Shooting wolves in the summer--The most approved baits to attract
them--Fatal error--Hut-shooting--Silent joviality--The approach of
the wolves--The first volley--The retreat--The final slaughter--The
sportsman's reward--The farm-yard near St. Hibaut--The dead
colt--The onset--Scene in the morning--Horrible accident--The
gallant farmer--Death of the wolves, the dogs, and the peasant--The
wolf-skin drum--Anathema of the naturalists.
When the sportsman does not absolutely care about sleeping in his own
bed, and will not be denied the pleasure of shooting a wolf himself, a
drag is run similar to those we have already mentioned, but other parts
of the proceedings are conducted in a manner widely different. In the
first place, there is no trap; then, instead of the piece of flesh, the
great attraction, being put in an obscure and hidden path, it should, on
the contrary, be placed in an open spot, on the border of a wood, in a
glade, or in a field on the verge of the forest, in order that the
sportsman who is laying in wait, in ambush, may be able to see what is
passing; he must, too, conceal himself as much as possible, either in a
thicket under the foliage, in a hut made with the boughs of trees, or
in a hole dug in the ground; but he should always be so placed that he
is against the wind, and if the moon is up he ought to take especial
care that he is in the shade.
But it sometimes happens that the sportsman, at a moment when there is
no time to run a drag,--for instance, after dinner when smoking a cigar,
he suddenly takes it into his head to kill a wolf, and it is too late to
bait the spot; nevertheless the hunter will have nothing less than his
wolf. Before leaving home, therefore, he orders his servant to bring him
a duck; this he puts into his pocket, and shouldering his gun, seeks the
depths of the forest alone. Having found a favourable spot,--a place
where four roads meet is that, if possible, generally chosen,--he hangs
the unfortunate duck by the leg to the branch of a neighbouring tree,
which, as if divining the part that he is intended to play in the piece,
flaps his wings, and begins to cry and quack most vehemently.
Extraordinary as it may appear, it is well known that the cries of the
duck and the goose are those most readily heard by a wolf, and
consequently it is by no means a rare occurrence to see one of these
animals arrive. An unweaned lamb, which is always bleating for its
mother, is also an excellent decoy-bait to attract them.
In the months of May and June, when the sportsman happens to tumble upon
a she-wolf, the cubs of which are suckling, a drag may be run with one
of them; the mother will for certain follow the track, and, if you are
not properly on your guard, and well prepared to receive her, it is
equally certain she will play you a very unpleasant trick, and make you
feel that it is not wise to excite the maternal tenderness of a wild
animal. But it is in winter that the wolves are more especially
dangerous, and it is in this rough season that war to the knife is
declared against them. The peasants, as well the wood-cutters and
charcoal-burners of the forest, having then no employment, assemble in
small bands, furnish themselves with provisions for several days, and
armed with ponderous and clumsy fowling-pieces, go in search of the wild
cat and the wolf, the roebuck and the boar.
On these occasions, as in all those where fire-arms are used, the
chapter of accidents is seldom without a page relating some sad history.
Two young men of the village of Akin, near Vezelay, one of whom was
engaged to the sister of his companion, having made their arrangements,
set out to hunt together in this manner, trusting that a heavy bag might
pay for the expenses of the wedding fête. As luck would have it, they
soon fell upon the traces of a boar, and separating at the entrance of a
dark ravine, to beat for and watch the animal, were lost to view. But a
short time had elapsed when the young man who was about to be married
observing, though not clearly, between the trees and bushes a large
black mass, which moved to and fro, and which he imagined was the boar
listening, brought his gun to his shoulder, and, firing, lodged two iron
slugs in the body of his comrade, who, advancing towards him, his
shoulders being covered with a black sheepskin, had stooped down for a
few seconds to tie the strings of his leggings, or his shoes.
