Unexplored Spain Part 7

From one's earliest days the wild-boar has been invested with a sort of halo of romance, identified in youthful mind with grim courage and brute strength. Perhaps his grisly front, the vicious bloodshot eyes, savage snorts, and generally malignant demeanour, lend substance to such idea.

But even among adults there exists in the popular mind a strange mixture of misconception as between big game and dangerous game--to hundreds the terms are synonymous. Thus a lady, inspecting our trophies, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr.----, aren't these beasts very treacherous?" which almost provoked the reply, "You see, we are even more treacherous!"

In sober truth, nevertheless, a big old boar when held up at bay, or charging in headlong rushes upon the dogs, his wicked eyes flashing fire, and foam flying from his jaws as tushes clash and champ, presents as pretty a picture of brute-fury and pluck as even a world-hunter may wish to enjoy.

Yet among hundreds of boars that we have killed or seen killed (though dogs are caught continually, and occasionally a horse), there has never occurred a serious accident to the hunter, and only a few narrow escapes.

As an example of the latter: the keeper, while "placing" the writer among bush-clad dunes outside the Mancha of Majada Real, mentioned that a very big boar often frequented some heavy rush-beds on my front.

"Should the dogs give tongue to pig at that point, your Excellency will at once run in to the function." Such were his instructions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROOM FOR TWO]

At the point indicated the dogs bayed unmistakably, and seizing a light single carbine, 303 (as there was a stretch of heavy sand to cover) I ran in. Arriving at the covert and already close up to the music, suddenly the "bay" broke, and I felt the bitter annoyance of being twenty seconds too slow. I had entered by a narrow game-path, and was still hurrying up this when I met the flying boar face to face. By chance he had selected the same track for his retreat! As we both were moving, and certainly not six yards apart, there was barely time to pull off the carbine in the boar's face and throw myself back against the wall of matted jungle on my left. Next moment the grizzly head and curving ivories flashed past within six inches of my nose! The spring he had given carried the boar a yard past me, and there he stopped, stern-on, champing and grunting, both tushes visible--I could see them in horrid projection, on either side of the snout! I had brought the empty carbine to the "carry," so as to use it bayonet-wise, to ward the brute off my legs; but he remained stolidly where he had stopped, and, as may be imagined, I stood stolid too. As it proved, the bullet, entering top of shoulder, had traversed the vitals--hence the cessation of hostilities. A few moments later the arrival of the dogs terminated an untoward interval.

On another occasion at the Veta de las Conchas, amidst the lovely _pinales_, just as the beat was concluded, there dashed from a small thicket a troop of a dozen pig, making direct for the solitary pine behind which the writer held guard. Pa.s.sing full broadside, at thirty yards the biggest dropped dead on the sand, and, just as the troop disappeared in a donga, a second, it seemed, was knocked over. On the beaters approaching I walked across to see, and there, in the hollow, lay the second pig apparently dead enough. Having picked up my field-gla.s.ses, cartridge-pouch, etc., I stood close by awaiting the keeper's arrival. Three or four dogs, however, following on the spoor, arrived first; and on their worrying the deceased, it at once sprang to its feet, gazed for one instant, and charged direct. Never have I seen an animal cover twenty yards more quickly! Dropping the handful of _chismes_ aforesaid, I pulled off an unaimed cartridge in my a.s.sailant's face and a lucky bullet struck rather below the eyes. This is not a dead shot, but the shock at that short distance proved sufficient.

An amusing incident, not dissimilar, occurred at Salavar. A youthful sportsman was approaching a boar which had fallen and lay apparently dead, when it, too, suddenly sprang up and charged. Our friend turned and fled; but, tripping over a fallen branch, fell headlong amidst the green rushes. There, face-downwards, he lay, preferring, as he explained later, "to receive his wound behind rather than have his face messed about by a boar!" Luckily the animal, on losing sight of its flying foe, pulled up and stood, grunting surprise and disapproval.

A similar experience befell King Alfonso XIII. in this Mancha of Salavar, December 29, 1909. We need not tell English readers that His Majesty proved equal to this, as to every occasion, and dropped his adversary at arm's length.

When one reads (as we do) descriptions of big-game hunting, a recurring expression gives pause--that of "charging." A recent discussion in a sporting paper turned on the question of "the best weapon for a charging boar." Now such a thing as a "charging boar" has never, in a long experience, occurred to the authors--that is, a boar charging deliberately, and of its own initiative, upon human beings; and we do not believe in the possibility of such an event. Of course should a boar (or any other savage animal) be disabled, or in a corner, that is a different matter--then a wild-boar will fight, and right gallantly too.

