The Fox Hunt

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We sometimes read about cruel blood sports, not a very good combination of words.

The only sport, so-called, that I know that has any blood about it is boxing, or to use a better word prize fighting. Even in this sport the participants do not have to stand and be half-killed, if they don't want to be, and the dice are not loaded against one or the other.

If we talk about hunting or shooting, the hunted are at a grave disadvantage as are the things being shot at, but we still call it sport. My kind of sport for many years has been twelve-bore shooting, shooting the usual kinds of animal or bird. Mainly vermin like rabbits or pigeons. A few wild ducks and perhaps a goose at morning flight on the wild Solway coast, and I can tell you that to wait exposed to the bitter winds and storms, for some hours, for perhaps just one shot at a target which in the half light is faint, fast and very wild, is not the most comfortable of things to do on a winter morning. However the target is still at a grave disadvantage.

Now after many years of killing and I suppose maiming I find I feel more guilty every time I go out shooting. It's not so bad killing a bird or beast cleanly, with one quick shot, but there are many occasions when the thing is only wounded, and then one is called to dispatch it with one's hands. And each time I do this, and see the look of terror in the eye of whatever it may be, it sickens me and I swear I will stop shooting. Whichever way I look at it these days it is cruel and I cannot call it sport. I have often wondered how many people would go shooting if the things they intend to shoot had a gun as well. Not many I'll bet.

Still, I think that this kind of sport is not nearly so inhuman as some others. Like Fox Hunting. Now to hunt a fox is not so bad if when the fox after running perhaps six or eight miles, at last finds an earth which has not previously been stopped up and goes to ground, the only refuge it has, and is left to live another day. But these so-called gentlemen are not satisfied with this. They then dig it out and let the dogs tear it to pieces, whilst they stand around and congratulate themselves on what a good day they have had.

Or they who hunt the Badger, that does no-one any harm at all. He lives on rats, or mice, or beetles. He might sometimes have a young rabbit if he is quick enough to catch one, or find a nest which he can dig out. He has no chance at all. If they had to find a dog brave enough to make him leave his set, that might be a little fairer, but they must dig him out and let the dogs pull him to pieces, whilst they stand around and gloat. He is not as well placed as the fox, the fox can run, but the old badger can hardly run at all, he just waddles along like an old man.

Or like those people who hunt the Stag. Not in its own habitat, but on ground it has never been before, and which it doesn't know. If they hunted it in its native countryside, in Scotland, or in the hills of the north, they would not kill so many, and indeed may kill themselves.

Or they who hunt the Hare with a pack of hounds, the March Hare, that comedian of our moors and downs, surely they can never have seen his wild leaps and rolls, his playing tig in the meadow, as he does his courting. Or watched his queer loping gait as he meanders along the hedge in search of his favourite titbits. They are only interested in his almost human scream, as the dogs tear him in pieces. My shooting was never as cruel as this. It was mostly quick and painless. Not always so I will agree with you, but never as inhuman.

This particular fox, which I really began to tell you of and which I seem to have forgotten about, didn't die the kind of death I have mentioned. She died quickly, and painlessly, at the hand of a friend of mine.

She had been sorely hunted, and after trying all the earths round about, and finding them stopped up, she tried to take shelter in the bushes where he was standing, waiting for the pigeons to come to feed. He told me afterwards that she came into the bushes, and stood not three yards from him. A picture of utter dejection, her tongue hanging out and her brush dropping on to the ground wet with sweat, and panting painfully. She died without knowing and as well she did, it was a better death than the one in store for her.

This friend of mine, whom I have known for many years, and with whom I have had many good times and some not so good, we have shot many pigeons and rabbits together, and other things as well. He is a gentle man, not a gentleman like the ones who hunt the fox. How can they be gentlemen? He has a way with wild things, like some folk have with plants. Well he had green fingers, as we say the gardening people have. He knows all there is to know about growing mushrooms. His father was one of the first people on Sussex to grow mushrooms for a living, and he passed the knowledge on to his son Sam, I called this buddy of mine. It wasn't his name, but it is the one my wife and I always used.

He was the general factotem on an estate in the village where I live. As I said he grew mushrooms, he looked after quite a lot of glass where he grew tomatoes and cucumbers and things like that for market. He could tile a roof, or build a flint wall, or make a window, or build a wall almost as good as a bricklayer.

He did the gamekeeping, he built traps and caught pheasants for breeding, and reared them under a broody hen. In fact he could turn his hand to almost anything and make a good job of it.

I remember him taking five wickets in six balls one day whilst I fielded at slip to him. He balled five yorkers and could hardly ball the last ball for laughing, and we won a game we ought to have lost easily. He played snooker almost as well as a professional, winning the individual cup on a number of occasions at our British Legion Club. But above all he was a shooting man like myself. I never aspired to his prowess. He was a wonderful shot, particularly of anything on the wing. It was quite uncanny the way he could choose the best place to shoot.

Pigeon shooting is rather different to other kinds of shooting, they aren't hunted like most of the other things one shoots. The method used is to first find where they are feeding, then find a place nearby that will give some kind of cover, a hedge, or spinney, or the edge of a wood. Here a hide is made with whatever material is at hand, and the better the hide, the more chance there is of being successful. Pigeons have very good eyes, and they can see the smallest movement. So that one can't be too well covered up, and yet one must have enough room to swing the gun, and not so much cover that makes it impossible to see the birds early enough. One must take into consideration the wind direction, the position of the sun, the most likely direction in which the birds will approach.

It is better to have some decoys to begin with. Failing this it is imperative to shoot one or two quickly, no matter how, even if they are sitting in a tree, when one would not normally shoot them. The dead birds are propped up to look as lifelike as possible. The eyelids are pulled off, and a small twig stuck in the throat to prop up the head, facing into the wind about thirty or so yards away from the hide. Then one waits and hopes. They don't always return after being disturbed when one begins, but most often they will if the food is there. As the dead birds are picked up they are put up as decoys until there are a dozen or more all looking just like live birds, and when so many have been shot one can as a rule keep shooting for some hours.

Dawn is the best time of all, and if one can get a good number of decoys soon after it has got light, then one can shoot more or less all day. There is usually a lull about midday, when it seems the birds rest, with a full crop, and then begin feeding again an hour or so later, and keep on until dusk, when they begin to think about roosting.

So, this is what we were doing when the fox met its untimely death. It was a Saturday, and we got to our appointed place quite late, some time after midday. We could hear the Hunt round about as we walked over the downs, and hoped they would go the other way, or at least away from the beech wood where we intended to shoot. We had met up with them before today, and they often spoilt our sport, frightening the birds away. Sam had been round this particular bit of the downs in the early morning, feeding the pheasants. They were to have a shoot there the following week. He said there had been a lot of pigeons there then, and we were looking forward to a good day.

I remember there were no birds about when we got there, but as I have said, it was midday and they were probably resting. I chose the place I would stand. I always had first choice and invariably chose the wrong place. However we both decided it looked a good place, and Sam went off to find a place for himself. We usually stood about a hundred yards apart. The Hunt sounded quite close, and I was not very happy about that. However they could easily be two or three miles away in a few minutes, and I did not worry unduly.

I made a hide, which I thought looked quite good, and made myself as comfortable as I could, finding a dry place for my cartridges and keeping an eye open for a likely shot. We had no decoys as yet. We had not used this place before, and it was quite new to me. My hide was in a long spinney which ran at right angles to a big beech wood. I stood about fifty yards from where the wood and spinney met. Sam I saw had gone rather a long way away, and stood in the edge of the beeches.

I waited quite a while, and then I heard Sam shoot. I saw no sign of pigeons, and thought he had probably shot at one roosting in the trees, to get one for a decoy. I waited, now on the alert, but no birds came, and I thought he must have missed, or he had shot a squirrel.

However after a minute or so I heard someone approaching through the spinney from the direction of the wood, and Sam approached. I wondered what was wrong, thinking at first that he had decided to move somewhere else. I was quite wrong, as he came up I saw that he was carrying a fox. A very dead fox, and I thought surely he hasn't shot that. He looked very guilty when I looked at him.

"You didn't shoot that?"

"I did", said Sam, "and I'm b_____ glad I did poor little b_____. It came and stood in front of me, about three yards away, its tongue out six inches and its tail on the ground, and it was so clapped out it couldn't see me. Better for me to kill it, than let those bl____ dogs get it."

I agreed with him, but at the same time I could see that we were going to be in trouble unless a miracle happened. The Hunt was very close, and I felt sure this was the fox they were hunting. Sam said "Maybe not", but I knew he didn't think it could be any other fox they were after.

"What are you going to do with it?" I asked, wondering what we could do. I thought of running home with it before they came up with us, but knew it was too late for that now. In any case they would follow the scent, and I would look daft running in front of about thirty dogs trying to beat them to Sam's cottage, which was about a mile away.

Sam said "I'll put it down that rabbit hole just behind us, it's a deep one and they'll never find it there," and off he went to dispose of the fox. The sound of the Hunt was getting closer every second and and I expected to see them appear at any moment.

Sam came back, he'd only been away half a minute, so he couldn't have taken it very far.

"It'll be alright there," said he, "they'll never find it there," knowing all the time they would. He turned to go back to his hide, but I thought not.

"I'll come with you then, I don't want to be left as close as this. I know they'll find it," and we stood and looked at each other and had a laugh. Neither of us felt like laughing really but it had its funny side, and anyhow we could do little about it now.

We thought the pigeons had moved. Sam thought the Hunt had disturbed them because there had been hundreds there this morning. Did I think we should move somewhere else?

Too late now, the first huntsman appeared round the end of the beeches, only a quarter of a mile away, and he came directly towards us, trotting on his horse, and half a dozen hounds close to him. And as they passed the place where Sam had shot the fox he said "There, what did I tell you, they've lost the scent or they would have been barking their heads off." For a minute I thought he may be right, they do bark when they think they are close to a kill. The first few hounds were round about us now, and as we stood and watched the huntsman canter towards us they sniffed and smelt all round and just ignored Sam and I.

The huntsman made a pretty sight as he came along the grey stubble. The tall beeches were just beginning to turn colour, the dark green foliage was dotted here and there with autumn gold and brown, their smooth boles shining in the afternoon sunshine. A blackbird came dashing out of the wood telling everyone something was amiss, as it no doubt was as far as Sam and I were concerned. The red coat, black cap, white breeches and shining black boots of the huntsman were just like one sees them on picture postcards, as he cantered towards us, and the few hounds all around him, nearly under the horse's feet. He pulled up in front of us, and touched his cap with his crop. You could see the sweat on the horse, and the mud bespattered legs. His nice red coat didn't look so nice now, it had faded a bit here and there, and the white breeches had been mended a few times at the knees, and were stained and not too clean.

"Did you see her go past?" he asked.

"No," from both of us.

"Funny, she was making this way, and the dogs think so too."

"No, we didn't see her," from Sam, "perhaps she doubled back to that earth by the old barn."

"No, she can't have done that, the Hunt are all strung out along that way, we've just brought her down from that direction. No, she's somewhere here, I'm sure."

Three or four other riders had caught up now, and stood round, their horses restive and eager to get on with the job, and get home for a rest and some fodder. Two more red coated huntsmen arrived, one of them a very busy fellow, small, and he rode the biggest horse of all. He had a long whip, and wouldn't give the dogs a minute's rest, taking a flick at the first one, then another, "Come here," "Go there," "Sit down," "Get out of the way." The dogs didn't know what to do. He madam'd this person and sir'd that one, and moved round all the time.

Soon there were twenty riders all around Sam and I, and I felt like a guilty schoolboy in front of the headmaster, knowing there was no escape. Sam and I were dressed in our oldest clothes, and no doubt did look rather like two tramps or poachers. A bag of cartridges on our shoulder, a gun under our arm, and had we not been hiding in the bushes as the Hunt approached?

"You must have seen her, I know she came this way," said the small man, looking at me rather than Sam. And I think even then he knew we or someone had shot her. He moved away to where Sam had hidden the fox and the dogs went with him. He'd only gone a few yards when there was a sound of excited barking from the dogs, and I knew the worst had happened.

In a minute the little man returned, walking now, the reigns hooked over his arm leading the great horse which followed him with its head up in the air, and looking at the dead fox which he held aloft so that the dogs couldn't reach it. They were reaching up nearly knocking him over. You could see the horse took a poor view of the affair, it's ears were back, and it kept as far from the fox as it could, the full length of the reigns away. Thinking no doubt "What a way to treat a poor dead earth born companion."