When the trees are devoid of foliage and the snow covers the ground,
when the forest is melancholy and cold, and the wolves famished with
hunger, a rather original mode of taking them by night is adopted. A few
days previously to the one appointed for the purpose, a large glade in
the very thickest part of the forest having been selected, a carpenter
and his assistant, with a well-furnished bag of tools, start for the
spot. There, choosing some suitable trees, or branches of young
pollards, they cut down a sufficient number, place them in the ground so
as to form a hut of twelve yards square, leaving between each tree an
interval of about four inches; strengthening the edifice by beams at the
base, and boards nailed transversely seven feet from the ground.
This open hut thus prepared, and which, at fifty paces distance, ought
not, if well constructed, to be distinguishable from the trees, is left
open to the inspection of the beasts of the forest for several nights in
succession, in order that they, always suspicious of the most trifling
circumstance, may get accustomed to it. Two or three ducks, a goose, and
sometimes a sheep, are fastened during these nights near the hut, with a
view of alluring the wolves and inducing them to visit the mansion.
The day, or rather the appointed evening, having arrived (a star or
moonlight night being selected), the assembled huntsmen, and a long line
of servants, betake themselves to the forest, leading by the head four
calves, and carrying with them a cask of cold meat, a hamper of wine, a
box of cigars, and a horse-load of pale _cogniac_--a few camels and
dromedaries added to this cavalcade, and one would have a complete
picture of a tribe of Bedouins preparing to pass the Great Desert.
Arrived in the forest about nightfall, and well and duly shut up in
their Gibraltar of wood, the sportsmen may eat, drink, and smoke, and
converse in an undertone; but a heavy fine is invariably inflicted on
those who make the least noise. No one is permitted to sneeze, talk
loud, or laugh; as to blowing one's nasal organ vigorously, the thing is
absolutely forbidden; no one is allowed to have a cold, much less an
influenza, for at least eight hours, and every sportsman is careful that
the wine and the viands take each their proper line of road; if either
should unfortunately diverge, the gentleman must choke rather than
cough--as to the servants, they do every thing by gesture and signal;
and woe betide the John that speaks--chance may be, his tongue is thrown
to the wolves.
When night has set in, the four calves are led out from the stockade and
fastened to strong posts which have been fixed in front of each face of
the hut. Silence now reigns supreme, and the wolves,--the spur of famine
in their insides, mad in short with hunger,--begin to sniff the breeze
and run their noses over the rank dewy grass of the underwood. At this
point of my narrative I must bespeak the forbearance of the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and beg them to read on to the
end, and weigh well the question and the result, before they bring an
action against me for what follows. The calves in question having been
placed, they each--must I write it?--receive an incision in the neck,
the effect of which is that the blood flows slowly, and they bleat
without ceasing;--such is the custom, as it is said, with butchers to
make veal white and pleasing to the eye of the epicure; a really inhuman
habit--but when the deed is done with a view to the extermination of
wolves, I think there is little doubt but Mr. Martin himself would have
used a fleam in the cause.
This operation over, the sportsmen divide, post themselves, with their
guns ready, on each side of the hut, and wait with beating hearts the
arrival of the expected four-footed visitors. Nine o'clock passes--ten,
half-past--not a sound is heard in the forest; the sportsmen who look
out on the snowy scene around them observe nothing; all without is
dreary silence, broken at intervals by the poor ruminating creatures in
front, the cry of a solitary owl, the fall of some dead branch which age
and the tempest has separated from the giant oak, the sudden spring of
the squirrel awakened by the noise, and, in the interior of the cabin,
by the soft gurgling of the ruby wine escaping joyfully from its glass
prison-house, to cheer the heart of the impatient _chasseur_--and who
knows better than he how to empty a flask of genuine Burgundy?
