ANDALUCIA AND ITS BIG GAME (_Continued_)
WILD-BOAR
From one's earliest days the wild-boar has been invested with a sort of
halo of romance, identified in youthful mind with grim courage and brute
strength. Perhaps his grisly front, the vicious bloodshot eyes, savage
snorts, and generally malignant demeanour, lend substance to such idea.
But even among adults there exists in the popular mind a strange mixture
of misconception as between big game and dangerous game--to hundreds the
terms are synonymous. Thus a lady, inspecting our trophies, exclaimed,
"Oh, Mr.----, aren't these beasts very treacherous?" which almost
provoked the reply, "You see, we are even more treacherous!"
In sober truth, nevertheless, a big old boar when held up at bay, or
charging in headlong rushes upon the dogs, his wicked eyes flashing
fire, and foam flying from his jaws as tushes clash and champ, presents
as pretty a picture of brute-fury and pluck as even a world-hunter may
wish to enjoy.
Yet among hundreds of boars that we have killed or seen killed (though
dogs are caught continually, and occasionally a horse), there has never
occurred a serious accident to the hunter, and only a few narrow
escapes.
As an example of the latter: the keeper, while "placing" the writer
among bush-clad dunes outside the Mancha of Majada Real, mentioned that
a very big boar often frequented some heavy rush-beds on my front.
"Should the dogs give tongue to pig at that point, your Excellency will
at once run in to the function." Such were his instructions.
[Illustration: ROOM FOR TWO]
At the point indicated the dogs bayed unmistakably, and seizing a light
single carbine, ·303 (as there was a stretch of heavy sand to cover) I
ran in. Arriving at the covert and already close up to the music,
suddenly the "bay" broke, and I felt the bitter annoyance of being
twenty seconds too slow. I had entered by a narrow game-path, and was
still hurrying up this when I met the flying boar face to face. By
chance he had selected the same track for his retreat! As we both were
moving, and certainly not six yards apart, there was barely time to pull
off the carbine in the boar's face and throw myself back against the
wall of matted jungle on my left. Next moment the grizzly head and
curving ivories flashed past within six inches of my nose! The spring he
had given carried the boar a yard past me, and there he stopped,
stern-on, champing and grunting, both tushes visible--I could see them
in horrid projection, on either side of the snout! I had brought the
empty carbine to the "carry," so as to use it bayonet-wise, to ward the
brute off my legs; but he remained stolidly where he had stopped, and,
as may be imagined, I stood stolid too. As it proved, the bullet,
entering top of shoulder, had traversed the vitals--hence the cessation
of hostilities. A few moments later the arrival of the dogs terminated
an untoward interval.
On another occasion at the Veta de las Conchas, amidst the lovely
_pinales_, just as the beat was concluded, there dashed from a small
thicket a troop of a dozen pig, making direct for the solitary pine
behind which the writer held guard. Passing full broadside, at thirty
yards the biggest dropped dead on the sand, and, just as the troop
disappeared in a donga, a second, it seemed, was knocked over. On the
beaters approaching I walked across to see, and there, in the hollow,
lay the second pig apparently dead enough. Having picked up my
field-glasses, cartridge-pouch, etc., I stood close by awaiting the
keeper's arrival. Three or four dogs, however, following on the spoor,
arrived first; and on their worrying the deceased, it at once sprang to
its feet, gazed for one instant, and charged direct. Never have I seen
an animal cover twenty yards more quickly! Dropping the handful of
_chismes_ aforesaid, I pulled off an unaimed cartridge in my assailant's
face and a lucky bullet struck rather below the eyes. This is not a dead
shot, but the shock at that short distance proved sufficient.
An amusing incident, not dissimilar, occurred at Salavar. A youthful
sportsman was approaching a boar which had fallen and lay apparently
dead, when it, too, suddenly sprang up and charged. Our friend turned
and fled; but, tripping over a fallen branch, fell headlong amidst the
green rushes. There, face-downwards, he lay, preferring, as he explained
later, "to receive his wound behind rather than have his face messed
about by a boar!" Luckily the animal, on losing sight of its flying foe,
pulled up and stood, grunting surprise and disapproval.
