BACK IN THE OLD HAUNTS
On passing out of the old man’s sight the otter made for the cliffs,
where he lay close, impatiently awaiting nightfall that he might return
to his mate. The light had scarcely faded when he took to the water.
Early though it was to be abroad, he had not got far before he espied
her swimming towards him, and presently he saw that she held a cub in
her mouth. The reports of the gun had made her apprehensive for the
safety of her young, the tiniest of which she was removing first to the
clitter. The sea was rough and the spindrift blinding, yet she held on
with her precious burden till she had reached a cave behind the boulders
and laid the dripping mite in a nest there. Then she hurried back for
another; when that was placed beside the first she fetched another, and
yet another, till all four were in safety.
As soon as she had deposited the last she assisted her mate to scour the
sea-bed between the cliffs and the Seal Rock in search of prey to
relieve her maddening hunger. For hours the couple drew likely ground
without result; but when they were about to end their quest they came on
a stray pot containing a big crayfish. The find was as welcome as it was
unexpected. In their eagerness to get at the prize the starving
creatures swarmed about the osier cage like terriers about a rat-trap,
vainly striving to find a way between the bars or through the aperture
at the top, which was all but closed by the battering the pot had
received. It was a most tantalizing situation. The otters’ only hope was
to stay near the cage until tide and ground-swell should drive it
ashore, dash it to pieces against the cliff, and leave the crayfish at
their mercy. So through the long night they never left it except to
breathe. In the end their patience was rewarded. The breakers got hold
of the trap, tumbled it over and over, and wedged it between two rocks,
smashing one of the bars, and making a hole through which the female
otter managed to squeeze. In a twinkling she had seized the fish and
crushed its life out. As soon as the wave which covered her withdrew,
she began devouring her prey. Whilst she feasted, the otter made frantic
efforts to get in, but failed, and presently desisted, contenting
himself with the bits that escaped through the bars. The tide rose, yet
the little creature, despite the rush of the waters and the blows she
received from the stone that weighted the pot, remained where she was
until she had consumed all except the feelers and harder parts of the
shell; then, leaving by the way she had entered, she skirted reef and
ledge in the dawn-light, and made straight for the clitter. Her one
thought was for her famished cubs, which, before the sun was very high,
she was suckling from her abundance, purring whilst they fed.
That day a thaw set in, and a shag appeared on the Seal Rock; The otter,
who had shifted his quarters to avoid the drippings from the cliffs,
after watching the bird’s fishing for a time, began himself to fish. At
the end of a long, fruitless quest he landed; but now, in his extremity,
no longer careful for his safety, he lay out in the open on a granite
boulder. Happily no harm came of it. Through the night he and his mate
hunted in the deep water beyond the rock, still without seeing a fin, so
that when the sun peeped above the sea the creatures returned to the
cliffs in despair. At noon the mother brought her puny little ones from
the dank cave and laid them in the sun’s rays to enjoy the genial
warmth; but as they soon cried to be fed, for fear their plaints might
betray them she carried them back to the nest, and there, lulled by the
sob of the restless tide, she at length dropped off to sleep.
She might have slept for two hours when the clamour of sea-fowl awakened
her and brought her in haste to the edge of the clitter, where the otter
was already on his feet gazing at a flock of gulls, whose excited
movements showed they were over fish. Whilst they looked the shoal
disappeared, and the gulls dispersed—like the wonderful scouts they
are—to watch for its return to the surface. The instant the birds
congregated over an agitated patch of water between the clitter and the
Seal Rock the eager otters slipped into the sea. Soon they were near
enough to distinguish the silvery spoil in the beaks of the birds, and
two minutes later they were in the middle of the shoal.
Luckily the fish were sprats, so small that the otters could eat them
without landing, and if the shoal had remained long on the surface the
animals would have filled themselves to repletion; but before they had
gobbled down a tithe of what they needed the fish again sought the
depths. The otters pursued as far as breath allowed, raising themselves
in the water when they came up, to look towards the direction the fish
had taken. Time after time they stood up to gaze over the heaving
surface, but with the gathering of the dusk and the withdrawal of the
gulls to the cliffs they ceased, and landed on the Seal Rock.
