The Life Story of an Otter/Chapter 12

by John Coulson Tregarthen

 

CHAPTER XII
THE LONG TRAIL

It was 'betwixt the lights,' as he would have said, when the miller closed the door quietly behind him and made his way among the nut-bushes to the ford where his search for the otter usually began. No track marked the ground by the water's edge, nor was there a sign on any of the likely spots all the way to the stranded alder, where he sat to rest awhile before resuming his beat. The pine-tops were then aglow and the birds in full song, but they meant nothing to him in the mood he was in; his thoughts, as his words showed, were all for the otter.

'Not a trace. Pools full of fish, too, and everythin' as keenly as can be. Yet I'm sure he's up, and sartin he'll be spurred afore the day's much older. Wonder who'll be the lucky man?'

At the thought of his rivals he sprang to his feet and soon had reached the precipitous bank above the shelving strand where, though so many landing-places were undisturbed, he had every hope of coming on the tracks. Most carefully the eager eyes examined every foot of sand visible between the rowan-trees as, slowly on hands and knees, the miller advanced towards the bend which commands the likeliest spot of all. There twenty feet below he saw a salmon lying and, with the same glance, marked the tracks beside it. The descent of the scarp was nearly as perilous as the crossing of the current, but he accomplished both without mishap, and a few seconds later was crouching beside the footprints.

'By the life of me they're his, and not many hours old.'

His face, no less than his agitated voice, showed the wild excitement that possessed him as he rose and made down the wood as fast as he could lay foot to ground. When he reached the mill he was almost at his last gasp, but he bridled and mounted the pony, which he urged to a gallop through the open gate and up the stony lane. He was on his way to the squire.

As he rode through the hamlet, where the clatter of the hoofs brought the villagers to door and window, his cries of 'Tracked un!' roused man and boy to a fever of excitement, and sent the sexton in hot haste to the belfry to apprize the country-side. The miller, however, leaving them behind, was soon at the lodge gates. There he nearly frightened old Jenny into hysterics by his shouts; but she took her revenge, for after letting him through she shook the keys in his face and screamed after him, 'Mad as a curley! mad as a curley!' until he rounded the bend where the mansion comes into view. The whole house seemed asleep; but as the miller crossed the bridge over the moat the squire appeared at a window and, in a voice that betrayed the tension of his feelings, called out:

'Where?'

'Longen Pool, sir.'

'Fresh?'

'Last night's.'

'Rouse the men, Hicks; we shall need every hand we can muster.'

Before he had got through the plantation on his way to the kennels the clang of the firealarm broke on the still morning air, and when he returned from his round, squire, whipper-in and hounds were making their way through the park with a small retinue of servants in their train. At the hamlet they were joined by the parson, the parish clerk, the landlord, two sawyers, and six or seven others, and between the pound and the river by a few crofters, whom the church bell had summoned from outlying homesteads.

They crossed the water below the pool, the squire examined the tracks, the hounds were laid on, and the rocky gorge with all the wood about it immediately resounded with their wild music, while the squire and every man behind him thrilled at the prospect of at last coming up with the creature whose movements had so long baffled them. The ground was very rough, and in parts swampy, yet not a man turned back. That active, hard-conditioned followers made light of the obstacles and the pace was, of course, not surprising; but that the landlord, the clerk, and the chef—short-legged, eleven-score men every one of them—should scramble over rocks and fallen timber, flounder through thickets and boggy places, and still hold on, bedraggled and breathless though they were, testified to the fascination the pursuit of the giant otter had for them.

Some two miles above Longen Pool the squire caught sight of spraints on a boulder in the middle of the river, and knew at once from their position at its upper end that the otter which had dropped them was travelling down-water. At once he recalled the hounds and began drawing anew the reaches he had passed. He tried every holt he came to, but without result.

'Do you think he's gone down?' shouted the squire to the miller across the river.

'I don't, sir. I didn't find a trace from the ford up, and, as you know, the hounds didn't give a sign.'

'Well, there's no holding worth the name between here and Longen. Where can he be?'

