Chapter III: Part 3

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.”

The homestead was enclosed to the south-west by groves of hollies and a plantation of firs. If these began to burn, sparks might set the thatched roof and hayricks on fire. Beyond the wood was a level tract of heather and gorse. The fire might not have caught this, and there might yet be time to stop it spreading to the wood. When they got beyond the trees, the gorse bushes at the far end of the open space were burning with a loud crackling, and on the ground a line of smoke, with here and there a sputter of flame, showed that the fire was crawling towards them.

“Spread out, boys, and smack away at it,” was the order.

Then commenced a fight with the advancing enemy, in the face of sparks and thick, pungent smoke. The boys worked bravely, but the wind fanned the embers, and, often, after they had beaten down the flames they had to run back, and put out a fresh outburst. Then, where the grass and heather was longer, the fire began to burn more vigorously.

“Get back, boys; we’ll wait and fight it where it’s shorter,” said the father. “Hooray!” Tom exclaimed; “here they come!” First a man on a pony, then a boy on a bicycle, two more friendly helpers in a trap, all coming to help as fast as they could; and later, a motor-car from the big house on a hill miles away, and crammed with helpers, hooted its arrival.

Some had brooms or beaters, and some took branches, but all fell to with a will, yet as they worked, the cloud of smoke seemed to get blacker and heavier. Instead of mounting into the sky like a pillar of cloud, it hung about their heads until they could hardly breathe. The sky became black, and still the fire defied their efforts.

A boy looked up and yelled, “Rain!” He had felt a drop on his face. Someone felt another, but they were not leaving anything to chance, and smacked steadily away at the smouldering herbage.

Then the rain began to come down steadily until everyone had a wet shirt. When the danger was over the volunteers began to move off, saying they must be going, in spite of entreaties to come back to the farmstead. They knew that the wife with her baby would be sore put to it to entertain so many. But one or two who lived farther off were persuaded to come along, and to these the colt-hunter expatiated a dozen times on the fortunate circumstance of the ponies running from the fire, and taking the road through the wood to the farm. As Tom said, the skewbald rang the firebell for them.

XV.—THE WANDERERS

SKEWBALD, now a four-year-old, had in late August succeeded to the leadership of the company with which he had been running. The stallion which had lorded it over the herd had been “caught in,” and Skewbald had stepped into his place as the acknowledged superior of the young males. It was destined to be a temporary supremacy, for, as a skewbald, he could not be welcomed as a breeding stallion; his coloration was too pronounced. Self-coloured browns and bays were considered to be truer to the forest type. Skewbald’s lot was to be that of a pit pony.

No young stallion challenged him to battle twice, for Skewbald possessed, besides strength, a spirit, a quickness of movement together with a power of deciding rapidly, and when roused, a fighting temper which boded ill for an enemy.

As a future pit pony he had the merit of not being too tall, but he was perfectly proportioned, and his carriage and ease of movement proclaimed his fitness as an instrument of strength and speed.

Patterned as he was in bold chestnut and cream-white, his coat did not show the high lights rippling over the muscles of a bay or black, but the slinging of his barrel between his shoulders and flanks, the arch of his neck and withers, the action of his fore-legs, and the tension of his hocks, marked him as beyond the ordinary.

His mane, very bushy, and like his tail waved as with a lady’s curling-irons, was white nearly to the regions of his ears, where it turned to chestnut with an intervening streak of purplish-black. His long, ample tail, carried in a drooping curve, was white above and dark below. His on-side had one great chestnut patch covering most of his barrel and flank, and extending below the hock. From a distance, this side was deceptive, because the great brown blotch looked like a pony standing end on. The offside had the neck and face chestnut, and a spot of the same on his barrel smaller in area than on the other side, and leaving his hind-leg white.

But although he looked and acted like a born leader, kept the yearlings and two-year-olds in their places, rounded up the mares and saw that all were on the move when the herd was changing quarters, and, last but not least, glanced continually round the horizon for enemies in the shape of agisters or other colt-hunters, it must not be supposed that he decided all the movements of his company.

