Brant Shooting on the Atlantic Coast, Concluded

"About the bay," he broke out in his quavering voice that "pipes and whistles in his sound." "Why, good Lord, you folks don't know what cole weather is -- leastways like it used ter be. Dem times ain't dese times. When I was a boy, belonging ter Marse John Brokenbrough, down dar whar de York Riber empties in de bay, dar was a winter dat done take de cake. De winter yous been a-talken 'bout must have been dat a one. I disremembers de time egsakly, but de bay was clean solid; eberyting froze dat could freeze. My old woman, me and de chiluns, sat up all one night round de fire. It was too cole to go ter bed. De hens, de turkeys and even de wild crows done froze stiff. We lost clean all our fowls 'cept one old hen dat roosted on de chimney. When de cows was being milked it froz before it struck de bucket. De hands all knock off work, and we burned a monstrous sight of wood on de ole plantation dat time.

"Ole Marse John he 'lowed as it was time to fill de ice house, and when we went to the pond we found it solid clean down to de bottom, and seein' as how he couldn't git de ice out no other way no-how, Marse John druv two holes down deep and sunk two cedar posts clean to de ground, den he tied a big rope to the post and hitched four yoke ov oxen to one and six horse to de other. Den de whip cracked, and dem horses and oxen dey strained and strained, and I hope I may live to die if we didn't draw de whole pond to de ice house, and saved the trouble of hauling, and de hands had nuffin to do but chop up de ice and frow it in de house. Yes, sar, that was a cole winter."

"Uncle Simon," said Mr. Fox, "here's a dollar for you. Ananias would have blushed and crossed over to the other side of the road had he met you."

"I'll back old Si for lying," remarked the keeper sotto voce, "against any darkey in Virginia."

"I dunno nuffin 'bout Annie Nias,
Marse Fox, but I'm 'bliged to yer," making a Chesterfieldian bow; "but conversin' on the cole, done bring to my mind one ov de very hardest winters you ever heard tell about; it's long befo' any of yous were born. I was waitin' on young Marse Carter, son of ole Marse John, and he was payin' a visit to de Randolphs at Turkey Bend, who had de biggest plantation and de most niggers of any of de gentlemens who libbed on de Jemms River. Marse Carter was powerful fond of shootin' and dar was nuffin' that flies as he couldn't hit, and de Randolph boys was mos' handy with de gun as he was.

"Dar was a big mill pond 'bout a mile from whar dey lived, which was monstrous good place for ducks. One ebening de miller's boy cum runnin' to de house an says dat de ducks was a-settlin' in de pond as thick as grasshoppers in de medder. It done turn sud'nly cole dat ebening, never seed it beat in my born days, and de boys sot up haf de night a cleanin' dar guns and a-fixin' dar ammernishun. In the mornin' by sunrise we all went to de mill pond, and dar sot de ducks by de thousands and milyuns, and de pond jammed wid um, and, Gorromitely! honey, dey couldn't move, de ice done froze so fast it catch dem by de legs and dar dey sot a-waitin' for a thaw.

Here Uncle Simon stopped, shut one eye and grinned from ear to ear.

"Now, you charcoal Munchausen," I said, "that is a likely tale. I suppose you got a scythe and went to mowing their heads off."

"Or," remarked my comrade, "you hauled them ashore like you did the ice pond."

"I suppose," added the keeper," that you went into the feather business and picked the fowls clean."

The old darkey broke out into a guffaw of unfeigned satisfaction.

"Not one on you gentlemen done guessed right. Why, good land! we did'nt get one ov dem ducks after all."

"Why, how's that?" we interrogated together.

"Case Marse Carter and the Randolph boys fired in de thick, and den, great Land of Canaan! such a rufflin' and a flappin' ov wings, such a cracklin' and splittin' of ice, nuf to make us think de world a-comin' to de end all at wunst. Den de ducks all a-movin' dar wings together, and it was too much for de ice, de ducks all riz, and, honey, dey just natterly flewed away wid de mill pond!"

The keeper arose. "I'm going to the top of the tower after that."

Mr. Fox followed suit. "You'll be claiming to be General Washington's body servant next."

"I will send you a medal when I get home, Uncle Simon," I said, and then I followed the rest.

