The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
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“Sir, to your’s; I honour your sentiments. By the powers! but you’re right, Mr —, I beg your pardon—but I don’t catch your name exactly.”
“Furness, sir, at your service. Yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which I presided over, I may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job—yes, sir—of a charity; I could not consent to such deeds, and I resigned.”
“And you have been in London ever since?”
“No, sir; I repaired to the small village of Grassford, where I set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and I am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, I have an idea of going out to New South Wales as a preceptor. I understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter.”
“I should think so,” replied McShane; “and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn.”
“I speak of the junior branches—the scions or offsets, I may say—born in the colony, and who I trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary.”
“Well, I wish you luck, sir,” replied McShane; “you must oblige me by taking another glass, for I never shall be able to finish this decanter myself.”
“I gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir.”
As the reader is well aware that Furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative.
“What was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?” inquired McShane.
“The village of Grassford.”
“There is something I recollect about that village; let me see—something that I read in the newspapers. I remember now—it was the murder of a pedlar.”
“Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair—and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded.”
“Indeed! What was his name?”
“Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher—a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority—‘Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?”
“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” replied McShane. “So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?”
“The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where.”
“Indeed! are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir; for I was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success.”
“What did the people say thereabouts? Was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?”
“I do not think there was. He gave evidence at the inquest, and so did I, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. I beg your pardon, sir—you say you are acquainted with Major McShane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?”
“I really cannot positively say,” replied McShane; “but this is not holiday-time. Come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. You must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as I am, I must treat myself and you too. I wish I knew where I could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low.”
Furness was now more than half drunk. “Well, sir,” said he; “I have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction.”
“I thought as much,” muttered McShane; “the infernal scoundrel! I suspect that you will find him where you are going to, Mr Furbish, he’s got that far by this time.”
“Between you and I, I think not, sir. My name is Furness, sir—I beg your pardon—not Furbish.”
“Why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?”
“The wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others,” replied Furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly.
“That’s truth, sir. Help yourself; you drink nothing. Excuse me one minute; I’ll be back directly.”
McShane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon Furness. As he expected, he found, on his return, that Furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him.
The conversation was renewed, and McShane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of Furness, who informed him that he had recognised the protégé of Major McShane to be the identical Joseph Rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. He concluded by observing to McShane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy’s capture. It was lucky for Furness that McShane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. The major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish Furness. At last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. Furness consented, and reeled out of the box; McShane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give Furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. As soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, McShane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. He then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised Furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. The sergeant told long stories, clapped Furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. “Say ‘yes,’ to please him,” said McShane in his ear. Furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for Portsmouth. All remonstrances were unavailing; McShane had feed (paid a fee to) the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let Furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate.
Chapter Twenty Six
In which our Hero again falls in with an Old AcquaintanceFor nearly two years Joey had filled his situation as chancellor of the exchequer to Mrs Chopper. He certainly did not feel himself always in the humour or the disposition for business, especially during the hard winter months, when, seated almost immovably in the boat during the best portion of the day, he would find his fingers so completely dead, that he could not hold his pen. But there is no situation, under any of the powers that be, that has not some drawback. People may say that a sinecure is one that has not its disadvantages; but such is not the case—there is the disgrace of holding it. At all events, Joey’s place was no sinecure, for he was up early, and was employed the whole of the day.
Nancy, the young woman we have introduced to our readers, had contracted a great regard for our hero, ever since his offering her his money; and Joey was equally partial to her, for she possessed a warm heart and much good feeling, she would very often run upstairs into Mrs Chopper’s room, to talk with the old lady and to see Joey, and would then take out her thimble and needle, examine his clothes, and make the necessary repairs.
“I saw you walking with little Emma Phillips, Peter,” said Nancy: “where did you come to know her?”
“I met her in the road the day that I came down to Gravesend.”
“Well, I’m sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?”
“No; but I was unhappy, and she was very kind to me.”
“She’s a very sweet child, or rather, I can only say that she was, when I knew her?”
