Chapter XV: The Gunning Party

As I have already remarked there was to be a gunning expedition next day, William and Henry were ready before anyone else—it was their first appearance as gunners—so equipped with guns and game bags, their eyes sparkling with pleasure, they strutted around in a proud, defiant manner, as if they expected to shoot all the game in the country. I followed at a distance, and observed all their preparations for the expedition.

“William,” said Henry in a thoughtful manner, “when our game bags are full, where shall we put the rest of our game?”

“That is just what I was thinking of,” answered William, “I will ask papa to let us take Cadichon.”

This idea did not please me at all; I knew that young gunners fired a little at random and in aiming at a partridge, they might send the load into me, so I anxiously awaited the result of the request.

“Papa,” said William to his father who approached, “may we take Cadichon?”

“For what?” answered the father laughing, “do you wish to gun on donkey back, and pursue the partridges in their flight? If so, you must first put wings to Cadichon.”

“No, papa,” said Henry, a little vexed, “we want him to carry our game when our pouches are too full.”

“To carry your game!” replied his father greatly surprised and still laughing. “You think then, poor innocents, you are going to kill not only something, but a great deal!”

“Certainly papa,” was Henry’s piqued reply, “I have twenty cartridges in my vest, and I shall kill fifteen pieces of game, at least.”

“Ah! ah! ah! that is really a good joke! Do you know what you will kill, you two and your friend Alfred?”

“What papa?”

“Time and nothing else.”

“Well papa,” said Henry, very much annoyed, “why do you give us guns, and take us out gunning, if you think us so stupid and awkward as to kill nothing?”

“To teach you to gun, little dunces, nobody is a successful gunner at first, one becomes so only by dint of practice.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Alfred, also ready to shoot all he came across. William and Henry were still flushed with indignation when Alfred joined them.

“Papa thinks we are not going to shoot anything, Alfred,” said William, “we’ll convince him that we are better gunners than he thinks.”

“Don’t worry about it; we shall kill more than themselves,” replied Alfred.

“Why more?” inquired Henry.

“Because we are young, active and nimble, whilst our papas are getting a little old.”

“Yes indeed,” said Henry, “my papa is forty-two years old, whilst William is fifteen and I thirteen. What a difference!”

“And between my papa and me too! He is forty-three, whilst I am but fourteen!” said Alfred.

“Listen to me,” said William, “without telling papa, I am going to have Cadichon saddled and the panniers put on him. He will follow us, and we will make him carry our game.”

“Oh, that is splendid!” replied Alfred, “but put on the big panniers, for if we were to kill a buck it would take up a great deal of room.”

Henry was charged with the commission. I laughed to myself at their foresight, for I was very sure not only of not being loaded with a buck, but of returning with panniers as empty as at my departure.

“Ready!” said the papas. “We will go ahead, and you boys keep near. We will disband on getting into the field.”

“What does this mean, Cadichon following us?” said William’s father in great surprise, “Cadichon ornamented with two enormous baskets!”

“Those baskets,” said the gamekeeper laughing, “are to carry the young gentlemen’s game.”

“Ah! ah! they wish to put him at their head—I would prefer Cadichon’s following (if he has nothing else to do,) instead of taking the lead,” replied William’s father.

And he smiled as he glanced at William and Henry, who tried to look very indifferent.

“Is your gun cocked, William?” inquired Henry.

“Not yet, it is so hard to cock and uncock, that I prefer waiting till a partridge starts up.”

“We are now in the field,” said their papa, “keep in a line and shoot ahead, straight ahead of you, not to the right or the left, unless you want to kill some of us.”

The partridges flew up on all sides; I remained prudently behind, and even at a little distance, finding it advisable, for more than one dog that happened to be in the way, got a few grains of shot. The dogs scented the game, started it up, and did their duty in every respect, reports of muskets were heard all along the line. I did not lose sight of my three young boasters, they fired often, but got nothing, none of the three even touched a hare or partridge. Their impatience was so great that they always fired out of range, either too far or too near; sometimes all three aimed in vain at the same partridge. The papas on the contrary, were having fine sport, each report of the gun representing an addition to their game bags. In about two hours, Henry and William’s papa came up to them.

