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John F.L.S. Watson
The Confessions of a Poacher

Chapter III
Graduating in Woodcraft

 
We hear the cry
Of their voices high,
Falling dreamily through the sky;
But their forms we cannot see.
 

Just as the sportsman loves "rough shooting," so the poacher invariably chooses wild ground for his depredations. There is hardly a sea-parish in the country which has not its shore shooter, its poacher, and its fowler. Fortunately for my graduation in woodcraft I fell in with one of the latter at the very time I most needed his instructions. As the "Snig," as I was generally called, was so passionately fond of "live" things, old "Kittiwake" was quite prepared to be companionable. Although nearly three score years and ten divided our lives, there was something in common between us. Love of being abroad beneath the moon and stars; of wild wintry skies; of the weird cries that came from out the darkness—love of everything indeed that pertained to the night side of nature. What terrible tales of the sands and marshes the old man would tell as we sat in his turf-covered cottage, listening to the lashing storm and driving water without. Occasionally we heard sounds of the Demon Huntsman and his Wish-hounds as they crossed the wintry skies. If Kittiwake knew, he would never admit that these were the wild swans coming from the north, which chose the darkest nights for their migration. When my old tutor saw that I was already skilled in the use of "gins" and "springes," and sometimes brought in a snipe or woodcock, his old eyes glistened as he looked upon the marsh-birds. It was on one such occasion, pleased at my success, that he offered what he had never offered to mortal—to teach me the whole art of fowling. I remember the old man as he lay on his heather bench when he made this magnanimous offer. In appearance he was a splendid type of a northern yeoman, his face fringed with silvery hair, and cut in the finest features. One eye was bright and clear even at his great age, though the other was rheumy, and almost blotted out. He rarely undressed at nights, his outward garb seemed more a production of nature than of art, and was changed, when, like the outer cuticle of the marsh vipers, it sloughed off. It was only in winter that the old man lived his lonely life on the mosses and marshes, for during the summer he turned from fowler to fisher, or assisted in the game preserves. The haunts and habits of the marsh and shore birds he knew by heart, and his great success in taking them lay in the fact that he was a close and accurate observer. He would watch the fowl, then set his nets and noozes by the light of his acquired knowledge. These things he had always known, but it was in summer, when he was assisting at pheasant rearing, that he got to know all about game in fur and feather. He noted that the handsome cock pheasants always crowed before they flew up to roost; that in the evening the partridges called as they came together in the grass lands; and he watched the ways of the hares as they skipped in the moonlight. These things we were wont to discuss when wild weather prevented our leaving the hut; and all our plans were tested by experiment before they were put into practice. It was upon these occasions, too, that the garrulous old man would tell of his early life. That was the time for fowl; but now the plough had invaded the sea-birds' haunt. He would tell of immense flocks of widgeon, of banks of brent geese, and clouds of dunlin. Bitterns used to boom and breed in the bog, and once, though only once, a great bustard was shot. In his young days Kittiwake had worked a decoy, as had his father and grandfather before him; and when any stray fowler or shore-shooter told of the effect of a single shot of their big punt-guns, he would cap their stories by going back to the days of decoying. Although decoying had almost gone out, this was the only subject that the old man was reticent upon, and he surrounded the craft with all the mystery he was able to conjure up. The site of his once famous decoy was now drained, and in summer ruddy corn waved above it. Besides myself, Kittiwake's sole companion on the mosses was an old shaggy galloway, and it was almost as eccentric and knowing as its master. So great was the number of gulls and terns that bred on the mosses, that for two months during the breeding season the old horse was fed upon their eggs. Morning and evening a basketful was collected, and so long as these lasted Dobbin's coat continued sleek and soft.

