Part 4
But there were exceptions to this. A dappled grey mare, for instance, instead of the more usual black-coated offspring, might be accompanied by a foal, light fawn as to ground tint, with black markings round its eyes and muzzle; or a dark mare be seen with a light-coloured youngster.
The yearlings, among whom Skewbald was one, had shed their winter coat by dint of rubbing against bushes below and overhanging branches above. The bay and chestnut showed clearly, and the lights began to appear on their coats, golden in the sun, blue in the shade, though they could scarcely be said to “ripple,” for the youngsters were still bony, with unfilled barrels.
Young Skewbald was not amongst the dullest hued of his fellows. There were few whose chestnut was brighter than his, while his white could not be matched anywhere among the ponies except for an occasional “sock” or forehead blaze too small in area to tell at a distance.
Like the others of his year, he walked sedately, for his hours of coltish play were over. Never again would he gambol on the lawns with a playmate in the golden evenings, though occasionally he would lie down and roll, a pleasure every horse and pony indulges in till the end of its days. Sufficient for the day was the labour of filling his belly, although the forest fare increased daily in bulk and sweetness.
X.—THE BRANDING OF SKEWBALD
THREE ponies were grazing on a long level stretch of moorland one perfect evening in early September. To the north were low hills, their sides covered with purple heather and fern, the latter already showing orange amongst the green. Here and there an old thorn or holly dotted the hillside, the ridge itself serrated by groups of firs. Along the southern border of the moor flowed a tiny stream, a few feet across, which, a few miles farther down, would expand into a wide estuary dotted with yachts.
As the sun declined, the moor fell into shade, but on the hill the red trunks of the firs and the orange of the fern glowed with richer hues, while the heather added a ruddy tone to its purple. The foliage took on that rich golden-green which landscape painters love, while the shadows, deriving their colour from the blue of the eastern sky, were glaucous green.
Skewbald, still a yearling although some sixteen months old, was with his mother, who had also by her side her last foal, a brown filly. She was well grown, for she had been born early in April.
As they grazed, Tom and Molly, followed by their father, rode through the gate which led to the little farm beyond the river. “There they are,” said the boy—“mare, yearling, and colt.” (New Forest folk have a way of referring to a foal as a colt, even speaking of “horse colts” and “filly colts.”) “Yes, close at hand,” said his father; “push the gate wide open. I hope,” he continued, “as we haven’t all day to catch the yearling in, that you’ll just get quickly to work, and remember catching ponies is one thing, and running races with them quite another.” Tom grinned, but in his heart hoped the ponies would not let themselves be driven in without a run.
The father sent his boy along by the river, while he himself made a detour to get behind the ponies. Molly was to go up the moor to be in readiness in case of a break-away. The ponies were to be driven through the gate over the wooden bridge into the paddock, and, if it could be managed that evening, right into the stable yard. The boy and girl were to watch them, while the father drove them towards the gate. All went well at first. As the man emerged from the trees in view of the ponies, the mare stopped feeding, looked at the intruder, snorted, and trotted away with her offspring. The rider followed, gently shepherding them towards the gate, his assistants closing in on either side. Unfortunately, the youngest boy of the family, who, with a small sister, was fishing in the stream, had succeeded in bringing a minnow to land, and signalized his triumph with a yell of delight, just as the ponies came towards the opening. The mare pricked up her ears, swerved sharply, and, followed by her youngsters, made off at full speed across the moor in spite of all that the hunters could do. The man laughed ruefully, calling, “You’ll get your run, Tom; we must try and get them in before night.” Tom went like the wind, in shirt and trousers, and barebacked, on a little rough pony, which knew every foot of the ground. The fugitives got to a boggy place, and had to pick their way, so Tom, running wide, got behind a patch of firs, and came upon the ponies suddenly—too suddenly, for they went away up the moor, the mare shaking her mane and tail, Skewbald keeping pace easily, and the foal doing wonderfully well. They went right past the girl, though she tore off her hat, whirled it above her head, and let off blood-curdling shrieks. “After them, Molly,” called her father, and the thunder of hoofs resounded, while the setting sun gilded the heather, firs, and fern with a deeper glory than before, and enhanced Skewbald, as he emerged with the mare and foal on the hilltop, then disappeared behind clumps of hollies, or, a moment in shade, told dark on the skyline. The wide, open situation, the sense of space, as the retreating ponies diminished rapidly to mere dots, the sweet scent of bruised bog myrtle, and the clear light, made a scene less like rural England than the setting of some cowboy story of vast upland country in, say, Idaho or Arizona. Only the great sierra background was lacking.