As the few sprats had excited rather than allayed their appetite, after
a short rest they began to fish again, little dreaming of the struggle
in which they were almost at once to be engaged. For they had scarcely
reached the bottom when a tiny fish darted across an opening between two
clumps of weed; close behind, in pursuit of it, came a big conger. At
once they took up the chase of the pursuer where it followed its prey
from tangle to rock and from rock to tangle and presently, when a sudden
turn brought them within striking distance of the unsuspecting fish,
they rose from beneath, careening over so as to fasten on the fleshy
throat. Their teeth had scarcely met before the still depths were
convulsed by the writhings of the fish in its efforts to shake off its
assailants, who however hung on till their victim grew quieter. Then,
using their tails and hind-feet, they raised their prey through fathom
after fathom until, for lack of breath, they had to let go and come to
the top. It was a few seconds only before they were back again; but the
disabled fish made good use of the interval, and had reached the mouth
of the cave when they overhauled it. They began anew to drag it towards
the surface. The monster writhed in their grip, trying again and again
to fold its tail about some projecting rock past which it was being
lifted, but it failed to get a hold, and was borne up, and up, and up,
until the stars were just visible through the water. Then the otters
were again compelled to let go and rise to breathe. At the third attempt
they barely held their own against the fish, so violent was its
resistance; at the next, however, after a terrible struggle they
succeeded in getting it to the surface, where with glowing eyes they lay
and rested beside their ghostlike prey before essaying to land it. Soon
they began towing it to the cliffs towards which the tide had drifted
them, but before they had got far the conger, singling out the stronger
enemy, strove to coil itself about the otter. Failing to get a grip of
the slippery, lissom form, it lashed the sea as if to vent its rage at
its own impotence. Then it took to shaking its head and snapping its
jaws. The otters however had it helpless, and held grimly on their way
till they brought it to the edge of the breakers, where from sheer
exhaustion they let go, resting awhile to recover a little strength
before committing themselves to the welter of the surf. Though the fish
too seemed to be at its last gasp, suddenly, as if roused by the warning
voice of the breakers to a final effort, it shook itself free from the
otters, who had seized it as it stirred, and, with a great swirl,
disappeared beneath the surface. Like a flash the otters were after it,
but rose without it once and again. The third time the fish was between
them. Almost immediately a wave bigger than its fellows curled over
them, buried them in its mass of waters, and hurled them on the sand, up
which the otters dragged their prize inch by inch till they had brought
it to a wide table of rock beyond reach of the surf. Although out of the
water, the conger still writhed until the otter bit through its great
backbone; then it lay almost quiet whilst the starving creatures sliced
and munched and gulped as if they never would be satisfied. Satiety
however came at last, and when they could eat no more they withdrew to
the clitter—night though it was—to sleep off the orgy that marked the
close of the days of want.
With the continuance of mild weather pollack and plaice returned to the
inshore waters, so that soon, through the plentiful supply of food, the
otters regained their good condition, whilst the cubs lost their
emaciated appearance and throve apace. From that time the ties that
bound the otter to his mate grew looser and looser, and a week after the
young had learnt to swim he left her altogether, to resume his solitary
life.
For a while he kept to the headland and the cliffs near the Gull Rock:
then, tiring of these haunts, he crossed to the wild coast opposite,
where he lingered week after week, until the breath of spring quickened
his roving instincts and set him longing for the old trails. So he
retraced his steps from the point of the promontory to which he had
penetrated, and on the night of the full moon drifted up the estuary to
Tide End. There, after fishing, he sought the shelter of a pile of
faggots before the villagers were astir. He slept soundly, despite the
near neighbourhood of man, and when dusk fell swam past the lighted
cottages towards the wood. Landing there and striking straight through
the trees, he held on without a stop till he reached the rude wall at
the upper end, on which he stood to listen to the croakings proceeding
from the marshy flat beyond. Presently he stole towards the biggest of
the pools that silvered the rushy waste; but when about midway he must
have been heard or seen, for the frogs there ceased their chorus, and
forthwith the marsh became as silent as when in the grip of the frost.
On gaining the water’s edge he dived, and in a twinkling was back with a
frog, which he skinned and devoured. This was the first of some half a
score that he caught and ate before repairing to a ditch-like piece of
water, dark from the shadowing alders, where he long remained feasting.
At length he had had enough and, leaving the marsh, made for the river,
which he followed mile after mile till he reached the morass and laid up
in the hollow bank in which he was born.
