There are three kinds of poachers, the local men, the raiders coming in
gangs from a distance, and the "mouchers"--fellows who do not make
precisely a profession of it, but who occasionally loiter along the
roads and hedges picking up whatever they can lay hands on.
Philologists may trace a resemblance between the present provincial word
"mouching" and Shakespeare's "mitcher," who ate blackberries. Of the
three probably the largest amount of business is done by the local men,
on the principle that the sitting gamester sweeps the board. They
therefore deserve first consideration.
It is a popular belief that the village poacher is an idle, hang-dog
ne'er-do-well, with a spice of sneaking romance in his disposition--the
Bohemian of the hamlet, whose grain of genius has sprouted under
difficulties, and produced weeds instead of wheat. This is a complete
fallacy, in our day at least. Poaching; is no longer an amusement, a
thing to be indulged in because
It's my delight of a shiny night
In the season of the year;
but a hard, prosaic business, a matter of _pounds, shillings, pence_,
requiring a long-headed, shrewd fellow, with a power of silence, capable
of a delicacy of touch which almost raises poaching into a fine art.
The real man is often a sober and to all appearance industrious
individual, working steadily during the day at some handicraft in the
village, as blacksmithing, hedge-carpentering--i.e. making posts and
rails, etc--cobbling, tinkering, or perhaps in the mill; a somewhat
reserved, solitary workman of superior intelligence and frequently
advanced views as to the "rights of labour." He has no appetite for
thrilling adventure; his idea is simply money, and he looks upon his
night-work precisely as he does upon his day-labour.
His great object is to avoid suspicion, knowing that success will be
proportionate to his skill in cloaking his operations; for in a small
community, when a man is "suspect," it is comparatively easy to watch
him, and a poacher knows that if he is watched he must sooner or later
be caught. Secrecy is not so very difficult; for it is only with
certain classes that he need practise concealment: his own class will
hold their peace. If a man is seen at his work in the day, if he is
moderate in his public-house attendance, shows himself at church, and
makes friends with the resident policeman (not as a confederate, but to
know his beat and movements), he may go on for years without detection.
Perhaps the most promising position for a man who makes a science of it
is a village at the edge of a range of downs, generally fringed with
large woods on the lower slopes. He has then ground to work
alternately, according to the character of the weather and the changes
of the moon. If the weather be wet, windy, or dark from the absence of
the moon, then the wide open hills are safe; while, on the other hand,
the woods are practically inaccessible, for a man must have the eyes of
a cat to see to do his work in the impenetrable blackness of the
plantations. So that upon a bright night the judicious poacher prefers
the woods, because he can see his way, and avoids the hills, because,
having no fences to speak of, a watcher may detect him a mile off.
Meadows with double mounds and thick hedges may be worked almost at any
time, as one side of the hedge is sure to cast a shadow, and instant
cover is afforded by the bushes and ditches. Such meadows are the happy
hunting-grounds of the poacher for that reason, especially if not far
distant from woods, and consequently overrun with rabbits. For, since
the price of rabbits has risen so high, they are very profitable as
game, considering that a dozen or two may be captured without noise and
without having to traverse much space--perhaps in a single hedge.
The weather most unsuitable is that kind of frost which comes on in the
early morning, and is accompanied with some rime on the grass--a duck's
frost, just sufficient to check fox-hunting. Every footstep on grass in
this condition when the sun comes out burns up as black as if the sole
of the boot were of red-hot iron, and the poacher leaves an indelible
trail behind him. But as three duck's frosts usually bring rain, a
little patience is alone necessary. A real, downright six weeks' frost
is, on the contrary, very useful--game lie close. But a deep snow is
not welcome; for, although many starved animals may be picked up, yet it
quite suspends the operations of the regular hand: he can neither use
wire, net, nor ferret.
Windy nights are disliked, particularly by rabbit-catchers, who have to
depend a great deal upon their sense of hearing to know when a rabbit is
moving in the "buries," and where he is likely to "bolt," so as to lay
hands on him the instant he is in the net. But with the "oak's
mysterious roar" overhead, the snapping of dead branches, and the moan
of the gale as it rushes through the hawthorn, it is difficult to
distinguish the low, peculiar thumping sound of a rabbit in his
catacomb. The rabbit is not easily dislodged in rain; for this animal
avoids getting wet as much as possible: he "bolts" best when it is dry
and still.
