The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 3 1

Mill Ruins, so named because of the massive stone gristmill, and the huge waterwheel still turning the gears inside, had been the estate of Peter Wheeler. Given Peter’s penchant for losing money, the word “estate” was used loosely. To the now-deceased Peter’s credit, he hung on, never selling one acre of land. He thought the mill would be a tourist attraction and he ground grain there. This provided enough cash to feed his horses, though not himself. Peter finally hired himself out as a lawyer, a profession he hated despite his training at the University of Virginia.

Christmas Hunt had been held at the Wheeler place—Peter was the seventh-generation Wheeler to live at the mill—since 1887. The hunt was usually held on the Saturday before Christmas unless that Saturday happened to be Christmas Eve. This year Saturday was December 24, so Christmas Hunt was December 17. Many clubs did go out on Christmas Eve, but long ago prior masters at the Jefferson Hunt determined it was too busy a day for most people to braid horses and spend four hours, more or less, in the saddle.

The “ruins” referred to the rest of the place as it began to fall into rack and ruin. Although he made a decent living at the prestigious law firm eager to have the Wheeler name attached to it, he spent only on his mill, his horses, his fencing, and his feed. At the end of his life, he lived mostly in the kitchen, with its fierce wood-burning stove, and a bed he put in the large pantry off the kitchen. He drove his 454 Chevy pickup proudly down to the office. His turnout, at work and in the hunt field, was always correct—he just didn’t care about the rest of it.

He fought daily with his neighbor, Alice Ramy. He knew foxhunting and he loved true foxhunters, which meant he loved Jane Arnold best of all. Their affair lasted for close to twenty-five years. A big, booming, rugged man with refined manners, Peter kept his looks way into his seventies. He loved Sister because she was strong, smart, and thought like a fox. Each was the other’s grand passion as far as people were concerned. Their true grand passion was foxhunting.

When Peter died peacefully sitting in his kitchen chair, he had willed Mill Ruins to Jefferson Hunt as well as the Chevy 454. Rooster, his young harrier, he personally willed to Sister.

As she sat atop Aztec gazing over the large field on this nippy Saturday morning, she thought of how fortunate she’d been with the men in her life. They were real men, accustomed to physical exertion; no task was too dirty or too difficult. Sister never could warm to soft men. Then again, she scared the bejesus out of them, so it worked out just fine.

The last Christmas of Peter’s life, he drove his truck—he could no longer ride as his hips had been shattered once too often—in full regalia: black weazlebelly, top hat, the works. She fought back the tears then and she fought back the tears now.

Walter lived at Mill Ruins, renting it from the hunt club. He had a long-term lease, which helped the coffers grow. He poured money into the place. Slowly, Mill Ruins returned to its former glory. It needed a wife, children, chickens, dogs, and cats running about to be absolutely perfect. Walter, however, did have a pet fox with one paw that had been amputated and a sweet little Welsh terrier.

Sister thought of Peter as Walter welcomed the crowd to his place on this, the third of the High Holy Days. She refocused on the present. Ninety-eight people sat on braided horses, puffs of condensed air escaping from their nostrils.

The Custis Hall girls with the exception of Tootie and Valentina, not big into the theater program, were decorating the Great Hall under Bill Wheatley’s direction. Apart from their absence most of the riding membership was present.

Aztec fidgeted. This was his first High Holy Day. He could feel the excitement from humans and horses.

Finally the formalities were over, Sister called “Hounds, please,” and off they walked down toward the great three-story mill, the millrace running hard and fast to the wheel. An arched stone bridge carried them over the millrace. As the wheel turned, flumes of water slid off the paddles, spraying thousands of rainbows into the air. The smell of water, of grain, of the damp stone foundation filled everyone’s nostrils. As they passed the mill, they came onto a wide farm road that ran through a small pasture and then into a heavy woods.

It wasn’t until he reached the woods that Shaker realized Lorraine was on a horse. He was so intense when hunting, in this case when he was holding the hounds, that he barely noticed the people. He glanced up once or twice but it only now registered. A grin crossed his face and he regretted that he couldn’t ride back to the Hilltoppers and give her the biggest kiss.

Heavy frost silvered the pastures, the low shrubs in the woods, some with bright red berries, a contrast to the world of silver, gray, brown, and black.

