Part 5

Behind the tents, in a little blind lane with high hedges ending at a gate, a mare was tethered. She had been deprived of her foal and grieved noisily, whinnying loudly ever and again. Away on the moor ponies were grazing, and hearing the repeated call of the bereaved mother, they put up their heads for a moment. At last Skewbald, now a two-year-old, and another pony of the same age, a dull bay, could stand it no longer, and sidled away from the herd in the direction of the call. As they approached the silent tents, the bay whinnied, and the mare responded so appealingly that the two quickened their pace to a trot. A big lad, lounging by the fire in the nearest tent, looked out as they passed, and then crawled away silently.

Skewbald and his companion went right up to the mare, which tried hard to get away from her tether, whinnying repeatedly, so that the two-year-olds did not notice several dark figures creeping towards them in the obscurity of the ditch. But when a man stumbled, the two ponies made off up the lane, only to be brought up short by the gate. Their pursuers, close at their heels, threw themselves at their necks, and soon the two were haltered and secured.

An older man came out and examined the captives. Then in no measured terms he abused the captors for troubling to tie up a pony marked like the skewbald, an animal of such striking colour and pattern, and probably well known to commoner, keeper, and agister. It was as good as giving themselves up to the police to have it in their possession for a moment, and he ordered the crestfallen young fellows to release it at once. This was done, and, with a stripe on his flank to help him along, Skewbald was turned loose, and made off towards the herd. Then the man gave his attention to the bay, and pronounced him ordinary enough to keep. But what were the marks, if any? A lantern was brought, and the capitals C. F. were found on the shoulder. A bar was heated and it was not difficult to convert the marks into O. E., though much to the discomfort of the young bay. His tail marks were cut right away as well. Then it was mooted whether the pony should not be taken off at once, but this was pronounced against, as likely to arouse the suspicion of the police, if met with on the way. In a day or two a huckster would come along with a string of ponies, and among them the bay would not attract notice.

But unfortunately for the gipsies, the agister of the district, in tall hat with buckle in front, and green coat with brass buttons, happened to ride by next morning, on his way to clip the tails of some ponies lately caught in.

As he passed, he noticed a young bay tied up behind a tent. Now, the agister knew all the ponies of his district, and many others in the other districts as well. Ponies were a passion with him. He knew them not only by their brands and their colours, but by their shapes, gait, and size. A pony once seen by him was never forgotten, and he could recognize a wanted animal more than half a mile away. He paused and scrutinized the bay. Yes, that was Charles Finch’s two-year-old. He had known it since its birth, and could not be mistaken. Its tail was short, but not cut after the fashion of any of the three forest districts—in itself a suspicious circumstance. He went closer and read the letters O. E. No one he knew of in the forest used such a brand. He got off his pony and pressed his thumb in the lowest arm of the E, and the pony winced.

That was enough for the agister, who turned to several lowering but silent lads and men collected in a group. “Who claims this pony?” he asked. There was no answer. “I am positive it’s Charles Finch’s pony. I shall take it with me if no one objects;” and he tied the pony to his own, and trotted away.

After he had done his business, he took the pony to its owner, who, of course, recognized it at once. “Now,” said the agister, “this must be stopped, or some rogues will give the gipsies a bad name. It’s your duty to prosecute the men where I found the pony.” More he urged of similar argument on old Finch, who heard him in silence, and then flatly declined to take any proceedings whatever, “I got the pony back, thanks to ye; and much obleeged, I’m sure. But I does business with the gipsies, and most of ’em are a pretty good sort, and stick to their bargain. If I prosecuted e’er a one of them, we should never get on again. I’m out for peace and quietness with my neighbours, and I shan’t let a pony come between us.” And though the agister, having to take an official view of the matter, protested, at heart he felt there was much to be said for the old man’s decision.

