Swan hunt at Yongsan gone afoul: Part 2

By Robert Neff

In mid-February 1889, two Presbyterian missionaries — 31-year-old John W. Heron, who served as physician for the foreign community as well as the palace, and 28-year-old Daniel L. Gifford — decided to take a short excursion to the Han River to relax. Heron was especially in need of a respite; he spent long hours in the government hospital and was on constant call for medical concerns in the palace and, to make matters worse, his wife was confined to her bed.

The two men quickly gathered up their gear. Heron, an avid hunter, brought his shotgun, eager for some bird hunting. Gifford, a decidedly poor hunter and reluctant to embarrass himself in front of his companion or the ducks, opted instead to bring his ice skates.

Mounted on two white horses — one owned by the doctor and the other provided to the doctor by the king’s stables — and accompanied by Heron’s black hunting dog and two servants to carry their goods, they made their way through the streets of Seoul. The city was quite “resplendent with little children adorned like Joseph of old in ‘coats of many colors,’” while elderly Korean men, “clad in spotless, white, new garments, went about visiting their friends with oriental effusiveness of respect” for it was the period of the Lunar New Year celebrations.”

Gifford described the ride as pleasant, but upon reaching the river, he found the ice too fragile for skating. With hunting still in mind, the two men eventually arrived at the same popular hunting ground that Dalzell A. Bunker, the American teacher, had visited in late November 1887. There, along the riverbank, was a row of large Korean riverboats, grounded and ringed by a “shell of thin ice.” Beyond the ice, several flocks of swans swam enticingly in a stretch of open water.

Excited by the sight, Heron quickly shed his Western-style overcoat and donned a white Korean garment — perhaps inspired by Bunker’s earlier experience. He then “craftily sauntered down to the water’s edge,” pretending to examine the boats as if he were one of the villagers. But the swans were not fooled and “deftly glided” out of gun range. However, the good doctor was not one to give up. Heron went to one of the large boats and attempted to manhandle it into the water but the boat was too heavy, and with the tide out, the water level was too low for him to succeed.

Fortunately — or, unfortunately, depending on your view — Heron spied a skiff and promptly enlisted two “half-grown boys” (brothers) to serve as his boatmen. Gifford described the vessel as being “made of pine boards clumsily tacked together. We [had] no business to enter it. But the fever of the hunt [was] upon us, and we [were] not disposed to be critical.”

As they pushed off, leaving the servants and horses behind, Heron’s “handsome black dog,” unwilling to be left behind, leapt into the river. However, their frantic gesticulations and splashing soon persuaded the dog to return to the safety of the shore.

With the two boys standing erect, swaying to and fro in the manner the Korean boatmen used to scull their boats, Heron’s hunting party rapidly approached the swans. However, just before the doctor could get a good shot, the swans took flight, “their ponderous wings pounding the water” as they flew away from the frustrated hunter. Undaunted, the doctor compelled his boatmen toward another flock of great birds, only to have them take flight before he could shoot. This happened again and again.

As the sky darkened, the two Westerners realized that it was almost time for the city gates to close. Once that happened, they would not open again until the morning — at least they weren’t supposed to. According to the gossip whispered in the streets, “the occasional jingle of a string of cash operated like magic to swinging open the portals.”

The two Americans did not have much money with them, nor would they have willingly parted with it in an illegal manner. They were not morally opposed to climbing the wall (despite it being highly illegal and punishable by death), but they were not eager to climb the city wall after dark and risk falling.

A long expanse of ice separated them from their horses and servants on shore, forcing the Americans to row back to their starting point. Dissatisfied with the boys’ effort, the two men grabbed the oars and tried rowing in the “foreign fashion,” but only succeeded in wrenching the boat’s planks apart. Water began to seep in through the widening seams. The boys, realizing the boat was in peril, took the oars away from the Americans and began rowing for dear life. But the water flooded in even faster than before. With every ounce of strength they possessed, the boys drove the boat toward the ice, desperately trying to reach shore as the seams split open and the water rose higher and higher.

