"The Big Turkey Of Nine Mile Run"

Taken From: The Sportsman Magazine ©1897

By: Dick Swiveller

 

  Now that the invigorating days of November have come, with the shooting season well under way, and the votaries of dog and gun revelling in sport among the quail, the woodcock, the snipe or the ruffed grouse, the writer, in retrospect, goes back a good many years, when he had greater opportunities than are afforded now to participate in those pleasures which are known only to the man who is a lover of the woods, the field, the mountains and the deep forest.

  In retrospect he sees a comfortable plantation house way down in South Carolina, where he was always a welcome guest; where many a night he has come home with tired feet from quail and turkey shooting, or still hunting the deer. Once more he hears the hospitable voice of Uncle Yerkes, sees the welcoming smile of Miss Jennie and hears the prattling of the children, or listens to the crooning voice of Aunt Dilsey in negro medley, as out in the kitchen she prepares one of her incomparable Southern dinners. Was there ever any one just like Aunt Dilsey? I see her now, with the big white handkerchief about her head, which made her face look blacker and her eyes brighter; and the snow-white apron, the round, muscular arms; apparently never so happy as when in the kitchen, in the midst of frying pans, stewing pans, kettles and waffle irons - those waffle irons that baked one big square waffle at a time, done to a tender brown, and served on a hot plate with a big lump of yellow butter that melts and runs into each little square. And then a cup of her excellent coffee; and the fried chicken - and such fried chicken as only Aunt Dilsey could serve. Well, well, it is a good many years ago, and with the memory there comes a recollection of the turkey shooting on Uncle Yerkes's plantation, and in the country adjacent, and of the bringing to bag the famous turkey of "Nine Mile Run."

  It was in December - never mind what year; it is so long ago that I do not want to calculate, for I want to bring it and keep it as near to my heart as ever - that I arrived at Uncle Yerkes's house for a sojourn of at least a week, fully prepared with two guns and a rifle for quail and turkey shooting, and some still hunting for deer. "Squire" - that was Uncle Yerkes's nephew - had met me at the station, twenty-five miles away, and when we arrived at the house, supper was awaiting us. As I got out of the wagon, such a welcoming as I received! - a warm, Southern hospitality was in the air here. There was Uncle Yerkes with both hands extended, and Miss Jennie standing a little back of him and looking very much pleased; and there was Rufus, Uncle Yerkes's brother, an ex-Confederate with one arm; and there was Rufuss three little ones; and behind them all, standing in the doorway, and framed as in a picture, was Aunt Dilsey, grinning from ear to ear. There was the barking of the dogs, and such running around and running in and running out; the whinnying of the horses in the stable, answered by the pair that had brought us to the door; the cheerful lights, the blazing logs in the great big fire-place. Indeed, it was coming among dear and old friends, and receiving such a welcome as stays in the heart always; not simply 'as a memory, but something better, something that words fail to describe.

  Mars Dick, we's jist bin specting yo' for de las hour; done got ebryting fixed fo' to put on de table but de chicken; and yo' knows yousef dat dey has to be done jist such a time, and put on de hot plate an' de table right off. I tells yo', we's all powahful glad to see yo', and I knows yo' haint forgot dat kaliker dress what yo' was goin' to brung me, and some other tings, too, fer Miss Ginnie. She say es how I was gwine to have a powahful nice present fer Crismis."

  All the family seated at the table. Uncle Yerkes at the head, Miss Jennie at the other end, and the guest in the seat of honor at her right. Now, could anything be more comfortable than this?

  By the way, Uncle Yerkes, how are the turkeys this year? Have you seen very many? I suppose the Squire has had a crack at them either from a blind, or moon-lighted them down at Nine Mile Run. I want to bag the big turk this trip."

  Yaas, Mr. Dick, the big turk hes bin seen jist twice this season; he wuz on t'other side of the Run, an' too fur away for Rufe er the Squire to fetch him. Reckon Squire had buck ager, fur he wuz a-goin' to fire anyway, when Rufe he stopped him, a-sayin' es how he allowed thar hadn't bin eny firin' around since last Spring, an' if they kept mighty quiet fur a while, an' hunted careful on good huntin' days, thar'd be more of a likelihood of gittin' a shot at that turk. So when we knowd yo wus a-comin', Rufe he says es how thar'd be no firin' a-goin' on down whar the big turk hes bin usin' fur the past six year er so."

  Uncle Yerkes, do you really think there is a chance of getting a shot at that turk ?" said I, filled with the liveliest anticipations and scarcely believing such a thing possible.