Some of the mares were years older than he, and knew the forest infinitely better—the grassy lawns and bottoms, the bare “plains,” wind-swept in hot weather, and the great woods with sheltered recesses in drenching rain. So they, as a rule, took the initiative and decided when to move and where to go. But the direction once indicated, Skewbald took charge and acted as convoy.

In the herd was an old rusty-black mare with white forehead blaze and off hind-sock. She had been broken in for riding and was shod, as might be seen by her footprints, the imprint of the double line of the shoe showing out among the single, nearly circular curves of the unshod ponies.

In her time she had assisted in the “catching in” of many a pony, and now that she was again in the forest, although she had lost the timidity of the uncaught beasts, she made up for this by the wiliness of one who knew the ways of man. Time and time again the colt-hunters wished her far away, when they found her in company with ponies they wanted. They might manœuvre the group at a gentle trot across the moor, but just as they approached a tempting open gateway, the mare would check, toss her head, snort, and break away at a gallop, followed by the rest, in spite of shouts and cracking of whips.

She was also a persistent wanderer, a “lane haunter,” “lane creeper” or “romeo” (an atrocious Forest pun)—that is, a pony which escapes from the forest into the lanes to munch the sweet grass of the hedgerows. This is considered one of the worst vices in a forest pony, because she leads others with her. Then the agister may impound the culprits, and the owners have to pay for any depredations, as fence-breaking and crop-spoiling, that may have been committed. Prizes are offered for well-bred ponies in good condition, but are likely to be withheld unless the agister certifies that the selected beasts are no “lane haunters.” Some think that the introduction of alien blood has brought into existence a type of animal unsuited to the rigours of the forest, too delicate to flourish on the meagre fare, and therefore inclined to wander away in search of richer food.

By a mischance, the mare’s last foal had died soon after birth, and because of this, perhaps, she was this season unsettled, restless, and still more inclined to wander. The summer, too, had been hot and dry, so the forest pasturage was meagre and scanty, the ponies having to search continually for their fare.

Whereas a herd keeps usually within an area of four or five square miles, this mare, whether owing to the above reasons or her innate tendency to wander, during this season kept the company on the move by her restlessness and persistence, so that without hurry, or causing fatigue to the youngest, and feeding as they went, the forest was explored from end to end. She was Skewbald’s favourite mare; when she went ahead, he followed, and the herd fell in behind, in the usual column of route.

She knew the forest roads and lanes both as a riding pony and a “lane creeper,” the short-cuts, the hunting bridges, the deep recesses of the woods, and the narrow winding pony paths across the upland “plains,” as if she had the ordnance map in her head.

After whiling away a hot afternoon cooling their fetlocks at Potterne Ford, the herd spent the evening on Blackdown near the great round barrow, and in the early morning, before dawn, the mare led the way southward over bare ridge and through thick woods, until coming out on the Beaulieu road they found the manor gate left open by a sleepy carter, and trooped down in the early morning, past Beaulieu Abbey gateway, pausing at the margin of the beautiful estuary with its wooded banks, and yachts anchored at the bend. All was quiet except for the yelping of a few black-headed gulls questing for food among the pools, fringed with tawny seaweed left by the tide.

Skewbald advanced to sample the water, then snorted with disgust, and retreated, driving his company on to the road again. The old mare had a good drinking-place in mind, and led them up the street until they were stopped by Hatchet Gate. The gatekeeper, just getting up, heard the clatter of hoofs. “More lane haunters,” she said; “I must let them into the forest again, or they will get into trouble.” She hastened down, the herd passed through, trotted on to Hatchet Pond and slaked their thirst.