Several days thereafter we made another essay at the brant. It was blowing hard, a frigid, biting wind, that seemed determined to prevent us from making the blinds, but by a desperate and long-continued effort we accomplished our object. The prospect for sport at sunrise was glorious, immense numbers of brant were coming in from the bay. Our preparations were soon made; a hundred decoys were riding on the waves in front of the blind. Each man's leather box, containing about six scores of shells, lay on the seat beside him, and his gun rested on his knees. Alas for our anticipations! it was but another instance of the disappointment that a sportsman has to endure. The wind died away, the frost was absorbed by the sun, it became a calm, clear, warm morning, most agreeable to the senses, but fatal to the gunner's hopes. One by one we shed our garments, until at last we set in our usual hunting corduroy, waiting for the wild fowl to come our way. The decoys made a beautiful display, but did not attract the brant, who were busy feeding in one huge mass, acres in extent, about a mile distant. For a couple of hours we waited, smoking and talking, and did not get a shot. Finally we got tired, and replaced the decoys in the boat.

"Get your oars, Tom," I said, "and row toward that flock. I want to try my Winchester on them." Slowly we approached to within about four hundred yards of them, and then as the great cloud of birds took wing I pumped a dozen bullets in their direction before they got out of range, and the result was five brant.

During the week we tried another plan. Choosing a day when a light breeze was rippling the water we started in the sailboat up the creeks of the Broadwater, Tom at the helm and my comrade and myself at the bow. We cruised for miles, the helmsman shaping his course toward every flock and single duck in the way. We had fine shooting at all kinds of ducks and got several dozen. Mr. Fox had a
No. 4 single-barrel breech loader, and it was with this that most of the birds were killed; it was as sure at ninety yards as our No. 10 Greener was at sixty. The objection to it was its weight, recoil and a report so loud that it was apt to scare the waterfowl in its vicinity. The No. 4 will never be of much demand except among the professional pot hunters. Its weight and size prevent it being used on single birds, and no shoulder could stand the repeated shocks. A No. 8 Greener is about as large in size as even a stalwart man can handle with any comfort, and even that weight is too much for the ordinary gunner whose weight is between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and sixty pounds.

Our stay was drawing to a close, and we had one more brant hunt, one that will never be forgotten by the participants. A little after 2 o'clock one morning Tom came down from his watch and awoke all hands. The keeper went yawning and rubbing his eyes to the top of the tower; his wife busied herself in preparing a hot breakfast, while Simon was directed to get the ox cart. The old darkey was crusty and sulky at being routed out of his warm couch at this untimely hour, and went about grumbling in an audible tone as he collected our traps. Reaching the landing Tom told us he would place us in the blinds, and then return to the shore for a while to hunt up some stray cattle, so we took the large boat, and he the small one, and both started off to set the decoys. It had been a fair night and promised an equally fair day, but now the steady north wind had shifted to the east, and came in fitful gusts; the air had lost its keenness and felt moist and damp. When we reached the blinds Tom stopped rowing, and, rising, gazed long and searchingly toward every point in the compass. The ascending sun, shining with a blood-red color, caught his eye.

"I don't like the looks of things," he said.

"What's the matter?"

"Look at them clouds and the sun; see the color of the water, feel the air. I haven't lived on the coast all of my life without learning something. Them signs don't lie; thar's danger all around, I smell it."

"Oh, nothing is going to happen, Tom; let's put the decoys out, the birds will be flying soon."

Tom shook his head, and made another survey of sky and ocean. "It's no use talking, thar's going to be a storm; all the signs pint that way."

"Well, what do you propose to do?"

"Shooting out here won't do; it ain't going to do," he said decisively. "If a storm comes you will be blown out to sea certain, that is, if the boat doesn't upset. Now, there is a black duck blind near the far end of the island; we'll go there."

So resuming the oars we pulled diagonally northward, where the neck of the island separates the ocean from the Broadwater. The land here is merely sand dunes and but a couple of hundred feet wide, and at exceptional high tides the ocean at this point overspreads the frail barrier and dashes its surf against the shores of the mainland. The tide was already above high-water mark and still rising, the wind came and went and blew from different points in a most unaccountable manner: the waves, too, had changed their greenish hue to dark clay or dull slate color. On the other side of the neck of the island the billows were booming without any assignable cause, and it seemed as though Old Ocean was mad at something. The blind was about one hundred yards from shore, and as we worked with a will the decoys were soon riding the surface and we were ready for business. Mr. Fox and myself pulled to the blinds and concealed the boat as well as we could, while Tim put back to shore, saying he would return in an hour or so.

