Over the past couple of centuries there's been many battles on Maryland soil, from the revolt against England, to the civil war, to shoot-outs between rumrunners and revenue men in the winding waterways of the marshes. But near and dear to my heart is the one I had a prime part in. The chicken coop shooting.
Life for an eastern shore waterman was a hard one. Money was always tight, and if it was a bad year for shellfish, either a blight or such, belts had to be tightened. Most waterman familys had other endevors they kept up on the side. The kids and sometime some of the men had a trapline back in a marsh for muskrat pelts. Some had eel traps in the shallow waters, and a good catch of eels for the european market could bring a good penny or two. In the summer time there were the roadside produce stands with fresh tomatos, corn from your own patch, and in our familys case, chickens.
Grandmom had a small chicken coop and sold farm fresh eggs, and tomatos on a small stand out on the road in partnership with Jacksons wife who was a bee keeper. Esther Jackson had jars of her honey, and she and grandmom made grocery money off those eggs and honey jars. They were as solid a partnership as grandad and Ezra Jackson, his first mate and right hand on board the Lady Anne.
Then something started killing the chickens.
It was a hot late afternoon on the back porch of grandads home, and a council of war had been called. Grandad and Ezra Jackson had finished for the day, with the catch sorted and delivered to the commercial dock, and they were bushed. Their day started at 4AM. Grandmom and Esther Jackson had served up iced down lemonade. As usual when thinking, Jackson had his old Camillus TL-29 out and was curling thin slivers off a matchstick. Grandad was doing the same with his stag handled stockman. Not to be left out, me and Tyrone were copying our elders with our own pocket knives, trying to see who could get the most layer of curls without breaking it off.
"Maybe it's a fox" grandad was saying.
"No suh" said Jackson in his thick southern shore accent. "Them teeth was too far apart for fox. It be a bigun whats did the killin. Maybe wild dog."
This was a worrying thought, for sometimes a stray dog would go wild back in the marsh, and it had little fear of man, but knew food was to be had at farms. A wild dog was more dangerous that a fox.
It was decided that a stakeout was needed to kill what ever was doing the killing of the chickens. Jacksons son Tyrone and me were to go out at dark and stay till we were relived by grandad at 2AM. That way the men could get some sleep before being up even earlier than normal. Tyrone and I had only single shot .22 rifles, so Jackson gave his son his own bolt action .22 rifle with a tube magazine, and Uncle Mike loaned me his Stevens 16gauge double. Tyrone and me were honored that the grown-ups thought we were ready to defend the homestead. We took it seriously. We cleaned those already spotless guns, and honed already sharp pocket knives.
That night after dinner, it seemed to take forever to darken to night, and we stole out quietly to the thick patch of honeysuckle that bordered the back yard by the chicken coop. For those of you who have never been to the Maryland shore, honeysuckle can be a thick impenitrable barrier of twisted vines covered with fragrent white flowers. It made for a good blind. We settled in with loaded guns and sharp steel to await the enemy.
The enemy we had to deal with was sleep.
An exited 14 year old thinks of all the action that may be waiting, but hours of just sitting still in the hot night, with the buzzing of mosquitoes, slowly starts to rob one of the razor edge. Slowly the head grows heavy and nods. At first, if I saw Tyrones head nod, I'd elbow him in the ribs to wake him up, and if I started to nod, he'd return the favor. The hot night wore on.
I think it was the scratching that woke me. I don't know how long I'd been asleep, nor Tyrone, but I could hear some sort of scratching on wood and a faint growling. The stars were bright over head, and it felt late. Chicken were cackling. Sitting upright with a start, it also brought up Tyrone, and a large dark animal at the chicken coop door suddenly froze and stared in our direction. From there chaos took over.
I know both me and Tyrone must have yelled because the creature started to run off, then I fired both barrels of the 16 gauge at it at the same time Tyrone started to fire as fast as he could work the bolt on his fathers rifle. Something made a horrible howling growling yelping, and Tyrone kept firing as fast as he could while I fumbled two more shells into the Stevens double and let fly.
