Birds at Cobb's Island
THIS makes my second visit to this "lone isle by the sea" during the winter.
A few days before Christmas Jem Fox and your correspondent found ourselves at Old Point Comfort en route for Cobb's, and we spent a most enjoyable evening at the Hygeia Hotel. This resort has been enlarged and improved year by year, extensions, wings, new annex hotels have been built, until the building has reached the stateliness, beauty and dimensions of a palace. The grand hotel is seven hundred feet long, which two wide porches encircle, eleven spacious parlors, half a dozen private dining rooms, eight hundred bed chambers, most of them elegantly furnished, electric bells, electric lights, telephones and every appliance of modern art go to make the Hygeia the most costly building on the Atlantic coast. This property is owned by Mr. Harry Phoebus, who has expended upon it over $300,000. He is a self-made man. During the war he was a bright but penniless youth looking for odd jobs, and held horses for two dollars a month, and now he is one of the most esteemed magnates of the Old Dominion.
Phoebus is still a young man; in appearance he is thick-set and fast developing into a rotundancy of Falstaffian proportions. His head is well shaped, his face round and covered with thick beard and mustache; his eyes are his best feature, and are clear, searching and piercing. Indeed he is such a good fellow and bears such a resemblance to certain high cards in the pack that he goes entirely by the name of the "King of Trumps."
Sportsmen and tourists, whether on the way to Cobb's Island, Currituck or Florida, will live to thank me for my advice if they follow it, by stopping at Old point instead of Norfolk. The Hygeia is incomparably superior to any Norfolk Hotel; it is a far more enjoyable place than the dreary stay at the inns of either Norfolk or Portsmouth.
To get to Cobb's Island take the steamer Northampton that runs to Cherrystone, and which leaves Old Point every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Captain McCarrick, who is a good type of a genial Virginian. The ride in the boat to Cherrystone takes about two hours, and is pleasant and exhilarating if you happen to have about a hundred shells loaded with No. 4 shot, for the ducks, loons and coots are in myriads in the bay, and are so lazy that they won't fly until the steamers's prow cuts its way through the flock. It is beautiful sport, and the best practice an amateur can have. Shooting down at them from your elevation in the bow as they fly across the prow, you can see where the shot hits in the water, and can thus practice aiming and perceive the laws of shooting ahead of the game, the velocity of the bird's flight, and especially discover that a tough loon is as hard to kill as a cat.
Fox and myself got our hands in on our way and made some handsome fancy shots. All the ducks killed are picked up by passing schooners. There was a brilliant bridal party on board, and the groom tried his hand with the breech-loader, but whether from agitation or excessive happiness his nerves were so unstrung that he did not touch a feather.
Christmas eve we reached the island; and on this day that the whole civilized world was celebrating, when radiant looks, hearty greetings and especially the exuberant joy of childhood was visible on every hand, making the poor feel more content, the sorrow-stricken happier and the rich more charitable, the island looked desolate in the extreme. Warren and Nathan Cobb sauntered down to meet us, and gave us a warm greeting; and a few children stood by the wharf and celebrated our arrival with great curiosity; but, unhappy infants, they didn't bother their heads about to-morrow, nor gleefully speculate if we were not some emissary of that hooked-nose, pot-bellied divinity that comes down the chimney and gives every good boy and girl exactly that which it most wants. Christmas to these simple and stolid islanders meant a day like Sunday -- that was all. No ecstatic visions of mammoth turkeys and plum puddings made them lick their lips; and even the ubiquitous street Arab and his detonating fire-cracker was wanting, and the day was as still as in the desert. It was rather disheartening to our spirits - but we had come to hunt, and not to sentimentalize over the Christmas chimes. A clear day was of more importance to us than the sound of the pealing bells, and we shook off the momentary feeling of depression and entered the house.
We were the only sportsmen on the island; so we ate our dinner in solitary style. It was as unorthodox Christmas eve, for the weather was as mild and gentle as a May day. I could not help contrasting it with the preceding Christmas that I spent here, when the whole island was hid in snow and the ice, brought in by each incoming tide, was piled up in layers on the beach until the whole place was surrounded in a glittering rampart at least twelve feet high, as regular in design and height as if it had been the work of trained engineers.
That night, as Fox and myself sat by our solitary fire, Tom Spady came up with a bottle of Madame Clecquot under each arm, and insisted on us drinking a glass in honor of the day. We drew the last drop, and then gave as a toast Mrs. Spady and the Twins, for Tom is the happy father of the lustiest, most marvelous favored duplicates that ever were seen; they were boys, about four years old, and so much alike their own mother can't tell them apart. Of course, she claims she can.