The puzzling question was answered by the deep note of Dosmary from an overgrown watercourse that served to drain the morass. No need was there for the squire to cry out, 'Hark to Dosmary'; for the hounds, on hearing the summons they knew so well, flew to her where she threaded the reed-bed before taking the steep leading to the moor. Then up the all but bare face the twenty couple made their way in a long winding line. Close after the hindmost pressed the squire, the parson and five others, all sound of wind and limb, capable of holding on to the end of the promontory, if need be. Not a word passed until the hounds had crossed the stream where it was thought the otter might have laid up, and then only 'Liddens, men,' and 'Ay, sir!' from the moorman in response. Even the sight of the otter's footprints in the next hollow drew no remark; though it caused an unconscious quickening of the step up the long, heathery slope, from whose brow the sea showed beyond the hazy outline of the land. Wide on either hand rose grim piles of rock, where down this avenue of cairns the seven, comrades on many a trail, sped in the wake of the pack towards the Liddens, shimmering in the distance.

But if the seven were elated as never before, there was one on the far side of the moor who was suffering a bitter disappointment. It was the old marshman. He too had discovered the tracks of the otter and, full of his tidings, had driven to the mansion as fast as his Neddy could cover the ground, only to learn from the butler that squire and hounds had already been summoned and gone off to the river. Staggering though the blow was, he bore up till beyond the gates; but on the open moor he broke down, said it was a judgment on him for tracking the varmint in the snow, and let the donkey find the way home as best it could. When they reached the cottage he set the animal loose, tried in vain to shake off his trouble by overhauling the trimmers, and finally sat down on a bench, with his back to the mud wall and his face to the marsh. It was green and gold with the swords and banners of the iris; the air was drowsy with the hum of bees and the sea murmured on the bar; yet the old man noted nothing of it. His thoughts, too, were all of the otter; he was busy trying to reconcile the seemingly contradictory discovery of the tracks in two places so far apart. ''Tes a job to piece 'em together with leagues—iss, leagues—of moor between. Why, look here. 'Tes all eight miles from the revur to the Liddens, and a good three as the hern flies from the Liddens to the ma'sh; a long journey, an unaccountable long journey for a crittur that edn framed for travellin'. On a midsummer night, too, and he more afeard of the glim o' day than a cheeld of the dark. And then to turn his back on the salmin for the pike, and they poor as can be from spawnin'. Why, the thing edn in reason. But, theere, what's the use of wastin' breeth when he's done it? For the prents are hisn and none other, and nawthin' could be fresher.'

The marshman was right: the otter had crossed. At star-peep the creature had slipped from his holt in the side-stream and floated down to Moor Pool, where he killed a grilse, took a slice or two from its shoulder, and left it on the pebbles. Thence, contrary to his habit, he passed downwater, throwing the fish into a panic at every

HIS LAST SALMON.
From a painting in oils by Edgar H. Fischer.

To face p. 173.

pool. Waves in the shallows showed where the most timid fled at his approach; some however remained and here and there, as the water favoured his purpose, he gave chase. Twice the formidable marauder landed with victims which he left uneaten on the bank where he laid them, for lust of slaughter, not hunger or love of pursuit, possessed him, and he was moved by a restlessness greater than he had ever shown. True, he climbed at times on snag and boulder; but that was only for an instant before taking again to the water or bank, as fancy led.

At Longen Pool his coming caused a general exodus, but he singled out one salmon, and by his wily tactics prevented it from fleeing with the others to the rapids below. The long chase which followed was for a while in favour of the fish; yet the otter, who was not to be denied, in the end wearied it out and carried it to the bank, where he bit viciously at the shoulder, as if to wreak his vengeance on the prey that had caused him so much trouble. Presently he re-entered the water, cleansed his blood-stained muzzle, and making upstream turned aside into the wet ditch and traversed the morass.

On gaining the high ground above it he stood awhile, as if asking himself whether at the late hour he might venture across the moor. The instant his mind was made up he set out at a rapid pace, glancing at the keeper's lodge as he went by, and again at the sleeping hamlet before crossing the road and entering on the waste, over which he held on his way till nearly abreast of the cromlech. There he halted whilst he sounded the call and listened. Twice he uttered the shrill cry, his mask turned in the direction of the lone pool to the north; but there was no answer in the mocking whistle of the curfew, so he moved on again under the fading stars, and at last came to the Liddens.

He kept awhile to the open water, cruising restlessly about, as he had done before in the creek and mere, raising himself at times and gazing round, as wild a looking creature as imagination can conjure up. Thence he passed into the thick fringe of reeds, and remained hidden so long that it might be thought that he had laid up there. Later however he appeared on the far bank of the westernmost pool, and though the pale primrose streak in the east warned him of coming day, the outlawed animal, alarmed by the taint of human footprints he had happened on, at once forsook the refuge and set his face for the marsh.

His hurried movements showed that he had full knowledge of the risk he ran in the open, where he looked a monster as he crossed the patches of sward amongst the bilberry. Indeed, so fast did he cover the ground that no sprinter could have kept up with him, especially when he breasted the long, boulder-strewn ascent to the Kites' Cairn. There old Ikey must have viewed him had he been on his way to the pools at his usual hour; but he was late, and soon the otter was amongst the crags. His feet were here delayed momentarily by the rising sun, whose light he dreaded as much as did the witches of Crowz-an-Wra. But there was no staying where he was: he must press on to marsh or sea, now both in his view; and at panic speed he made his way down the bare slope and up the opposite rise to the great furze brake that runs down almost to the margin of the mere. Leisurely he threaded his way through the close cover to a point where he stood and listened to the crowing of a cock before slipping into the water and crossing to the old hover on the edge of the reed-bed. He made his careful toilet as usual, and before the marshman discovered his tracks he had curled up and fallen asleep.

But whilst the otter slept in untroubled security, heedless of his enemies, they had passed the Liddens and come within earshot of the old man, who had scarcely finished his soliloquy when he started to his feet with the exclamation, 'What's that?' and stood listening as intently as the otter a little earlier had listened for a reply to his call. This time, however, the reply came. 'Surely theere 'tes again,' and a few seconds later, as the cry rose afresh, he shouted ''Tes they' so loudly that he attracted the child who joined him on the furze-rick he had hurriedly climbed.

'Do 'ee hear them, Mary? 'Tes the hounds. Hark! cheeld.'

'I hear something, granfer.'

'Wheere do 'ee make the cry to come from?' and for answer she pointed with her free hand to the Kites' Cairn. 'Now keep an eye on the rocks, and tell me if you see any thin'.'

'There's something streaming through the Fairies' Gap this minit. . . . Now it's like a shadow, a moving shadow on the down. . . . They're dogs. My word, such a passel of them, all in a bunch!'

Then they passed from sight and the weird cry almost died away; but presently the chorus swelled, and swelled, and swelled, and then the old man saw the hounds, like maddened things, come pouring over the brow and enter the brake full in his view.

'You're tremblin', granfer.'

'Iss, cheeld, all of a quake, like the yallow furze where the hounds are forcin' a way. The moosic is 'most too much for me.'

'Mary,' said he, and the child raised her wondering eyes to the excited face, ''tes the line of the King Oter they're spakin' to, and—who can tell?—maybe the sun will shut down on a great day. But, lor me! what am I doin' here on this rick, with hounds about to take the water? My place is in the Mary Jane' With that he scrambled down the rude ladder and bustled towards the spot where he had left the boat in the early morning.

As soon as he stepped in, the pack, which had been almost mute since entering the mere, broke out into a babel of music, proclaiming a find. The uproar so unnerved him that he was long in getting the oars between the thole-pins; but when he did, he pulled with might and main till, drawing near the hounds, he stopped rowing and kept a sharp lookout for the quarry repeating as he scanned the water: 'Ef 'tes only he, only he.' But not a sign of otter, big or small, met his eyes, either in the mere or in the creek, to which the chase presently shifted. There the fear that the game would land and reach the cliff suddenly possessed him. So all at once he urged the boat past hounds and island to the reedy corner, where he jumped to his feet and kept splashing the water to drive the otter back. The nearer the hounds approached the more frantically he wielded the oar, nor did he desist till they showed by their movements that the otter had left the end of the creek and was returning to the mere.