XIII.—THE BROKEN LEG

ONE WET afternoon towards the end of September, the colt-hunter was in his stable mending some harness. A yell from his youngest boy made him jump, and he half-rose to see what was the matter, but turned to his work again, as the boy’s little sister let forth a shriek of delight. “Up to some lark,” he muttered, then started, as both children shouted at the top of their voices, “Peter! Peter!” At the same instant the gate slammed, the sound of a heavy boot was heard, and the man tumbled outside, with the harness in his hand, to find himself face to face with his eldest son in full kit, tin hat, rifle and bandolier, and slung around with billycans, etc., his boots still coated with the white slime of the French hills.

“Peter!” “Father!” came out at one breath, and as they grasped hands, their faces came together, and they kissed—an odd thing, perhaps, for forest men to do, but a son coming home from the war unexpectedly was a thrilling moment, and apt to break down even the reserve of a lifetime. Peter, never forgotten for a single day, though not always mentioned by his parents, suddenly appearing, as if from the skies, was enough to make his father gasp, unable to utter more than, “Well, lad!” Then Mother, apprised, came rushing forth, full of joy, and yet of wrath at not being the first to salute her firstborn. She hugged and kissed him until he begged for mercy. “The lad’s tired, Mother,” said the father; “let’s in, so’s he can get his things off, and have a wash;” and Peter wanted this last badly. How the youngsters revelled in the tin hat and its dents, while the father spent some time cleaning his son’s boots. “Quite a bit of France,” he said, as he carefully swept the chalk off the bench into an empty matchbox.

You should have seen Peter eat, when he got among his mother’s tarts and cakes. It appeared that he had the usual fourteen days’ leave, of which some time had already expired since he left Havre. “What a shame!” exclaimed his mother. “However, we won’t think of going away yet;” and everyone was happy, though later on, as Peter inquired for first one and then another of his old schoolfellows, faces fell, and answer was made sadly. After tea Peter felt a bit sleepy, so the youngsters were sent off to play elsewhere, while he stretched himself on a couch before the fire. He had to be wakened for supper, but he didn’t mind, and said he would rather be called anything than late for meals.

The next morning, of course, Peter wanted a mount, and inquired what ponies were about. “You know the three in the stable,” said his father; “and there’s a blue roan mare in the paddock, but she’s not properly broken in yet, and you’ll find her rather skittish.” Whereupon Peter, like a true forest lad, declared she would be just the thing for him, and with the aid of his two brothers, drove her into the yard and secured her.

When he mounted in the paddock, the mare treated him to a few plunges, which he did not repress too sternly; and once out in the open, went off at a great pace, her rider leaving her to go where she listed, sure that she would keep away from unsafe ground. But after letting off her steam with a good run over the heavy ground, the mare slackened her speed, and Peter could take stock of the old familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps the forest never looks so lovely as in autumn, and especially when well soaked. The heather still purpled the moor—a rich purplish-brown flecked here and there with jewel-like pools. Towards the uplands, and in the woods, the wet bracken had changed its usual autumnal orange for a rich sienna. Once Peter glimpsed a pony, all deep chestnut, with mane and tail of the same, a “self-coloured” animal, hardly visible against a bank of bracken. Only its movements betrayed it, and then its foal, dark of hue, was discovered where before it had been “lost” in the obscurity of a holly-brake.

Out in the open, the lad took all to his heart, its beauty and its appeal. A green woodpecker loped away from an ant heap where it had been probing, and a covey of partridges scattered from the pony’s hoofs. The forest ponies, singly or in groups, gave life and focus to the landscape, and Peter saw that it was good.

Then as the mare started to run again, his hat was twitched from his head by a holly-branch. He reined the pony in, and essayed to pick up the hat with his whip, but having no crook to the butt, could not manage it. “Hold on, old girl,” he said, dismounting. But it was precisely at this moment that Skewbald, now a three-year-old, grazing at a little distance by himself, and feeling lonely, gave vent to a loud call. The grey whinnied, and began to move off, just as Peter retrieved his hat, then, as he pulled on the reins, she kicked sharply, getting the lad on the right shin. There was a sharp crack, and Peter let go the reins with a grunt, stood motionless a moment, and then slithered gently to the ground. As he did so and disturbed the broken leg, he shouted with pain, and the mare, already making off, increased her pace, the reins dangling from her neck.