“When did you know her?”
“Four or five years ago. I lived for a short time with Mrs Phillips; that was when I was a good girl.”
“Yes, indeed, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.
“Why ain’t you good, now, Nancy?” replied Joey.
“Because—” said Nancy.
“Because why?”
“Because I am not good,” replied the girl; “and now, Peter, don’t ask any more questions, or you’ll make me cry. Heigho! I think crying very pleasant now and then; one’s heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. Peter, where are your father and mother?”
“I don’t know; I left them at home.”
“You left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?”
“No.”
“But why not? I am sure they have brought you up well. They must be very good people—are they not?”
Joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had passed?
“You don’t answer me, Peter; don’t you love your father and mother dearly?”
“Yes, indeed I do; but I must not write to them.”
“Well, I must say there is something about Peter and his parents which I cannot understand, and which I have often tried to make him tell, and he will not,” said Mrs Chopper. “Poaching ain’t such a great crime, especially in a boy. I can’t see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, I hope, Peter, you have told me the truth?”
“I have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if I gave evidence against him, which I must do, if put to my oath. I’ve told you all I can tell; I must not tell of father, must I?”
“No, no, child; I dare say you are right,” replied Mrs Chopper.
“Now, I don’t ask you to tell me, Peter,” said Nancy, “for I can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that’s the reason why you keep out of the way. Ain’t I right?”
“You are not far wrong,” replied Joey; “but I will not say a word more upon it.”
“And I won’t ask you, my little Peter; there—that’s done—and now I shall have a peep out of the window, for it’s very close here, Mrs Chopper.”
Nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the passers-by. “Mercy on us! here’s three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed,” cried she. “Who can it be? he’s a sailor. Why, I do believe it’s Sam Oxenham, that belongs to the Thomas and Mary of Sunderland. Poor fellow! Yes, it is him.”
Joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of Nancy.
“What soldiers are those?” inquired he.
“They’re not soldiers, after all,” replied Nancy; “they are jollies—a sergeant and two privates.”
“Jollies! what are they?”
“Why, marines, to be sure.”
Joey continued looking at them until they passed under the window, when Nancy, who had a great disgust at anything like arbitrary power, could not refrain from speaking.
“I say, master sergeant, you’re a nice brave fellow, with your two jollies. D’ye think the young man will kill you all three, that you must put the darbies on so tight?”
At this appeal, the sergeant and privates looked up at the window, and laughed when they saw such a pretty girl as Nancy. The eyes of one of the privates were, however, soon fixed on our hero’s face, and deeply scrutinising it, when Joey looked at him. As soon as Joey recognised him, he drew back from the window, pale as death, the private still remaining staring at the window.
“Why, what’s the matter, Peter?” said Nancy; “what makes you look so pale? do you know that man?”
“Yes,” replied Joey, drawing his breath, “and he knows me, I’m afraid.”
“Why do you fear?” replied Nancy.
“See if he’s gone,” said Joey.
“Yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that’s to see me.”
“Why, Peter, what harm can that marine do you?” inquired Mrs Chopper.
“A great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?” continued Joey, with the tears running down his cheeks.
“Give me my bonnet, Peter. I’ll soon find out what he is after,” said Nancy, leaving the window. She threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs.
Mrs Chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain—he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of Furness (for it was he who had recognised Joey) coming up the stairs.
“Mrs Chopper,” at last said Joey, “I must leave you, I’m afraid; I was obliged to leave my former friends on this man’s account.”
“Leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me—how could I get on without you?”
“If I don’t leave you myself, I shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed I have not done wrong—don’t think that I have.”
“I’m sure of it, child; you’ve only to say so, and I’ll believe you; but why should he care about you?”
“He lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at—”
“At what, boy?”
“At the time that I ran away from home; he proved that I had the gun and bag which were found.”
“Well, and suppose you had; what then?”
“Mrs Chopper, there was a reward offered, and he wants to get the money.”
