# The Way of the Wild (Hawkes)/The Gray Squadron

Lake Lonely was what its name implies, a lonely lake up in Labrador, which is certainly a lonely country. It was the summer breeding ground of the Gray Squadron. It had been the summer quarters for the Canada wild goose for untold ages, but at the time of our story, their numbers had somewhat diminished, so there were about a hundred geese upon the lake. It was beautifully situated with woods upon one side and open country on the other. Feed was always abundant, and it was far from the haunts of men. Of course there were the natural enemies such as mink and the fox to combat, also the elements, but altogether it was an ideal breeding place.
The Gray Squadron had come back to the lake the April before with its ranks badly de​pleted. On the way south, in the autumn they had lost nearly a score of their numbers by running into a hunting party, when the flock was flying low. The pot-hunters along the Carolina coast where they had wintered had taken twice as many more, so that it was barely a score of these splendid birds that had come back in April.
If the hunters only appreciated the fact that when they bag one wild goose in the spring, out of season, they rob the flock of a full brood, they would think before they shoot. But it is the way of the prodigal American to waste much more than he uses.
The Gray Squadron had spent a profitable summer and its number was now recruited to one hundred and four members, made up of ten new broods and about a dozen old birds.
Hitherto the flock had been led on the southward flight by an old gray veteran, but his last autumn experience had put him in bad with the ganders who led each of the individual flocks. These birds were a sort of cabinet or heads of departments for the leader. So it ​had happened that on the day of which I write, the last day of November, there had been tumult and turmoil around the lake all day long. This had been over the leadership of the flock for the pending flight.
The old leader was certainly out of the question. This had been demonstrated when one of the under ganders had thrashed him so soundly that he was now nursing a broken wing and a bruised and bleeding head, in the reeds along one of the inlets of the lake. After the old leader had been disposed of, there had been other battles for the leadership, not so furious as the first, but still strenuous. In the wild it is the strongest that always dominates and leads, so a mammoth gander who had always bullied the old leader made himself commodore of the Gray Squadron and his rivals assented. Now in the gathering twilight he was making ready to lead the flight southward. On a dozen sand spits along the lake, as many small flocks were assembled ready for the word to fall in.
The start was preceded by a great squawk​ing and calling of the leaders one to another, but only four or five old ganders had yet taken to the air. Finally even these descended and took their places, each at the head of his particular brood. For five minutes perfect silence reigned. Then the leader of the flock arose in air and circled away to the north. At the head of the lake it formed into the wedge shape with the old gander at the point and five geese on either leg. Slowly this apex flock circled down one side of the lake and up the other. There was no command or call: "Fall in, Company B," but at a certain point, another flock arose in air and joined itself to the right leg of the flock. The next flock joined upon the left side as quickly and as perfectly as trained soldiers. So on the flock went circling the lake until the entire one hundred and four geese had been formed into one great squadron, as symmetrical and perfect a V as had been the first small flock. Then their leader turned the point to the southward and they were off for the autumn migration to the winter quarters along the Carolina coast. They rose easily to an alti​tude of about three hundred feet. This was well up out of shotgun reach. True, occasional ambitious hunters would take a shot at them at this altitude, but no harm was done. It was a magnificent sight, as the Gray Squadron swept away southward, flying with strong, even strokes, the most wonderful flying machine in nature.
As long as the daylight lasted, they flew rather silently, but when darkness settled down they talked to each other, or at least that was what it sounded like. One might have heard low, sleepy squawks all along the line. These came at regular intervals and were signal sounds to keep the flock together and flying at a uniform altitude. The great danger in flying at night is that they might get to flying too low and collide with church steeples or other high and dangerous obstructions. But usually their sense of approaching obstacles would save them from a disaster of the kind; still such things have happened.
My reader may wonder how, in perfect darkness, without a compass or chart, the admiral ​could hold the Gray Squadron so perfectly to its course. I am not sure. It is probably done by several powers which man does not possess. A sort of homing instinct. A sense of direction which does not depend upon compass or map. The air currents probably also help, but I think it is more instinct than anything else.
