The _battues_ of May and December--The gathering of
sportsmen--Distribution in the forest--The _charivari_--The fatal
rush--Excitement of the moment--The volley--The day's triumph, and
the reward--The peasants returning--Hunting the wolf with
dogs--Cub-hunting--The drunken wolf.
In the first days of May, that interesting epoch in which in the forest,
the woods, and the plain, the majority of all animals are with young;
and in the commencement of December, the period of storm and tempest and
the heavy rains, which precede the great snows, two general _battues_
take place in Le Morvan. To these all the tribe of sportsmen--the good,
the bad, and the indifferent--are invited; in short, every one in the
neighbourhood who loves excitement attends. Gentlemen, poachers, and
_gens-d'armes_, young conscripts and old soldiers, doctors and
schoolmasters, every one who is the fortunate possessor of a gun, a
carbine, a pistol, a sabre, a bayonet, or any other weapon, presents
himself at the rendezvous. Bands of peasants, also, armed with
bludgeons, spears, broomsticks, cymbals, bells, frying-pans, sauce-pans,
and fire-irons (it is impossible to make too much noise on the
occasion), arrive from every point of the compass, and add their numbers
to those already assembled. On the day agreed upon, therefore, and at
the spot indicated, a small army is on foot, which, full of ardour and
thirsting for the combat, brandish with shouts their various weapons and
kitchen utensils, drink to the success of the enterprise, and wait with
no little impatience the signal to place themselves in march, and attack
the enemy. The commander of these assembled forces,--generally the head
ranger of the forest,--having under his orders a battalion of sub
_gardes-de-chasse_, directs their movements.
This mode of taking the wolf is conducted with very great order and
circumspection; everything is well arranged beforehand; the ravines and
deep underwood, which the wolves are known to resort to, have been
carefully ascertained; the number of guns and rifles necessary to
surround this or that wood are told off, and the whole plan is so well
prepared, the execution of it is so prompt, every one is so well aware
of what he has to do, that in one day a large tract of country is
carefully beaten.
In these _battues_, those who have fire-arms form two sides of a
triangle, and are placed with their backs to the wind, along the roads
which border the wood the _traqueurs_ are about to beat. On no account
ought they to fire to their rear, but always to the front; and in order
to prevent, in this respect, misunderstanding and accident, the _garde_,
whose duty it is to place each sportsman at his post, breaks a branch,
or cuts a notch in the tree before him, in order that in a moment of
hesitation and excitement this broken bough or barked spot may remind
him of his real position. The base of the triangle or the cord of the
arc (for this curved line had more the shape of a great bow slightly
strung than any other geometrical figure) is formed of the peasants,
who, side by side, wait only for the last signal to advance, when they
commence their euphonious concert--a _charivari_ not to be described.
The arrangements and preparations, conducted in profound silence, being
terminated, the signal is given, when the tumult, which at once breaks
forth, produces intense excitement. The forest, hitherto silent, and
apparently without life, is suddenly awakened with confused noises,
metallic and human--the peasants shout, halloo, sing, and bang together
their pots, kettles, and pieces of iron, striking every bush and thicket
with their staves, and scaring every animal before them. Flights of
wood-pigeons, coveys of partridges, birds of every size, species, and
plumage, pass like moving shadows above their heads. The owls, too,
suddenly aroused from sleep, leave their dark holes, and, blinded by the
light, fly against the branches in their alarm with cries of
terror--probably imagining the order of night and day is reversed, and
that the unusual and unearthly noises proclaim that the end of the world
has arrived for the owls. Then come the roebuck and the foxes, bounding
and breaking through the underwood, and the hares and rabbits, which
jump up under the feet of the beaters.