A judicious man rarely uses a gun, for the reason that noise is
inconvenient, and a gun is an awkward tool to carry concealed about the
person even when taken to pieces. There is a certain prejudice in rural
places against a labouring man possessing a gun; it is sure to draw
suspicion upon him. A professional poacher is pre-eminently a trapper,
relying chiefly upon the dexterous employment of the snare. If he does
shoot, by preference he chooses a misty day, knowing that the sound of
the report travels scarcely half the usual distance through fog; and he
beats the meadows rather than the preserves, where the discharge would
instantly attract attention, while in the meadows or ploughed fields it
may pass unnoticed as fired by a farmer with leave to kill rabbits.
When the acorns are ripe and the pheasants wander great distances from
the plantations along the hedgerows is his best time for shooting; no
keepers at that period can protect them. He also observes where the
partridges which roost on the ground assemble nightly as it grows dark,
easily ascertaining the spot by their repeated calls to each other, and
sometimes knocks over three or four at a shot.
Occasionally, also, early in the season, before the legitimate sportsman
perhaps has stepped into the stubble, and while the coveys are large, he
sees a good chance, and with two or even three ounces of shot makes
havoc among them. He invariably fires at his game sitting, first,
because he cannot lose an opportunity, and, next, because he can kill
several at once. He creeps up behind a hedge, much as the sportsman in
Rubens' picture in the National Gallery is represented, stooping to get
a view, himself unseen, at the brown birds on the ground. With the
antique firelock such a practice was necessary; but nothing in our day
so stamps a man a poacher as this total denial of "law" to the game.
When the pheasant is shot his next difficulty is with the feathers. The
fluffy, downy under-feathers fly in all directions, scattering over the
grass, and if left behind would tell an unmistakable tale. They must
therefore be collected as far as possible, and hidden in the ditch. The
best pockets for carrying game are those made in the tails of the coat,
underneath: many poachers' coats are one vast pocket behind the lining.
When there is special clanger of being personally overhauled and
searched, or when the "bag" is large, the game is frequently hidden in a
rabbit-hole, taking care to fence the hole some distance inside with a
stout stick across it, the object of which is that if the keeper or a
sportsman should pass that way his dogs, scenting the game, will
endeavour to scratch out the earth and get in after it. This the cross
stick will prevent, and the keeper will probably thrash his dog for
refusing to obey when called off.
A great deal of poaching used to be accomplished by nets, into which
both partridges and pheasants were driven. If skilfully alarmed--that
is, not too much hurried--these birds will run a long way before rising,
and, if their tracks are known, may be netted in considerable numbers.
But of recent years, since pheasants especially have become so costly a
luxury to keep, the preserves and roosting-places have been more
effectually watched, and this plan has become more difficult to put in
practice. In fact, the local man thinks twice before he puts his foot
inside a preserve, and, if possible, prefers to pick up outside. If a
preserve is broken into the birds are at once missed, and there is a hue
and cry; but the loss of outsiders is not immediately noticed.
The wire is, perhaps, the regular poacher's best implement, and ground
game his most profitable source of income. Hares exist in numbers upon
the downs, especially near the localities where the great coursing
meetings are held, where a dozen may be kicked out of the grass in five
minutes. In these districts of course the downs are watched; but hares
cannot be kept within bounds, and wander miles and miles at night,
limping daintily with their odd gait (when undisturbed) along the lanes
leading into the ploughed fields on the lower slopes and plains. The
hills--wide and almost pathless, and practically destitute of fences--
where the foot leaves no trail on the short grass and elastic turf, are
peculiarly favourable to illicit sport.
Though apparently roaming aimlessly, hares have their regular highways
or "runs;" and it is the poacher's business to discover which of these
narrow paths are most beaten by continuous use. He then sets his wire,
as early in the evening as compatible with safety to himself, for hares
are abroad with the twilight.
Long practice and delicate skill are essential to successful snaring.