Shortly after, and just before midnight, we had the first touch of Christmas. A noise was heard on the stairs, and Bill Johns entered , as happy as the lord. Everybody who ever was on Cobb's Island knows Bill; he is Nathan Cobb's henchman and right-hand man, and, while sober the rest of year, yet gets tight as the allegorical and metaphorical brick on every fourth of July, Easter and the holidays, on principle. His drunks were what is known as bloody. A good tale is told of Bill's adventure at Hog Island last summer. He is a bachelor and, withal, a great admirer of the fair sex. There was a ball given by the natives there, and a delegation from Cobb's went over in a row boat. After dancing all night to the music of one cracked ninety-nine cent fiddle, the party prepared to embark. All got safely in except Bill, who, standing on the wharf, singing out lustily the refrain of the "Jolly Mariner," that goes something in this wise:
"Here's to the wind that blows -- the ship that goes, And the lass that loves a sailor."
"Jump in Bill, and stop that confounded hollowing," said Warren, holding on to the pier with a boat hook.
"Steady her boys," ordered Tom Spady. "Now Bill, in you go!"
Bill took his position on the extreme end of the wharf, and straightened his limbs.
"Are you ready?" he hiccoughed.
"Yes!" was the reply. "Now!"
Bill let out to the best of his ability; but he miscalculated the distance and jumped clear over the boat, and striking the blue waters disappeared beneath the depths; a few bubbles appeared on the surface, and then after what seemed as an interminable waiting, the head of Bill himself appeared spouting water like a whale; a half a dozen hands grasped him, and pulled him dripping into the boat.
Bill coughed and threw up about a gallon of salt water, and then spluttered out as he raised himself:
"By George, boys; how this darned old boat does leak."
But, to return to the story. Bill sat down in the chair, and shouted in a hoarse, indistinct voice, "Hurrah for Chrisums; hurrah!" He continued to repeat these words at intervals, and then went fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of the time when he was a barefooted boy living on the main, and kept his pennies in an old battered tin savings' bank, which was only to be opened at Christmas.
Finally, just as we turned in, we called Tom, a colored major domo, who acted in any capacity that the guest might order, and told him to lead Bill out."
Tom came back laughing -- "Mr. Bill is a strange man; he's got some idea in his head, and wont go home; he's standing up by the draw-bars, and says he's a fence-post, and if he leaves go, the whole fence will fall down and the cows will get into the cabbages."
We went out and there was Bill as erect and determined as the Roman sentinel on guard at the city gates of Pompeii. Neither entreaties or reason could rule him. It being a clear, warm night, we left him.
Hanging our stockings up first for luck, Tom and myself were in the land of dreams.
The next morning when Tom burst in the room with the congratulations of the day, we asked him:
"Where's Bill; has he got sober yet?"
Tom scratched his head and laughed. "'Pears to me he's gone and got more liquor, fur he's a still standing; Mr. Nathan has gone to get him away."
When we went to breakfast he was gone. Good, simple hearted, obliging Bill Johns; to thy thousand virtues thou hast but this one fault and, like the profanity of Uncle Toby, we pass it lightly by; and know the recording angel blotted that little record out.
Christmas Day was warm, bright and sunny. The ocean lay in all its majestic beauty, as calm, still and smooth as a lake hid away in some mountain fastness; stately ships decorated with bunting appeared motionless on the surface, and earth, air, water, harmonized in one grand anthem in honor of the nativity.
"It's too calm for ducks," said Nathan, whose opinion on all sporting matters is as unanswerable and unappealable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, "but it's a perfect day for snipe."
"Why?" we asked.
"Because bad weather scatters the large flocks in every direction, and they are very shy, but on a calm warm day they unite and become lazy and will let a man walk almost up to them. I'll make the boy get the cart and carry you where there are acres of them."
In a short time we were on our way along the beach toward Hog Island. Going about five miles, our island gradually contracted, until a narrow strip of sand some fifty yards wide, over which the waves at high tide dashed, showed where the possessions of the Cobbs ended. On this sandbank the snipe were feeding in countless numbers, and I am not exaggerating when I say that the bar running into the sea was so thick with them that there was not a bare spot discernable. Creeping up on our hands and knees to within forty yards we sighted along the fluttering mosaic looking floor and pulled trigger. Two long swaths of dead and dying marked the track of the shot. The vast flock rose and swept away and then turning came back literally hiding the sky. Four sudden reports, a shower of birds, and the flock swirl to the right and divide. One half goes further down, the others again turn to the fatal spot. Yet again the miniature thunder peals out in the still morning air, and with affrighted whistles the snipe fly away out of sight.
