THE CHAMOIS
BY W. A. BAILLIE-GROHMAN
Chamois are to be found in all the higher mountain systems of Central
and Southern Europe. They are indigenous to timber-line regions from
the Caucasus to the Pyrenees, and from the Carpathians to the Alps of
the Epirus. Switzerland and the Austrian Alps have, however, always
been their chief home. To the sportsman the latter region, with its
large estates and sport-loving landed aristocracy, offers a much more
inviting field than does Switzerland, where the republican spirit and
peasant proprietorship make the preservation of game by individuals
almost impossible, and the chase in consequence uncertain and
difficult. It is fair, however, to add that the efforts made by several
of the Swiss Cantons in the course of the last ten or twenty years will
presumably prevent the extermination of the chamois in Switzerland,
which but for strictly enforced regulations would at one time have been
only a matter of a few years. That the democratic spirit of republics
is not one favourable to the preservation of game, we can see by the
dire results it has worked in the Great Transatlantic Federation, where
some species of _feræ naturæ_ have practically become extinct.
The experience of those who have killed or tried to kill chamois in
the Pyrenees or in Albania would show that sport in those countries is
somewhat uncertain, and to obtain it lengthy expeditions have to be
undertaken, which in the majority of cases, the writer’s not excepted,
are not successful. It will therefore, we are inclined to think, best
serve the practical purposes of these volumes if prominence is given
to chamois shooting in those regions of the Central Alps which may be
considered the true home of that sport.
In Tyrol, the Bavarian Highlands,[7] Upper Austria, and Styria, the
regions best adapted for chamois shoots are in the hands of the
Austrian nobility, or of the Imperial House, or of foreign potentates,
who in their own countries cannot establish chamois drives. Besides
these large and well-guarded preserves, there are also peasant-shoots
where strangers can with comparative ease procure permission to stalk.
With few exceptions, to one of which more detailed reference will
be made, the sport obtainable in peasant-shoots is poor; for where
it is open to the natives (born mountaineers, and as keen and hardy
sportsmen as can be found anywhere), game is in consequence of constant
molestation more difficult of approach, and less plentiful than in
preserves where, with the exception of a fortnight or two in the
autumn, it is never disturbed. In the peasant-shoots chamois are never
driven but always stalked, and the stranger attempting to do as the
natives do must make up his mind to undergo very hard work, put up with
very rough fare, and must consider himself lucky if he manages to get a
shot the third or fourth day out. Indeed, there can be no better test
of a man’s love for sport or of his woodcraft than to let him attempt
to get a chamois in a peasant’s-shoot unassisted by native hunters. On
the other hand, to stalk chamois in a preserve under the guidance of
a keeper is really a very ordinary matter; good wind, a fairly clear
head, and moderately good eyesight are the chief qualifications beyond
the knack of doing exactly what one is told.
[Illustration: The spy chamois]
The nature of the ground where chamois are found differs vastly.
Thus in the Bavarian Highlands where the shooting rights are almost
entirely in the hands of the Royal House, and where game is very
closely guarded, the mountains frequented by chamois are low, hardly
reaching beyond timber-line, and so easy to ascend as to almost allow
a man on horseback to climb their slopes. Here stalking is sometimes
easier than deer stalking is in Scotland, for there is more cover for
the sportsman. In an easy country such as this, a rigorous day and
night watch has to be kept up, and poaching is made a matter of life
and death; indeed, in the eyes of the Bavarian keeper, his Tyrolese
neighbour used to be regarded much in the same light as the American
frontiersman looks upon redskins, i.e. the only good Indian he knows
is a dead Indian. Chamois poachers are by no means to be placed on the
same low level as Bill Sikes or Tom Stubbs of evil mien, who sneak
about English preserves. The ‘Freeshooters of the Alps,’ as they are
often called, are invariably brave fellows, who literally take their
lives in their hands, and are not moved by mercenary motives, but by
their inborn love of the chase. As a rule, they make the best and most
faithful keepers; experience in hundreds of cases testifying to the
correctness of the old saying, that a good keeper is but a good poacher
turned outside in. No finer specimens of manhood can be discovered
than among such reformed and unreformed poachers, and most of the
great lords take pride in having the most dare-devil fellows and best
cragsmen as keepers. Their whole lives are passed in the great silent
solitudes of timber-line, and for weeks at a time they don’t see a
human being, and undergo hardships of which the ordinary dweller in
civilisation has no conception.
[Illustration: CHAMOIS
(_From an instantaneous Photograph_)]
The shooting season varies triflingly; in some parts of the Alps it
begins in July, and ends in December, in others it begins only in
August. The rutting season is in November, and that is the only time
when old bucks are found constantly mingling with the does. Were it
not for the inclemencies of the Alpine climate, which usually covers
inhospitable timber-line with several feet of snow by the end of
October, the rutting season would be the best for stalking, for chamois
are then less wary, and their coats have by that time got darker in
colour, and hence they are more easily seen than earlier in the season;
but as a rule the chase is made impossible to all but the most hardy
by the deep snow. The interesting instantaneous photograph taken of
chamois during the rutting time shows how dark their coats have got by
that time. September and October are as a rule the months chosen for
driving and stalking. The kids, which are dropped in April, have
by that time attained a sufficient growth to enable them to get their
own living under the care of a foster-mother should their own parent
accidentally fall a victim to the rifle of a tiro who in the excitement
of a stalk has failed to distinguish the doe from the buck; by no means
an easy task, for both have the same sized horns, though triflingly
different in shape and position, those of the buck being a little
thicker at the base and rising more parallel to each other. Speaking of
horns, it may be as well to give the size of the largest of the many
hundred heads of which the writer has kept record. The two largest
pair are in the collections of the reigning Duke of Saxe-Coburg at
the Hinter Riss, in Tyrol, and in that of Count Arco at Munich, where
over seven thousand horns and antlers form a particularly interesting
collection. They each measure over twelve inches along the curve and
over four inches in circumference at the base; the former are those of
a buck killed by the Duke in Tyrol, the other was bought by the late
Count Arco. Eleven-inch heads are still obtainable, though very rare,
the largest of my own killing being of that length, and four inches in
circumference. A first-rate ordinary buck tapes ten inches. Abnormally
long doe’s horns are also occasionally seen, but the slimness at
the base invariably betrays the sex. In some of the mountain ranges
isolated from other homes of chamois, the heads, in consequence of
constant inbreeding, assume a certain type by which those versed in
antler-lore can recognise their origin. Thus the horns will perhaps be
closer together or be wider apart, or have a more or less developed
crook, or stand at a slightly different angle than they ordinarily
do. The chamois horns of the Epirus, the Carpathians and the Pyrenees
are smaller than those found in the Central Alps, and the animals are
also lighter. The weight of a good buck of the Alps is about 60 lbs.,
though the writer has killed one in the Dolomites weighing 73 lbs., and
Tschuddi mentions an authentic instance of 125 lbs., and another of 92
lbs., the latter buck being killed in 1870 on the Santis. The does are
not as heavy, ordinarily weighing from 45 lbs. to 50 lbs.