The nearest approach to a "charge" (though it wasn't one really) occurred at the Rincon de los Carrizos. Towards the end of the beat the dogs ran a pig, and, seeing it was a big one, the writer followed, and after a spin of 300 yards overtook the boar at bay in a deep water-hole.

The place was all overhung with heavy foliage and thick pines above, giving very poor light. Though the boar's snout pointed straight towards me about ten yards away, I imagined (wrongly) that his body stood at an angle--about one-third broadside: hence the bullet (aimed past the ear), splashed harmlessly in the water, and next moment the pig was coming straight as a die, apparently meaning mischief. When within five yards, however, he jinked sharply to right, pa.s.sing full broadside, when I killed him _a-boca-jarro_, as the phrase runs, "at the mouth of the spout."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

That idea of "charging at large" is so splendidly romantic, and fits in so appropriately with preconceived ideas, that we almost regret to disturb its semi-fossilised acceptance. But, in mere fact, neither boars nor any other wild beasts "charge" at sight--always and only excepting elephant and rhinoceros, either of which _may_ (or may not) do so, though previously unprovoked. It would, at least, be unwise entirely to ignore the contingency of either of these two so acting.

There exist, nevertheless, old and evil-tempered boars that are quite formidable adversaries. We have many such in our Coto Donana--boars that, having once overmastered our hounds, practically defy us. Each of these old solitary tuskers occupies some densely briared stronghold--it may be but an isolated patch of jungle, scarce half an acre in extent, or alternatively, a little sequence of similar thickets, each connected by intervals of lighter bush. Such spots abound by the hundred, but once the lair of our bristled friend is found, then there is work cut out for man, horse, and hound. For long-drawn-out minutes the silence of the wilderness re-echoes with doubly concentrated fury--frantic hound-music mingled with lower accompaniment of sullen, savage snorts and grunts and the champing of tusks; then a sharp crunch of breaking boughs ... and the death-yell of a _podenco_ tells that _that_ blow has got home. But the seat of war remains unchanged--the same rush and the same fatal result are repeated. Presently some venturous hound may discover an entry from behind. The enemy's flank is turned, and with a crash that seems to shake the very earth, our boar retreats to a second stronghold only twenty yards away. All this is occurring within arm's length; one hears, can almost feel, the stress of mortal combat, but one sees nothing inside the mural foliage, nor knows what moment the enemy may sally forth. Such moments may even excite what are termed in Spanish phrase "emotions."

In his second "Plevna" our boar is secure, and he knows it. With rear and flanks protected by a _revetement_ of gnarled roots and a labyrinth of stems, he fears nothing behind, while the furiously baying hounds on his front he now utterly despises. Blank shots fired in the air alarm him not, nor will Pepe Espinal--in a service of danger--succeed in dislodging him with a _garrocha_, after a perilous climb along the briar-matted roof. That boar is victor--master of a stricken field.

One human resource remains, to go in _a arma blanca_--with the cold steel. There are dashing spirits who will do this--in Spain we have seen such. But to crawl thus, prostrate, into the dark and gloomy tunnels that form a wild-boar's fortress, intercepted and obstructed on every side, there to attack in single combat a savage beast, still unhurt and in the flush of victory, pachydermatous, and whose fighting weight far exceeds your own--well, _that_ we place in the category of pure recklessness. Courage is a quality that all admire, though one may wonder if it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed in common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage races of human kind--races which we regard as "lower," yet not inferior in that cherished quality of "pluck."

Before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the act may cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, otherwise to sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may be, to an undertaker--though he will not object.

Once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance indeed that that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly chosen lair, will ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of a rifle.

After one such rout, we remember finding our friend the Reverend Father, who had sallied forth with us for a mild morning's shooting, perched high up among the branches of a th.o.r.n.y _sabina_ (a kind of juniper), whence we rescued him, cut and bleeding, and badly "shaken in nerve!"

We add the following typical instances of boar-shooting:--

SALAVAR, _February 1, 1900_.--A lovely winter's morn, warm sun and dead calm. The distant cries of the beaters (nigh three miles away) had just reached my ears, when a nearer sound riveted attention--the soft patter of hoofs upon sand. Then from the forest-slope behind appeared a pig--big and grey--trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away.

Already the fore-sight was "touching on" its neck, when a lucky suspicion of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball.

