John Cole had been hunt master on Old Pine Plantation thirty years. Before that he had worked on other plantations in the quail belt, that land between Albany and Tallahassee where quail still thrived, thanks to Yankee old money, fire, and God’s providence. He’d been born on one where his father before him had trained bird dogs and managed hunts for the owner and his guests, “folks with more money than good sense,” his father used to say.
John had always liked his work, though it could be challenging. It was not the dogs, or the horses or mules, but the people who were the challenge. Sometimes a member of his crew, sometimes a shooting guest, sometimes a member of the owner’s family. The owner had two daughters and one son, each with a spouse and two children, the boss man’s grandchildren and the apples of his eyes.
Sometimes the boss man himself could be the problem. He was occasionally, thankfully not often, subject to moods, from sadness to rage.
John, like all who were successful at his craft, was a perfectionist. Order was second nature to him. It was essential to a successful hunt of the sort conducted on South Georgia quail plantations. A hunt was a ritual, and to be successful must be conducted according to strict, unbending rules, designed foremost for safety but also to assure appreciation of the work of the dogs, the wildness of the birds, the land.
The dogs must have natural-born talent, as evidenced by nose (ability to smell the quarry, locate it precisely) manners, athleticism, grace, intelligence — what dog men summarize with one word, class. John loved a class dog, pointing or retrieving, could detect potential class early and bring it forth through patient, unhurried training. And he could handle a dog so its work seemed effortless, never raising his voice or showing impatience with the dog.
It was the day after Christmas. John, a widower, woke as always at five, rolled from beneath the covers, hobbled to the bathroom and relieved himself, shaved, pulled on his uniform, jeans, khaki Dickies shirt, Russell 8” moccasin boots with zipper in the back, whistle lanyard. In his kitchen he brewed a cup of coffee in the new Keurig machine, a Christmas gift from his daughter, walked to his pickup, drove to the stable. Already there was Mose Green, African-American wagon driver, currying five walking horses gathered from nearby paddocks. He helped Mose tack up the horses, then curry and harnessed the blond matched mule team for the shooting wagon. Mose would drive the mules from its bench seat with the cocker Rip seated beside him for the morning hunt. When the afternoon hunt commenced at 3, Rip’s littermate Rap would occupy the seat beside Mose.
Two more members of the hunt team soon arrived, also African-American. One would work as scout, one as horse-holder. He would also attach the pointing dogs to the wagon while Rip or Rap scooped up downed birds, and with Mose and the scout mark shot birds. And he and the scout were charged with knowing where every human and animal was at all times when guns were on the ground, and warning if any were in danger. John gave them names of eight pointing dogs to be loaded in cages on the shooting wagon.
The scout’s job had recently been made easier by the Garmin tracking collar each pointing dog wore while down, a mixed blessing John knew. Before its introduction a scout must give the dogs’ location uninterrupted attention. Now the scout need only glance at the receiver to locate a dog. Not knowing precisely where the other dog was when the guns approached one pointing could bring disaster.
Today’s hunt would be a family affair. In the morning the boss man and three grandchildren would be mounted guns, the three mothers observers on the wagon, these the three favorite family members of John Cole. They were each considerate and appreciative of the hunt team and the dogs, which went a long way toward assuring a pleasant hunt. And their presence also assured that the grands would be on good behavior and the boss man in a good mood.
The grands, two boys and a girl, were sixteen, sixteen and eighteen, and in high school, the granddaughter a senior. All were decent shots, having been schooled since age thirteen with shotguns by Mose and John. All were also comfortable on their mounts, having ridden on Old Pine since they were toddlers, first on ponies.
In the afternoon the boss man’s son and sons-in-law would be the guns, all as passengers on the shooting wagon. That would be a challenge for the hunt team, for the three were competitive in all things, from golf to tennis to bridge, but especially on quail hunts on Old Pine. This put John Cole on high alert, for competitiveness could lead to disaster shooting quail.
The morning hunt went off without a hitch. Birds were moving, the temperature ideal, only a light breeze. The guns recalled their introductions to the sport, the one shell convention that applied to their first season, the lessons taught them by Mose and John and their grandfather. They all shot well enough and were careful and safe and had four birds each when the hunt ended at 12:30. Back at the Big House they thanked the hunt crew members one by one by name and shook hands with each before walking in for lunch. Their mothers did likewise.
At 2:30 the three alpha males walked down the Big House front steps where the hunt team waited. They toted their fancy double guns in leather cases bearing gold embossed imprints of Holland & Holland, Churchill and Purdey. They greeted John but ignored Mose, the scout and the horse holder. John detected the scent of alcohol on the breath of each, probably Bloody Marys and wine served before and with lunch.
Mose transferred their double guns to the brackets on the shooting wagon. John began the safety talk, to be interrupted by the boss man’s son,
“You can skip that John, we have heard it many times.”
“Your father insists I not skip it,” John said, and resumed.
On the ride to the afternoon’s hunting course, Mose heard the guns make their bets, first double, most doubles, first limit. A thousand dollars on each.
