Then, within a few yards of the spot where No. 1 had silently appeared, out bounced No. 2, but in widely different style. In huge bounds, with head and neck horizontal and antlers laid flat aback, he covered the open like a racer. The first shot got in too far back, but the second went right, and the two friends lay not divided in death. Both were coronados (triple-crowned), indeed the second carried four-on-top in double pairs as sketched—a not uncommon formation—but being very old, lacked bez tines.
Very nearly five hours had elapsed since we had first struck the spoor, five hours of concentrated attention, crowned by the final assertion of human “dominion.” And during these moments of permissible expansion, there was impressed on our minds the fact that such success involves mastery of a difficult craft.
“TAKING THE WIND” (A stag, on recognising human scent, will give a bound as though a knife had been plunged into his heart.)
“TAKING THE WIND”
(A stag, on recognising human scent, will give a bound as though a knife
had been plunged into his heart.)
Illustrative of how astutely a cornered stag will exploit every device and avenue of escape, an excellent instance is given in Wild Spain, p. 434.
Skilled deer-driving is a different undertaking from the force majeure by which pheasants and such-like game may be pushed over a line of guns. For deer do not act on timid impulse, but on practical instinct. Scent is their first safeguard when danger threatens and their natural flight is up-wind. But as it is obviously impossible to place guns to windward, the operation resolves itself into moving the game—dead against its instinct and set inclination—down-wind, or at least on a “half-wind.” The latter is easier as an operation, but less effective in result: since the guns must be posted in echelon—otherwise each “gives the wind” to his next neighbour below. Consequently the firing-zone of each is greatly circumscribed.
In practice, therefore, the game has to be moved or cajoled—it can hardly be said to be “driven”—into going, at least so far, down-wind by skilled handling of the driving-line and by intelligent co-operation on the part of each individual driver. In the great mountain-drives of the sierras (elsewhere described) packs of hounds, being carefully trained, perform infinite service. Always under control of their huntsman, they systematically search out thickets impenetrable to man and push all game forward. In the Coto Doñana, our scratch-pack of podencos and mongrels of every degree, run riot unchecked at hind, hare, or rabbit, giving tongue in all directions at once, and probably do as much harm as good.
Our mounted keepers, however, expert in divining afar the yet unformed designs of the game ahead, are quick to counter each move by a feint or demonstration behind; and when desirable, to forestall attempted escape by resolute riding. The Spanish are a nation of horsemen, and a fine sight it is to see these wild guardas galloping helter-skelter through scrub that reaches the saddle—especially the way they ride down a wounded stag or boar with the garrocha—a long wooden lance.
Despite it all, however, many stags break back. Riding with the beaters it is instructive to watch the manœuvres of an old stag as, sinking from sight, he couches among quite low scrub on some hillock, or stands statuesque with horns aback hiding behind a clump of tall tree-heaths—alert all the while, stealthily to shift his position as yapping podencos on one side or the other may suggest—and watching each opportunity to evade the encompassing danger. Now a stretch of denser jungle obstructs the advancing line. The beaters are forced apart to pass it, and a gap or two yawns in the attack. Instantly that introspective wild beast realises his advantage—he springs to sight, ignores Spanish expletives that scorch the scrub, and in giant bounds breaks back in the very face of encircling foes. Within thirty seconds he has regained security amid leagues of untrodden wilds.
Some years ago we tried the plan of placing one (or two) guns with the driving-line; but the experiment proved impracticable. Obviously only the coolest and most reliable men could be trusted in an essay which otherwise involved danger. Unfortunately—and it is but human nature—every one considers himself equally cool and reliable. Hence the breakdown and abandonment of the practice. For the long line of beaters, struggling at different points through obstacles of varying difficulty, necessarily loses precise formation; it becomes more or less broken and scattered. Here and there a man may get “stuck” and left a hundred yards behind the general advance. The risk in “firing back” is obvious. The writer remembers being one of two guns with the beaters, when a pair of stags, jumping up close ahead, bolted straight back, passing almost within arm’s length. As the second carried a fairly good head, I dismounted and shot it, but was then horrified to discover that my companion-gun had (contrary to all rules) gone back in that very direction to shoot a woodcock!
Driving Big Game
On “driving” as such we do not propose to enlarge. The system is simple though the practice is subject to variation. On the gently undulated levels of Doñana, for example, the latter (as already indicated) is widely differentiated from the systems practised in mountainous countries—whether in Scotland or the Spanish sierras—where shots can safely be accepted at incoming or at passing game. Guns are there protected from danger by intervening ridges, crags, and piled-up rocks that flank each “pass.” Here the game must be left to pass well through and outside the line of guns before a shot is permissible.
Our “drives,” whether in forest or scrub, seldom exceed a couple of miles in extent; but in wild regions where isolated patches of covert are scattered, inset amid wastes of sand, the area may be extended to half a day’s ride. These long scrambling drives gain enhanced interest to a naturalist in precisely inverse ratio with their probability of success.
In a big-game drive the first animals to come forward are, as a rule, foxes and lynxes—creatures which move on impulse, and instantly quit a zone where danger threatens. Both, however, will certainly pass unseen should there be any scrub to conceal their retreat. The lynx especially is adept at utilising cover, however slight. Should open patches or sandy glades occur among the bush, foxes will be viewed bundling along, to all appearance quite carelessly. Here in Spain foxes are merely “vermin”; but it is a mistake to shoot them, owing to the risk of thereby turning back better game. Neither lynx nor fox, by the way, are accounted caza mayor unless killed with a bullet.
