PHEASANT POACHING.
Through late summer and autumn the poacher's thoughts go out to the
early weeks of October. Neither the last load of ruddy corn, nor the
actual netting of the partridge gladden his heart as do the first signs
of the dying year. There are certain sections of the Game Laws which he
never breaks, and only some rare circumstance tempts him to take
immature birds. But by the third week of October the yellow and sere of
the year has come. The duns and browns are over the woods, and the
leaves come fitfully flickering down. Everything out of doors testifies
that autumn is waning, and that winter will soon be upon us. The colours
of the few remaining flowers are fading, and nature is beginning to have
a washed-out appearance. The feathery plumes of the ash are everywhere
strewn beneath the trees, for, just as the ash is the first to burst
into leaf, so it is the first to go. The foliage of the oak is already
assuming a bright chestnut, though the leaves will remain throughout the
year. In the oak avenues the acorns are lying in great quantities,
though oak mast is not now the important product it once was, cheap
grain having relegated it almost exclusively to the use of the birds.
And now immense flocks of wood pigeons flutter in the trees or pick up
the food from beneath. The garnering of the grain, the flocking of
migratory birds, the wild clanging of fowl in the night sky--these are
the sights and sounds that set the poacher's thoughts off in the old
grooves.
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Of all species of poaching, that which ensures a good haul of pheasants
is most beset with difficulty. Nevertheless there are silent ways and
means which prove as successful in the end as the squire's guns, and
these without breaking the woodland silence with a sound. The most
successful of these I intend to set down, and only such will be
mentioned as have stood me in good stead in actual night work. Among
southern woods and coverts the pheasant poacher is usually a desperate
character; not so in the north. Here the poachers are more skilled in
woodcraft, and are rarely surprised. If the worst comes to the worst it
is a fair stand-up fight with fists, and is usually bloodless. There is
little greed of gain in the night enterprise, and liberty by flight is
the first thing resorted to.
It is well for the poacher, and well for his methods, that the pheasant
is rather a stupid bird. There is no gainsaying its beauty, however, and
a brace of birds, with all the old excitement thrown in, are well worth
winning, even at considerable risk. In a long life of poaching I have
noticed that the pheasant has one great characteristic. It is fond of
wandering; and this cannot be prevented. Watch the birds: even when fed
daily, and with the daintiest food, they wander off, singly or in pairs,
far from the home coverts. This fact I knew well, and was not slow to
use my knowledge. When October came round they were the very first birds
to which I directed my attention. Every poacher observes, year by year
(even leaving his own predaceous paws out of the question), that it by
no means follows that the man who rears the pheasants will have the
privilege of shooting them. There is a very certain time in the life of
the bird when it disdains the scattered corn of the keeper, and begins
to anticipate the fall of beech and oak mast. In search of this the
pheasants make daily journeys, and consume great quantities. They feed
principally in the morning; dust themselves in the roads or
turnip-fields at mid-day, and ramble through the woods in the afternoon.
And one thing is certain: That when wandered birds find themselves in
outlying copses in the evening they are apt to roost there. As already
stated, these were the birds to which I paid my best attention. When
wholesale pheasant poaching is prosecuted by gangs, it is in winter,
when the trees are bare. Guns, with the barrels filed down, are taken in
sacks, and the pheasants are shot where they roost. Their bulky forms
stand sharply outlined against the sky, and they are invariably on the
lower branches. If the firing does not immediately bring up the keepers,
the game is quickly deposited in bags, and the gang makes off. And it is
generally arranged that a light cart is waiting at some remote lane end,
so that possible pursuers may be quickly outpaced. The great risk
incurred by this method will be seen, when it is stated that pheasants
are generally reared close by the keeper's cottage, and that their
coverts immediately surround it. It is mostly armed mouchers who enter
these, and not the more gifted (save the mark!) country poacher. And
there are reasons for this. Opposition must always be anticipated, for,
speaking for the nonce from the game-keeper's standpoint, the covert
never should be, and rarely is, unwatched. Then there are the certain
results of possible capture to be taken into account. This affected, and
with birds in one's possession, the poacher is liable to be indicted
upon so many concurrent charges, each and all having heavy penalties.
Than this I obtained my game in a different and quieter way. My custom
was to carefully eschew the preserves, and look up all outlying birds. I
never went abroad without a pocketful of corn, and day by day enticed
the wandered birds further and further away. This accomplished,
pheasants may be snared with hair nooses, or taken in spring traps. One
of my commonest and most successful methods with wandered birds was to
light brimstone beneath the trees in which they roosted. The powerful
fumes soon overpowered them, and they came flopping down the trees one
by one. This method has the advantage of silence, and if the night be
dead and still, is rarely detected. Away from the preserves, time was
never taken into account in my plans, and I could work systematically. I
was content with a brace of birds at a time, and usually got most in the
end, with least chance of capture.
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I have already spoken at some length of my education in field and
wood-craft. An important (though at the time unconscious) part of this
was minute observation of the haunts and habits of all kinds of game;
and this knowledge was put to good use in my actual poaching raids.
Here is an instance of what I mean: I had noticed the great pugnacity of
the pheasant, and out of this made capital. After first finding out the
whereabouts of the keeper, I fitted a trained game-cock with artificial
spurs, and then took it to the covert side. The artificial spurs were
fitted to the natural ones, were sharp as needles, and the plucky bird
already knew how to use them. Upon his crowing, one or more cock
pheasants would immediately respond, and advance to meet the adversary.
A single blow usually sufficed to lay low the pride of the pheasant, and
in this way half-a-dozen birds were bagged, whilst my own representative
remained unhurt.
I had another ingenious plan (if I may say so) in connection with
pheasants, and, perhaps, the most successful. I may say at once that
there is nothing sportsmanlike about it; but then that is in keeping
with most of what I have set down. If time and opportunity offer there
is hardly any limit to the depredation which it allows. Here it is: A
number of dried peas are taken and steeped in boiling water; a hole is
then made through the centre, and through this again a stiff bristle is
threaded. The ends are then cut off short, leaving only about a quarter
of an inch of bristle projecting on each side. With these the birds are
fed, and they are greedily eaten. In passing down the gullet, however, a
violent irritation is set up, and the pheasant is finally choked. In a
dying condition the birds are picked up beneath the hedges, to the
shelter of which they almost always run. The way is a quiet one; it may
be adopted in roads and lanes where the birds dust themselves, and does
not require trespass.
In this connection I may say that I only used a gun when every other
method failed. Game-keepers sometimes try to outwit poachers by a device
which is now of old standing. Usually knowing from what quarter the
latter will enter the covert, wooden blocks representing roosting birds
are nailed to the branches of the open beeches. I was never entrapped
into firing at these dummies, and it is only with the casual that the
ruse acts. He fires, brings the keepers from their hiding places, and is
caught. Still another method of bagging "long-tails," though one
somewhat similar to that already set down: It requires two persons, and
the exact position of the birds must be known. A black night is
necessary; a stiff bamboo rod, and a dark lantern. One man flashes the
concentrated light upon the bare branches, when immediately half a dozen
necks are stretched out to view the apparition. Just then the "angler"
slips a wire nooze over the craned neck nearest him, and it is jerked
down as quickly, though as silently as possible. Number two is served in
like manner, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. This method has the
advantage of silence, though, if unskilfully managed, sometimes only a
single bird is secured, and the rest flutter wildly off into the
darkness.
Poachers often come to untimely ends. Here is an actual incident which
befell one of my companions--as clever a poacher, and as decent and
quiet a man as need be. I saw him on the night previous to the morning
of his death, though he did not see me. It was a night at the end of
October. The winds had stripped the leaves from the trees, and the
dripping branches stood starkly against the sky. I was on the high road
with a vehicle, when plashes of rain began to descend, and a low
muttering came from out the dull leaden clouds. As the darkness
increased, occasional flashes tore zig-zag across the sky, and the rain
set to a dead pour. The lightning only served to increase the darkness.
I could just see the mare's steaming shoulders butting away in front,
and her sensitive ears alternately pricked out on the track. The pitchy
darkness increased, I gave the mare her head, and let the reins hang
loosely on her neck. The lightning was terrible, the thunder almost
continuous, when the mare came to a dead stop. I got down from the trap
and found her trembling violently, with perspiration pouring down her
flanks. All her gear was white with lather, and I thought it best to
lead her on to where I knew was a chestnut tree, and there wait for a
lull in the storm. As I stood waiting, a black lurcher slunk along under
the sodden hedge, and seeing the trap, immediately stopped and turned in
its tracks. Having warned its master, the two reconnoitered and then
came on together. The "Otter" (for it was he), bade a gruff "good-night"
to the enshrouded vehicle and passed on into the darkness. He slouched
rapidly under the rain, and went in the direction of extensive woods and
coverts. Hundreds of pheasants had taken to the tall trees, and, from
beneath, were visible against the sky. Hares abounded on the fallows,
and rabbits swarmed everywhere. The storm had driven the keepers to
their cosy hearths, and the prospect was a poacher's paradise. Just what
occurred next can only be surmised. Doubtless the "Otter" worked long
and earnestly through that terrible night, and at dawn staggered from
the ground under a heavy load.
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Just at dawn the poacher's wife emerged from a poor cottage at the
junction of the roads, and after looking about her as a hunted animal
might look, made quietly off over the land. Creeping closely by the
fences she covered a couple of miles, and then entered a disused,
barn-like building. Soon she emerged under a heavy load, her basket, as
of old, covered with crisp, green cresses. These she had kept from last
evening, when she plucked them in readiness, from the spring. After two
or three journeys she had removed the "plant," and as she eyed the game
her eyes glistened, and she waited now only for _him_. As yet she knew
not that he would never more come--that soon she would be a lone and
heart-broken creature. For, although his life was one long warfare
against the Game Laws, he had always been good and kind to her. His end
had come as it almost inevitably must. The sound of a heavy unknown
footstep on his way home, had turned him from his path. He had then made
back for the lime-kiln to obtain warmth and to dry his sodden clothes.
Once on the margin he was soon asleep. The fumes dulled his senses, and
in his restless sleep he had rolled on to the stones. In the morning the
Limestone Burner coming to work found a handful of pure white ashes. A
few articles were scattered about, and he guessed the rest.
And so the "Otter" went to God.... The storm cleared, and the heavens
were calm. In the sky, on the air, in the blades of grass were signs of
awakening life. Morning came bright and fair, birds flew hither and
thither, and the autumn flowers stood out to the sun. All things were
glad and free, but one wretched stricken thing.
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