A similar experience befell King Alfonso XIII. in this Mancha of
Salavar, December 29, 1909. We need not tell English readers that His
Majesty proved equal to this, as to every occasion, and dropped his
adversary at arm's length.
When one reads (as we do) descriptions of big-game hunting, a recurring
expression gives pause--that of "charging." A recent discussion in a
sporting paper turned on the question of "the best weapon for a charging
boar." Now such a thing as a "charging boar" has never, in a long
experience, occurred to the authors--that is, a boar charging
deliberately, and of its own initiative, upon human beings; and we do
not believe in the possibility of such an event. Of course should a boar
(or any other savage animal) be disabled, or in a corner, that is a
different matter--then a wild-boar will fight, and right gallantly too.
The nearest approach to a "charge" (though it wasn't one really)
occurred at the Rincon de los Carrizos. Towards the end of the beat the
dogs ran a pig, and, seeing it was a big one, the writer followed, and
after a spin of 300 yards overtook the boar at bay in a deep water-hole.
The place was all overhung with heavy foliage and thick pines above,
giving very poor light. Though the boar's snout pointed straight towards
me about ten yards away, I imagined (wrongly) that his body stood at an
angle--about one-third broadside: hence the bullet (aimed past the ear),
splashed harmlessly in the water, and next moment the pig was coming
straight as a die, apparently meaning mischief. When within five yards,
however, he jinked sharply to right, passing full broadside, when I
killed him _á-boca-jarro_, as the phrase runs, "at the mouth of the
spout."
[Illustration]
That idea of "charging at large" is so splendidly romantic, and fits in
so appropriately with preconceived ideas, that we almost regret to
disturb its semi-fossilised acceptance. But, in mere fact, neither boars
nor any other wild beasts "charge" at sight--always and only excepting
elephant and rhinoceros, either of which _may_ (or may not) do so,
though previously unprovoked. It would, at least, be unwise entirely to
ignore the contingency of either of these two so acting.
There exist, nevertheless, old and evil-tempered boars that are quite
formidable adversaries. We have many such in our Coto Doñana--boars
that, having once overmastered our hounds, practically defy us. Each of
these old solitary tuskers occupies some densely briared stronghold--it
may be but an isolated patch of jungle, scarce half an acre in extent,
or alternatively, a little sequence of similar thickets, each connected
by intervals of lighter bush. Such spots abound by the hundred, but once
the lair of our bristled friend is found, then there is work cut out for
man, horse, and hound. For long-drawn-out minutes the silence of the
wilderness re-echoes with doubly concentrated fury--frantic hound-music
mingled with lower accompaniment of sullen, savage snorts and grunts and
the champing of tusks; then a sharp crunch of breaking boughs ... and
the death-yell of a _podenco_ tells that _that_ blow has got home. But
the seat of war remains unchanged--the same rush and the same fatal
result are repeated. Presently some venturous hound may discover an
entry from behind. The enemy's flank is turned, and with a crash that
seems to shake the very earth, our boar retreats to a second stronghold
only twenty yards away. All this is occurring within arm's length; one
hears, can almost feel, the stress of mortal combat, but one sees
nothing inside the mural foliage, nor knows what moment the enemy may
sally forth. Such moments may even excite what are termed in Spanish
phrase "emotions."
In his second "Plevna" our boar is secure, and he knows it. With rear
and flanks protected by a _revêtement_ of gnarled roots and a labyrinth
of stems, he fears nothing behind, while the furiously baying hounds on
his front he now utterly despises. Blank shots fired in the air alarm
him not, nor will Pepe Espinal--in a service of danger--succeed in
dislodging him with a _garrocha_, after a perilous climb along the
briar-matted roof. That boar is victor--master of a stricken field.
One human resource remains, to go in _á arma blanca_--with the cold
steel. There are dashing spirits who will do this--in Spain we have seen
such. But to crawl thus, prostrate, into the dark and gloomy tunnels
that form a wild-boar's fortress, intercepted and obstructed on every
side, there to attack in single combat a savage beast, still unhurt and
in the flush of victory, pachydermatous, and whose fighting weight far
exceeds your own--well, _that_ we place in the category of pure
recklessness. Courage is a quality that all admire, though one may
wonder if it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed
in common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage races
of human kind--races which we regard as "lower," yet not inferior in
that cherished quality of "pluck."