Molly managed to drive the ponies off the moor, up the hill, along the ridge, and then turning them, drove them down the steep forest road across the moor towards the farm, Tom and her father on either side, waving and shouting to prevent a break-away. There was no trouble this time at the gate, for with man and boy to right and left, and the girl thundering behind, the ponies were glad to dash through. “Got ’em,” chuckled Tom as he closed the gate. The others followed at the ponies’ heels over the bridge. The gates leading to the yard were open, and all was quiet, for Mother had looked out to see how things were going, and had taken charge of her two small children. As it happened, the fugitives, instead of turning off into the meadow, as they might have done, went up the road, dashed through the opening, and found themselves in the stable yard. Molly closed the great sliding-door, while Tom and his father, jumping from their mounts, attended to Skewbald. As he was a lusty youngster, and with his shaking mane and depressed ears looked mischievous, they paid him the compliment of treating him like a full-grown stallion, and Tom was given the job of haltering him, for practice. The halter was hung on the end of a six-foot rod, and while his father drove the yearling into a corner, distracting his attention, Tom quietly slipped the loop over his head and fastened the rope to a ring in the wall, before Skewbald had time to show resentment at being tied up.
“Fetch the branding-iron, Tom,” said his father. Mother had it on the kitchen fire in readiness. Meanwhile the man got a sack from the shed, and watching his opportunity, dropped it over Skewbald’s head, who, while objecting to it very much, was so puzzled by the darkness, that he ceased his straining and backing, and was reduced to quietude. This bandaging the eyes is not often done, only when it is feared a pony may become obstreperous. Sometimes the yearlings are driven into a stable with no space to kick in, when the brander will reach over one pony to brand the next.
Tom brought out the iron, which was like a poker with a ring handle for hanging up, and the branding device or letters welded to the other end, and of course in reverse. Several such irons were hanging in the stable.
There need be no shuddering at visions of red-hot iron and sizzling flesh, for the iron when it reached the yard was black, and to all appearance cold. Yet it _was_ hot—hot enough to destroy hair growth where it was pressed, and leave a permanent mark.
The man took the iron and held it for a moment an inch from his cheek to test its heat. “Just right,” he said; “hold him, Tom;” then firmly pressed the iron against the shoulder—the shoulder, not the saddle, for Skewbald was one day to go to the mines, where appearances do not count for much, hard pulling and quick turning being more highly rated. Skewbald did nothing out of the way when the iron bit into his skin, did not kick or try to rear; he just winced, and that was all.
Then the yearling was released and turned out into the paddock, where his mother and her foal were awaiting him. The agister would be along shortly, and Skewbald would be on hand for the tail-cutting. This is also a delicate operation, as a pony may launch an unexpected kick. Generally, a large pair of scissors in hand, the cutter quietly draws the lower tail hair towards him with the crook of a stick. In a stable into which a dozen ponies may have been driven, perhaps for the first time in their lives, the agister will venture fearlessly, and cut tail after tail without mishap, trusting to the good sense of the ponies, which will not kick in the confined space, for fear of hurting their fellow-prisoners.