A trophy one often sees on the hats of sportsmen on the Continent is
the so-called ‘Gamsbart,’ literally ‘beard of the chamois.’ This name
is misleading, for these bunches are made of the hairs that grow along
the backbone, from the neck to the tail. These hairs are in summer
not much longer than any other part of the coat, but as the rutting
time approaches they grow longer, and in November they are from six to
eight inches, and the longer they are the greater their beauty in the
eyes of the natives, who will pay large prices for particularly long
bunches. A peculiarity little known to naturalists is the fact that
when these hairs are stroked from the roots toward the tips they become
positively, and when rubbed in the opposite direction they become
negatively, electric.
CHAMOIS PRESERVES AND PEASANT-SHOOTS
One of the regions most attractive to the sportsman is North Tyrol,
and more particularly that wide strip of mountain-land skirting the
Bavarian boundary on the one side and the Inn Valley on the other.
Here some of the best preserves in the world are situated, five royal
shoots almost abutting on each other. These mountains, in character
very similar to the better known Dolomites, which range is now, alas!
thanks to tourists and peasant-shoots, pretty well cleared of chamois,
are the _beau idéal_ of what chamois ground should be. Most of this
area consists of vast almost verdureless limestone ranges of jagged
peaks intersected by deep ravines, where even in the hottest weather
snow-fields nestling in shady recesses form the chamois’ favourite
_rendezvous_. Too barren to make the cultivation of those elevated
Alpine pasturages, so common in Tyrol and Switzerland, and which as a
rule are fatal to preserves, a paying industry, this sea of mountains
is practically one chamois preserve. In this tract, containing seven
shoots, the annual bag aggregates between five hundred and eight
hundred chamois, while the total head must be over four thousand.
One is often asked what the cost of a moderately large chamois preserve
amounts to. It is difficult to give any hard and fast rule; one thing,
however, is certain, that a shoot, say of mixed game, i.e. stag and
chamois, can be obtained for a fourth or fifth of the cost of a Scotch
forest. The chief expense are the keepers, whose wages (from 40_l._ to
50_l._ per annum) are, however, low. As a rule, the ground is rented
from the Crown, and if it has been hitherto unpreserved, the rental
is a nominal sum. In three years, if not shot over at all, the game
will have increased probably three or four fold, not only from natural
increase, but, being entirely undisturbed, game from adjoining shoots
will have been attracted. If any Alpine pasture-rights on any part of
the leased land exist, these ‘servitudes,’ as they are called, will
have to be bought up or leased from the individual peasant owners.
The following instance, which may be regarded as authentic, will show
what can be done in this respect. In 1866 four sportsmen rented on long
lease from several Alpine hamlets a number of adjoining ‘servitudes,’
and placed three trustworthy keepers over the shoot, whose sole duty
was to prevent poaching. When they started there were between 100 and
140 chamois on the place. In 1867 they killed fourteen, and from that
on the bag gradually increased until in 1881 they shot 113 head, while
the entire bag from 1867 to 1883 amounted to 766 head, the average
number of shooting days being twelve every year. Their rent and
keepers’ wages came to under 300_l._ per annum, and a separate gratuity
of ten florins for every chamois killed by the owners offered a further
inducement to the keepers to prevent poaching.
Before the year 1848, the Austrian red deer and chamois preserves
carried infinitely more game than they do now, though they still are
probably the best stocked that exist. In that dire year of revolution
the destruction, amounting in only too many instances to complete
extermination by the rebel peasantry, gave the deathblow to the
cherished rights of the chase--relics of the feudal ages--claimed by
all the large landed proprietors. The peasant-shoots as a consequence
of the revolution came into existence in that year; for anterior to
it the peasantry were feudal vassals to whom their seigneur’s game
was almost as sacred as their lives, poaching in the olden days being
an offence punished by loss of limb or life. It may be interesting to
refer briefly to one of the few instances of peasant-shoots dating back
to earlier times than 1848.
In this instance, the rights of the chase date back to the year
1709, when an imperial grant conveyed the sporting privileges to the
peasantry of this particular valley as a reward for their conspicuous
bravery in the defence of their country against overwhelming odds.
Since that time the heirs of the twenty-six peasants who participated
in the war have exercised the sporting rights over a very large area.
By careful management and the adoption of the following rules, it
is made a profitable property. At the commencement of the shooting
season the twenty-six shareholders, as they might be called, meet in
solemn conclave and settle among themselves what number of chamois and
stags are to be killed that season, the severity or mildness of the
preceding winter having, as in all Alpine districts, much to do with
this matter, and they also select three of their number, who for the
ensuing twelve months have to act as keepers to guard against poachers
from the adjoining valleys. During the season, any one member may shoot
as many head as he chooses until the agreed upon total is reached. As
there is a good market for the game within reach, every head is turned
over to the treasurer, who sells it. Half of the proceeds goes to the
man who killed it, while the other goes to a general fund which is
equally divided among the twenty-six members at the end of the season,
so that a man who has not fired a shot draws at the end of the year
what to these simple folk is a considerable sum. In one year, when the
writer was shooting there, the total reached three hundred head of
big game, i.e. chamois, stags, and roe-deer, and one was placed in the
odd position of not only not having to pay for the capital sport one
had enjoyed, but having money offered one in the shape of half of the
proceeds of all one had killed.
CHAMOIS STALKING
At a discussion which once arose at the table of the Prince Consort’s
brother, H.R.H. the reigning Duke of Saxe-Coburg--a veteran Nimrod, who
for the last fifty years has unquestionably shown himself, next to the
Emperor of Austria, the keenest royal sportsman in Europe--the question
arose whether chamois would share the fate of their kindred the ibex
and become extinct. Somebody made the paradoxical reply: ‘Not so long
as they are only killed by potentates and by peasants.’ While this
cannot of course be taken literally, there is yet some truth in it,
for it indicates the respective methods of shooting chamois--that is,
by driving and by stalking; the one being the pleasure of the highest
in the land, the other infinitely harder and more truly sportsmanlike
method being usually only pursued by the hardy peasant and daring
poacher. In pursuing the argument that arose as to the respective
merits of stalking and driving, the host, whose prowess as a bold
stalker in his younger days was well known to all present, remarked
with sparkling eyes that he would willingly give all the 149 driven
chamois he killed the preceding season for the half-dozen he stalked
half a century before in the first season he visited those mountains, a
sentiment with which every keen sportsman will heartily agree.[8]
Stalking chamois is hard work, often very hard work, but it is
keener sport than any the average sportsman comes across. Amid the
wild grandeur of unfrequented mountain recesses, one’s woodcraft,
one’s endurance, and one’s agility are pitted against the instincts
of what is probably the wariest game that exists, and one, too, which
is protected by the kind offices of nature, who has made its home,
as a rule, inaccessible to all but the most sure-footed. The dangers
besetting the path of the lonely stalker have from time immemorial lent
themselves in a particularly tempting manner to exaggeration, so that
most accounts of the sport are not only given at third hand, but are
overladen with romantic nonsense.
For a narrative of actual stalking experiences which possibly may prove
more useful than mere generalisations, it may be as well to describe a
typical stalk, one of many the writer has enjoyed in the peasant-shoot
already alluded to; for it will give a better idea of the ordinary
incidents of stalking than were one to relate the more everyday events
of a stalk in a preserve where game is plentiful and where one has
simply to follow the directions of the keeper. Under the circumstances
the hope is entertained that the use of the otherwise undesirable ‘ego’
will be permitted.
