“In the Forest and on the moor there is a mighty Doctor before whom the greatest physicians and surgeons in the world must bow down. Nature acting in a pure air on an absolutely healthy subject will work wonderful cures.... It seems marvellous that the broken leg of an animal so restless as a stag should heal, but it is the case.... Such a wound will heal and the animal ultimately be little the worse for it.”

Such are the words, in his book Wild Sport with Gun, Rifle, and Salmon Rod, of Mr. Gilfrid W. Hartley, a stalker of great experience, and the author of some most fascinating reminiscences on stalking.

Every good sportsman is, of course, greatly distressed if he has the misfortune to wound a stag without being able to kill him. No matter what care may be exercised, it is impossible, even for the best of shots who has been accustomed to stalk for many years, not to experience some time or other a catastrophe of this kind. It is at any rate some slight consolation to know that Nature can effect the marvellous cures of which there is authentic record.

Much can, no doubt, be done to improve one’s shooting by regular practice. Some years ago I was discussing the subject with one of the old Highland proprietors who is a first-class rifle shot, and he told me that for many years he had been in the habit of practising shooting at a small wooden stag, which he had placed in all kinds of different positions and at different distances on the hill. He added that he was sure that this had greatly improved his shooting. This interested me greatly, for I had for a long time been doing the same thing and am a great believer in its advantages. Amongst other things which it teaches one, is to judge distances more accurately.

In the course of my wanderings through many forests, I have often discussed with experienced stalkers the subject of Nature’s wonderful cures, and as recently as the year before last, whilst I was stalking in a forest in the Western Highlands, the head stalker related to me a remarkable experience of his own. I thought the story worth recording in some permanent form, but felt that I myself could not do justice to it. I therefore asked my friend the stalker if he could find time, after the stalking season was over, to write out for me the account of this particular experience.

Some five months later I received the account from him, accompanied by a letter which contained the following words: “You will find the enclosed story about the wounded stag. And indeed, I would prefer stalking through wet and bogs for six hours than one hour trying to put my experience on paper.” Here is the story in question:

“As I promised, I am writing about one of my experiences which fixed it greatly on my mind as to the power of a stag to recover from a serious wound.

“The year 1905 was a very wet season in this district, and while stags were not good in condition, there were some good heads to be seen. I had that season one of the best of sportsmen who knew a great deal about deer and their ways, and had an experience of thirty years behind him.

“My beat is a narrow long piece of high ground and stretching well in between three adjoining forests coming to a narrow point, and on this narrow part there is a small corrie. This corrie is the best for keeping stags I know of, but rather difficult to stalk except with north-west wind. With other winds, although successful in a stalk, one is sure to drive the rest of the deer into one of the adjoining forests, the stalkers in which were very much on the alert at that time to make the best use of any move in their favour on the marches. There was a long spell of south and south-west wind, and although there were quite a lot of stags in this corrie we had to wait long for favourable wind so as to move them further into our own ground. About September 25 we were having a spy at the corrie, and noticed a newcomer with quite a big, strong head of ten points, and on each horn very peculiarly shaped tops with cups, the three points on the top in each horn curving towards one another until the tips almost touched. We at once came to stalk him, while keeping so far as safe with wind between them and the boundary. We came to a point we considered likely if they kept on their way feeding, as in so doing they would pass us within a reasonable distance. This they did, but the ten-pointer keeping well at the end. When he was within 150 yards head on, all of a sudden he turned right round and began feeding quietly away tail on, with haunches towards us. We were in a high fever discussing whether he would still turn and follow the rest of the deer or had made up his mind to part with them altogether. We concluded the last was his decision, and so prepared to have a long shot if he would give us the best chance. When well over 200 yards, he turned half-broadside, and immediately the gentleman had a go at him. His first shot went high, and the stag bolted down the corrie, and with his second got him high in the offside hind leg and broke completely his thigh-bone, as I could see his leg swinging out to his side at every jump. We sat down, watching him going down the lower corrie until he came to a shoulder, and began to climb up the ridge towards the highest part of the mountain. When almost on the top he stood looking towards us, and after a long time lay down. When we saw him settling we moved quietly to where we left the gillie, and gave him instructions to watch and let us know which way the stag went if he got up and went away, for we had to make a long detour out of his view to get round and, if possible, to get above him. When we arrived he was not to be seen anywhere, so we began to spy and get directions from the gillie, who signed that he went round the shoulder before us. It was getting late and dark, so we hurried after the stag. When we got round the shoulder we could dimly see him limping away a good deal below us, and towards the boundary, so we considered it was best not to follow further in case we forced him over the march and then lost him in the dark, for we were in hopes to find him next morning near this place, and possibly dead. As he did not catch us following him, he slowed down to a stand, so we left him there.

“Next morning, we were on the move early and got up to where we left him, searched every hollow and corner on our side and as far into the other side as I dared, but could not find or see him anywhere. So, when home, we wrote to the surrounding tenants with a description of the head, and to have a look-out, when we would expect the head to be sent to us if the stag were found dead. But none ever came across him, so we gave up hopes and expected he was dead in some hole.