Gifford later recalled:

“Then, in a moment I can never forget, I see the prow pause a moment, then sink out of sight under the black, cold water. Neither of us could swim. In a moment, down we all went. My thought as I sank was to grasp at the boat … the first time I came to the surface. It all happened in less time than suffices for the telling.”

Fortunately for them, they were saved by the river boatmen’s greatest nemesis — an ever-shifting sandbar. Gifford found himself in freezing water up to his waist, Heron — being shorter — was submerged up to his armpits, while only the heads of the boys were visible. Lady Luck was clearly smiling upon them, for all around them was much deeper water — water in which they would surely have drowned, joining the ranks of the mul gwishin (water ghosts). They were close to ice thick enough to support their weight.

Heron, still clutching his gun, was the first to clamber onto the icy sanctuary, but the boys, being much smaller, struggled in vain to leap onto the ice. “They were in my way,” Gifford later declared, “so I reached down till I could grasp their baggy [trousers] and heaved them [up] like logs, and presently we were all upon the ice.”

A quick examination of the ice field revealed that their position was very precarious, as it was “shell ice, with black air holes.” Gifford yelled to the servants on shore to hurry and get help. He admitted that he and Heron were frightened and tried to put on a brave front, but the boys were terrified. One boy was so afraid that he was “dancing about in a way that [threatened] to break the ice.” Despite their expostulations, the boy’s frantic movements continued. Finally, Heron, in a rather un-Christian-like manner, pointed his empty gun at the boy and ordered him to stop moving. The boy stopped.

From the distant shore, the stranded hunters could hear the faint murmur of the village and the sound of chopping as the villagers struggled to free one of their boats. It was a surreal scene for the hunters. Heron, in white Korean coat, sat calmly upon the ice, his gun resting across his lap. One boy stood, while the other sat, and Gifford knelt — each trying to keep warm in their wet clothing. Night had completely fallen and the full moon, partially obscured by clouds, cast a hazy light over the river. According to Gifford, “Not a ripple [stirred] the water, and a deep quiet rested upon the river…the mental tension [was] extreme.”

For over an hour, they remained as motionless as possible, afraid to move lest they break the ice. It was only then that they realized the tide was coming in and the water level in the river had risen several inches. Worse yet, the section of ice they were on had broken away from the main sheet and was slowing spinning, drifting down the river. All knew that if their “frail raft” struck something, it would break apart or sink, and they would all “sink into the black, deep water.”

Just as they had all but given up hope, they spotted a boat with five rescuers through the dim moonlight. A long oar was extended to the stranded hunters, and one by one — starting with the boys — they were pulled to safety aboard.

Once ashore, the men and the boys stripped off their clothing “under the dim moon-light in an apartment walled with living heads” and were given baggy Korean clothing — complete with straw sandals. Heron, worried about his invalid wife, could not wait for the others. He immediately jumped on his horse and raced for the city gates, while Gifford, the servants, the horse and the dog — after gathering their goods — followed at a slower pace. “Formal thanks to [their] benefactors [were] reserved for a later time and [in] a form more substantial than words.”

When Gifford and his party arrived at the city gates, they found them, as expected, closed. They would not open again until morning. With no other choice, Gifford had to “clamber up the twenty feet of sheer, stone wall.” The servants and the horse would have to stay in a nearby inn. Fortunately, Heron had sent a servant to help him climb the wall. At a secret (or rather, an open-secret) and secluded spot, the two men climbed side by side, with the more experienced Korean guide gently directing his unstable American companion’s hands to the various handholds and projections. After some exertion and a great deal of fear, they managed to scale the wall and, soon after, were safely at home.

In the days that followed, both men reveled in their adventure. The servants who had accompanied them confided that the two missionaries were like “men who had come back from the dead.” The two teenage brothers soon paid a visit to the missionaries and informed them that their mother, rather than offering thanks to the deities she knew, had given them a sound trouncing. Gifford admitted he wasn’t sure why the mother had punished the boys, but with the large amount of “Korean sweetmeats” they fed the boys and the “proper amount of cash” placed into their hands, he was convinced the boys were consoled for the trouncing they had received.

Swan hunting at Yongsan wasn’t always successful but it was always an adventure worth writing about.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.