I first met Francis Scott at the Community Hunting Club in Elloree one Saturday two years ago when my daughter and I hunted as guests. He was in his late seventies, and was the quintessential Southern gentleman. There was something about his dignified manner and his easy, winning smile that made us like him immediately, and we just knew we had met another good friend. He thought it was great that a mother and daughter hunted together, and he invited us to "Family Day" at the Pine Barrens Hunting Club near Ridgeland, SC.
My daughter had to work on the Saturday of the hunt, but I took him up on the offer. I am glad I did, because I got to know another group of fine Southern sportsmen, and have hunted with them several times since that day. They treat me like "family." Francis loved having me visit there. He knew the huge plantation the club leased like the back of his hand, and as we hunted the various stands, he would show me where the deer were likely to run. He was huntmaster for many years in his younger days. He was a member for so long, there was a road and a hunting area named after him. By the time I met him, he was the designated camp cook, the rigorous parts of the hunt left to younger men. Still, he made sure he still got out, and having me around seemed to make him enjoy it even more.
We didn't usually have much luck, though, and he would remark that standers to our left and to our right always seemed to shoot, but we were jinxed. Then one Saturday I decided to stay late for the afternoon drive. It was a warm day, and most of the hunters had gone home, but Woody, the huntmaster, had enough standers, drivers, and dogs for one small section. We entered a Longleaf Pine woods with lots of very tall reedy undergrowth. It was hard to see much of anything through the dense vegetation, but Francis told me exactly where to stand. To a former ridgerunner like myself, this Lowcountry hunting was really strange. It all looked the same to me, with no contours, benches, or hollows to funnel deer one way or another. But Francis knew this land well, so I learned to listen to him. After an hour or so, I saw one doe slip through an opening in front of me, but I couldn't get my bead on her in time. Apparently Francis, who was not to far to my right, didn't see her either.
I thought I had blown my only chance, but a little later, I thought I heard something coming my way. I could only see the tops of the weeds moving at first, and I knew this would have to be a quick decision. Sometimes it turns out to be a dog that is not baying, so you have to be careful. The weeds parted, and I saw the ears and nose of a doe. She looked big enough to shoot, and she looked like she would run right into me. I put the bead on the base of her neck and fired. She turned and disappeared, leaving not a single drop of blood.
Francis was all excited, but then I told him I couldn't find any blood. "I know I hit her!" I said. Unfortunately, the undergrowth was so dense, it would be impossible to find her with no trail. Tex, one of the dog handlers, happened by with his favorite beagle. She was good at finding downed deer. I showed him where the deer had been, and he set off to search, disappearing into the weeds as effectively as the doe had done. A few minutes later, I heard him call out, "You got her!" I jumped up and let out a whoop, and Francis cracked a big smile. We followed a trail that paralleled the doe's path, and found Tex and his beagle standing over her, the dog receiving lavish praise from her master.
Francis and Tex started dragging, but I insisted on taking over for Francis, since he had surgery the month before, and he really wasn't supposed to do such things. He kept saying how he never saw anyone get so excited, and I really made his day, no, his whole season. He finally got to see me shoot.
I was fortunate enough to accompany Francis on a few more hunts that year, then during the off season, my children and I would drive the half hour or so to Orangeburg now and then to visit him. We would go out to lunch, or sometimes see the sights in town, such as the beautiful Memorial Rose Garden and the Edisto River. My husband and I stopped in to see him after our anniversary dinner on last August 1st, and as we sat with him in his sun room of his nice house, he said, "Two more weeks until deer season!" Waving his hand around at his comfortable surroundings, he added, "THIS is boring! I'd rather be hunting!"
Two weeks later on opening day, I showed up at the small club near Orangeburg, where Francis was president, and had extended an open invitation for me to hunt with them. He was nowhere in sight, which was unusual. We later learned that he was in the hospital. His diabetes, which he never took an effort to control with diet, had gotten out of control and caused non-alcoholic fatty liver. This led to fainting spells and falls. Although he was back in a couple weeks, he was not the same. He was no longer supposed to drive, so my husband suggested I go to this club weekly to drive him around. I would pick him up in the morning at his daughter's house nearby, and take him to the club, sit with him on the stand. My dear friend was failing fast, I could tell, and would fall easily. His daughter and son-in-law were adamant about not taking away his hunting though. For that I was really thankful, because I knew, as they did, that not being able to hunt would be a slow death for this man.
I hunted twice more at the Pine Barrens with Francis, once with Gregory, and once with Teresa. These will be some of my fondest hunting memories; the last times I would spend with the fine Southern Gentleman who had become my dear friend. I saw him one more time at the assisted living center where he had to move when his health was failing. He proudly took me to dinner at the home's cafeteria, and afterward he gave me the keys to his car and had me drive around the grounds. He did not want to see the tailored lawns of the retirement cottages, but rather the yet undeveloped areas. We stopped at the bank of the Edisto River, now very shallow due to the drought, and Francis told me about the big buck he had seen on the other side. We drove through a logged area which was quickly growing up with brush, and he remarked, "I would love to set loose a good pack of hounds in here! I'll bet there are some really big bucks in that brush!"
His daughter, Sherry, called me the Friday after Christmas. I just missed the call, and checked my voicemail message. "Judy, I just wanted to let you know that Daddy died this morning. Call me at home."
I cried, of course. I called my husband, and expressed regret that I had not seen Francis in the previous couple weeks. Pat said, "You did your best to help him enjoy his last season. Don't beat yourself up." He was right, but it still hurt.
The viewing was attended by several of his hunting buddies from the Pine Barrens. Woody hugged me warmly and told me that even though Francis was not going to be there, I was welcome to visit the club any time. I know I will take him up on that offer. It will be good to be back at the plantation and recall those precious days with my precious friend.