We will, therefore, imagine some of the party enjoying themselves after
this fashion; when suddenly the calves are heard to rise, to bellow and
groan, strain at the ropes with which they are fastened, and endeavour
to escape; every cigar is at once extinguished, the comic changes to the
serious--the wolves are on the scent. A few minutes more, and black
spots are seen dotted about here and there on the snow; these increase
in number and approach,--they are the wolves that observe and listen;
the frantic terror of the calves is redoubled; the black spots become
larger, they advance still nearer, and at length the animals may clearly
be distinguished. The wolves imagine the calves have come astray. What a
charming thing if they could carry them off to the dark ravines they
inhabit! The great square hut, silent as Harpocrates, and the smell of
man, make them hesitate; but a hunger of many days (and we know that
man, the image of his Maker, will eat man, his fellow, in his
extremity) and the smell of blood prevail and overcome their fears. Four
or five wolves rush forward, and endeavour to remove the calves; the
attempt is vain, the ropes are strong, and so are the posts to which the
animals are fastened: unable, therefore, to succeed, and stretched
across their dying victims, they plunge their ravenous jaws into the
palpitating flesh, forget their alarm in so delicious a supper, and eat
and drink to their heart's content. The rest of the pack thus
encouraged, and afraid of being too late, now advance at a gallop to
share in the repast.
It is then, and amid the yells, the disputes, and the bloody encounters
occasioned by a division of the spoil, that the sportsmen open their
fire. The first volley puts the wolves to flight, and they retire to a
short distance. But again all is silent, they soon return to the
carcases they cannot make up their minds to desert; other wolves also,
that have been in the rear, attracted by the cries and smell of their
wounded companions, and the blood of the calves, arrive and take part in
the strife, so that during several hours the forest echoes with repeated
volleys. At length the calves are fairly eaten up, when the fortunate
survivors of the fray, gorged and satiated, take to flight, and
disappear like a band of black demons into the recesses of the forest.
It is then the sportsmen leave their hut, stretch their limbs, count the
dead, dispatch their wounded enemies, and, clothed in thick fur cloaks,
sit as if at the bivouac round a large fire, passing the remaining hours
of the night in emptying more bottles, excavating more pies, drinking
more punch, and telling better stories than those which I have had the
pleasure of laying before the reader.
The morning has scarcely dawned and the party is on the road home, when
a crowd of peasants arrive with their dogs, who, following the bloody
traces of the wolves in the snow, dispatch those which, though wounded,
have been able to leave the spot--for the sight of a dead wolf is to a
Morvinian as delightful as the possession of one is profitable. Having
killed his ferocious enemy, the peasant cuts off his head and his four
feet, which he fastens crosswise at the end of his staff; then arraying
himself in his best and most showy clothes, his hat ornamented with
flowers and ribbons streaming in the breeze, like those in the cap of an
English recruit, he is off, the left foot foremost, to the mayor of his
parish to receive the reward offered by the government. But his road to
his worship is anything but direct; he performs what he terms the grand
tour, visits every village in his way, makes his bow to the women, calls
at the sheep-farms and the _chateâux_, showing, with no little pride and
exultation, his wolf's head, and receives at each some acknowledgment
for the service he has rendered the community,--money, a dozen of eggs,
a pound of lard, a bit of pork, bread, flour, flax, or salt, &c. He who
kills the wolf, and carries the spoils as a trophy in this manner, is
accompanied by the musician of the neighbourhood, who marches before him
blowing his bagpipe with the force of an ox; behind him is one of the
strongest men of the village, with a large bag on each shoulder, who
carries the presents, and imitates the cry and yells of a wolf when the
piper is tired. It will not therefore be considered astonishing if it is
always with renewed pleasure that a peasant of Le Morvan kills a wolf;
and though one becomes tired, _blazé_ with almost everything in this
mortal world, it is not the case when a gallant fellow is seen entering
a village carrying the head of this hideous monster on his pole. This
trophy, with tongue distended and mouth kept wide open by a piece of
wood to show his long yellow teeth, frightens all the little children
that see it.