* * * * *

A girl was bowling along a forest road on a bicycle. Joan Barton, V.A.D. nurse in the forest hospital, had changed out of her uniform, and was taking advantage of her spell off to get some open-air exercise. She admitted to herself, as she spun along, that her own Surrey commons, beautiful as they are, could not compare in extent and wildness with the forest. She noted how the road wound, and led the eye over the moors and hills, and what a fine surface mere sand and gravel made, resilient and mudless in spite of recent heavy rain. As the forest people say, the more it rains, the better the going. Much better than in dry weather, when the surface gets loose and covered with stones.

Presently a grey pony, saddled yet riderless, and standing by a dead tree a little from the road, caught her eye.

She looked right and left for a rider, but saw no one. Then, acting on an impulse, she got off her bicycle, and went up to the pony. It moved as she came close, and she saw that the reins were held on a snag. “Funny way to tie up a pony,” she said half-aloud; she knew something about horses, and had acted as groom in a remount stable while waiting for a vacancy in a hospital.

Some distance away was a herd of ponies scattered over the moor. Among them she noticed one patterned in bright chestnut and white, with the passing thought, that she had not before seen this striking coloration among all the forest pony hues. She went to her bicycle and stood scrutinizing the landscape, but she saw no one. Then her attention was drawn to a patch of white like a piece of paper dangling on a bush. But as she looked she saw the white patch wave to and fro like a flag, and with a sudden jump of the heart she realized that it _was_ a flag, and spelling out letters. She knew the code, being an enthusiastic leader of Girl Guides, and watched the flag spell out the letters _h-e-l-p_. That was enough for Joan. Close to where she stood, a pony track meandered in the direction of the signal, and mounting her bicycle she bumped along it, almost falling off in her anxiety to watch the flag. It disappeared, but again showed itself wagging to and fro, then wavered and fell. She had to get off her bicycle, and pushed it hurriedly along. There behind a bush lay Peter, his face wrinkled with pain, yet full of relief at the welcome sound of the girl’s approach. He was the first to speak. “Morning, miss;” and he made shift to smile. “My pony got me on the right tibia. But a clean fracture, I think.” Peter got this out all in a breath. He had had enough warning of the girl’s approach to concoct his speech, and was rather proud of his knowledge of anatomy picked up in the first-aid class. Joan smiled too, pleased to find her new patient collected and cheerful. “Been here long?” she asked. “Not more than an hour, miss. I live over there,” he went on, “but it’s a matter of three or four miles away.” “All right,” said Joan, “but your leg had better go in some sort of splints before we can think of your being moved.”

Then in response to a certain shade of anxiety on Peter’s face, she added, “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. I’m a nurse at a V.A.D. hospital.” “A nurse,” chortled Peter; “it seems I’m having all the luck.”

“Well,” she laughed, “it doesn’t seem like it. I don’t think I’ll take the puttee off. I’ll look for some stuff for splints.” She hunted round for some straight sticks, and Peter lent her his great knife, which he had to open for her, so that she could remove the knots. Then she put on the splints, using Peter’s other puttee. “Don’t be afraid to make a noise if I hurt you,” she said, but Peter made no sign of pain except for a grunt or two. As she worked she talked. “It was clever of you to signal,” she remarked. “Cleverer of you, miss, to see and understand,” responded Peter; “’twas a good job Mother put out white hankies for me this morning. My khaki ones went into the washtub.”

Joan told him of the grey pony on the hill, and Peter recounted the cause of his accident. “How long, nurse, before I’m able to go back?” he asked.

“You’ll not be much use under two months. Your stay in Blighty will be longer than you expected.”

“What’ll my sergeant say?” chuckled Peter. Joan made a cushion of bracken for the injured leg and put another armful under his head. “Now,” she said, “I’ll go back to the road for help.”