Next came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour and carriage. At twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for long seconds we stared eye to eye. Curious it is that absolute quiescence will puzzle the wildest of the wild! Hardly had she vanished 'midst forest shades, than once again that m.u.f.fled patter--this time an unmistakable tusker. But, oh! what an abominable shot I made--too low, too far back--and onwards he pursued his course. By our forest laws it was my _deber_ (bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. All that noontide, all the afternoon--through bush and brake, by dell and dusky defile--patiently, persistently, did Juanillo Espinal and I follow every twist and turn of that unending spoor. There was blood to help us at first, none thereafter. Through the thickets of Sabinal, then back on the left by Mae-Corra, forward through the Carrizal, thence crossing the Corral Grande, and away into the great _pinales_ beyond--away to the Rincon de los Carrizos, three solid leagues and a bit to spare! That was the price of a bungled shot.

Here at last we have tracked him to his lair. Within that sullen fortress of the Rincon lies our wounded boar. How to get him out is a different problem. Though wounded, he is in no way disabled, and is ready, aye "spoiling," to put up a savage fight for his life. Having precisely located him in a dense tangle of lentisk and briar, our single dog, Careto, a tall, s.h.a.ggy _podenco_, not unlike a deerhound, but on smaller scale, is let go. Up a gloomy game-path he vanishes, and in a moment fierce music startles the silent woods. The boar refused to move.

But one resource remained. We must go in to help Careto, crawling up a briar-laced tunnel. It was horribly dark at first, and I began to think of ... when, fortunately, the light improved, and a few yards farther in a savage scene was enacting in quite a considerable open. Beneath its brambled roof we could stand half upright. In its farthest corner stood our boar at bay, a picture of sullen ferocity. Upon Juanillo's appearance the scene changed as by magic--there was a rush and resounding crash. Precisely what happened during the three succeeding seconds deponent could not see, it being so gloomy, and Juanillo on my front. Ere a cartridge could be shoved into the breech the great boar was held up, Careto hanging on to his right ear, and Juanillo, springing over the dog, had seized the grisly beast by both hind-legs--at the hocks--and stepping backward, with one mighty heave flung the boar sidelong on the earth. Next moment I had driven the knife through his heart.

Though the method described is regularly employed by Spanish hunters to seize and capture a wounded or "bayed" boar--and we have seen it executed dozens of times--yet seldom in such a spot as this, cramped in s.p.a.ce, handicapped by bad light and intercepting boughs and briars. It was a dramatic scene, and a bold act that bespoke cool head and brawny biceps.

The head of this boar hangs on our walls to commemorate an event we are not likely to forget.

We remember following a wounded lynx into a similar spot--a deep hollowed jungle. A pandemonium of savage snarling and spitting, barks and yowls greeted our ears as we crawled in, while on reaching the cavern the green eyes of the lynx flashed like electric lights from a dark recess. Though one hind-leg had been broken and the other damaged by a rifle-ball, yet she held easy mastery over five or six dogs.

Sitting bolt upright, she kept the lot at bay with sweeping half-arm blows. Not a dog dared close, and the brave feline had to be finished with the lance.

MANCHA DEL MILAGRO, _February 4, 1908_.--The covert, we knew by spoor, held a first-rate boar, and his most probable _salida_ (break-out) was at the foot of a perpendicular sand-wall, within fifty yards of which the writer held guard. Within brief minutes the music of the pack corroborated what had been foretold by spoor. Twice the boar with crashing course encircled the _mancha_ within, pa.s.sing close inside my post. Each moment I watched for his appearance at the expected point on the right. Then, without notice or sound of broken bough, suddenly he stood outside on the left--almost beneath the gun's muzzle--not eight feet away. Luckily (as he stood within my firing-lines) the boar steadfastly gazed in the opposite direction, nor did I seek by slightest movement to attract attention to my presence. For some seconds we both remained thus, rigid. Then with sudden decision the boar bounded off, flying the gentle slope in front, and ere he had pa.s.sed a yard clear of the firing-line, fell dead with a bullet placed in the precise spot.

Weight, 164 lbs. clean, and grey as a donkey.

A wounded boar should always be approached with caution. Remember he is a powerful brute, very resolute, and furnished with quite formidable armament, which, while life remains, he will use. One of the biggest, after receiving a bullet slightly below and behind the heart, went slowly on some fifty yards, when he subsided, back up, among some green iris. Half an hour later the writer silently approached from directly behind. At ten yards the heaving flanks showed that plenty of life remained, and beautiful scimitar-like tushes were conspicuous enough on either side. I therefore quietly withdrew. On a keeper presently riding up, the boar at once dashed on a dog, flung him aside (laying open half his ribs), and charged the horse. The latter was smartly handled and cleared, when the boar instantly turned on me. The dash of that onset was splendid to watch. Luckily he had a yard or two of soft bog to get through, but it was necessary to stop him with another bullet.