Motionless as a mile-stone at your post, and rifle ready, this flying
legion of animals gives you a twinge of impatience, for you must allow
them a free passage, as in these _battues_ one dare not fire at
anything, save and except the great object of the day, the wolf. Wolves
alone have the honour on these important occasions of receiving the
contents of your double-barrel. But the cowards, divining what is in
preparation for them, are the last to show themselves; as the line
advances, they trot up and down the portion of the wood thus enclosed,
seeking for an outlet, or some break in the line; and they never make up
their minds to advance to the front until the tempest of sounds behind
them is almost ringing in their ears. But now the thunder of voices,
till then distant, approaches, and the cries and hallooing of the
peasants, like a flowing tide, forces them to draw nearer to the
huntsmen.
Whether or no, that fatal line must now be passed, and the few minutes
that precede the last movement of the wolves towards it brings to every
sportsman sensations impossible to describe. He knows the brutes are in
his rear, approaching, and a feeling like an electric current runs at
this exciting moment from one to the other; every man's finger is on his
trigger, his pulse throbs at a feverish pace, his heart beats like the
clapper of a bell in full swing--all, to take a surer aim, kneel, or
place their back against the nearest tree, and each offers up a prayer
for aid to his patron saint. This nervous moment has sometimes such an
effect upon ardent and excitable imaginations, that I have observed many
young sportsmen look very queer, some actually tremble and one shed
tears. But the _traqueurs_ are at hand, and the largest and boldest of
the wolves, placing themselves in front, are preparing for the fatal
rush--one more _charivari_ from the peasants and their sauce-pans
decides them, when the whole troop bound forward, yelling and howling
upon the line, in passing which a storm of balls and buck-shot salute
and assail them in their course.
The death of from thirty to forty wolves is generally the result of the
day's exertions, without counting the wounded, which always escape in
greater or less numbers. The Government give a reward of twenty francs
for every wolf, and twenty-five for every she-wolf, and these sums being
immediately divided amongst the peasants, they return to their homes not
a little pleased, singing their old hunting ballads, stopping
occasionally by the way at some village inn for a glass, where they may
be seen cutting capers, with the true peasant notions of the dance. On a
fine day, with the blue sky above, the forest breathing perfume, and the
sun shedding over it its golden rays, the passing game, the distant
halloo! of the _traqueurs_, the gun-shots which suddenly rattle around
you, the watching for and first view of the wolves, put the head and the
heart in such a state of excitement, as once felt can never be
forgotten. The May and December _battues_ are, therefore, looked forward
to with immense impatience; and nothing short of sudden death, or an
injured limb, prevents the country-people from hastening with alacrity
to the rendezvous.
Wolves are likewise hunted all the year round, with dogs, by gentlemen,
in the neighbourhood of the forest. But this sport is very fatiguing and
weary work, if that animal alone is employed; for nothing is so
difficult as to get up with a cunning old wolf, whose sinewy limbs never
tire, and whose wind never fails--who goes straight ahead, ten or
fifteen miles, without looking behind him; if he meets with a _Mare_, or
stream of water on his road, then your chance is indeed up,--for into it
he plunges, and makes off again, quite as fresh as he was when he left
his lair.
The best and most expeditious mode of taking a wolf is, to set a
bloodhound on him, bred expressly for this particular sport; large
greyhounds being placed in ambush, at proper distances, and slipped,
when the wolf makes his appearance in crossing from one wood to another.
These dogs, by their superior swiftness, are soon at his haunches, and
worry and impede his flight, until their heavy friend the hound comes
up; for the strongest greyhound could never manage a wolf, unless he was
assisted in his meritorious work by dogs of large size and superior
strength. The huntsmen, well mounted, follow and halloo on the hounds;
every one runs, every one shouts, the forest echoes their cries, and
wolf, dogs, and sportsmen pass and disappear like leaves in a whirlwind,
or the demon hounds and huntsmen of the Hartz. And now the panting
beast, with hair on end and foaming at the mouth, bitten in every part,
is brought to bay--his hour is come--no longer able to fly, he sets his
back against some rock or tree, and faces his numerous enemies.
