is fixed to come off at a certain hour, and the sportsmen ride ponies
or walk to their posts, each carrying his own rifles--as the foresters
are all employed in beating. The ponies are then left in charge of some
boys, and each man is allotted a post in which he can make himself
comfortable, put on his cloak and eat his lunch; pipes also are not
forbidden for a while. But, after a bit, he must, on no account, move
or leave his place, even if there is snow on the ground and he is
perished with cold, for it is very possible that a few deer, not
belonging to the drive, might be feeding just below the ridge of the
hill, and, seeing other deer disturbed and coming towards them, they
would probably feed quietly over the pass close to all the guns. If
they were to see anyone move, they would at once bolt back whence they
came, and every deer in sight would know that they were fleeing from
danger, and would refuse to come up the pass. But if they were allowed
to move quietly on till all the guns were passed, they would soon
disappear, and their fresh tracks would be of use in keeping the deer
which followed from being suspicious of any lurking danger.
The first deer to appear over a pass are usually a hind and calf; and
hearts begin to beat furiously as, after many hours of waiting, they
walk slowly past the line of guns, pricking their long ears forward and
staring right and left suspiciously. Suddenly the hind gives a
start--she has come across a footprint; she sniffs at it, quickens her
pace, and trots away with her little calf beside her. All at once she
gets a puff of the wind and away she goes--bark, bark, bark--but as
there are no other deer in sight she can do no harm. Then some more
hinds come on, followed by a few small staggies, and the excitement
among the guns becomes intense as they know now that the drive has
begun. As the first deer get the wind and begin to gallop, a grand
Royal appears. He passes most of the rifles scathless--for there is no
greater crime than to fire at one of the first few deer and so turn all
the others back--but the last gun, seeing that there are now plenty of
good stags over the brae, lets fly at him and may bowl him over (this
is purely imaginary, for my experience is that he _does not_ bowl
him over), then crack, crack, go the other rifles as barrel after
barrel is fired--two or three rifles to each man, and two barrels to
each rifle--and the fat and heavy deer come panting by, bewildered by
the incessant firing and the whizz of the bullets about their ears,
driven forward by the shouts of the beaters behind, who are pressing
them on to their death, and terrified when some magnificent beast makes
a plunge forward on receiving its death-wound, and tears up the soft
ground with its hoofs as it rolls over and over, its thick horns
crashing against the rocks. Then the last and heaviest of the deer come
rushing down the pass followed by the beaters, capless and perspiring.
The ground is strewn with dead and dying, the sportsmen leave their
posts and each claims his deer (many more claims being made for the
large than for the small ones); the dogs are let loose after the
wounded, and thus the most successful drive of the season comes to an
end.
The ponies which have conveyed the sportsmen up the mountain now come
in useful to carry home the dead beasts; and, in the evening, after
dinner, the ladies, in their dainty dresses and flashing diamonds, come
out across the yard to inspect the trophies of the chase which are laid
out on the ground in front of the larder; while the weird and fantastic
scene is lighted up by blazing torches held aloft by kilted Highlanders.
DIANE CHASSERESSE.
SHOOTING.
BY LADY BOYNTON.
"The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill."
"A mingled yarn--good and ill together."
A few years ago a "shooting-lady" was almost as much a _rara avis_
as the Great Auk; if here and there one member of the sex, more
venturesome than her fellows, were bold enough to take to the gun in
preference to the knitting needle, she was looked upon as most
eccentric and fast, and underwent much adverse criticism. Now, however,
_nous avons changé tout cela_. Ladies who shoot, and who shoot well,
too, are springing up on all sides, and the clamour raised by their
appearance is gradually subsiding. There are still dissentient voices
here and there, it is true, voices which proclaim aloud that women have
no place in the covert and among the turnips, and that the cruelty of
the sport should be an insuperable objection to their joining in it. A
discussion of all these pros and cons is, however, outside the scope of
these notes, we have simply to deal with facts as they stand, and,
undoubtedly, the "shooting-lady" is now as much an established fact as
is her sister the "hunting-woman."