“But what’s that, nurse?” exclaimed Peter, and Joan also heard a man’s call. A moment later a waggon laden with logs emerged from a wood, some distance away, a man and a boy in attendance. Joan ran across to them, and explained the situation. “Why, that must be young Peter,” said the man; “I met him yesterday, all loaded up, on his way home. We’ll do what we can, miss, but our wood-waggon ain’t no use, you see, for it’s got no bottom. What’ll we do about shifting him on to the road?”

But the boy was not a Scout for nothing. This was his moment, and he made the most of it. “Why, dad,” he said, “that’s easy. You cuts down two poles, and I gets them two sacks we’ve got on the seat, and makes holes in the corners. Then we puts the poles through the holes to make a stretcher, and carries him up to the road.” The elders agreed that this was feasible, but without enthusiasm, for fear of engendering pride in the young.

The man got his axe and cut down two young birches, remarking that he s’posed “they” wouldn’t mind his cutting green wood for once, while Joan and the boy prepared the sacks. When the stretcher was ready, they laid it on the ground beside Peter, and carefully placed him in it, packing his legs and feet with bracken, so that the injured limb should not be jolted.

Then the man taking the poles at the head, and Joan and the boy a pole each at the other end, they marched slowly up the hill, Peter insisting on their keeping step, and giving an imitation of his sergeant’s pronunciation. Once, as they crossed a little forest bridge, he gave the order, “Break step,” but they refused, for fear of jarring his leg, whereupon he promised them all C.B.

When nearly at the road, they heard the noise of an approaching car, and all shouted together, the boy nearly letting go in the excitement of the moment. The driver both heard and saw. He stopped, and matters were soon arranged. The patient was carefully deposited in the car with Joan as attendant. The boy was to go back to fetch Joan’s bicycle and ride it to the hospital, then, returning, would ride the grey mare back to Peter’s home. Joan was much averse to this arrangement, protesting that the pony had done enough mischief already that day. But the boy grinned, for he could ride anything in the forest barebacked, and his family mantelpiece was adorned with cups and trophies won in the forest junior competitions. Remarking that he wouldn’t “come to no harm,” he dashed down the hill for the bicycle, while the man, after seeing that the grey pony was properly tied, returned to his waiting team.

Then came Armistice Day, or rather, in this quiet corner of Britain, Armistice Night, for in the forest was not to be seen such ebullition of spirits as in Regent Street, where, for instance, two middle-aged clergymen, with ribbons in their clerical hats, danced along the pavement playing tin whistle-pipes. But a great fire was to be lit on the hill above Peter’s home, and all that afternoon men and boys had been carting up logs and branches gleaned from the woods.

Most of the local forest people were there, including Tom, Molly, and the two small children. Peter, now getting about with a stick, having discarded his crutches, was sent up in the pony-trap, the hill being deemed too steep for him.

When the fire died down and people were beginning to disperse, a girl wheeling a bicycle passed Peter and his family. Tom let out a shout: “Miss Barton!” and she stopped. She had seen Peter several times since he had left hospital; indeed, he said his leg wouldn’t get well unless she continued to take a friendly interest in his case. So she had paid visits, when not on duty, Peter and she sitting in the porch, looking on to the forest, talking and reading.

Peter was saying that the hill was too steep and rough to cycle down at night, and his leg felt well enough for him to walk down if Miss Barton would lend him an arm in case he stumbled. Tom would walk the bicycle down, which he was glad to do, though directly he was out of sight he got on, and nearly came a cropper avoiding some people going home.

So Joan and Peter went down together, taking a little path he knew of, and on the way they saw the dim forms of ponies on either side, all with heads down, browsing. Only one, the nearest, looked up, and snorted as they passed. It was Skewbald, and Peter suddenly found his tongue, for neither he nor Joan had had much to say to one another.

“Why, that’s the beggar that upset my applecart,” he said, and proceeded to narrate for the twentieth time how the call of the three-year-old had caused his accident. Then with a flash of inspiration he continued: “Lucky for me that he called when he did.”