Meanwhile otter-hunting had begun, and all the country-side over men
were on the lookout for his tracks. Not since the mysterious
disappearance of the bob-tailed fox had so keen an interest been taken
in any wild creature. Through the winter he had been the topic of
conversation in the chimney-corner of cotter and crofter, and a very
frequent intruder on the thoughts of the squire. The slightest
association was enough to recall the creature to his mind: the sound of
running water, the appearance of a salmon-poacher in court, even the
sight of the short-legged animal carved on the screen of the parish
church—indeed, his preoccupation showed itself in many acts of his
daily life.
Whilst the snow lasted he went every morning to the pond to look for
tracks, and as soon as the first daffodils bloomed he began to dip his
hand in the streams to try their temperature, longing for the time when
the water would be warm enough for the hounds to draw them. In the
meantime he busied himself with the various duties of a master of otter
hounds. He visited the kennels every day to make sure that the hounds
got road exercise to harden their feet. He succeeded after much trouble
in inducing the keepers on neighbouring estates to remove the traps
which had been the bane of the Hunt. A fortnight before the opening meet
he rode round to see the water-bailiff, the miller, the moorman, old
Ikey, and the marshman, asked them to keep a lookout for the otter, and
parted from each of them with the words, ‘Now don’t forget, my man.
Morning, noon, or night, bring me word if you strike his trail.’ It is
not true, as alleged by the gossips of the port, that he offered a
reward of ten pounds for information that should lead to the finding and
death of the otter, though had there been an offer of twice that sum the
trackers could not have shown greater keenness than they did. There was
evidence of it even before the search began, for every man from far and
near who meant to take a part turned up at the hour fixed for the
allotment of the waters, determined to get his rights. This unusual
procedure had been adopted at the instance of the squire, in order to
avoid the disputes and bad blood which he foresaw would arise unless the
beats were formally assigned before the season opened.
Raftra, in his ‘Annals of our Village,’ gives a very full account of the
meeting. It took place at the Druid’s Arms, with Reuben Gribble, the
landlord, in the chair. Between him and the red-bearded water-bailiff
sat the venerable tenant of the Home Farm, called in ostensibly on
account of his wide knowledge of the streams, but really because of his
well-known powers of conciliation, which were needed as soon as the
business of the evening began. The chief difficulty was with Sandy, the
bailiff, who claimed by virtue of his office the whole length of the
river, from Tide End to Lone Tarn. Though he was one against a score,
counting the men in the doorway, he seemed bent on maintaining the
unreasonable position he had taken up. When the miller and the moorman
asked him for the reaches which they preferred and which every man round
the table thought they were entitled to, he brushed their requests aside
as if they were nobodies. As Raftra says, a Lord High Ranger couldn’t
have treated vagrom men with more contempt. This haughty demeanour
enraged everyone; in fact, it was all Geordie and the wilder spirits
could do to keep their clenched fists off the bailiff’s person. As it
was, angry words passed, but when a fight between the gipsy and the Scot
seemed imminent, the old reeve rose, lifted his thin hands to command
silence, and said:
‘Don’t quarrel, my friends—don’t quarrel; better the otter never came
anist us if it’s to lead to blows. And yet, as an old tracker, it does
my heart good to see how eager every man of ’ee is to get a good beat.
For what else does it mean but this, that the love of sport among us is
as strong as ever it was? It makes me long to be one of ’ee, it do; to
be young again, abroad at peep o’ day, when the sun is touchin’ the
cairns and the wakin’ world is fresh and sweet, to feel once more the
joy of comin’ on the wild rover’s prents. This minit in my mind’s eye I
can see the five round toe marks and the seal of the otter I spurred
beside the Kieve. You’ve heard of the sport he gave. An old man’s tongue
will run away with him—run riot, I ought to call it. Your indulgence,
my friends, and your further patience while I touch on the matter that
brought me to my feet. And let me say by way of preliminary and to all
alike, don’t be overreachin’; don’t, simply to keep others out, claim
more water than you can search. “Live and let live” is a good motto for
a sportsman, be he Englishman or Scot; and this I’m sure of, that my
friend beside me will look at things as a big-minded man always do, and
prove himself the good neighbour we’ve taken him for.