They spent some days on the great aerodrome of Beaulieu Heath, whence, in the days of war, the aeroplanes buzzed on their way across Blackdown to attack an imaginary enemy plane marked as a cross of white gravel on the ground. Now all was quiet, rows of huts and buildings stood silent and deserted. The lane creeper took the road again and led the troop towards Lymington. Down the hill they went, past the monument to the gallant admiral of the many virtues duly set forth, and hesitated at the toll-bridge, where the collector, waiting awhile to see if any human was following with the toll dues, drove them back. They turned up the road bordering the left bank of the Lymington River, and soon found themselves in the forest again, but on the other side, for they forded the river, went over Sandy Down and crossed the Brockenhurst road, where a sorrel mare nearly lost her foal, which insisted on nosing a chunk of bread oblivious of a charabanc of excursionists. They scattered over Setley Plain, where are the two tumuli with intersecting rings, and crossing under the railway, wandered about the uplands above Sway, with its tall tower, a landmark visible far out to sea. Here, sunning themselves by a narrow forest railway bridge, they encountered another herd, a mere group, with that rarest of forest ponies—a white stallion—in charge. He was white, of course, because of his age; his backbone stood up and his ribs showed; but though he snuffed the air, there was no trouble, for the old fellow had no thought of showing fight, nor was this the season for dissension. All Skewbald wanted, for his part, was to get his company over the bridge, and when the others understood this, they made way willingly enough.

The wanderers straggled with many stoppages over the great open moors and uplands of the Rhinefield Walk. In the forest a “walk” is not a pathway, but a district of several square miles, formerly presided over by a ranger, an office now abolished.

They crossed Black Knowl, forded the pretty stream gurgling over its gravelled bed, and were soon cropping the fine greensward of beautiful Balmer Lawn. Here Skewbald had a tussle with a young iron grey who thought the lawn belonged to him. After a short passage of arms, Skewbald disabused him of this notion, and the youngster retired hurriedly.

The herd wandered through the picturesque drives leading from the lawn, and drank at the little pond on the golf-links, set like a jewel on the breast of the moor.

The young grey stallion had some cause for jealousy, for Skewbald noticed a white mare with a great blotch of jet black on her neck and fore-quarters, and she took his eye, being spotted himself; but she refused to leave her beloved pastures; she was no wanderer, and never had been known to stray more than half a mile from her birthplace, a field by the lawn.

Then rain came at last, and the mare crossed the river again and led her party into the woods. They wandered through the glade of the Queen Bower, with its great beeches, crossed the Blackwater, and so into the thick woods of Vinney Ridge. Here they had a fright one midday, for the baying of hounds, tootling of horns, and tramping of hoofs dismayed all but the old mare, who had often ridden with the buck-hounds. She led her party, which were inclined to scatter, down a drive away from the noise. Later in the week the rain ceased, and leaving the woods, they crossed the Ober and slowly climbed the hill to Wilverley Post, the young foals even daring to rub themselves against the “Naked Man”—a dead tree reduced to a bare trunk and a couple of armlike branches stretched out imploringly. Here they crossed the black tarred road between Southampton and Bournemouth. It was Sunday afternoon and the cars were almost in procession, so numerous were they, the noisy little sidecar predominating; but the ponies took small account of wheels. Horns might blow and chauffeurs curse, but the mares, and especially the foals, were not to be hurried. As the herd crossed head to tail, so that there was not room for even a motor-cycle to pass, the road looked like Piccadilly at its narrowest part, when the policemen stop the traffic. All sorts of cars were there, from Fords to a Rolls-Royce; great charabancs full of trippers, who threw crumpled paper balls at the ponies to hurry them up, but without avail, and the drivers, remembering the warning signs put up by the R.S.P.C.A., had to curb their impatience until the last foal had crossed.

The ponies spread themselves over Clay Hill, went down into the bottoms and up by the steep road from Holmsley Station into Burley, and drank at the pond fringed with hollies, on the golf-links, where one Christmas the scarlet berries hid the leaves, as the golfers, if they notice such things, can testify.

