It was on a hunt to the Virginia Eastern Shore where the Order of the Sleeping Black Duck was formed.
A young stockbroker who was just breaking into the business organized the trip. The rest of the group included a couple of lawyers, one who would eventually become a federal judge, a pair of textile manufacturers, a newspaper man, and finally Silas, the last living member of the Order.
Silas was a contractor and general jack-of-all-trades. His job carried him all over the world too exotic places and adventures. An ex-marine, it was rumored that he was involved as a mercenary with a group that rescued several US citizens from Iran. Only he knew that story for true, and it never came up in any of his conversations.
The organization officially started after a long day’s duck hunt on the Chesapeake. After the hunt was over and while enjoying a few libations by a roaring fire in the lodge’s giant fireplace, the group’s conversation floated from here to yonder but mostly concentrated on how much fun they were having and how they wanted to do it again every year.
Each man could feel a special bond growing, not necessarily because their personalities matched. Lord knows this was a diverse group, but in a duck blind they were one and the same. Steve, the newspaperman, got the ball rolling. “All right, guys. I’ve got a great idea. To keep this thing moving forward, we’ve got to have a purpose. And sitting on that table in front of the fire is our mascot.”
Steve pointed to a carved sleeping black duck decoy. “We’ve got to have that thing.”
The owner of the lodge had carved the duck, and it was truly a masterpiece.
“Here’s how we can make it work. We’ll jointly buy the black duck, and every year we’ll take turns keeping it. At the end of the member’s time with the duck, we’ll have a huge feast giving it to the
next hunter in line, alternating year after year. If a member breaks the chain, he will never have luck hunting again.”
The black duck decoy, resting in front of the fire, seemed to take on an aura of its own as the fellows poured themselves another drink and worked out the details. With two lawyers in the group, it didn’t take long to get all the particulars straightened out.
Years rolled on and one by one the members headed, as Steve put it, to that “Duck Blind in the Sky.” Steve was the next to the last to go leaving Silas and his old dog Roosevelt to carry on the black duck tradition.
“Look, Roosevelt, there’s the point.”
The old lab sat up in the bow and watched as Silas pulled the boat in the lee of the cut to put out the decoys. It was poetry in motion as he placed the decoys in the classic J spread with the blue bills on the outside.
In no time, the blocks were out, and he moved the skiff around the point to a hidden slot in the bank. He covered the boat with an old pepper gray tarp, grabbed the ancient cardboard box out of the bow and said to Roosevelt, “Come on, old sport. There’s one more thing we gotta do.”
They walked out to the point that sheltered the lee where they would be hunting. The wind was beginning to turn to the north, and waves were splashing on the little piece of land that thrust out into the sound.
The old man pulled the sleeping black duck decoy out of the box and wedged it in the sand. He then stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. His rig was in the lee with the bluebills on the outside. The turning wind was working in his favor.
“It looks good,” he said to himself, as he and Roosevelt walked back to where they were going to build their makeshift blind. The old man was breathing hard and had to stop a couple of times as he pulled up brush and stuck it in the ground.
“All right, old dog, come on back here and let’s hunt.”
He sat on his dove stool and waited for the sunrise, his loyal dog at his side.
Sunrise came with a beauty that you can only find on the Pamlico. Clouds were scudding across the horizon spitting sleet mixed with snow, a perfect duck hunters’ morning.
Blue bills and ringnecks buzzed the decoys, and a group of mallards sat down close to the blind. Roosevelt whined with anticipation. He wanted to see some action. The old man whispered, “This morning, old sport, we just gonna watch.”
And watch they did until a pair of black ducks splashed down close to the decoy on the sand. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
They watched the blacks swim around for a long time until the old man stood up and they flew away. He didn’t even load his shotgun.
“Let’s go Roosevelt, it’s been a good hunt, and I’ve got a meeting with the doctors tomorrow.”
Roosevelt was ready. He longed for the warmth of the old truck. The old man really wasn’t. He knew that this would probably be his last adventure until he joined his partners at the great Duck Blind in the Sky. The news the doctors had given him in the past weeks was not good.
He was slower picking up the decoys and had to take several breaks before he cranked the old kicker and headed back to the landing.
“It’s been a good run, nobody owes me a thing.”
As they motored away, Roosevelt kept looking back at the point where they had hunted. Silas cut the motor and turned the boat. The sleeping black duck was still on the little spit of land facing out over the sound.
“Look at him, Roosevelt, doesn’t he look great sitting there? That’s where he belongs. The boys would be proud.”
He fired up the kicker and pointed the skiff into the wind. The salt spray and cold wind felt good.
Tom Bryant can be reached at 693-2505 or tom@thepilot.com