“Oh, I see now—a reward offered; then it must be as Nancy said, there was blood shed,” and Mrs Chopper put her apron up to her eyes.
Joey made no answer. After a few minutes’ silence he rose, and went to his room where he slept, and put his clothes up in a bundle. Having so done, he sat down on the side of his bed and reflected what was the course he ought to pursue.
Our hero was now sixteen, and much increased in stature; he was no longer a child, although, in heart, almost as innocent. His thoughts wandered—he yearned to see his father and mother, and reflected whether he might not venture back to the village, and meet them by stealth; he thought of the McShanes, and imagined that he might in the same way return to them; then little Emma Phillips rose in his imagination, and his fear that he should never see her again; Captain O’Donahue was at last brought to his recollection, and he longed to be once more with him in Russia; and, lastly, he reviewed the happy and contented life he had lately led with his good friend Mrs Chopper, and how sorry he should be to part with her. After a time he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in the pillow; and, overcome with the excess of his feelings, he at last fell asleep.
In the mean time Nancy had followed the marines up the street, and saw them enter, with their prisoner, into a small public-house, where she was well known; she followed them, spoke a few kind words to the seaman who had been apprehended, and with whom she was acquainted, and then sat down by Furness to attract his attention.
Furness had certainly much improved in his appearance since he had (much against his will) been serving his Majesty. Being a tall man, he had, by drilling, become perfectly erect, and the punishment awarded to drunkenness, as well as the difficulty of procuring liquor, had kept him from his former intemperance, and his health had in consequence improved. He had been more than once brought up to the gangway upon his first embarkation, but latterly had conducted himself properly, and was in expectation of being made a corporal, for which situation his education certainly qualified him. On the whole, he was now a fine-looking marine, although just as unprincipled a scoundrel as ever.
“Well, my pretty lass, didn’t I see you looking out of a window just now?”
“To be sure you did, and you might have heard me too,” replied Nancy; “and when I saw such a handsome fellow as you, didn’t I put on my bonnet in a hurry, and come after you? What ship do you belong to?”
“The Mars, at the Nore.”
“Well, I should like to go on board of a man-of-war. Will you take me?”
“To be sure I will; come, have a drink of beer.”
“Here’s to the jollies,” said Nancy, putting the pewter pot to her lips. “When do you go on board again?”
“Not till to-morrow; we’ve caught our bird, and now we’ll amuse ourselves a little. Do you belong to this place?”
“Yes, bred and born here; but we hardly ever see a man-of-war; they stay at the Nore, or go higher up.”
Nancy did all she could to make Furness believe she had taken a fancy to him, and knew too well how to succeed. Before an hour had passed, Furness had, as he thought, made every arrangement with her, and congratulated himself on his good fortune. In the mean time the beer and brandy went round; even the unfortunate captive was persuaded to drink with them, and drown reflection. At last, Furness said to Nancy, “Who was that lad that was looking out of the window with you? Was it your brother?”
“My brother! bless you, no. You mean that scamp, Peter, who goes in the bumboat with old Mother Chopper.”
“Does he?—well, I have either seen him before, or some one like him.”
“He’s not of our town,” replied Nancy; “he came here about two years ago, nobody knows where from, and has been with Mrs Chopper ever since.”
“Two years ago,” muttered Furness, “that’s just the time. Come, girl, take some more beer.”
Nancy drank a little, and put down the pot.
“Where does Mrs Chopper live?” inquired Furness.
“Where you saw me looking out of the window,” replied Nancy.
“And the boy lives with her? I will call upon Mrs Chopper by-and-bye.”
“Yes, to be sure he does; but why are you talking so about the boy? Why don’t you talk to me, and tell me what a pretty girl I am, for I like to be told that.”