“Well, children,” said he, “is Cadichon very heavily laden? Is there still room for me to empty my game bag? for it is too full.”

There was no answer; the boys knew from their father’s mischievous manner, that he was making sport of them. As for me, I came running up, and turned one of the baskets towards him.

“How is this?” said he, “empty! your game bags will burst if you cram them.”

The game bags were flat. Laughing at the young gunners’ discomfited air, he emptied his birds into one of my baskets and hastened to his dog which was starting more game.

“I see how your father kills so many partridges,” said Alfred; “he has two dogs that scare up the game and bring it to him, when he kills it; as for us, they have not left us even one dog.”

“That is true,” replied Henry, “perhaps we have killed a number of partridges, but have lost them for want of a dog to bring them to us.”

“But I have not seen any fall,” said William.

“Because a partridge does not fall as soon as it is shot,” said Alfred, “It flies a little and falls some distance off.”

“But when papa and my uncles shoot,” persisted William, “their partridges fall immediately.”

“It seems so to you,” explained Alfred, “because you are some ways off, but if you were in their place, you would notice the difference.”

William said nothing, but his manner betrayed very little confidence in Alfred’s words. They had all begun to leave off somewhat of the proud, soldierly air with which they sallied forth as gunners.

They commenced to inquire the hour.

“I am hungry,” said Henry.

“I am thirsty,” said Alfred.

“I am tired,” said William.

As to the papas, they fired and killed, and had plenty of luck. However, not forgetting their young companions, and not wishing to fatigue them too much, they proposed a halt for breakfast, which met with universal approbation. Calling in the dogs from the field to rest for awhile, they all directed their steps towards a farm about a hundred steps off, where the grandmother had sent the provisions.

They seated themselves on the ground under an old oak, and opened the baskets, which displayed as usual on such occasions, a chicken pie, a ham, hard eggs, cheese, marmalade, preserves, a big bun, an enormous cake and several bottles of old wine. All the gunners, young and old, had fine appetites, and ate enough to have astonished a spectator. Yet the grandmother had provided so bountifully for the needs of the most voracious, that half the provisions remained for the gamekeepers and farm people. The dogs had the scraps to appease their hunger and pond water to quench their thirst.

“You have not had much luck, children,” said Alfred’s papa. “Cadichon does not move as if he were heavily laden.”

“It is no wonder, papa, we had no dogs, you had them all.”

“Ah! you think then that one, two or three dogs would have insured the death of all the partridges that passed under your nose.”

“No, papa, they would not have killed the partridges, but they would have sought and brought us those we had killed, and then—”

“Those you killed!” interrupted the father, with an air of astonishment. “Do you really think you have killed any birds?”

“Certainly, papa, only as we did not see them fall, we could not pick them up.”

“And do you suppose you would not have seen them if they had fallen?”

“No, papa, for our sight is not as keen as that of the dogs.”

At this, the father, the uncles, and even the gamekeepers, burst into a loud laugh, whilst the children reddened with vexation.

“Now listen,” said William and Henry’s father, “since you lose your game for want of dogs, we are going to let you have a dog, when we get through breakfast and commence to gun again.”

“But, papa,” said William, “the dogs will not follow us, they do not know us as well as they do you.”

“To make them follow you, we will give you the two attendants, and we will not start for a half hour after you, and then the dogs will not be tempted to rejoin us.”

“Oh! thanks, papa,” exclaimed William, radiant with joy. “With the dogs we are sure to kill as many as you!”

Breakfast over and all rested, the young gunners were eager to set out with the dogs and the guards.

“Now we look like real gunners,” said they, with an air of satisfaction.

And we tried the field again, I following them as before breakfast, but always at a little distance. The guards had been told to keep near the children in order to prevent any imprudence. The partridges flew up on all sides as in the morning, the young gentlemen fired as in the morning, and with like success. Yet the dogs did their duty, they sought, they stopped the birds, but brought none, for this reason only, there were none to bring. At last, Alfred impatient at firing to no purpose and seeing one of the dogs standing the game, concluded that he would fire before the partridges had flown up, and thus secure his prize indeed. He aimed, he fired—the dog fell, struggling and uttering a piercing howl.

