Part 14

Reproduced by kind permission of Messrs. Oliver & Boyd, Edinburgh, from Game-Birds and Wild Fowl, by A. E. Knox.]

In Reminiscences of a Falconer (John Nimmo, London, 1901) Major C. H. Fisher writes:

“The blow is given by the falcon’s strong and sharp hind talon of each foot--usually sharp as a needle and driven at great speed by a bird weighing over 2 lb.”

As illustrating the falcon’s stoop Major Fisher describes how he saw a wild falcon strike a greyhen twice. He says (p. 97):

“As illustrating the force of a falcon’s stoop, I may mention an incident which occurred to me on the banks of the river Orrin when fishing. From some bracken I put up three greyhens. Down came a wild falcon from the sky at the middle bird. I saw and heard the blow. The greyhen staggered on, leaving the usual tribute of feathers behind her. Up rose the falcon in the grand and stately style so few trained hawks can ever adopt or regain (so much do they lose by captivity); over and down she came, and down fell the quarry, as dead as though shot by a bullet.... Down too went my long rod and off went I.... On this occasion I took possession ... of the wild hawk’s prey. On examining the effect of her two blows, I found that three ribs on one side were clean cut through and separated from the backbone as by a chop with a heavy knife and strong hand, and one talon had entered and split the base of the skull, from which the brains were protruding.”

One of the foremost advocates of the contention that the fatal blow is inflicted by a stroke of the wing is Mr. Tom Speedy, who deals with this subject in his Natural History of Sport in Scotland with Rod and Gun (pp. 102, 103). He bases his argument first on the supposition that when the fatal blow is struck on the back of the quarry, the skin is only bruised and not torn. He writes:

“A keeper friend of mine near Kingussie witnessed a grouse struck down by a peregrine, and as there was not a mark on it he sent it to me. Carefully plucking it, I noted that with the exception of a bruise along the spine there was no other mark on it; yet the blow had been sufficient to cause instant death. This comports with my own observations, and it is difficult to understand how this blow could be struck by these terrible talons without the skin being torn. As the heads of grouse are frequently cut off when struck by a peregrine, it is the opinion of foresters who have watched them with their glasses that it is done by the wing. Falconers deny this and maintain that it is done by the hind talon. How, then, it may be asked, can this be done when there is not a scratch on the victim, but only a bruise indicating where the blow was struck?”

The answer to this argument is that there is absolutely reliable evidence to the contrary--in other words, that sometimes the skin is torn.

Major Radclyffe in his letter referred to above writes: “I have seen a grouse ripped open from its tail to its neck.”

Captain Portal says: “I have examined hundreds of game-birds killed by hawks, and have always found the marks of the two hind talons or one of them.”

Sometimes, no doubt, as in the instance referred to by Mr. Speedy, there is a bruise along the spine and the skin is not torn, but this is no doubt to be explained, as is pointed out by a writer cited below, by the way in which a falcon shuts its feet when stooping, the hind talon on each foot closing over the fore talons, thus forming a kind of keel--and the bone on the back of the grouse is strong enough to prevent more than a severe bruise.

Mr. Speedy continues:

“It is argued that it is impossible the bird could be killed by a blow from a hawk’s wing, as the wing would certainly be injured. I have seen a retriever stunned by a blow from the wing of a swan, and but for my being in close proximity in a boat it would certainly have been drowned. Those who have put their hand into the nest of a wood-pigeon are familiar with the blow even a half-fledged bird can give with its wing. I have been struck with the fight a wounded wild goose can put up, and the blows it can inflict on a retriever with its powerful wings.”

But, with all respect, surely the blow of a large powerful bird like a swan or a goose delivered in this way is a very different thing to the blow which is delivered by a peregrine when stooping at its quarry at the terrific speed with which it then flies, and, in my opinion, the view taken by experienced falconers, such as those quoted above, that the wing would most certainly be broken or badly injured, is the correct one.

Finally, Mr. Speedy says:

“When a falcon strikes a bird in the air there is a loud ‘clap’ which I have heard several hundred yards away. This would not be the case if struck by the talons.”

I venture to think, however, that the argument based on the sound caused by the impact carries Mr. Speedy’s contention no further. Would not this loud “clap” naturally be expected if the peregrine struck its quarry in the manner described?