Occasionally, half a dozen commoners will agree to meet on a Saturday afternoon, for the purpose of collecting their ponies. The harness of the ridden ponies varies in style, and is often more homely than elegant. A man may be riding a horse or pony whose accoutrements consist of mere scraps of leather held together by string and rope. The boys of the party ride barebacked, or make an old rug serve as saddle.
Some time may be spent in rounding up the ponies, which, after much hard riding and shouting, are driven into a convenient farmyard, in a bunch of twenty or thirty.
The quiet enclosure, tenanted only by a few pigs and poultry, becomes a place of tumult as the hunted ponies surge in, snorting, neighing, and tossing manes, the pursuers close on their heels to prevent a break-away. In a moment all is life and movement. The poultry and pigs dash hither and thither from beneath the trampling hoofs. The riders jump from their mounts, which with drooping heads stand passive as if glad to rest, strangely contrasting with the restless movements of the wild ponies, which, cowed and bewildered, crowd into a corner, penned up so closely that they have no room to kick, even if they have the inclination; foals wander about, seeking their dams; men and boys, leaning against their steeds, chat with the daughters of the farm, while dogs and children appear as if by magic, the tiniest tot seeming to bear a charmed life. The unwanted ponies are now sorted out, an operation somewhat troublesome and delicate, and given their liberty; the unbranded ones are tied up and marked with their respective owners’ branding-irons.
Then the company takes the farm road, leading the freshly caught ponies. Most of the captives, after a few skirmishes, submit to their fate, and go quietly, but some, more resentful of their treatment and unwelcome bondage, give much trouble, both to their captors and to themselves. They put down their fore-feet stubbornly, refusing to budge, and when prodded by those behind, may fling themselves down, to be dragged along the stony road. An obstinate pony will try sorely the patience of those in charge of it, and instances have occurred of an animal causing its own death by its violent resistance; but, generally, after half a mile of rough treatment, the pony realizes that further opposition is useless, and follows more or less submissively.
XI.—SKEWBALD’S JUMPING
OCTOBER had been wet. Rain in the forest is, at all times of the year, depressing. When the sun shines on purple heather, emerald fern, and the ruddy stems of fir-trees, moorland and hillside are gay enough, but in wet and stormy weather the landscape is the more gloomy by contrast; the lowering clouds, the black sobbing pines, the pools of water, the soggy tussocks squelching underfoot, make up a dull and cheerless scene, although in the eyes of the forest lover it is perhaps then at its best. The damp atmosphere intensifies the local colour, and gives a sense of vastness and distance to the perspectives.
The forest ponies dislike rain. They have to seek food most of their day, and cannot afford to stand idly in shelter like their more favoured relations. Also the boggy ground gets still more shaky and uncertain, and the wary creature is cut off from the areas which might supply him with food. In long continued rain the ponies leave the open moor or hillside, and betake themselves to the woods, where, under the umbrellas formed by the great oaks, beeches, and firs, they find shelter, especially from what most living creatures detest—a cold driving rain.
Skewbald, therefore, was with his companions in the woods, nosing round for clumps of sweet grass, or, in the wettest spells, taking shelter under overhanging trunks. His coat had grown thick during the autumn, and with his dense mane and tail he was as well protected as a pony could be.
The colt-hunter also disliked rain, for apart from the discomforts of the chase in wet weather, rounding up the ponies is vastly more difficult in the woods. On the open moor the chase is not always successful. Not seldom one may drive ponies from miles away to within sight of the open gate, and then something may arouse their mistrust, may cause them to break away, and the work has to be done over again. But, all things considered, the chase on the moor is a picnic compared with driving ponies out of the woods. In the open one has the great advantage of being able to view one’s quarry from a distance, and formulate beforehand a plan of campaign. But in the woods one must search and search until the ponies are chanced upon, and then stick tenaciously to their heels until a capture is effected. In the denser parts, one may beat about all day, and although the ponies may be near, and even heard and seen, yet they may change their ground so evasively that night may fall and still find them uncaptured.