“The following year the forest was taken by a new tenant, and there was no more thought about the lost wounded stag till, about the beginning of October, what was my surprise to see, and very near the same place and corrie, a stag with the same kind of head and peculiarly formed tops. I mentioned to the gentleman our experience last season with one very like this stag in the same corrie, but I remember our remark was that it was more likely one of the same breed, so lost no time in spying, as everything was favourable for a successful stalk. We got to a nice distance, and shot him dead. When I went down to examine him I was surprised to find that he had no brow-points, and instead of being a ten-pointer he was only an eight-pointer. I could not see anything like last year’s wound at the time, but next morning, when I went to the larder where he was hanging skinned, I noticed at once his right leg showing exactly where our last year’s bullet had broken it, but now nicely healed up, and it looked as though both legs were exactly the same length. I could not say if he had a limp, as he was standing all the time till we had our shot. I got this haunch for my own use and had it boiled and stripped of flesh, when I could see plainly how well it joined. The bone was jagged at both ends, and the longest points exactly touching, and the missing parts were filled up with tough hard flesh. I noticed a splinter on the outside which lay so neatly in place, and even to both ends. The stag weighed 15 st. 11 lb. He was in fair condition, but not up to the average; he looked to me to be much heavier the year before, although that year we had much better average weights.”

Lieut.-General Crealock, in Deer Stalking in the Highlands of Scotland, relates a case of the same kind:

“I remember,” he says, “wounding a Royal Stag some years ago at Loch Luichart—I broke his fore leg at the shoulder. Having no dog with me I never succeeded in getting up to him to finish him before dark, and so lost him. The wound was not mortal—it had shattered the bone; he recovered and lived for several years after, but he always had a stiff joint. The first year he never shed his velvet and dropped a point from his royal head; the second year he cleaned, but never regained his royal head or even a good one again.”

In Speedy’s Natural History of Sport in Scotland with Rod and Gun there is an interesting account of a thirteen-pointer whose hind leg was broken above the hock. In the forest in Inverness-shire where this stag was, the deer were regularly fed during the winter. “When feeding commenced he came regularly as before; but in consequence of his wound he was reduced to a skeleton, and, being very weak, was kept off by the other stags. He used to hide, however, not far off, and when the others took their departure he returned to the feeding-place, when the keeper attended to him and had opportunities, with the aid of his glass, of noting the injured limb at a comparatively short distance. Within a month after feeding commenced, he was able to use it, and in three months was master of the herd.... As the new antlers grew it was found that the one on the opposite side from the broken limb was minus the brow-point.” He was shot in that season, and scaled 17 st. 12 lb. clean, being then nine years old.

I myself had a personal experience which is perhaps worth recording in this connection. I was stalking late in the season—indeed it was the last day that I was out—and we had been unable to get a shot until late in the evening, when I killed a good stag. We had some miles to go before we reached the end of the road in the forest where the motor-car from the lodge was to meet us, and the light was beginning to fail. We were high up on the side of a corrie, and were preparing to start on our homeward journey, when Sandy, the stalker, suddenly turned to me and said, pulling out his glass, “I see some deer down there on the flat.”

In a moment he had his glass on them, and said: “Would you be liking another stag? There’s a fine stag with hinds, and we shall not be long getting down to them. It’s been poor sport to-day.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then, I am afraid, considering how late it was, weakly yielded to the temptation. I said: “All right! We shall have to be quick, otherwise we shall not be able to see what we are doing.” We soon decided our method of approach, and lost no time in getting down the hill. The deer were feeding on a small flat piece of ground near the ruins of what had been a watcher’s cottage many years ago, and we hoped, by getting into a broad and fairly deep burn, to reach a point about 200 yards further down, from which I could get a shot. The water was sometimes up to our waists and bitterly cold, and our movements were necessarily slow, but we arrived at last at a point which was about 140 yards from the stag. Peering over the top of the bank of the burn, we saw that the stag was on the far side of the hinds from us, and was lying down in a dip of the ground, so that only the tops of his horns were visible. After we had been waiting in the burn for some time, the stag got up, and, without giving me a chance for a shot, walked on to lower ground, where he began to feed in such a position that it was impossible to see him until he put his head up, and then we could only see the upper part of his horns. After a few minutes I whispered: “I really can’t wait here any longer, it is so frightfully cold, and the light will soon be gone. Let us get out of the burn and chance our being seen: at any rate, we shall be higher up there, and be more likely to see the stag.”

We cautiously hoisted ourselves out of the burn on to the flat ground on the top of the bank, but even there could only see the stag’s horns and a very small part of his head.

Sandy whispered to me: “You will have to shoot off my back, sir; it is the only chance.” He carefully raised his back, and I put the rifle over it. I said: “I am too low now; I can’t see the stag’s body.”

“Ye’ll just have to put the coat on my back,” said Sandy, pushing towards me my rolled-up shooting-cape, which was fastened up with a strap. I hoisted the rolled-up cape on to Sandy’s back, and then prepared for a shot by putting the rifle on the top of the cape—an extraordinarily foolish proceeding. What I certainly ought to have done was to have stood straight up and fired at the stag from my shoulder. However, I took my shot in the position described, and something, I don’t know what exactly, caused me to pull off.