One of the first things to settle before starting on a chamois stalk is
the question where shelter for the night nearest to the hunting ground
can be obtained. If roughing is not objected to, a light sleeping bag
made of waterproof canvas with fur lining and weighing not more than
ten or twelve pounds is a friend in need. With it and the shelter
of the wide-spreading branches of an arve or pine, the night or two
passed on high need not entail great discomforts; but, as a rule, a
more substantial roof overhead becomes acceptable, particularly if, as
in this instance, the advent of October brings with it a snowstorm.
If there are any Alp-huts at all handy, their shingle roof and loft
filled with fragrant hay offer a more desirable shelter and sleeping
accommodation than a pine-tree and sleeping bag.
A long day’s walk from the main valley, with three or four days’
provisions stowed away in the ‘Rücksack’--of which useful style of
game-bag a word anon--brought me at dusk to the chalet selected on this
occasion. It had been vacated five or six weeks before by its solitary
inmate and his dozen or so of hardy mountain-bred cattle, man and
beast having returned to lower and more hospitable regions after their
three or four weeks’ sojourn in these elevated solitudes. The small
low log hut was about as primitive and isolated a human habitation
as one could imagine. The nearest dwelling was five hours’ walk off,
and as one looked upon the scene familiar to one from stalks of old,
a delightful sense of solitude made itself felt. In front of the hut
the primitive ‘Brunnen,’ made out of a hollowed pine-tree, spouted
forth gaily and merrily a clear stream fed from a rill coming straight
from the nearest snow-field a few hundred feet above the hut. A sound
usually indicative of human presence, it now only heightened the sense
of the utter solitude of the scene upon which the sombre mantle of
night was about to sink. As the door was locked, a few shingles removed
from one corner where the eaves of the slanting roof approached the
ground to within three feet gave ingress to the hayloft, from which
the soot-begrimed interior of the primitively constructed hut could
be gained by a short ladder. The door was easily unfastened from the
inside, and a fire on the open hearth soon sent forth its genial blaze.
From the owner of the hut, whose habitation was one of the last which
I passed that morning on my way up, the hiding-place of a frying-pan
and a small stock of flour was learnt, and with these additions to
what I had brought, a substantial meal of ‘schmarrn’ and tea was soon
prepared and eaten, while a pipe or two before turning into the hay for
the night were enjoyed sitting on a primitive bench in front of the
chalet. From here in the bright moonlight I could see my goal for the
morrow, the declivities of a boldly rising peak which I knew of yore
to be a pretty sure find for chamois at this season of the year, and
where on the occasion of my last visit I had demonstrated to a friend
how easy it was to spoil a stalk and miss a chamois. A sharp frost,
causing a chilly mist to rise from the steaming moorland surrounding
the hut, however, sent me soon indoors and to my night’s quarters
in the dry fragrant hay, where, enfolded in a plaid, sleep after a
twenty-five-mile walk was indeed sound and restful.
The following morning I was up before dawn, and after a breakfast of
a pannikin of steaming tea and some bacon, I reached the first rocks
at the base of the peak, before as much as ‘shooting light’ had chased
away darkness. To be early on the ground is a great advantage, for
the chamois’ day is half over at what most people would consider a
reasonable breakfast hour, and moreover it usually gives the stalker
the two winds, i.e. the one ordinarily blowing down the mountain before
the rays of the rising sun strike the slope, and the one blowing in the
contrary direction after that has occurred. Leading up to the rocks was
an exceedingly steep grassy slope, which the hard frost of the night
had turned into a precipitous field of ice, to ascend which my light
pair of crampons (so useful for rockwork in a limestone formation) came
in very handy. On reaching a good point of outlook a definite plan of
action had to be decided upon. As the wind would be soon drawing up the
slope, it became necessary to gain a point above the proposed stalking
ground, which could be done by climbing the peak from the back. It
was not of great altitude, perhaps some two thousand five hundred or
two thousand six hundred feet over the moor where the Alp-hut stood,
but the back rose in bold proportions and presented a face almost
bare of vegetation, towering up like a huge wall, so that the task of
scaling it from that side was a stiff one. A couloir-like cleft running
almost vertically up the face of the rock offered the only practicable
means of ascending the first ninety or hundred feet, by a free use of
one’s back and knees in chimney-sweeper’s style. One’s progress would
have been more rapid but for the rifle and rücksack hampering one’s
movements. Protected, as the muzzle of the rifle should always be when
real climbing is to be done, by a sheath of sole-leather five or six
inches long drawn over the sight, it often materially assists to take
the rifle apart, and wrap the stock and the barrels separately in the
folds of the game-bag (to prevent chafing). By thus making a compact
parcel of it, and with the assistance of a few fathoms of strong cord,
which should always be carried with one, it can be drawn up after one
at the more difficult places. Three hours’ stiff climbing landed me
at last near the top of the peak, where further progress was rendered
easier by the existence of horizontal ledges running towards the side
of the mountain which I was striving to gain. Wriggling along one
of these bands, now on my hands and knees, then again in an upright
position with my back scraping against the rock, I finally weathered
the corner or shoulder of the mountain, and there at my feet lay the
slope to gain the command of which had entailed such hard work.
The slope I overlooked was perfect stalking ground. Far less
precipitous than the one I had ascended, it fell away from the top in
a series of terrace-like steps, each separated from the next by small
precipices from twenty to fifty feet in height. The uppermost steps
were almost verdureless, while the middle and lower ones broadened into
grassy ledges with thick beds of the dwarf pine (latchen), affording
good grazing and capital shelter. The breeze was drawing briskly
up the slope, and everything, from the nature of the ground to the
glorious autumn weather and crisp atmosphere of high altitudes, seemed
favourable to good sport.
From nine to twelve in the forenoon is the worst time to spy for
chamois, for after their morning graze they invariably, except in
very bad weather, lie down in some sheltered nook where it is almost
impossible to spot them. At noon they rise, if only for a few minutes,
to nibble at the nearest blades of grass and resume their ‘couch.’
An old poacher’s saying that the older the buck the more punctual he
is, emphasises this habit, which, by-the bye, is also observed by red
deer. An hour’s rest, with a bite of lunch and a pull or two at a
flask of genuine kirsch, formed an acceptable interlude and when the
shadow of my alpenstock, planted vertically in a crack (thus forming
a primitive kind of sun-dial), had almost disappeared, I knew it was
about time to commence a sharp look out. But, as is so often the case,
I was looking for something in the distance which, had I but known it,
was right before me. For a quarter of an hour I had been scanning the
different ledges with my glass without discovering anything, and I was
closing the telescope rather impatiently and with unnecessary violence,
thereby making a very audible metallic click, when suddenly, with a
loud whistle of alarm, a fine buck jumped into my line of sight on the
ledge below the one I occupied, not more than thirty-five yards off.