Before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the act may
cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, otherwise to
sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may be, to an
undertaker--though he will not object.
Once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance indeed that
that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly chosen lair, will
ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of a rifle.
After one such rout, we remember finding our friend the Reverend Father,
who had sallied forth with us for a mild morning's shooting, perched
high up among the branches of a thorny _sabina_ (a kind of juniper),
whence we rescued him, cut and bleeding, and badly "shaken in nerve!"
We add the following typical instances of boar-shooting:--
SALAVAR, _February 1, 1900_.--A lovely winter's morn, warm sun and dead
calm. The distant cries of the beaters (nigh three miles away) had just
reached my ears, when a nearer sound riveted attention--the soft patter
of hoofs upon sand. Then from the forest-slope behind appeared a
pig--big and grey--trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away.
Already the fore-sight was "touching on" its neck, when a lucky
suspicion of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball.
Next came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour and
carriage. At twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for long
seconds we stared eye to eye. Curious it is that absolute quiescence
will puzzle the wildest of the wild! Hardly had she vanished 'midst
forest shades, than once again that muffled patter--this time an
unmistakable tusker. But, oh! what an abominable shot I made--too low,
too far back--and onwards he pursued his course. By our forest laws it
was my _deber_ (bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. All that
noontide, all the afternoon--through bush and brake, by dell and dusky
defile--patiently, persistently, did Juanillo Espinal and I follow every
twist and turn of that unending spoor. There was blood to help us at
first, none thereafter. Through the thickets of Sabinal, then back on
the left by Maë-Corra, forward through the Carrizal, thence crossing the
Corral Grande, and away into the great _pinales_ beyond--away to the
Rincon de los Carrizos, three solid leagues and a bit to spare! That was
the price of a bungled shot.
Here at last we have tracked him to his lair. Within that sullen
fortress of the Rincon lies our wounded boar. How to get him out is a
different problem. Though wounded, he is in no way disabled, and is
ready, aye "spoiling," to put up a savage fight for his life. Having
precisely located him in a dense tangle of lentisk and briar, our single
dog, Careto, a tall, shaggy _podenco_, not unlike a deerhound, but on
smaller scale, is let go. Up a gloomy game-path he vanishes, and in a
moment fierce music startles the silent woods. The boar refused to move.
But one resource remained. We must go in to help Careto, crawling up a
briar-laced tunnel. It was horribly dark at first, and I began to think
of ... when, fortunately, the light improved, and a few yards farther in
a savage scene was enacting in quite a considerable open. Beneath its
brambled roof we could stand half upright. In its farthest corner stood
our boar at bay, a picture of sullen ferocity. Upon Juanillo's
appearance the scene changed as by magic--there was a rush and
resounding crash. Precisely what happened during the three succeeding
seconds deponent could not see, it being so gloomy, and Juanillo on my
front. Ere a cartridge could be shoved into the breech the great boar
was held up, Careto hanging on to his right ear, and Juanillo, springing
over the dog, had seized the grisly beast by both hind-legs--at the
hocks--and stepping backward, with one mighty heave flung the boar
sidelong on the earth. Next moment I had driven the knife through his
heart.
Though the method described is regularly employed by Spanish hunters to
seize and capture a wounded or "bayed" boar--and we have seen it
executed dozens of times--yet seldom in such a spot as this, cramped in
space, handicapped by bad light and intercepting boughs and briars. It
was a dramatic scene, and a bold act that bespoke cool head and brawny
biceps.
The head of this boar hangs on our walls to commemorate an event we are
not likely to forget.
We remember following a wounded lynx into a similar spot--a deep
hollowed jungle. A pandemonium of savage snarling and spitting, barks
and yowls greeted our ears as we crawled in, while on reaching the
cavern the green eyes of the lynx flashed like electric lights from a
dark recess. Though one hind-leg had been broken and the other damaged
by a rifle-ball, yet she held easy mastery over five or six dogs.
Sitting bolt upright, she kept the lot at bay with sweeping half-arm
blows. Not a dog dared close, and the brave feline had to be finished
with the lance.
MANCHA DEL MILAGRO, _February 4, 1908_.--The covert, we knew by spoor,
held a first-rate boar, and his most probable _salida_ (break-out) was
at the foot of a perpendicular sand-wall, within fifty yards of which
the writer held guard. Within brief minutes the music of the pack
corroborated what had been foretold by spoor. Twice the boar with
crashing course encircled the _mancha_ within, passing close inside my
post. Each moment I watched for his appearance at the expected point on
the right. Then, without notice or sound of broken bough, suddenly he
stood outside on the left--almost beneath the gun's muzzle--not eight
feet away. Luckily (as he stood within my firing-lines) the boar
steadfastly gazed in the opposite direction, nor did I seek by slightest
movement to attract attention to my presence. For some seconds we both
remained thus, rigid. Then with sudden decision the boar bounded off,
flying the gentle slope in front, and ere he had passed a yard clear of
the firing-line, fell dead with a bullet placed in the precise spot.
Weight, 164 lbs. clean, and grey as a donkey.
* * * * *
A wounded boar should always be approached with caution. Remember he is
a powerful brute, very resolute, and furnished with quite formidable
armament, which, while life remains, he will use. One of the biggest,
after receiving a bullet slightly below and behind the heart, went
slowly on some fifty yards, when he subsided, back up, among some green
iris. Half an hour later the writer silently approached from directly
behind. At ten yards the heaving flanks showed that plenty of life
remained, and beautiful scimitar-like tushes were conspicuous enough on
either side. I therefore quietly withdrew. On a keeper presently riding
up, the boar at once dashed on a dog, flung him aside (laying open half
his ribs), and charged the horse. The latter was smartly handled and
cleared, when the boar instantly turned on me. The dash of that onset
was splendid to watch. Luckily he had a yard or two of soft bog to get
through, but it was necessary to stop him with another bullet.
Impressive is the mental sensation aroused when any savage
wild-beast--normally the object of pursuit--suddenly turns the tables
and becomes the aggressor. The actual incident is necessarily but
momentary, yet its effect remains graven on the tablets of memory. Pity
'tis so rare.
Again we conclude with an independent impression by J. C. C.:--
Never a visit to the Coto Doñana but brings some separate
experience--possibly more pleasurable in retrospect than reality! I
will instance my first interview with wild-boars. Now, of course, I
know more about them and can almost regard them with serenity; but
at that time, believe me, it was not so. That first encounter at
really close quarters occurred at the close of a long day's work.
My post was behind a twelve-inch pine on an otherwise bare hill,
the reverse slope of which dipped down to dense bamboo-thickets
just out of my sight, though close by. Within a few minutes
commenced and continued the hullabaloo of hounds. Close glued to my
pine-trunk I listened in tense excitement. Suddenly, ere I had
quite realised such possibility, there rushed into view on the
ridge, not twenty paces distant, a great shaggy grey boar. He had
dashed up the steep bank beyond and was now making direct for my
legs. This is not the confession of a nervous man, but it did occur
to me that truer safety lay in the _fork_ of my tree! but B. was
the next gun, only sixty or seventy yards away, and keenly
interested. In a moment I was myself again; but the interval had
been, to say the least, painfully enthralling. I had, of course, to
wait till the great "Havato" had crossed my "firing-lines." He
certainly saw _something_, for he paused momentarily, took rapid
counsel, and bolted past. Nerves were steady now, and once across
the line the boar had my right in the ribs, left in flank. I
actually saw blood spurt--hair fly--at each shot, yet the boar
followed on his course unmoved. Pachydermatous pig! I pondered
while reloading. Ten seconds later on my boar's sleuth follows
_Boca-Negra_, a veritable Beth Gelert. Utterly ignoring me, he
passes away into gloom and silence; but shortly I see him coming
back, blood-stained and satiated, and my self-respect returns. Ten
minutes later, a second tusker gallops along the hollow behind. Him
also my right caught fair in the ribs--only a few inches left of
the heart, yet again without visible result. The second bullet,
however, broke his spine as he ascended the sand-bank beyond, and
he fell stone dead. When the beat was over we followed No. 1. He
also lay still, 200 yards away--a pair of first-rate tuskers.
I remember, during the gralloch, some dreadfully poor
charcoal-burners appearing on the scene to beg for food. This, of
course, was gladly conceded; but so famished were those poor
creatures that old women filled their aprons with reeking viscera,
while it was with difficulty that children could be prevented from
starting at once on raw flesh and liver. Truly it was a grievous
spectacle, and filled the homeward ride with sad reflections on the
awful hardships such poor folk are destined to endure.
[Illustration: BOLTED PAST]
In days of rapid change, when, in our own generation, sporting weapons
have been at least thrice utterly metamorphosed, it is unwise to be
dogmatic. Yet we may summarise our personal experience that the most
efficient weapon for all such purposes as here described is that known
as the "Paradox," or at least of the Paradox type. The old "Express
rifle" (the best in its day, less than a score of years ago, but now
mere "scrap") was also useful. But it always fell second to the Paradox,
as the latter (being really a shot-gun, equally available for small
game, snipe, duck, or geese) came up quicker to the eye for
snap-shooting with ball.
The invention of the Paradox type of gun has practically introduced a
third style of shooting where there previously existed only two, to
wit:--
(1) Gun-shooting with _shot_ where any "aim" or even an apology for an
aim is fatal to modern maximum success.
(2) Rifle-shooting proper, which must be mechanical and deliberate--the
more so, the more effective.
(3) Thirdly, we have this new system intermediate between the
two--"gun-shooting with ball."
Using the Paradox as a rifle, an alignment _must_ be taken; but it may
be taken as with a _gun_, and not necessarily the deliberate and
mechanical alignment essential with a rifle, properly so called.
In short, with a Paradox, always glance along the sights. You will
nearly always find that some "refinement" of aim is required. More words
are useless.
One word as to the "forward allowance" needed after the rough alignment
(as explained) has been effected. At short snapshot ranges none is
required. At a galloping stag at 50 yards, the sights should clear his
chest; at 100 yards, half-a-length ahead, and double that for 150 yards.
At these longer ranges one instinctively allows for "drop" by taking a
fuller sight. For standing shots, of course, the back-sights can be
used.
BOAR-HUNTING BY MOONLIGHT (ESTREMADURA)
"_Caceria á la Ronda._"
This picturesque and altogether break-neck style of hunting the boar--a
style perhaps more consonant than "driving" with popular notions of the
dash and chivalry of Spanish character--still survives in the wild
province of Estremadura. No species of sport in our experience will
compare with the _Ronda_ for danger and sheer recklessness unless it be
that of "riding lions" to a stand, as practised on British East African
plains.[16]
Years ago we described this system of the _Ronda_ in the "Big-Game"
volumes of the Badminton Library, and here write a new account,
correcting some slight errors which had crept into the earlier article.
This sport is practised by moonlight at that period of the autumn called
the _Montanera_, when acorns and chestnuts fall from the trees, and
when droves of domestic swine are turned loose into the woods to feed on
these wild fruits. At that date the wild-boars also are in the habit of
descending from the adjacent sierras, and wander far and wide over the
wooded plains in search of that favourite food.
When the acorns fall thus and ripe chestnuts strew the ground in these
magnificent Estremenian forests, the young bloods of the district
assemble to await the arrival of the boars upon the lower ground. Two
kinds of dog are employed: the ordinary _podencos_, which run free; and
the _alanos_, a breed of rough-haired "seizers," crossed between
bull-dog and mastiff--these latter being held in leash.
Sallying forth at midnight, so soon as the _podencos_ give tongue, the
_alanos_ are slipped in order to "hold-up" the flying boar till the
horsemen can reach the spot.
Then for a while hound-music frightens the darkness and shocks the
silence of the sleeping woods; there is crashing among dry forest-scrub,
a breakneck scurry of mounted men among the timber, until the furious
baying of the hounds and the noisy rush of the hunters converge towards
one dark point among the shadows, and in the half-light a great grisly
tusker dies beneath the cold steel, but not before he has written a
lasting record on the hide of some luckless hound.
A stiff neck and bold heart are essential to these dare-devil gallops,
where each horse and horseman vie in reckless rivalry, flying through
bush and brake, and under overhung boughs difficult to distinguish amid
moon-rays intercepted by foliage above. Accidents of course occur--an
odd collar-bone or two hardly count, but what does annoy is when by
mistake some wretched beast of domestic race is found held up by the
excited pack.
[Illustration]