“Zounds! it is our best dog!” exclaimed the gamekeeper rushing towards it.

But the dog was dead ere he reached it, it had been shot in the head and died almost instantly.

“You made a fine shot that time, master Alfred,” said the guard, laying the poor animal down, “I suppose that ends the gunning.”

Alfred was motionless with consternation, William and Henry seemed much affected at the dog’s death, whilst the gamekeeper concealed his wrath and looked at the poor creature without saying a word.

I approached to see which dog had been the miserable victim of Alfred’s awkwardness and conceit, and what was not my sorrow, my anguish, on recognizing Medor, my friend, my dearest friend! and oh! imagine my horror to see the guard lift Medor up, and put him in one of the baskets on my back! Ah! behold the game I was condemned to carry, Medor, my friend, murdered by a bad, stupid, conceited boy!

We returned to the farm not quite so merry as we left, the children not speaking a word, the guard occasionally letting fall a furious oath, and I feeling no consolation, except in the thought of the severe, humiliating reprimand the murderer would surely receive.

On reaching the farm we found the papas still there, for not having their dogs, they preferred to rest till the children’s return.

“Already!” they exclaimed at the sight of us.

“I really believe,” said William’s papa, “they have killed a big piece of game of some sort. Cadichon walks as if he had a load, and one of the baskets hangs as if it contained something heavy.”

They arose and came towards us, but the children, with rueful countenances, lagged behind. Their parents were struck with their demeanor, what could it mean?

“They certainly have not the air of victors,” said Alfred’s father, laughing.

“Perhaps they have killed a calf or a sheep, mistaking it for a rabbit,” answered William’s papa, also laughing.

The gamekeeper approached.

“What’s the matter, Michaud? you look as downcast as the gunners.”

“And with cause, sir, we bring a sad game.”

“Tell us what it is then, a sheep, a calf, a donkey?”

“Ah! sir, it is nothing to laugh at, it is your dog, Medor, the very best of the band, that master Alfred has killed, taking him for a partridge.”

“Medor! Oh! the awkward boy! if ever he guns here again—” exclaimed the poor dog’s master.

“Come here, Alfred,” said his father, “you see now the result of your conceit and ridiculous presumption. Say good-bye to your friends, sir; you are going home immediately, and you will put your gun away in my room, to touch it no more until you have learned a little sense and modesty.”

“But, papa,” answered Alfred, assuming an air of indifference, “I don’t know why you should get so angry, it often happens that the dogs are killed on gunning parties.”

“The dogs! the dogs are killed!” exclaimed the stupefied father, “indeed this is too much! You have beautiful notions of gunning, sir!”

“But, papa,” continued Alfred, still apparently indifferent, “everybody knows that very often the best gunners kill their dogs accidentally.”

“My dear friends,” said his father, turning towards the other gentlemen, “will you excuse me for having brought such an ill-mannered boy here? I did not believe him capable of so much stupidity and impudence.”

Then to his son:

“You have my orders, sir, go!”

“But, papa—”

“Silence! I tell you,” answered the father in a tone of severity, “not one word, if you don’t want to make acquaintance with my ramrod!”

Alfred hung his head and went off, covered with confusion.

“You see, children,” said William and Henry’s papa to them, “you see the result of presumption; that is, belief in a merit or quality which one does not possess. What happened with Alfred, might have happened with you also. You were all so convinced that nothing was easier than to be an expert marksman, you had nothing to do but to take aim, and the game was yours. You have all three been ridiculous since morning, you have despised our counsels, our experience, and in fact, you are all three guilty of poor Medor’s death. I see that you are both too young for gunning. In a year or two you may try it again. Meantime, return to your gardens and other childish amusements, it will be the better for everyone.”

William and Henry hung their heads and made no answer, but sadly returned to the house. My unfortunate friend Medor, whose history I am going to relate to you, was buried in the garden by the children themselves, who wished to perform this last mournful rite for their pet. After reading the following sketch of his life, you will see why I loved him so much.