  Waal, thar's er sort of a livit chance; yer see thar's the Giillage boys and we folks, haint bin doin no huntin to speak of this Winter, an' thar ain't bin no fuss made down on the Nine Mile Run; but the boys hes bin out a- watchin and keepin' mighty quiet jist the same, an' hev seen the big turk twice, but allers fur away.

  We ain't a-goin' to run no resks, I reckon, and yo'll never git a shot at that varmint by any ordinary callin' an' batin'. He's a wise ole cuss, an' thar'll hev to be a powerful spirit to work to bring him for'ard, es the Baptist preacher said when he wuza-holdin' forth an' tryin' ter bring a hardened sinner to the mourner's bench. "How far off were you, Squire, when you saw him?"

  I reckon about two hundred yards; I had my rifle an' I was goin' in to try him anyway. But Uncle Rufus said no, fur I'd surely miss him and scare him off the grounds that we know he is usin' on now. "

  "You see," said Rufus, Squire would bin almost sure to have missed with that single ball; what that turk needs is No. 1 or 2 or 4 shot, and plenty of them, right in the neck, at thirty yards."

  Yaas, an' then he'll most likely git away an' laff at yer. Tom Gullage he says es how he allows that turk weighs nigh onto forty pounds; he seed him at close range about las Spring, and didn't have no gun, and Tom wuz the maddist feller for mor'n a month."

  "How close did Tom get to him, Uncle Yerkes?" said I.

  Oh, about thirty yards. Tom, he'd bin spendin' Sunday evenin at Major Pearson's, an' he had ter git home early; the sun was jist a-disappearin', andTom wuza-comin'along the old road that crosses the ford three miles below yere. Tom wuz a-walkin' slow like, over the soft ground, an' a-thinkin' of Nell Pearson's blue eyes, I reckon, an' no more idee of turkeys than nothin', an' jist at the bend, whar the road takes down to the Run, that Mister Turk of Nine Mile Run walks out in the road, straightens up, winks his eyes at Tom and says, 'Put,' an' leaves Tom standin' ther full of amazement an' cussin'."

  "Mars Dick, does yo' want enny mo chicken ?"

  "No, thank you, Aunt Dilsey."

  Well, den, honey, yo' is reddy fur de waffles. Miss Ginnie she done made de batta fur de waffles - Ha, ha, ha, ho! jist look at m' little honey's cheeks ! I say all right, chile, but Dilsey is a-gwine ter bake 'em."

  It was very thoughtful of Miss Jennie, and I know the waffles will be simply perfect."

  "Yaas, Ginnie she kin cook most everything, an' I allow es how when Ginnie does cook, the vittals allers kinder tastes better," said Uncle Yerkes, with a look and voice that softened at once, for the old man's heart's pride was Jennie.

  Jennie's shapely head bent over and her cheeks were suffused. Aunt Dilsey came in with a plate full of great square waffles, hot, brown and tender. Now, Mr. Dick," said Jennie, here are the heart breaking' waffles you talk of. Permit me to fill your cup with hot coffee." Aunt Dilsey was standing behind Jennie's chair, her eyes beaming with affection as she looked at her.

  Mars Dick, Missey Ginnie done made dat coffee; she say es how yo' doan like de Rio ; so m' honey say to de Squair, yo' gits some Javy coffee out to de sto' fur Mars Dick wen he done come, case he hain't got no sort er use fur de Rio."

  Well, Aunt Dilsey, the coffee is splendid, and as for the waffles, they can't be improved upon."

  Yaas, Mr. Dick, Ginnie allers keeps up ter ther modiran improvements," said Uncle Yerkes, and sweet, good-natured Jennie smiled with her big blue eyes.

  "My third cup of coffee, Jennie, please," and I proceeded to cut the fourth waffle.

  At this moment footsteps were heard on the porch and an instant after old man Gullage entered the dining-room. Why, bless me, if ther ain't Mr. Dick an' a-sittin' clus by Ginnie, too - haw, haw, haw! How is all 'o' folks down on the Savannah, and is yo' family well?"

  "Yes, all well, Mr. Gullage." Sho' I'm glad to hear hit; hit's mor'n we kin say fur these parts; thar's bin a power o' sickness an ailments up yere, an' Susana Baskin a-dyin' has bin hard not only in ther Baskin family, but in ther Baptist Church. I specs, Mr. Dick, yo' is goin' to stay till after Christmas."