SYLVIA MELANOCEPHALA (Sardinian warbler; conspicuous by its strong colour-contrasts.)
SYLVIA MELANOCEPHALA
(Sardinian warbler; conspicuous by its strong colour-contrasts.)
As elsewhere mentioned, there is always a considerable possibility at the earlier period of a “drive” (and even before the operation has actually commenced) of some old and highly experienced stag attempting to slip through the line in the calculated hope (which is often well founded) that he will thereby take most of the guns by surprise and so escape unshot at. Never be unready.
Although in “driving,” that element of ceaseless personal effort, observation and self-reliance that characterise stalking, still-hunting, or spooring, is necessarily reduced, yet it is by no means eliminated. Nor are there lacking compensating charms in those hours of silent expectancy spent in the solitude of jungle or amid the aromatic fragrance of pine-forest. Every sense is held in tension to mark and measure each sign or sound; ‘tis but the fall of a pine-cone that has caught your ear, but it might easily have been a single footfall of game. The wild-life of the wilderness pursues its daily course around unconscious of a concealed intruder in its midst. Overhead, busy hawfinches wrestle with ripening cones, swinging in gymnastic attitude. These are silent. You have first become aware of their presence by a shower of scales gently fluttering down upon the shrubbery of genista and rosemary alongside, amidst the depths of which lovely French-grey warblers with jet-black skull-caps (Sylvia melanocephala) pursue insect-prey with furious energy—dashing into the tangle of stems reckless of damage to tender plumes. There are other bush-skulkers infinitely more reclusive than these—some indeed whose mere existence one could never hope to verify (in winter) save by patience and these hours of silent watching. Such are the Fantail, Cetti’s, and Dartford warblers, while among sedge and cane-brake alert reed-climbers beguile and delight these spells of waiting. Soldier-ants and horned beetles with laborious gait, but obvious fixity of purpose, pursue their even way, surmounting all obstruction—such as boot or cartridge-bag. Earth and air alike are instinct with humble life.
To a northerner it is hard to believe that this is mid-winter, when almost every tree remains leaf-clad, the brushwood green and flower-spangled. Arbutus, rosemary, and tree-heath are already in bloom, while bees buzz in shoulder-high heather and suck honey from its tricoloured blossoms—purple, pink, and violet. Strange diptera and winged creatures of many sorts and sizes, from gnat and midge to savage dragon-flies, rustle and drone in one’s ear or poise on iridescent wing in the sunlight, and the hateful hiss of the mosquito mingles with the insect-melody. Over each open flower of rock-rose or cistus hovers the humming-bird hawk-moth with, more rarely, one of the larger sphinxes (S. convolvuli), each with long proboscis inserted deep in tender calyx. Not even the butterflies are entirely absent. We have noticed gorgeous species at Christmas time, including clouded yellows, painted lady and red admiral, southern wood-argus, Bath white, Lycaena telicanus, Thäis polyxena, Megaera, and many more. On the warm sand at midday bask pretty green and spotted lizards,[10] apparently asleep, but alert to dart off on slightest alarm, disappearing like a thought in some crevice of the cistus stems.
Hard by a winter-wandering hoopoe struts in an open glade, prodding the earth with curved bill and crest laid back like a “claw-hammer”; from a tall cistus-spray the southern grey shrike mumbles his harsh soliloquy, and chattering magpies everywhere surmount the evergreen bush. Where the warm sunshine induces untimely ripening of the tamarisk, some brightly coloured birds flicker around pecking at the buds. They appear to be chaffinches, but a glance through the glass identifies them as bramblings—arctic migrants that we have shot here in midwinter with full black heads—in “breeding-plumage” as some call it, though it is merely the result of the wearing-away of the original grey fringe to each feather, thus exposing the glossy violet-black bases.
SPANISH GREEN WOODPECKER (Gecinus sharpei) (1) Alighting. (2) Calling.
SPANISH GREEN WOODPECKER (Gecinus sharpei)
(1) Alighting. (2) Calling.
Birds, as a broad rule, possess no “breeding-plumage.” They only renew their dress once a year, in the autumn, and breed the following spring in the worn and ragged plumes. It’s not poetic, but the fact.[11] This is not the place to enumerate all the characteristic forms of bird-life, and only one other shall be mentioned, chiefly because the incident occurred the day we drafted this chapter. One hears behind the rustle of strong wings, and there passes overhead in dipping, undulated flight a green woodpecker of the Spanish species, Gecinus sharpei. With a regular thud he alights on the rough bark of a cork-oak in front, clings in rigid aplomb while surveying the spot for any sign of danger, then projects upwards a snake-like neck and with vertical beak gives forth a series of maniacal shrieks that resound through the silences.[12] By all means watch and study every phase of wild-life around you—the habit will leave green memories when the keener zest for bigger game shall have dimmed—but never be caught napping, or let a silent stag pass by while your whole attention is concentrated on a tarantula!
By way of illustrating the practice of “driving,” we annex three or four typical instances:—
Las Angosturas, February 5, 1907.—The writer’s post was in a green glade surrounded by pine-forest. A heavy rush behind was succeeded (as anticipated) by the appearance of a big troop of hinds followed by two small staggies. A considerable distance behind these came a single good stag, and already the sights had covered his shoulder, when from the corner of an eye a second, with far finer head, flashed into the picture, going hard, and I decided to change beasts. It was, however, too late. Half automatically, while eyes wandered, fingers had closed on trigger. At the shot the better stag bounded off with great uneven strides through the timber, offering but an uncertain mark. Both animals, however, were recovered. The first, an eleven-pointer, lay dead at the exact spot; the second was brought to bay within 300 yards, a fine royal.