They cropped the lawn outside the school, until the noise of the children coming out sent them into the woods. They missed Burley, fortunately, for one of the old forest pounds stands close by, crossed the road at Vereley, passed the gipsy encampment, and then reaching another black road leading to Ringwood, spread out over the open ground of Picket Post, one of the finest spots in the forest, because of its altitude and its views towards the sea. Here one can see clearly the flanks of the forest hills rising from the level bottom like hills out of a lake. The ponies munched the sweet grass on the lawn with its beautiful little tumulus crowned with hollies, but unfortunately dwarfed by the great modern house close by.

Then the unsatisfied maternal instincts of the old mare surged up within her, an irresistible impulse to action, and she did what horses, dogs, and other animals will do—set her face towards her birthplace. She had been born at Brook, and old memories of her present surroundings may have suggested to her the route to the village. At any rate, the herd were soon travelling slowly to the north-east. Over Handy Cross Plain they went, through King’s Garden and so to Stoney Cross, where, from the hill leading down to the dell of the Rufus Stone, one gets the fine view across to Brook and beyond.

The mare wandered about several days visiting the haunts of her youth; then again her loss came upon her, and she started off across country, for the spot where last she had seen her foal.

All this time the wanderings of the ponies had not been unnoted. People owning ponies had seen them here and there, and in passing a friend’s house would call and remark, “I saw your chestnut mare over by Castle Malwood the other day,” or the owner of Skewbald might be greeted with, “Your four-year-old seems a bit of a wanderer.” If the herd strayed on to a public road where the agisters might catch them, and involve their owners in expense, a forest man would spend a little time chivying them back into the forest. So they had committed no damage in their fleeting disappearances from the forest proper. They had not been impounded, and apparently they were free as air, yet the owner of any pony there, with a little trouble and inquiry, could ascertain its whereabouts and could get it either personally or by deputy.

The herd came back over Emery Down, the great gaps in its wooded sides showing where the Canadian gangs had cleared the timber during the war. Cleared it in a lazy way, the forest men remarked, for instead of bending to cut the tree at its base, they had left many stumps waist-high. But then, timber is cheap in the West.

Missing Lyndhurst, by devious ways the ponies came out on the golf-links, where a yearling got a smack on the flank from the ball of an impatient golfer. They crossed the road, and tried the sweet grass of Pondhead. It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and a boy with a camera, catching sight of Skewbald, tried for a snapshot. He stalked him backwards and forwards, manœuvring for a good pose and lighting, until the stallion got suspicious and annoyed. Disdaining the bridge, he jumped the streamlet, mounted the hill a few paces, and called loudly. The mares, not unmindful of the intruder with his flashing camera, understood. Without undue haste they gathered their foals, crossed the little bridge and took the path up the hill, Skewbald standing sentinel until he saw they were all on the move, then, pressing forward, he overtook the head of the column, and led the way.

Soon there was a quarter of a mile of ponies of all colours, following the meanderings of the path, the mares with lowered heads, foals trotting to left and right. Last of all went an old white mare with a black sucker silhouetted against her side. It was a pretty picture. Even in the distance the energetic action of Skewbald could be noted; his tossing mane proclaimed him the leader. It _was_ a picture, and the boy could not help snapping it, although he knew the distance was too great.

The old mare no longer led the way, for the herd had reached its home pasturage. Indeed, Skewbald’s owner had already noted his return. The ponies crossed the road looking down on Longwater, and passed a night among the lush bottoms. The next day they wandered eastwards over Matley Heath. As they approached the railway embankment to cross under the forest viaduct, they passed an area of a few acres, which would have looked strangely familiar to millions of men of military age. During the war the trench mortar force had used the place as a training-ground, and at every few yards a hole gaped, several feet across and a yard deep.

That afternoon the herd was again at the ford, having completed their circular tour.