There are many other methods of taking the wolf, with a hook, a net,
with tame she-wolves _à la loge_, the poacher's method, in pits, and in
a washing-tub by the side of a pond, &c. But a description of these
several modes would occupy too much space. I cannot, however, before
taking a final leave of this subject, resist the temptation to relate
one last and most fearful incident--a frightful illustration of the
horrors to which a country infested by this animal is liable. It
happened during my sojourn at St. Hibaut, at a farm in that
neighbourhood.
It was in the month of February, the winter was exceedingly severe, and
three feet of snow still covered the mountains; all communication
between the villages had ceased, and bands of hungry wolves besieged the
farms in the heart of the woods.
The forest of La Madeleine, particularly full of ravines and dark
thickets, small hamlets, and solitary houses, was overrun with these
insatiable and remorseless brutes. Travellers had been devoured in the
passes of La Goulotte, and mangled and torn in the ravines of Lingou. No
one dared venture into the country when night approached.
The farm of which I am about to speak stands just on the borders of the
forest of La Madeleine, in the midst of pastures and patches of furze;
it was full of cattle and sheep, and by the time the stars were
brilliantly illuminating the dark arch of heaven, was frequently
surrounded by troops of wolves, scratching under the walls, and loudly
demanding the trifling alms of a horse, an ox, or a man. It so happened
that at this time one of the farmer's colts died, and he determined, if
possible, to use it as a bait, which would provide him the opportunity
of destroying some of his nocturnal visitors.
For this purpose he placed the dead body in the middle of his
court-yard, and having fastened weights to its neck and legs, to prevent
the wolves from dragging it away, he set the principal gate open, but so
arranged with cords and pulleys that it could be closed at any required
moment. Night came on; the house was shut up, the candles extinguished,
the stables barricaded, the dogs brought in-doors and muzzled to prevent
them from barking, and, in the bright starlight, on some clean straw,
the better to attract attention, lay the dead body of the colt--the
gate, as we have said, being open. All was ready, all within on the
watch, when about ten o'clock the wolves were heard in the distance;
they approached, smelt, looked, listened, grumbled, and distrusting the
open gate, paused; not one would enter. Profound was the silence and
excitement in the house. Hunger at last overcame prudence and mistrust.
Their savage cries were renewed; they became more and more impatient and
exasperated,--how was it possible to resist a piece of young horseflesh?
The most forward, probably the captain of the band, could hold out no
longer, and to show his fellows he was worthy to be their leader, he
advanced alone, passed the Rubicon, went up to the colt, tore away a
large piece of his chest, and, proud of his achievement, set off at
speed with his booty between his teeth. The other wolves, seeing him
escape in safety, regained their confidence, and one, two, three, six,
eight wolves were soon gathered round the animal, but, though eating as
fast as they could, they remained with ears erect, and each eye still on
the gate.
Eight wolves! The farmer thought it a respectable number, and whistled,
when the four men at the ropes hauling instantly, the large
folding-gates rolled to, and closed in the stillness with the noise of
thunder,--the wolves were prisoners. Startled and terrified at finding
themselves caught, they at once deserted the small remains of the colt,
creeping about in all directions in search of some outlet by which they
might escape, or some hole to hide in, while the farmer, having secured
them, sent his household to bed, putting off their destruction till
sunrise.
The morning dawned, and with the first rays of light master and men, for
whom the event was a perfect _fête_, set some ladders against the walls
of the court, and from them, as well as the windows, fired volleys on
the entrapped wolves. Unable to resist, the animals for some time
hurried hither and thither, crouching in every nook and corner of the
yard: but the wounds from balls which reached them behind the stones, or
under the carts, soon turned their fear into rage. They began to make
alarming leaps, and the most dreadful yells. The work of destruction
went on but slowly;--the men were but indifferent shots, the wolves
never an instant at rest;--and the rapidity and perseverance with which
they continued to gallop round, or leap from side to side of the yard,
as if in a cage, essentially baffled the endeavours of their enemies.
The affair was in this way becoming tedious, when an unlooked-for
misfortune threw a dreadful gloom over the whole scene.
