How the Natives "Do" the Sportsmen
"DEAR SIR:
"You asked me last summer to notify you as to when was the best time for duck-shooting off the Capes. From all indications the brant and black ducks will be in heavy force about the 1st of December. If you want a good sport make your preparations to come about that time. Cold weather will have set in, and the birds will be young and not shot at. It would be necessary for you and your friends to go aboard a schooner and anchor off near the blinds, so that in rough weather you would be on the spot; for if you boarded on the mainland your expenses would be heavy and the shooting not worth the while, to say the least of it, for on windy days the ducks fly up to the decoys and you could not reach the blinds were you on the mainland. There are millions of water snipe, too, so you had best bring a large supply of No. 10 shot. I cannot promise you luxurious fare, but can give you plenty of good bread, butter, eggs, beef, bacon, oysters, clams, stewed terrapin, ducks, snipe, and wild geese. Bring a heavy supply of ammunition, waterproof boots, and clothing, and come down on the steamer Northampton on the 3rd proximo from Cherrystone, and across the main to Capeville is ten miles. I will have an ambulance waiting for you and your traps. My schooner, well-furnished, will be ready, and you can embark at once.
"My terms are $4 per day each; I to furnish everything. All game can be expressed to any point you desire. It would be best for you and your friends to make some arrangement with a Baltimore commission house to dispose of your surplus game, for after your friends are remembered you can probably pay all your expenses and have enough funds left over for Christmas. I would expect you to remain at least ten days, as my expenses in getting ready for the trip will be considerable.
"Very truly yours,
JOHN MACGUIRE.
"P. S. -- Bring two breech-loaders with you, as one is apt to get so hot with rapid firing as to necessitate an extra piece; also, your rifle to shoot at long distance at the wild geese. There are acres of them.
"M."
Now I appeal to every lover of the gun if this letter is not calculated to make any sportsman go off at half-cock -- to make business distasteful for the time and turn his thoughts, waking, and his dreams, slumbering, to visions of slaughtering of wild fowl? With such a letter in his pocket a man might be pardoned for ignoring "the partner of his bosom and the sweet offsprings of mutual affection," as Mr. Micawber pathetically expresses it, and let his gaze wander lovingly and longingly to his pet breech-loader which sits so solitary and alone in the corner.
The family circle hear dark hints of failing health and failing appetite; glowing descriptions
of successful duck-hunts from the pens of enthusiastic Nimrods are read aloud, and, like a skillful engineer preparing the approaches for the erection of his batteries, the shootist carefully breaks ground for his intended departure -- and then it becomes known that he is about to leave on a great duck-killing trip. Like Hector preparing for a foray upon the Grecian host, he is surrounded by admiring friends; the warriors help him to arm-buckler, casque, javelin; the fair Trojans give him helpful words and smiles. And, like the favorite son of Priam, as he goes out to slay and conquer, he deals in liberal promises, not like Hector, though, by giving this one a love-lock from Paris's brow, that one a golden gorget from Belus's shield, or the gilt eagle that adorns the top of the Thracian standards; instead, he pledges his solemn word to forward hampers of game to every acquaintance; a pledge that, if carried out, would load down every steamboat on Chesapeake Bay.
But in the midst of all this exultant preparation comes the boding voice of some "Cassandra in breeches," who croaks of bad luck, of wild shooting, of stormy days, of biting weather, of colds, rheumatism and neuralgia, of false, fleeting, and perjured guides, that make the word of promise to the ear only to break it to the hope.
But who ever heeds the warning voice when bent on an enterprise, whether it is the voice of conscience, of our creditors, or of our friends? Allah Bakalum! "What is to be shall be," and so we and our friend James Fox, of Richmond, proceeded to lay in our stock of ammunition.
Just here, by way of digression, I would like to
ask my fellow-sportsmen why there is always such a wide disparity between the estimated and the actual expense of fitting out for a hunting expedition? It seems a very simple and inexpensive affair; powder and shot don't cost much. "A mere bagatelle, not worth a moment's consideration," says the huntsman, as he stuffs his roll of notes in his watch-pocket, those same "promises to pay" being the expense of the round trip. "A mere nothing," is it? "Not worth a thought?" Well, reflection comes when buying a ticket to your destination -- Where is the money? Surely some of it is lost! You search in each pocket, knit your brow, and then, after a moment of study, a new light breaks upon your bewildered mind. The paraphernalia that your gunmaker has beguiled you into purchasing is about ten times more than you dreamed of, and as you think of your bank account, and supply yourself with blank checks, you register a mental vow to be more cautious in future. Everybody cuts the suit according to the cloth; that is, everybody but a sportsman.