Whilst he watched them the squire and his followers came over the brow, and all made for the beach except the squire, who came tearing down the hill towards the boat.

'To the hounds, John!' he gasped as he stepped into the crazy craft. At the word the old man pushed off and bent to his work with wondrous vigour.

'Have you viewed the otter?'

'No, sir, I haven't, but I spurred un.'

'You spurred him? When?'

'Soon aifter break o' day.'

'You did?'

'Iss, sir, sure as you're standin' on they starn sheets.'

'What! the big otter?'

'Iss, sir. The King Oter, I call him.'

'Then why didn't you bring word?'

'I did, sir, fast as I could, but you'd gone off to the revur. 'Twas Mr. Pugmore as told me.'

'I see, I see! Pull with your right, or we shall be into the island. That will do; now both together.'

'Wind him, my lads! middy ho, wind him! Padzepaw, Troubadour, Rowtor, wind him! Wind him, my lads!' The cheery cry seemed to put fresh life into

the hounds as they worked the reeds, from which they presently drove the quarry to the mere.

The squire's keen eyes searched the glittering surface to get a glimpse of him, but in vain; the hounds might have been giving tongue to some phantom quarry for all that he or the old man saw. And so the chase continued for an hour, and another and another, whilst the otter led the pack from reed-bed to reed-bed, where he rose and vented without exposing himself.

At last the marshman, who at the moment was resting on the oars, pointed to the surface beneath the right blade.

'The chain, the chain!' whispered the squire excitedly on sighting the string of bubbles, and 'There he vents!' as the nose of the quarry showed between two lily-leaves a few yards off. The otter remained where he was until the hounds were almost upon him; then he sank as noiselessly as he had risen, and made for another refuge.

'You viewed him, sir ?'

'I viewed an otter, John.'

'Then why didn't 'ee tally him, sir ?'

'Because I'm not sure it's him. I don't want to raise false hopes in all these people.'

For by this time many had arrived, some by boat, others in vehicles, some on horses or donkeys, and had taken up stations round the mere. There were at least a score on the point, as many near the inflow: there was a tall thin man who had somehow found his way to the edge of the reed-bed, and quite a little crowd on the bar.

'Never see'd such a passel o' people here since the wreck of the Triton, and that was afore your time, sir. The casks of rum were all over the beach, and men, too; and as for the cocoanuts, they were . . .' The outstretched hand of the squire silenced him, for the otter had risen within a few yards of the boat, and lay there showing its great length. Both were tongue-tied by the sight, but no sooner did the otter dive than the squire gave utterance to a 'Tally-ho!' the like of which had never passed his lips before. It made the marshman jump: it sent a thrill through the cordon of spectators: it made the child hurry again to the furze-rick.

'Did you see him ?' asked the squire excitedly.

'I did, and I don't wonder it fetched such a screech out of 'ee. Lor, maister, 'twere enow to wake the dead.'

Two minutes later the otter was 'gazed' by the men on the point. Soon after a shout came from Geordie at the end of the creek,—so soon that the squire feared there must be two otters afloat. But he was wrong: there was only one. Next the people on the bar saw him rise, with the hounds close behind driving him towards the reed-bed, where he landed within a dozen yards of the solitary figure there. To him it looked as if the otter must be overhauled, and eagerly he watched the swaying of the reeds as otter and hounds traversed the bed. Soon, in view of the excited crowd near the inflow, the hunted beast managed to slip into the mere as a hound was about to seize him. Four times he rose in crossing to the farther shore, where he threaded the sags and, in his desperation, sought the refuge of the furze-brake. The cover was all in his favour; for he could run where the hounds, and even the terriers, had to force a way. Yet to him as to them the atmosphere was suffocating, so that he was glad to reach the upper edge and get a few breaths of fresh air before the clamour of the hounds and the crackling of the stems warned him it was time to move. Then he made his way down to the creek to quench his thirst. The parson, by this time perched on the willow, saw him lapping, but forbore to shout, and presently the dark mask was withdrawn. Soon the hounds reached the spot. Thirsty though they were, they thirsted still more for the otter's blood. Not one stayed to lap but, like infuriated creatures, went on after the quarry whose distress they must have been conscious of.