Then we were out of ammo, and a respective silence fell. I say respective, because after the sudden gunfire in the night, the hysterical cackling of the exited chickens and shouts from the house seemed kind of tame. Lights were comming on at the house, and then grandad and grandmom were commin with a lantern.
"Holy Christ and his mother Mary" I could hear grandad yelling, " I have'nt heard that much shooting since Easter Sunday 1916!"
The lantern got close enough to light up the area, and there lay a very large black dog, about the size of a German shepard. It was in about the same condition as Clyde Barrow was after Frank Hammer had his way with things. At that point Jackson came running up with a flashlight, and examined the animal.
"This is him, Cap'n, wide jaws" he told grandad.
Jackson and grandad gently took the guns away from Tyrone and me, telling us that there had been enough shooting for the night. We all trooped to the kitchen and while grandmom and Esther Jackson made some very early breakfast, I was startled to see it was just shy of 2AM. I glanced at Tyrone and then at the clock on the wall. I saw his eyes widen, but niether of us said anything. We had fresh hot bisketts with Jackson honey and some of grandmom's strong Irish style tea. Grandad reached into the top cabnet and took out the bottle of dark navy style rum he kept on hand. He put the bottle down in front of Tyrone and me.
"You lads have done a mans work this night, you deserve a man's drink." he told us.
Ezra Jackson took the bottle and uncorked it, and tipped it over his son's mug. The glugging of the strong drink as it splashed into Tyrones mug was loud in the small kitchen, then grandad took the bottle from Jackson and did the same for me. We were heros, and me and Tyrone tipped up our mugs and drank, trying not to make too strong a face at the burning of the high proof rum down our gullets. Then grandad and Jackson had us tell them how we made the kill, and Tyrone and I spun a good yarn on how we waited still as death with nerves of steel, for our prey to come within range. Tyrone and I made a pact that night to our dying day, never to tell anyone that we were fast asleep on the job. After all, nobody wants heros tarnished, do they?
Life for an eastern shore waterman was a hard one. Money was always tight, and if it was a bad year for shellfish, either a blight or such, belts had to be tightened. Most waterman familys had other endevors they kept up on the side. The kids and sometime some of the men had a trapline back in a marsh for muskrat pelts. Some had eel traps in the shallow waters, and a good catch of eels for the european market could bring a good penny or two. In the summer time there were the roadside produce stands with fresh tomatos, corn from your own patch, and in our familys case, chickens.
Grandmom had a small chicken coop and sold farm fresh eggs, and tomatos on a small stand out on the road in partnership with Jacksons wife who was a bee keeper. Esther Jackson had jars of her honey, and she and grandmom made grocery money off those eggs and honey jars. They were as solid a partnership as grandad and Ezra Jackson, his first mate and right hand on board the Lady Anne.
Then something started killing the chickens.
It was a hot late afternoon on the back porch of grandads home, and a council of war had been called. Grandad and Ezra Jackson had finished for the day, with the catch sorted and delivered to the commercial dock, and they were bushed. Their day started at 4AM. Grandmom and Esther Jackson had served up iced down lemonade. As usual when thinking, Jackson had his old Camillus TL-29 out and was curling thin slivers off a matchstick. Grandad was doing the same with his stag handled stockman. Not to be left out, me and Tyrone were copying our elders with our own pocket knives, trying to see who could get the most layer of curls without breaking it off.
"Maybe it's a fox" grandad was saying.
"No suh" said Jackson in his thick southern shore accent. "Them teeth was too far apart for fox. It be a bigun whats did the killin. Maybe wild dog."
This was a worrying thought, for sometimes a stray dog would go wild back in the marsh, and it had little fear of man, but knew food was to be had at farms. A wild dog was more dangerous that a fox.
