Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

forgiven if our sympathies go out to this yellow-legged ruffian, for assuredly he is a mighty hunter, possessed of a glorious turn of speed and staying powers withal. But now the pace is beginning to tell. The weakest of the five barnacles drops ever so little to the rear and the peregrine mechanically closes up ever so little. The grim chase is conducted in dead silence. There is none of that desultory conversation in which the barnacle tribe at normal times delight, whether on wing or on foot. Another thirty seconds and the distance between the four leading fugitives and their mate has increased, and then every moment sees him tailing further behind. The peregrine, without an effort, sails up above his victim, and for a few seconds they fly one above the other. Then there is a lightning stoop and those cruel talons are driven home. So intently are we watching that we can almost feel the stunning blow delivered at the back of the head, the sickening dizziness in mid-air, and then the fall through space. Down comes the barnacle in a long planing descent. The peregrine, after his stroke, comes to ground independently. We mark the place where the goose falls and proceed with all speed to the spot. Suddenly, at a distance of some sixty yards, a long neck and piebald head are protruded from a shallow crike. What we had thought was a dead or at least mortally wounded bird takes flight and is greeted with a salvo of six barrels, but he still keeps on his way and is lost to sight in the distance. Are we the more chagrined at the failure of our shooting, or pleased that one who has been so sorely tried in such a brief space of time should escape to join his fellows, apparently none the worse? But what of the peregrine? He is nowhere to be seen. Has he sheered off at our approach and so been deprived of his dinner, or was he merely hunting the geese out of sheer devilry and not to satisfy the pangs of hunger? We did not see him again that day, but on several subsequent occasions we saw him cruising around, and had good reason to wish he would betake himself to other huntinggrounds.

Our next brush with the enemy some days later was on this wise. We had, as has already been observed, marked the barnacles at rest on a gravelly strand when the tide was running high. As soon as the incoming sea threatened to cover the gravel, the geese were in the habit of flying along high-water mark en route for their feeding-grounds across the estuary. As my companion and I were on our way to this point we saw our old friend Falco peregrinus perched on the branch of a stunted weather-beaten tree, observing

with an exaggerated air of detachment the gyrations of a particularly aimless flock of curlew. One imagined him saying 'I'm not hungry, nor, after that brilliant burst with the barnacles, am I in urgent need of exercise, but if you don't infuse some "hustle" into life I'll come and give you a "dust-up" that you'll remember.' Having viewed the enemy in the distance, my companion and I parted company, he to take up a concealed position on their expected line of flight, whilst I betook myself by a circuitous route towards their position, keeping well inland until I reached a deep dyke running at right angles to the shore and protected from the enemy's view on my right flank by a high bank. I made my way, bending low, down its length, and just before it debouched on the shore raised my head very carefully to reconnoitre the enemy's position. Immediately in front of me, and about seventy yards away at the water's edge, was a countless host of knots, packed in a dense solid mass. Close alongside these were three cormorants, but no geese. Had I miscalculated their position, or had they moved away from where I first saw them? Peering through some roughish grass growing on the top of the bank to my right, I see a gaggle of some forty birds standing in a line along the edge of a pool left by a previous tide. Beyond them again there is a large flock of shellduck. To dodge down and retreat up the dyke is the work of a very few moments. I have already noticed, running parallel with the enemy's position, a two-foot bank, constructed to guard the field of which it forms the boundary from the inroads of the sea. I am screened from view by the formation of the ground until I get within ten yards of the bank, which distance I cover by crawling on hands and knees. Now I should be just opposite the centre of the barnacles, so with infinite care I raise myself little by little and peer over the bank. There they are, sublimely unconscious of my proximity. Still it is a long shot-full sixty yards, but there is no way of getting any closer; so, choosing as target a spot where there are four grouped together, I let fly, and, as they rise with hoarse cries of surprise, I give them the choked barrel. One of their number is doing a sort of cake-walk on the sands in his efforts to get on the wing. He is evidently hit, but with a last frantic flap of his wings he, too, is in the air, and then with a contemptuous 'guggle-guggle' they are off. I watch them as they disappear. To-day they keep farther out to sea than on the previous occasions on which we have observed them, and so pass out of range of my companion's concealed position. A myriad of knots are circling