‘Mr. Macpherson, we’ve treated ’ee like one of ourselves since the coach
dropped ’ee at the crossroads now three year back; the more so, maybe,
since we’ve got to understand your mouthspeech. True, there was a little
soreness because Zachy Kelynack didn’t get the job, but only for a month
or two; and we did our best to hide it, agreein’ among ourselves that if
the Duchy slighted our own man, ’twas no fault of yourn, and no case for
pitchin’ and featherin’, or even for the pump. Come to look back upon
it, for a rough-and-ready sort of people, whose parish is their world,
we met thee handsomely, though I say it, as I hope we shall every
strainyer who looks us straight in the eyes and does his duty without
fear or favour. Now, is it askin’ ’ee too much to show a friendly spirit
in return and a little consideration for local feelin’?’ Here the
speaker paused; but, as the bailiff showed no sign of giving in, he went
on: ‘Come, come, Sandy, only try and see the matter as we do. William
Rechard and Matthew Henry were born and reared upon the moor, and have
known the river all their lives. Right or no right, do ’ee wonder they
think theirselves entitled to a reach or two? No, you cannot, you do
not. Be strong, my friend, and give way.’
Now, it was not so much what the old man said as the way he said it that
made the appeal seem irresistible to all but the bailiff. And truly the
voice and manner of the speaker, mellow as the rich light that flooded
the low-raftered room, would have gone home to men even less emotional
than his countrymen; but the dour Scot seemed to be not the least
affected till the landlord, who had hurriedly disappeared through a
side-door, returned with a double-handled jug of old cider, and by the
influence of the seductive liquid brought him to reason. At the fourth
cup he gave in with a good grace, yielding to the miller the three miles
of water above the mill. At the sixth he granted the reach above Moor
Pool to the moorman, who also got the stream near his cot; old Ikey got
the Liddens, as was only fair, since the pools were on his holding; the
marshman, the marsh; and the poachers shared the waters that remained,
the order of choice being decided by the length of straw, drawn from the
landlord’s closed hand. Geordie and Tom, who as leaders of their
profession had first and second choice, to their chagrin got the
shortest straws.
Now for rivercraft or marshcraft the fourteen men that daily gave at
least an hour or two to the search could not, perhaps, have been matched
outside that most ancient terrain of the otter-hunter, the Principality
of Wales. Yet though the otter followed the usual trails over the moor,
the trackers never once came on a sign of him. The reason is not far to
seek. The beds of the river and the streams are for the most part rocky,
the shallows and landing-places pebbly, and spits of sand are few and
far between. It was on these last that the trackers relied to find the
footprints, and at dawn they might have been seen bending over them,
plying their craft as eagerly as men seeking gold or precious stones.
They found nothing, for the otter had never set foot there. Once,
indeed, he left his tracks within a bowshot of Moor Pool—tracks so
plain that they seemed to cry out; but before the bailiff reached the
spot the river rose and obliterated them, and the bailiff never knew how
near he had been to discovery.
After the quest had gone on for nearly a month, when men and squire were
beginning to fear that the otter had abandoned the district or that his
skin was adorning the bedroom floor of some keeper who had trapped him,
by the merest chance the moorman happened on the prints near the
boundary of his little holding. He was struck all of a heap, as he said,
at the unexpected sight; but on recovering himself he remembered the
squire’s words and the look in his eyes, so, though the sun was only a
few handbreaths above the moor, he left the peat where he had dropped it
and set off at a brisk pace for the Big House. In his excitement he
forgot the hounds were out until he reached the wood; but there, to the
amazement of the watching woodman, who had wondered at his haste, he
suddenly turned, late as it was, and made for the cross-roads, hoping to
intercept the squire and save himself a very long journey.
By good luck the moorman reached the top of the hill just in time to
hail the squire as he rode by, and ran down breathless to where he had
drawn rein.
‘Tracked un at laist, squire,’ he gasped.
‘Good news, Pearce. I’ve had a long day, but I’ll go back with you.’
‘It’s a brave way off, sir.’
‘No matter.’
So leaving the hounds to the whipper-in, he accompanied the man to the
moor, and examined the tracks by the light of the lantern the moorman
had fetched from his cottage.
‘They’re his, right enough, Pearce. Funny place to come on them.’
‘’Tes and ’tesn’t, come to think of it, for I’ve spurred otters on this
very bit of ground more than once before, and all goin’ the same way.
’Tes a line of traffic from the strame to the revur.’
‘Ah, that’s interesting. But, my word, what amazing prints they are!
What weight do you put him at?’
‘Afeerd to say, sir.’
‘They’re a couple of days old, Pearce.’
‘Iss, sir, all that, but you mind what you told me.’
‘All right, my man. I attach no blame; that’s not my meaning.’
‘He’s alive and in the country, sir.’
‘Yes, yes; to be sure he’s in the country. Great thing to know that. It
will hearten every man of us. Great day, red-letter day when we drop on
him, eh, Pearce?’
Then he rose to his feet, but was almost immediately on his knees again
for a last look. At length he tore himself away, slipped a crown-piece
into the moorman’s hand, remounted, bade the man good-night, and
galloped off.
Now the moorman on his way to stop the squire had overtaken and told the
post-woman: the blacksmith at the cross-roads had overheard what he
said; and from these two the news spread so rapidly and so far that
before the morrow’s sundown it was known through the country-side that
the otter had been tracked on Matthew Henry’s splosh, that the squire
had gone there and seen the prints with his own eyes. To what a pitch of
excitement the trackers were aroused by the tidings may be imagined.
Most of them were at the stream-side at the first glimmer of day, and
all of them remained out hours longer than usual. The squire, expecting
that word of the otter might be brought at any moment, feared to leave
the house. He had even given orders that Limpetty, the whipper-in, was
to have his meals at the kennels and to sleep in the loft.
But the otter’s plans ran counter to the hopes and expectations of his
enemies. On the third day after the discovery of his tracks he forsook
the moorland for the creek, where he feasted on mussels and flounders
till he tired of them. Then he made down the estuary to the headland; he
robbed the trammels and spillers of the choicest fish, and on one
occasion actually took a bass off a whiffing-line.
Thus another month passed, by the end of which the trackers who had
stood so high in the estimation of their neighbours began to be made
slight of, and even to be laughed at. Right welcome to them were the
heavy rains that rendered river and streams unfit for hunting and
furnished a sound excuse for discontinuing the hopeless quest. The flood
was indeed a big one, as the mark on the door of the miller’s stable
testifies. To this day the old men at the port will tell you they never
before knew the sea stained to such a distance by the peaty water,
adding in the same breath that the run of fish was ‘a sight to see.’
Harbour and estuary seemed alive as the salmon made their way up the
river: people gathered at different spots to see them pass. Villagers
crowded the bridge at Tide End where the fish take the weir; Geordie and
Tom stood at the fall beneath the pines; the miller, at the foot of his
garden, watched them go up the new ladder.
‘Bra run, Reuben,’ remarked he to the landlord at his side.
‘Iss, fy, and good fish among ’em. That’s a heavy fish goin’ up now.
He’ll do it; no, he won’t, he an’t. That basin is like Malachi’s hen,
too high in the instep. I said it was when they were puttin’ un in.’
As the miller took no notice, he bellowed in his ear, ‘Custna hear what
I’m sayin’, you?’
‘Hear! Of course I can; I’m not deef. Hear, indeed! Thee wust drown the
roar of a dozen floods, thee wust! What have ’ee got to say?’
‘Why, only this, that he’ll be up afore long.’
‘What do ’ee mean by he?’
‘What do I mean? What can a man mean these days but one thing?’
‘How teasy you are.’
‘Teasy, indeed! Do ’ee wonder at it? That varmint has got on my nerves.
I’m always thinkin’ about un, I caan’t sleep for’n, and if I do, I see
un in my dreams. Most like he will come up; and I hope and trust he
will, and that the hounds will find and kill un, or what’ll become of
the parish I don’t know. From the squire to Tom Burn-the-Reed we’re
gettin’ in a poor way, and you the one man gettin’ any good out of it.’
When the flood began to fall the otter did come up, and the first night
spent hour after hour, to no purpose, chasing salmon in the pool below
the rapids. At dawn he climbed to the ivy-covered branch of a tree
overhanging the river, to sleep as well as his uncomfortable quarters
allowed. That night he killed in the Kieve; early in the morning the
moorman disturbed a pair of buzzards from the remains of his feast, and
tried to cross to look for tracks; but the current was dangerous, and
after being nearly washed off his feet he turned back. The river had not
yet fallen to hunting level; but as soon as it had, the bailiff, the
miller and all the others were out again, confident that the otter was
up and, despite previous failures, hopeful that they would come on his
track on one of the many new sand-spits left by the receding waters.