The river port of Yongsan in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection

Central Seoul's busy Yongsan District, was one of the busiest ports on the Han River, back in the late 1880s when it was south of the capital. A large bluff dominated the scene, "mantled to the very top" with the village's crude homes and the "red brick Catholic Seminary." At the foot of the village lay the steamship landing, where one or two diminutive riverboats, their engines belching black smoke, plied their trade to and from the seaport of Jemulpo (modern-day Incheon). For much of the year, the port bustled with activity, ruled by farmers, merchants and sailors. However, in winter, when the river froze solid, the Korean fishing boats, ferries and transports were beached and the steamships stayed in Jemulpo seeking dubious sanctuary from the elements. That's when the region became the domain of Korean fishermen and Western hunters.

One of these Western hunters was Dalzell A. Bunker, a young American teacher who had arrived in Korea in the summer of 1886. On a late autumn afternoon in 1887, armed with his shotgun and accompanied by his kisu (Korean guard) carrying Bunker's repeating rifle, they walked the 5 kilometers to Yongsan — likely without arousing much attention from the villagers, who had long since grown jaded to the appearance of a Westerner.

They made their way along the river to "a cluster of houses where lumber was cut and timbers prepared" and near "a clump of splendid, great beech trees." Here lay a well-known hunting ground located at a bend in the river that remained ice-free even in the coldest winters, when the ice elsewhere was more than 20 cm thick. It was believed that warm springs in the river created this oasis of open water, where waterfowl — such as ducks and swans — fed throughout the winter. (While the river has changed over the past century, this spot was located near the present northern end of the Hangang Railroad Bridge).

The Han River is frozen over in January 2021. Robert Neff Collection

Bunker had intended to hunt ducks, but "the day turned out to be too cold for them" and none could be seen. Instead, about 25 swans swam gracefully in the little ice-free stretch — seemingly oblivious their surroundings. But Bunker knew better.

"Swans," he explained, "are wary birds and their resting place is chosen with a view to having on all sides a stretch of water or level land so that they may easily note the approach of an enemy."

Near one of the Korean houses, Bunker donned his long white Korean coat and exchanged his shotgun for the rifle — ensuring its magazine was full and ready for action. Somewhat amusingly, he advised that Western hunters had no chance of approaching their prey while wearing dark Western clothing: "Korean game spots a foreign suit of clothes as readily as a foreigner spots a Korean suit."

He then "sauntered in a careless manner down to the frozen river where Koreans were walking about." At first, the swans were unaware of his presence, but one grew suspicious and the entire flock began flapping their wings in preparation for flight. Bunker dropped to one knee and fired a quick shot, only to discover it fell far short. Adjusting his rifle sight to 350 yards, he emptied the magazine.

When the smoke cleared, he saw one bird still struggling in the water. Another swan flew over his head toward Mount Nam, while the rest of the flock disappeared westward towards Jemulpo. A group of boys ran up and informed him that the lone swan which had flown overhead had fallen into a nearby field. Convinced it was dead, Bunker turned his attention to the swan in the water and fired several shots at it. The shots proved ineffective and "seemed to give rather than take life, inasmuch as they helped the bird on to the ice." Several decades later, Bunker recalled the last sight he had of the bird was "it making for [Jemulpo] in a half-walking, half-flying manner."

At least he had one bird. He and the kisu went to the field to look for the dead swan but found nothing there. Then, in the distance, they spotted two boys carrying the bird into the village. "I was in no way disturbed by this," Bunker recalled. "I thought it was fine of the boys to come to my help in such a kindly manner."

When he reached the outskirts of the village, neither the boys nor the swan were anywhere to be seen. Instead, he found three elderly men, sitting on the retaining wall of a well, quietly smoking their meter-long pipes. With his limited Korean, Bunker asked the gentlemen where the boys had gone with his swan, but the men merely looked at him with disinterest and continued to smoke.

Bunker was convinced the men knew exactly where the boys had gone, and that their feigned indifference would not be tolerated. He confessed that he wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake the answers out of them, but they were elderly and he was young. Instead he "curbed his wrath" by beseeching and scolding them until he and his Korean vocabulary were exhausted. The men remained unmoved — gazing off into space, "complacently puffing on their pipes."

Exasperated, Bunker instructed his kisu to get the answers. The man "practically left nothing undone in his efforts to bring [the] old men to their senses, except to take them by the throat and give them a shaking." He stomped around them, shook his fists, glared and expressed his contempt for their insolence, but they remained infuriatingly unmoved — nonchalantly blowing out their smoke as if Bunker and the kisu were nothing more than annoying children.

Bunker was determined not to be deprived of his swan by the obstinance of three "old curmudgeons." In a decidedly un-Christian-like manner, he resolved to "bluff" them through the threat of violence.

Bunker was convinced the men knew no other gun "except their own ancient weapon that was fired from the hip, and the powder in the flash-pan was ignited by a gravity contrivance that carried a lighted fuse to it." It was unreliable and painfully slow to reload. He would show them what modern Western firepower looked like.

Carefully, he loaded his double-barreled shotgun — deliberately inserting each shell into the barrels — and handed it to his kisu. The men remained unfazed. Then, standing directly in front of them, Bunker took up his rifle and "as ostentatiously as possible drew cartridge after cartridge from [his] belt and fed them into the chamber of the gun."

Now, he definitely had their attention. The three curmudgeons removed their pipes from their mouths and began glancing around in a "somewhat wild-eyed manner" — their eyes frequently darting toward an alley where Bunker suspected the boys had disappeared.

With the final cartridge loaded into the rifle, and his kisu standing at his side, Bunker fixed them with a cold glare and, in a "fearsome voice," demanded to know where his swan was.

With surprising agility, the old men jumped to their feet and beckoned Bunker to follow. With "a giddy pace," they hurried through the alley. Bunker had no difficulty in keeping up, but his kisu struggled and lagged behind, "half paralyzed with laughter."

At last, the old men led him to a backyard where Bunker found the swan — very much alive — "with its wings tied up over its back." Much to the mighty hunter's chagrin, there was no sign of any bullet wound. "It had been rendered daft evidently by the screech of a nearby bullet and in its dazed condition had flown away from its companions and fallen in the field."

With his bird in hand, Bunker and his kisu returned to Seoul leaving the three elders in peace and the two boys unpunished. However, as we shall see in the next article, Bunker was not the only American teacher to encounter troubles while hunting swans in Yongsan.

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