The Spotted Eagle (Aquila nævia) we have never personally met with: though Arévalo (Aves de España, p. 58) describes it as not uncommon, nesting in crevices of rocks among the wooded mountains, and frequenting the rice-swamps of Valencia.
The White-tailed Sea-Eagle (Haliæetus albicilla) according to Spanish authorities, is also found on passage and in winter. Manuel de la Torre gave us its name as "Aguila leona," but we have never seen it in Spain at any season.
On January 4th, 1888, we made the acquaintance of another fine species, one of the largest of the feathered race, under the following circumstances:—We were partridge-shooting, and before our advancing line observed soaring over the plain a pair of enormous birds, which we took for the largest Imperial Eagles we had ever seen. B. had always held that those I had previously shot here (as just related) were of small size, and that there existed, on the Andalucian rega, eagles of twice their dimensions. Here at last we were in presence of a pair of these stupendous eagles, and my anxiety to take the offensive—however remote or impossible its chance of success—knew no bounds. The pursuit of partridge, quail and hare—even the approaching avero—faded into insignificance, and these huge birds monopolized all attention. Presently one—the larger—passed outside the line, and after almost interminable aërial sweeps settled slowly down to the summit of a small wild-olive. At once we called up one of our wild-fowlers, who, with his trained cabresto pony, was close at hand. The pony was divested of saddle and bridle, and with only a halter and a cord to his near fore-knee—preparations which told him distinctly enough the nature of the business in hand—was ready for action. Away we went, Vasquez crouching behind the shoulder, myself behind the quarter, and holding with my right hand by his tail. By this device we arrived, unnoticed, to a range of forty yards—nearer we could not get by reason of a marshy creek with steep, slimy banks. I therefore at once despatched the charge of treble A, right for the monster's head. The effect was unmistakable—he rolled over to the shot, and fell to earth. But those huge wings never ceased to work, and a second dose of slugs (on the ground) had no visible effect. From mere spasmodic flapping the great bird gradually recovered control, and a few seconds later was distinctly flying—very low, but still clearly on the wing and departing. For nearly a mile he flapped along, never a yard above the scrub—then settled, on the very edge of the water. We followed, and when I next raised my eyes over the pony's quarter, there, within six yards, stretched out flat on the bare mud, lay our victim. His head lay prostrate, but his eye still brightly watched us. Hard and impervious to shot as I well knew these great raptores to be, I was hardly prepared to see him rise again, and could not have believed what followed. Not only did he rise on wing, but received two more charges of treble A—mould-shot as big as peas—at a range of under twenty yards, without wincing, and after that, flew full 200 yards before finally collapsing: then at last he fell, stone-dead.
Our trophy was not an eagle after all! but one of those giant birds, the Black Vulture (Vultur monachus), measuring a trifle under ten feet in expanse of wing, and scaling roughly between two and three stones. I need hardly add that I had at once recognized the species on rising to fire the first time; and though it was somewhat of a disappointment, it at least settled the question respecting these fabulously large eagles. This bird proved a magnificent specimen, a male, 9 feet 9 inches across the wings: the irides were dark, legs and feet whitish, claws black: the cere and bare skin in front of neck bluish colour, tail pointed.[42] The whole plumage was deep black-brown, the head covered with short downy feathers, and the bird had no offensive smell like the common vultures. This species is, indeed, of far nobler aspect than the Griffon, showing in life none of the repulsive bare neck of that bird, the neck being entirely hidden in the ruff of long lanceolate plumes which surround it, and on the wing it has a majestic appearance.
A few days afterwards we had a similar experience with another, which we stalked, sitting amongst some rough hummocky ridges: it seems all but impossible to kill these huge raptores outright. Their hard muscular frames and sinews, tough as steel-wire, appear impervious to shot, and unless a pellet chances to take the wing-bone, they will go on, though struck in a dozen places. One realizes this on attempting to skin one of the larger eagles—an operation not unlike trying to dissect a piano.
The Black Vulture we have never found actually breeding in Andalucia, though it does do so: and we have observed single pairs, associated with Griffons, in the sierras in May and July. Its chief nesting stronghold is in the Castiles, where, in the Sierra de Gredos, we found an eyry with young in May. This nest was on a pine. In the south the Black Vulture is chiefly a winter bird.
The curious diversity of character displayed by the various raptores when captured, deserves a word of notice. At the end of May, after six or eight weeks' eagle-hunting, we had about a dozen large birds of prey which were kept in a disused room. There was a mighty commotion when any one entered—a couple of Serpent-Eagles ceaselessly flapped and scuffled, while Booted Eagles showed fight, and Marsh-Harriers, backing into convenient corners, stood facing one with outstretched wings, like snarling cats all teeth and claws, and shrieking defiance in wailing tones. The Kites, on the contrary, might all have been dead, so limp and lifeless they lay, flat on the floor, with gaping beak and protruding tongue. One winged Kite we kept alive in the grounds at Jerez for years, but though practically at liberty, he invariably feigned death or deadly sickness when approached. Five minutes afterwards, nevertheless, he was quite game to tackle one of our chickens! In the midst of the din and flutter sat the Imperial Eagle, silent, motionless, and unconcerned; perched on the carcase of a Flamingo, his flat shapely head turned slowly as the keen eye followed every movement of the intruder, whose presence he otherwise disdained. The Tawny Eagle (above mentioned) displayed in captivity even greater insouciance and a nobler demeanour than the Imperial, while both birds, heavy and massive as they looked, exhibited marvellous agility in pouncing upon the luckless rat who might presume to trespass upon their domain and attempt to steal their food.
Such are some of our experiences of the eagles of the Spanish lowlands. The Imperial Eagle is, par excellence, the monarch of the plain—resident throughout the year (though the young are known, occasionally, to cross the Pyrenees into France), and in his varied phases comparatively common. Next in importance comes a large tawny eagle of, as yet, undefined specific rank, which, for the reasons above set forth, we consider entitled to a place in the list. Then, in spring, come the Booted and Serpent-Eagles from Africa to nest on Spanish soil and prey on its abundant reptile-life. But in winter two other species descend from their mountain-homes to prey on the game and wildfowl of the lowlands. These are the Golden Eagle and Bonelli's Eagle—both described more particularly in the next chapter—of which we have shot specimens on the plains during the winter months. The two Golden Eagles now in the Zoological Gardens were both shot by us in the flat country, or campiña, in the neighbourhood of Jerez de la Frontera—one winged as it flew to roost in the pinales of Los Inglesillos, the other by a chance shot in the rough, broken country beyond Garciagos.