XVI.—SKEWBALD THE SWIFT

IT WAS early in September, and Skewbald’s owner, who had seen him only once during the summer, but had had reports of his having been found in various parts of the forest from agisters and keepers, decided that he would “catch in” the four-year-old, and get a good price for him as a pit pony. He settled to do the job himself, and, with two neighbours who volunteered to give up a Saturday afternoon, started off in the direction where the herd had been seen last. It was fine and clear (“visibility very good”), and Skewbald was plainly in view more than a mile away. The ponies were scattered along a ridge above a narrow valley, the floor of which was largely occupied by a deep bog.

It was decided to keep out of sight as long as possible, and come at the stallion from over the hill, in the hope that he could be driven down to the bog and surrounded.

But if the horsemen could see Skewbald at a distance, because of his bold colouring, he could detect them by reason of his good sight, and though they had apparently gone right away, he remained uneasy, marching from one mare to another. Presently he heard the muffled beat of hoofs on turf, and called loudly to his companions. When the three hunters reached the crest of the hill and looked down, Skewbald and several mares, with their offspring, were trotting away towards the head of the valley.

There was nothing for the hunters to do but to go for it at their best speed. Skewbald, they knew, like any stallion true to his herd, would not leave the mares, if he could help it. When they tired was the chance to get him. But as the horsemen galloped, the trot of the fugitives changed to the quicker step also, and though the riders gained on the herd, Skewbald was always on the far side, protected, as it were, by the column of mares, foals, and younger ponies.

Some of the foals soon stopped, and, with their mothers, fell out of the chase. The other mares and youngsters carried on, and the pursuit went on along the ridge, until the bog was turned, and Skewbald led the way back on the other side. Then the ponies with him began to slacken, and the pursuers’ hopes ran high, but Skewbald increased his speed, and leaving his fatigued company, galloped on alone. Some little distance ahead, the bog narrowed considerably, and here a causeway of gravel had been constructed. Along this the stallion dashed, and ascended the hill to where the rest of his leaderless herd had collected. They began to move as he approached, and stretching into a gallop, they went with him, this time down the valley, and being untired, began to increase the distance from their pursuers. “Hang it!” cried the owner; “when these are tired, and he gets to the other lot after they’ve breathed, he may keep this up all the evening.”

Then things happened. One of the riders essayed to cut off a corner by crossing a marshy bit. His pony hesitated, and when struck, put her feet together and shot her rider into the bog. The others halted, and with shouts of laughter, watched the muddy figure thrashing about, then, as he sank deeper, hastily took measures to help him out. They tossed him a rope and fastened their end to one of the ponies. Then chaffing him about keeping his legs straight, they shouted, “Hold tight, Jim!” and setting the pony going, out came the man with a great squelch. “Well,” said Jim, as he looked at himself ruefully, “my own fault entirely. I ought to have known better than beat a forest pony baulking at boggy ground.”

It was getting late, and Skewbald was out of sight. They decided to abandon the chase and try again another day.

Then the rain came, filling the bogs and flooding the streams, and the ponies, according to their habit, left the open moorlands for the woods, where they were invisible, save to the forest keepers, clad in khaki with brass buttons bearing the crown and stirrup, the latter device derived from the gigantic stirrup hanging in the court hall at Lyndhurst.

Skewbald’s owner made inquiries. A keeper had seen the stallion in a great wood of oaks and beeches. The next Saturday afternoon the three riders again set off. The rain had ceased, and the sun shone, although the going was heavy. In the woods the forest paths were churned into quagmires, but on pony-back it does not matter if the forest be a bit damp. The pony’s legs get the mud.

Skewbald’s company were grazing in the open, but in the shelter of the wood, bordered with groves of silver birches. From afar the hunters thought out a plan of action. “Best go back,” said one, “and come at them from behind. P’raps we can drive them down the moor and away from the woods.” As the riders, after a long detour, were approaching their quarry, having got almost to the confines of the wood, a party of jays set up a clamour. “No use going quietly now,” grumbled the leader; “better push on as fast as we can.” The ponies had heard the raucous noise of the jays, and then the trample of hoofs. When the hunters emerged from the wood, they were in time to see the last of the herd dashing in among the trees, hundreds of yards ahead.