The ladder used by one of the party being too short, the young man
placed himself on the wall, as if in a saddle, to have a better
opportunity of taking aim; when one of the wolves, the largest,
strongest, and most exasperated, suddenly bounded at the wall, as if to
clear it, but failed; subsequently the animal attempted to climb up by
means of the unhewn stones, like a cat, and though he again failed,
reached high enough almost to seize with his sharp teeth the foot of the
unfortunate lad. Terrified at this he raised his leg to avoid the
brute--lost his balance--and the same moment fell with a heart-rending
scream into the court below. Each and all the wolves turned like
lightning on their helpless, hopeless victim, and a cry of horror was
heard on every side.
The storm of leaden hail ceased: no man dared fire again, and yet
something must be done, for the monsters were devouring their unhappy
fellow-servant. Listening only to the dictates of courage and humanity,
the noble-hearted farmer, gun in hand, leaped at once into the yard, and
his men all followed his heroic example. A general and frightful
conflict ensued. The scene which then took place defies every attempt at
description. No pen could adequately place before the reader the awful
incidents that succeeded. He must, if he can, imagine the howling of the
wolves, the piteous cries of the lacerated and dying youth, the
imprecations of the men, the neighing of the horses and roaring of the
bulls in the stables; and, more than all, the crying and lamentations of
the women and children in the house--a fearful chorus--such as happily
few, very few persons were ever doomed to hear. At last the farmer's
wife, a powerful and resolute woman, with great presence of mind
unmuzzled the dogs, and threw them from a window into the yard. This
most useful reinforcement with their vigorous attacks and loud barking
completed the tumult and the tragedy. In twenty minutes the eight wolves
were dead, and with them half the faithful dogs. The poor unfortunate
lad, his throat torn open, was dead; his courageous, though unsuccessful
defenders, were all more or less wounded, and the gallant farmer's left
hand so injured, that as soon as surgical assistance could be procured
for him, amputation was found to be necessary.
The monsters, stretched side by side in the yard, were also stone dead,
every one of them; but not a voice on the farm raised the heart-stirring
shout of victory. Consternation and gloom reigned over it, and it was
long indeed ere the voice of mourning deserted its walls.
The skin of the wolf is strong and durable; the woodmen, _braconniers_,
and mountaineers, make cloaks and caps of it, the tail being left on the
latter to fall over the ear by way of ornament; they likewise cover with
it the outside of their game-bags. They tan it also, and excellent shoes
are made of the leather, soft and light for summer wear,--it is likewise
made into parchment, not to write the history of their ancestors upon,
but to cover small drums, the rattle of which, on fairdays and _fêtes_
is sure to set the peasants dancing. This fact is alluded to in a song
of our province, written by a shepherd-poet, in the pleasing dialect of
Le Morvan, of which the following is a free translation:
Hark! 'tis the wolf-skin drum,
We come! We come!
Yes, come with me sweet girl, and fair
As rosebud wild that scents the air.
The heavens are bright, the stars are shining,
Thy lovely form my arms entwining;
Together let us lead the dance
Deep in thy sylvan haunts, dear France!
Hark! I hear those sounds again,
The wolf-skin drum, the pipers' strain.
Wealthy persons use a wolf-skin for a carriage-rug, and in the rainy
season as a mat at the door of a room. "There is nothing good in the
wolf," says Buffon, "he has a base low look--a savage aspect, a terrible
voice, an insupportable smell, a nature brutal and ferocious, and a body
so foul and unclean that no animal or reptile will touch his flesh. It
is only a wolf that can eat a wolf." "No animal," writes Cuvier, "so
richly merits destruction as the wolf." With these two funeral orations
on these incarnate fiends of Natural History, I shall close this
chapter, remarking that the anathema bestowed on them by Buffon is not
quite correct, for if wolves are dangerous, and enemies to the public
weal, and "there is nothing good" in them during their lives, they, at
least, become useful after their death.