Delight whispered to Diddy, “What do you think?”

“Need the temperature to come up five degrees. Then even a human could put his nose to the ground and get it.”

“We can get something off the frost.” Trident also whispered because talking on the way to a cast is considered babbling.

None of the hounds wanted to be censured.

“Have to hit it right and be careful not to overrun. It’s not as hard as people make it out to be.” Ardent, older and wiser, quietly encouraged the younger hounds. “Go a little slower until you’re sure. You have a long nose to warm the air you inhale, so you’ll pick it up. Just be more deliberate.”

“Why didn’t Shaker cast us at the mill? All the foxes go there.” Diddy liked learning.

“Not sure.” Dreamboat wondered why, as well.

“Better to pick up a fox on the way to the mill than one on the way out. If he’s eaten any grain he’ll just turn around and go into the mill. This way we might get a longer run,” Ardent again explained. “There’s an art to it, kids. Shaker’s got it. Trust your huntsman.”

“What happens if you get a stupid huntsman?” Diddy wondered.

“Hounds ignore him and do what they want.” Ardent laughed. “Never been one at Jefferson Hunt. Never will be, not as long as Sister’s the human anchor hound.”

“Getting a little loose, kids,” Shaker quietly reprimanded them.

They continued walking, as he didn’t cast until they reached the edge of the woods and jumped over the lovely stone fencing into the pasture. He swung the hounds crosswind, then turned Gunpowder’s nose toward the woods. The hounds fanned out over the middle of the pasture but kept in mind the direction of Gunpowder. They’d work a big half circle before moving into the woods, where they would be directly into the light wind.

Dasher found a stale line. He kept with it, hoping it would freshen. It didn’t. So Cora, after checking that line, moved twenty yards away. Although mid-December, sometimes the grays will begin courting. Courting time varies greatly with how the foxes interpret the coming spring’s food supply. Somehow, they know. If it’s going to be an early, fecund spring, the grays will start in December in Virginia. The reds usually follow suit two to three weeks later.

Cora wanted to hit early. On a day like today, the fox had most of the advantages, but the sun washing over the pasture would warm the scent if a fox had crossed over.

Old lines continued to tantalize them but not enough to open. No point boohooing on a stale line. It might sound great to the humans but mostly you’d walk your fox to death if hounds even got close to him. If a Jefferson hound was going to open, it would open on a strong, fresh line. Therefore, they had to work together very well and possess great drive. Colder-nosed hounds don’t need all that much drive because they’ll always find something to talk about. The Jefferson hounds had good noses but they weren’t what’s called cold-nosed, as some other types of foxhounds are. Each type of foxhound has its devotee, and always for good reasons.

“Let’s go into the woods,” Cora commanded.

“Be colder in there.” Trinity questioned Cora’s judgment, not a good idea.

“Yes, it will, you impertinent pup! And the fox knows that, too. He’ll be a little more lax traveling through the underbrush. Don’t you ever question me again or I’ll roll you in front of everyone, humans included.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cora trotted ahead, leapt over the stone wall, landing on soft, moist earth. These woods, mostly hardwoods, carried a different scent than evergreen woods. The scent of pine could be overwhelming in those woods, beautiful though they were.

She put her nose down. The rest of the pack crawled or leapt over. On landing they moved forward like the front line of a football team. To anyone loving hound work, this was an impressive sight. Not one hound lagged behind or skirted off.

For twenty minutes they worked in silence, total dedication.

“I got it!” Trudy, thrilled to be the first, shouted.

Cora noted the direction of Trudy’s travel, ran ahead of her by ten yards, put her nose down, and honored the third-year bitch’s finding. The rest of the pack fell on the line so quickly that Shaker didn’t have to blow the tripled notes in succession. He went right to one long note, tripled notes, repeating this three times. Betty and Sybil, on either side of the pack but about a quarter mile out, heard and knew it was time to press on.

Sister patted Aztec’s neck, held him a moment so Shaker could get far enough ahead of her that she wouldn’t crowd him, then she squeezed the six-year-old Thoroughbred and he answered with a smooth surge of power like the acceleration of a Mercedes 500S.

Sister reached the farm road in the woods. When the hounds turned hard left, she picked up the deer trail that Shaker, too, had picked up.

