again, few knew the difference.

“Golly, that’s it. I can’t do any more.” She flopped into bed glad the fire in the fireplace warmed the room, which faced the northwest. “Don’t bring me any mice tonight. I need my sleep.”

“How about a juicy spider?” Golly teased.

“Even I won’t eat a spider,” Rooster mumbled as he rolled over on the rug beside the bed.

“You eat everything else.” Raleigh put his big paw on the harrier’s back leg.

“Is this going to be a chatty night? I need to sleep.”

The phone rang.

Golly put her paw on the receiver. “Hollywood calling.”

“Hello.”

“Honey, I’m at the airport. Sam’s coming to pick me up. I just couldn’t let Opening Hunt go without being there.” Gray Lorillard’s voice lifted her.

“I can’t believe you! You’ve come all the way back from San Francisco for Opening Hunt? I’m so happy!”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Did I ever tell you how good you look in a shadbelly?” He laughed. “I know you need your sleep so bye.”

“Bye.” She hung up the phone. “Gray’s home! I can’t believe it. Thank God I had my hair and nails done yesterday.”

“Why do women do their nails? They don’t have real nails.” Rooster thought it odd.

“Color,” Golly spoke authoritatively. “Humans don’t have much color. Their eyes, their hair but other than that they’re one color, white, black, brown, you get the idea. See, if a lady paints her nails it perks up the rather drab affair.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Rooster replied.

“They wear clothes. That’s colorful,” Raleigh said and lifted his paw off Rooster’s hind leg.

“Sure, but when they’re naked, no color.” Golly kept to her idea.

“What about men? Why don’t they do their nails?” Rooster was fascinated.

“Well, they do, I mean the ones who are very successful in business, but they don’t paint them. They buff them. Men can’t be colorful like women.”

“What about the pictures in some of the books Sister reads? Feathers and ruffles and stuff like that?” Raleigh noticed everything.

“That was when men were peacocks. All gone now.” Golly warmed to her subject. “Now the most powerful thing a man can wear is black and white, or gray with stripes for a morning suit, or white tie at night. White tie is even more powerful than black tie. All black and white.”

“You’d think they’d imitate us. We have varied coats.” Rooster was proud of his rich tricolor coat.

“Black and white.” Golly swayed a little.

“Not tomorrow. The men wear scarlet and the women are in black.” Raleigh liked getting one up on Golly, who was every bit as smart as he was and therefore a challenge.

“They get to be peacocks?” Rooster’s voice rose.

“A peacock that sits on its tail feathers is just another turkey.” Golly, irritated that Raleigh had found the exception that proves the rule, turned her back on the dogs on the floor to curl up by Sister’s side.

The phone rang again.

“Goddammit!” Sister picked it up and said in a modulated voice, “Hello.”

“Sister, this is Marty Howard and I’d like to bring a guest tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, Marty.”

“Well, it’s a last-minute thing and she only has black field boots. Might you overlook it?”

“If you can’t call around and find a pair of boots to fit her, of course.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night.” She hung up the phone. “Now I’m wide awake.” She grabbed the book next to the table, The Life of Frank Freeman, Huntsman by Guy Pagent, published in 1948 by Alfred Tacey, Limited, Leicester, England.

The phone rang again.

“I am going to rip this infernal thing out of the wall! Why are people calling me this late?” She picked it up. “Hello.”

A deep voice said, “If I reveal myself I’ll be killed. Al Perez had his hand in the till. He’s not alone.”

“What?”

Click.

She sat there for a moment, phone in hand, then put it back in the cradle. The odd tinty sound of the caller’s voice was unnerving.

“Close to home,” she said aloud as she dialed Ben Sidel.