VIII
A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST
Amongst my stalking experiences I shall always remember a week which I once had early one season in a famous forest on the west coast, through the kindness of my friend the proprietor, to whom I have been indebted for many excellent days’ sport. I have had long experience in stalking, but have never known worse weather than we had in this particular week. The rifles consisted of my host, Stuart a fellow-guest, and myself. I was out stalking six days. On Thursday, our first day, we killed five stags between us. My host and Stuart each got two, while I got one. So far as my experiences on that day were concerned, I had no opportunity of a shot until near the end of the day, when we came upon two stags, one of which I shot. As it was late in the day and I had only one pony, I did not shoot at the second stag. The following Friday, Saturday, and Monday were terrible days of mist and storm. The mist never left the tops of the mountains all day long, although there was a strong wind blowing—it appeared to come up from the sea in great banks; and although we waited on each day for it to clear off, we did so in vain. On Friday and Saturday I never had a shot.
“LYING ON A RIDGE WE SPIED SOME DEER.”
From a Photograph by the Author.
On Monday, until late in the day, it looked as though I was to have the same experience. About four o’clock, however, having been lying on a ridge overlooking a wide, deep corrie, the mist suddenly lifted for a very few minutes and we spied some deer moving downwards on the far side of the corrie, and amongst them what appeared to be two or three good stags. There were also a number of hinds rather nearer to us than this lot of deer. We decided that the only way in which we should be likely to get a shot at the stags would be to go right round the upper edge of the corrie and try to get in between the hinds and the other lot of deer amongst which were the stags. This entailed a most uncomfortable walk; the wind was so strong that one could hardly stand, it was quite impossible to keep a cap on one’s head, and it rained or hailed incessantly. At last we got round, and went down to the lower ground; we then managed, with a good deal of difficulty, to crawl safely past the hinds, and found that the other lot of deer were moving slowly, feeding downwards. After a time the deer lay down on a small hill in a sheltered place, and we crawled up to the top of an adjoining hill about 140 yards distant. We there made out that there was one good stag, an eight-pointer, who was lying down, and whose horns only could be seen from the place where we were lying. I got into position to shoot in case the stag should rise and give me a chance. It was now about half-past five, and we thought, considering how late it was getting and the conditions of the weather, that we should not be kept waiting very long. The stag, however, did not move for about half an hour, when he got up and turned round, and immediately lay down again. Time went on, and what with the cold and wet I began to shiver, and felt that I must do something to alter the condition of things. It was close on 6.30, and we were five miles from the point where it had been arranged that Stuart and I were to meet the car, if possible, at six o’clock, and in any case not later than seven. I told the stalker that he must get the deer up somehow or other, and that he had better whistle them up; he strongly advised me not to do this, but to wait a little longer, as, if we did so, they would probably bolt and not give me a chance to shoot. I, however, persisted, and said we could not keep Mr. Stuart waiting any longer; besides, I was getting colder and colder. I therefore whistled; the deer took no notice. “A little louder,” said the stalker. I whistled louder. Two of the smaller stags got up, and then the eight-pointer on the far side of the hill slowly got up, looking in our direction, and exposing his body over the edge of the hill, a fair broadside shot, at about 140 yards. I fired. “Just over his shoulder,” said the stalker, and the stag still stood, as stags often will do when the bullet passes over them. I fired again and the stag instantly fell. “Good shot,” said the stalker. I unloaded the rifle and handed it to the stalker, who began to put it into its cover, when suddenly the stag jumped up and galloped off. The bullet had no doubt grazed the spine, causing temporary unconsciousness. When a stag drops instantaneously, as this one did, he is often only stunned, and it is well to be on the alert and get up to him at once, ready if necessary to shoot again. This was no new experience to either of us. The old stalker had been over fifty years in the forest and had seen the same thing happen many a time; nor was it new to me. We watched the stag as he galloped away apparently none the worse for his narrow escape, and I certainly felt very foolish. The old stalker kindly began to make excuses for me. “The line was right, but you were just a little high,” he said. “Your pozeesyon was not good. You had been lying long, cold and shivering, in the wet. Yon cartridges are lighter than yer regular ones, and that is why you shot over him.” “No, no,” I replied, “I missed because I could not shoot straight; it is a bad business; anyhow, it is better than having wounded him badly and then lost him; it is a comfort to think he is really very little the worse—now we have got to get back as quickly as ever we can.” And then in the gloom and mist, running and walking and tumbling, away we went. The last mile was down a hill path filled with loose stones. At last we reached the end of the road, and saw the car coming up from a point about a mile lower down the road where Stuart had arranged to meet us. “Well,” I said, “I hope at any rate that Mr. Stuart has got a stag, if not two.” The stalker had been looking carefully at the road. “No,” he said, “Mr. Stuart has no stag the day.” I said, “How do you know that?” “Oh,” he said, pointing to the marks on the road, “his ponies have gone home trotting—look at the marks of their hoofs—and if Mr. Stuart had got a stag the pony would be walking.” As soon as the car arrived we found that the stalker was right, and that Stuart, who had only arrived at our meeting-place a few minutes before, had got no stag, never having had a shot. On reaching the lodge about 8.30 P.M. we found that our host had not yet returned from the river, where he had gone to try to get a salmon, and it was not until an hour later that he returned. He too had had bad luck, having hooked a large fish which it was impossible to follow, and which had taken out in its first rush at a terrific pace some fifty yards of line, and then, a strain being put on, broke the casting line, which, it subsequently turned out, had been used in the spring fishing and had not been properly tested before being used again. Thus closed the third chapter in a day which illustrated the truth of the proverb that “misfortunes never come singly.”