Endlings

""My dear fellow, you are cordially invited", so it read... an invitation to Endlings, Lord Abaddon's country pile near Upper Slaughter in the Cotswolds. Perhaps you know it. 

Endlings

"A last hurrah", it promised, "our final house party. A spot of shooting. Everything must go. Bring that pretty little mistress of yours. I'll provide the guns. Morty. RSVP."

How could I say no? I'd known Morty since our days in South Africa, before the Boer Wars that saw many of us ship out finally for England. His family had always been big game hunters. It was in their blood, a proud tradition of claiming the last kill of the species. It became a standing joke that they were  living up to the family name.

His great-grandfather Royston Killcullen (1764-1827) had bagged the last surviving Bluebuck in Swellendam, Western Cape, in 1806. His grandfather Josiah Killcullen, the first Lord Abaddon (1800-1869) shot the only Cape Lion left in Natal in 1854. Its skin is in the library at Endlings. His father Daniel Killcullen, the second Lord Abaddon (1833-1902) had needed to roam further afield  to make his mark. He is credited with having bagged the final Atlas Bear on a hunt in Morocco in 1873. And Morty himself, the current Lord Abaddon (1858-    ), was proud to have ambushed and killed the last wild  Quagga on a shooting party in the Southern Plains to celebrate his 21st birthday. 

a Quagga

However, when it became known a few years later that that there was still one Quagga living in captivity in Amsterdam Zoo, he needed to take care of that one too, in a stealthy night raid with a poison-dart gun on 12th August 1883. I should know. I accompanied him. For Morty it was a matter of family honour, and it was a secret between just a few of us.

So of course I would join the house party. I was intrigued by the suggestion it would be the final one, and that everything must go. Eight of us chaps would be there, Morty, his two uncles, his younger brother, myself and three other old friends.

I picked Diana up from her Kensington mews and we motored out to the west country on Friday afternoon in my brand new Vauxhall Velox. On the way she asked me why the place was called Endlings, such a strange name. So I regaled her with the Killcullan family's proud tradition of being in at the extinction of several species over four generations. I must say she seemed less than impressed, went rather quiet in fact. So it's just as well I hadn't admitted to being present when Morty had offed the last Quagga (on two separate occasions).

Anyway, she was rather more impressed with Endlings when we arrived, sweeping through those gates and up the tree-lined drive to the great house in its acres of parkland, with the occasional sightings of shy Schomburgk's deer. We were graciously received by Morty himself and I was given my usual quarters in the south wing, where Diana and I spent a happy couple of hours before we dressed for dinner.

The talk at table, and what a sumptuous repast it was, concerned itself much with the coming war, for a set-to with Germany does seem inevitable. We debated the pros and cons of offering our services at our age, and in what capacity. The splendid 1884 Margaux may have fuelled our brave talk.

Then Morty explained what he planned for the morrow and why. Always a superstitious fellow, he had recently engaged the services of Mrs Annie Brittain, much touted as "England's premier clairvoyant", and she had put the wind up him by claiming to foresee that his days were numbered and that his herd of deer would be the cause. That a woman from Staffordshire might know about his secret herd of Schomburgk's deer was enough to convince Morty of the veracity of  the clairvoyant's prediction and so in the morning we were all to be afforded a splendid day's shooting until we had dispatched every last animal. We protested that he shouldn't take such prophesising seriously, but he was adamant, and as his family and friends we must support him in ridding this threat to his life.

a shooting party at the lodge

We duly assembled at the lodge after breakfast on Saturday, having left the ladies in the party to their devices, and off we set on foot with field-glasses, ammo belts, weapons at the ready and no little sense of  anticipation and excitement, to track down Morty's herd of Schomburgks. 

We walked eight abreast in an wide arc down through the park towards where Morty said the deer usually grazed, but they were nowhere to be seen. So then we stalked their tracks across to the woodland in the northeast corner of the estate and thought we caught a glimpse of a few among the trees. This would be more fun, more of a challenge, than taking them down in open country.

I almost can't bring myself to narrate what unfolded next. 

Morty knelt, took aim and fired the first shot, but the next minute he lay collapsed on the ground. Had that second retort been an echo or was it really returning fire from the woodland? As we leaped to Morty's aid, we knew he was a goner, with a bullet hole in the middle of his head. Our instinctive reaction was to drop to the ground and scan the woods. 

Morty's uncle Edward took charge of the situation. signalling for me to head round left towards the woods and Thomas, Morty's brother to flank out towards the right. He had barely started running when another shot rang out which threw him backwards and he lay still as death. I dropped to the ground a second time and lay waiting and watching. 

The other five then started firing volley after volley into the trees. Deer came darting out in all directions. Some were hit and fell quivering, some ran off as fast as their legs would take them. The shooting party kept on firing regardless for several more minutes and then paused. All was silent for a long while. 

I was signalled again to flank out left and into the cover of the nearest trees. I proceeded cautiously, working my way from tree to tree until I came upon Diana's body, riddled with bullets. I had never even imagined that she knew how to handle a gun."

There is no poem today. My short fiction should suffice. By the way, the endlings - the term applied to the last of a species or the last of a line- are hyperlinked in the text (the names in bold green type), so if you wish to read more about those sadly extinct species, just click on the names and they will take you to Wikipedia entries.

As for Schomburgk's Deer, the very last recorded specimen in the wild was killed by a hunter in Thailand in 1932. Another survived as a tame animal kept at a Thai temple until 1938, when it was stabbed by a drunken man who perhaps thought it a wild deer.

There isn't a hyperlink for Morty Killcullen, the third Lord Abbadon. But then his was an end to a line best forgotten, wouldn't you agree?

Thanks for reading, S ;-)