THE GUN KETCH

Hall made their way between the fidgety horses with trays of stirrup cups to hand up to eager hunters. And tried to avoid the stalings on the drive and the grass, the fresh puddles of urine as fine horses tittupped and farted prior to a morning's run across country.

Harry Embleton reined his overeager stallion in roughly as he attempted to join the Chiswick party. At the dinner and dance the night before, he'd suspected there was something different about Caroline. She'd danced with him three times; a bloody wonder, that. And she'd been pleasant, for once, though distant, as was her usual wont, but he'd sensed it was for a different reason. For awhile he'd imagined that she was finally coming 'round, that Governour had worked on her long enough to incline her affections towards him. But then, she had danced five times with that interloping Lieutenant Lewrie, and had evinced such a rosy-cheeked elation towards him that it had taken all of his self-control not to have rushed onto the chalked dance floor to pull the smarmy devil away and thrust him from the house! The common, jumped-up… son of a whore!

That Lieutenant Lewrie danced extremely well, with such liquid grace and style to any music, and set every eligible girl to twittering like so many brainless hens, was infuriating as well.

And what did all those curious stares and giggles, those sly looks from the girls mean, he wondered? They had been directed at him as much as Caroline… surely that meant something wondrous was about to occur! But, they giggled and leered at Lewrie, too!

He had thought to ask of Governour, Millicent, or her uncle, butcould not stoop so low as to gamer gossip. A young man in his class and position could not; would not!

'A fine morning for the fox, Reverend,' he said, tipping his hat to the vicar as he passed him and his daughter Emily. Emily had once been spooned by Governour Chiswick, had 'set her cap' for him, in fact; now she'd lost Governour, it was not much of a secret she pined for Harry. There were few suitable bachelors left in the parish. Surprisingly, she did not gush over him so blatantly as would be her custom, and only looked away, reddening a trifle.

'Aye, 'twill be, young sir,' the vicar agreed, though shying. Devil take the lot of 'em, what was the matter this morning? Harry wondered. Do I look like I have leprosy?

'Harry, me lad!' Roger Oakes bellowed, waving to him to come see him. 'A wager? Twenty guineas, first to the hitching rail?'

Harry turned his horse's head to join him, distracted. 'Twenty's an insult, Roger,' Harry sneered. 'Make it fifty.' 'Done!' Oakes replied heartily. 'Mind you, you kill that fine animal, no matter you're first, and the wager's off.'

'If he goes under, as your poor prad may, then I've lost both race and guineas. Good enough for you, you scapegrace?'

'Aye,- fair enough. Hoy, lad. Brandy here for two,' Oakes ordered a scurrying footman. 'Been down to the church, Harry?' he asked as two more of their fellows joined them.

'Not since Sunday last,' Harry shrugged, looking over his shoulder at Caroline, who was beaming and laughing with Governour, Millicent and the dashing Lieutenant Lewrie, missing the wink Oakes tipped the others.

'What's posted makes interesting reading,' Oakes sniggered. 'Damn yer blood, Oakes,' Harry snapped, having just about all he could take of leering, winking, and tittering, of odd reactions to his presence. 'What's got into everyone today? And what's so bloody important posted at church?'

'Banns,' Oakes smiled maliciously. 'To be read o' Sunday, and read last night, I'm told. That makes two, I'm thinking. But, then, there may be a need of haste, aye lads?' And the rest chuckled over the rims of their stirrup cups.

'And who's the unfortunate young drab?' Harry smiled, sensing a wry jape or two over some yokel's slut. Or a juicy scandal.

'Caroline Chiswick, of all people,' Roger informed him with a wink. 'Damme, when we met Lewrie, he told you your virginity was secure. Didn't say anything about the lovely Caroline, though, did he? Ha ha! Damned fast workers, the Navy!'

'Goddamn you…' Harry shouted, striking the cup from Oakes's amazed hand. 'Devil take you, you…!'

