“A Clever Shot.”
The shores of the Wash, on the coast of South Lincolnshire, are bounded by a large expanse of mud-flats, where hosts of waders collect soon after the close of the breeding season and inhabit the innumerable creeks of salt water that form a network over the foreshore. In August, as soon as the season for shooting wildfowl has commenced, very fair sport may be had walking the salt marsh with a 12-bore in quest of the red shank, knot, or golden plover that feed amongst the pools and creeks in the day-time; there are a good number also of curlew, and the miniature curlew, or “curlew-jack,” as it is called in this part of the world. As a good many of these are young birds they may be stalked occasionally with success, or will approach within gun-range sometimes if flying over—a thing that the parent birds, especially curlew, will never do unless you are under good cover. Some grey duck, too, are about at the early part of the season, sometimes singly, or in small lots; later on in the autumn birds come from oversea that join our home-bred birds and augment their numbers; then, also, come widgeon, pochard, and sea-fowls of various kinds in the hard winters. These shallows, when covered at high tide, offer a splendid field for punting. I knew a doctor, of sporting proclivities, living in that neighbourhood, who kept a two-handed punt at the foreshore, driving down from the village where he lived sometimes for a shot at the ducks, if there was a prospect of sport. These excursions in many cases were attended with poor success, for, unless you are a professional gunner, living on the spot and always ready, you miss most of the chances that offer, though, of course, any one experienced in wildfowling knows well the uncertainties of the sport and is prepared for disappointments; occasionally, however, there were red-letter days, as that afternoon in December, when Ted L., the doctor’s son, and I were out together, proved.
It was a bitterly cold day, with a blizzard from the east, bringing with it snow-squalls every half hour or so, and afterwards a lull, in short, a capital day for sport, though the intense cold, exposed as we were in the punt, was most trying.
Besides the stanchion gun, taking a charge of ¾ lb. of shot and breech-loading, we took two shoulder guns, a heavy 8-bore, and a stout 10-bore, the latter intended chiefly as a “cripple-stopper” if we had a successful pull with the big gun. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon as we launched the punt, the tide was rising and beginning to fill the creeks nicely. We cruised about, keeping to the large creeks where we could find shelter from the piercing wind that came from the sea directly in our teeth. Crouching low in the boat and taking the punt into sheltered coves as much as possible we found it more bearable, though in raising our heads to look round every now and then, the wind brought the sleet into our eyes and faces stinging like a whip. I had two or three shots into golden plover with the 10-bore, and fetched down over a score of birds, though unable to gather two-thirds of the number, as they often fell on the soft mud. or, wounded, quickly made their way to the water, out of reach.
Now and again as the snow-squalls came over us, the flakes falling so thickly as to make the air quite dark all round, we could hear a muffled sound of geese calling out seawards, and wisps of widgeon or grey duck came past, often within shot, but lost again too quickly in the murky atmosphere to give much chance of bringing any down; I had one or two pulls at them, but it was impossible to say if I killed or not, what with the bad light and the gale in our faces. In about half an hour the wind dropped a little, and the tide beginning to ebb, we paddled out from our shelter and began to keep a sharp look-out on the mud-banks for ducks and other fowl that would be dropping down to feed as the tide receded.
“There’s a nice bunch yonder,” said Ted, as he pointed out a black mass on a point of mud some two hundred yards ahead, and taking out my binoculars I looked and saw that it was a company of widgeon with grey duck amongst them feeding away greedily.
Losing no more time, I commenced paddling in their direction. Ted having already prostrated himself forward, to manage the punt gun, opening the breech and inserting a shell with No. 1 shot. I had all my work cut out with the paddles, as the water was very choppy, and it required all my strength to keep the punt’s head in the right direction whilst keeping my body as flat as possible; at any rate, I had to keep down after the first quarter’s distance was passed, as the birds, hungry as they were, might have taken alarm. We were getting on well, and the air having become clear again, could see the ducks with heads together and necks stretched out as they gobbled hungrily at the weeds that floated in the shallows; we seemed now to be not much over 100 yards away, though it might be more, as the distances over water are so deceptive and always appear less than they really are. Ted now gave me a warning kick to go steady, so I took the short paddles and “set” to the birds, hoping to get inside of eighty yards’ range, if possible; the tide running out helped us somewhat, and presently another kick from Ted gave me the cue to stop paddling, as we had approached near enough, and he prepared to take the shot. Raising my head an inch or two, I could just see above the coaming that the birds, apparently, were undisturbed, as they were still feeding.
Ted was waiting for them to gather together more before he fired.
Now they are in closer formation and Ted slightly elevates his gun, and, with his hand ready to strike the trigger, gives a loud whistle. Up spring a cloud of widgeon and the half hundred or so grey duck that were amongst them, but they hardly clear the mud when Ted’s gun booms forth. The shot charge at that distance, between seventy and eighty yards, opened beautifully and cut a lane through the black mass; birds dropped like hail on to the spot where they had but just risen from feeding, as the shot was perfectly timed, only allowing the flock to get on the wing and with no time to rise or spread themselves out. Making vigorous use of the paddles we soon had the punt up against the mud bank and proceeded to gather the slain; the mud, without the cumbersome mud-boards on, would just bear us, and I got out with the 10-bore and stopped two or three very lively “cripples” that were fast making good their escape towards the creeks. Ted knocked over one or two others that were swimming around with wings broken, with a punting pole, and as soon as these were disposed of we began to turn our attention to the main lot of dead or nearly so, strewn over the foreshore.
Ted was delighted and so was I when we realised what a pretty shot he had made, and we forgot the numbing cold that we had so grumbled at a short time before, and thought our sport worth all the discomfort. We picked up seven mallard and nineteen widgeon altogether, or twenty-six head as the result of the shot, and no doubt there would be some others in the flock hit very hard having strength to fly some distance but would afterwards drop. These were out of count, but we were well satisfied, and felt compensated for many previous failures, when, after laboriously setting up to birds we had the mortification of seeing them rise just as we were on the point of getting within range.
This time it had “come off” and our show of fine plump mallard and widgeon made quite a sensation when we returned to the village that evening.
Herbert Sharp.