“Come on, lads,” was the cry, and the pursuers did their best to overtake the fugitives, who had chosen their country with skill, for they had fled into a great wood with plenty of undergrowth, and trees so thick that no background of sky gave the ponies away. Hollies grew in dense masses, and clinging honeysuckle and brier impeded progress. Quick going was impossible, and every dense brake had to be examined for a lurking beast. Mares and colts they overtook, and once they thought they had found Skewbald, but it was an old white mare running among the trees. As they got nearer the river, the wood grew wilder and more difficult, while their ponies sunk below the fetlocks in the soft stuff. “Let’s go into the drive and see if we can head them off,” suggested a faint-hearted one. In the sticky drive were more ponies, but no Skewbald. With the old black mare he was sheltering behind a thick clump of hollies, ready, if he heard the riders approaching, to move quietly off.

Night came on and the riders gave up the chase in disgust, vowing that they had had the worst of luck.

After this, the services of the colt-hunter were sought. He listened to the tale of Skewbald’s evasions. “Seems a speedy one, and artful. I’ll get him, never fear.”

The next morning, the colt-hunter, going out to shoot a rabbit for dinner, was delighted to see Skewbald with his mares, placidly wandering on the moor outside his holding. The rabbit must wait, and he returned to collect his two helpers and get the ponies ready. When the three were mounted, he sent the boy and girl by a circuitous route to get behind the herd. He himself rode through the gate which opened on the moor, and went towards the woods, as being the most difficult part of the country.

Presently, as he watched the herd, he saw the stallion raise his head, and a moment later Tom appeared on the ridge beyond the moor, and came down the hill at a trot. Skewbald called to his mares, and set off at a gallop towards the far end of the moor, where it was crossed by the stream. The man saw the herd rapidly dwindling in the distance, and noted with satisfaction that the boy made no attempt to rush the fugitives, but contented himself with trotting along the edge of the moor in the direction they had taken. “Saving his mount,” the father muttered, and then heard faint sounds in the distance, which he knew came from Molly, who had crossed the stream, and with shouts and gestures was stopping the fugitives. The ponies halted; then, as their new pursuer rode at them, they turned, and fled in the opposite direction. Skewbald had an eye to the hill, its summit covered with trees, but Tom on guard saw a suggestion of breaking away, and stopped it with waving arms and fiendish yells. As the ponies, apparently free from strenuous pursuit, slackened to a trot, the colt-hunter met them, and turning them, quietly followed. Tom and his sister closed in, and the ponies, in an invisible net, were shepherded towards the gate, left wide open. Skewbald, restless and suspicious, turned and faced the riders gently trotting towards him at some distance. This left the old “lane haunter” in front, and as she approached the opening, she shied, and broke away, keeping near the hedge, where there was no rider to forestall her. The herd turned also, and prepared to follow, but an unexpected intervention checked them. The two smallest children had been awakened by the bustle of getting the ponies ready, and guessed what was afoot. They had not been asked to help, but thinking there might be some fun, they dressed, slipped out, and hid in the hollies a hundred feet from the gate. As the mare came towards them they darted out, and, brandishing sticks, rushed at the herd, meanwhile letting off blood-curdling shrieks. The old mare, indeed, used to children, brushed past, but the ponies following were brought to a standstill, and as the youngsters jumped into the air, their arms and legs going all ways at once, making of themselves frantic instruments of movement and sound, the nerves of the ponies failed them, Skewbald turning tail with the rest, and the three riders, closing in, had no difficulty in passing their quarry through the gate and into the paddock. “Well done, kids!” called the father. “Close the gate! Let’s ride ’em into the yard before they know where they are.” But Skewbald had turned after passing through the gate, and the herd was now at the far end of the field. The hunters tried all ways to get the ponies into the stable yard, but in vain; they tore past the inviting opening, but enter they would not. Then the mare left outside, hearing the trampling of hoofs, and feeling lonely, gave a loud whinny. Skewbald caught it amid the noise of tumult. He broke from the herd, dashed across the field, through the gravelly ford, then, as he neared the gate, collected himself, cleared it at a bound, and joined his partner.

