POACHERS AND POACHING
"Knowledge never learned in schools."
[Illustration: LURCHERS.]
POACHERS AND POACHING
By
JOHN WATSON, F.L.S.
AUTHOR OF
"NATURE AND WOODCRAFT," "SYLVAN FOLK," "BRITISH SPORTING FISHES,"
EDITOR OF "THE CONFESSIONS OF A POACHER."
With a Frontispiece
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL
LIMITED
1891
[_All Rights reserved_]
WESTMINSTER:
PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS,
25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
Transcriber's Note: Minor spelling and typographical errors have
been corrected without note. Dialect spellings, contractions and
inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
NOTE.
These chapters originally appeared as articles in _Macmillan's
Magazine_, the _Cornhill Magazine_, the _National Review_, the
_Gentleman's Magazine_, the _St. James's Gazette_ and the _Pall Mall
Gazette_; and I have to thank the Editors and Proprietors of these
periodicals for permission to reprint them. The chapter entitled
"Water Poachers" is reprinted by permission from the _Nineteenth
Century_.
As to the facts in the volume, they are mainly taken at first hand
from nature.
J. W.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
POACHERS AND POACHING.--I 1
CHAPTER II.
POACHERS AND POACHING.--II 17
CHAPTER III.
BADGERS AND OTTERS 33
CHAPTER IV.
COURIERS OF THE AIR 44
CHAPTER V.
THE SNOW-WALKERS 86
CHAPTER VI.
WHEN DARKNESS HAS FALLEN 94
CHAPTER VII.
BRITISH BIRDS, THEIR NESTS AND EGGS 118
CHAPTER VIII.
MINOR BRITISH GAME BIRDS 143
CHAPTER IX.
WATER POACHERS 162
CHAPTER X.
WILD DUCKS AND DUCK DECOYING 195
CHAPTER XI.
FIELD AND COVERT POACHERS 223
CHAPTER XII.
HOMELY TRAGEDY 245
CHAPTER XIII.
WORKERS IN WOODCRAFT 266
CHAPTER XIV.
SKETCHES FROM NATURE 287
POACHERS AND POACHING.
CHAPTER I.
POACHERS AND POACHING.--I.
The poacher is a product of sleepy village life, and usually "mouches"
on the outskirts of country towns. His cottage is roughly adorned in
fur and feather, and abuts on the fields. There is a fitness in this,
and an appropriateness in the two gaunt lurchers stretched before the
door. These turn day into night on the sunny roadside in summer, and
before the cottage fire in winter. Like the poacher, they are active
and silent when the village community is asleep.
Our Bohemian has poached time out of mind. His family have been
poachers for generations. The county justices, the magistrates' clerk,
the county constable, and the gaol books all testify to the same fact.
The poacher's lads have grown up under their father's tuition, and
follow in his footsteps. Even now they are inveterate poachers, and
have a special instinct for capturing field-mice and squirrels. They
take moles in their runs, and preserve their skins. When a number of
these are collected they are sold to the labourers' wives, who make
them into vests. In wheat-time the farmers employ the lads to keep down
sparrows and finches. Numbers of larks are taken in nooses, and in
spring lapwings' eggs yield quite a rich harvest from the uplands and
ploughed fields. A shilling so earned is to the young poacher riches
indeed; money so acquired is looked upon differently from that earned
by steady-going labour on the field or farm. In their season he gathers
cresses and blackberries, the embrowned nuts constituting an autumn in
themselves. Snipe and woodcock, which come to the marshy meadows in
severe weather, are taken in "gins" and "springes." Traps are laid for
wild ducks in the runners when the still mountain tarns are frozen
over. When our poacher's lads attain to sixteen they become in turn the
owner of an old flintlock, an heirloom, which has been in the family
for generations. Then larger game can be got at. Wood-pigeons are
waited for in the larches, and shot as they come to roost. Large
numbers of plover are bagged from time to time, both green and grey.
These feed in the water meadows through autumn and winter, and are
always plentiful. In spring the rare dotterels were sometimes shot as
they stayed on their way to the hills; or a gaunt heron was brought
down as it flew heavily from a ditch. To the now disused mill-dam ducks
came on wintry evening--teal, mallard, and pochards. The lad lay coiled
up behind a willow root, and waited during the night. Soon the
whistling of wings was heard, and dark forms appeared against the
skyline. The old duck-gun was out, a sharp report tore the darkness,
and a brace of teal floated down stream and washed on to the mill
island. In this way half-a-dozen ducks would be bagged, and dead or
dying were left where they fell, and retrieved next morning. Sometimes
big game was obtained in the shape of a brace of wild geese, the least
wary of a flock; but these only came in the severest weather.