At the moment I was lounging with my back against a rock, my legs,
on account of the narrowness of the ledge, dangling over the brink,
and my rifle, still unjointed, safe in the game-bag. Throwing my body
to one side as the buck jumped into view, I commenced frantically to
fumble for the arm; but the buck was not so easily duped, and by the
time I had put it together, wrenched the protector from the muzzle and
slipped cartridges in, he had time to put a hundred and thirty yards
between himself and that alarming apparition of which he just caught
a glimpse. Though he kept to the same ledge he was only visible for
brief moments, projecting rocks obstructing the line of sight. So old
Reliable, a favourite .500 Express that had done good work in the
Rockies and the Sierras, did not get a fair chance, and the buck made
no sign he was hit, though it certainly seemed to me that I heard the
thud of the ball. Making a détour to gain the lower level, I hurried
to the spot and soon found blood, though only in scanty patches. The
colour was, however, bright red and frothy, so it evidently was a lung
shot. Wounded chamois give no end of trouble, and this one was no
exception, for generally it means tracking a beast which instinctively
resorts to its matchless climbing faculties to outwit its pursuer. As
a rule, it is far wiser not to follow the animal at once, but to seek
a prominent point where a good view of the surroundings can be gained,
and watch where the beast goes to. If it is only slightly wounded the
pursuit will probably be fruitless, and if hard hit it is best to let
the effect of the wound tell upon the vitality of the animal by waiting
an hour or two. If hard hit, it won’t go far so long as it remains
unpursued, and the great thing is to see where it goes to cover. The
temptation to follow the tracks at once is, however, one which in
the excitement of the moment is not so easily resisted, and in this
instance it was doubly unwise to give way to it, for my shot was less
likely to be a fatal one (having been fired at a steep slant downwards)
than had it been delivered on the level. It was noon when I fired; it
was past four when, after a persistent chase, I caught sight of the
buck four hundred yards off, still on his legs, though evidently hard
hit. Probably he had kept me in sight all the time, jumping up from his
blood-bespattered couches whenever I got too near.
At sunset I was no closer to him, and as he was taking me further
and further away from the chalet, a decision whether to sleep out or
whether to return for the night to the hut became imperative. Sleeping
out, quite unprepared as I happened to be, was, at the altitude I
was on and in the chilly October nights, a contingency which if not
really necessary was better avoided, particularly as the weather was
rapidly assuming a threatening look, and the sky became covered with
leaden-hued clouds indicative of coming snow. Taking the shortest
route, it was, however, pitch dark when I finally reached the hut. A
couple of hours later, when I turned in, a strong wind was blowing,
which soon afterwards rose to a fierce gale that made the timbers of
the ramshackle old hut groan and creak. It was still quite dark when I
woke up, an ominous stillness contrasting strangely with the preceding
uproar of the elements. The cause was soon explained, for on going to
the door and trying to open it I found a couple of feet of snow had
drifted against it, and I had to take it off its primitive raw-hide
hinges to get it open at all. The air was thick with big flakes, and
the ground was covered to a depth of four or five inches. It was noon
before it stopped snowing, though the leaden, sunless sky did not look
even then very promising. To search for the wounded buck under such
circumstances seemed almost hopeless, and entirely so if he had died
during the night, but eventually I decided to make an attempt. Making
my way as best I could by the easiest approach to the ledge where I
last saw the buck, I was of course wet to the skin long ere I reached
the spot, for forcing one’s way through the twisted and tangled masses
of the dwarf pine, snow clinging to every twig and branch, is the
reverse of agreeable. However, I was to be rewarded, for I had not
gone far when I heard the whistle emitted by the chamois when suddenly
alarmed. Looking up, I saw him standing on the ledge above me, his
shaggy coat outlined against the sky. It was his last tottering effort
to fly from his pursuer, and I believe I almost could have caught him,
so enfeebled had he become by loss of blood. A bullet placed in a
better place than the last one soon put him out of his misery. It was
a good five or six year old buck, and my first bullet had struck him
rather high between the spine and the lungs, but ranging downwards had
cut a furrow in the one lung on the side of its exit. Overshooting game
when firing downwards should be specially guarded against. For shots
under similar circumstances and at ordinary distances, it is a safe
rule to see daylight between the top of the bead and the body; where
otherwise, if the shot were fired on level ground, one would hold the
bead right on the body.
Cutting a branch or two from the nearest dwarf pine and making use of
the cord in my rücksack, a sort of sleigh was easily improvised, and
seeing a steep and uninterrupted slope near at hand, I bundled the buck
and myself down it in capital time, and in a flying cloud of snow. At
the bottom I brittled the animal, for from there on I had to carry him,
and finally reached the hut just as dusk and snow were simultaneously
commencing to fall upon the landscape. A roaring fire and the fact
that I had brought a change of underclothing with me, and discovered a
pair of discarded old sabots in the adjoining cowshed, together with
the solacing effects of a delicious stew of liver and brain, soon put
a rosier hue upon things generally, and the fact that a good buck was
hanging by the crooks of his horns to the eaves outside had probably
also something to do with it.
* * * * *
One more chamois stalking incident may perhaps be permitted to
find space here, as it will illustrate another aspect of the sport
obtainable in a peasant-shoot. The shoot in question skirted for many
miles the boundary between Tyrol and Bavaria; the preserve on the
latter side marching with it, being a favourite hunting ground of the
late King, was hence particularly strictly guarded. Preparing myself
for a three or four days’ absence in the mountains, I left the main
valley one August morning and reached the Alp-hut which I proposed
to make my headquarters late the same afternoon. In the locality
referred to, the duty of herding the cattle driven up to these elevated
pasturages is performed by girls instead of by men. The stout-armed
and stout-hearted lass will often be for weeks quite alone in her hut,
miles of mountain wilds between her and the nearest habitation. On
getting to the hut I found installed in it, instead of buxom Moidl,
her brother Hans, a bold climber, inveterate stalker, and best of
fellows withal. Hans and I were acquaintances of old, and he had no
secrets from me. What that meant will be better understood when it is
mentioned that the Bavarian frontier line was within rifle-shot of the
hut, following the backbone of a steep ridge. Beyond that invisible
line death awaited the poacher; for the Bavarian keepers were well
known to entertain no scruples about reversing the order prescribed
by law, and would shoot first and then only call upon their foe to
surrender, a condition of things which naturally led to retaliation and
sanguinary feuds. Hans and I were sitting in front of the hut smoking
our pipes, and it needed no glasses to see that those black specks on
yonder arête were the game of game, and Hans’ eyes, sparkling with
excitement, involuntarily travelled from the chamois on the far cliff
towards a huge old larch-tree a couple of hundred yards from where
we were sitting, shattered ages ago by lightning, and now affording
in its hollow trunk a safe hiding-place for his rifle and capacious
rücksack, in the folds of which more than one buck had, I suspect,
been ‘extradited’ back to Tyrol. There was really no reason for Hans
to hide his rifle, for he was here on his own ground, but being a wild
and uninhabited stretch of country and only peasants their victims,
the Bavarian keepers would often defy the rules of international
intercourse, and would cross into Tyrol to search Alp-huts they
suspected of harbouring poachers--a proceeding which was all the more
aggravating to the Tyrolese, for in consequence of topographical
reasons the chamois were, if length of residence counted, really more
their own than the Bavarian King’s--the peculiar lay of the country
causing the chamois to leave the Tyrolese mountains, which faced the
south, during the hot summer months to seek the cooler northern aspect
on the Bavarian side of the line, returning to their home-range with
the first September or October snowstorm, after which period the
south aspect of the mountains remained their home for eight or nine
months of the year. The King usually held his big drives in August,
an exceptionally early period, and, as the Tyrolese persisted in
maintaining, they were held so early for the special purpose of getting
their chamois, a pretension which received some colour in their eyes by
the circumstance that the keepers used to take special precautions at
this season to prevent them escaping over the line.
