Mollow and Cony were out ahead on the flanks, almost out of sight, while Lewrie and the ensign formed the central pair, within a long musket shot of each other. Alan was enjoying himself hugely as he picked a way through the underbrush wide and high enough for the led mare to follow. He had not been this far away from uniforms and naval discipline in months, even though he had to admit to himself that he did not know what the hell he was doing. He was not a trained hunter, not like Mollow, Cony, or Chiswick, who had been at it almost since birth. He was indeed a city man, only exposed to hunting in the summers on his father’s not-so-large estate, more at home with bird shooting or riding behind a pack of hounds over open fields. This silent crouching and stalking, listening for the sounds of game and trying to limit one’s own clumsy crashings and slitherings was foreign to him, but he was getting into the spirit of it although it was damned dry work. The ground was too dry to see much in the way of a sign, or to recognize it as old or new if he had.
