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Amid the High Hills

[170] <div class="figcenter illowp100" id="ich14" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> <ANTIMG class="w100" src="images/i_ch14.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption">OCTOBER </div> </div> <h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV THE LAST STALK OF THE SEASON</h2> It was the last day of the stalking season in the forest of Fealar, where it had been my good fortune to spend the first ten days of October. I had been out stalking for eight days, during two of which I did not get a shot, but, with the exception of the preceding day, which had been a black Friday for me, I had been very lucky, having shot eight stags, and three of these I had stalked without the aid of a stalker, which had added greatly to my pleasure. But it was a melancholy fact that the last day had arrived, and what had it in store for us? On the preceding day I had had a series of misfortunes, and when I got up and looked out of my bedroom window the prospect was not a cheery one. A thick[171] mist enveloped everything all round the lodge, which is one of the highest, if not the highest, of all the shooting lodges in the Highlands, 1764 ft. above the level of the sea. On coming down to breakfast my host said to me, “Well, I don’t think it is any use going out to-day. What do you say?” But I knew quite well that my host, one of the keenest and best of sportsmen, was only poking fun at me on this the last day of the season. By ten o’clock the mist had slightly lifted. There was a steady drizzle; the high tops were still covered; the wind was east to south-east—the wrong wind for this forest—and the prospect was certainly not inviting. However, we determined to make a start, and I was sent out on the beat of the head stalker, Macdougall. We had not gone more than a mile from the lodge when we saw a shootable stag with some hinds, and after a stalk up a burn and a considerable crawl over a peaty bog, we got to a point within shot of them. Macdougall was just getting the rifle out of its cover when something disturbed the deer, and away they went. Macdougall said he thought I must have shown myself, though I was not conscious of having done so. At any rate, I had succeeded in getting[172] wet through in my efforts to keep flat and out of sight. The weather continued thoroughly unsatisfactory. It was impossible to spy, and for the following hour we saw nothing. About the end of that time it cleared up a little, and we spied about a mile off a large herd of deer, between 200 and 300, and amongst them what appeared to be some very fine stags. We had to make a long détour, and then, by walking and crawling along the side of a burn, we succeeded in getting within what we thought must be a very short distance of some of the stags, judging from the sound of their roaring. We crawled up the bank of the burn, and found ourselves within about 200 yards of one end of the herd, where there was a fine 10-pointer continually on the move, rounding up the hinds. Macdougall said he thought we could get in much nearer by going back into the burn and crawling further up it. This we did, and then, after crawling a little way up the side of the hill, we got to within 100 yards of the 10-pointer. Almost immediately after I had got the rifle into my hands the stag, which had been perpetually on the move, stood for a moment broadside on, giving me a splendid chance. I[173] fired, and the stag bounded forward a few paces, and then fell dead. He had a fine, regular head of ten points, certainly the best head I had obtained this season, although I had been fortunate in shooting a good many stags. It was by this time just twelve o’clock. Macdougall said we had better have lunch in order to allow the deer to settle down, and added that he did not think they would go very far. He said he was quite sure that there were at least other two very fine stags amongst the deer that had gone forward. The stag was soon gralloched, and the gillie was sent back for the pony. We did not take long over lunch, and then set off in the direction in which the deer had gone, being guided by the perpetual roaring of the stags. After going some little distance we located the deer on the face of a hill rather less than two miles from us. Though there was still a drizzle and the light was bad, the wind had risen, and the mist had to some extent cleared from the lower ground. After walking and crawling along the bed of a burn for about half a mile we got into a position from which we were able to spy the deer, as it had ceased raining and the light was better. We made out that there were two lots of hinds on[174] the face of the hill with stags in both lots, and between them five stags. The