SPORT—PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE.
BY ALEXANDER HUNTER.
IT may be a pleasant task for the sporting antiquary or the historian of some future period to trace the rise and fall of shooting in the section where the Potomac bursts foaming through its narrow bed at the Great Falls to Point Lookout, where the wide, majestic river mixes its fresh waters with the brine of Chesapeake Bay. But retrospection only brings sadness and regret to the sportsman of to-day, who sees the finest shooting-ground for wild fowl on the American continent now denuded of its game, except in scantiest quantities.
Potomac in the Indian dialect signifies “The River of Swans.” A pleasure or health seeker as he passes down the bay en route to Old Point, or a tourist on a pilgrimage to Mount Vernon, admires from the steamer’s deck the fine scenery, the bold headlands, the sweeping curves of the shore, and the ever-shifting scenes of the beautiful river, but he will never catch a glimpse, in a lifetime’s travel, of the stately birds that were so plentiful that the river was named after them.
All the observant traveler now sees is the settling of, perhaps, a dozen broad-bills in the water, or the alighting of a solitary shuffler or mallard. He will learn with surprise that not many years back the steamer literally ploughed its way through vast flocks of ducks, who only took wing when the sharp prow was within a few yards of them, while every creek, stream and run that poured its waters into the river was alive with waterfowl of a dozen different species, scurrying to and fro, circling high into the air, or striking into their native element with an explosive splash. On a windy day the river was so black with them that the bosom of the deep seemed to have been changed into an undulating, many-hued meadow.
Across the river from Mount Vernon was one of the most famous ducking blinds on the Potomac. The steamboat passengers notice with curiosity what appears to be a small island directly in the centre of the river, which at this point is about two miles wide. It is a miniature Loch Leven Castle, and the ruins of a small stone edifice makes it a romantic picture in the varied panorama that unfolds as one passes down the “River of Swans.” Right across on the Maryland side is one of those old colonial brick houses that tell of days when his Majesty was “prayed for” by fox-hunting parsons, and where the King’s health was drunk before each toast by the cocked-hat gentry. The house, which stands on a high hill, and faces Mount Vernon across the river, is the manor-seat of the Chapmans, a family whose name is connected with every public enterprise or “high emprise” from the conversion of the colony of Maryland into a commonwealth.
General John Chapman was a great lover of both rod and gun, and some thirty years ago he conceived the idea of making comfort and sport go hand in hand. Having made his soundings, he kept his slaves steadily at work, during odd days and off hours, hauling rocks in flat-boats, and dumping them into the rolling river. He kept his own counsel, and his neighbors began to fear he was going crazy. At last his island was completed. Like the Old Point “Rip-Raps,” it arose sheer from the water, and was composed entirely of loose rock. Chapman Island, as it was called, had an area of about a quarter of an acre, and was shaped like a cigar—the smaller end gradually decreasing in height and breadth until the narrowing ledge disappeared in the water. At this point the decoys—rarely under a hundred, often double that number—were placed. At the large end of the island was the hunting-lodge, at a distance of about seventy-five yards. It was built low, but the walls were thick, and a coal stove kept it comfortable in the stormiest, coldest days. It is doubtful whether there ever was a blind in all America that surpassed in attractions this artificial island.
Ducks, as a general thing, when moving in great numbers, choose the middle of a river, and seeing a large flock (the decoys) floating near the point, they would invariably swirl aside and join them. At a time when the river was full of waterfowl, some idea may be had of the royal sport, without any terrible exposure and endurance; a warm fire, refreshments of all kinds within a minute’s walk, and the ducks raining down in a ceaseless stream from the sky—that was the very poetry of sporting.
In the fall and winter months General Chapman had his house filled with the men whose names are household words in America, and his oyster roasts, canvasback and terrapin stews were as widely known then as were the dinners of the great lobbyist and gourmand, Sam Ward, a quarter of a century afterwards.