That a woman who is fond of sport need lose nothing in grace, charm, or
refinement, we have ample evidence to show. She does not necessarily
become masculine either in manner or conversation; but she should,
nevertheless, endeavour to master the rudiments of whatever sport she
engages in; and it is with the hope of assisting some of my
fellow-sportswomen to accomplish this, that I here record some of my
experiences, not omitting my mistakes, and adding a few hints to
beginners; though I regret that I have no moving accidents by flood or
field, nor "hairbreadth 'scapes" to recount!
There is certainly a pleasant amount of excitement about shooting--not
perhaps equal to that afforded by "forty minutes without a check," but
quite enough to make one willing to brave the elements, even on a raw
November morning, and to stand with one's fingers aching with cold
behind a fence waiting for the advent of that little brown bird who
will flash past you like a meteor--alas! too frequently only to leave a
feather or two floating behind him, and then to continue his course
rejoicing!
I well remember the first running rabbit I ever killed. I was armed
with an old-fashioned muzzle loader--we were walking round the
hedgerows in some pastures. The rabbit was sitting in a tussock about
thirty yards from the fence. I cautiously advanced in such a manner as
to get a crossing shot. The rabbit was put up, and I, taking a
_very_ deliberate aim, had the intense satisfaction of seeing him
double up just as he reached the fence! _What_ a moment! No 'Royal'
killed at 140 yards could have afforded more delight than did that
wretched little bunny.
Of course, previously to this, I had fired at a mark and at sitting
objects, in order to get into the way of handling the gun, aiming and
so forth.
It is of the _first_ and greatest importance on beginning to shoot to
learn to be careful, and the golden rule is, _always_ to handle a gun
as though it were loaded and cocked; the habit once acquired, it is
just as easy to carry a gun safely as not.
Coolness and confidence are equally necessary--but practice alone will
bring these. A beginner is apt to be flurried when the game gets up;
she sees nothing else, thinks of nothing else but killing it, and takes
no account of the beaters, guns, or dogs surrounding her. She points
the gun at the bird or beast, and perchance (horrid thought!) follows
it all round the compass with her finger on the trigger! Wherefore it
is better she should not take the field with other guns (unless she
wishes to make enemies of her best friends), until she has full command
over the gun and can put it up easily and quickly. If the game gets up
too near, she must wait till it has reached the proper distance, _then_
raise the gun to her shoulder and fire at once. This is the only way to
become a quick and steady shot.
_Apropos_ of following; once when grouse-driving I was placed in a butt
between two other guns, both of them strangers to me. They looked _very
much_ askance at me, and I fancy one of them thanked his stars he'd
insured his life the week before! The one in the left hand butt at once
moved both his "guards" on to the side of the butt next me. Soon three
birds, the forerunners of the army to follow, came over between my
right-hand neighbour and me, two of them making straight for his butt.
To my surprise he did not fire. The third bird I hit with my first
barrel, and seeing as it passed me that it had a leg down, I turned
round and killed it going away from me with the left barrel. After the
drive was over I asked him why he hadn't shot. "To tell you the truth,"
he said, "I was watching you. I was a little anxious to see if you
would _follow_ that bird, but after that, I saw you were _all right_!"
My left-hand warrior confessed, later on, that he had been peppered by
the gun on the other side of him! Whereat I chuckled!
As to the gun used, everybody must please themselves. I shoot with a
20-bore, the left barrel slightly choked, weight 5 lbs., and loaded
with 2-1/4 drachms black powder, 3/4 oz. No. 6 shot. For covert
shooting, E. C. or Schulze is better, it is quicker up to the game and
almost smokeless.
A 16-bore makes killing easier, but the extra weight, at the end of a
long day, counterbalances this advantage. I shot with a 28-bore
belonging to a friend one day last winter, and was perfectly astonished
at the way and the distance it killed, but you have to be _very_ dead
on to make good practice with so small a bore. A gun to fit you should
come up to the shoulder quite easily, and, without any adjusting, you
must bring the sight straight on to the object. If you see all down
the barrel, the stock is too straight, if, on the contrary, you see
nothing but the breech, it is too much bent and you will shoot under
everything. But I would advise the beginner to go to the "Worth" of
London gunmakers (Mr Purdey), put herself in his hands, and, like the
sartorial genius of Paris, he will turn her out fitted to perfection.