Impressive is the mental sensation aroused when any savage wild-beast--normally the object of pursuit--suddenly turns the tables and becomes the aggressor. The actual incident is necessarily but momentary, yet its effect remains graven on the tablets of memory. Pity 'tis so rare.

Again we conclude with an independent impression by J. C. C.:--

Never a visit to the Coto Donana but brings some separate experience--possibly more pleasurable in retrospect than reality! I will instance my first interview with wild-boars. Now, of course, I know more about them and can almost regard them with serenity; but at that time, believe me, it was not so. That first encounter at really close quarters occurred at the close of a long day's work.

My post was behind a twelve-inch pine on an otherwise bare hill, the reverse slope of which dipped down to dense bamboo-thickets just out of my sight, though close by. Within a few minutes commenced and continued the hullabaloo of hounds. Close glued to my pine-trunk I listened in tense excitement. Suddenly, ere I had quite realised such possibility, there rushed into view on the ridge, not twenty paces distant, a great s.h.a.ggy grey boar. He had dashed up the steep bank beyond and was now making direct for my legs. This is not the confession of a nervous man, but it did occur to me that truer safety lay in the _fork_ of my tree! but B. was the next gun, only sixty or seventy yards away, and keenly interested. In a moment I was myself again; but the interval had been, to say the least, painfully enthralling. I had, of course, to wait till the great "Havato" had crossed my "firing-lines." He certainly saw _something_, for he paused momentarily, took rapid counsel, and bolted past. Nerves were steady now, and once across the line the boar had my right in the ribs, left in flank. I actually saw blood spurt--hair fly--at each shot, yet the boar followed on his course unmoved. Pachydermatous pig! I pondered while reloading. Ten seconds later on my boar's sleuth follows _Boca-Negra_, a veritable Beth Gelert. Utterly ignoring me, he pa.s.ses away into gloom and silence; but shortly I see him coming back, blood-stained and satiated, and my self-respect returns. Ten minutes later, a second tusker gallops along the hollow behind. Him also my right caught fair in the ribs--only a few inches left of the heart, yet again without visible result. The second bullet, however, broke his spine as he ascended the sand-bank beyond, and he fell stone dead. When the beat was over we followed No. 1. He also lay still, 200 yards away--a pair of first-rate tuskers.

I remember, during the gralloch, some dreadfully poor charcoal-burners appearing on the scene to beg for food. This, of course, was gladly conceded; but so famished were those poor creatures that old women filled their ap.r.o.ns with reeking viscera, while it was with difficulty that children could be prevented from starting at once on raw flesh and liver. Truly it was a grievous spectacle, and filled the homeward ride with sad reflections on the awful hardships such poor folk are destined to endure.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BOLTED PAST]

In days of rapid change, when, in our own generation, sporting weapons have been at least thrice utterly metamorphosed, it is unwise to be dogmatic. Yet we may summarise our personal experience that the most efficient weapon for all such purposes as here described is that known as the "Paradox," or at least of the Paradox type. The old "Express rifle" (the best in its day, less than a score of years ago, but now mere "sc.r.a.p") was also useful. But it always fell second to the Paradox, as the latter (being really a shot-gun, equally available for small game, snipe, duck, or geese) came up quicker to the eye for snap-shooting with ball.

The invention of the Paradox type of gun has practically introduced a third style of shooting where there previously existed only two, to wit:--

(1) Gun-shooting with _shot_ where any "aim" or even an apology for an aim is fatal to modern maximum success.

(2) Rifle-shooting proper, which must be mechanical and deliberate--the more so, the more effective.

(3) Thirdly, we have this new system intermediate between the two--"gun-shooting with ball."

Using the Paradox as a rifle, an alignment _must_ be taken; but it may be taken as with a _gun_, and not necessarily the deliberate and mechanical alignment essential with a rifle, properly so called.

In short, with a Paradox, always glance along the sights. You will nearly always find that some "refinement" of aim is required. More words are useless.

One word as to the "forward allowance" needed after the rough alignment (as explained) has been effected. At short snapshot ranges none is required. At a galloping stag at 50 yards, the sights should clear his chest; at 100 yards, half-a-length ahead, and double that for 150 yards.

At these longer ranges one instinctively allows for "drop" by taking a fuller sight. For standing shots, of course, the back-sights can be used.

BOAR-HUNTING BY MOONLIGHT (ESTREMADURA)

"_Caceria a la Ronda._"

This picturesque and altogether break-neck style of hunting the boar--a style perhaps more consonant than "driving" with popular notions of the dash and chivalry of Spanish character--still survives in the wild province of Estremadura. No species of sport in our experience will compare with the _Ronda_ for danger and sheer recklessness unless it be that of "riding lions" to a stand, as practised on British East African plains.[16]