In August and September we would capture immense numbers of "flappers"—plump wild ducks—but, as yet, unable to fly. These were either caught in the pools, or chased into nets which we set to intercept them. As I now took more than my share of the work, and made all the gins, springes, and noozes which we used, a rough kind of partnership sprung up between us. The young ducks brought us good prices, and there was another source of income which paid well, but was not of long duration. There is a short period in each year when even the matured wild ducks are quite unable to fly. The male of the common wild duck is called the mallard, and soon after his brown duck begins to sit the drake moults the whole of its flight feathers. So sudden and simultaneous is this process that for six weeks in summer the usually handsome drake is quite incapable of flight, and it is probably at this period of its ground existence that the assumption of the duck's plumage is such an aid to protection. Quite the handsomest of the wildfowl on the marsh were a colony of sheldrakes which occupied a number of disused rabbit-burrows on a raised plateau overlooking the bay. The ducks were bright chestnut, white, and purple, and in May laid from nine to a dozen creamy eggs. As these birds brought high prices for stocking ornamental waters, we used to collect the eggs and hatch them out under hens in the turf cottage. This was a quite successful experiment up to a certain point; but the young fowl, immediately they were hatched, seemed to be able to smell the salt water, and would cover miles to gain the creek. With all our combined watchfulness the downy ducklings sometimes succeeded in reaching their loved briny element, and once in the sea were never seen again. The pretty sea swallows used to breed on the marsh, and the curious ruffs and reeves. These indulged in the strangest flights at breeding time, and it was then that we used to capture the greatest numbers. We took them alive in nets, and then fattened them on soaked wheat. The birds were sent all the way to London, and brought good prices. By being kept closely confined and frequently fed, in a fortnight they became so plump as to resemble balls of fat, and then brought as much as a florin a piece. If care were not taken to kill the birds just when they attained to their greatest degree of fatness they fell rapidly in condition, and were nearly worthless. To kill them we were wont to pinch off the head, and when all the blood had exuded the flesh remained white and delicate. Greater delicacies even than ruffs and reeves were godwits, which were fatted in like manner for the table. Experiments in fattening were upon one occasion successfully tried with a brood of greylag geese which we discovered on the marshes. As this is the species from which the domestic stock is descended, we found little difficulty in herding, though we were always careful to house them at night, and pinioned them as the time of the autumnal migration came round. We well knew that the skeins of wild geese which at this time nightly cross the sky, calling as they fly, would soon have robbed us of our little flock.

In winter, snipe were always numerous on the mosses, and were among the first birds to be affected by severe weather. If on elevated ground when the frost set in, they immediately betake themselves to the lowlands, and at these times we used to take them in pantles made of twisted horsehair. In preparing these we trampled a strip of oozy ground until, in the darkness, it had the appearance of a narrow plash of water. The snipe were taken as they came to feed on ground presumably containing food of which they were fond. As well as woodcock and snipe, we took larks by thousands. The pantles for these we set somewhat differently than those intended for the minor game birds. A main line, sometimes as much as a hundred yards in length, was set along the marsh; and to this at short intervals were attached a great number of loops of horsehair in which the birds were strangled. During the migratory season, or in winter when larks are flocked, sometimes a hundred bunches of a dozen each would be taken in a single day.

During the rigour of winter great flocks of migratory ducks and geese came to the bay, and prominent among them were immense flocks of scoters. Often from behind an ooze bank did we watch parties of these playing and chasing each other over the crests of the waves, seeming indifferent to the roughest seas. The coming of the scoter brought flush times, and in hard weather our takes were tremendous. Another of the wild ducks which visited us was the pochard or dunbird. We mostly called it "poker" and "redhead," owing to the bright chestnut of its neck and head. It is somewhat heavily made, swims low in the water, and from its legs being placed far behind for diving it is very awkward on land. In winter the pochard was abundant on the coast, but as it was one of the shyest of fowl it was always difficult to approach. If alarmed it paddles rapidly away, turning its head, and always keeping an eye to the rear. On account of its wariness it is oftener netted than shot. The shore-shooters hardly ever get a chance at it. We used to take it in the creeks on the marsh, and, as the matter is difficult to explain, I will let the following quotation tell how it was done:

"The water was surrounded with huge nets, fastened with poles laid flat on the ground when ready for action, each net being, perhaps, sixty feet long and twenty feet deep. When all was ready the pochards were frightened off the water. Like all diving ducks they were obliged to fly low for some distance, and also to head the wind before rising. Just as the mass of birds reached the side of the pool, one of the immense nets, previously regulated by weights and springs, rose upright as it was freed from its fastenings by the fowler from a distance with a long rope. If this were done at the right moment the ducks were met full in the face by a wall of net, and thrown helpless into a deep ditch dug at its foot for their reception."

In addition to our nets and snares we had a primitive fowling-piece, though we only used it when other methods failed. It was an ancient flint-lock, with tremendously long barrels. Sometimes it went off; oftener it did not. I well remember with what desperation I, upon one occasion, clung to this murderous weapon whilst it meditated, so to speak. It is true that it brought down quite a wisp of dunlins, but then there was almost a cloud of them to fire at. These and golden plover were mainly the game for the flint-lock, and with them we were peculiarly successful. If we had not been out all night we were invariably abroad at dawn, when golden plover fly and feed in close bodies. Upon these occasions sometimes a dozen birds were bagged at a shot, though, after all, the chief product of our days were obtained in the cymbal nets. We invariably used a decoy, and when the wild birds were brought down, and came within the workings of the net, it was rapidly pulled over and the game secured. For the most part, however, only the smaller birds were taken in this way. Coots came round in their season, and although they yielded a good harvest, netting them was not very profitable, for as their flesh was dark and fishy only the villagers and fisher-folk would buy them.

