My First Stag.

By a rush-girt glade in the heart of the pinales, or pine-region, stands the lonely shooting-lodge of La Marismilla. The sombre forests which surround it are a chief stronghold of the Spanish red deer, which find shelter in the abundant underwood and rich pasturage in the grassy dells. The wild pig prefers the more isolated thickets which lie towards the outskirts of the forest.

The system generally adopted for shooting the forest-deer is "driving." The sylvan geography of these great areas of pines, devoid to a stranger of landmark, point, or path, is intimately known to the foresters, who mentally map out the whole into sections for the purpose of the batida, or drive. The exact boundaries of each section vary, of course, from day to day in accordance with the wind; for the red deer is gifted with a fine sense of smell, and instantly detects the human presence when "betwixt the wind and his nobility." Perhaps the readiest means of conveying an idea of this sport of forest-driving will be to relate the vicissitudes that befell the writer before succeeding in bagging his first stag.

My first puesto, or post, was in the face of a sand-ridge clad with tall pines, and there were, I think, three guns on my right, four on the left. All these, even my nearest neighbours (200 yards away), were of course invisible amidst the broken ground and masses of brushwood which intervened; and their positions were only approximately indicated by sundry long lines traced in the sandy soil by the gun-stock of the old forester, Juan Espinal, before leaving me at my post. These lines served to indicate both the positions of the adjoining guns, and also the limits within which a shot might not be fired. It is obviously a paramount necessity in this class of shooting never to shoot forward—i.e., into the beat; the game must be allowed to pass right through and well clear of the line before a shot can be thought of: a circumstance which adds vastly to the difficulty of placing one's bullets on the right spot.

The first thing when one is left alone in the solitude of the forest is to survey carefully one's field of action, to consider all possible contingencies, and prepare accordingly; the most essential point being so to place oneself as to see without being seen.[75] My first impression, in this case, was one of wonder as to where I could possibly place a bullet at all. My post, as already mentioned, was in the face of a ridge, or rather in a hillock forming part of the ridge, and having a deep pass on either hand. Thus the receding ground sloped away so as to disappear from sight just at the entrances of the passes, forty or fifty yards away. In short, the possible lines of fire intersected the probable course of the deer, if any came, at exactly the point at which I should lose sight of them altogether. It was unsafe to move my position backwards, and in front I could find no convenient cover; so returning to my allotted post, I bethought myself to record my fears, and plot out the situation in my pocket-book. Then I settled down in the small redoubt of cut bushes I had put together, and waited. The solitude of the forest was delicious, and the silence only broken by the gentle fluttering of some small birds in the pines overhead. Continually there fell upon and around me small objects from above—it was a party of hawfinches pelting me with scales of pine-cones, broken off in their search for seeds. These and the crossbills are shy and wild, and, except on such occasions when unaware of one's presence, seldom allow of approach. For half an hour I watched their active movements, the tree-creepers and fire-crests, and the antics of a small animal, I think a genet, that was performing fantastic feats on a sunny knoll in front: meanwhile the distant shouts of the beaters were becoming more distinct, and at last I thought I could recognize the excited cry of Ya va! ya va!—there he goes! The genet vanished down a burrow, the birds ceased to pelt me, and a few moments later, to my excited eyes, the whole green expanse of juniper and heath-scrub before me appeared alive with great tawny beasts, all bounding forward directly towards my position. As the deer approached the hillocks I observed that a specially fine stag, with two smaller ones and some hinds, would pass on my right, while three more stags were making for the pass on the left. I concentrated all attention on the first, which slowly trotted past my front within thirty yards; but, as I had foreseen, had already more than half disappeared ere he reached the firing point and my bullet sped towards him; then, turning sharp round, I sent the second barrel at the last of the other three stags, just bounding from sight into the deep pass on the left. The results were of course invisible; both were snap-shots, but I thought I had laid on true, and was musing on the possibilities, more than half inclined to be ecstatic at having, or believing I had, really "pulled off" a clean right and left in my first interview with the Spanish red deer, when a rustling in the brushwood in front disturbed these happy cogitations, and another stag with three hinds appeared. They came forward quite slowly, evidently suspicious of danger ahead, and stopping at intervals to look back towards the noisy beaters. They rose my hillock at a foot's pace, the stag leading—an eight-pointer—and at last stood actually within five yards. There was, in fact, nothing between us but the single pine and the slight breastwork of bushes I had built up as a screen. The stag stood for some seconds gazing backwards over his shoulder; then, as he turned to advance, he caught sight of me crouching beneath the junipers, almost under his nose—and the bound he took at that instant was a sight to remember. Away they dashed, all four, straight along the line of guns; but, turning outwards, shortly after leaving my sight, the stag fell to the rifle of my next neighbour.

