March 5, 2012. Excerpts from American Bird Decoys by William F. Mackey, Jr. 1965
Wildfowl hunting and the income derived from it was the main economic factor of the entire region. At first this support came mostly from the sale of game, but the visiting sportsmen played an increasingly important part. In both cases decoys were of prime importance. Big rigs were the custom of the day for battery use. Though not as large as the Susquehanna Flats rigs of from 500 to 600, they averaged some 200 decoys. At one time, about 1910, thirty-two batteries gunned the Lump, a favored spot midway down Currituck Sound. Augmenting that total were four outfits each out of Knotts Island and Church Island, while Bell Island boasted of two.
Luther James Parker of Knotts Island, who is now a spry, cheerful eighty-one, was a part of that era. As a market hunter he poled his way back and forth to the shooting grounds before motors were available. Even when they came into use, he held them in low regard because, in his words, “they were ready to quit at any time.” Luther Parker has now turned to farming, and on a recent visit I had to catch him before eight A.M., since he would be busy the rest of the day plowing in the fields.
Luther started out, he told me, with a muzzle-loader, but when the breech-loaders became available he got one. A modest man, he recalled his best day as one when he fired 409 shells and picked up 301 ducks, 24 swan, and 20 geese. This brought to Luther’s mind the biggest day he had ever heard of. One that saw Dan Griggs sell 735 ducks, all of them good. In other words, Canvasback and Redheads.
These are exceptional scores, but they do confirm the economic importance of this activity operating in one general area day after day. The take of game was enormous, and an ingenious do-it-yourself cooperative came into being. Many of the hunters lived on the Outer Banks and islands, miles removed from any form of land transportation. Ed Johnson, who ran a general store in Currituck Court House, solved their marketing problem. Late every afternoon, except weekends, he would cruise in his cargo boat down the middle of the Sound for many miles, and those dealing with him pulled into position for the exchange. The birds were counted and paid for in cash, or credit was extended at Ed’s store.
Since time was a factor, Ed raced for the shore to catch the evening train, which ran through Currituck Court House five days a week, to ship the birds to market. He carried ammunition for those who needed it. Every Christmas, for good measure, he handed out a new, shiny, Five-dollar gold piece to each hunter.
“We started November 10th each year,” Luther Parker recalled, “and stopped the end of February. One year I began October 20th, but it was still too warm and the birds rotted. I never did much with swans; they only brought fifty cents.”
Every market hunter from Maine to Carolina was a superb shot; some were just better than others. This skill with a shotgun was regarded as natural, and few of the men today talk of their prowess. Luther Parker was no exception, but when pressed he admitted once getting nine ducks with five shots, using a pump gun. He was sorry not to see two drop with the last shot, but he believes the strain got him.
That, however, was not the shot that Luther recalls with the most pleasure. From the way he tells it, the following story seems to be his favorite: “It was getting late, and shooting a muzzle-loader, I’d about used up my powder and shot. I shook out every last shot in my pouch into the palm of my hand and counted only twenty-seven. My average load of fours and sixes would be around 300 shot. But the ducks were flying around me, so I rammed home a charge of powder and carefully dropped in the 27 shot. Then I waited until a big drake Canvasback came in real nice, and I pulled the trigger. I could hardly believe my eyes when he dropped stone dead. Then I came home.
" It was a shame that Luther Parker, eighty-one years old, had his plowing to finish. Everyone hates to see a man like that leave.
The feats of endurance of the men who shot for the market along the Atlantic coast, and their contempt for the elements, are almost legendary. The imagination naturally pictures’ a man who endured this grinding work day after day and month upon month as a physical specimen of heroic proportions. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Those who cultivated the friendship of these men, whose breed has almost vanished, seldom encountered one who was even of average height. On the basis of a decade of study and questioning, I can report that they tended to be on the small side, but stocky and compact.
But of course there were exceptions, like John Haff of Cobb Island, Virginia, and Lewis Lewark of Whale's Head on the Outer Banks.