The sky darkened, dashes of snow commenced to fall, and Old Boreas began his carnival, intending to have a high old time. The waterfowl came with a rush, a bunch of four appeared and we killed them all. Hardly had we slipped fresh cartridges in the guns when a great flock approached; they wheeled by with the wind, and as they beat back we let in them and dropped fully a dozen; again and again they returned, and as often our guns rang out and lessened their numbers. I never saw the brant fly as they did that memorable morning; they beat to windward slowly around the decoys, they dropped from the clouds, they circled and wheeled over the blinds, often so close that we could see their eyes. We fired every few seconds, but the birds didn't mind the explosions, they seemed to have changed their nature and lost all sense of fear; they flew singly, in twos,
in battalions, in clouds -- the very air in the vicinity was alive with them. We threw off our superfluous clothing, and, standing up, shot right and left, and knocked them over by the score; we fired so rapidly that the barrels of our guns grew hot, but we heeded nothing except those magnificent birds, nor even perceived the swirling tide, nor noticed the dusky, murky atmosphere; all of our attention was taken up with slipping shell in the gun, aiming and firing.

All at once Tom appeared at the blind and yelled in a stentorian voice.

"Strike for the shore, quick!"

"What! and leave the best brant shooting we ever had? See how thick they are?"

"It's because they are scared nearly to death by the storm. Come to shore, drop everything; hurry, for God's sake!"

We dropped the guns, seized the oars and pushed out. The waves, that were in a measure broken by the blinds, now had a fair sweep at us, and the boat rocked fearfully.

"Ain't you going to get the dead ducks and the decoys?" we shouted to Tom.

"No; don't you see it's a matter of life or death?"

We were startled at his words, and looked shoreward; the ocean in its might had broken over the sandy barricade and changed the Broadwater at this point into a raging sea.

Tom, with his jaws set tight, his hat gone and his long hair lashing over his face, pulled diagonally to the right, so as to get out of the chasm caused by the bubbling, churning, seething breakers. We worked manfully at the oars, but the onslaught of the waves, aided by the wind, fought us back. Again and again we would advance, then recede, until by a lucky spurt we gained a momentum that enabled us slowly to forge ahead, and we had gone fully three-fourths of the distance when a huge breaker came charging over the sand dunes like a thing of life and struck us slantways. We saw Tom's boat hurled in air and fall bottom up, while our own was within an ace of being swamped and spun around like a top. As it was, we shipped about a barrelful of water. By a frantic struggle we brought her head round, and made for the spot where Tom had gone down. We soon saw him swimming for us, and as I stooped down to assist him in he shouted to me that he could hang on, and to pull for the shore. Another fight against sea and wind, and we got within thirty yards or so of the beach, but our utmost efforts could not send the boat another step; the combined weight of the gallons of water within and our own gravity was too much for her, and every moment the spray would rain in showers.

One good thing in our favor was the water was not deep. We could feel the keel strike against the bottom with a powerful force as the boat dropped in the dip. Tom, who had worked his way to the bow, now sang out to us to heave the anchor and jump out, as the boat would soon be pounded to pieces. I slipped the iron over, and Fox and myself leaped into the boiling surf. As strange as it may seem, neither of us felt the icy coldness then -- our feelings were too much wrought up.

Now commenced a struggle for life. The water in a calm was not our waist deep, but the great swash of the breakers several feet high would pass completely over our heads, and leave us blowing, blinded and nearly breathless. Fortunately we were all practiced swimmers, thoroughly understanding surf bathing, and, better than all, we kept out nerve and did not get rattled. We were often swept off our feet, but, clinging to and helping each other, we would rise and, making a dash, advance several feet and await the next onset, which would overwhelm us for the time. In this way we reached land, got to a solid part of the island, and, crossing the island higher up, arrived at the ocean's beach. We were soon running for the lighthouse, about two miles off or thereabouts. It did not take us long to reach the place, and we found everybody in an intense state of excitement. The coastguard men had already launched the lifeboat to go to our assistance. Tom's wife was crying and praying in one breath, and when her liege lord appeared she flung herself on the iced garments with a fervor that would have been affecting if it had not been so laughable. The captain took us in hand.

"It is my business to attend to shipwrecks," he said, "and if you are not half-drowned castaways I never saw any."

First thawing our outer clothes by the hot stove, he disrobed us, concocted a hot drink of medicinal brandy and ginger, and made two of his men rub us down with hot flannel. Then placing us in bed, piling about a dozen blankets over each,
he left us to our slumbers, and in a few hours we got up, feeling as fresh as the typical lark. That evening we sat around the fire talking about the affair.

"It's my pra'ars as saved you," interrupted Uncle Simon, who had been hovering near, waiting for a chance to get in his say. "I done prayed for you all dis mornin'. Mitey narrer 'scape; minds me of the time when young Marse Carter, son of old Marse John, went --"

"That will do, Uncle Simon," said the keeper, "we don't want you to strain your imagination; it might break. Go out and bring in an armful of wood."

A few days after we bid adieu to our hospitable entertainers and left Smith island with a large stock of pleasant memories, but to this day Mr. Fox and myself never cease to wonder how many brant we killed in that morning's sport on the Atlantic coast.