This time Fox and myself compared notes. The expenses were already as much as the whole trip ought to have cost, and we had not left Richmond. But when a man finds himself in that position called "in for a penny, in for a pound," he gets as reckless as a poker player who "sees" a heavy blind on a bob-tail flush.
On Thursday evening we left the capital city for Norfolk. From Norfolk the route to the capes and to Cobb's Island is to Cherrystone, thence by land across the peninsula.
Leaving the wharf at seven o'clock in the morning, we reached Cherrystone by noon. This place
is a village situated on an inlet that runs into the Chesapeake Bay, but a few hundred yards distant. This same small hamlet, obscure as it is, has yet a name that is as much of a household word in America as is Waterloo, or Gretna Green in Britain, for it is here that the finest bivalves in the world are grown.
The Cherrystone oyster is a thing of joy, and a delight to every epicure and gourmet in the country. These oysters sell at from $7 to $10 a barrel, and the demand exceeds the supply tenfold. But few reach the public, as private clubs and customers generally contract with the oystermen for all they can gather.
Stopping at Cherrystone only long enough to load our traps, and to attempt the disposal of a dozen on the half-shell, a feat beyond our gastronomic capacity -- fifteen miles brought us to the coast.
Mac and the sloop awaited us, and in a few moments everything was, to use a nautical phrase, "snug and ship-shape." Then we began to take in the surroundings. Our cabin was fearfully limited as to space. Like Mr. Dick's apartment, it was so small that you couldn't swing a cat in it without hurting the cat; only a dwarf could stand upright; in fact, a big drygoods box is the best simile I can think of. A miniature stove stood in the center. On each side were the bunks -- and such sleeping accommodations! Not longer nor wider than a coffin; once in, you were edged tight; indeed, our Joe, who has big feet, could not turn over without getting out of bed.
Our crew consisted of the guide, an ordinary looking man, and his mate Joe. Now Joe was
a character that Hogarth or Felix Darley would have loved to limn, and Dickens would have made a character-sketch of him. He was nearly seven feet high, but continued living in the low-roofed cabin had so diverted his naturally upright figure that he always walked, even in the open air, as if he had lost something and was looking on the ground for it.
Joe confessed to being but thirty-eight years old, but he looked fifty; the heat of the stove which he was continually roasting over (he was the cook of this craft) had seamed and lined his feature until he looked as if old Father Time himself had set his sign upon him. Joe's face was a study; in profile it was a half-moon, with a nose in its center that Julius Caesar would have been proud to possess; a huge nose indeed, that sounded like a fog horn when Joe blew it with his fingers, which was his usual way. Underneath was a mouth that Dame Nature had made after she had taken into consideration the long, flexible body that had to be filled. The larger the hold, the bigger the hatchway. It was a mouth equal in size to the one that little Red Ridinghood saw when her supposed grandmother popped her head out from under the bedclothes. Joe's ears opened wide like those of a retriever on a dead stand, and his head was surmounted with the thickest, bushiest shock of hair ever seen. Joe was, albeit, not "the glass of fashion or the mold of form," yet he had sterling honesty, simple-mindedness and perfect good-nature, qualities which are better than outward show. If Joe had one fault it was that of Uncle Toby, and Heaven would forgive him, for he meant nothing by his oaths.
Shortly after our arrival night set in, the solitary lamp was lit, and by its dim light Joe proceeded to get supper. The little stove grew redhot, and the hatchway had to be opened. Meat was fried, bread was cooked, coffee was boiled, and, the long ride having given us an appetite, we crouched down and made a hearty meal; then we took a walk on deck with our cigars, to give the guides time and place to eat their supper.
It was a beautiful night, calm, clear and mild; the broad firmament fretted, as Hamlet says, with "its golden fire"; the air, laden with salt, was fragrant to the lungs; the bay reflected back the myriad stars. Across the way we could see the gleaming light of Cape Charles, that every forty seconds revolves and flashes a broad pathway across the still, calm waters. Nature seemed to have robed herself in a costume of spectral white, and charmed all with her weird, enthralling loveliness.
To descend from the stars down to the little cuddy-hole is a descent indeed. But it was getting late, and we must be off by day to-morrow. Our preparations for retiring consisted in taking off our boots and wrapping up in an old, dirty coverlet that was grimed with dirt, and smelled -- Jupiter, how it did smell! After having tucked us in, the guides placed a sail-cloth on the floor, and Joe, doubling up his legs, spread a blanket over himself, and Mac blew the light out, and then snores -- one a tenor and Joe's a deep bass -- soon showed that slumber had weighed their tired eyelids down.