An indiarubber heel-plate is sometimes a wise precaution, to avoid a
bruised shoulder and arm, which if you happen to be going to a ball,
does not perhaps add to your beauty!
The left-hand should be held _well forward_. This gives much more power
over the gun, it also looks much better. With regard to the position of
the feet, it is well to recollect that elegance _is_ compatible with
ease!
It is a matter of some difficulty, at first, to judge distance
correctly. The novice generally begins by blowing her game to bits, to
make sure of killing it, I suppose, though in reality this makes it far
harder. The other extreme, firing very long shots, is equally
reprehensible, as nine times out of ten the game goes away wounded,
even when occasionally it is dropped by a fluke. Any distance between
twenty and forty yards is legitimate, though the latter is rather far
for a hare going away from you.
_Never_ hand the gun cocked to an attendant, and always unload when
getting over a fence, and on putting the gun down for luncheon.
Now for a few words on aiming; but I must here protest that this does
not profess to be a shooting "Bradshaw," but merely, as it were, an A B
C guide!
For a beginner, no doubt the easiest way, in the case of any ordinary
crossing shot, is to put up the gun on the object, then fling it
forward as far in front as is thought fit, and fire, but, after a time,
I think this kind of double action will no longer be found necessary.
The gun will be put up _at once_ in front of the game, the eye taking
in by instinct and practice the line of the object, and experience
telling how far in front of the game to hold the gun. This is certainly
true with regard to ground game. Quite high-class aiming is to put the
gun up a little before the head of the object, and swing the gun
forward with the bird, pulling the trigger _without stopping_ the gun.
This is beyond doubt the best and most correct method, but not easy to
accomplish.
I take it for granted that you shoot with both eyes open.
It is impossible to lay down a rule how far in front to hold the gun
for a crossing shot. It depends upon the pace the bird is going, and
its distance from you, but, roughly speaking, for an ordinary shot at
twenty-five yards, the object's own length in front _may_ be enough
(but I write this with some diffidence). For a driven bird or high
pheasant, my experience is, you can't get too far ahead! For a rabbit
or hare going away from you aim at the back of its head; coming towards
you, at its chest.
One of the greatest charms of shooting is its "infinite variety." Let
us take for example, to begin with, a day's covert shooting.
The waggonette with its pair of matched bays (of course we have the
best of everything--on paper) stands at the door. You pack yourselves
in, with a goodly amount of rugs and furs, and away you go, ten miles
an hour, through the park. There has been a sharp frost, the cobwebs
are all glistening in the sun, and the road rings under the horses'
feet in a manner ominous to the lover of the chase proper, but music in
the ears of the shooting-man. The leaves are mostly off the trees, but
here and there some few remaining ones shiver gently to the ground; the
bracken is brown and withered, and rustles crisply as the deer brush
through it, startled at the sight of the carriage. The wind is keen and
biting, but you turn up your fur collar and defy "rude Boreas."
Arrived at the starting point you take, on your way to the first cover,
two or three rough grasses. The rabbits having been previously ferreted
and otherwise harried, have forsaken their strongholds, and have, so to
speak, gone under canvas--they are dotted about all over the fields in
seats. (It is astonishing how easy it is, until the eye becomes
practised, to miss seeing a rabbit in a seat.) You form a line, a
beater or two between each gun across the pasture. Before you have gone
ten yards, a rabbit jumps up from underneath a beater's foot, and makes
tracks for the nearest hedgerow or plantation, only, however, to fall a
victim to the right-hand gun. The report alarms another, who, without
delay, seeks to follow in the steps of his predecessor, but a charge of
No. 5 interferes with his scheme, and he also succumbs to fate.
Soon the fun becomes "fast and furious," four or five rabbits are on
foot together, necessitating quick loading and steady shooting. Here
one breaks back through the line, and comes past you full tilt. You
take a rapid look round to see that no unlucky beater lurks in the rear
picking up the wounded--bang--ah! you didn't allow for the oblique line
of bunny's course, and were half a foot behind him. The second barrel,
however, stretches him a corpse on the field of battle.