It was not raining much when the colt-hunter and his boy rode out one morning, but the sky gave every promise of a downpour later on. “Wet skins for us to-day, Tom,” said his father, as he donned an old mackintosh, and a wide-brimmed hat, which would divert the rain from his neck. Like other people who are out in all weathers, he had no use for caps, which in heavy rain let the water trickle down one’s back. Both riders had bread and cheese in their pockets, for they might be out all day, if they were not fortunate in the chase. It had been arranged that they should meet the agister, who wished their help in locating and catching some yearlings and older ponies. At this time of the year ponies are caught in some numbers, and sent to the autumn and winter sales.
The colt-hunter, by long experience and a good memory for the forms and hues of ponies, knew most of the many hundreds in the forest, and their pedigrees. He was acquainted also with the likely places where a wanted pony might be found at any time of the year.
The hunters, with a cheery good-bye to Mother and Molly, rode some distance across the moorland and through the rides in the woods, skirted bogs, and then made their way up a stone-strewn hillpath to the south, past the spot where the young airman, flying from the training-ground on Beaulieu Heath, had stooped at a great white cross of gravel, marked out on the hillside, and had nose-dived to the ground, crumpling up his machine and breathing his last in the arms of a visitor camping near by. Father and son rode across the barren plateau of Blackdown; to the east the great tumulus stood dark and plain on the skyline, but in front of them Wood Fidley was almost obscured by driving clouds of rain-mist coming from the south-west.
When they reached the main road, they found the agister waiting for them. He had on his buckled hat, but his official coat was hidden under his horseman’s cloak. He also foreboded bad weather and a long drive through the woods. They crossed the road—now firm and smooth, very unlike its stone-strewn surface during a dry summer—took a winding path over the moors, and so into the woods.
The colt-hunter led the way into the deepest recesses, where great oaks and beeches leaned one against the other, while the ground was encumbered with undergrowth. As they slowed down to a walk, they saw ponies, half-hidden by the bushes, stealing away. “There’s one of those we’re after,” said the agister, “and there’s another.”
Skewbald was not one of the wanted animals, but of course he was not to know that, and made off with the rest. It was now raining hard, the wood full of driving mist, and the going very heavy. The fugitives had the best of it, for the ridden ponies sank below their fetlocks in the wetter parts, while fallen branches, tangles of briers and brambles, and drooping holly boughs impeded their progress.
Tom’s pony, as keen as her rider, and not so heavily weighted, made but little of the heavy ground. She made straight for the fugitives directly she heard or saw them, without waiting for Tom’s directing hand on the reins, and several times he was literally pulled from the saddle by projecting boughs of holly, thorn, or oak. But he held on to his mount, though torn, scratched, and wet through. Then, when separated from the other riders, he saw his opportunity, for he came upon Skewbald and a wanted yearling which had got away from them earlier in the day, sheltering behind some dense holly bushes. Off they went, with Tom close on their heels, and after some amount of twisting and turning, the fugitives came out on a grassy drive, with a gate at the far end.
Skewbald made the pace for his companion, and Tom put on a last spurt, trying to get even with his quarry. Skewbald, as he approached the barrier, glanced back at his pursuer, then, acting under an overmastering impulse to escape, went at the gate, cleared it, and was at once lost to sight in a forest enclosure. Tom went right on, charging full tilt into the other pony, which he pinned against the gate, nearly knocking the wind out of both animals. Before the yearling had recovered himself Tom had him haltered, and a safe prisoner.
In the New Year Skewbald again used his jumping powers, and this time saved his life thereby. He was feeding with two other young ponies in a rough part of the forest, when a stray hound, a deserter from the kennels, alarmed them. The intruder, perhaps wishing for company, ran towards them, but the ponies, not relishing his advances, set off at a trot. The hound followed, and the trot became a gallop. It chanced that an artillery company, training in the forest, had dug some pits which had not yet been filled in. The ponies are, as a rule, quite able to take care of themselves. They have a good sense of geography and know the dangerous spots, as bogs and pits, but, being driven away from the training-ground, they were unaware of the existence of the excavations.