My only hope for sport in that neighbourhood, those hot August days,
lay in the circumstance that at one point the boundary line, instead
of following the watershed, crossed from point to point, leaving the
northern declivities of one of the higher peaks down to its base on
the Tyrolese side. Towards this spot, about two hours’ climb from the
hut, I shaped my course early the next morning after a comfortable
night in the hayloft. It was necessary to get to the spot at sunrise,
for otherwise the chamois, who used the narrow ledges that ran across
the face of the exceedingly precipitous slope only for their night
quarters, would have moved down towards their feeding ground near some
snow patches beyond the base of the rock, where the ground was already
in Bavaria. On getting to the top of the hill, which I did just as the
sun was rising over the great glaciers of the distant Zillerthal, I
found that the wind was still drawing down the slope, so the change in
its direction, which usually occurs about sunrise, had to be patiently
awaited. After shivering for some time in the piercing breeze, the
wind at last began to shift, and five minutes later it was blowing
up the slope. Only now did I venture to creep forward to the edge of
the precipice, and craning over, scan the declivity below me. There,
sure enough, right at the foot of the cliff, about 250 yards off, but
already on Bavarian ground, was a single chamois slowly feeding away
from me. My glass soon told me that it was a prize worthy of every
effort, nay, almost worth turning poacher oneself. How unjust that this
animal, which passed the greater part of the year on Tyrolese soil,
should, because it happened to stray across an invisible boundary line,
become the property of the King, just at the very time when the big
royal chamois drives would, perhaps, cause him to run up to the rifle
barrels of some pampered sportsman sitting on his camp-stool behind a
bush, and anything but deserving the luck of bagging such a rare old
buck, who was worthy of the hardest stalk man ever had! How unlucky,
too, that the wind had not changed five minutes earlier, for I felt
convinced that my lordly old buck had passed the night on some of
the ledges within easy reach of my rifle! But these ruminations were
useless, and as nothing further was to be done that day, I determined
to return to the Alp-hut and repeat the experiment the following
morning, when I hoped the wind would prove more propitious. On reaching
the hut, I found that flaxen-tressed Moidl had returned from her errand
to her distant home, and as both she and her brother knew every inch
of the country I had been over, I talked matters over with them. My
comment that the ‘Hohe Geschnürr’ was a fickle place for wind found
the assent of experience. Moidl was quite a fair cook, and as I had
some time before rendered her lover, who was serving his three years’
military service in the nearest garrison town, the much-prized favour
of obtaining for him an unexpected leave of absence, she was, so far as
the primitive means at her command allowed her, an attentive hostess,
and, as the sequel proved, an energetic strategist. ‘And you are sure
that you will return to the Hohe Geschnürr to-morrow morning?’ queried
the lass as I was settling myself for a comfortable afternoon smoke at
the open hearth. To my affirmative answer she replied with a smile and
a nod, and soon afterwards left the hut, bent, as I supposed, on some
errand connected with the guardianship of the kine in her charge, and
from which she had not returned when I turned in for a second night
in the hay. My start next morning was an early one, and I reached the
top of the cliff in good time. Awaiting sunrise and the wind being
favourable, I was soon creeping with bated breath through the low brush
that grew to the very edge of the cliff, and looked down to renew
my acquaintance, if possible, with the old lord of the manor. But,
alas! the rising morning mist still hid the lower portion of the vast
amphitheatre-shaped declivity. What wonderful effects do not those
fleecy clouds produce as, drifting from pinnacle to pinnacle, assuming
every minute different fantastic shapes, they finally begin to melt
away, disclosing as they do so bit after bit of the details of the
sublime landscape! When the base of the cliff at last became visible,
I saw, somewhat to my surprise, quite a number of chamois congregated
and evidently made uneasy by some sign of danger which was invisible to
me; I could even hear their ‘whistle.’ With my glasses I soon picked
out my buck of yesterday, and near him I saw a second veteran. It was
much too far to shoot, so I awaited with imaginable impatience what the
next move of the game would be. Slowly, with frequent stops to look
back in the direction where their scent detected danger, they at last
commenced an upward course which would bring them, if nothing changed
their bearing, to within fifty yards of where I lay concealed, waiting
till they reached the top of the cliff--in front the leading doe, then
several yearlings and two-year-olds, and last, straggling at some
distance behind, the two fathers of the tribe. The latter’s doom was
sealed, for a minute later a right and left had added two good heads to
my collection. Far over the mountains did the breeze carry the sound of
my shots, and presumably more than one many-jointed German oath came
as echo from the angry keepers, whose ideas respecting the ownership
of those chamois were not exactly the same as those of the proprietors
of the soil where the chamois lived for the greater part of the year.
After brittling the bucks and hiding the larger one under some brush,
I made for home with the other one in my rücksack. On my way down I
stopped at the Alp-hut and sent Hans back for the former, which he was
to take to the main valley the following day, an arrangement which
prevented my hearing the sequel of the story, and the explanation why
those chamois had come my way that morning, until some weeks later. My
artful friend Moidl, it appeared, together with another girl from a
neighbouring Alp-hut, had planned and had executed the following ruse.
Starting long before sunrise from the latter’s hut, the two girls with
large baskets on their backs had penetrated by break of day into the
very heart of the royal preserve, situated on the lower slopes of the
peak, on the top of which they knew I would presently be posted. When
the wind changed, all the chamois above the girls got scent of them,
and the result was soon afterwards communicated to them by my shots.
But, unfortunately for the girls, my shots also put the keepers on
the _qui vive_, and before the girls could get back to the Tyrolese
side a keeper had spied them and promptly arrested them. Their excuse
that they were collecting medicinal roots for their cattle, and had
unwittingly wandered across into Bavaria, did not help them, and they
were taken down in triumph to the nearest forest-master. Fortunately,
however, the judge who heard their case took a more reasonable view,
and found that there were no proofs of poaching or of abetting
poaching, and after a brief confinement they were set at liberty.
RIFLES AND KIT
Tyrolese, Swiss and German sportsmen, as a rule, use only
single-barrelled rifles, and much smaller charges than are used
out of English Expresses; indeed, in some royal shoots the use of
double-barrelled rifles is against local etiquette. Thus the Emperor
of Austria, one of the keenest sportsmen born, never uses other than
single-barrelled arms, and his guests are expected to do the same.