At the end of the pasture runs a narrow strip of plantation. Here the
shooting is more difficult. The brambles are very thick; you have to
take snap-shots as the rabbits bounce from one thicket to another. You
must fire where you think he'll _be_ (not where he is), but even this
manoeuvre is not always successful, as that old man who has been acting
as stop at the end of the strip will tell you. "Nobbut eleven!" says
he, "there's bin fortty shots fired! Ah coonted 'em!" Conscience-striken,
you look at one another, and positively tremble before the scorn depicted
in that old man's eye.
Then comes a small outlying covert. Two guns placed back to back
command the end--the rest go with the beaters. A wood-pigeon is the
first to make a move, which it does with a tremendous bustle and fuss;
it affords a pretty shot, coming straight overhead, and falls with a
"plop" behind you. Next to take alarm is an old hare. She scampers
through the brushwood, staring _behind_ her, and makes for her usual
exit--a hole in the hedge, little knowing, poor thing, that she is
galloping straight into the jaws of death, for your neighbour's
unerring weapon promptly does its duty.
Then, maybe there arises a wild shout, a discordant "Tally-ho!"
followed by sundry yells of all shades, and a banging great fox breaks
away across the stubble, disappearing in the fence only to emerge again
in the pasture. I think a fox one of the most beautifully-proportioned
animals there is. He is built on such racing lines! with those long
galloping quarters, that deep chest, and muscular neck. Look at him as
he steals away over the grass without an effort; he doesn't appear to
be going any pace at all, and yet in a moment he is out of sight! No
hurry, my friend! You may take it easy to-day, but in a very short time
you'll dance to another and a quicker tune played by 17-1/2 couple of
the "best hounds in England!"
Meanwhile, four rabbits have taken advantage of your soliloquy to make
good their escape. You fire a snap-shot at one as he bobs into the
fence. "Mark over," and a pheasant whirrs over the top of the wood. You
hastily cram a cartridge into your gun, raise it and pull, only to find
that you've forgotten to cock the right barrel; you change on to the
left trigger, but this has put you "off," the pheasant goes scathless,
and is handsomely knocked down by your companion-in-arms. Perhaps this
is an argument in favour of a hammerless gun!
On reaching the big covert the aspect of things is changed. The guns
are placed at intervals down the rides, and the beaters go to the far
end to bring it up towards you. It is always well to let the guns on
either side of you, know your whereabouts, both for your own sake and
theirs. Only let us hope you won't meet with the treatment that a
friend of ours received. He was placed next to a very deaf old
gentleman. Aware that he could not make him hear by calling, or (which
is much preferable) by whistling, he took out his handkerchief and
waved it to attract his attention. The old gentleman caught sight of
it, put up his gun and took a steady and deliberate aim at it! You can
easily imagine how our friend ducked and bobbed, and threw himself
prone on the grass round the corner!
After a pause a distant shot is heard, then another, and soon you hear
the tap tap of the beaters, and "Rabbit up," "Mark over," "Hare to the
right," may be continually heard, unless, as in some places, silence is
enjoined on the beaters. "Mark cock" is, however, everywhere an
exception to this rule, and at the magic words, every gun is on the
alert! I never understand why a woodcock should be productive of such
wild excitement and reckless shooting as it generally is! The bird
flits through the trees a little above the height of a man's head,
looking as easy to kill as an owl, but it is a gay deceiver, for barrel
after barrel may discharge its deadly contents at it, and still that
brown bird flits on as before, turning up and down as it goes. Of
course (on paper) _you_ are the one to kill it, when you are loaded
with congratulations--their very weight testifying how unexpected was
the feat. Rather a doubtful compliment! Half the wood being shot, the
guns move round to the outside. What has hitherto been done, has been
chiefly a means to an end. The pheasants have been driven with the
object of getting them into this particular corner. Possibly the wood
stands on the slope of a hill; this gives the best shooting, as the
birds fly over the valley affording high and difficult shots,
especially if coming down-wind. I think there is nothing prettier than
to see real high birds well killed. They fall like stones, with heads
doubled up--not waving down, wings and legs out-stretched like the arms
of a semaphore!
"Thick and fast they come at last,
And more, and more, and more."