As Skewbald fled, through gorse, tall heather, and bog myrtle, the pony in front of him disappeared with a cry, and, the next moment, he found himself at the edge of a deep and wide pit, with no time to turn. But the accident to his companion had given him that fraction of a second of preparation which was enough for his nerve and muscle. He made a spasmodic leap, and just managed to land his heels on the far side. The third also leapt, but fell short.
When the hound, hearing the ponies’ moans, looked down, he fled with a yelp of dismay. Later, the huntsmen, searching for the truant, found the two ponies, one dead and the other grievously hurt.
XII.—CHANGING THE BRAND
IN THE rougher corners of the forest are the tents of the gipsies, kept by authority as far as possible from the more frequented beauty spots. One comes across these encampments in little groups of two or three wigwams, each being built on the same principle—a framework of rods bent semi-circularly, over which are thrown blankets and any odd lengths of stuff that can be so used. At one end is the “baulk”—a square tapering tower of blanket or canvas open to the sky. This is the chimney, the fire being built on the ground inside, so that the inmates can prepare their food in the dry, and enjoy the heat radiating into the tent proper. Generally there is another tent beyond the fire, so that the baulk is in the middle of the erection.
On a fine Sunday, one sees the weekly wash drying and bleaching on the bushes, children playing with the dogs, the women cooking and the men in their best clothes. Many before and after Borrow, looking at the gipsy, have been impressed by his fixity of type, his adherence to his mode of life in a country gradually losing its open spaces, and maintaining himself in face of restrictive and sometimes oppressive regulations. To many the standing marvel is that he can live at all outdoors, not only in summer heat, but when frost is in the earth, or when the ground shakes like a quagmire and the ditches run like rivers. But nowadays millions of men who came through the war remember how in the course of their training, or under the actual conditions of warfare, they slept outdoors without even a gipsy tent, by fair and foul, in wet and cold, and remember, too, their astonishment that they suffered no harm, and, bullets apart, thrived on the régime.
But the gipsy has this in common with the town dweller, that he, too, gets his living there; to the town he must go to sell his produce or manufacture, his flower or fern roots, his brooms, mats, baskets, etc., and therefore a cart of some sort is almost a necessity, and to draw the cart, a pony. The forest pony is thus of great importance to the forest gipsy; she is hardy, gets her own living, is cheap to buy when young, and is a source of wealth. Every forest gipsy is a potential breeder and dealer; the pony is at once his passion and his temptation. If he has no ponies to sell at the autumn sales, there is less money to tide over the winter.
Therefore the ponies wandering at will, unnoted by their owners, as free to wander as the wild creatures, have a great interest for the gipsy, who regards the products of the forest as his lawful tribute. The plover’s eggs, the rabbit, hedgehog and squirrel, the flowers and ferns, either supply him with food or put money in his pocket. But the pony is marked and tail-cut, plain signs that it is the acknowledged and registered property of its owner, and not to be appropriated with impunity. Of course, by far the greater number of gipsies are strictly honest in regard to ponies, having learned like the rest of us, from experience, that honesty is the best policy; but to some an unmarked yearling pony must be a temptation, when a branding-iron is always present in the shape of any iron bar handy, to be thrust in the fire kept constantly burning.
One autumn, on the edge of the forest just outside a sheltering wood a small encampment consisting of three gipsy tents and a caravan nestled. As night fell the noise of people talking and children playing ceased, for the gipsies go early to bed, and rise betimes. The evening meal had been eaten, the youngsters snuggled to sleep in corners, and only a few men and women sat around their fires smoking, for most had had a long day going to town to sell their wares, and were glad to seek repose.