The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
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“What is the date?” said the judge; “the year, I mean?”
Upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, “Eight years ago!” and then looking at the prisoner, added, “Why, he must have been a child.”
“As is too often the case,” replied the prosecuting counsel; “a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate.”
As the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of Furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. As the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips.
As soon as the evidence for the Crown was closed, Mr Trevor rose in our hero’s defence. He commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. “Look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, Byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to.”
“The prisoner’s age does not appear in the indictment,” observed the judge.
“May we ask his age, my lord?” demanded one of the jury.
“The prisoner may answer the question if he pleases,” replied the judge, “not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. Do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?”
“I have no objection, my lord,” replied Joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: “I was twenty-two last month.”
Mr Trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. Mr Trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed—“Now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, I should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion—I should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, I have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, Byres, did receive his death by the prisoner’s hand—I say, gentlemen, that allowing such to have been the case, for I deny that it is borne out by the evidence—that it must have been that, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad’s conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; I should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. That, gentlemen I believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?”
“You state such to be your opinion, Mr Trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?” asked the judge.
“My lord,” replied Mr Trevor, in a hesitating way, “the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him.”
“That I am aware of, but I wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner’s defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?”
“My lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever.”
“I should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course,” observed the judge, humanely.
Mr Trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. He was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero’s gun went off by accident, that Joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. It hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner’s counsel.
“Do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, Mr Trevor?” asked the judge.
“I never fired the gun, my lord,” replied Joey, in a calm steady voice.
“The prisoner has answered for me,” replied Mr Trevor, recovering himself; “we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him.”
Mr Trevor had felt, upon our hero’s assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. The jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of Guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. Our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping Mary were encircled round his neck.
“You don’t blame me, Mary?” said Joey.
“No, no,” sobbed Mary; “all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent.”
“I shall soon be far from here, Mary,” said Joey, sitting down on the bedstead; “but, thank Heaven! it is over.”
The form of Emma Phillips rose up in our hero’s imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands.
“Had it not been for her!” thought he. “What must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against.”
“Joey,” said Mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, “I must go now; you will see her now, will you not?”
“She never will see me! she despises me already,” replied Joey.
“Your mother despise her noble boy? Oh, never! How can you think so?”
“I was thinking of somebody else, Mary,” replied Joey. “Yes, I wish to see my mother.”
“Then I will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. I will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning.”
“Go, dear Mary, go, and God bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that I am quite—yes—quite happy and resigned. Go now, quickly.”
Mary left the cell, and Joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress.
Chapter Forty Eight
In which Everybody appears to be on the Move except our HeroMary set off with post-horses and arrived at the Hall before daylight. She remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them, stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. She took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day, so that Mr Austin should not read the account of the trial; this was the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. As soon as the usual hour had arrived, Mary presented herself to her mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. Mrs Austin desired Mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill; and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next, if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey being completed, she set off with Mary a little before dark on her way to Exeter.
But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with O’Donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs McShane.
“Murder’s the matter, my jewel,” returned the major; “but don’t interrupt me just now, for I’m breathless with confusion.”
McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of O’Donahue. As soon as O’Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.
“I didn’t like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart,” said McShane: “but what’s to be done now, O’Donahue? You see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?”
“Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly,” replied O’Donahue.
“Yes, and see him,” rejoined the major.
“Before I saw him, McShane, I would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, I may say, convictions, are. He would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps.”
“That’s good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?”
“As for my wife,” replied O’Donahue, “I may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her.”
“And so she will, the good creature, and that’s why I never can bear to deceive her about anything; but, in this instance, it is all for her own sake and therefore, suppose your wife says that you must go to town immediately, and that I had better accompany you, as it is upon a serious affair?”
“Be it so,” replied O’Donahue; “do you order the horses to be put to while I settle the affair with the females.”
This was soon done, and in half an hour the two gentlemen were on their way to Exeter; and as soon as they arrived, which was late in the evening, they established themselves at the principal hotel.
In the mean time Mrs Austin and Mary had also arrived and had taken up their quarters at another hotel where Mrs Austin would be less exposed. It was, however, too late to visit our hero when they arrived, and the next morning they proceeded to the gaol, much about the same hour that McShane and O’Donahue paid their visit to Mr Trevor.
Perhaps it will be better to leave to the imagination of our readers the scene which occurred between our hero and his mother, as we have had too many painful ones already in this latter portion of our narrative. The joy and grief of both at meeting again, only to part for ever—the strong conflict between duty and love—the lacerated feelings of the doting mother, the true and affectionate son, and the devoted servant and friend—may be better imagined than expressed; but their grief was raised to its climax when our hero, pressed in his mother’s arms as he narrated his adventures, confessed that another pang was added to his sufferings in parting with the object of his earliest affections.
“My poor, poor boy, this is indeed a bitter cup to drink!” exclaimed Mrs Austin. “May God, in His mercy, look down upon you, and console you!”
“He will, mother: and when far away—not before, not until you can safely do so, promise me to go to Emma, and tell her that I was not guilty. I can bear anything but that she should despise me.”