largest of these stags had a very fine head, and, as often happens in the case of a big stag, had in attendance on him a smaller or sentinel stag. The stalker said he thought the big stag was a Royal, but was not quite sure. This stag and the others which were with him had evidently been driven away from the hinds by a heavy 10-pointer, who was the master stag, and who was making a great disturbance, chasing the smaller stags away, and rounding up the larger lot of hinds. After a very laborious crawl, sometimes on all-fours, sometimes flat, sometimes in the burn, sometimes out of it, for about three-quarters of a mile further, we reached a point in the burn about 600 or 700 yards below the five stags which I have before referred to. In the meantime the wind had risen, and the weather was now very rough and stormy. Macdougall whispered to me that we should have to crawl up the hill in full sight of the deer, and this we proceeded to do for some 500 yards, watching the deer with the greatest care, and whenever one of their heads went up instantly becoming as motionless as statues, and so gradually getting up the hill[175] until at last we got behind a little tussock. The little stag was in front of the four stags, close to him was the big stag, and some little distance behind the latter were the other three stags. Macdougall pulled the rifle out of its cover and beckoned to me to crawl up. He then whispered, “You’ll have to take him now, sir; it’s the only chance you’ll get. We can’t possibly get a yard nearer.” “Take him now,” I said; “why, how far off do you say he is?” “Oh, maybe 330 yards,” said Macdougall. “He’s too far,” I said. “I shall probably wound him, or more likely miss him.” Macdougall’s reply was, “I think you can manage him, sir, and, anyhow, it’s your only chance; we cannot get nearer.” “Why not try to get to that next knobby,” I asked, “about 100 yards further on, behind which the big stag is just going?” Macdougall said that if we tried to do that the other three stags behind the big stag would be certain to see us and would bolt and put the whole lot off. “Well,” I replied, “if they do, we shan’t be worse off than if I fire now and miss. Come on, let’s do the bold thing, it sometimes pays.” Macdougall shook his head and said, “It’s no wise, I’m thinking.” “Come on,” I said. “Well, sir,” said[176] Macdougall, “if you will have it, we’ll try, but I don’t think it will be any good; we shall have to crawl as hard and fast as ever we can up the hill, quite flat the whole way.” Away we went as hard as we could, and it took me all my time to keep up behind Macdougall, who propelled himself along at a prodigious rate. Arrived behind the knobby, we very carefully raised our heads, and found that Macdougall’s prophecy had fortunately proved only partly correct. The three stags behind the big stag and his fag, the little stag, had seen us and had bolted, but instead of going forward, as Macdougall had expected, they had turned tail and made off in the other direction, with the result that they had only put off the deer behind them and none of the deer in front of them. Macdougall hurriedly whispered, pulling the rifle out of the cover: “The big stag is still there, sir, but he and the wee staggie are getting varra suspeecious, and you’ll have to take him varra quick. He’ll be about 220 yards.” “Well,” I said, “I must get my breath; I’m absolutely blown,” the fact being that at the moment I felt absolutely done to the world and was quite incapable of shooting straight. The big stag had slightly moved and was now standing[177] about three-quarters end on, a very difficult shot. I raised the rifle, sighted the stag, and pressed the trigger. There was a sound of a little click, and that was all. “A misfire!” I muttered below my breath. “Are you sure you loaded the rifle after lunch?” “Yes, sir, I am,” said Macdougall. “Very well, then,” I replied, “I’ll try him with the second barrel,” and raised the rifle. “Don’t fire,” said Macdougall; “we’d better make sure.” With some difficulty, owing to the position I was in and the necessity of keeping as flat as possible, I opened the rifle, and lo and behold it was empty! I loaded it as quickly as I could. Meantime, the stag had moved on a few yards, and was now standing broadside on. I put up the rifle, took a steady aim, and fired. There was a thud; the stag gave a start and then moved slowly forward. “You have him,” said Macdougall. I said, “I don’t know that.” “He’s varra sick,” said Macdougall, “and will never get over the hill.” The stag had evidently been shot in the stomach. He was looking very sick, poor beast, and was walking slowly forward, stopping every now and then. All the other deer had disappeared as if by magic except the little stag, who kept some distance in front