First, the loop itself into which the hare is to run his head must be of
the exact size. If it be too small he will simply thrust it aside; if
too large his body will slip through, and his hind leg will be captured:
being crooked, it draws the noose probably. Then if caught by the hind
leg, the wretched creature, mad with terror, will shriek his loudest;
and a hare shrieks precisely like a human being in distress. The sound,
well understood by the watchers, will at once reveal what is going
forward. But there may be no watchers about; and in that case the
miserable animal will tug and tug during the night till the wire
completely bares the lower bone of the leg, and in the morning, should
any one pass, his leaps and bounds and rolls will of course be seen.
Sometimes he twists the wire till it snaps, and so escapes--but probably
to die a lingering death, since the copper or brass is pretty sure to
mortify the flesh. No greater cruelty can be imagined. The poacher,
however, is very anxious to avoid it, as it may lead to detection; and
if his wire is properly set the animal simply hangs himself, brought up
with a sudden jerk which kills him in two seconds, and with less pain
than is caused by the sting of the sportsman's cartridge.
Experience is required to set the loop at the right height above the
ground. It is measured by placing the clenched fist on the earth, and
then putting the extended thumb of the other open hand upon it,
stretching it out as in the action of spanning, when the tip of the
little finger gives the right height for the lower bend of the loop--
that is, as a rule; but clever poachers vary it slightly to suit the
conformation of the ground. A hare carries his head much higher than
might be thought; and he is very strong, so that the plug which holds
the wire must be driven in firmly to withstand his first convulsive
struggle. The small upright stick whose cleft suspends the wire across
the "run" must not be put too near the hare's path, or he will see it,
and it must be tolerably stiff, or his head will push the wire aside.
Just behind a "tussocky" bunch of grass is a favourite spot to set a
noose; the grass partially conceals it.
The poacher revisits his snares very early in the morning, and if he is
judicious invariably pulls them up, whether successful or not, because
they may be seen in the day. Half the men who are fined by the
magistrates have been caught by keepers who, having observed wires, let
them remain; but keep a watch and take the offenders red-handed. The
professional poacher never leaves his wires set up all day, unless a
sudden change of weather and the duck's frost previously mentioned
prevent him from approaching them, and then he abandons those particular
snares for ever. For this reason he does not set up more than he can
easily manage. If he gets three hares a night (wholesale price _2
shillings 6 pence_ each) he is well repaid. Rabbits are also wired in
great numbers. The loop is a trifle smaller, and should be just a span
from the ground.
But the ferret is the poacher's chief assistant in rabbiting: it takes
two men, one on each side of the "bury," and a ferret which will not
"lie in"--i.e. stay in the hole and feast till overcome with sleep.
Ferrets differ remarkably in disposition, and the poacher chooses his
with care; otherwise, if the ferret will not come out the keepers are
certain to find him the next day hunting on his own account. Part of
the secret is to feed him properly, so that he may have sufficient
appetite to hunt well and yet be quickly satisfied with a taste of
blood. Skill is essential in setting up the nets at the mouth of the
holes; but beyond the mere knack, easily acquired, there is little to
learn in ferreting.
The greatest difficulty with any kind of game is to get home unobserved
with the bag. Keepers are quite aware of this; and in the case of large
estates, leaving one or two assistants near the preserves, they patrol
the by-ways and footpaths, while the police watch the cross-roads and
lanes which lead to the villages. If a man comes along at an
exceptionally early hour with coat-pockets violently bulging, there is a
_prima facie_ case for searching him. One advantage of wiring or
netting over the gun is here very noticeable: anything shot bleeds and
stains the pocket--a suspicious sign even when empty; strangulation
leaves no traces.
Without a knowledge of the policeman's beat and the keeper's post the
poacher can do nothing on a large scale. He has, however, no great
trouble in ascertaining these things; the labourers who do not
themselves poach sympathise warmly and whisper information. There is
reason to think that men sometimes get drunk, or sufficiently so to
simulate intoxication very successfully, with the express purpose of
being out all night with a good excuse, and so discovering the
policeman's ambuscade. Finding a man whom he knows to be usually sober
overtaken with drink in a lonely road, where he injures none but
himself, the policeman good-naturedly leads him home with a caution
only.
