494 
FOREST AND STREAM 
A Story of the Long Ago 
By Edward T. Martin. 
Fifty years—in this active to-day, where a 
thing of yesterday is old—seems a long delve 
into the past for stories of guns and game. The 
writer, knowing this, hesitatingly turns 'back to 
recall a happening which took place half a cen¬ 
tury ago in war time- 
A withered tree, 'he is almost alone. Of his 
many friends and companions, some sleep in Vir¬ 
ginia, some in Tennessee. Scattered through the 
entire South they lie and even the foam-tossed 
ocean sings a requiem over one. Of those who 
survived the shock of battle and returned to 
rebuild ruined homes or restore devastated plan¬ 
tations, scarcely any now remain to keep him 
company. 
Like specks of fire in the browned remains of 
a piece of burned paper, once there were many. 
Then in a brief moment, half winked and dis¬ 
appeared. The others, one by one vanished, un¬ 
til a few scattered sparks here, and a few there 
only are left. Soon they too are gone and there 
is nothing to show they ever lived and had be¬ 
ing—nothing except memory. Even that, as 
years roll by, sometimes grows dim. 
The fall and winter of 1863 was as a flash of 
sunshine before the storm. The writer was on 
a South Carolina plantation, a refugee from yel¬ 
low fever then epidemic in his home city. 
A wild and thinly settled country it was, 
bordering the great Pedee swamp with its hun¬ 
dreds of square miles of marsh and mud, swamp 
and cypress trees. 
Here the skilled huntsmen could find deer and 
turkey on the high land and ducks in the ponds 
and streams, also many of the more vicious 
animals —lynxes, wild cats, and an occasional 
bear or panther prowling about in the timber. 
For the bad shots and poor hunters there were 
many quail, hundreds of wild pigeons and their 
mourning dove cousins, besides squirrels, rabbits, 
blackbirds, larks and robins, these last being con- 
idered legitimate game and selling in the city 
markets for about the same price as quail. 
Nor was the negro without his sport, for ’pos¬ 
sums and coons had their settlements and trav¬ 
eled roads to and from the corn fields and gum 
trees and were easy victims to the dog and ax 
of the colored hunters. 
With little to do, beyond a few lessons, the 
writer spent much of his time toting a shot gun 
about the country. A love of outdoor life was 
inherent in his system and seeds were now sown 
which, five years later—-when health demanded 
an open air life with plenty of exercise—ger¬ 
minated and made him choose a gun instead of a 
hoe, a lake instea dof a farm for such exercise 
and started him on his career as a professional 
shooter. Truly “There is a destiny that shapes 
our ends.” Who can tell what one little turn¬ 
ing of the road will lead to? Or from what 
tiny acorn will grow a lordly oak, which, when 
used to build a battleship, may change the fate 
of nations? 
Those war times brought scarcity of every¬ 
thing. Of course, ammunition was particularly 
hard to get. The Confederate Government even 
gathered in all the large copper cents—many of 
which were in circulation—for use in making 
fuses for shells. Shot gunpowder sold first at 
$20 a pound, then at $40, finally at $100 with lit¬ 
tle on the market. Shot brought five dollars 
a pound, then ten dollars, and possibly more. 
With such prices, how was a young man of six¬ 
teen to get ammunition for his gun? It was a 
tough proposition. 
Quail laughed in every thicket; squirrels frisk¬ 
ed their tails in glee; rabbits wiggled their ears 
in derision, while blackbirds chattered their 
noisy joy at freedom from danger. 
Something must be done. One day a discovery 
was made that gave an inspiration. Under the 
shingles around the chimneys of the plantation 
house, was lead. Sheet lead—many pounds of 
it. Of course, should it be removed, the roof 
Lynx and Wild Cat Aplenty. 
would leak, but what of that? What difference 
would a little water more or less make? That 
wasn’t the question. How to turn the lead into 
shot was what bothered and afterward, where 
was I to find powder? Nothing more was need¬ 
ed, for gun and caps had already been secured. 
An experiment in shot making was tried by 
dropping melted lead from the roof into a tub 
of water—an improvised shot tower. The re¬ 
sult was not encouraging. Some of the lead 
flattened in fantastic shapes on striking. One 
globule landed on the bare feet of a watching 
pickaninny and a splotch rested in the wool of 
another, all of which caused trouble in Africa. 
With that plan a failure, came a new idea— 
roll the lead. A pair of scissors were “borrow¬ 
ed,” (which “borrowing” later raised a disturb¬ 
ance in Caucasia) the metal cut in narrow strips, 
then by means of a short piece of board with 
the lead between it and a smooth floor, rolled 
into long, round pencils, much like old fashioned 
slate pencils. After working the board straight 
ahead and back again hard, for a considerable 
time, a reasonably solid pencil resulted. This 
was cut in little sections, as near cubes as the 
round sides permitted and these too, were rolled, 
but with a circular motion instead of backward 
and forward. When much elbow grease and en¬ 
ergy had been consumed, the outcome was a 
doubtful large shot or small bullet, pale and 
sickly looking, besides being soft enough to flat¬ 
ten at the least provocation. Still they were a 
whole lot better than pebble stones or peas, 
which some were using, but like many other un¬ 
finished specimens, needed their rough edges 
toned down. 
With plenty of faith that somehow, some¬ 
where, the necessary powder would be obtained, 
several pounds of shot were made; then came 
the smoothing down. A pound or over was put 
in a tin can with some wet stove polish, also 
“borrowed” and the tin rapidly revolved around 
and around for the better part of half an hour, 
by which time every pellet was smooth and shone 
like a darkey’s face after a ’possum dinner; 
about the same greasy black. Not the right 
shade, still they appeared a lot more shot-i-fied 
than before. 
One Sunday my friend, Billy Bacon, from the 
next plantation, after telling of the quantities 
of game he had seen the day before while riding 
along the edge of the swamp, said: 
“If I only had some shot!” 
“Shot?” the writer asked. “Shot, have you 
any powder?” 
“Well, not yet,” he replied. “Believe I could 
get some though, but powder is no use without 
shot.” Then after considering a little. “You 
see, it is this way. My brother is an officer at 
Fort Moultrie in Charleston harbor, and 1 
reckon by digging an unexploded shell out of 
the sand, he could get plenty of powder.” 
“Y-e-s,” I answered, deliberating what sort of 
a trade to offer. How little shot for how much 
powder. Finally: “Tell you what, Billy. I have 
plenty of shot and I’ll—give—let me see, a pound 
of it for—a pound’of powder.” 
"Not fair. I won’t do it,” he replied quickly. 
“Make it load for load and I’ll go you.” 
After a little haggling, we agreed on that basis. 
Gun, caps, shot, with powder in prospect. Surely 
things were shaping themselves all right. 
The following Friday, Billy rode over early 
to see me. His horse was sweat-covered and 
puffing and he, himself, much excited. A long¬ 
distance away he called: “I’ve got it! See I’ve 
got it!” waving a large square bottle, the black 
contents of which showed plainly. 
Hardly delaying to hitch the horse, he poured 
some into his open hand. “F-f-fine, isn’t it?” 
he stuttered in his eagerness. 
Fine was no name for the stuff he showed. 
It was like alkali dust of the desert, only black 
instead of white. Either from shock of firing 
the cannon or concussion When the shell struck, 