Los Novarbos, January 9, 1903.—My post was among a grove of pine-saplings in a lovely open plain surrounded by forest. Two good stags trotted past, full broadside, at 80 yards. The first dropped in a heap, as though pole-axed, the second receiving a ball that clearly indicated a kill. While reloading, noticed with surprise that No. 1 had regained his legs and was off at speed. A third bullet struck behind; but it was not till two hours later, after blood-spooring for half a league, that we recovered our game. The first shot had struck a horn (at junction of trez tine) cutting it clean in two. This had momentarily stunned the animal, but the effect had passed off within ten seconds. Both were ten-pointers, with strong black horns, ivory-tipped. During that afternoon I got & big boar at Maë-Corra; and B., who had set out at 4 A.M., twenty-three geese at the Cardo-Inchal.
Far North, January 31, 1907.—First beat by the “Eagles’ Nest” (in the biggest cork-oak we ever saw, the imperial bird soaring off as we rode up). Brushwood everywhere tall and dense, giving no view. On placing me the keeper remarked, “By this little glade (canuto) deer must break, but amidst such jungle will need un tiro de merito!” Four stags broke, two were missed, but one secured—seven points on one horn, the other broken. So dense is the bush here that a lynx ran almost over the writer’s post, yet had vanished from sight ere gun could be brought to shoulder. In the next beat, La Querencia del Macho (again all dense bush), B. shot two really grand companion stags, but again one of these had a broken horn. This animal while at bay so injured the spine of one of our dogs that it had to be killed two days later.[13] A third beat added one more big stag, and the day’s result—four stags with only two “heads”—is so curious that we give the detail:—
| Length. | Breadth. | Points. | |
| W. E. B.[14] | 23½ ” | (One horn) | 7 × 2 |
| W. J. B. (No. 1) | 28” | Do. | 6 × 2 |
| W. J. B. (No. 2) | 25”× 25” | 25” | 7 × 6 = 13 |
| A. C. | 26”× 24” | 20½ ” | 6 × 5 = 11 |
Amidst forest or in dense jungle (such as last described) where no distant view is possible, it is usually advisable to watch outwards—that is, with back towards the beat, relying on ears to give notice of the movements of game within. But in (more or less) open country where a view, oneself unseen, can be obtained afar, the situation is modified. The following is an example:—
Corral Quemado, February 1, 1909.—The authors occupied the two outmost posts on a high sand-ridge which commanded an introspect far away into the heart of the covert. Already before the distant signal had announced that the converging lines of beaters had joined, suddenly an apparition showed up. Some 300 yards away a low pine-clad ridge traversed the forest horizon, and in that moment the shadows beneath became, as by magic, illumined by an inspiring spectacle—the tracery of great spreading antlers surmounting the sunlit grey face and neck of a glorious stag. For twenty seconds the apparition (and we) remained statuesque as cast in bronze. Then, with the suddenness and silence of a shifting shadow, the deep shade was vacant once more. The stag had retired. It boots not to recall those agonies of self-reproach that gnawed one’s very being. Suffice it, they were undeserved; for five or six minutes later that stag reappeared, leisurely cantering forward. Clearly no specific sign or suspicion of danger ahead had struck his mind or dictated that retirement. But his course was now, by mere chance and uncalculated cunning, 300 yards outside the sphere of your humble servants, the authors. That stag was now about to offer a chance to gun No. 3, instead of, as originally, to Nos. 1 and 2. Eagerly we both watched his course, now halting on some ridge to reconnoitre, gaze shifting, and ears deflecting hither and thither, anon making good another stage towards the goal of escape. A long shallow canuto (hollow) concealed his bulk from view, but we now saw by the bunchy “show” on top that this was a prize of no mean merit. Then came the climax. Rising the slope which ended the canuto, in an instant the stag stopped, petrified. Straight on in front of him, not 100 yards ahead, lay No. 3 gun, and the fatal fact had been discovered. It may have been an untimely movement, perhaps a glint of sunray on exposed gun-barrel, or merely the outline of a cap three inches too high—anyway the ambush had been detected, and now the stag swung at right angles and sought in giant bounds to pass behind No. 2. It was a long shot, very fast, and intercepted by intervening trees and bush—the second barrel directed merely at a vanishing stern. Yet such was our confidence in the aim—in both aims—that not even the subsequent sight of our antlered friend jauntily cantering away down the long stretch of Los Tendidos impaired by one iota its self-assurance. For a mile and more we followed that bloodless spoor, far beyond the point whereat the keeper’s solemn verdict had been pronounced, “No lleva náda—that stag goes scot-free.” As usual, that verdict was correct.
An incident worth note had occurred meanwhile. On the extreme left of our line, a mile away, two stags out of four that broke across the sand-wastes had been killed; and these, while we yet remained on the scene (though a trifle delayed by fruitless spooring) had already been attacked and torn open by a descending swarm of vultures. That, in Africa, is a daily experience, but never, before or since, have we witnessed such unseemly voracity in Europe.