There was a scene of great excitement, like the start of the Grand National. Horses going this way and every way as the Hunt clustered around, thinking at first that the hounds had made a kill and that they had missed the fun. Sam and I were in the middle of it all. The small man came and stood in front of me.

"There you are, you saw it alright, you shot it. I've a good mind to horse whip the pair of you."

The rest of the Hunt now realised what had happened, and there were shouts of disgust and loathing all round and looks of shock on their faces.

"Horse whipping's too good for them they want locking up," said one of the female riders. She must have been at least sixteen stone weight and the poor horse she sat on had a back the shape of a beam with about twice too much weight on it, and its belly nearly touched the ground. "I've been with the Hunt for twenty years and nothing like this has ever happened in my lifetime." She looked to me as if she could quite well have been riding fifty years, and the poor old horse looked about as old as it stood with its head drooping, and blowing like a pair of worn out bellows. Even at that it was better looking than she was.

Rogues, cheats, vagabonds, even murderers was bandied about, left right and centre.

"I've a good mind to ride them down where they stand," said the little huntsman, still holding the fox.

"Serve them right if you did, damned poachers," said another.

So it went on for ten minutes or so and Sam and I could only stand and take it.

"I've half a mind to set the dogs on you," said the little man looking straight at me. He had got it into his head that I had fired the shot, for some reason known only to himself. He said he could see the guilty look on my face. I grew a little tired of saying that I had not shot their fox but he persisted, and I would have been glad if Sam had owned up and had done with it, and yet how could he, perhaps his job depended on it, after all he was the keeper.

The little man remounted his horse and kept the fox on the saddle in front of him, the hounds still trying to get at it. He still fancied me as the culprit, and I thought I'd have to do something pretty soon or the rest of the Hunt would think me guilty. Not that I bothered much about who thought what, I didn't agree with killing anything the way they did, and I thought if you do turn the dogs on us, you will at least be three or four short to go home with, and I wondered what effect three or four twelve bore shots would have on some of the horses and more to the point some of the riders.

Sam didn't say very much. The little man who was obviously the leading light kept on to me all the time, and at last I lost my temper, and went up to him, towering above me on his horse, and took hold of his knee. It was a very thin little knee, and he half raised his whip as though to strike me, his horse backing away a little as I pulled his leg.

"If you say just once more that I shot your fox, I'll pull you off your horse and give you the best thrashing you have ever had in your life," and I pulled him a bit harder, the horse backing, and me following the two of them.

A silence descended over the company, and his face went a bit white, his horse backing all the while, now amongst the other riders and they moving aside out of the way, not offering him any help if he should need it.

I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see Sam.

"Come on John leave the little runt alone, they've spoilt our sport and somebody's spoilt theirs. I don't know what my guv'ner will say when I tell him of accusing the keeper and his friend of being poachers. I know he doesn't think much of the Hunt, chasing all over the estate, disturbing the game, and leaving gates open and letting the cattle out. Come on we'll be late for our snooker. They needn't spoil that as well."

"Oh," from the first huntsman who up to now hadn't spoken, "you're the keeper."

"Yes I am," said Sam, "and if he stops you coming on his estate you'll lose the best ground in West Sussex for your cheek. I'll bet he won't mind someone killing a fox, it'll be one less to kill his young poults that cost him thirty shillings each to put in front of the guns."

We walked away and left them with the dead fox and a wasted day. I felt a bit sorry for some of them, and I heard one of them say "You know we did hear someone shooting a little while ago, further over there, it may have been them! That little man was a bit rude wasn't he?"

Sam and I got to the pub where we played our weekend snooker about half-past six. There was only one person there, it was the gamekeeper from the estate adjoining Sam's place. He had the balls all set up waiting for someone to play.

"Oh it's you two? Did you hear about somebody shooting a fox in front of the Hunt this afternoon?"

We stood shocked. "No Tom where was that?"

"Oh over by the beech wood on your place."

"No we didn't hear anything."

"Well somebody did," Tom said as he put his finger on the bell to get us a drink. There was a bit of an old fashioned look on his face. We both knew that he knew, and he knew that we knew that he knew. As one keeper to another not a word was ever said about the incident ever again. And we enjoyed our snooker and our beer on many Saturday nights after that.

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