Then the beaters came up, and eagerly we went off to examine the result of my two shots. Alas! no ingentia corpora lay there, and on following their tracks for some distance, it was quite clear that both stags had escaped scatheless. The only relief to deep disappointment was that little memorandum I had made beforehand, foretelling the catastrophe, which was indeed more attributable to an ill-judged position than to any want of care.

Then, shortly afterwards, when I did manage to place my bullet in a fine stag of fourteen points, a wide and splendid head, the coveted trophy was again lost to me by the rules of sport, owing to the fact that another leaden messenger had preceded mine. This stag passed through the line far to my right, receiving a shot in the stomach as he passed, the effect being to turn him to me, and he passed at full speed not thirty yards behind. A ball through the heart rolled him over; but the first wound, in his left side, was unquestionably fatal. After this, for a long time, no luck fell to my share; only hinds broke near my puestos, and, though they were most interesting objects, with their timorous graceful movements, their great supple ears inflected hither and thither, and large affectionate eyes, which gave me infinite pleasure to watch, yet they were not available quarry, and passed on unmolested. One hind, which passed within ten yards, was followed (January 8th) by a tiny fawn. Occasionally a stag came forward, cautiously feeling his way, step by step, to make sure of avoiding danger ahead; but these always managed to detect something in time, and broke back, or passed through at some other point. One of these stood for some seconds almost within touch, only a thick bush between us, and others had all but reached the fatal line ere they changed their course.

One chance, however, I certainly lost by my own fault. A buzzard came sailing along the pine-tops towards me; I was posted on a small plateau crowning an isolated hillock, and overlooking a sea of dark green pines. Promiscuous shooting is, of course, debarred; but the batida was nearly finished; I had seen the beaters cross a ridge within a quarter-mile, and determined to have the hawk. Just as the buzzard approached a fair range, I observed that a good stag had ascended my hillock, and for some twenty yards ran in full view. Then he dropped down from sight just before it was possible for me to exchange guns. A downright bungle! I would fain have hidden my disgrace in silence, but it is a distressing feature of sport on this tell-tale sandy soil, that it is impossible to conceal or to mitigate one's "chambonadas"—call them misfortunes. Nothing moves but leaves behind it an indelible mark, and no mark ever escapes the keen eyes of the forest-guards. "Look here!" exclaims Anillo, "here has passed a good stag—aqui ha pasado un buen venado!" "why did not his worship fire?" Why indeed!

Some days passed and I began to fear the campaign might close without a change in my luck. Nor were these deep forests particularly interesting ornithologically: at first sight they appeared rather devoid of bird-life—that is in winter: we have often ridden for hours without seeing more than a few ravens or a kite. Among the thick bushy tops of the stone-pines were the hawfinches and crossbills, with a few other species, but these were remarkably shy and difficult of approach. On afternoons when our "drives" were finished before dark, I took the opportunity of trying to obtain some of the forest-haunting birds; but in this a singular difficulty occurred. In Andalucia the sun gives us an hour or two more of his company than on a winter's day at home. All day long he shines in a blue and cloudless sky; but when he sets, it is night. Hardly has his rim sunk behind the distant pines than it is dark, and the nocturnal concert of frogs and owls has commenced; a clear, strangely deceptive darkness, for on the ground one cannot see to shoot a rabbit or a low-flying woodcock, yet overhead it is still light, and day is prolonged for half an hour more. The sunset effects on the western skies are gorgeous displays of rich colour, and even in the east there is a rosy reflection which rapidly fades away.

