The only dicey part for those braving the weather was the one mile of secondary road before turning off to Crawford’s road. Everybody crawled along and arrived to park in front of the hunter stables. Fifteen sturdy souls arose in darkness for the morning’s hunt. True foxhunters, they knew today was the kind of day when one could ride on the chase of the season.
And they weren’t far wrong, because the hounds cast promptly at nine and by ten minutes after the hour, Asa, wise in his seventh season, caught a whiff of fresh rabbit blood. He flanked the pack, put his nose down, and tracked the scent droplets in the snow to a small covert folded into the land.
“He’s in the covert!” Asa called out and the other hounds honored him.
A big red dog fox, hearing the music, bolted out the other end of the small covert.
Betty, on Magellan, who danced about, saw him shoot northeast so the light wind would be at his tail. No fool, this fellow.
“Tally ho!” Betty called out.
Sister slipped and slid as they cantered down the slope. Going up the slight rise proved easy enough, and by the time they crested it, she and the small field could see the beautiful sight of a red fox against white snow in the distance running flat out, the whole pack as one behind him.
The snowflakes stung as they hit Sister’s face, caught in her eyelashes. The cold awakened everyone but most especially the horses, who loved days like today. Snow flew off hooves; some large clumps smacked people’s chests like hard snowballs.
A black coop, half white on the bottom now, loomed ahead. Shaker soared over it on Gunpowder, white as the snow himself. Sister and Rickyroo popped over but as successive riders took it, the footing grew ever more treacherous. The last four horses over rode straight to the base and popped way up and over.
Against the snow, everyone could see the red figure diminishing up ahead. The snow impeded him but it slowed the hounds, too. As they were heavier, they sank down into it.
A zigzag fence was ahead and the riders took their own line coming back together on the other side of the lovely old snake fencing. The fox sped over the next large field, dashed into a thick woods. His perfect paw prints announced his progress to human eyes because he was harder to see once in the woods. He ducked into underbrush.
Dragon and Trident, fast, nudged ahead of Cora. Both boys closed on the fox. Dragon lunged for him, jaws snapping, and the red jumped up in the air, turned a ninety-degree angle, and again ducked under thick brush that proved tough going for Dragon and Trident, but they persevered.
A crystal-clear deep creek lay ahead, the banks steep, filled with ice, too. He launched into the creek, swimming downstream, scrambling out on the other side. He gained two minutes on his pursuers with this tactic because they all crashed into the creek, then had to pick up his scent on the other side, which took a few moments since they clambered out higher up than he did.
Sister gave Rickyroo a hard squeeze. He soared over the creek, landing cleanly on the other side. He didn’t like the reflections from ice but he was learning—he was seven—that the old girl on his back was trustworthy. She didn’t ask him to do anything stupid.
A mass of boulders, jumbled together like a giant’s discarded building blocks, marked the edge of the heavy woods. The fox dove into his den at the base of the smooth gray rock.
The hounds dug at the rock. Shaker praised them. As he swung his right leg over he glanced down, noticing to his right fresh bear tracks. He put his right foot back in the stirrup. He blew“gone to ground” very briefly from the saddle, then turned the pack in the opposite direction of the tracks.
Sister rarely questioned her huntsman. His abrupt departure keyed up her already heightened senses. She turned and followed, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Gray, Sam, Tedi, Edward, and others behind her.
No sooner had they moved into the rolling white field on the other side of the woods than the hounds struck again. This scent was older but strong enough to give another ripping twenty-minute run. Miraculously no one slipped and went down. At least going down in snow is better than on hard-baked earth.
By the time they returned to the trailers, wiped down their horses, and threw blankets over them, everyone was exhilarated and exhausted.
Marty had her cook prepare a hot breakfast at the long hunt table. The luxury of sitting at a table instead of balancing a plate on one’s lap couldn’t have come at a better time.
Sausages, bacon, hot flaky biscuits, eggs, steaming steel-cut oatmeal, pancakes, waffles, pastries as well as the ubiquitous ham biscuits covered the table. Marty even had the cook fill the tureen with bubbling chipped beef gravy.
Crawford sat at the head of the table with Sister at his right. Marty commanded the other end, Walter at her right.
Once the warm food hit everyone’s stomach as well as some bracing coffee or tea, a few coffees laced with bourbon, the volume of conversation in the room rose.
Shaker was usually reluctant to join a breakfast for he had many chores, but once he knew the hounds were snuggling down in deep straw and had plenty of fresh water, and Marty had Rory give everyone biscuits, he came to the table. His presence delighted everyone and he was peppered with questions. This hard-core group truly wanted to know about hound work. Even Crawford, not a hound man, feigned interest.
“Let the poor man eat first,” Marty good-naturedly ordered.
As the merriment continued, Crawford addressed Sister.“You know, Saturday, when we rode past St. John’s of the Cross, I thought what a good thing, to have a chapel of one’s own.”
Knowing him, she replied,“When are you going to start and are you using clapboard, brick, or stone?”
He smiled at her as he nibbled a piece of Canadian bacon. He put it on his plate.“Well, stone is impressive.”
“Your stone pillars certainly are.”
“I was thinking the same type of stone.”
“You know you place the altar facing south.” She ate her oatmeal laced with orange blossom honey. She didn’t know what she liked more, oatmeal or honey.
“No.”
“Always.”
Tedi, on Crawford’s left, gleefully told him, “Crawford, as you know, my father’s family was from Connecticut, so you might say I have double vision. I can see both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. When one is south of the line, the altar is south because no true southerner will worship with his face to the north.”
“Good God,” Crawford exploded genially, “doesn’t anyone ever forget?”
“No” was said in unison.
“Gray, Sam, doesn’t all this worship of the Confederacy worry you?” Crawford asked.
Sam deferred to his brother.
“Those who do not know their past are doomed to repeat it,” Gray stated.
This set off a lively conversation, which delighted Crawford. He considered himself a Renaissance man even if he appeared nouveau riche to others. Better nouveau riche than nouveau pauvre.
“What shall you name your church?” Sister returned to his building project.
“I was thinking of St. Swithun, a good English saint.”
Tedi wrinkled her brow.“Oh, dear, all I remember is if it rains on St. Swithun’s Day it will rain for forty days following. July 15. So much for my catechism studies.”
“We think of you as St. Tedi.” Sister laughed at her old friend.
“Lots of St. Theodores, but they’re men.” Crawford read history constantly and since saint days and the ecclesiastical calendar bound Western culture for close to two thousand years, he was a font of information on such subjects, as was Sister.
“We’ll make a new saint, then,” Sister said as she ate a second bowl of oatmeal.