Majada Real.—This is the one lowland covert where shots are permissible at incoming game. Being flanked on the west by gigantic sand-dunes, the guns (under certain conditions) may be lined out a couple of miles away, along the outskirts of the next nearest covert—the idea being to take the stags as they canter across the intervening dunes. The conditions referred to are (1) a straight east wind, and (2) reliable guns. Obviously the element of danger under this plan is vastly increased, and as the keepers are responsible for any accident, they are reluctant to execute the drive thus save only when their confidence in the guns is complete.[15] A careless man on a grouse-drive is dangerous enough; but here, with rifle-bullets, a reckless shot may spell death. The “in-drive,” nevertheless, is both curious and interesting. A spectacle one does not forget is afforded when the far-away skyline of dazzling sand is suddenly surmounted by spreading antlers, and some great hart, perhaps a dozen of them, come trotting all unconscious directly towards the eager eyes watching and waiting. The effect of a shot under these conditions is frequently to turn the game off at right angles. The deer then hold a course parallel with the covert-side, thus running the gauntlet of several guns, and the question of “first blood” may become a moot point—easily determined, however, by reference to the spoor. Boar naturally are averse to take such open ground; but when severely pressed, we have on occasion seen them scurrying across these Saharan sands, a singular sight under the midday sun.
To introspective minds two points may have showed up in these rough outline illustrations. First, that the best stags are ever the earliest amove when danger threatens. These not seldom escape ere a slovenly gunner is aware that the beat has begun. The moral is clear. Secondly, as these bigger and older beasts exhibit fraternal tendencies, it follows that a first chance (whether availed or bungled) need not necessarily be the last.
Besides deer, it is quite usual that wild-boar, as well as lynxes and other minor animals, come forward on these “drives.” The divergent nature of pig, however, renders a more specialised system advisable when wild-boar only are the objective. For whereas the aboriginal stag seeking a “lie-up” wherein to pass the daylight hours was satisfied by any sequestered spot that afforded shelter and shade from the sun, that was never the case with the jungle-loving boar. To the stag strong jungle and heavy brushwood were ever abhorrent, handicapping his light build and branching antlers. Clumps of tall reed-grass or three-foot rushes, a patch of cistus or rosemary, amply fulfilled his diurnal ideals and requirements. Nowadays, it is true, the expanded sense of danger, the increasing pressure of modern life—even cervine life—force him to select strongholds which offer greater security though less convenience. The wild-boar, on the reverse, with lower carriage and pachydermatous hide, instinctively seeks the very heaviest jungle within his radius—the more densely briar-matted and impenetrable the better he loves it.
Many such holts—some of them may be but a few yards in extent—are necessarily passed untried both by dogs and men when engaged in “driving” extended areas, sometimes miles of consecutive forest and covert. The somnolent boar hears the passing tumult, lifts a grisly head, grunts an angry soliloquy, and goes to sleep again, secure. Another day you have returned expressly to pay specific attention to him. In brief space he has diagnosed the difference in attack. Instantly that boar is alert, ready to repel or scatter the enemy, come who may, on two legs or four.
HOOPOES On the lawn at Jerez, March 19, 1910.
HOOPOES
On the lawn at Jerez, March 19, 1910.
FROM one’s earliest days the wild-boar has been invested with a sort of halo of romance, identified in youthful mind with grim courage and brute strength. Perhaps his grisly front, the vicious bloodshot eyes, savage snorts, and generally malignant demeanour, lend substance to such idea. But even among adults there exists in the popular mind a strange mixture of misconception as between big game and dangerous game—to hundreds the terms are synonymous. Thus a lady, inspecting our trophies, exclaimed, “Oh, Mr.——, aren’t these beasts very treacherous?” which almost provoked the reply, “You see, we are even more treacherous!”
In sober truth, nevertheless, a big old boar when held up at bay, or charging in headlong rushes upon the dogs, his wicked eyes flashing fire, and foam flying from his jaws as tushes clash and champ, presents as pretty a picture of brute-fury and pluck as even a world-hunter may wish to enjoy.
Yet among hundreds of boars that we have killed or seen killed (though dogs are caught continually, and occasionally a horse), there has never occurred a serious accident to the hunter, and only a few narrow escapes.
As an example of the latter: the keeper, while “placing” the writer among bush-clad dunes outside the Mancha of Majada Real, mentioned that a very big boar often frequented some heavy rush-beds on my front. “Should the dogs give tongue to pig at that point, your Excellency will at once run in to the function.” Such were his instructions.
ROOM FOR TWO
ROOM FOR TWO
At the point indicated the dogs bayed unmistakably, and seizing a light single carbine, ·303 (as there was a stretch of heavy sand to cover) I ran in. Arriving at the covert and already close up to the music, suddenly the “bay” broke, and I felt the bitter annoyance of being twenty seconds too slow. I had entered by a narrow game-path, and was still hurrying up this when I met the flying boar face to face. By chance he had selected the same track for his retreat! As we both were moving, and certainly not six yards apart, there was barely time to pull off the carbine in the boar’s face and throw myself back against the wall of matted jungle on my left. Next moment the grizzly head and curving ivories flashed past within six inches of my nose! The spring he had given carried the boar a yard past me, and there he stopped, stern-on, champing and grunting, both tushes visible—I could see them in horrid projection, on either side of the snout! I had brought the empty carbine to the “carry,” so as to use it bayonet-wise, to ward the brute off my legs; but he remained stolidly where he had stopped, and, as may be imagined, I stood stolid too. As it proved, the bullet, entering top of shoulder, had traversed the vitals—hence the cessation of hostilities. A few moments later the arrival of the dogs terminated an untoward interval.