If one could have trained an opera glass upon the Flying Squadron as it cleaved the Labrador sky on that November twilight, it would have disclosed a wonderful sight. One hundred and four of the largest American game birds, with the exception of the wild turkey, each holding his place perfectly in the wedge-shape formation, flying about a rod apart, with strong, steady wing strokes, each with his long black neck stretched out in front of him like a race-horse, showing plainly the white crescent at the throat and with the legs drawn up well under to escape the rush of the wind. Such was this bird cyclone of the sky cleaving the twilight air at the rate of fifty-five or sixty miles an hour. Far beneath, the Lab​rador wilderness floated rapidly by, field, forests, lakes and rivers, all seeming to flow northward like a mighty moving picture. For the first hour, or until twilight fell, there was very little civilization to be seen, then straggling fishing villages and an occasional country road came into view. At last the town back of the only good harbor that the desolate country possessed was past and the flock was winging over Newfoundland. By midnight they were well into New Brunswick and nearing the Maine State line. As the flying V crossed the international boundary between the United States and Canada a long streak of bright light was seen upon the earth beneath. It was a train upon the Maine Shore line. For a while the train and the flock went parallel; the Flying Squadron was much too fast for the express, and it was soon left far behind. On down the Maine coast they sped. Here they ran into a strong south wind and a snow squall, but it did not deter this wonderful flying machine. It swept on, not quite so fast, but still going strong at forty miles an hour. By daylight, ​the flock crossed Casco Bay and Portland harbor.
Early risers on the islands heard the wild exultant slogan of the water fowl, "Honk, honk, honk." They rubbed their sleepy eyes and looked upward. For thirty seconds, or perhaps a minute, they could follow the flying V as it swept on toward the New Hampshire line. By eight o'clock the Squadron turned inland and all alighted upon a small woodscreened lake. Here they fed and rested during the day. As good luck would have it, no hunter discovered them, so they recuperated, and by night were as fresh as they had been the night before. Once again the leader of the flock rose in air and circled about the lake, picking up in turn each of the small flocks until the great formation had been again secured. Then he headed his splendid flying machine back toward the sea and it came rushing on down the New Hampshire coast. By eight o'clock it had passed into Massachusetts. On down the Massachusetts coast they flew, passing over Boston harbor by ten o'clock. They ​cut the Cape just as the present canal does and headed straight for Narragansett Bay. Providence and Newport did not see them, but late pedestrians might have heard the faint wild cry far above if they had been upon the street to listen.
Then they turned westward along the Connecticut coast. At the western end of Long Island they headed for the New Jersey coast. Three o'clock found them passing above Atlantic City heading for Delaware Bay. In the early morning hours just at sunrise, they stopped for an hour to feed and rest in the bay, then they took wing again and sped on. The homing instinct was growing stronger and stronger each hour in the mind of the old leader. Ordinarily he might have rested for another night in southern Delaware, but this was the land of duck hunters and the flock sensed its danger. They now mounted to a greater height than they had thus far maintained, perhaps half a mile, where they were well out of danger.
Chesapeake Bay was crossed and they ​glimpsed Washington without even knowing, for to the Flying Squadron all cities looked alike.
On down the Virginia coast the flying wedge swept. All through the forenoon they flew steadily. By noon they again stopped for an hour near the Carolina boundary to rest and feed. But it was only a brief stop. The winter quarters had not been reached yet, so the commodore still led them on. By the middle of the afternoon the flock wheeled at the mouth of one of the rivers that flows from North Carolina into the Atlantic Ocean and headed for a large island twenty miles to sea. Here, half an hour later, they came to their long journey's end.
The Flying Squadron was not spent, but tired. It could have taken to the air again and flown another thousand miles if necessary, but they had reached their winter quarters and so they rested, well content.
The Flying Squadron had covered something like two thousand miles in two and a half days, so why not rest?
​There in the warm islands of the Atlantic we will leave them until the first of April, when we may again hear the stirring slogan of the Canadian wild goose as the flying wedge again cleaves the spring sky on its way northward. And when it does pass, I, for one, if I am fortunate enough to hear it, will take off my hat and wish them all good luck on the northward flight.