The receivers of game are many and various. The low beer-shop keepers
are known to purchase large quantities. Sometimes a local pork-butcher
in a small way buys and transmits it, having facilities for sending
hampers, etc, unsuspected. Sometimes the carriers are the channel of
communication; and there is no doubt the lower class of game dealers in
the provincial towns get a good deal in this way. The London dealer,
who receives large consignments at once, has of course no means of
distinguishing poached from other game. The men who purchase the
rabbits ferreted by the keepers during the winter in the woods and
preserves, and who often buy 100 pounds worth or more in the season,
have peculiar opportunities for conveying poached animals, carefully
stowed for them in a ditch on their route. This fact having crept out
has induced gentlemen to remove these rabbit contracts from local men,
and to prefer purchasers from a distance, who must take some time to get
acquainted with the district poachers.
The raiders, who come in gangs armed with guns and shoot in the
preserves, are usually the scum of manufacturing towns, led or guided by
a man expelled through his own bad conduct from the village, and who has
a knowledge of the ground. These gangs display no skill; relying on
their numbers, arms, and known desperation of character to protect them
from arrest, as it does in nine cases out of ten. Keepers and policemen
cannot be expected to face such brutes as these fellows; they do
sometimes, however, and get shattered with shot.
The "mouchers" sneak about the hedgerows on Sundays with lurcher dogs,
and snap up a rabbit or a hare; they do not do much damage except near
great towns, where they are very numerous. Shepherds, also,
occasionally mouch--their dogs being sometimes very expert; and
ploughmen set wires in the gateways or gaps where they have noticed the
track of a hare, but it is only for their own eating, and is not of much
consequence in comparison with the work of the real local professional.
These regular hands form a class which are probably more numerous now
than ever; the reasons are--first, the high value of game and the
immense demand for it since poultry has become so dear, and, secondly,
the ease of transmission now that railways spread into the most outlying
districts and carry baskets or parcels swiftly out of reach. Poaching,
in fact, well followed, is a lucrative business.
Some occasional poaching is done with no aid but the hand, especially in
severe weather, which makes all wild animals "dummel," in provincial
phrase--i.e. stupid, slow to move. Even the hare is sometimes caught by
hand as he crouches in his form. It requires a practised eye, that
knows precisely where to look among the grass, to detect him hidden in
the bunch under the dead, dry bennets. An inexperienced person chancing
to see a hare sitting like this would naturally stop short in walking to
get a better view; whereupon the animal, feeling that he was observed,
would instantly make a rush. You must persuade the hare that he is
unseen; and so long as he notices no start or sign of recognition--his
eye is on you from first entering the field--he will remain still,
believing that you will pass.
The poacher, having marked his game, looks steadily in front of him,
never turning his head, but insensibly changes his course and quietly
approaches sidelong. Then, in the moment of passing, he falls quick as
lightning on his knee, and seizes the hare just behind the poll. It is
the only place where the sudden grasp would hold him in his convulsive
terror--he is surprisingly powerful--and almost ere he can shriek (as he
will do) the left hand has tightened round the hind legs. Stretching
him to his full length across the knee, the right thumb, with a peculiar
twist, dislocates his neck, and he is dead in an instant. There is
something of the hangman's knack in this, which is the invariable way of
killing rabbits when ferreted or caught alive; and yet it is the most
merciful, for death is instantaneous. It is very easy to sprain the
thumb while learning the trick.
A poacher will sometimes place his hat gently on the ground, when first
catching sight of a sitting hare, and then stealthily approach on the
opposite side. The hare watches the hat, while the real enemy comes up
unawares, or, if both are seen, he is in doubt which way to dash. On a
dull, cold day hares will sit till the sportsman's dogs are nearly on
them, almost till he has to kick them out. At other times in the same
locality they are, on the contrary, too wild. Occasionally a labourer,
perhaps a "fogger," crossing the meadows with slow steps, finds a rabbit
sitting in like manner among the grass or in a dry furrow. Instantly he
throws himself all a-sprawl upon the ground, with the hope of pinning
the animal to the earth. The manoeuvre, however, frequently fails, and
the rabbit slips away out of his very hands.