On another occasion at the Veta de las Conchas, amidst the lovely pinales, just as the beat was concluded, there dashed from a small thicket a troop of a dozen pig, making direct for the solitary pine behind which the writer held guard. Passing full broadside, at thirty yards the biggest dropped dead on the sand, and, just as the troop disappeared in a donga, a second, it seemed, was knocked over. On the beaters approaching I walked across to see, and there, in the hollow, lay the second pig apparently dead enough. Having picked up my field-glasses, cartridge-pouch, etc., I stood close by awaiting the keeper’s arrival. Three or four dogs, however, following on the spoor, arrived first; and on their worrying the deceased, it at once sprang to its feet, gazed for one instant, and charged direct. Never have I seen an animal cover twenty yards more quickly! Dropping the handful of chismes aforesaid, I pulled off an unaimed cartridge in my assailant’s face and a lucky bullet struck rather below the eyes. This is not a dead shot, but the shock at that short distance proved sufficient.
An amusing incident, not dissimilar, occurred at Salavar. A youthful sportsman was approaching a boar which had fallen and lay apparently dead, when it, too, suddenly sprang up and charged. Our friend turned and fled; but, tripping over a fallen branch, fell headlong amidst the green rushes. There, face-downwards, he lay, preferring, as he explained later, “to receive his wound behind rather than have his face messed about by a boar!” Luckily the animal, on losing sight of its flying foe, pulled up and stood, grunting surprise and disapproval.
A similar experience befell King Alfonso XIII. in this Mancha of Salavar, December 29, 1909. We need not tell English readers that His Majesty proved equal to this, as to every occasion, and dropped his adversary at arm’s length.
When one reads (as we do) descriptions of big-game hunting, a recurring expression gives pause—that of “charging.” A recent discussion in a sporting paper turned on the question of “the best weapon for a charging boar.” Now such a thing as a “charging boar” has never, in a long experience, occurred to the authors—that is, a boar charging deliberately, and of its own initiative, upon human beings; and we do not believe in the possibility of such an event. Of course should a boar (or any other savage animal) be disabled, or in a corner, that is a different matter—then a wild-boar will fight, and right gallantly too.
The nearest approach to a “charge” (though it wasn’t one really) occurred at the Rincon de los Carrizos. Towards the end of the beat the dogs ran a pig, and, seeing it was a big one, the writer followed, and after a spin of 300 yards overtook the boar at bay in a deep water-hole. The place was all overhung with heavy foliage and thick pines above, giving very poor light. Though the boar’s snout pointed straight towards me about ten yards away, I imagined (wrongly) that his body stood at an angle—about one-third broadside: hence the bullet (aimed past the ear), splashed harmlessly in the water, and next moment the pig was coming straight as a die, apparently meaning mischief. When within five yards, however, he jinked sharply to right, passing full broadside, when I killed him á-boca-jarro, as the phrase runs, “at the mouth of the spout.”
That idea of “charging at large” is so splendidly romantic, and fits in so appropriately with preconceived ideas, that we almost regret to disturb its semi-fossilised acceptance. But, in mere fact, neither boars nor any other wild beasts “charge” at sight—always and only excepting elephant and rhinoceros, either of which may (or may not) do so, though previously unprovoked. It would, at least, be unwise entirely to ignore the contingency of either of these two so acting.
There exist, nevertheless, old and evil-tempered boars that are quite formidable adversaries. We have many such in our Coto Doñana—boars that, having once overmastered our hounds, practically defy us. Each of these old solitary tuskers occupies some densely briared stronghold—it may be but an isolated patch of jungle, scarce half an acre in extent, or alternatively, a little sequence of similar thickets, each connected by intervals of lighter bush. Such spots abound by the hundred, but once the lair of our bristled friend is found, then there is work cut out for man, horse, and hound. For long-drawn-out minutes the silence of the wilderness re-echoes with doubly concentrated fury—frantic hound-music mingled with lower accompaniment of sullen, savage snorts and grunts and the champing of tusks; then a sharp crunch of breaking boughs ... and the death-yell of a podenco tells that that blow has got home. But the seat of war remains unchanged—the same rush and the same fatal result are repeated. Presently some venturous hound may discover an entry from behind. The enemy’s flank is turned, and with a crash that seems to shake the very earth, our boar retreats to a second stronghold only twenty yards away. All this is occurring within arm’s length; one hears, can almost feel, the stress of mortal combat, but one sees nothing inside the mural foliage, nor knows what moment the enemy may sally forth. Such moments may even excite what are termed in Spanish phrase “emotions.”
In his second “Plevna” our boar is secure, and he knows it. With rear and flanks protected by a revêtement of gnarled roots and a labyrinth of stems, he fears nothing behind, while the furiously baying hounds on his front he now utterly despises. Blank shots fired in the air alarm him not, nor will Pepe Espinal—in a service of danger—succeed in dislodging him with a garrocha, after a perilous climb along the briar-matted roof. That boar is victor—master of a stricken field.
One human resource remains, to go in á arma blanca—with the cold steel. There are dashing spirits who will do this—in Spain we have seen such. But to crawl thus, prostrate, into the dark and gloomy tunnels that form a wild-boar’s fortress, intercepted and obstructed on every side, there to attack in single combat a savage beast, still unhurt and in the flush of victory, pachydermatous, and whose fighting weight far exceeds your own—well, that we place in the category of pure recklessness. Courage is a quality that all admire, though one may wonder if it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed in common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage races of human kind—races which we regard as “lower,” yet not inferior in that cherished quality of “pluck.”
