A return to the marshes
Having inherited an old R Scott behemoth, there’s no better place to use it than on a wild day on the foreshore – its rightful home
Tim Bee and Robin Owen describe how two behemoths went wildfowling once more
I’m sure the sheet of flame got there as quickly as the shot
Ihad known Arthur for more than 50 years. He worked all his life in the Northampton shoe trade, a job that included handmaking Harvey Smith’s riding boots, but his passion was shooting and he’d regularly tramp the fields with my father and godfather. He was good with the young and I still treasure a .410 cartridge belt he made for me when I was eight.
As a young lad from a shooting family, I liked collecting cartridges, mostly fired ones picked up while beating on local shoots. Imagine my delight when, one Christmas, Arthur gave me a factory-loaded Eley eightbore cartridge filled with BB shot – the holy grail of any young boy’s collection. Little did I know then that one day I would own the gun for which it was meant. While visiting Arthur early one January a few years ago at his remote cottage high up in the Lincolnshire wolds, I was humbled when he presented me with the old eight-bore. He knew his health was failing and it was the right time to hand it over to a new custodian. I felt honoured to be that person.
I’d seen the gun, made by R Scott, a few years earlier when I took it away and had the action rejointed and a large dent removed from the barrel. I had loaded some black-powder cartridges in the hope that Arthur might have a shot or two through it but, sadly, his failing health prevented this. Arthur’s older brother, John, who was in the Royal Navy, had brought the gun back from Seaton Carew where he was stationed after the war, not far from Middlesbrough where R Scott was in business. Unusually, it’s a top-lever, single barrel – most of the big guns have a Jones underlever – and has had a hard working life with the chequering worn smooth. Even so, the quality of the old gun still shines through.
Arthur used the gun on a regular basis at Wainfleet, feeding it a steady supply of Eley eight-bore nitro cartridges even though the old gun was only proved for black powder. On one occasion he got seven wigeon with one shot, probably helped by the fact that the barrel had been shortened at some stage and has little or no choke.
When the pinkfeet started moving away from Wainfleet in the late 1960s, mainly due to increased night bombing on the Wainfleet range, the gun got put aside for more modern artillery. But once I inherited it I was determined to get a shot with it before the imminent end of the season. It had a very short, 12½in stock and this made it unshootable for me so a talented friend added a nice piece of dark walnut, complete with a hand-made leather recoil pad, and the result made it look as though this had been done a century ago.
My chance came when a young fellow fowler was doing his wardening duty on 12 February, so my black labrador, Tolley, and I hitched a ride for morning flight. There was a big spring tide due at 7am, and it was blowing a north-easterly gale heavy with rain and sleet. I left my companion to do his warden’s ‘gate duty’ in his nice, warm motor while Tolley and I headed down to the sea wall into the blackness, the gale pounding sleet onto my back.
After about half a mile of trudging I got to my chosen place but the north-easterly had pushed the big tide up even higher than expected and the whole marsh was under, with white horses lapping at the foot of the sea wall. Tolley and I had no choice but to hunker down at the bottom of the bank and wait for flight time.
My chance came as a single mallard crossed the marsh at 40 yards out. I swung the big gun through and pulled. Click! It had misfired. I took the gun down, recocked it and tried again. The mallard was now at extreme range even for an eight, but this time there was a boom from my blackpowder load and the duck tumbled into angry water. Tolley, being experienced, went straight away and ran in but, despite her best efforts, in the choppy water and bad light we never picked it.
As it got lighter and the tide ebbed we were able to pick our way with the aid of my wading stick out onto the flooded marsh in time to catch two more mallard approaching
from inland. I managed to call them nicely in range and this time she went off first pull. The mallard caught the full pattern of 2oz No 5s and fell with a large splash, giving Tolley a simple retrieve this time.
When fully light and the flight was over I tied up my hood and headed back along the sea wall into the relentless, driving rain. My companion said he’d had no opportunity of a shot but I do wonder if he’d even got out of the motor. We drove the 20-odd miles over the wolds back to Arthur’s cottage, a welcoming fire and an excellent roast dinner cooked on the old Rayburn in the kitchen. It was hard to drag ourselves away from the homely comforts but my mate had his evening wardening duty to perform. Tolley and I went in the other direction for evening flight, down to some familiar flashes out on the green.
The wind was still blowing but at least it had stopped raining. I had a handful of shots at flight time but a heavy eight isn’t ideal for shooting at shadows in the dark. My last shot into the wind was at a mallard passing behind me, and I’m sure the sheet of flame got there as quickly as the shot. I wasn’t sure I’d scored until I heard a splash and Tolley had gone soon to return with another fat mallard. With that I walked back in the dark content. The old gun was back in action after so many years.
Arthur has gone now but as was his wish his old gun lives on. I’ve taken it every season since and it’s accounted for more mallard, wigeon, teal and pintail. There’ll come a time when I, too, can no longer heft it over the marshes. Then it’ll be time to pass it on to another keen and younger fowler.