of the big[178] stag, constantly looking round at him, evidently loth to leave his lord and master. I said, “I’d better fire again,” and put up the 250 yards sight, as I estimated that the stag was now nearly 300 yards from us, and fired. “Over him, sir,” whispered Macdougall. “We must get a bit nearer,” I said. “I’m afraid if we move he’ll see us and begin to run,” Macdougall replied. “Well,” I said, “we’d better try and get round him.” So we crawled right round behind the stag, who kept on moving slowly and then stopping, and got to within about 220 yards of him. “Tak’ your time, sir,” said Macdougall. The stag gave me a good chance, broadside on; and I fired, believing that I was quite steady. “Missed him, sir,” said Macdougall; “I saw something fly up behind him.” “I’m not so sure,” said I, and as I spoke, the stag, who when I fired had bounded forward three or four paces, staggered and then fell and rolled over and over down the hill, shot through the heart, as we subsequently found. Macdougall seized my hand and shook it vigorously, saying, “I hope, sir, he’s a Royal. I believe he is.” As we were getting up to the stag I said, “I see three on one top, but not on the other.” “Ach, yes,” said[179] Macdougall, “he has three on both tops. Yes, sir, he’s a Royal, and we shall have to fine you a bottle of whisky according to the custom of this forest.” “You may be quite sure I shall not mind that,” I replied. On getting up to the stag we found that his head was a fine wild one, with exceptionally long horns. My first bullet had passed through the second compartment of the stomach, or, as it is called in Gaelic, currachd an righ, close to but a little below the heart. <div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i176fp" style="max-width: 62.5em;"> <ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_176_fp.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption">“THE BIG STAG IS STILL THERE.” By Frank Wallace. </div> </div> Currachd an righ means in English “the King’s cap,” though it is sometimes called “the King’s night-cap.” Turned inside out it resembles in shape and dice pattern the old-fashioned night-cap. It is said that certain internal parts of the stag and other ingredients cooked in this “bag” or “currachd” was a favourite dish in the olden days, “fit for a king,” or such as only a king could afford. That may be why it is called “currachd an righ.” The corresponding small bag in the stomach of the sheep is also called “currachd an righ,” and in English “the King’s hood.” The same word is used in Gaelic to signify Hood and Cap. Night-cap translated literally is “currachd oidhche,” but in Gaelic the word “oidhche” or “night” is omitted;[180] presumably because there was only one kind of cap. “Poca buidhè,” which means yellow bag, is the Gaelic name of the first compartment or large bag of the stag’s stomach, and is a name used only in the case of the stag. Macdougall signalled for the pony, and then gralloched the stag. It proved to be a very troublesome job to get the stag on to the pony, although the latter was usually very quiet under such circumstances. Macdougall said the reason for his being so restive was that he could see the very long horns. After helping the gillie and the pony-man to put the stag on the pony, Macdougall and I tried to find some other stag, but in the time still at our disposal we saw nothing more except a few hinds. Curiously enough, the weights of the 10-pointer and the Royal were exactly the same to an ounce—namely, 15 st. 7 oz. clean, without heart and liver—and were the two best heads of the season in the forest of Fealar. Macdougall, who was a stalker of long experience, told my host that he had never had so strenuous a stalk as the stalk after the Royal, and he said to me on the way home, “I shall never believe in thirteen being an unlucky number[181] again, sir, for I found just after we had started that we had only thirteen cartridges, and very nearly went back to leave one of them at home.” On our way down from the hill there kept ringing in my ears the familiar lines of Ruskin in <cite>A Joy for Ever</cite>, lines so true in the experience of those of us who are no longer on the threshold of life: “It is wisely appointed for us that few of the things we desire can be had without considerable intervals of time.” My host had also shot two stags, though he had not met with the wonderful luck I had had. No one could have been more genuinely pleased at my good fortune than he was. So ended for me the last day of the stalking season of 1913, which was one of the most enjoyable and lucky days I have ever spent in the Highlands, and will always be to me a red-letter day. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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