The poacher is never at rest; there is no season when his marauding
expeditions cease for awhile; he acknowledges no "close time" whatever.
Almost every month has its appropriate game for him, and he can always
turn his hand to something. In the very heat of the summer there are
the young rabbits, for which there is always a sale in the towns, and
the leverets, which are easily picked up by a lurcher dog.
I have known a couple of men take a pony and trap for this special
purpose, and make a pleasant excursion over hill and dale, through the
deep country lanes, and across the open down land, carrying with them
two or three such dogs to let loose as opportunity offers. Their
appearance as they rattle along is certainly not prepossessing; the
expression of their canine friends trotting under the trap, or peering
over the side, stamps them at the first glance as "snappers up of
unconsidered trifles;" but you cannot arrest these gentlemen peacefully
driving on the "king's highway" simply because they have an ugly look
about them. From the trap they get a better view than on foot; standing
up they can see over a moderately high hedge, and they can beat a rapid
retreat if necessary, with the aid of a wiry pony. Passing by some
meadows, they note a goodly number of rabbits feeding in the short
aftermath. They draw up by a gateway, and one of them dismounts. With
the dogs he creeps along behind the hedge (the object being to get
between the bunnies and their holes), and presently sends the dogs on
their mission. The lurchers are tolerably sure of catching a couple--
young rabbits are neither so swift nor so quick at doubling as the older
ones. Before the farmer and his men, who are carting the summer ricks
in an adjacent field, can quite comprehend what the unusual stir is
about yonder, the poachers are off, jogging comfortably along, with
their game hidden under an old sack or some straw.
Their next essay is among the ploughed fields, where the corn is
ripening and as yet no reapers are at work, so that the coast is almost
clear. Here they pick up a leveret, and perhaps the dogs chop a weakly
young partridge, unable to fly well, in the hedge. The keeper has just
strolled through the copses bordering on the road, and has left them, as
he thinks, safe. They watch his figure slowly disappearing in the
distance from a bend of the lane, and then send the dogs among the
underwood. In the winter men will carry ferrets with them in a trap
like this.
The desperate gangs who occasionally sweep the preserves, defying the
keepers in their strength of numbers and prestige of violence, sometimes
bring with them a horse and cart, not so much for speed of escape as to
transport a heavy bag of game. Such a vehicle, driven by one man, will,
moreover, often excite no suspicion though it may be filled with
pheasants under sacks and hay. A good deal of what may be called casual
poaching is also done on wheels.
Some of the landlords of the low beer-houses in the country often
combine with the liquor trade the business of dealing in pigs, calves,
potatoes, etc, and keep a light cart, or similar conveyance. Now, if
any one will notice the more disreputable of these beer-houses, they
will observe that there are generally a lot of unkempt, rough-looking
dogs about them. These, of course, follow their master when he goes on
his short journeys from place to place; and they are quite capable of
mischief. Such men may not make a business of poaching, yet if in
passing a preserve the dogs stray and bring back something eatable, why,
it is very easy to stow it under the seat with the potatoes. Sometimes
a man is bold enough to carry a gun in this way--to jump out when he
sees a chance and have a shot, and back and off before any one knows
exactly what is going on.
Somehow there always seems to be a market for game out of season: it is
"passed" somewhere, just as thieves pass stolen jewellery. So also
fish, even when manifestly unfit for table, in the midst of spawning
time, commands a ready sale if overlooked by the authorities. It is
curious that people can be found to purchase fish in such a condition;
but it is certain that they do. In the spring, when one would think
bird and beast might be permitted a breathing space, the poacher is as
busy as ever after eggs. Pheasant and partridge eggs are largely bought
and sold in the most nefarious manner. It is suspected that some of the
less respectable breeders who rear game birds like poultry for sale, are
not too particular of whom they purchase eggs; and, as we have before
observed, certain keepers are to blame in this matter also.