Furness and his comrades continued the carouse, and were getting fast into a state of intoxication; the sergeant only was prudent; but Furness could not let pass this opportunity of indulging without fear of punishment. He became more loving towards Nancy as he became more tipsy; when Nancy, who cajoled him to the utmost of her power, again mentioned our hero; and then it was that Furness, who, when inebriated, could never hold a secret, first told her there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and that if she would remain with him they would spend the money together. To this Nancy immediately consented, and offered to assist him as much as she could, as she had the entrance into Mrs Chopper’s house, and knew where the lad slept. But Nancy was determined to gain more from Furness, and as he was now pretty far gone, she proposed that they should take a walk out, for it was a beautiful evening. Furness gladly consented. Nancy again explained to him how she should manage to get Joey into her power, and appeared quite delighted at the idea of there being a reward, which they were to obtain; and finding that Furness was completely deceived, and that the fresh air had increased his inebriety, she then persuaded him to confide to her all the circumstances connected with the reward offered for our hero’s apprehension. She then learned what had occurred at the inquest—Joey’s escape—his being again discovered by Furness—and his second escape from the school, to which he had been put by the McShanes.
“And his father and mother, where are they? When I think of them I must say that I do not much like to assist in taking up the boy. Poor people, how they will suffer when they hear of it? Really I don’t know what to say,” continued Nancy, biting the tip of her finger, as if hesitating.
“Don’t let them stop you,” said Furness; “they will not be likely even to hear of it; they left the village before me, and no one knows where they are gone. I tried to find out myself, but could not. It’s very clear that they are gone to America.”
“Indeed!” said Nancy, who had put the questions because she wished to give Joey some information relative to his parents; “gone to America, do you say?”
“Yes, I am inclined to think so, for I lost all trace of them.”
“Well, then,” replied Nancy, “that scruple of mine is got over.”
She then pointed out to Furness the propriety of waiting an hour or two, till people were in bed, that there might be no chance of a rescue; and they returned to the public-house. Furness took another glass of ale, and then fell fast asleep on the bench, with his head over the table.
“So,” thought Nancy, as she left the public-house, “the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost.”
Nancy hastened back to Mrs Chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books.
“O, Nancy, is that you? I was just sighing over you, here’s the things that were ordered for your wedding. Poor girl! I fear you have not often been to church since.”
Nancy was silent for a short time. “I’m sick of my life and sick of myself, Mrs Chopper: but what can I do?—a wretch like me! I wish I could run away, as poor Peter must directly, and go to where I never was known; I should be so happy.”
“Peter must go, do you say, Nancy? Is that certain?”
“Most certain, Mrs Chopper, and he must be off directly I have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him.”
“But tell me, Nancy, has Peter been guilty?”
“I believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and Peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. Where is he now?”
“Asleep, fast asleep: I didn’t like to wake him, poor fellow!”
“Then he must be innocent, Mrs Chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. But what will he do—he has no money?”
“He has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it,” replied Mrs Chopper. “What shall I do without him? I can’t bear to part with him.”
“But you must, Mrs Chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. I wish I was going too,” continued Nancy, bursting into tears.
“Go with him, Nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor Peter,” said Mrs Chopper, whimpering; “go, my child, go, and lead a good life. I should better part with him, if I thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place.”
“Will you let me go with him, Mrs Chopper—will you, indeed?” cried Nancy, falling on her knees. “Oh! I will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! Give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you.”
“That you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for I felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. You both shall go. Poor Peter! I wish I were young enough, I would go with you; but I can’t. How I shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. Here Nancy, take the money; take all I have in the house:” and Mrs Chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into Nancy’s hand as she was kneeling before her. Nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. “Come, come, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “you mustn’t take on so, my poor girl. Recollect poor Peter; there’s no time to lose.”
“That is true,” replied Nancy, rising up. “Mrs Chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. May the God of mercy bless you! and, as soon as I dare, night and morning will I pray for you.”
Mrs Chopper went into Joey’s room with the candle in her hand, followed by Nancy. “See, how sound he sleeps!” said the old woman; “he is not guilty. Peter! Peter! come get up, child.”
Joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself.
“Peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, Nancy says.”
“I was sure of it,” replied Joey: “I am very, very sorry to leave you, Mrs Chopper. Pray think well of me, for, indeed, I have done nothing wrong.”