Fox goes one way, I another, after the dead. For every one killed there are two wounded, and we have a lively chase in the water after them, dozens and scores escape us, for the tide is rising and the crippled birds can swim like a duck, and they soon reach deep water and are safe from us, but not from the sea hawks, who come out in force and swoop down on the wounded as certain and relentless as fate. We gather up the dead and pile them in great heaps; we have nearly gotten through when we stop work for further sport. Look! isn't that a beautiful sight? a flock of snipe fully a hundred yards long and thick, performing the most beautiful evolutions that it is possible to conceive. A leader marked the way, and with unerring precision each bird followed and kept his proper space. There was no confusion, no jostling as they spun through the air with the speed of the wind. Now skimming along the surface of the water, then in a second up in the blue vault with the suddenness of a rocket, next a slanting curve, then a concentric circle in every movement. Each bird would seem to turn its body, and the bright sun shining on the mass that shifted in color every moment, the result was indescribable. Now the moving space would whirl through the air; it was as white as the snow, then by a sudden turn only the backs of the birds would be visible, and they appeared a huge grayish cloud flying through space. Like the shifting light thrown from prisms, the colors are always changing. For a short time I doubt whether the fair disciples of Oscar Wilde ever received more pleasure from watching the delicate tints of the lily or the gorgeous crimson and red of the sunflower, than did we in looking at the bright glancing of the sun or the exquisite gloss and sheen of the feathers. But when the branching cloud bore down upon us again, our aesthetic taste vanished and the sporting spirit assumed its sway. Our trusty breech-loaders we grasped and we waited.
"Don't fire until they turn," whispered Jem, and just then they swept to the right not ten yards away. "Give it to them" shouted my companion, and four triggers were pressed and the sound swept over the placid waters, scaring a flock of geese who were feeding a full mile away.
All that morning we had splendid sport, and not until the tide fell and left all the fields bare, did we stop. We killed hundreds, and they were in fine condition.
Our stay on the island was only a week, and we waited so long for a favorable day to shoot brant from the decoys in vain. We could look though Nathan's powerful spy glass and see thousands feeding on the banks and shoals, but any attempt to shoot them was worse than useless. There have to be three elements, all favorable, before you can have any luck over the decoys. The tide has to be just right, that is, falling, on the ebb at daybreak. The sun must come out brightly and the wind blowing. In all of our stay these three things did not assimilate together. If a wind was blowing, the tide was wrong. If the tide was right, there was a perfect calm. If the wind was blowing, the sun wasn't shining. Or if the sun was shining and the wind was blowing, the tide was on the flood. Or it was not on the flood and the wind was just right, then the clouds were banked up in the sky. In fact, these three uncertainties, in all making one harmony, was as risky a thing to count on, as a call in faro, and everybody knows how uncertain that is.
In a crowd, awaiting the pleasure of the elements, the true character of the man would show itself. One would take the matter philosophically and coolly, read a ten cent novel with all the absorbing interest of a bibliomaniac perusing a rare volume at a book stall. He takes things as they come, and nothing can daunt his spirits. If the shooting is good, he enjoys it to the top notch. If the sport is bad, he accepts it with the same equanimity of temper, and if it rains, he can pass long hours in the mysteries of old sledge or draw poker.
What a contrast is that restless, miserable looking being who yawns, looks at his watch every ten minutes, gazes out of the window a dozen times in an hour, and grumbles, grumbles, grumbles, until even his best friends wish that some miracle would strike him dumb.
Then there is the gloomy sportsman who always indulges in dark forebodings -- something's going to happen to prevent good shooting. In his life, the "something" is like the remorse of Macbeth, it poisons his every cup of wine.
My comrade was of the first sort; a born Bohemian who could take the fat and lean of life with as much nonchalance as any man I ever met.
Our duck shooting was a failure -- we left without a single good day's sport.
This second trip I came down with a party of three -- the others were not shootists, but capitalists, or representing capital, who intend buying Cobb's Island with a view to build up a grand watering place, a charter to that effect having been rushed through the Virginia Legislature.