“His hind leg is broken,” said Sandy, as away went the stag and the rest of the deer. I instantly handed him the rifle, as I knew he was a first-class shot at running deer, and told him, if he could get the chance, to finish the stag off.

After a short interval I heard a shot, and then a second shot. Soon afterwards Sandy returned, and said, “You’ll never see him again, sir. I never touched him.”

It was almost dark, and we started on our homeward journey along the narrow foot-track through the forest. Sandy asked me to walk first so that I could go at my own pace. He followed me, and behind him came the gillie, there being only room to walk in single file. It is not easy to carry on a conversation with any one who is walking behind, nor did the fact that I felt very depressed at having left the wounded stag in suffering, perhaps to die a painful, lingering death, make it any easier. At first I made an occasional observation and then lapsed into silence. As I was walking along engrossed in my melancholy thoughts I noticed that the path was becoming more and more difficult to see, and indeed hardly visible in the growing darkness.

I said, “It’s getting awfully dark, and I can hardly see the path.” No answer. I turned round: neither of the men was to be seen. I stopped and shouted loudly, “Sandy!” Still no answer. This I repeated several times with the same result. I then began to think what I had better do. It was almost dark by this time. I was in the heart of one of the largest forests in the North of Scotland, miles from any human habitation, without a scrap of food, with an empty flask, and soaked to the skin up to my waist through wading and standing in the burn, which was in flood.

I decided to retrace my steps to the old ruins of the watcher’s cottage from which we had started. Taking great care not to lose the path, I began to do this, shouting now and then but hearing no reply. I tried to think out why the men should not have been following me on this path on which I was now returning, and which ran beside a broad burn which was in spate. I then remembered that the path which I had been following across the forest before I came to the burn was almost at right angles both to the burn and the path I was now on, and it occurred to me that possibly the path which I ought to have taken lay straight across the burn, and that the men might have crossed the burn and gone in that direction. I had, I knew, been walking, as I always do on these occasions, very fast, and this made me think it not unlikely, especially as it was so dark, that the men had assumed that I had crossed the burn in front of them. Being careful not to lose the narrow track I was on in the darkness, I discovered the point at which I had turned up the burn-side, and found that the other path leading up to the burn was a little wider, which encouraged me to hope that my supposed explanation might prove to be the true one. I then waded across the burn and found there was a path at right angles to it on the other side which looked more used than the track which I had just left. I therefore made up my mind to follow this path for a time, shouting every now and then in the hope that the men might hear me, and if I did not hear any reply I would then consider whether I would go on or retrace my steps to the old ruins and there spend the night—a cheerful prospect indeed.

After going some distance along the path I suddenly heard what I thought was the sound of shouting a long way off. I stopped and shouted more loudly than ever, and then heard the shouts coming nearer, and very soon after Sandy and the gillie appeared. It turned out that what I had supposed had happened, and that they had crossed the burn thinking that I was still in front of them.

I have never since then, on my return from stalking, walked in front of the stalker along a path which I do not know. This unpleasant incident made us later than ever, and I did not get back to the lodge until nearly 10 P.M.

The following season I was again stalking in the same forest, and on my first day was on the same beat where I had had the misfortune to wound the stag, as described above, and the same stalker was once more with me. I asked him whether he had heard anything of the wounded stag, and he replied, “Nothing whatever,” adding that although he was sure that the near hind leg was broken, he could not be sure in the darkness at what part exactly, but he thought it was low down.

We began by spying a corrie, which was about three miles from the place where I had wounded the stag in the previous season, and presently found five shootable stags which were together. After watching them for a time, Sandy said, “There are two much bigger than the others—one a dark beast; he’s a good stag, with only one horn.”

“All right!” I said. “Let’s shoot him; he’ll be interesting anyhow.”

We then stalked the stags and managed to get within about 120 yards of them. As soon as I got a good view of the beasts I noticed that the stag with one horn was limping slightly, and it flashed through my mind that he was almost certainly the stag which I had wounded in the previous season, particularly as he was the same colour and the horn seemed to me to be very similar to what I recollected of the horns of the wounded stag. Whilst these thoughts were rapidly passing through my mind, Sandy whispered, “Don’t take the stag with one horn, sir, but the yellow stag on the right which is a much better beast.”

I replied by shooting the dark-coloured stag—this time in the right place.

“You’ve shot the wrong beast!” said Sandy. I said, “Oh, no I haven’t. You were with me last time I fired my rifle, and I then fired it at that very stag; let us have a look at him and see if I’m not right.”

On examining the stag we found that low down on his near hind leg the bone had evidently been fractured just above the fetlock, but had healed completely and set in the most wonderful way. This, of course, was what had caused the limp which I had noticed, and also the absence of the horn on the other side of the head. After examining the stag, Sandy quite agreed that there was no doubt it must be the same stag, and we both thought, although it was in very good condition, that it was at least a stone lighter than it had been in the previous season.

It is interesting to note that in the case of stags, as in that of human beings, the muscular movements are controlled by nerve centres which are situated on the opposite side of the brain.