Plovers' eggs, again, are an article of commerce in the spring; they are
protected now by law, but it is to be feared that the enactment is to a
great extent a dead letter. The eggs of the peewit, or lapwing, as the
bird is variously called, are sought for with great perseverance, and
accounted delicacies. These birds frequent commons where the grass is
very rough, and interspersed with bunches of rushes, marshy places, and
meadows liable to be flooded in the winter. The nest on the ground is
often made in the depression left by a horse's hoof in the soft earth--
any slight hole, in fact; and it is so concealed, or rather differs so
little from the appearance of the general sward around, as to be easily
passed unnoticed. You may actually step on it, and so smash the eggs,
before you see it.
Aware that the most careful observation may fail to find what he wants,
the egg-stealer adopts a simple but effective plan by which he ensures
against omitting to examine a single foot of the field. Drop a
pocket-knife or some such object in the midst of a great meadow, and you
will find the utmost difficulty in discovering it again, when the grass
is growing tall as in spring. You may think that you have traversed
every inch, yet it is certain that you have not; the inequalities of the
ground insensibly divert your footsteps, and it is very difficult to
keep a straight line. What is required is something to fix the eye--
what a sailor would call a "bearing." This the egg-stealer finds in a
walking-stick. He thrusts the point into the earth, and then slowly
walks round and round it, enlarging the circle every time, and thus
sweeps every inch of the surface with his eye. When he has got so far
from the stick as to feel that his steps are becoming uncertain, he
removes it, and begins again in another spot. A person not aware of
this simple trick will search a field till weary and declare there is
nothing to be found; another, who knows the dodge, will go out and
return in an hour with a pocketful of eggs.
On those clear, bright winter nights when the full moon is almost at the
zenith, and the "definition" of tree and bough in the flood of light
seems to equal if not to exceed that of the noonday, some poaching used
to be accomplished with the aid of a horsehair noose on the end of a
long slender wand. There are still some districts in the country more
or less covered with forest, and which on account of ancient rights
cannot be enclosed. Here the art of noosing lingers; the loop being
insidiously slipped over the bird's head while at roost. By constant
practice a wonderful dexterity may be acquired in this trick; men will
snare almost any bird in broad daylight. With many birds a favourite
place for a nest is in a hollow tree, access being had by a decayed
knot-hole, and they are sometimes noosed as they emerge. A thin
flexible copper wire is said to be substituted for large game. This
method of capture peculiarly suits the views of the ornithologist, with
whom it is an object to avoid the spoiling of feathers by shot.
Every now and then a bird-catcher comes along decoying the finches from
the hedges, for sale as cage-birds in London. Some of these men,
without any mechanical assistance, can imitate the "call" note of the
bird they desire to capture so as to deceive the most practised ear.
These fellows are a great nuisance, and will completely sweep a lane of
all the birds whose song makes them valuable. In this way some
localities have been quite cleared of goldfinches, which used to be
common. The keepers, of course, will not permit them on private
property; but in all rural districts there are wide waste spaces--as
where two or more roads meet--broad bands of green sward running beside
the highway, and the remnants of what in former days were commons; and
here the bird-catcher plies his trade. It so happens that these very
waste places are often the most favourite resorts of goldfinches, for
instance, who are particularly fond of thistledown, and thistles
naturally chiefly flourish on uncultivated land. These men, and the
general class of loafers, have a wholesome dread of gamekeepers, who
look on them with extreme suspicion.
The farmers and rural community at large hardly give the gamekeeper his
due as a protection against thieves and mischievous rascals. The
knowledge that he may at any time come round the corner, even in the
middle of the night, has a decidedly salutary effect upon the minds of
those who are prowling about. Intoxicated louts think it fine fun to
unhinge gates, and let cattle and horses stray abroad, to tear down
rails, and especially to push the coping-stones off the parapets of the
bridges which span small streams. They consider it clever to heave
these over with a splash into the water, or to throw down half a dozen
yards of "dry wall." In many places fields are commonly enclosed by the
roadside with such walls, which are built of a flat stone dug just
beneath the surface, and used without mortar. There are men who make a
business of building these walls; it requires some skill and patience to
select the stones and fit them properly. They serve the purpose very
well, but the worst is that if once started the process of destruction
is easy and quick. Much more serious offences than these are sometimes
committed, as cutting horses with knives, and other mutilations. The
fact that the fields are regularly perambulated by keepers and their
assistants night and day cannot but act as a check upon acts of this
kind.