  I hesitated (Christmas was a little over one week ahead) and was about to answer no, when Jennie's eyes looked straight into mine. Why, yes, Mr. Gullage, I thought I'd stay over Christmas, for there will be a frolic at your house, and a big time at Major Pearson's, and a Christmas party here, and I can't very well desert when there is going to be such doings."

  Yaas, Mars Dick's gwine ter stay fur Crismis. Dat nite we's a-gwan ter roas a big turkey on de spit before de fiah. Squair done got de hickory wood a-dryin'' Wild turkey spitted before a hickory fire under the supervision of Miss Jennie and the artistic touch of Aunt Dilsey, to say nothing of the doings, and the society of sweet Jennie Yerkes !

  Did I stay!

  I filled my second pipe and stretched myself before the fire-place. Uncle Yerkes, what will be the programme to-morrow?"

  Waal, I reckon es how ther boys will go south among the ridges and try fur turks by callin' to ther blind, and then work around to the Nine Mile Run and see if their bait is takin by a gang o' turks as is usin there. That big turk hes bin seen about the Run two or three times sense matin time last Spring, an they don't want no fuss and firin' down thar, hopin' he'll git to feel sort to home like, and git to cumin fur ther bait in ther morning. There ain't no tellin, tho- that er turk is eddicated.

  “Well, that will suit me, so I guess I will go to bed."

  In the saddle the next morning, Rufus, Squire and myself, accompanied by Nero, a wise old pointer, trained to trail and scatter a flock of turkeys, rode south. Three miles from the house Nero stopped, threw his head in the air, trotted a short distance, and then shot off, disappearing in the forest. We followed for perhaps three hundred yards, stopping frequently to listen; presently away off and faintly heard, was the barking of a dog.

  He's found 'em, said Rufus, following the sound. We presently arrived where Nero had found a gang of turkeys, and scattered them. The instant we reached the spot the dog ceased barking. Examining the ground, we found abundant signs of turkey.

  A blind was quickly constructed of limbs and brush from a fallen tree, and then Squire began calling, softly at first, and at intervals of ten to fifteen minutes, then a little bolder and at shorter intervals. Almost an hour passed before an answer came; then the Squire's skill came into play. It was a soft call that he gave, five, eight, ten minutes or more, and again came the answer a little nearer. Squire again placed the turkey bone to his lips and gave a soothing and encouraging call. Almost immediately through the silent forest came first one, then two replies. "Careful now. Squire, one false note and the game will be off." We crouched there, eagerly sweeping the woods to right and left and the glade in front, twelve-gauges ready, while old Nero, with blood in his eye, and mouth close shut, charged close to the ground from nose to tail, as if he had grown there. That dog knew the situation exactly, and was figuring on his chances to capture a wing-broken bird. Softly and surely the Squire called, and almost simultaneously with the note, a small gobbler stepped into the arena; hardly had he done so when two more birds were seen coming toward us; and in a moment the three birds were fairly well grouped, but too far away to invite a shot. The Squire was about to make a low, far-away note to bring the birds closer, when to our astonishment and lending not a little to the excitement, a fine gobbler walked past the blind to the left, and stood erect and stately not twenty yards away.

  I see that picture now. The deep forest, the bars of sunlight drifting through the tree tops, the woodland carpet of pine needles, the masses of fallen tree tops and upturned roots and brush heaps, the ridge beyond forming a brown background, the four turkeys standing erect and motionless, suspicious to a degree, and ready to take instant flight at the slightest indication of danger; three men suppressing their excitement in the presence of the noblest game bird in the world, and old Nero motionless as a stone, and each particular hair erect. A soft, distant note of assurance from the Squire's call, and then minute after minute passed; the large gobbler gurgled a word and the three birds in the distance ran forward. Steady now! Each man selected his bird, and the silence of the forest was broken by the boom of twelve-gauges. Two down - no, three ! - fluttering and rolling. I had selected a turkey to the right, and at the moment of discharge saw a bird fly from the extreme right straight up among the trees. Instantly putting my second barrel on him, I killed him clean. Nero broke from cover and soon ran down a wounded bird. There were four turkeys, good to look upon. Had we bagged but two we would have been satisfied; but four! - well, it was fine sport.

  It lacked three days of Christmas, and Jennie had invited me to ride to the Pearson plantation to make an afternoon visit. We left the house about two o'clock, and after a pleasant call of an hour or so, we started for home. Jennie was already in the saddle and I about to mount, when Major Pearson came up with a gun I had loaned him and asked me to take it home. Handing me the weapon, he said: Mr. Dick, you may want this gun before I see you again, and here are a couple of cartridges with number 4 shot; there is no telling but you may see a turkey flying to roost on your way back."