In conclusion, then, what is the correct view of the matter? In the words of a recent writer: “The truth ... seems to be that the falcon shuts its feet when stooping, the hind talon on each foot closing over the fore talons, thus forming a kind of keel. When the falcon strikes a grouse, the latter may be partially or wholly decapitated, or it may be severely bruised on the back. The neck of a grouse is soft, and the ‘keel’ of a peregrine’s hind talon is sufficiently sharp to cut it, whereas on the back of a grouse the bone is strong enough to prevent more than a severe bruise. The shock of impact must, however, be tremendous, for a bird so struck hurtles to the ground at once. When the peregrine strikes, one hears a loud ‘clap’ audible at a considerable distance, and it is this noise that has given rise to the theory that the falcon strikes with its wing. If the peregrine used the latter, however, in all probability the wing would be seriously damaged or broken, because the pace at which a falcon stoops must be seen to be believed.”

There is another interesting fact in regard to this fine bird which is not generally known. There seems little doubt that he deserves the description which has more than once been applied to him--that of a wanton murderer. Thus Charles St. John in his classic work, Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands, says (chap. x.): “The peregrine seems often to strike down birds for his amusement, and I have seen one knock down and kill two rooks, who were unlucky enough to cross his flight, without taking the trouble to look at them after they fell.”

XII

INSTANCES OF WOUNDED STAGS ATTACKING STALKERS

It must often have occurred to every one who has had experience in stalking what a very different sport stalking would be if stags realised their power and had no fear of man. It is, of course, well known to every one who is interested in the habits of deer that a tame stag in the rutting season is one of the most dangerous animals, and some years ago a tragedy occurred in Ross-shire, when a stalker was attacked and killed by a stag which he had himself brought down from the forest as a calf and which knew him well. I have often asked experienced stalkers whether they have ever known an unwounded stag attack a man, but with one exception I have never heard of any such case.

The one instance to the contrary is that given by Mr. Frank Wallace in his delightful book, Stalks Abroad. In describing his stalking in New Zealand, Mr. Wallace gives what he describes as the only really well-authenticated instance which he can vouch for of a wild stag attacking a man, and adds that most likely the darkness and time of year had something to do with the stag’s boldness. He thus describes the incident: “It was dark by the time B. and his guide reached the river-bed, which at the point they struck it is very wide. They had scrambled along over the boulders and rocks with which their course was strewn for some distance, when they saw a dark object lying on the stones in front of them. This presently resolved itself into a sleeping stag, who, hearing them approach, jumped up and disappeared. They had not seen the last of him, however, for a little later they encountered him again, apparently very annoyed at having been aroused from his beauty sleep and determined to wreak vengeance on some one. Seeing them, he seemed to think they would be suitable objects on which to make a start, and advanced with lowered head. B. threw a stone and hit it in the flank; but this had no effect, and the animal advanced a few paces nearer and stood swaying its head from side to side a few inches off the ground. As some one had to go and the stag seemed disposed to give no quarter, B. fired a shot, but without effect. The stag still advanced, until a second shot took him in the chest and finished him off. I saw him the next day where he had fallen. He had a small head of six points, and was obviously a young beast.”

There are no doubt rare instances of a wounded stag attempting to attack a man. I myself have never known such an instance, and, although I have often asked old stalkers whether they have ever known of anything of the kind, I have only once met with any one who has had such a personal experience. The head stalker of a well-known forest recently told me that on two occasions he had known of wounded stags attacking a man. The story of his experiences interested me so much that I asked him to write it down in his own words. This he did, and the account he sent me was as follows:

“I enclose here a long detail about the only time I happened to see wounded stags attacking. You will find it a long story, but it so impressed itself on my mind I could not help giving the movements of each day in full. Twice in my experience of twenty-four years I have seen a wounded stag attacking a man. The first happened on September 25, 1902, when I was stalking with Mr. A. In our start in the morning to the first spying place we usually on the way moved some hinds, but did not trouble about this, as seldom stags were seen so low down till October and stormy weather came. But this morning, when near the spying place, what was my surprise to see to our right lying on a flat, mossy bank a fine big stag with ten points. He did not see us, and we were preparing to stalk him when some of the hinds we moved passed a little beyond and carried him away, so we sat down and kept our glasses on them for a long distance till they settled and began to feed, but the stag kept on walking slowly and climbing till he went out of sight over the ridge beyond. We had to make a long detour to get past the hinds, and when we got to the top and spied we found our stag some two miles away lying with a few small stags close to the march in a position fairly easy to stalk if he waited for about half an hour. We at once dipped down into the corrie at his right and moved along till opposite him. We then climbed till within 80 yards; he was still lying, so Mr. A. came to the conclusion to take him before getting up in case he would lose him on the march. Mr. A. fired, and hit high near the spine. The stag got up, but fell without making a step. I ran up to bleed him, and, crossing below, I noticed his head up again, and hurried up, when he made a straight bolt at me. With a quick jump to one side, I got clear of his head by a few inches. He toppled down the face and fell in a hollow. I think it was then he broke his back, as he could only raise his forepart. I called on Mr. A. to come up and finish him, as he was a dangerous beast. When he came in sight to one side and raised the rifle the stag half turned towards him and gave a loud, defiant roar, which was cut short by a bullet through the neck. He weighed 18 st. 2 lb.; the head had a wide span and long, but the horn was rather thin and smooth, which showed he was past his prime. Whether he roared because he could not manage to get at the man or with fright when he saw the rifle it is hard to guess, but I remember thinking how like his roar was to the roar of two stags at each other on opposite sides of a corrie.

