The Woodwose of Cannock Chase — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ar crrrrra eran nT 2 THE WOODWOSE OF CANNOCK CHASE A ot a a oh ee CHAPTER 1. THE BITTER WINTER THE incidents of this strange and exciting story occurred more than a hundred years ago. * * # * rk SHUGBOROUGH HALL, the residence of Sir Richard Dalton, was an immense old building, that stood in a spacious, well-wooded park, not many miles from Cannock Chase. As the mists cleared on that late November morning, Jack Frost watched his night’s work slowly melt as the sun rose above the bare trees. The desolate fields were barren now but amongst the black hedgerows small animals and birds still went about Nature’s business, their scurrying and fluttering made loud by the silence around them. If it could be helped, nobody went out of doors to-day. Hearths were kept warm and kettles kept hot on such a bitterly cold day. So it was that someone — or something — could quite easily be abroad on a day like this and yet avoid prying eyes. Only God’s small creatures bore witness to the large figure stalking at the edge of Cannock Chase. It walked with a stoop, its long hairy arms Swinging by its side and its hands almost brushing the ground. Even so bent, it was still taller than a man. From time to time it paused and sniffed the air, as would a dog. But this was no loyal canine. Ahead of the Being, tiny animals fled into their burrows and birds took flight to hedgerows on the far side of the field, sometimes with a cautionary squawk to their fellow feathered creatures. But the Being ploughed onward all the same, intent on some mysterious errand known only to itself. On that same day, Sir Richard Dalton was feeling miserable. He had not long returned from London after unsuccessfully pursuing both love and fortune ! The business had failed and the woman had departed without notice for Italy with a Count known to Dalton as a scoundrel and a ead. “So be it!” said Dalton to himself, as he rung for his man to bring his riding boots. “I will let the wind blow this misery away, where it can lie in the blighted field thither.” Some minutes later, the stable boy had brought Storm into the yard, saddled in readiness for a winter’s ride. Storm snorted a greeting as Sir Dalton lightly tripped down the steps of Shugborough Hall and made for his favourite steed. “There, there, Old Storm” said Dalton to the big black face, “let’s both away and chase Jack Frost across to Brockton.” Dalton dismissed the stable boy with a wave of a gloved hand, and mounted Storm in a single bound. In moments, rider and horse were cantering down the long driveway and heading toward the lane bordering fields which led to a horse path favoured by both. They met no cart nor rustic on the road and the only sound was the whistling of the wind through the horse’s mane and the hollow clack of its horseshoes on the frozen ground. Dalton dismounted briefly to open the gate that led onto a large field — a short cut to the woods and then beyond that to the road that led to Brockton. The field had been turned in the autumn and now lay fallow, the frost slept in the furrows while the snow prettily decorated the ridges. The hard soil caused Storm to tread slowly and they stayed hard to the hedgerow in | order to avoid ditches. Feeling the wind bite, Dalton drew Storm to a halt and lifted his cloak to retrieve a hip flask from his waistcoat. He took a sifter of the whisky and took in the view before him. “That is strange” he thought. In dead silence he looked all about him. The air was still and there was no movement at all save chimney smoke curling from distant cottages. “A decidedly brutish day,’ he said to Storm. But Storm’s attention was not for once on his master’s voice. Those senses that a horse possesses and which we do not, had reached out and taken hold of something. Could it even be described as a sound? A smell? A movement? What words should we use for something unfathomable? All the same, whatever it was that Storm sensed, his rigid attention made Dalton aware that something was awry. “What is it Old Storm?” said Dalton, and he peered in the same direction as the black horse, towards the distant hedgerow on the opposite side of the field, half hidden by the dark silhouettes of trees bare of leaves. Of a sudden, both Storm and Dalton involuntarily jumped as one of those bare trees seemed to uproot itself, move out of the hedgerow and take a step into the field. It stopped momentarily, as if taking its bearings, and then surged forward with purpose towards the stupefied rider and horse. Dalton recovered first and digging his stirrups into old Storm, pulled the beast’s head sharply round to the left and headed off back toward the gate. But the dark creature now changed course and leapt and ran with fabulous ease across the furrows and toward its six-legged prey! All three met at the gate and immediately Storm reared up in fright as the Wild Beast flourished a branch, much as a rustic would a stout oak cudgel. Dalton was flung down onto the hard ground and left breathless as Storm galloped away, frozen turf flying through the air. Now that the Creature was nearly upon him, Dalton could take in the truly horrific sight: here was a large hairy animal, on legs as thick as trees and with long arms to match. Its face was like that of an ape, but the red eyes were dark and malevolent, hooded under a low dark brow. LOOK OUT FOR THE ; BOY SAILOR; OR, LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR. A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in about 30 Numbers. No. 2; with No.: 1,: and a LARGE EN- GRAVING, GRATIS. LOOK OUT FoR ; SOMETHING NEW FOR THE BOYS! A LARGE ENGRAVING AND VARIOUS PRIZES, GRATIS. | Full particulars in No, 6, ( & OMIGDOO <SiiG