But do not let this tempt you into firing too quick. Pick your bird and
kill it, though I grant you this is not an easy thing to do. Many men
seem quite to lose their head at a hot corner. They fire almost at
random, though, in the case of a few birds coming, they will scarcely
miss a shot.
By this time it is growing dusk. The December afternoon is closing in.
There is a mist rising from the river, the air feels damp and chill,
and your thoughts turn to a bright fire, a tea-gown, and those
delicious two hours before dinner.
To my mind, grouse-shooting is the cream of sport. To begin with,
Scotland itself has a charm which no other country possesses. Then it
is such nice clean walking! However much you may curtail your skirt,
_mud_ will stick to it, but on the heather there is nothing to
handicap you--you are almost on a level with MAN!
From the moment you leave the lodge on a shooting morning, your
pleasure begins. The dogs and keepers have preceded you. A couple of
gillies are waiting with the ponies. You mount, and wend your way over
the hill road, ruminating as you go, on the possible bag, and taking
in, almost unconsciously, the bewitching feast that nature with such a
bountiful hand has spread before you.
On either side a wide expanse of moorland, one mass of bloom, broken
here and there by a burnt patch or some grey lichen-covered boulders.
The ground gently slopes on the right towards a few scrubby alders or
birches, with one or two rowan trees, the fringe of green bracken
denoting the little burn which to-day trickles placidly along, but in a
spate becomes a roaring torrent of brown water and white foam. Beyond
is a wide stretch of purple heather, then a strip of yellow and crimson
bents, dotted with the white cotton-flower. The broken, undulating
ground, with its little knolls and hollows, tells of nice covert for
the grouse when the mid-day sun is high, and the birds are, as an old
keeper used to say, "lying deid in the heather."
Further away rise the hills in their stately grandeur, green, and
olive, and grey, and purple; how the light changes on them! One behind
the other they lie in massive splendour, and, more distant still, the
faint blue outline of some giant overtops the rest, with here and there
a rugged peak standing out against the sky. And, pervading all, that
wonderful, exhilarating, intoxicating air!
Rounding a bend in the road, you come across three or four hill-sheep,
standing in the shade of the overhanging bank. Startled, they lift
their heads and gaze at you, then rush away, bounding over the stones
and heather with an agility very unlike the "woolly waddle" of our fat
Leicesters.
Anon, in the distance, you see Donald and the dogs on the look-out for
you, the dogs clustered round the keeper, a most picturesque group.
When you reach them and dismount, a brace of setters are uncoupled and
boisterously tear around, till peremptorily called to order. You take
your guns, etc., the dogs are told to "hold up," and the sport begins.
In a few moments "Rake" pulls up short, and stands like a rock; "Ruby"
backs him. You advance slowly, always, when possible, at the side of
the dog standing, and pause for your companion to come up. Rake moves
forward, a step at a time, his lip twitching and his eyes eager with
excitement; another second and the birds get up. Seven of them. (Here
let me give the beginner a hint. Take the birds nearest you and
furthest from your companion, never shoot across him, don't change your
bird, and don't fire too soon.) You re-load and walk up to where they
rose, there will probably be a bird left. Up he gets, right under your
feet. You let him go a proper distance, then neatly drop him in the
heather.
This kind of thing is repeated again and again, varied by an odd
"bluehare," or a twisting snipe. The dogs quarter their ground
beautifully, it is a pleasure to see them work, for grouse are
plentiful, the shooting good, and they are encouraged to do their best.
Perhaps there may be a bit of swamp surrounded by rushes in which an
occasional duck is to be found. The dogs are taken up, and the guns
creep cautiously forward, taking care to keep out of sight till within
shot. You then show yourselves simultaneously on the right and left,
when the birds will generally spring. Remember to aim _above_ a
duck--because it is always rising.
Later on in the season grouse get wilder, and the shooting consequently
more amusing. The old cocks grow very wary, but sometimes, coming round
the brow of a hill, you light suddenly on a grand old fellow, who, with
a "Bak-a-bak-bak," rises right up into the air, turns, and goes off
down-wind forty miles an hour. Catch him under the wing just on the
turn--a lovely shot. If you miss him he won't give you another chance
that day!