Before this the crowd from the bar had moved to the bluff above the creek, whence they could trace the windings of the otter by the movements of the hounds. Breathless was their excitement when they saw from the wild shaking of the bushes that the otter had been seized, and great their disappointment when the resumption of the chase showed that, after all, he had got away.

Twice more the gallant beast made the wide circuit of those ten acres of furze in the hope of shaking off his pursuers before he made his way in despair down to the sags and slipped unseen into the mere. He rose after but a short dive, and swam with the pack in his wake straight for the bar. Not one of those who watched dreamt he would dare to land; but he did, a good score yards in front of the leading hounds. Then all could see his distress as he laboured over the pebbly ridge he knew so well. It looked as if he must be overtaken before he reached the tide; but the hounds were nearly as exhausted as he, and though they gained on him, it was not until they came to the calm water beyond the breaking wave that they managed to hold him and worry his life out.

Then the squire waded into the sea almost to his armpits, took him from the hounds, and holding the heavy carcass above his head, brought it ashore. The 'field' closed round him in their eagerness to see and touch the beast and examine the huge pads.

'A little elbow-room, gentlemen, if you please. I can't possibly weigh the animal whilst you press me like this.'

His words had instant effect. The moment the crowd fell back he suspended the otter from the hook of the spring-balance he carried, and watched the index.

'What does he scale, sir?' shouted a score excited voices.

'Twenty-nine pounds good.'

Then followed a tumult of conversation, amidst which could be distinguished:

'Now, Thomas 'Enery, what did I say all along?'

'He's a pound over and above your guess.'

'Sandy was right.'

'You said forty pound, Geordie, you know you did.'

'You'm a liard; I——'

'Silence, mates!' roared the landlord, stepping into the ring; 'the squire wants to spake. Silence, I say!'

When the noisy groups of disputants at last quieted down, the squire, hoarse from his efforts, said: 'It is my custom, as you know, to distribute the pads, mask and rudder, and fling the carcass to the hounds. To-day, however, I mean to depart from the rule. I will tell you why, and I hope every one of you will agree that I am right. My view is that this fine beast'—and here he lifted the otter clear of the sand as if to emphasize his words—'which has excited so much interest and afforded a hunt we can never expect to see the like of, ought not to be broken up, but should be preserved for ourselves and others to look at in the years to come. Now, if any man has got anything to say, let him speak out.'

'Say, sir,' replied the parish clerk, after casting his quick eyes round the circle of approving faces, 'why, that we're one and all of the same way of thinkin' as yoursel'! What's a pad here or a pad there? To say nawthin' as to who's to have 'em. By all manner o' means let the otter be set up, and let un be given pride of place again' the wainscot; for if ever wild crittur deserved the honour, this one do, if only for the good he's done the landlord.'

So the otter was set up in the hall in a handsome case, with a picture of the marsh for background. Of the many trophies that adorn the walls there is not one the squire was so proud of, none whose story he liked so well to relate. It alone bears no inscription; for, as he always said, 'There is no need; my people will never let the record die!' His words have proved true.

Though the wild promontory is steeped in legend and romance, though tales of giants, fairies, smugglers and shipwrecked sailors, abound, there is no story the crofters so often repeat by the firelight as the story of the otter, none the children listen to with closer attention. Mary's three boys never wearied of hearing their mother tell how she stood on the rick and watched the hounds stream through the Fairies' Gap; they always insisted on her giving the squire's 'Tally-ho!' and hung on every word when she came to the message brought by the steward, that old John and his grandchild were to have their little place rent free for the rest of their days.

'Again, again!' they would cry, clapping their little hands; and generally Mary yielded to their entreaties. And when the time comes they will repeat the tale to their own children, as indeed do the miller's and the moorman's sons and daughters to-day. Thus the tradition of the otter bids fair to be handed on by generation after generation for long years to come, and to win an imperishable place amongst the hearthside stories of the West.