about in the sky. They seem to be engaged in a sort of devil dance in mid-air. The three cormorants are winging their way heavily out to sea, and the shelduck are rapidly disappearing into space. What's to be done? Apparently the only thing to be done is to light a pipe. As I sit smoking on the bank I see the figure of my companion advancing towards the village which lies inland to our rear. Having failed to punish the barnacles, he is evidently intent on punishing something else! In the village there is a snug hostelry where one can quaff right good ale. It has, indeed, something more than a local reputation for the same. Thither I converge to meet him, and in the bar-parlour over a glowing peat fire we console ourselves for the recent misadventure,' if we may borrow the euphemistic term lately used to describe a Government disaster of the first magnitude. Having thus been worsted by the enemy, we resolve on a night attack. The barnacles are in the habit of coming at dusk to the marshes opposite our quarters and feeding there at night, leaving for safer country at the first signs of dawn. There is no moon, but the weather is calm, which is in our favour, as one has to rely entirely on sound for obtaining the correct direction. Shortly before dusk, then, we ferry once more across the tideway and strike off across the marshes in the direction of the twinkling lights of Silloth, a beacon which we have already marked as indicating the general direction of the line of attack. We have not walked far before we hear the geese. Sound travels well across these silent marshes. The goose talk we hear now has not the interrogatory note that one has observed when the birds are flying towards their feeding-grounds and are debating where they shall land, nor the contemptuous note with which they evade some disturber of their peace long before he is within gunshot; no, this time it is the contented 'guggle' of geese which, having found succulent feeding, feel themselves secure under cover of the friendly shades of night. After pausing to obtain the direction of the sound we press forward rapidly. Another reassuring chuckle tells us we are on the right path. So far the night attack has gone well. By the distinctness of the sounds we must now be getting close to the enemy's outposts, but suddenly we are confronted with a deep crike, up which the incoming tide is now rushing like a mill-race. We had crossed this crike before at low tide and the water was hardly over our ankles. It is now, to put it bluntly, impossible. Whilst we are debating on the next move a throaty gurgle assures us that we must be well within two hundred yards of the enemy. However,

there is nothing for it but to follow the crike upstream until we strike the nearest bridge. The crike tends backwards in the direction we have come, and we curse its wanton windings as we follow it for a good three-quarters of a mile before reaching the bridge. Then, as it is too dark to strike across country, we repeat the tedious proceeding of following it on the other bank. Owing to the darkness and the bad going, it is a good forty minutes before we arrive opposite the position on the other side of the water where we last heard the sounds of the quarry. Here we pause and listen. There is not a sound. Then, far, far away across the marshes, there comes borne on the night air the elusive siren call again. The night attack has ended in failure-a not uncommon occurrence, as every student of military history knows. The geese have put the estuary between them and us. There follows a stumbling trudge home, and so to bed, as Pepys hath it.

The next morning, on examining the scene of our night operations, we find by our footmarks that, when we were first brought to a standstill by the flooded crike, we were within 150 yards of the enemy's camp, as is evidenced by the web-footed marks on the soft muddy feeding-ground and the feathers and droppings of the birds. It is still more tantalising to find that the geese were feeding on both sides of the crike. So much for night attacks! For several days after this, both gray-lags and barnacles avoided their favourite feeding-grounds; we could see them miles out across the sands at low water, and in the evening passing over at a great height to more distant rendezvous. On coming out of our quarters one afternoon this behaviour of the geese was sufficiently explained to my mind by the sight of the yellow-legged hunter-once more on the war-path. The peregrine was chasing a dunlin not 200 yards from us. The latter was flying low over the water-way in small circles and figures of eight. For quite three minutes we watched the chase. The dunlin was twisting and jinking in the most approved fashion, but the issue was never for one moment in doubt. At last the unfortunate wader is exhausted and gives one last despairing tower upwards. The falcon meets him in mid-air, and a flutter of white feathers floating down on to the smooth tideway proclaims the dénouement of this bird tragedy. The bird of prey flies low across the sands, carrying the kill' in his talons. So we have a rival hunting in our neighbourhood. No wonder the geese are giving the place a wide berth. I am reminded of a similar experience in the Indian jungles. I was shooting with a

party in the Canarese district of Southern India, where big game of every description-tiger, panther, bear, bison, sambhur, and chital-abounded. Beat after beat was drawn blank, and our host, a forest officer who knew the denizens of the jungles and their haunts as only one who does his life's work amongst them can, was at a loss to account for the entire absence of game in such a well-stocked preserve. The mystery was solved when in the last beat of the day a pack of wild dogs was driven out of the jungle, one of their number falling a victim to our host's marksmanship. These predatory rascals had effectually banished all the game within radius of our camp. Not even the tiger, lord of the jungles, will stay in their vicinity. So here the peregrine was 'queering our pitch,' and grateful as we were to him for giving us an exhibition of his prowess with the barnacles, we could not but wish him elsewhere.

The barnacles are the last of the migrants to leave our shores, generally delaying their departure until the beginning of April. They always leave in an easterly direction. Where do they go? Who knows? Possibly to Siberia. An acquaintance of mine, the site of whose dwelling-place affords unequalled opportunities for observing their movements, told me that one day early in April her attention was attracted to them by the extraordinary commotion they were making. A company numbering from three to four hundred was assembled on a piece of green-sward alongside the river, and, to use my friend's words,' the carry-on was something terrible.' They were evidently on the eve of their annual migration, and as might be expected there was a great press of business connected therewith. Old Gaffer Barnacle, leader of the host, was strutting up and down in front of the parade, occasionally pausing to administer punishment to some presumptuous young gander. The ladies of the party, as always happens when a flitting is toward, were particularly vociferous. Will old Gaffer be able to guide his large following to their destination? It's a long trip. But then he's made the journey every year, and for more years than some of us care to remember. Still, in time age must tell, and what if he can't get the distance? Who will there be then to keep the young bloods in their proper place? They're always trying to make the pace too hot, forgetting that cardinal axiom of flight discipline, i.e. "The pace of the column must be regulated by the pace of the slowest goose." (This axiom, in the opinion of some of the heavier matrons, cannot be too rigidly enforced.) Well, anyhow, Gaffer

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »