It almost seemed as if the divine patron of the chase--the good Saint
Hubert--had regarded the spilt wine as an oblation to himself, and, in
return, had consented to give the sportsman success.
Scarce had the latter advanced two hundred yards from the spot where he
had lunched, when his eyes were gratified by the spectacle of a large,
fine-looking bird, perched upon the top of a tree stump.
At first he believed it to be a guinea-hen, but its dusk colour--it was
brownish-black--forbade that supposition. It had a naked head and neck,
just like a turkey; and in several other respects it resembled this
well-known bird.
"A tawkey it is!" exclaimed Smythje, after scanning it a little. "A
wild tawkey, by Jawve!"
The London exquisite had heard, somehow or somewhere, that the wild
turkey was indigenous to America, and, of course, also to Jamaica--since
Jamaica is part of America.
However erroneous the deduction, the reasoning satisfied Smythje; and,
firmly convinced that he saw before him a wild turkey, he determined on
taking measures to _circumvent_ it.
The stump upon which the bird was perched, stood upon the edge of an
opening, about a hundred yards from the spot where Smythje first came in
sight of it.
To insure success, the sportsman dropped upon his knees, and crawled
forward impressively, but with due caution. If he could only make
thirty yards in advance, he knew his gun was good for the other seventy.
In fine, after considerable damage done to his fawn-skin trousers, the
thirty yards were accomplished, and still the turkey remained upon its
perch.
The gun was brought to bear upon the bird; Joe Manton did the work; and,
simultaneously with the "bang," the turkey was seen to tumble over,
disappearing as it did so from the top of the stump.
The overjoyed sportsman hastened forward to secure his game; and soon
arrived at the spot where he expected to find it.
To his surprise it was not there!
Had it taken to wing and escaped?
Impossible! He had seen it fall, and without a flutter. It must have
been shot quite dead? It could not have come to life again?
He searched all about--going round the stump at least a dozen times, and
carefully scrutinising every inch of the ground for a score of yards on
each side--but no turkey could be found!
Had the unlucky sportsman been at all doubtful of the fact of his having
killed the bird, he would have given up the search in despair. But upon
this point he was as certain as of his own existence; and it was that
which rendered him so pertinacious in his endeavours to find it. He was
determined to leave neither stick nor stone unturned; and, to aid him in
the prosecution of his search, he called loudly for his retriever
Quashie.
But to his repeated calls no Quashie came; and Mr Smythje was forced to
the conclusion that the darkey had either gone to sleep, or had strayed
away from the spot where he had left him.
He had some thoughts of going back to look for Quashie; but, while he
was meditating on the matter, an idea occurred to him, which promised to
explain the mysterious disappearance of the bird.
The stump upon which the "turkey" had been perched could scarcely have
been termed a _stump_. It was rather the trunk of a large tree, that
had been abruptly broken off below the limbs, and still stood some
fifteen or twenty feet in height, erect and massive as the tower of some
ruined castle. Though quite a dead-wood, and without any branches of
its own, it was, nevertheless, garnished with verdure. A complete
matting of vines that grew around its roots, and parasites that sprang
from its decaying sides, inclosed it with a tortuous trellis-work--so
that only near its top could the shape of the old tree be distinguished.
At first the sportsman supposed that his game had dropped down among the
ragged shrubbery; and he searched the whole of this with elaborate
minuteness, but in vain.
It now occurred to him--and this was the idea that promised the
_eclaircissement_ spoken of--that the bird had _not_ fallen from the
stump, but had dropped dead upon the top of it, and there might still be
lying!
The dead-wood, which, at its broken summit, appeared to be some five or
six feet in diameter, rendered this conjecture probable enough; and
Smythje resolved upon putting it to the proof, by climbing to the top.
He would have appointed Quashie to the performance of this feat; but
Quashie _non esset inventus_.
Several thick, cable-like vines, that struggled up to the summit,
promised an easy means of ascent; and, although the Cockney could climb
about as dexterously as a shod cat, he fancied there could be no great
difficulty in attaining the top of the dead-wood.
Throwing aside his gun, he entered enthusiastically upon the attempt.
The feat was not so easy of performance but that it cost him an
exertion. Stimulated, however, by the desire to _retrieve_ his game and
the reflections about the game-bag, already alluded to, he put forth his
utmost energies, and succeeded in reaching the summit.
His conjecture proved correct. There lay the bird--not _on_ the stump,
but _in_ it--at the bottom of a large cylinder-shaped concavity, which
opened several feet down into the heart of the dead-wood. There it was,
dead as the tree itself.
The sportsman could not restrain himself from uttering a cry of joy--as
he saw his fine game at length secure within his reach.
It proved not exactly within his reach, however: as, upon kneeling down
and stretching his arm to its full length, he found that he could not
touch the bird, even with the tips of his fingers.
That signified little. It would only be necessary for him to descend
into the cavity, and this he could easily do: as it was wide enough, and
not over four feet in depth.
Without further reflection, he rose to his feet again and leaped down
into the hole.
It would have been a wiser act if he had remembered the prudent counsel
of the paternal frog, and looked before leaping. That was one of the
most unfortunate leaps Mr Smythje had ever made in his life. The brown
surface upon which the bird lay, and which looked so deceptively solid,
was nothing more than a mass of rotten heartwood, honeycombed with long
decay. So flimsy was it in structure, that though supporting a dead
bird, it gave way under the weight of a living man; and the lord of
Montagu Castle shot as rapidly out of sight as if he had leaped feet
foremost from the mainyard of the _Sea Nymph_ into the deepest soundings
of the Atlantic!
Volume Two, Chapter IV.