  I hardly think that probable. Major, still one does not wish to carry an empty gun in the woods in any country."

  We rode home around by the ford, making the distance some four miles further than by the nearest bridle path. The sun was getting low, and already the shadows were lengthening in the forest. Within a short distance of the ford that crosses the Run, there is a spring; here we dismounted to get a drink. The horses were tied near the roadside; Jennie had been telling me of some books she was reading, and the literary work and study she was arranging for the balance of the Winter. We sat on a log some distance from the road; the conversation, continued in subdued tones, after a while ceased, and we fell into a train of thought and enjoyment of the quiet of the woods. And how silent it was; how very still, as we looked away off through the aisles of the forest. The shadows were deepening, slowly blotting out the broad bands of yellow light flung between the trees by the receding sun. I was about to speak to Jennie, when she said in a low whisper:

  "Don't move - look at the side of that ridge in the light near the fallen pine."

  "A turkey, sure, and there must be more of them."

  With one impulse we noiselessly dropped behind the log, and kneeling low, watched. The turkey was fully two hundred yards away. It soon became evident there was but one turkey, and that he was coming directly toward our position. Now he was at the bottom of the ridge, then imperfectly seen in a shadow, and disappearing behind the roots of a fallen tree. Minutes passed, still we eagerly gazed on and searched the wood; when he came into view again he was less than one hundred yards off. My heart pounded and my pulse thrilled, I could feel the warm blood surge to my head; I glanced at Jennie; her eyes shone like stars and her cheeks flushed as the red rose. We knew we were gazing on the big turkey of Nine Mile Run. He came on with stately mien, pausing occasionally to listen, listen, listen; alert, always alert. Then I realized that this grand turk was going to roost, and that he would try and cross the road to reach the timber on the creek, a mile or so below, and if this was his intention he would probably pass within ten to thirty yards of us. Now we could see him plainly, the metallic lustre of his plumage, his grand proportions. Would he come within reach of the gun that was nervously gripped in my hands? would the horses remain quiet? would the slightest alarm come from any quarter? At this very hour my blood tingles when I remember the grand appearance and proportions of that bird. He was but thirty yards or so away, and somewhat to our left; the gun was close to my cheek, the muzzles lined on the base of his neck. A moment more, one moment of heart-breaking silence, and the forests reverberated to the quick reports of both barrels, and the famous turkey of Nine Mile Run lay dying. Jennie sat on the log, her face in her hands, overcoming the tremendous nervous strain. My hands, my face, in fact my whole body was bedewed with perspiration.

  We rode into the yard at dark; Jennie sprang from the saddle and seizing the famous turkey, with difficulty carried him in the sitting-room.

  "See, Uncle, see! we have captured the big turkey; it must be the very one!"

  "What - but - Ginnie, my dear, yer ain't sure, be yer? Well - I'm blessed ef - "

  "Look at his double beard, his magnificent feathers and - "

  Yaas, an dat's de werriest bird dat's a-gwineter be ros'ed afor' de hickory fiah; sakes alive. Mars Yerk, ain't he a whopper! said Aunt Dilsey.

  By this time the whole family were gathered, and the story was told of the bagging of the bird, which after all was a piece of luck, a fortunate combination of circumstances. Mr. Posey called that night and after seeing the big turkey, and hearing how he was taken, said, 'Miss Ginnie, didn't yer feel like hollerin' jist at ther minit afor ther gun went off? "

  Should anyone who reads this ever have the honor of cooking, or assisting to cook, a wild turkey in camp or at home, cook him with respect; cook him right. If both are properly cooked, the domestic fowl can no more compare with its wild congener than can a boarding-house Spring chicken, broiled, compare with a spitted woodcock served on toast. The flesh of the wild turkey is very tender, juicy, and, to my mind, far more gamy in flavor than any of the gallinaceous birds. His endless variety of food keeps his flesh palatable, and in good order, and in season he is fat and fine. The remembrance now of wild turkey roasted or spitted before the fire, lingers lovingly on my palate to this hour. Don't fry him, for the sake of all you hold good and blessed in this world; don't insult the remains of any game bird by laying him on a frying-pan. The only earthly use to which a frying-pan may be put is frying brook trout or possibly Spring chicken; then, and only then, does it find its place for meat cooking. Independent of this, the frying-pan should be relegated to the dim ages of the past, and pointed out as an instrument of gastronomic torture, used at a period of the world's history when cooking was but indifferently understood.