It is then that the oldest huntsman of the party, in order to shorten
his death-agony, and save the dogs from unnecessary wounds, dismounts,
and, drawing a pistol from his hunting-belt, finishes his career before
further mischief is done. When a ball hits a wolf and breaks one of his
bones, he immediately gives a yell; but if he is dispatched with sticks
and bludgeons, he makes no complaint. Stubborn, and apparently either
insensible or resolute, Nature seems to have given him great powers of
endurance in suffering pain. Having lost all hope of escape, he ceases
to cry and complain; he remains on the defensive, bites in silence, and
dies as he has lived. In a sheepfold the noise of his teeth while
indulging his appetite is like the repeated crack of a whip. His bite is
terrible.
The months of September and October, the period for cub-hunting, afford
capital sport. The young wolves are not like the old ones, strong enough
to take a straight course, and they consequently can rarely do more than
run a ring; when tired, which is soon the case, they retire backwards
into some hole or under a large stone, where they show their teeth and
await, with a juvenile courage worthy of a better fate, the onset of
their assailants. The mode of separating the cubs from their mother,
who, with maternal tenderness (for that feeling exists even in a wolf),
always offers to sacrifice her life for her young, is by turning loose
two or three bloodhounds. These first distract her attention, and then
pursue her so closely that at last she thinks it prudent to decamp, and
seek safety in flight; when these dogs have fairly got her away, and
their deep music dies away in the distance, others are laid on the scent
of the cubs, and the sport ceases only with the death of the litter. A
young wolf may be tamed; but it is not wise to place much confidence in
his civilization: with age he resumes his nature, becomes ferocious, and
sooner or later, should the occasion present itself, will return to his
native woods;--for as water always flows towards the river, so the wolf
always returns to his kind.
In the summer, the wolves, like the gypsies, have no fixed residence;
they may then be met with in the standing barley or oats, the vineyards
and fields; they sleep in the open country, and seldom seek the friendly
shelter of the forest, except during the most scorching hours of the
day. Towards the end of August I have often met them in the vineyards,
apparently half drunk, scarcely able to walk, in short, quite unsteady
on their legs, almost ploughing the ground up with their noses, and
staring stupidly about them. Every well-kept vineyard ought to be as
free from stones as possible, and therefore the peasants, when they
weed, dig a trench about the vines, or prune them, always remove at the
same time whatever stones or flints they may meet with; these are piled
at the end of the vineyard in a heap of about twenty feet square and six
feet high, called a _meurger_.
On these _meurgers_ the breezes of summer waft every description of
seed, and they are consequently soon covered with verdure, shrubs,
brambles, and wild roses, which from a distance give them the appearance
of a small copse or thicket. These elevated and shady spots are the
favourite retreats of game in the middle of the day; here they love to
repose and take their _siesta_ in the cool--here the red partridges meet
to have a gossip--hither the young rabbits scuttle to recover their
various alarms, and the trembling hare also squats and conceals herself
the moment a dog or a gun appears in the adjoining vineyard. Of course
these green mounds have a corresponding value in the eyes of the
sportsmen, who always find in them something to put up.
Often, therefore, walking gently on the soft ground, have I stolen to
one of these _meurgers_, and throwing in a stone, generally turned out
some partridges and rabbits that were there quietly ensconced; I have
also, and greatly to my surprise, heard there the growl of a wolf,
which, rising lazily amongst the bushes, stumbled and fell, and was
evidently incapable of getting further. A salute from both barrels, with
small shot, scarcely tickled his skin; but it brought him once more on
his legs, though only to fall again,--when, having reloaded, I advanced
on him and administered a double dose in his ear, which had the desired
effect. The fact was, he was quite drunk, though not disorderly.
These wolves, during the ardent heats of August, suffer dreadfully from
thirst; and finding no water, take to the vineyards, and endeavour to
assuage it by eating large quantities of grapes, very cool, and no doubt
very delightful at the time; but the treacherous juice ferments,
Bacchanalian fumes soon infect their brain, and for several hours these
gentlemen are for a time entirely deprived of their senses. What a field
for Father Mathew; but never, I am certain, has the worthy Apostle of
Temperance ever dreamed of offering the pledge to the wolves of Le
Morvan--the rub would be to hang the medal round the necks of these
Bacchanals of the forest.