But there is none of that pleasant half-light we enjoy in our northern clime. The transition from day to night is startlingly sudden, twilight lasting only a few minutes. The feathered race is well aware of this and prepare for the event by going to roost a full half-hour before sundown. One of the first signs of approaching night is the flight of the ravens. Perhaps one has not realized the fact that the day is far spent, and is reminded of it by their dark files slowly crossing the heavens towards their roosting-places while it is yet broad daylight. The same habit is observable with the smaller birds. All day long they have been abundant enough; but during the last half-hour of daylight not one is to be seen, and when their retreat is eventually found they are buried, some in the pine-tops, others in thickets of myrtle or lentiscus-scrub—fast asleep in daylight. Hence these half-hours at dusk produced but little. One evening, while wandering among the pines, a buzzard dipped down from a lower branch and silently sped away till a shot in the wing brought him down. This bird proved to be one of the remarkably handsome pale varieties of Buteo vulgaris, the whole plumage of a warm cream-colour, slightly mottled and splashed above with dark brown; irides dark and claws white. My brothers (H. and A.) obtained buzzards in somewhat similar plumage in Germany (adults, shot at the nest) in the spring of 1878, but I have not otherwise met with the variety in Spain, the Spanish type being generally dark. Waiting on the line of the raven's flight, I dropped a pair of these birds: and shortly afterwards observed two very large tawny-coloured eagles flap heavily into a pine, but failed to approach within shot, or anything like it.

SPANISH GUNS.
SPANISH GUNS.

To return to our deer, and the delightful days spent among the pinales, revelling in the lovely winter weather. Luck at length returned: after a long day, during which several stags and one pig had been bagged, we reached a small mancha known as "El Rincon del Cerro Trigo." This was a small beat, and the last of the day; nor was it expected to be productive, as our beaters on a former drive must have skirted the outer edge of the Rincon. My position was on the brink of a steep sand-slope, perhaps fifty feet in height, its summit level with the tops of the pines in the mancha below. Outside there stretched away open barrens, some small corrales alone serving to break the monotony of utter desolation. Hardly expecting a shot, I was sitting idly under cover of a bushy pine-top which protruded, half-dead, from the verge of the steep descent, when a hind mounted the slope and broke close at hand. This aroused me, and a few seconds later she was followed by two stags—eight-pointers—slowly crossing out over the open, a lovely shot. They were only fifty yards off; but, owing to the irregular outline of the mancha, my position was somewhat embayed, and it was necessary to give the stags extra law to clear that part of our line which bent backwards. I watched them traverse nearly fifty yards ere a shot was permissible, and by that time they were partly hidden from view among some slight hummocks. Any dead cistus or remnant of a sand-submerged pine collects around it that shifting substance, and half-hidden amidst these my stags were trotting forward when I gave them my double salute. Both went on, but on emerging from the hummocks, the larger beast was clearly hard-hit, though they continued cantering down the sloping ground, and two more bullets at long range only raised little puffs from the ground beyond. I knew I was sure of this stag; and a few minutes later a finer beast emerged, the ivory tips of his antlers shining white in the evening sunlight. Him, I resolved, I must have, and never was gun laid on with more intense desire. The distance would be some eighty to one hundred yards, and the stag treated the advent of two bullets with what looked very like indifference, galloping off at top speed, despite a third salute from the express ambushed on my right. I watched him away to the edge of a small corral half a mile off, and in which the two first stags had sought a retreat. But it was all over with him—poor beast, his course was run, and his tracks plainly told the tale to those who could read—though I must admit I was not one of them. The rastro of the first stag showed big blood-clouts almost from the shot, and he was easily secured close by where he had disappeared from view. The second was far less distinct; indeed, no sign of a "hit" was discerned till just before reaching the distant corral. Here the faint trace, tiny drops of blood, all enveloped in sand, quite indiscernible to my eye, were instantly detected by the guardas. The dogs were laid on, and within a few minutes we heard the crash which told of the stag at bay. The final scene was just completed when I reached the spot—on foot, for in the rough scramble through forest and broken ground I had managed to get thrown, gun and all, and preferred to finish the pursuit on my legs. The first ball had passed through the ribs, rather far back; the second ("express") had entered his stern. The first stag was also shot through the "lisk"—not brilliant performances, perhaps! but I had got my two stags, the first carrying nine points, the second a shapely wild head of eleven: and, since those days, we have now and then succeeded in placing the rifle-ball in more orthodox positions.[76] Quite the finest hart of this campaign fell on the same beat—a superb head of fifteen points, having extremely broad and massive horns, though of no special size of body. Total bag for the day: eight stags (two royals) and two wild pig.

THE ELEVEN-POINTER.
THE ELEVEN-POINTER.

A FIFTEEN-POINTER.
A FIFTEEN-POINTER.

As a sequel to the above, it may be interesting to annex the following diploma of the "Royal and distinguished Order of Mae Corra," conferred upon the writer shortly after the events narrated. Our readers may translate it or leave it at their own risk.

"DROPPED IN HIS TRACKS."
"DROPPED IN HIS TRACKS."