Not so with us. The close, imprisoned position we were lying in, the hard planks with no pallet, kept us awake. Hours passed, and "sleep,
balmy sleep, that knits up the raveled sleave of care," was not for us. It was pitch dark; the swishing of the water against the oaken bottom of the boat, not two inches from our bodies, kept our senses painfully on the alert. The noisome, mouldy odor of the bedclothes, the varied odors of the lamp-oil, stale cooking, old clothes, all combined, made a horrible noisome odor that arose in heavy exhalations and could find no vent, for the door of the cabin was closed tight. To my comrade, all unused to roughing it, and a perfect Sybarite, the situation was torturing.
Dawn came at last, a bright morning, but we did not get under weigh until near noon. And then slowly making our way along under a ripple of wind came to anchor off Smith's Island, some ten miles from Cobb's Island, and about a mile from the mouth of the Chesapeake. A southwest wind arising, we went to the blinds and placed out the decoys. But it was a bad day, and the ducks did not fly. Though we sat there until dusk only four brant rewarded our efforts.
That night we rested better, as our noses became more accustomed to the confined air of the cabin. The second day it rained, and we took a tramp on the island -- only getting wet and angry for our pains. On the third, we were out only two hours, and killed only one little deadapper.
The morning of the fourth was chiefly spent in trying to get warm -- or rather, Mac said it was too cold for ducks -- and we doubled up, waiting for the wind to moderate; but it still keeping up, we insisted on going to our blind. Phew, it was cold! the wind cut like a knife, and blew so hard that the waves were capped with foam.
Still, we did not suffer; each of us had on two pairs of drawers, two pairs of trousers, and a pair of canvas breeches over them. Our bodies were covered with three woolen shirts, vests, coat, and oilcloth. Three pairs of yarn socks, over which our rubber boots were drawn, kept our feet comfortable. Only our faces were exposed, and we were blinded with tears when we faced the wind.
The decoys were put out, and we took our position in a small boat inside of the blind, which consisted of cedar bushes stuck in the mud. Mac and his large boat went to a blind some half a mile distant, where he concealed himself. It was low water, and the bars around us were covered with snipe in numberless quantities; but we kept quiet, though we were sorely tempted to shoot. The wind was now rapidly rising, and at last a regular nor'wester was whistling around us. The tide was on the flood and rushing like a mill-race, and soon the brant, the gamiest bird that flies, commenced to move.
Here come four in one bunch! We fire, and three fall dead, the other dropping in the waves a couple of hundred yards away. We slip fresh cartridges in, and a large flock is seen heading directly for our decoys! We crouch low, and wait for them, with every nerve on a tension. They wheel by on pinions of the wind like a flash of light, but the lead is swifter, and two fall from the flock.
But, see! Here comes a single bird, who circles around and finally alights outside of the decoys. We do not waste a shot on him, for the brant are flying in squads, in couples, and in flocks, and every few seconds our guns speak out.
The sport was glorious and exciting, but it soon came to an abrupt conclusion. The stiff nor'wester was now changed into a gale, and it howled as if so many demons of the deep were unloosed. Just at this time Mac passed by, luffed, and ran alongside of us. He cried out:
"Jump on board!" We did so, and left our boat adrift.
"Why don't you get the boat and the decoys?" said Fox.
The wind is too stiff," said MacGuire, who was undoubtedly scared, and though of nothing but safety. "It's blowing so that I won't try to reach the sloop, but will have to make a run for Smith's Island." So saying, he placed her head before the wind, and in a few minutes the boat's head struck upon the sand.
Now, neither Fox nor myself was a sailor, but we had common sense enough to know that Mac was so timid that even a breeze made him look longingly at the nearest land. He lived in perpetual fear of storms, hurricanes, and cyclones. He was always in expectation that the wind was going to "bust" into an everlasting tempest, and that he would be, like old Mrs. Gummidge's son, "drowndead." We knew there was no real necessity for running into shore at a time when the ducks were just sailing around the decoys.
"Four days gone," significantly said Fox, holding up the fingers of one hand, "at $8 a day -- and no ducks."
The keeper of the
wife and children with him, his is an inexpressibly lonely and dreary life. The days seem like weeks, the months like years, and the monotony is well-night unendurable. Truly might he exclaim, with Alexander Selkirk,
"O solitude, where are the charms
That sages have seen in they face?"
The eternal sameness and utter isolation from all mankind is hard to bear, for man is a gregarious animal and needs company. It must have been such a place as this that caused the plaint in Locksley Hall:
"Oh, the dreary, dreary moorland;
Oh, the barren, barren shore!"
The next day found Mac toasting his shins at the fire, and, as it was near sunset before we were in the blinds, and in the mean time the wind had gone down, the result was nary a duck.
"Another day gone," said Fox.
Out of temper, we pulled back to the sloop, and found that Joe had fulfilled, as he always did, his contract, and had a hot supper awaiting us. After the meal, and we had lighted our pipes, we listened to Mac's vivid description of what he was going to do. Fox and myself glanced meaningly at each other, while Joe sat half enveloped in a cloud of smoke that poured from his mouth, his whole attitude expressive of perfect content.
