Skewbald, the New Forest Pony

by Allen W. Seaby

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.