The reason is a good one--namely, to discourage wild shooting at long
ranges, causing numbers of chamois to be wounded, many of whom escape
only to die in places where they never can be got at. To a person who
is accustomed to shoot at long ranges and who knows exactly what the
rifle in his hands can do if held steadily, the shoulder of a chamois
standing at two hundred yards is not, as most German sportsmen will
insist on, an impossible mark; but of course practice and fine sights
on a really accurate weapon with the necessary steadiness of aim are
essential to accomplish it. A hinged peepsight behind the hammers,
which turns down when not required, or a Lyman sight, is a desirable
aid for fine shooting, provided one is accustomed to its use; and the
same might be said of hair triggers. A peepsight of my own invention,
which has been copied by some who have seen it, is constructed so as to
fold down when not in use, fitting into a recess of exactly its shape.
Its chief merit is that when not required it is invisible, and when
required the pressure of the thumb against a tiny knob (the size of a
No. 1 shot) behind the right hammer releases a spring, and the sight
jumps into position, and without requiring any further adjustment is
ready for immediate use. Messrs. Holland & Holland, of New Bond Street,
have built me an excellent rifle with this sight. To the question
which is the best rifle, the reply may safely be given: a light .450
Express, with a sling to carry it in the Continental fashion, which
latter leaves one the free use of the hands and arms for climbing. For
all ordinary purposes in driving and also in stalking chamois the solid
bullet should be used, for the disfiguring effect of the hollow bullet
at short ranges on such comparatively small game as chamois is to be
avoided, and in many shoots there is a standing rule against them. For
stalking, when one is alone, and a wounded chamois is likely to baulk
one’s best efforts to get it, the hollow bullet has certain advantages,
for wounded game succumbs as a rule much sooner, and it is also much
more easily tracked. Considering that the hollow and the solid bullets
have very different trajectories, the promiscuous use of both out of
the same barrel is fatal to good marksmanship.[9]
Good field-glasses, preferably of aluminium, being much lighter than
other metal, are quite indispensable, and are better than telescopes
in the hands of all but the most experienced, for they give a much
larger field and can be used more constantly. Chamois, particularly
early in the season, are, on account of their dun coats, hard to see
against a background of rocks, and, even with some practice in knowing
where to look for them, a close scrutiny is necessary. ‘Steigeisen,’
or crampons, are most useful when once one has become used to them; to
the tiro they are, however, often a source of danger, and in really
bad places when stalking alone bare feet answer the same purpose. The
already mentioned ‘rücksack,’ or Tyrolese game-bag, is the stalker’s
best friend, not only in the Alps, but in any part of the world for
rough work. It is a bag of canvas, with two broad leather straps to
pass the arms through. Its lightness--it weighs only a few ounces--and
extreme simplicity are advantages apparent to everybody who has used
it once. When empty one can put it into one’s coat-pocket, and when
required one can carry in it a roebuck or chamois in the manner least
fatiguing, for the weight is distributed between the shoulders and the
small of the back, leaving the arms and muscles perfectly free play.
The writer has used them for years in the Rockies, and the alacrity
exhibited by the Indians in one’s employ in taking to them in lieu of
headstraps and crossbands showed that there was one improvement that
the old world could show the new one. A well-known writer on sporting
subjects not long ago, when recommending this bag to young shooters,
stated that it was originally introduced by a gentleman in Carlisle.
If so, it must have been a good many years ago; for the Prince Consort
used them in Scotland from the first year he shot in the Highlands,
and the writer’s father used them in the Highlands forty-five or fifty
years ago. In Tyrol it has been in use for at least four hundred years,
for we see it in prints of Maximilian’s day. As for clothing, the best
nether garments for really rough work are dark-coloured chamois leather
breeches, reaching to the knee, leaving it bare, with worsted stockings
long enough to reach well over the knees in snowy weather. Ordinary
woollen knickerbockers will not stand many hard days of chamois
stalking in a limestone formation; in fact, the end of the first stalk
will probably find them seatless.
CHAMOIS DRIVING
What has been said will show that, to become a successful stalker,
practice and early training in mountain work are, if not absolutely
essential, at least very desirable, and even the possessor of these
advantages has cause to pray for perpetual youth. As years roll by,
even the keenest stalker gradually becomes more and more reconciled to
the assistance afforded by beaters and other extraneous aids to outwit
this wary game, and more and more satisfied with the buck carefully
picked from the band as it rushes past one’s post in headlong flight,
or in cutting short the earthly career of a tricky old veteran whose
oft-repeated practice of sneaking through the line of guns unobserved
was attempted once too often.
The following account of a ‘Treibjagd’ in the Duke of Saxe-Coburg’s
famous preserves in the Hinter Riss in Tyrol will give a comprehensive
picture of driving chamois at its very best.
In this vast preserve, consisting of a great strip of mountain
country, a very sea of jagged ranges, stretching from the Inn Valley
to the Isar, driving is made a fine art, the experience of fifty
years assisting to no little extent the efforts of as fine a staff
of keepers as can be found in the Alps. Sport can be obtained there
with a luxurious ease that is in striking contrast to the hard fare
and rough times usually the lot of the stalker. To drive chamois over
an exceedingly rough country in a given direction is a very much
harder task, however, than appears on the face of it. Take a tract
of mountains, the selection for that day’s drive, five or six miles
square, connected with adjoining ranges by numerous passes by which the
wary game can easily escape; take the extreme uncertainty of the wind
in these elevated localities, now blowing in the desired direction,
now suddenly veering round, carrying the alarm for many miles to the
keen-scented game, and undoing in one minute the most carefully planned
manœuvre, and it will be realised how many obstacles and contingencies,
often of the most unforeseen nature, must be provided for to make a
drive successful. Where such large areas have to be surrounded a whole
army of beaters would not suffice to keep chamois in the drive, and the
‘lappen,’ or flags, one of the most important aids on such occasions,
have to be employed. These consist of many miles of strong cord to
which at intervals of every four or five feet bright-coloured pieces
of linen about the size of a pocket-handkerchief are fastened. These
cords, resembling a laundry line hung low, are drawn on two sides of
the tract to be driven, and are kept in position about three feet
from the ground by rods firmly fastened into the rocks. Swayed by the
breeze these flags wave to and fro, and under ordinary circumstances
serve their purpose of preventing the chamois escaping that way. As a
rule they are strung along the knifeback backbone of the mountains to
be enclosed, jagged ridges peculiar to a limestone formation, where
apparently only flies with glue on their feet could find a footing.
Great care has to be taken in stringing these cords, as the ever-busy
breeze makes simultaneous action necessary; and even then, when
everything appears to work like clockwork, some hitherto unknown gap in
an apparently perfectly impassable wall of rock will afford escape, for
where one chamois can get the whole band will follow, and the day prove
a complete failure.
Along the narrow glenlike valleys that intersect the Duke’s vast shoot
he has constructed, so far as the ground permitted it, carriage-roads,
and up the precipitous slopes, where practicable, carefully laid out
bridle-paths wind and twist, enabling elderly sportsmen to reach the
vicinity of their ‘stand’ or post on the backs of sure-footed mules or
mountain-bred ponies. Leaving the central shooting-box, a charmingly
situated little Gothic castle reminding one of a miniature Balmoral,
at the comparatively late hour of 7.30 A.M., the four Hungarians
take the break in good time to the furthest extremity of the valley
which in its higher recesses is to be the scene of the day’s drive.