A curious little bird, the grebe or dabchick, used to haunt the pools and ditches of the marsh, and we not unfrequently caught them in the nets whilst drawing for salmon which ran up the creek to spawn. They had curious feet, lobed like chestnut leaves, and hardly any wing. This last was more like a flipper, and upon one occasion, when no less than three had caught in the meshes, a dispute arose between us as to whether they were able to fly. Kittiwake and I argued that whilst they were resident and bred in the marshes, yet their numbers were greatly augmented in autumn by other birds which came to spend the winter. Whilst I contended that they flew, Kittiwake said that their tiny wings could never support them, and certainly neither of us had ever seen them on their journeyings. Two of the birds we took a mile from the water, and then threw them into the air, when they darted off straight and swift for the mosses which lay stretched at our feet a mile below.

Chapter VI
Partridge Poaching

The bloom on the brambles; the ripening of the nuts; and the ruddiness of the corn all acted as reminders that the "fence" time was rapidly drawing to a close. So much did the first frosts quicken us that it was difficult to resist throwing up our farm work before the game season was fairly upon us. There was only one way in which we could curb the wild impulse within. We stood up to the golden corn and smote it from the rising to the going down of the sun. The hunters' moon tried hard to win us to the old hard life of sport; but still the land must be cleared. There was a double pleasure in the ruddy sheaves, for they told of golden guineas, and until the last load was carried neither nets, gins, nor the old duck-gun were of any use. The harvest housed the game could begin, and then the sweet clover, which the hares loved, first pushed their shoots between the stubble stalks. But neither the hares on the fallows, the grouse on the moor, nor the pheasants on the bare branches brought us so much pleasure as the partridge. A whole army of shooters love the little brown birds, and we are quite of their way of thinking.

A long life of poaching has not cooled our ardour for this phase of woodcraft. At the outset we may state that we have almost invariably observed close times, and have rarely killed a hare or game-bird out of season. The man who excels in poaching must be country bred. He must not only know the land, but the ways of the game by heart. Every sign of wind and weather must be observed, as all help in the silent trade. Then there is the rise and wane of the moon, the rain-bringing tides, and the shifting of the birds with the seasons. These and a hundred other things must be kept in an unwritten calendar, and only the poacher can keep it. Speaking from hard experience, his out-door life will make him quick; will endow him with much ready animal ingenuity. He will take in an immense amount of knowledge of the life of the fields and woods; and it is this teaching which will ultimately give him accuracy of eye and judgment sufficient to interpret what he sees aright. To succeed the poacher must be a specialist. It is better if he directs his attention to "fur," or to "feather" alone; but it is terribly hard to resist going in for both. There is less scope for field ingenuity in taking game birds; but at the same time there is always the probability of more wholesale destruction. This arises from the fact of the birds being gregarious. Both grouse and partridge go in coveys, and pheasants are found in the company of their own kind. Partridges roost on the ground, and sleep with tails tucked together and heads outwards. Examine the fallow after they have left it in a morning, and this will be at once apparent. A covey in this position represents little more than a mass of feathers. It is for protective reasons that partridges always spend their nights in the open. Birds which do not perch would soon become extinct were they to seek the protection of woods and hedge-bottoms by night. Such ground generally affords cover for vermin—weazels, polecats, and stoats. Although partridges roam far by day, they invariably come together at night, being partial to the same fields and fallows. They run much, and rarely fly, except when passing from one feeding ground to another. In coming together in the evening their calls may be heard to some distance. These were the sounds we listened for, and marked. We remembered the gorse bushes, and knew that the coveys would not be far from them.