“Yes,” said Joan, though she felt in her bones what was coming; “you mean he got you a long leave.”

“I mean,” declared Peter, though his heart thumped, and he had a strange difficulty in articulating, “that if it hadn’t happened, we might never have met.” And so on, but as this is a tale about ponies and not people, it will suffice to say that before they reached the bottom of the hill, they were Joan and Peter to one another, and that soon after Peter was demobilized the wedding took place.

XIV.—HOW SKEWBALD RANG THE FIREBELL

THE summer had been hot and rainless, and the beginning of August found the moorland of the forest drier than the oldest commoner had known it. Boggy places which had formerly to be skirted with care were now firm under foot. The tussock grass was white and sear, the fern orange and brown, while the leaves of the oaks were eaten by myriads of caterpillars into delicate lace-like filigree.

The blackberries withered without ripening, except where they grew in the meadow bottoms, still green, though the streams dwindled, until in the gravelly, quick-running parts, there was hardly enough water for the troutlets to scuttle past into the deeper pools.

One midday, on the road between Southampton and Lymington, a tramping sailor was resting by the roadside. He lit his pipe, and being a careful man, blew at the match before he threw it down. Then he rose, and continued his journey. But the end of the match still glowed, and the dry grass in contact with it, fanned by the wind, began to smoke, and then to ignite with a tiny flame, which crawled along the ground, until it came to the dry stump of a fir, its base littered with bits of bark and dead branches. These sputtered, and the fire began to spread. The wayfarer had passed on unheeding, for he was facing the wind, and therefore received no warning of what was happening behind him.

Down under the big trees the colt-hunter and his two boys were cutting the fern for stable bedding. He had the right to get all he wanted, though authority decreed that he was not to pick and choose, not to cut only where the fern grew thick and tall. He must clear his way steadily, even where it was sparse and stunted. This year it was pretty short everywhere. The man used a scythe, the boys were armed with sickles. At intervals they drew the fodder into small heaps for carting.

The father straightened himself and sniffed. “Seems like burning. Another heath fire, I expect. Glad if it burnt up the gorse, but sometimes it burns up other things.” “What things, dad?” asked the younger boy. “Trees which we want for firewood, and barns, ricks, and sometimes homes. Run up the hill, sonny, and see if you can make out whereabouts the fire is.” The boy did not run; it was too hot. As he walked away, a shrill whinny was heard, then repeated again and again. “My word!” exclaimed the man; “that pony is some excited. Seems as if it came from the farm. What’s a forest stallion doing there?” Just then in the quiet air a prolonged whistle was heard. The father laid his scythe at the foot of a tree. “Come on, Tom. Something’s the matter, or mother wouldn’t have blown the whistle.” It was an agreed-on signal. Back the two went, and the younger boy caught them up, saying he had seen a great cloud of smoke, and it seemed right over the house.

“Nonsense,” said his father; “more like five miles away.” They walked quickly along the forest avenue of gnarled oaks, tall beeches, and odds and ends of hollies of no especial shape. “Look at all those ponies outside the gate!” exclaimed Tom. There was a restless, pawing, snorting, whinnying troop of mares and youngsters, but all with head over or turned towards the closed gate. When the three reached the farm, they saw Skewbald standing on the straw heap, surrounded by pigs, poultry, and ducks. Mother was standing at the garden gate with the baby in her arms. The skewbald whinnied when he saw the arrivals and stamped impatiently. The man sniffed again and muttered: “That fire seems closer than I thought. How’d he get in?” he called. “He jumped it,” his wife replied. “I saw him.”

They opened the gate, and the ponies surged in after them. Tom ran to slide back the big door, and had just time to flatten himself against the wall, when Skewbald thundered past, followed by the herd, right across the meadow to the ford, which they crossed. Then they turned, faced the wind, and snuffed the air.

“Boys,” the father was saying, “this fire must be nearer than we want. The smoke’s getting thicker every minute. Both of you get a broom, and let’s get beyond the wood.”