At night the poacher's dogs embody all his senses. An old black bitch
is his favourite; for years she has served him faithfully--in the whole
of that time never having once given mouth. Like all good lurchers, she
is bred between the greyhound and sheepdog. The produce of this cross
have the speed of the one, and the "nose" and intelligence of the
other. Such dogs never bark, and, being rough coated, are able to stand
the exposure of cold nights. They take long to train, but when
perfected are invaluable to the poacher. Upon them almost wholly
depends success.
Poaching is one of the fine arts, and the most successful poacher is
always a specialist. He selects one kind of game, and his whole
knowledge of woodcraft is directed against it. In autumn and winter the
"Otter" knows the whereabouts of every hare in the parish; not only the
field in which it is but the very clump of rushes in which is its
"form." As puss goes away from the prickly gorse bush, or flies down
the turnip "rigg," he notes her every twist and double, and takes in
the minutest details. He is also careful to examine the "smoots" and
gates through which she passes, and these spots he always approaches
laterally. He leaves no scent of hand nor print of foot, and does not
disturb rough herbage. Late afternoon brings him home, and upon the
clean sanded floor his wires and nets are spread. There is a peg to
sharpen and a broken mesh to mend. Every now and then he looks out upon
the darkening night, always directing his glance upward. His dogs whine
impatiently to be gone. In an hour, with bulky pockets, he starts,
striking across the land and away from the high-road. The dogs prick
out their ears upon the track, but stick doggedly to his heels. After a
while the darkness blots out even the forms of surrounding objects, and
the poacher moves more cautiously. A couple of snares are set in holes
in an old thorn fence not more than a yard apart. These are delicately
manipulated, and from previous knowledge the poacher knows that the
hare will take one of them. The black dog is sent over, the younger
fawn bitch staying with her master. The former slinks slowly down the
field, sticking closely to the cover of a fence running at right angles
to the one in which the wires are set. The poacher has arranged that
the wind shall blow from the dog and across the hare's seat when the
former shall come opposite. The ruse acts, and puss is alarmed but not
terrified; she gets up and goes quietly away for the hedge. The dog is
crouched and anxiously watching her; she is making right for the snare,
though something must be added to her speed to make the wire effective.
As the dog closes in, the poacher, bowed, and with hands on knees,
waits, still as death, for her coming. He hears the trip, trip, trip,
as the herbage is brushed; there is a rustle among the leaves, a
momentary squeal--and the wire has tightened round her throat.
Again the three trudge silently along the lane. Suddenly the trio stop
and listen; then they disperse, but seem to have dissolved. The dry
ditch is capacious, and its dead herbage tall and tangled. A heavy
foot, with regular beat, approaches along the road, and dies slowly
away in the distance.
Hares love green corn stalks, and a field of young wheat is at hand. A
net, twelve feet by six, is spread at the gate, and at a given sign the
dogs depart different ways. Their paths would seem soon to have
converged, for the night is torn by a piteous cry, the road is
enveloped in dust, and in the midst of the confusion the dogs dash over
the fence. They must have found their game near the middle of the
field, and driven the hares--for there are two--so hard that they
carried the net right before them. Every struggle wraps another mesh
about them, and soon their screams are quieted. By a quick movement the
poacher wraps the long net about his arm, and, taking the noiseless
sward, gets hastily away from the spot. These are the common methods of
hare-poaching.
In March, when they are pairing, four or five may often be found
together in one field. Although wild, they seem to lose much of their
natural timidity, and now the poacher reaps a rich harvest. He is
careful to set his nets and snares on the side _opposite_ to that
from which the game will come, for this reason: That hares approach any
place through which they are about to pass in a zig-zag manner. They
come on, playing and frisking, stopping now and then to nibble the
sweet herbage. They run, making wide leaps at right angles to their
path, and sit listening upon their haunches. A freshly-impressed
foot-mark, the scent of dog or man at the gate, almost invariably turns
them back. Of course these traces are necessarily left if the snare be
set on the _near_ side of the gate or fence, and then they refuse
to take it even when hard pressed. Where poaching is prevalent and
hares abundant, the keepers net every one on the estate, for it is well
known to those versed in woodcraft that an escaped hare once netted can
never be taken a second time in the same manner. The human scent left
at gaps and gateways by ploughmen and shepherds the wary poacher will
obliterate by driving sheep over the spot before he begins operations.
On the sides of the fells and uplands hares are difficult to kill. This
can only be accomplished by swift dogs, which are taken _above_
the game; puss is made to run down hill, when, from her peculiar
formation, she goes at a disadvantage.
Our poacher is cooly audacious. Here is an actual incident. There was a
certain field of young wheat in which were some hares. The knowledge of
these came by observation during the day. The field was hard by the
Keeper's cottage, and surrounded by a high fence of loose stones. The
situation was therefore critical, but that night nets were set at the
gates through which the hares always made. To drive them the dog was to
range the field, entering it at a point furthest away from the gate.