I was none of his funeral. He wasn't after ducks.
"Joe," said Fox, "are you fond of gunning?"
Joe grunted a negative.
"Why?"
"'Cause I most killed myself once; got 'nuff of guns to last me forever."
The next morning, after an early breakfast, we remained in the blinds during the floodtide, and had a spurt of good luck; but the wind was not high enough, so we returned to the sloop early and passed the rest of the day after the guide's fashion -- in the cuddy-hole over the stove.
"Another day wasted," I remarked.
"Yes," said Fox; "I am getting tired of being imposed on. Here we are, paying four dollars apiece, and we don't get two hours' shooting a day. It's fine fun for Mac to doze over the fire all the time, and play us off with what he is going to do. Here are millions of snipe within pistolshot of the boat, and he hasn't even deigned to carry us to shoot them. I'm going back home to-morrow."
"Yes," I replied, "the whole trip is a fraud, and I will go back too."
That night we notified the guide of our determination, and he promised to carry us to the blinds at daybreak, hail, rain, wind, or sunshine.
"How's the weather, Joe?" said Fox, poking his head out of the bunk, as the gray dawn came stealing in through the pane of glass that constituted the window.
"I don't know, but I will see," announced Joe, as he rose up and almost burst his skull against the low ceiling.
"Durn me for a fool!" he muttered, sotto voce. "That's five hundred times I've done that; 'pears to me I never will l'arn sense. Wish my blasted head was off, anyhow."
"Raining like blazes," he shouted, after taking a survey of the weather through the cabin door.
So we remained in our shelves, and watched the breakfast in course of preparation. Joe could scare up a meal in ten minutes when he was in a hurry, but this morning he took his time in a leisurely way, and had a real artistic spread before us. "I never have no appetite noway, when I have to cook," said Joe, and then he sat down and ate enough to make a half dozen men ill with indigestion.
Noon by our watches, and still the rain came down in one of those steady pours that looked as if it meant business and did not intend to leave off. Cramped, cribbed, and confined as we were in the cabin, we were glad to put on our waterproofs and take a trip to Shell Island. A tramp of a couple of miles showed us nothing, and we returned, out of sorts and disgusted, to the sloop.
"Another day gone, and nothing to show for it," said Fox.
The next morning it was blowing great guns, and the ducks were flying beautifully, but our guide, Mac, curled himself in the bunk, with a congestive chill, as he said. My comrade and I smoked our pipes in wrathful silence.
Both Fox and myself had had enough of this, and we insisted on returning home. So Captain Joe commenced to raise the anchor; then, with our assistance, the sails were spread, when Mac, coming out of the cabin, seized the tiller and steered. All went well until the sloop turned sharp to the right, up a bend in the river, where she ran into the teeth of the gale. She could make no headway, so sails were reefed; then she
kept on her course. The wind shrieked, the cordage rattled, the sails flapped, the mast creaked, and the sloop, with the blast on the port side, cut through the water with the speed of a racehorse. The waves swept the decks clear; the water-casks went first, then all Joe's wood, next Mac's decoys, then my hat blew off. It was the biggest kind of a time. Inside the cabin there was the devil to play -- the boat careened so that the stove slipped aside and broke the pipe off, and the cabin was filled with dense smoke. Then could be heard the crash of glass as the lamp slid off the shelf; the crockery clattered, the knives jingled, the pans rattled, and it seemed as if the last hour was at hand.
Fox and myself stood in the cabin with our heads out of the door. Joe clung to the anchor-chains forward, while Mac steered the boat by means of a rope hitched around the tiller. The water was rapidly shoaling now, but the wind still beat the waves up high, and bellied out the canvas to its fullest extent. Mac clung, like grim death, to the rope. All at once the line slipped off the end of the helm, and the holder disappeared from view into the bubbling tide beneath.
"And is he gone? Oh, sudden solitude,
How oft that fearful question will intrude!
'Twas but an instant passed and there he stood,
And now --"
"Save me, for God's sake!" came an agonized cry from the stern.
We looked over, and there swung Mac, the other end of the rope being tied fast.
"Save me!" cried the pallid lips; "save me!"
uttered the imploring eye, and, more dead than alive, we hauled him aboard.
Scared? No, sir. He was only a little demoralized; he hadn't touched bottom all the time, but had hung suspended by the rope. The water was only two feet deep, and the keel had sunk deep in the mud.
"Thank Heaven! I've escaped from a watery grave!" he cried as he reached the deck.
"Dog-gone it," said Joe, "he mout have waded in shore! The water ain't 'bove his boot-tops!"