The Master of the Hunt was summoning riders, and the Master of Hounds, his own father, was pacing away, blowing his shrill horn to get things started. There was a good scent laid down with a brush to spur the hounds into the countryside, where they'd be sure to get a true spoor, and they were off in a brindle, speckled flood, yelping and baying as if they'd treed or denned something already.

'Apologize or owe me satisfaction, damn you, Harry!' Oakes demanded, face white with umbrage. He took Harry's wrist in his hand to hold him. 'I'll not take that, even from a friend!'

'You'll have to stand in line, you bastard!' Harry screeched, tears in his eyes. 'Someone else owes me satisfaction first!' He twisted free and put spurs to his stallion, making it rear and whicker with anger at his treatment.

'Now you've done it, Roger,' one of the stalwarts commented as they got under way, 'that lunatic is going to kill somebody!'

'If he doesn't kill himself first,' Oakes shrugged, unfazed.

Off her own land, in public, Caroline was required by Society to ride a sidesaddle, so they made slower going in the middle of the pack of riders. Sometimes at a trot, sometimes at a sedate walk, as the hounds cast back and forth near the edge of Embleton lands.

They milled about for awhile before the hounds at last had a scent, and then they were off once more, this time at a lope behind the Masters and the hounds.

The first jump, once the pack increased speed, they took side by side, and Alan whooped in joy, sharing a brief grin of pleasure with Caroline. It had been years since he'd hunted down in Kent, in the times his father Sir Hugo still had acreage and the privilege of the hunt; 1779 since Alan had gone down for a summer after his last expulsion, just before his unwilling entry into the Navy. He had to admit he was rusty as a rider, but it was coming back to him, as was the heady exaltation of galloping cross-country and devil take the hindmost.

There was a second jump over a narrow but high-banked stream, and a third not two musket shots later, this time over a hedge, onto Chiswick land. And then the pack veered left toward the great house.Moments later, the hounds were circling and leaping around an oak tree, baying and yelping loud as the Hound of Cerberus, and they reined in behind the Master in confusion.

'Oh, bloody hell!' Sir Romney chortled. 'Damned dogs've treed a cat, damn my eyes! Heel, sirs! Come away, damn you all, heel!'

'Good God, it's William Pitt!' Caroline gasped as the ragged ram-cat lay hunkered on a high-enough limb, bottled up and spitting, and raking the air with one paw, claws extended, at any hound's nose that came within scratching distance.

'Your pardons, milord?' Alan asked of Sir Romney as he rode up to him. 'Might I pass you for just a moment? He's my cat, d'you see. And Caroline has been…'

Harry rode up as well, having gotten a later start off the mark from his house, but galloping all the way. He sawed his reins, setting the stallion back on its quarters and skidding dirt with its hooves beside them, jostling both men's mounts.

'Harry, we've treed Mister Lewrie's beast, yonder!' Sir Romney laughed as handlers began to drive the dogs off, beating at them with switches. 'Think his tail'd make a good brush on my walls, hey?'

Harry gave Lewrie a black glower and spurred past him to ride under the tree, reaching up with his riding crop to slash at the cat, making Pitt howl with each lashlike blow, forcing the cat to slink backwards on the limb and climb higher.

'Feed the bastard to the dogs!' Harry almost screamed.

Lewrie spurred forward as well. Harry's actions had awakened the hounds to return to the tree and redouble their yelps, howls and blood lust. They were now almost uncontrollable.

'Damn you, sir!' Alan barked in his quarter-deck voice. 'You hurt that cat, and you'll answer to me!'

'Goddamn you!' Harry shouted back. Alan took hold of his whip hand and pulled it down to waist level. Harry struck out with a left, letting go of the reins, striking Alan in the cheek and knocking his hat off. And, as Alan rocked back upright, Harry slashed him across his face with the riding crop as the excited horses circled and bit at each other. Lewrie's gelding shied away from Harry's stallion to the right, and Lewrie yanked reins to circle him small and return to what was now a fight.

'Damn you, Harry, what's got into you?' Sir Romney demanded in a hoarse shout above the gasps and cries of the other riders at this outrageous conduct. 'Stop, I say, boy! Hear me?'