“The second time was in 1907, about October 1st. This season we got some heavy stags on my beat. The heaviest was 20 st. 5 lb., and Mr. B., with whom I was then stalking, was keen to make a record average weight. One day we were spying near the far end of the beat, and saw a stag travelling on to our ground. At first we could not make out what he was, until he joined a bunch of hinds and showed us his broadside, when at once we saw he was a fine big beast, and, although neither of us said so, I believe we both thought at the time it was bigger than our 20-stoner. The day was getting late, and it was hard to stalk him where he was, and so near the march, if a failure, so we left him in peace, hoping for favourable wind and weather next day. Next morning we were early on the move and over the tops at best pace till we came to the spying point. We saw the same stag and hinds on the same face, but lower down, and, if anything, harder to get at. We went round the top of the corrie to get straight above them. The place was a green steep face without a particle of cover, but fine and smooth to slide down at a steady, flat crawl. When within 300 yards I raised my head up to spy out the best way. What did I see right in our path and under a small bank, and not over five yards away, but a small knobber! To pass to either side without him seeing us was impossible. I turned to Mr. B. and asked him what he proposed we should do, but got no answer, and I then said I would pitch a small stone to make him move somewhere. I saw Mr. B. nodded assent. Then, after having a look to study the little stag’s position, I lowered down and pitched a stone on a guess, when I heard a sharp click like as if I hit him on the horn. He got sharply up and ran down at a terrific pace towards the near hinds, and they ran for a short distance down, when they suddenly all stopped and began to look sharply up towards us. I may admit I got palpitation, and from what I heard at my back I was getting no praise for my aim. Then we noticed the big stag, which was lying below and on the far side, rise, and, giving a loud roar, he made straight for the knobber, and drove him out and up towards us. But the little fellow got round him, and ran again into the hinds with the big stag in hot pursuit. The big stag drove him down and across the river, which was the march. He stood on the bank and gave a parting grunt, and then began to drive his hinds up towards us. We at once began to crawl slowly down so as to get the cover of a small hump that was between us, which we managed to do in good time and get the rifle ready, for shortly we saw the first of the hinds appearing about fifteen yards to our left. They at once noticed us, but as we were then turned into two stones they only shied off a little and moved slowly uphill, except one, which began to circle round to get into our wind. I kept my eye on her to see when she would give the alarm, when we were to move over the hump and chance the stag being within shot. But before anything happened I felt a touch from Mr. B., and, looking round, saw the top of the big stag’s horns appearing quite close. When he noticed us he stood with a ferocious look towards us. Mr. B. quickly took aim and fired. I saw the blood gushing from the stag’s throat, low, and near his foreleg. He staggered and fell. Mr. B. getting up suddenly threw his rifle down and ran over to bleed him. I went to pick up the rifle, and then, turning to have a look at our trophy, lo! there was the stag up and Mr. B. holding on firmly to both horns, his arms well out and rigged and kept well back close to his shoulders, the stag giving nasty digs and always trying to get into him. I saw at once that things were not looking well, so I loaded the rifle so as to disable the stag by shooting him through the haunches. When I stepped near for fear of accident they began of a sudden a merry go round and round, so fast that I dare not shoot. They went round and round six or seven times. I saw something would have to be done quickly, so, putting the rifle away, I stepped close and plunged in on the opposite side, taking hold of his horns, so with the weight of 30 st. between us we pulled the noble brute down, when Mr. B. managed to put the knife into his throat.

“Now this stag was losing a lot of blood all the time, and must have been losing his strength, which I consider saved us, and in my opinion the stag was keener to get into the man than to get away, for I noticed he always circled towards him. Mr. B., as a rule, always bled his own stags, and this time, after taking hold of the horn to bleed him, the stag got up suddenly, and Mr. B. stuck to him, and then Mr. B. found he could not safely let him go, as he saw at once the stag would turn on him if he got the least chance. He said to me after it was all over, ‘That was a very near thing,’ and so it certainly was.”

My friend Vincent Balfour-Browne has reminded me that the latter instance of a wounded stag attacking a man is similar in some respects to Charles St. John’s thrilling story of the Muckle Hart of Ben More in his Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands, in which case, to use Balfour-Browne’s words, the stag was certainly keener to get into the man than to get away.