Quitting the vehicle where the precipitous slopes begin to rise at an
angle that makes the construction of even a bridle-path a matter of
some difficulty, the genial host and his principal guest mount sturdy
cobs, while for some of the more elderly guests mules are provided,
and without loss of time the party, followed by eight or nine of the
keepers, begins the ascent. The latter are fine stalwart Tyrolese,
clad in their picturesque native dress: grey frieze jackets, black
chamois leather knee-breeches, and greenish-grey worsted stocking-like
leggings, leaving bare both the knee and the foot, which, where
visible, are tanned to a mahogany hue; low heavily nailed shoes
protecting the stockingless feet. For two hours we continue to ascend,
presently reaching timber-line and the crest of the ridge, from which
we obtain our first view of the scene of the drive. Here the riders
dismount, for the remaining mile to the posts has to be done on foot,
and as noiselessly as possible. The ground selected for that day’s
drive consists of two vast semicircular ‘Kaare’--amphitheatre-shaped
declivities two miles across, the sides being formed by steep moraines
ending in great cliffs, a thousand or fifteen hundred feet in altitude.
Along the jagged top of these walls one can see with one’s glasses
the string of flags which were put up early that morning. The drive
is to begin sharp at 12 o’clock, and as the beaters, some forty or
fifty in number, are far beyond the furthest limit of the drive on the
other side of the flagged ridge, punctuality is very necessary. Each
of the four guests has allotted to him a keeper, who conducts him to
his ‘stand’ or post, and as we part the German contingent wish each
other the usual ‘Weidmansheil,’ sportsman’s luck, as prescribed by
ancient custom. The drive is one of the longer ones, lasting between
four and five hours, so the softest looking rock is selected for a
seat permitting of a good view of the whole scene, and a layer of pine
branches gives increased comfort. By the time the signal shot, which is
echoed and re-echoed from precipice to precipice, warns the guns of the
beginning of the drive, some luncheon has been disposed of, and if the
wind permits it, even a cigarette can be indulged in without danger.
The result of the day would be very different were the breeze even at
this late hour to chop round, for no power on earth can drive chamois
into the teeth of a danger-tainted breeze; but this fortunately does
not occur, and we can watch the drive from our point of vantage, and
follow the details of it at leisure. On two small snow-fields lying
well under the cliffs we can see small black specks. Closer examination
with the glasses discloses two bands of chamois each some twenty in
number; some are lying on the snow, others, mostly kids, are frisking
about, the whole lot, till they hear the signal shot, being quite
ignorant of the impending ordeal. Very rapidly does the scene change
when the first alarm strikes their ears. The frisky kids, which a
second before were playing about, now press against their respective
mothers’ sides, while the older animals have jumped to their feet
with amazing rapidity. Misled by the echo as to the direction whence
the sound really came, they dart hither and thither, unable to make
up their minds whither to flee. The next minute the bands separate
into several groups, each under the leadership of a doe, who select
different routes, each of which, however, will in the end probably
bring them to the guns, though some sooner than others. The plan of
the drive depends greatly upon the lay of the ground. In many cases
the line of beaters, from twenty to fifty in number, is drawn from
the bottom to the top of the mountain, and then at a given signal the
whole line works along its flank. The crest of the ridge is flagged
off and so is the bottom, if it is at all likely that the chamois will
attempt to break through in that direction. The fourth side is occupied
by the guns, and if there are not enough to stop the gaps and passes,
short lengths of flags are strung between them, or keepers are posted
who, when chamois approach, show themselves and cause the game to turn
back into the drive, and try for some other place of escape till they
finally come to one of the guns. In other drives the two side lines of
flags are curved inwards till the extremities almost meet, and that is
usually the best post; for chamois on getting to the ‘lappen’ turn one
way or another, dashing along the flag-line till they reach an opening.
In other places, again, where the mountains are very steep, and a large
area has only three or four possible outlets by which the game can get
away, flags are almost unnecessary, for the beasts must come by the
passes, or ‘chimneys,’ or ledges, which of course should all be well
known to the keepers, who make the configuration of the ground their
special study. But only too often the amazing climbing powers of the
chamois will at the last moment upset all the well-matured plans, and
the hard-pressed animals effect their escape by some hitherto unknown
ledge, or by a series of leaps down perpendicular heights that make the
onlooker hold his breath with astonishment. Speaking of the wonderful
climbing feats, space may be given to one or two actual measurements.
Tschuddi’s eminently trustworthy figures are the following: a chasm
on the Monte Rosa jumped by a chamois measured 21 feet, while a
perpendicular wall, 14 feet high,[10] was jumped by a semi-tame chamois
frightened by a dog; and the writer has measured a vertical depth of 24
feet, down which a wounded buck cornered by a bloodhound unhesitatingly
ventured to leap without injury to himself. When in their flight
suddenly coming upon the flag-line chamois will not always turn to
one side or leap clean over it, but will sometimes boldly charge the
bunting, and if the cord is not too old and stands the strain, the
result is a chamois violently flung on its back. In a few instances
they have been known to get entangled in the cord and strangled to
death.
A somewhat singular and ludicrous result of such a charge once occurred
to me, and may be worth repeating. It happened at a drive in the Hinter
Authal, Prince Hermann Hohenlohe’s excellent preserve in Tyrol. There
being but three guns present, flags had to be used between the posts. I
was posted on a rock at the bottom of a steep and high slope of loose
stones stretching many hundreds of feet upwards; my range of vision and
of fire being unusually confined in every other direction. Two shots
fired in rapid succession by my host, who was the nearest gun above me,
put me on the _qui vive_, and not needlessly, for there, flying down
the slope, bounded a chamois straight for my post. The Prince’s _coup
double_ had knocked over the companion buck, and the frightened animal
was travelling at a terrific pace. On getting closer I observed, to my
utmost surprise, that to one of its horns was attached what appeared to
be a scarlet handkerchief, which fluttered like a pennant in the air
as the animal pursued its headlong flight. The fluttering rag made it
impossible to determine by its horns whether the animal was a buck, but
its large size, strongly formed neck, and whole appearance confirmed
me in my belief that it was a buck. On it came with the speed of a
ricochetting cannon-ball straight down towards me, and would have
passed me within a couple of yards had my rifle not ended almost _à
bout portant_ the days of what, on going up, turned out to be an old
and unusually large barren doe! It afterwards appeared that several
beaters had seen her in her wild flight dash against the ‘lappen,’
which were new and strong, and after turning a double somersault and
being flung on her back, dash away with one of the red rags, pierced
by one of the horns, fluttering from her head. What made the matter
worse and earned me some chaff, was the fact that it was my hundredth
chamois, and I had only a few hours before expressed the determination
that it should be a buck and not a doe.
Chamois, to return to our drive, pursue different tactics when driven.