We always considered partridge good game, and sometimes were watching a dozen coveys at the same time. September once in, there was never a sun-down that did not see one of us on our rounds making mental notes. It was not often, however, that more than three coveys were marked for a night's work. One of these, perhaps, would be in turnips, another among stubble, and the third on grass. According to the nature of the crop, the lay of the land, wind, &c., so we varied our tactics. Netting partridges always requires two persons, though a third to walk after the net is helpful. If the birds have been carefully marked down, a narrow net is used; if their roosting-place is uncertain a wider net is better. When all is ready this is slowly dragged along the ground, and is thrown down immediately the whirr of wings is heard. If neatly and silently done, the whole covey is bagged. There is a terrible flutter, a cloud of brown feathers, and all is over. It is not always, however, that the draw is so successful. In view of preventing this method of poaching, especially on land where many partridges roost, keepers plant low scrubby thorns at intervals. These so far interfere with the working of the net as to allow the birds time to escape. We were never much troubled, however, in this way. As opportunity offered the quick-thorns were torn up, and a dead black-thorn bough took their place. As the thorns were low the difference was never noticed, even by the keepers, and, of course, they were carefully removed before, and replaced after, netting. Even when the dodge was detected the fields and fallows had been pretty much stripped of the birds. This method is impracticable now, as the modern method of reaping leaves the brittle stubble as bare as the squire's lawn. We had always a great objection to use a wide net where a narrow one would suit the purpose. Among turnips, and where large numbers of birds were supposed to lie, a number of rows or "riggs" were taken at a time, until the whole of the ground had been traversed. This last method is one that requires time and a knowledge of the keeper's beat. On rough ground the catching of the net may be obviated by having about eighteen inches of smooth glazed material bordering the lowest and trailing part of it. Some of the small farmers were as fond of poaching as ourselves, and here is a trick which one of them successfully employed whenever he heard the birds in his land. He scattered a train of grain from the field in which the partridge roosted, each morning bringing it nearer and nearer to the stack-yard. After a time the birds became accustomed to this mode of feeding, and as they grew bolder the grain-train was continued inside the barn. When they saw the golden feast invitingly spread, they were not slow to enter, and the doors were quickly closed upon them. Then the farmer entered with a bright light and felled the birds with a stick.

In the dusk of a late autumn afternoon a splendid "pot" shot was sometimes had at a bunch of partridges just gathered for the night. I remember a score such. The call of the partridge is less deceptive than any other game bird, and the movements of a covey are easily watched. This tracking is greatly aided if the field in which the birds are is bounded by stone walls. As dusk deepens and draws to dark, they run and call less, and soon all is still. The closely-packed covey is easy to detect against the yellow stubble, and resting the gun on the wall, a charge of heavy shot fired into their midst usually picks off the lot. If in five minutes the shot brings up the keeper it matters little, as then you are far over the land.

Partridges feed in the early morning—as soon as day breaks, in fact. They resort to one spot, and are constant in their coming, especially if encouraged. This fact I well knew, and laid my plans accordingly. By the aid of the moon a train of grain was laid straight as a hazel wand. Upon these occasions I never went abroad without an old duck-gun, the barrels of which had been filed down. This enabled me to carry the gun-stock in one pocket, the barrels in the other. The shortness of the latter in nowise told against the shooting, as the gun was only required to use at short distances. The weapon was old, thick at the muzzle, and into it I crammed a heavy charge of powder and shot. Ensconced in the scrub I had only now to wait for the dawn. Almost before it was fully light the covey would come with a loud whirring of wings, and settle to feed immediately. This was the critical moment. Firing along the line a single shot strewed the ground with dead and dying; and in ten minutes, always keeping clear of the roads, I was a mile from the spot.

I had yet another and a more successful method of taking partridges. When, from the watchfulness or cleverness of keepers (they are not intelligent men as a rule), both netting and shooting proved impracticable, I soaked grain until it became swollen, and then steeped it in the strongest spirit. This, as before, was strewn in the morning paths of the partridge, and, soon taking effect, the naturally pugnacious birds were presently staggering and fighting desperately. Then I bided my time, and as opportunity offered, knocked the incapacitated birds on the head.

One of the most ingenious and frequently successful methods I employed for bagging partridge was by the aid of an old setter bitch having a lantern tied to her neck. Being somewhat risky, I only employed it when other plans failed, and when I had a good notion of the keeper's whereabouts. The lantern was made from an old salmon canister stripped of its sides, and contained a bit of candle. When the bitch was put off into seeds or stubble she would range quietly until she found the birds, then stand as stiffly as though done in marble. This shewed me just where the covey lay, and as the light either dazzled or frightened the birds, it was not difficult to clap the net over them. It sometimes happened that others besides myself were watching this strange luminous light, and it was probably set down as some phenomenon of the night-side of nature. Once, however, I lost my long silk net, and as there was everything to be gained by running, and much to be lost by staying, I ran desperately. Only an old, slow dog can be used in this species of poaching, and it is marvellous to see with what spirit and seeming understanding it enters into the work.