Читать книгу Wild Spain (España agreste) - Abel Chapman - Страница 12

Table of Contents

The two following examples of fortunate days will serve to illustrate the system of bustard-shooting as practised on the corn-lands of Southern Spain, and convey some idea of the haunts and habits of this noble game-bird, in a region where they still remain abundant.

The rendezvous was at the Cortijo de Jedilla, a farm lying some twelve miles away, and the hour fixed was nine o'clock on an April morning. This, along a road that resembled the remains of an earthquake, necessitated an early start. For near three hours we rattled and jolted along in the roomy brake, that lurched at times like a cross-channel steamer, to the merry-jingling bells of a four-in-hand mule-team.

At the hour appointed our ponies and people stood around the broad-arched entrance of the cortijo, all under the direction of old Blas, the keen-eyed mountaineer, equally at home on rugged sierra, or bestriding bare-backed his restive colt, and intimately acquainted with every inch of the wide country around. Blas had left home long before daybreak on that lovely spring morning, and after covering the four leagues across the plains at a hand-gallop, had already—like swift Camilla—scoured all the cultivated lands around the cortijo, in search of the big birds while yet they were busy seeking their matutinal feed. He received us with the gratifying intelligence that he had marked tres bandadas—three packs of bustard. In a few minutes we were mounted, the guns slung in the fundas, and away.

Blas led the file of horsemen towards the nearest band. We were a party of four, with a contingent of six mounted hands under Blas' directions in the ticklish work of driving. Presently the bustards are descried, their lavender heads and lighter necks visible, through the glasses, above the biznagas (visnaya of Linnæus) on a hillside some 1,000 yards away.

Their position, on a hill of so gentle a slope as to command all the plain around, was most difficult to surround; however, as a forlorn hope, and rather with the object of moving them to more favourable ground, we rode slowly past them on the north, at about 300 yards, the birds perking their heads and taking the most lively interest in the string of horsemen. When the nature of the land afforded a cover from the birds' view, we rode round to the southern side, but always at too great a distance to promise anything like a fair chance of getting the birds over us.[9] Our four guns, however, now spread out along the slope, covering among them some quarter-mile of possible flight. The men, riding round to the northern side again, opened out in line, and slowly came in towards the common centre. At first the pack came straight for the guns; but the leader, flying higher than the rest, caught sight of a foe—of No. 1 gun lying full length on the soil—swerved, and took with him the whole pack, out of shot on the extreme right. The latter fact our inexperienced friend in that quarter did not comprehend, for he let drive a couple of quick and useless barrels. Worse than useless! for, as we watched the splendid birds streaming away into space across the valleys of spring corn, we knew that our chance at that bandada was gone—at least for the day.

The second band required a good deal of finding: although Blas was confident he had correctly localized them, we could descry no bustards anywhere in that neighbourhood. At length one of our scouts brought us good news; the birds had walked more than a mile from where Blas had seen them in the early morning. We now waited for him to reconnoitre, and he soon reported that they were basking in the sun amidst a sea of shooting barley—a fact we shortly verified with our field-glasses. Not only were they so favourably placed for a stalk that we would be able to "horseshoe" the four guns behind them at almost certain distance, but the drivers (by a long detour) would also get well in at the front of their position unseen. The two centre guns were placed in the valley at the foot of the green slope, while the two flanking guns were enabled, by the favouring ground, to creep well up the hillside—a disposition which would leave the birds wholly enclosed at their first flight. The central posts had also the advantage of a rank growth of weeds along the hollow, which effectually concealed them from view. It was a short affair. The writer (left flank) soon heard the whirr of heavy wings: the game passed between him and the opposite flanking gun, out of shot of either, but "entering" beautifully to the centre. Both guns rose to watch the tableau. Straight as a line passed forward the huge barbones—some five-and-twenty of them, the resplendent plumage of rich orange and contrasting black and white set off against the green background; their great swollen necks appeared almost disproportionately heavy, even for those broad pinions and (seemingly) leisurely flight. But bustards, like all heavy game, travel vastly quicker than appears to be the case, as the sequel proved.

Plate IX. GREAT BUSTARDS AMONG THE SPRING CORN. Page 48.

Now they are on the very fringe of the darker green of the hollow; our centre guns have them at their mercy. Don't they see them? Yes; two figures rise from the rank weeds, and flashing barrels enfilade the flock. One, two, three, four reports ring out; but … not a bird comes down, the frightened monsters spread asunder, winging a quicker flight in all directions. One huge barbudo behind the rest wheels back and almost gives us a chance as he takes the hill in reverse; but he sees the danger and passes to the right, swerving in his course too near our vis-à-vis, and before we hear the report we can see the ponderous mass of 30lbs. of bustard collapse. He is struck well forward, in head and neck, and pitches heavily earthwards, splitting his broad chest as it rebounds from the unyielding soil. We had—and that by sheer chance—a single head to show for this carefully-planned drive.

Our young friends in the valley were sad indeed, but over such things let us draw the veil. The drivers, too, had witnessed their failure. It may be safer rather to leave their feelings to the sympathetic reader to imagine than to describe. Old Blas declared they had "llenado el ojo de carne"—that the huge bulk of the birds had concealed from over-anxious eyes the rapidity of their flight. After lunch what had appeared a catastrophe became a jest.

An unsuccessful manœuvre followed, and we had to ride afar to seek fresh bandadas. After traversing leagues of corn-land—at this season as lonely as an African desert—we descried a considerable pack, and again luck favoured us as to site. An arroyo, or stream, ran along the valley below—one of those small rapid currents that, in winter, tear deep and narrow gulleys, and in the summer become quite dry, save in a few of the deeper pools or favoured corners which resist the heat and afford nesting homes for the mallard and drinking resorts for the bustard. Now, there was water all along, and tall reeds and canes grew several feet in height. Could we place the guns along this ditch the drive was secure. The question was, Would the birds allow a mounted group to pass so near? We tried and succeeded. Witness's luck placed him in a cane-brake, whence he could watch every movement of the bustards at leisure. On rising, the pack bore straight to the gun on the left. Luckily (for us), this "point-gun," in his undue anxiety, showed too soon—before the birds had come well in. The pack swung in our direction, right along the line, giving a chance to both centre guns (only one of which was taken advantage of), and then bore straight for the writer, well overhead, and not over 60 feet high—an embarras de richesse.

The first and second shots, with the 12-bore, stopped a pair of what appeared the biggest of the pack, coming in—right and left—and then, picking up a single 4-bore, there followed the further satisfaction of pulling down a third old male at very long range. These three superb birds weighed 93lbs.—a notable shot, probably without parallel in sporting annals.

Before night we found twice more, and each of the batidas added a bird to the bag, the result of the day's sport being seven noble barbones, or male bustard, now in the fullest glory of their splendid spring plumage.

Thus ended a successful day, on which Fortune had favoured us, on several occasions, in finding the game in accessible situations. Such good luck does not always, nor even often, await the bustard-shooter; and even when it does, there still remains the real crux—the quick intuition of the requisite strategical movements and their successful execution.