Before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the act may cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, otherwise to sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may be, to an undertaker—though he will not object.
Once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance indeed that that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly chosen lair, will ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of a rifle.
After one such rout, we remember finding our friend the Reverend Father, who had sallied forth with us for a mild morning’s shooting, perched high up among the branches of a thorny sabina (a kind of juniper), whence we rescued him, cut and bleeding, and badly “shaken in nerve!”
We add the following typical instances of boar-shooting:—
Salavar, February 1, 1900.—A lovely winter’s morn, warm sun and dead calm. The distant cries of the beaters (nigh three miles away) had just reached my ears, when a nearer sound riveted attention—the soft patter of hoofs upon sand. Then from the forest-slope behind appeared a pig—big and grey—trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away. Already the fore-sight was “touching on” its neck, when a lucky suspicion of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball. Next came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour and carriage. At twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for long seconds we stared eye to eye. Curious it is that absolute quiescence will puzzle the wildest of the wild! Hardly had she vanished ‘midst forest shades, than once again that muffled patter—this time an unmistakable tusker. But, oh! what an abominable shot I made—too low, too far back—and onwards he pursued his course. By our forest laws it was my deber (bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. All that noontide, all the afternoon—through bush and brake, by dell and dusky defile—patiently, persistently, did Juanillo Espinal and I follow every twist and turn of that unending spoor. There was blood to help us at first, none thereafter. Through the thickets of Sabinal, then back on the left by Maë-Corra, forward through the Carrizal, thence crossing the Corral Grande, and away into the great pinales beyond—away to the Rincon de los Carrizos, three solid leagues and a bit to spare! That was the price of a bungled shot.
Here at last we have tracked him to his lair. Within that sullen fortress of the Rincon lies our wounded boar. How to get him out is a different problem. Though wounded, he is in no way disabled, and is ready, aye “spoiling,” to put up a savage fight for his life. Having precisely located him in a dense tangle of lentisk and briar, our single dog, Careto, a tall, shaggy podenco, not unlike a deerhound, but on smaller scale, is let go. Up a gloomy game-path he vanishes, and in a moment fierce music startles the silent woods. The boar refused to move. But one resource remained. We must go in to help Careto, crawling up a briar-laced tunnel. It was horribly dark at first, and I began to think of ... when, fortunately, the light improved, and a few yards farther in a savage scene was enacting in quite a considerable open. Beneath its brambled roof we could stand half upright. In its farthest corner stood our boar at bay, a picture of sullen ferocity. Upon Juanillo’s appearance the scene changed as by magic—there was a rush and resounding crash. Precisely what happened during the three succeeding seconds deponent could not see, it being so gloomy, and Juanillo on my front. Ere a cartridge could be shoved into the breech the great boar was held up, Careto hanging on to his right ear, and Juanillo, springing over the dog, had seized the grisly beast by both hind-legs—at the hocks—and stepping backward, with one mighty heave flung the boar sidelong on the earth. Next moment I had driven the knife through his heart.
Though the method described is regularly employed by Spanish hunters to seize and capture a wounded or “bayed” boar—and we have seen it executed dozens of times—yet seldom in such a spot as this, cramped in space, handicapped by bad light and intercepting boughs and briars. It was a dramatic scene, and a bold act that bespoke cool head and brawny biceps.
The head of this boar hangs on our walls to commemorate an event we are not likely to forget.
We remember following a wounded lynx into a similar spot—a deep hollowed jungle. A pandemonium of savage snarling and spitting, barks and yowls greeted our ears as we crawled in, while on reaching the cavern the green eyes of the lynx flashed like electric lights from a dark recess. Though one hind-leg had been broken and the other damaged by a rifle-ball, yet she held easy mastery over five or six dogs. Sitting bolt upright, she kept the lot at bay with sweeping half-arm blows. Not a dog dared close, and the brave feline had to be finished with the lance.
Mancha del Milagro, February 4, 1908.—The covert, we knew by spoor, held a first-rate boar, and his most probable salida (break-out) was at the foot of a perpendicular sand-wall, within fifty yards of which the writer held guard. Within brief minutes the music of the pack corroborated what had been foretold by spoor. Twice the boar with crashing course encircled the mancha within, passing close inside my post. Each moment I watched for his appearance at the expected point on the right. Then, without notice or sound of broken bough, suddenly he stood outside on the left—almost beneath the gun’s muzzle—not eight feet away. Luckily (as he stood within my firing-lines) the boar steadfastly gazed in the opposite direction, nor did I seek by slightest movement to attract attention to my presence. For some seconds we both remained thus, rigid. Then with sudden decision the boar bounded off, flying the gentle slope in front, and ere he had passed a yard clear of the firing-line, fell dead with a bullet placed in the precise spot.
Weight, 164 lbs. clean, and grey as a donkey.
A wounded boar should always be approached with caution. Remember he is a powerful brute, very resolute, and furnished with quite formidable armament, which, while life remains, he will use. One of the biggest, after receiving a bullet slightly below and behind the heart, went slowly on some fifty yards, when he subsided, back up, among some green iris. Half an hour later the writer silently approached from directly behind. At ten yards the heaving flanks showed that plenty of life remained, and beautiful scimitar-like tushes were conspicuous enough on either side. I therefore quietly withdrew. On a keeper presently riding up, the boar at once dashed on a dog, flung him aside (laying open half his ribs), and charged the horse. The latter was smartly handled and cleared, when the boar instantly turned on me. The dash of that onset was splendid to watch. Luckily he had a yard or two of soft bog to get through, but it was necessary to stop him with another bullet.
Impressive is the mental sensation aroused when any savage wild-beast—normally the object of pursuit—suddenly turns the tables and becomes the aggressor. The actual incident is necessarily but momentary, yet its effect remains graven on the tablets of memory. Pity ‘tis so rare.
Again we conclude with an independent impression by J. C. C.:—
Never a visit to the Coto Doñana but brings some separate experience—possibly more pleasurable in retrospect than reality! I will instance my first interview with wild-boars. Now, of course, I know more about them and can almost regard them with serenity; but at that time, believe me, it was not so. That first encounter at really close quarters occurred at the close of a long day’s work. My post was behind a twelve-inch pine on an otherwise bare hill, the reverse slope of which dipped down to dense bamboo-thickets just out of my sight, though close by. Within a few minutes commenced and continued the hullabaloo of hounds. Close glued to my pine-trunk I listened in tense excitement. Suddenly, ere I had quite realised such possibility, there rushed into view on the ridge, not twenty paces distant, a great shaggy grey boar. He had dashed up the steep bank beyond and was now making direct for my legs. This is not the confession of a nervous man, but it did occur to me that truer safety lay in the fork of my tree! but B. was the next gun, only sixty or seventy yards away, and keenly interested. In a moment I was myself again; but the interval had been, to say the least, painfully enthralling. I had, of course, to wait till the great “Havato” had crossed my “firing-lines.” He certainly saw something, for he paused momentarily, took rapid counsel, and bolted past. Nerves were steady now, and once across the line the boar had my right in the ribs, left in flank. I actually saw blood spurt—hair fly—at each shot, yet the boar followed on his course unmoved. Pachydermatous pig! I pondered while reloading. Ten seconds later on my boar’s sleuth follows Boca-Negra, a veritable Beth Gelert. Utterly ignoring me, he passes away into gloom and silence; but shortly I see him coming back, blood-stained and satiated, and my self-respect returns. Ten minutes later, a second tusker gallops along the hollow behind. Him also my right caught fair in the ribs—only a few inches left of the heart, yet again without visible result. The second bullet, however, broke his spine as he ascended the sand-bank beyond, and he fell stone dead. When the beat was over we followed No. 1. He also lay still, 200 yards away—a pair of first-rate tuskers.
I remember, during the gralloch, some dreadfully poor charcoal-burners appearing on the scene to beg for food. This, of course, was gladly conceded; but so famished were those poor creatures that old women filled their aprons with reeking viscera, while it was with difficulty that children could be prevented from starting at once on raw flesh and liver. Truly it was a grievous spectacle, and filled the homeward ride with sad reflections on the awful hardships such poor folk are destined to endure.
BOLTED PAST
BOLTED PAST
In days of rapid change, when, in our own generation, sporting weapons have been at least thrice utterly metamorphosed, it is unwise to be dogmatic. Yet we may summarise our personal experience that the most efficient weapon for all such purposes as here described is that known as the “Paradox,” or at least of the Paradox type. The old “Express rifle” (the best in its day, less than a score of years ago, but now mere “scrap”) was also useful. But it always fell second to the Paradox, as the latter (being really a shot-gun, equally available for small game, snipe, duck, or geese) came up quicker to the eye for snap-shooting with ball.
The invention of the Paradox type of gun has practically introduced a third style of shooting where there previously existed only two, to wit:—
(1) Gun-shooting with shot where any “aim” or even an apology for an aim is fatal to modern maximum success.
(2) Rifle-shooting proper, which must be mechanical and deliberate—the more so, the more effective.
(3) Thirdly, we have this new system intermediate between the two—“gun-shooting with ball.”
Using the Paradox as a rifle, an alignment must be taken; but it may be taken as with a gun, and not necessarily the deliberate and mechanical alignment essential with a rifle, properly so called.
In short, with a Paradox, always glance along the sights. You will nearly always find that some “refinement” of aim is required. More words are useless.
One word as to the “forward allowance” needed after the rough alignment (as explained) has been effected. At short snapshot ranges none is required. At a galloping stag at 50 yards, the sights should clear his chest; at 100 yards, half-a-length ahead, and double that for 150 yards. At these longer ranges one instinctively allows for “drop” by taking a fuller sight. For standing shots, of course, the back-sights can be used.
Boar-Hunting by Moonlight (Estremadura)
“Caceria á la Ronda.”
This picturesque and altogether break-neck style of hunting the boar—a style perhaps more consonant than “driving” with popular notions of the dash and chivalry of Spanish character—still survives in the wild province of Estremadura. No species of sport in our experience will compare with the Ronda for danger and sheer recklessness unless it be that of “riding lions” to a stand, as practised on British East African plains.[16]
Years ago we described this system of the Ronda in the “Big-Game” volumes of the Badminton Library, and here write a new account, correcting some slight errors which had crept into the earlier article.
This sport is practised by moonlight at that period of the autumn called the Montanera, when acorns and chestnuts fall from the trees, and when droves of domestic swine are turned loose into the woods to feed on these wild fruits. At that date the wild-boars also are in the habit of descending from the adjacent sierras, and wander far and wide over the wooded plains in search of that favourite food.
When the acorns fall thus and ripe chestnuts strew the ground in these magnificent Estremenian forests, the young bloods of the district assemble to await the arrival of the boars upon the lower ground. Two kinds of dog are employed: the ordinary podencos, which run free; and the alanos, a breed of rough-haired “seizers,” crossed between bull-dog and mastiff—these latter being held in leash.
Sallying forth at midnight, so soon as the podencos give tongue, the alanos are slipped in order to “hold-up” the flying boar till the horsemen can reach the spot.
Then for a while hound-music frightens the darkness and shocks the silence of the sleeping woods; there is crashing among dry forest-scrub, a breakneck scurry of mounted men among the timber, until the furious baying of the hounds and the noisy rush of the hunters converge towards one dark point among the shadows, and in the half-light a great grisly tusker dies beneath the cold steel, but not before he has written a lasting record on the hide of some luckless hound.
A stiff neck and bold heart are essential to these dare-devil gallops, where each horse and horseman vie in reckless rivalry, flying through bush and brake, and under overhung boughs difficult to distinguish amid moon-rays intercepted by foliage above. Accidents of course occur—an odd collar-bone or two hardly count, but what does annoy is when by mistake some wretched beast of domestic race is found held up by the excited pack.
PILGRIMAGES by the pious to distant shrines are a well-known phase in the faith both of the Moslem and of the Romish Church, and require no definition by us; but one that is yearly performed to a tiny and isolated shrine not a dozen miles from our shooting-lodge of Doñana deserves description.
First as to its origin. Twelve hundred years ago when Arab conquerors overran Spain much treasure of the churches, with many sacred emblems, relics, etc., were hurriedly concealed in places of safety. But not unnaturally, since Moorish domination extended over 700 years, all trace or record of such hiding-places had long been lost, and it was merely by chance and one by one that, after the Reconquest, the hidden treasures were rediscovered.
The story of the recovery of our Lady of the Dew is related to have occurred in this wise. A shepherd tending his flocks in the neighbourhood of Almonte was induced by the strangely excited barking of his dog to force a way into the dense thickets known as La Rocina de la Madre (a wooded swamp, famous as a breeding-place of the smaller herons, egrets, and ibises), in the midst of which the dog led him to an ancient hollowed tree. Here, half-hidden in the cavernous trunk, the shepherd espied the figure of “a Virgin of rare beauty and of exquisite carving,” clothed in a tunic of what had been white linen, but now stained dull green through centuries of exposure to the weather and dew (rocío).
Overjoyed, the shepherd, bearing the Virgin on his shoulders, set out for Almonte, distant three leagues; but being overcome by fatigue and the weight of his burden, he lay down to rest by the way and fell asleep. On awakening he found the Virgin had gone—she had returned to her hollow tree. Having ascertained this, and being now filled with fear, he proceeded alone to Almonte, where he reported his discovery. At once the Alcalde and clergy accompanied him to the spot, and finding the image as related, a vow was then and there solemnised that a shrine, dedicated to N. S. del Rocío, should be erected at the very spot.
On its being discovered that this Virgin was able to perform miracles and to grant petitions, her fame soon spread afar, and religious fervour waxed strong. Thus during the plague of 1649-50, the Virgin having been removed to Almonte as a safeguard, the inhabitants of that place were immune from the pestilence, though every other hamlet was decimated. A second miracle was attributed to the Virgin. Hard by the shrine at Rocío was a spring of water, but of such poor supply that ordinarily a single man could empty it within two hours: yet during the three days of the pilgrimage thousands of men and their horses could all assuage their thirst.
Owing to these manifestations devout persons endowed the Virgin of Rocío with considerable sums of money, with which a larger shrine was built, while sumptuous garments, laces, and embroidery, with jewelry and precious stones, were provided for her adornment. In addition to this, Replicas of the original effigy were made and distributed around the villages of the neighbourhood, particularly the following:—
| Kilos. | ||
| Palma, | distant | 32 |
| Moguer | " | 30 |
| Umbrete | " | 45 |
| Huelva | " | 65 |
| Triana | " | 76 |
| Rota | " | 55 |
| San Lucar | " | 45 |
| Villamanrique | " | 18 |
| Pilas | " | 23 |
| Almonte | " | 17 |
| Coria | " | 44 |
At each of these and other places, “Brotherhoods” (Hermandades), affiliated to the original at Rocío, were established to guard these effigies; and it is from these points that every Whitsuntide the various pilgrim-fraternities journey forth across the wastes towards Rocío, each Brotherhood bringing its own carved replica to pay its annual homage to its carved prototype.
In the spring of 1910 the authors attended the Fiesta. Already, the night before, premonitory symptoms—the tuning-up of fife and drum—had been audible, and during the twelve-mile ride next morning fresh contingents winding through the scrub-clad plain were constantly sighted, all converging upon Rocío. It was not, however, till reaching that hamlet that the full extent of the pilgrimage became apparent, and a striking and characteristic spectacle it formed. From every point of the compass were descried long files of white-tilted ox-waggons—hundreds of them—slowly advancing across the flower-starred plain; the waggons all bedecked in gala style, crammed to the last seat with guitar-touching girls, with smiling duennas and attendant squires; the ox-teams gaily caparisoned, and escorted by prancing cavaliers, many with wife or daughter mounted pillion-wise behind, while younger pilgrims challenged impromptu trials of speed—a series of minor steeplechases. There were four-in-hand brakes, mule-teams and donkey-carts, pious pedestrians—a motley parade enveloped in clouds of dust and noise, but all in perfect order.
The following quaint description was written down for us by a Spanish friend who accompanied us:—