She emerged on the other side of the woods, where a twenty-acre field of Alamo switchgrass waved in the wind. This was one of Walter’s forage experiments. Turned out to be useful for cattle but not much good for horses. The mice, ground nesters, and foxes sure liked it, though.

The hounds were in the switchgrass. Sister could see the long slender grasses bending as the hounds moved through. She usually rode around the outside of any planted field, but Walter yelled up, “Go on. I don’t care.”

Heeding her joint master’s advice, she plunged into the tall grasses, some swishing up over her feet, tickling Aztec’s belly.

The music filled the air, a crescendo as sweet as Bach to a musician. Deep voices, middle voices, and the odd high notes of younger hounds blended into a chorus that had thrilled mankind since before the pyramids were built.

Artemis smiled on the hounds today. The mercury crept up to forty-two degrees, the air moist, low, the sky various shades of gray. Scenting was perfect.

Sister and Aztec blew through the twenty acres in a few heartbeats to soar over a tiger trap jump in the new fence line Walter built himself. They galloped down into a crevice in the next meadow, a tiny rivulet feeding a larger creek some half mile off, bisecting this whole meadow, which was in redbud clover. Aztec, beautifully balanced, powered over the frosty pasture. Then over an imposing hog’s back jump, two strides, and a drop jump from the bank onto another low farm road heading at a ninety-degree right angle straight west.

The fox followed the shady part of the road, tiny ice crystals jutting out of the earth. This slowed the hounds down slightly, but the minute he crossed over another frosty redbud clover meadow, they picked up speed.

They flew through Mill Ruins in half an hour, soon finding themselves on a pre–Revolutionary War farm called Cocked Hat. Fortunately, the owners allowed the hunt to pass through. After being slowed by some old barbed-wire fences, Sister and the field were soon on their way but had to press to catch up with the hounds.

The fox turned back east. They had to stop again, throw coats over the old barbed-wire fences, jump over, and go. Whoever left their coat on the wire could either stop to pick it up or leave it, returning for it later. The pace was so good that Walter, who had dismounted to put his coat on the wire, thought “the hell with it,” and chose to ride in his vest and shirt. He was sweating. He also made note to finally panel Cocked Hat. It was last on everyone’s list because the foxes rarely came this way.

If the fox was tiring he gave no evidence, for Betty, keen-eyed, caught sight of him vaulting over a fallen tree, serenely running on toward the hundred-acre enclosure called Shootrough, the very back of Mill Ruins. Peter had set up his clay pigeons here and Walter, sensibly, worked from close to the house out. It would be another three years before he cleaned up this field and fixed the fences; although the old snake fencing held, a few places sagged.

The fox leapt onto the top of the snake fencing and nimbly loped along, jumping over the places where the split rails crossed. He then jumped off, ran straight and true down to the strong creek that fed, finally, the millrace. He didn’t use the creek at that point but ran alongside it, neatly stepping on stones or anything to foil his scent.

Betty, keeping him in sight and riding hard on Magellan, marveled at this big red’s sangfroid.

Finally, he launched into the creek, swimming downstream, letting the current do most of the work. He clambered out two hundred yards later, shook himself, then trotted to his den, the main entrance being under the exposed roots of an enormous willow twenty yards from the stream but high up, for the ground rose up. Betty could see other holes in the ground from where she stopped, some cleverly concealed and others out in the open.

She breathed deeply, as did Magellan. They waited. The hounds sounded fabulous as they drew closer. She saw Cora and Dragon running neck and neck, the rest of the pack behind them by a few paces. Dragon flung himself into the main entrance. Cora followed.

As Shaker galloped up, Betty moved to him, wordlessly taking his reins as he dismounted.

He blew “gone to ground,” then patted each hound, praising them by name.

He mounted up, gathered the pack, turned toward the field.

“Big night tonight,” Sister said, glowing with happiness for the morning’s run. “Let’s go in.”

“Right you are,” he said, then rode alongside the field, stopping at the Hilltoppers, where Bobby Franklin doffed his hunt cap in appreciation of the excellent sport.

Shaker touched his cap with his crop, rode right up alongside Lorraine. He took off his cap, leaned over, and kissed her.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, smiled bigger than anyone remembered seeing him smile, put his cap back on, and rode back to the trailers at the mill. He whistled and sang to himself the whole way.

The hounds just thought it was the best.