It was decided that a stakeout was needed to kill what ever was doing the killing of the chickens. Jacksons son Tyrone and me were to go out at dark and stay till we were relived by grandad at 2AM. That way the men could get some sleep before being up even earlier than normal. Tyrone and I had only single shot .22 rifles, so Jackson gave his son his own bolt action .22 rifle with a tube magazine, and Uncle Mike loaned me his Stevens 16gauge double. Tyrone and me were honored that the grown-ups thought we were ready to defend the homestead. We took it seriously. We cleaned those already spotless guns, and honed already sharp pocket knives.
That night after dinner, it seemed to take forever to darken to night, and we stole out quietly to the thick patch of honeysuckle that bordered the back yard by the chicken coop. For those of you who have never been to the Maryland shore, honeysuckle can be a thick impenitrable barrier of twisted vines covered with fragrent white flowers. It made for a good blind. We settled in with loaded guns and sharp steel to await the enemy.
The enemy we had to deal with was sleep.
An exited 14 year old thinks of all the action that may be waiting, but hours of just sitting still in the hot night, with the buzzing of mosquitoes, slowly starts to rob one of the razor edge. Slowly the head grows heavy and nods. At first, if I saw Tyrones head nod, I'd elbow him in the ribs to wake him up, and if I started to nod, he'd return the favor. The hot night wore on.
I think it was the scratching that woke me. I don't know how long I'd been asleep, nor Tyrone, but I could hear some sort of scratching on wood and a faint growling. The stars were bright over head, and it felt late. Chicken were cackling. Sitting upright with a start, it also brought up Tyrone, and a large dark animal at the chicken coop door suddenly froze and stared in our direction. From there chaos took over.
I know both me and Tyrone must have yelled because the creature started to run off, then I fired both barrels of the 16 gauge at it at the same time Tyrone started to fire as fast as he could work the bolt on his fathers rifle. Something made a horrible howling growling yelping, and Tyrone kept firing as fast as he could while I fumbled two more shells into the Stevens double and let fly.
Then we were out of ammo, and a respective silence fell. I say respective, because after the sudden gunfire in the night, the hysterical cackling of the exited chickens and shouts from the house seemed kind of tame. Lights were comming on at the house, and then grandad and grandmom were commin with a lantern.
"Holy Christ and his mother Mary" I could hear grandad yelling, " I have'nt heard that much shooting since Easter Sunday 1916!"
The lantern got close enough to light up the area, and there lay a very large black dog, about the size of a German shepard. It was in about the same condition as Clyde Barrow was after Frank Hammer had his way with things. At that point Jackson came running up with a flashlight, and examined the animal.
"This is him, Cap'n, wide jaws" he told grandad.
Jackson and grandad gently took the guns away from Tyrone and me, telling us that there had been enough shooting for the night. We all trooped to the kitchen and while grandmom and Esther Jackson made some very early breakfast, I was startled to see it was just shy of 2AM. I glanced at Tyrone and then at the clock on the wall. I saw his eyes widen, but niether of us said anything. We had fresh hot bisketts with Jackson honey and some of grandmom's strong Irish style tea. Grandad reached into the top cabnet and took out the bottle of dark navy style rum he kept on hand. He put the bottle down in front of Tyrone and me.
"You lads have done a mans work this night, you deserve a man's drink." he told us.
Ezra Jackson took the bottle and uncorked it, and tipped it over his son's mug. The glugging of the strong drink as it splashed into Tyrones mug was loud in the small kitchen, then grandad took the bottle from Jackson and did the same for me. We were heros, and me and Tyrone tipped up our mugs and drank, trying not to make too strong a face at the burning of the high proof rum down our gullets. Then grandad and Jackson had us tell them how we made the kill, and Tyrone and I spun a good yarn on how we waited still as death with nerves of steel, for our prey to come within range. Tyrone and I made a pact that night to our dying day, never to tell anyone that we were fast asleep on the job. After all, nobody wants heros tarnished, do they?
BTW did the dog belong to anyone? Neighbors, or was it feral?