“My word!” exclaimed the colt-hunter, with a rueful laugh. “Can’t that skewbald jump! One of you open the gate so that the other ponies can get back into the forest again. All our trouble for nothing. Well, we’d better go and have breakfast.”

The colt-hunter began to fear that his old skill was deserting him, for in spite of his efforts, the four-year-old was not yet in the stable yard. At the first opportunity, the man went out again, this time alone. The old mare gave the alarm, on seeing him, and the whole herd was soon trotting away from their pursuer, who, as they were going directly from his open gate, refrained from pressing them too closely, hoping that he might be able to turn them before long. But the mare led the way right across the open ground towards the river where it flowed between densely wooded banks. They entered the wood, and the pursuer increased his pace, for in such country unridden ponies can move much more quickly than a rider. Directly he got into the deep wood, he had to twist, and break back for feasible routes, and go slowly for fear of being wiped off his seat by a branch. He passed several of the ponies, but they were not what he sought, and as he got deeper in the recesses of the wood, he became puzzled. After some tedious wandering, scratched and torn by holly, brier, and bramble, he confessed himself at a loss. “They may have crossed the stream again,” he considered. “This thick stuff is the worst of all to find him in. I wish I had my old dog.” Nell had had to be destroyed, after an accident, but when in her prime had shown a capacity for following the fugitives as they threaded through the woods, and on reaching them, by barking loudly, indicated their position to the pursuers. The man gave up the chase reluctantly, promising himself to try again.

He did so the next evening with his boy and girl. The herd was in sight a mile down the moor. “When we get near them,” said the father, “we must hustle, and head them off from the woods.” But the ponies took the alarm at sight of the riders, and the old mare, without waiting for the chase to become hot, set off at full speed for the woods, followed by Skewbald and a few other ponies. “We shall lose them,” said the colt-hunter, and sure enough, after much wandering and thrashing the woods, darkness set in, and the hunters returned, weary and empty-handed.

Again and again they tried to head off Skewbald from his protector. The mare, from being disturbed, got so nervous that, at the first sight of the hunters, she would dart for the coverts, followed by Skewbald. The colt-hunter cudgelled his brains in vain for a plan to secure the stallion, and began to sigh for the good old days when the forest men, mounted and blowing horns, encircled a wide area, then with outcry and galloping, drove all the ponies grazing therein into a great pound. But, as he said, that would have made an end of his bread and cheese.

September was three parts through, and still Skewbald pastured on his native heath.

XVII.—HOW SKEWBALD ESCAPED THE MINES

THE sun, breaking through the mist of a September morning, shone on a grassy knoll by a great wood, where a man was cooking his breakfast. He was tall, ruddy, with a clear-cut profile and black hair cut close at the back. He wore a soft shirt, breeches, and stout boots. His wide-brimmed hat, jacket, and a towel hung on a bush close by. As he made his preparations he whistled “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Breakfast in the woods presupposes camping; no tent, however, showed itself, but a few paces off was an erection in the form of a lean-to, of dead branches interlaced with brushwood, and the whole well thatched with heather and bracken. Looking up from within, no peep of sky could be seen; the shack was, in fact, watertight.

The breakfast utensils were placed on a newspaper spread on the turf. A fire of sticks crackled in a hollow. Three aluminium saucepans were on the fire, and the man was stirring porridge in one. “Nearly ready,” he muttered; “now for the bacon.” He opened a package, took out two rashers, placed them in a small frying-pan, took the porridge-pan off the fire, removed the detachable handle and fitted the latter to the frying-pan, which he placed on the fire, now a mass of glowing embers.