Silence was essential to success. To aid the dog, the poacher bent his
back in the road at a yard from the wall. The dog retired, took a
mighty spring, and, barely touching his master's shoulders, bounded
over the fence without touching. From that field five hares were
killed.
It need hardly be remarked that the intelligent poacher is always a
naturalist. The signs of wind and weather he knows as it were by heart,
and this is essential to his silent trade. The rise and wane of the
moon, the rain-bringing tides, the local migration of birds--these and
a hundred other things are marked in his unwritten calendar. His
out-door life has made him quick and taught him of much ready animal
ingenuity. He has imbibed an immense amount of knowledge of the life of
the woods and fields, and he is that one man in a thousand who has
accuracy of eye and judgment sufficient to interpret nature aright.
It has been already remarked that the poacher is nothing if not a
specialist. As yet we have spoken only of the "moucher" who directs his
attention to fur. But if there is less scope for field ingenuity in the
taking of some of our game birds, there is always the possibility of
more wholesale destruction. This arises from the fact of the birds
being gregarious. Partridges roost close to the ground, and sleep with
their heads tucked together. A covey in this position represents little
more than a mass of feathers. They always spend their nights in the
open, for protective reasons. Birds which do not perch would soon be
extinct as a species were they to seek the protection of woods and
hedge-bottoms by night. Such ground generally affords cover to
vermin--weasels, polecats, and stoats. Although partridges roam far by
day, they always come together at night, being partial to the same
fields and fallows. They run much, and rarely fly except when passing
from one feeding ground to another. In coming together in the evening
their calls may be heard at some distance. These sounds the poacher
listens for and marks. He remembers the nest under the gorse bush, and
knows that the covey will not be far distant.
Partridges the poacher considers good game. He may watch half-a-dozen
coveys at once. Each evening at sun-down he goes his rounds and makes
mental notes. Three coveys are marked for a night's work--one in
turnips, another among stubble, and a third on grass. At dark he comes
and now requires an assistant. The net is dragged along the ground, and
as the birds get up it is simply dropped over them, when usually the
whole covey is taken. In view of this method of poaching and on land
where many partridges roost, low scrubby thorns are planted at regular
intervals. These so far interfere with the working of the net as to
allow the birds time to escape. If the poacher has not accurately
marked down his game beforehand, a much wider net is needed. Among
turnips, and where large numbers of birds are supposed to lie, several
rows or "riggs" are taken at a time, until the whole of the ground has
been traversed. This last method requires time and a knowledge of the
keeper's beat. On rough ground the catching of the net may be obviated
by having about eighteen inches of smooth glazed material bordering the
lower and trailing part of the net. Partridges are occasionally taken
by farmers in the following unorthodox fashion. A train of grain is
scattered from ground where game is known to lie. The birds follow
this, and each morning find it more nearly approach to the stackyards.
When the birds have become accustomed to this mode of feeding, the
grain train is continued inside the barn. The birds follow, and the
doors are closed upon them. A bright light is brought, and the game is
knocked down with sticks.
Partridges feed in the early morning--as soon as daybreak. They resort
to one spot, and are constant in their coming if encouraged. This the
poacher knows, and adapts himself accordingly. By the aid of a clear
moon he lays a train of grain straight as a hazel stick. He has brought
in a bag an old duck-gun, the barrels of which are short, having been
filed down. This short weapon can easily be carried in his capacious
pocket, and is only needed to fire at short distances. Into this he
crams a heavy charge of powder and waits for the dawn. The covey comes
with a loud whirring of wings, and the birds settle to feed
immediately. Firing along the line, a single shot strews the ground
with dead and dying. In ten minutes he is a mile from the spot, always
keeping clear of the roads. The poacher has yet another method. Grain
is soaked until it becomes swollen and is then steeped in the strongest
spirit. This, as before, is strewn in the morning paths of the
partridge, and, soon taking effect, the naturally pugnacious birds are
presently staggering and fighting desperately. The poacher bides his
time, and, as opportunity offers, knocks the incapacitated birds on the
head.
The wilder grouse poaching of the moorlands is now rarely followed. The
birds are taken in nets similar to those used for partridges. By
imitating the peculiar gurgling call-notes of the grouse, old poachers
can bring up all birds within hearing distance. As they fly over the
knolls and braes they are shot. Many of the birds sold in London on the
morning of the "Twelfth" are taken in this way. In the north, since the
inclosure of the Commons, numbers of grouse are killed by flying
against the wire fences. When the mists cling to the hills for days, or
when the weather is "thick," these casualties occur. At such times the
birds fly low, and strike before seeing the obstacle. The poacher notes
these mist caps hanging to the hill tops, and then, bag in hand, walks
parallel to miles and miles of fence. Sometimes a dozen brace of birds
are picked up in a morning. Not only grouse, but on the lowlands
pheasants and partridges are killed in this way, as are also snipe and
woodcock.