Old bucks--and they, of course, are the special object of the ambitious
sportsman--as a rule, try to steal away at the first sign of danger,
after having from some prominent crag thoroughly inspected the whole
ground. These wary old fellows proceed very cautiously: every ravine
is carefully scanned before it is crossed and every couloir narrowly
inspected, lest danger be lurking behind some rock or boulder. If
the guns are posted on exposed points, good cover, and as perfect
immovability as it is possible to maintain during a three or four
hours’ drive, is advisable if nearer acquaintance with these old
stagers is sought. Often has the writer watched old bucks approach
and inspect some restless and fidgety gun, who, because he could not
see any chamois, imagined no chamois could see him, than which no
greater mistake can be made. Bucks will often stand for an hour at
a time perfectly motionless, fixedly regarding some point to which
their attention has been attracted. The does and younger generation
of bucks are more easily startled than the fathers of the tribe, and
they generally approach the guns in full flight, testing the nerve of
the sportsman to a high degree, for it is no easy matter to pick out
males under these circumstances. On the occasion I am endeavouring
to describe, some ninety or a hundred beasts are in the drive, and
soon the easily distinguishable right and left of the Duke’s Express
are awakening the echoes, and as the fleeing band, after leaving two
victims behind, dashes down the flag-line, the turn of the other guns
comes too. About one o’clock another distant signal shot tells one that
the beaters have reached the top of the flagged ridge from the back,
and now we can see them clearly outlined against the sky. They remove
the ‘lappen’ before beginning their exceedingly perilous descent down
the face of the cliffs--a most desperate looking undertaking, which one
watches with bated breath. Some seven or eight chamois trying to escape
by a ledge up the face of the cliff reach the top from one side just as
the beaters do the same from the other, and to see them wheel about on
a band of rock only inches wide and dash down, leaping from projection
to projection, startlingly exhibits their wonderful surefootedness. My
turn comes by-and-bye, when an old stager, whom I have been observing
for some time, makes up his mind to escape by the pass my ‘stand’
commands. Stealthily and carefully winding at every stop he makes, he
slowly comes up towards the only remaining point, whence as yet no
thundering note of warning has issued, and I am glad that I let the
small fry which shortly before dashed past me do so unmolested. It
frequently occurs that a sacrifice like that at the beginning of the
drive is finally thus rewarded. In this instance, a second old buck
an hour later is also fatally misled as to the safety of the route
I am guarding. Soon after four o’clock the drive is over, sixteen
chamois forming the ‘Strecke,’ as a very ancient custom of venery,
i.e. the placing in a row of the day’s bag, is called. A stirring and
picturesque sight it is when all assemble at the meeting-place, usually
some bit of Alpine sward where sportsmen, keepers, and beaters mingle
in eager discussion of the chief events of the day, and every head is
carefully examined. To an active climber, joining the beaters under the
guidance of a keeper is more exciting work than sitting for hours in
one spot and potting driven chamois; but this, like stalking, no tiro
should venture on, and permission to do so is often difficult to obtain.
As some adjoining country is to be driven on the morrow, the night is
passed in one of the many delightful shooting-boxes, simply furnished
chalets with wainscot interiors, dotted about on the timber-line
regions of the Duke’s shoot. The entire month of October is thus
devoted to driving, and never is ground beaten twice the same year, so
that some idea can be formed of the extent of the shoot. Fine weather
does not always, however, attend these occasions, for October in the
Alps can make itself very disagreeable, with snowstorms and fierce
gales that drift the snow in great heaps round one on one’s post,
turning one’s body into an icicle, and cramping the fingers, so that
aim at even the shortest distances, as the mistily outlined game flits
past one in the driving snowstorm, becomes strangely uncertain.
In conclusion, a hint or two to those participating for the first time
in a large drive may be of use. In the first place, if not expressly
told to the contrary, it is wiser not to open the ball by firing the
first shot. Such a premature warning may possibly spoil the whole
laboriously laid out drive by causing the chamois to break back at a
moment when the beaters have not yet been able to reach those points
where their attempt could be frustrated. The writer has known more
than one instance when a big shoot, which otherwise might have been
entirely successful, has been spoilt by a shot fired very soon after
the beginning of the drive by an impatient gun.
Another and last hint is always to find out from the keeper who posts
one, not only the exact position of the next guns--information he
usually volunteers--but also, if they are invisible to one, the limits
of one’s own field of fire. Nothing is more disagreeable than at the
end of the drive to find out that, by shooting perhaps a little further
than was expected, one has shot beasts really belonging by all rules of
venery to one’s neighbour. Such an oversight, arising from ignorance
respecting these limits, once caused the writer on the occasion of a
formal Court _chasse_ very painful embarrassment by tempting him to
fire at and, as bad luck would have it, also hit, at somewhat long
range, four good bucks, which at the time--of course, unknown to
him--were much closer to his neighbour, an exalted English personage,
and which bucks, to make it worse, were the only chamois the latter
saw during a long day’s drive. The consternation of the dumbfounded
officials, when they discovered the result of their negligence in
failing to give the necessary information, was lamentable to behold
till the amiable prince very good-naturedly made light of their awkward
oversight.
HISTORY OF THE CHAMOIS AND ITS CHASE
Marvellous stories of the chamois’s wily artfulness in evading the
hunter have from time immemorial been told. For instance, that when
cornered by its pursuers it would hang itself by the crook of its horns
from ledges overhanging deep precipices to evade the hunter’s ken. As
late as forty years ago, absurd nonsense was still being written about
the chamois. Thus an English author gravely quotes: ‘The chamois hunter
rarely shoots his game, but drives it from crag to crag till further
pursuit becomes impossible, when he draws his knife and puts it to the
side of the chamois, and the animal pushes it into its body of its own
accord!’
To the chamois’ blood valuable medicinal qualities were for many
centuries ascribed, and the healing properties of the famous ‘Bezoar
stone’ (Ægagropilæ) have been vaunted and written about by numerous
authors from Pliny to Lebwald. This ball-shaped secretion, consisting
of resinous fibres and hairs, is occasionally found in the stomach of
very old bucks, and is really the result of the unnatural contraction
of the muscles of the stomach, which in the chamois consists of four
much more distinctly separated divisions than is usual with other
ruminants. Up to fifty years ago these stones (which occasionally reach
the size of a billiard-ball) fetched their weight in gold, and they
were considered specifics for half a dozen deadly ills, among them ‘the
loss of one’s intestines,’ as Pliny calls a malady which it is to be
hoped has since disappeared.
[Illustration: Emperor Maximilian I. chamois hunting A.D. 1500 (from
‘Theuerdank’)]
In the Middle Ages, before the invention of gunpowder, the chase of the
chamois must have been infinitely more arduous than it is to-day. They
were usually stalked, and were killed either with the cross-bow or with
spears thrown like javelins. These were shafts 9 ft. long with thin
tapering lance points, and a skilled man could throw them with fatal
effect a distance of forty steps. The great mediæval sportsman, Emperor
Maximilian, has left us some quaintly worded descriptions and pictorial
representations of chamois stalking and its dangers. He was undoubtedly
the first to use the unwieldy ‘fire-tube’ weighing 20 or 22 lbs., with
its forked prop and fuse which was carried in the hand, and which had
to be lighted with steel and flint before game hove in sight. The only
bit of advice smacking of our own luxury-loving much-beservanted sport
four centuries later, is the quaint remark of the royal sportsman:
‘that it is a convenient thing to have at one’s side a trusty man with
good lungs to keep the fuse alive.’