There were no ducks. The brant had all been driven away by the Jersey oystermen who flocked down to Cobb's and Hog Island like the lice in Egypt. They played the mischief, violated the oyster law, and coolly took thousands of bushels of oysters without leave or license, and worse than all, commenced to shoot the brant in the night time with the aid of light and reflectors. Whole flocks can be slaughtered in that way. The dazzling gleam of the lamps confuse the ducks. They make no effort to get away, but swim together in as tight a lump and in as compact a mass as they can get, and then sit stupidly and blink at the brilliant glare. A discharge of a heavy gun, and dozens are killed at a shot, many more are wounded, and the others, bewildered and scared, fly aimlessly about, and in the morning migrate to distant parts. The wounded swim off unnoticed in the obscurity of the night, and die lingering deaths in the sedges and grass of the flats.
The owners of Cobb's and Hog Islands are indignant, nay, they are almost frenzied at this unpardonable spoliation, and if they could catch the vandals in the act they would never trouble judge or jury. But it is almost impossible to capture the scoundrels, for when the islanders catch the gleam of the lights and hear the heavy report of the gun they man their boat and put out in pursuit. It is like hunting for the proverbial flea in a tar-barrel, for the reflector is extinguished and the pot-hunter rows silently and quietly away.
Thus it is that a half dozen vile wretches have utterly ruined the brant shooting in the vicinity of this island, and have destroyed to the local legitimate gunners a source of heavy revenue, and to the gentleman sportsmen, the finest shooting that this coast offers. Is there any fate too severe for such miscreants? Oh, that they could only be caught and tried by a jury of sportsmen, I wot well what the verdict would be.
There being no duck shooting I took advantage of a bright sunny day and went up to the beach and had tolerable sport, killing one hundred and twenty-eight snipe.
Now, a word about hunting here. The best time of the year is in May, when the robin snipe comes in uncounted numbers, and the shooting is superb. I doubt for the time -- two to three weeks -- if there is any spot on this continent where better sport can be had than at Cobb's, the bags averaging from sixty to a hundred and fifty per day. Board on the island is two dollars a day, and first-rate fare.
I cannot refrain here from thanking the FOREST AND STREAM for the finest gun I ever handled. It was an advertisement I saw in the FOREST AND STREAM that induced me to get it, and though the "ad" was doubtless paid for, still, if there had been no FOREST AND STREAM there would have been no advertisement, and I wouldn't have possessed my weapon; don't you see the logic of the thing? Well, I own several guns and was never exactly satisfied until I got a No. 10 Greener trap gun, full choke. It is the best piece I ever handled, and for partridge, turkey, ducks and snipe, it is simply perfect. I have consigned my other guns to their covers, where they will hereafter rust out, and not wear out, and use my "Greener" alone, and I can say of my favorite what Selwin wrote of his fiancee, Miss Bread:
"While toasts women's graces spread,
And fops around them flutter --
I'll be content with Annie Bread,
And won't have any but-her
Writing on this topic reminds me of the controversy in the FOREST AND STREAM in regard to rust in gun barrels.
I asked Nathan Cobb how he kept his double-barrels so clean and bright and free from rust. He has five. Just here I can say that there is no man in Virginia that has shot as much or killed as much game as he, or knows as much about gun and ammunition, all practical knowledge, too, which he has gained by close application and unremitting observation.
"I don't waste no time on them" he said, "and I don't take pride making 'em shine inside, but the best preventation from rusting is the caked powder inside. That keeps the salt air from moulding the barrels, and when I clean them I use whale oil and not a drop of water, so my gun is never rusted."
I think with Nathan, that rust don't hurt the barrels, and for one prefer to keep the outside and the mechanism of the works perfectly clean than the inside of the tubes. The idea of carefully cleansing the gun after every hunt, no matter if the barrels have been discharged only once, is absurd in my eyes, though I see some of your correspondents advise it. If they would go out with me on some of my hunting trips I think they would find it impracticable. A man coming home after dark broken down and dead sleepy, is not apt to worry over his gun, and when on a ducking sloop he dives down in his cabin twenty times a day and seizes his gun and blazes away at some skurrying duck or darting wild fowl, were he to attempt to clean up after every shoot he would find that the cleaning rod would never leave his hand. A fancy gun for a fancy sportsman, both to be in keeping should be speckless and spotless, neither rust on the one nor dirt or mud on the other, but to the true huntsman all such daintiness is senseless and silly.
CHASSUER.