In summer, poachers make and repair their nets for winter use. Large
hare nets are made for gates, and smaller ones for rabbit burrows and
"smoots." Partridge nets are also necessarily large, having sometimes
to cover half a field. Although most of the summer the poacher is
practically idle, it is at this time that he closely studies the
life of the fields, and makes his observations for winter. He
gets occasional employment at hay or harvest, and for his darker
profession treasures up what he sees. He is not often introduced to
the heart of the land, and misses nothing of the opportunity. On in
autumn, he is engaged to cut down ash poles or fell young woods, and
this brings him to the covert. Nothing escapes his notice, and in the
end his employers have to pay dearly for his labour. At this time the
game birds--pheasants, partridge, and grouse--are breeding, and are
therefore worthless; so with rabbits and hares. But when game is
"out," fish are "in." Fish poaching has decreased of late years,
owing to stricter watching and greater preservation generally. In
summer, when the waters are low, fish resort to the deep dubs. In
such spots comes abundance of food, and the fish are safe, be the
drought never so long. The pools of the Fell becks abound at such
times with speckled brown trout, and are visited by another
poacher--the otter. When the short summer night is darkest, the man
poacher wades through the meadows by the river. He knows the deeps
where the fish most congregate, and there throws in chloride of lime.
Soon the trout of the pool float belly uppermost, and are lifted out,
dazed, in a landing net. In this way hundreds of fish are taken, and
find a ready sale. The lime in no wise poisons the edible parts; it
simply affects the eyes and gills, covering them with a fine white
film. Fish so taken, however, lose all their pinky freshness. The
most cowardly part of this not uncommon proceeding is that the lime
is sometimes put into the river immediately below a mill. This, of
course, is intended to mislead watchers and keepers, and to throw the
blame upon the non-guilty millowner. And, seeing that chloride of
lime is used in various manufactures, the ruse sometimes succeeds.
Many of the older poachers, however, discountenance this cowardly
method, for by it the destruction of fish is wholesale, irrespective
of size. The old hands use an old-fashioned net, to work which
requires at least two men. The net is dragged along the quiet river
reaches, a rope being attached to each end. The trout fly before it,
and are drawn out upon the first bed of pebbles. In this way great
hauls are often made. To prevent this species of poaching, stakes are
driven into trout stream beds; but they are not of much avail. When
it is known that a "reach" is staked, a third man wades behind the
net and lifts it over. A better method to prevent river poaching is
to throw loose thorn bushes into the bed of the stream. In trailing
along the bottom the net becomes entangled, and long before it can be
unloosed the fish have escaped. This wholesale instrument of fish
poaching is now rarely used. The net is necessarily large and
cumbersome. Wet, it is as much as two men can carry, and when caught
in the act, there is nothing for it but to abandon the net and run.
This is an effectual check for a time, as a new net takes long to
knit and is expensive, at least to the poacher. When salmon and trout
are spawning their senses seem somewhat dulled, and they are taken
out of the water at night by click-hooks. In this kind of river
poaching a lighted tar brand is used to show the whereabouts of the
fish. A light, too, attracts salmon. Of course, this can only be
attempted when the beats of the watchers and keepers are known. The
older generation of poachers, who have died or are fast dying out,
seem to have taken the receipt for preparing salmon roe with them.
For this once deadly bait is now rarely used. Here is a field
incident.
A silent river reach shaded by trees. It is the end of a short summer
night. We know that the poachers have lately been busy knitting their
nets, and have come to intercept them. The "Alder Dub" may be easily
netted, and contains a score nice trout. Poachers carefully study the
habits of fish as well as those of game, both winged and furred. To the
alder dub they know the trout make when the river is low. The poachers
have not noted signs of wind and weather and of local migrations for
twenty years past to be ignorant of this. And so here, in the
dew-beaded grass, we lie in wait. It is two o'clock and a critical
time. A strange breaking is in the east: grey--half-light, half-mist.
If they come they will come now. In an hour the darkness will not hide
them. We lie close to the bank thickly covered with bush and scrub. Two
sounds are and have been heard all night--the ceaseless call of the
crake and the not less ceaseless song of the sedge-bird. A lapwing gets
up in the darkness and screams--an ominous sound, and we are all ear.
Three forms descend the opposite bank, and on to the gravel bed. They
empty the contents of a bag and begin to unroll its slow length. The
breaking of a rotten twig in a preparatory movement for the rush
sufficiently alarms them, and they dash into the wood as we into the
water--content now to secure their cumbersome illegal net, and thus
effectually stop their operations for three weeks at least. The grey
becomes dawn and the dawn light as we wade wearily home through the
long wet grass. And still the sedge warbler sings.