All three guns, a lawyer, an investment banker and an orthopedic surgeon, were Type A personalities and highly successful in New York, Boston and Atlanta, respectively. None cared about the quality of dog work, only about the opportunities to shoot birds, which should be plentiful with a three-gun rotation. Only if birds “shut off,” as they sometimes did for reasons known only to them, would the opportunity for each to limit not be presented.
Knowing these three guns well, John added a few sentences to the end of his usual safety talk: “Remember, don’t shoot a bird that gets up wild, one that’s not been pointed, or a single pointed after a covey rise. Don’t shoot close to a man’s or dog’s ear. Don’t shoot a bird if you must swing out of your safe zone.”
Birds were moving. The guns were so intent on killing birds they each missed easy shots on the first three covey rises. Then they settled into their grooves, but John was uneasy as always when competitive guns were in the party. Repeatedly he had to cautioned them to walk wider of the pointed dog and stay in line with one another, not swing too far on a bird, not “poach the line.” And they shot low flying birds repeatedly. John felt his blood pressure rising.
Then it happened. The boss man’s lawyer-son was down with the surgeon son-in-law. The first to kill a bird would win the first-limit bet. The dogs down were Molly, a nine-year-old pointer veteran who had the covey, and Mack, her three-year-old son who would be Old Pine’s entry in the Georgia-Florida Field Trial Club’s Owner’s Trial on President’s Day (Molly had won it when she was a derby). Mack was unseen, and since the scout was off his horse John assumed Mack was not in the shot zone.
The guns advanced on Molly. John said, “Step wider,” meaning advance walking further apart and further to each side of Molly, so the muzzle blasts would not deafen John, walking between and a step behind them to flush, the fellow gun or Molly.
Just then the covey rose low and close in front of Molly and both guns barked much too quickly. Simultaneously a yelp came from where the guns were pointing when shots rang out.
John walked to where the yelp originated. There lay Mack, beneath a plum thicket and unmoving, blood oozing from his head and chest where two shot strings had hit him from twenty yards.
John looked at the scout, who was staring at his feet. He had not checked his Garmin receiver for Mack’s location after looking at it just after John raised his cap to signal Molly’s find. Mack had been off to the left and safe then, but had obviously swung toward Molly through heavy cover, unseen after the scout’s one glance at the receiver.
The guns were silent. John looked at them with distain. “If looks could kill you white boys would be dead,” Mose thought.
John picked up Mack’s lifeless body and carried it to the shooting wagon, lay it on a shelf at the back. He collared Molly and lifted her into a cage on the wagon, first removing her tracking collar. He said nothing to the guns, but it was evident from his actions that the hunt was over. He, the scout and the horse holder mounted and rode for the Big House, leaving Mose to follow with the wagon with the guns aboard. Not a word was said on the wagon by anyone during the twenty minutes required to reach the Big House.
John took his cell phone from his pocket and pushed the speed dial for the boss man’s number. He spoke briefly and returned the phone to his pocket.
The boss man was standing at the foot of the Big House front steps. He scowled at his son and sons-in-law but said nothing. Then after they left the wagon the the boss man climbed up and sat by Mose.
The dog burial ground lay near the kennel-stable complex on a rise topped by a grove of live oaks. Mose drove the shooting wagon there and stopped the mule team. The boss man stepped down and John dismounted and lifted Mack’s body and carried it to a dog-size hole covered by plywood, awaiting the plantation’s next dog death. None expected it to be Mack.
John place Mack’s body in the hole and he and the boss man each picked up a shovel leaning against a live oak and began shoveling in soil stacked beside the grave. When they had arrived at the burial ground, John had given the reins of his mount to the scout to lead it to the stable.
John told Mose to return the team and wagon to the stable and he and the boss man walked to the Big House.
For several months John had been talking with the boss man about retiring. He was sixty-two and suffering from arthritis from many horse wrecks, an occupational hazard. It had become a limit on his mobility and a cause of persistent pain.
“What happened to Mack was my fault. I had a receiver and had not checked his location before the flush. I think I should retire now,” John said.
“What happened to Mack was an accident. He was shot because my son and son-in-law shot low flying birds which they knew not to do. Sure, you and the scout should have re-checked your receivers. But those things happen.
“If you want to retire at the end of the season you are entitled. Whatever you want to do is fine. You have been an excellent employee and friend for many years and you are appreciated. Don’t let what happened today influence you,” the boss man said.
John walked back to the stable, got in his pickup and drove to his home on the plantation, a half mile from the Big House. He was seated on his porch reliving the day when a knock came at his back door. Standing there were the boss man’s two daughters and daughter in law, who asked if they might speak with him. He lead them to his porch.
After all were seated, the boss man’s oldest daughter spoke.
“John, what happened today was our husbands’ fault. You have warned them for years not to take chances shooting. Their competitive natures led to this tragedy, nothing you did. We don’t want you to retire, but if you feel you need to step down as hunt master please stay on as general manager. We and my father want you to be here for our children, to continue to show them how to live their lives, to live by the rules. Your pay will be a little more, not less, and you can select your successor as head dog man. We and my father hope it will be your son.”
John’s son was an over-the-road-for-the-public handler on the shooting dog circuit. He and John had long hoped he might succeed John as head dog man on Old Pine Plantation.
Love your stories, mr. Tom