“I will, my child, I will; and I will love her dearly for your sake. Now go on with your history, my dear boy.”
We must leave our hero and his mother in conversation, and return to McShane and O’Donahue, who, as soon as they had breakfasted, repaired to the lodgings of Mr Trevor.
McShane, who was spokesman, soon entered upon the business which brought them there.
Mr Trevor stated to him the pertinacity of our hero, and the impossibility of saving him from condemnation, remarking, at the same time, that there was a mystery which he could not fathom.
McShane took upon himself to explain that mystery, having, as we have before observed, already been sufficiently clear-sighted to fathom it; and referred to O’Donahue to corroborate his opinion of the elder Rushbrook’s character.
“And this father of his is totally lost sight of; you say?” observed Mr Trevor.
“Altogether: I have never been able to trace him,” replied McShane.
“I was observing to his sister—” said Mr Trevor.
“He has no sister,” interrupted McShane.
“Still there is a young woman—and a very sweet young woman, too—who came to me in London, to engage me for his defence, who represented herself as his sister.”
“That is strange,” rejoined McShane, musing.
“But, however,” continued Mr Trevor, “as I was about to say, I was observing to this young woman how strange it was, that the first time I was legally employed for the name of Rushbrook, it should be a case which, in the opinion of the world, should produce the highest gratification, and that in the second in one which has ended in misery.”
“How do you mean?” inquired McShane.
“I put a person of the name of Rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. I asked our young friend’s sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no.”
“Young Rushbrook had no sister, I am sure,” interrupted McShane.
“I now recollect,” continued Mr Trevor, “that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army.”
“Then, depend on it, it’s Rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank,” replied McShane. “Where is he now?”
“Down in Dorsetshire,” said Mr Trevor. “He succeeded to the Austin estates, and has taken the name.”
“’Tis he—’tis he—I’ll swear to it,” cried McShane. “Phillaloo! Murder and Irish! the murder’s out now. No wonder this gentleman wouldn’t return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. I beg your pardon, Mr Trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as I have said, I have never seen this Mr Austin?”
“A fine, tall, soldierly man; I should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if I recollect right—”
“’Tis the man!” exclaimed O’Donahue.
“And his wife—did you see her?” asked McShane.
“No I did not,” replied Mr Trevor.
“Well, I have seen her very often,” rejoined McShane; “and a very nice creature she appears to be. I have never been in their house in my life. I called and left my card, that’s all; but I have met her several times; however, as you have not seen her, that proves nothing; and now, Mr Trevor, what do you think we should do?”
“I really am not prepared to advise; it is a case of great difficulty; I think, however, it would be advisable for you to call upon young Rushbrook, and see what you can obtain from him; after that, if you come here to-morrow morning, I will be better prepared to give you an answer.”
“I will do as you wish, sir; I will call upon my friend first, and my name’s not McShane if I don’t call upon his father afterwards.”
“Do nothing rashly, I beg,” replied Mr Trevor; “recollect you have come to me for advice, and I think you are bound at least to hear what I have to propose before you act.”
“That’s the truth, Mr Trevor; so now with many thanks, we will take our leave, and call upon you to-morrow.”
McShane and O’Donahue then proceeded to the gaol, and demanded permission to see our hero.
“There are two ladies with him, just now,” said the gaoler; “they have been there these three hours, so I suppose they will not be much longer.”
“We will wait, then,” replied O’Donahue.
In about a quarter of an hour Mrs Austin and Mary made their appearance; the former was closely veiled when she entered the gaoler’s parlour, in which O’Donahue and McShane were waiting. It had not been the intention of Mrs Austin to have gone into the parlour, but her agitation and distress had so overcome her that she could scarcely walk, and Mary had persuaded her as she came down to go in and take glass of water. The gentlemen rose when she came in; she immediately recognised McShane, and the sudden rush into her memory of what might be the issue of the meeting, was so overwhelming, that she dropped into a chair and fainted.
Mary ran for some water, and while she did so, McShane and O’Donahue went to the assistance of Mrs Austin. The veil was removed; and, of course, she was immediately recognised by McShane, who was now fully convinced that Austin and Rushbrook were one and the same person.
Upon the first signs of returning animation, McShane had the delicacy to withdraw, and making a sign to the gaoler, he and O’Donahue repaired to the cell of our hero. The greeting was warm on both sides. McShane was eager to enter upon the subject; he pointed out to Joey that he knew who committed the murder; indeed, plainly told him, that it was the deed of his father. But Joey, as before, would admit nothing; he was satisfied with their belief in his innocence, but, having made up his mind to suffer, could not be persuaded to reveal the truth, and McShane and O’Donahue quitted the cell, perceiving that, unless most decided steps were taken, without the knowledge of our hero, there was no chance of his being extricated from his melancholy fate. Struck with admiration at his courage and self-devotion towards an unworthy parent, they bade him farewell, simply promising to use all their endeavours in his behalf.
Chapter Forty Nine
The InterviewAccording to their arrangement, on the following morning, McShane and O’Donahue called upon Mr Trevor, and after half an hour’s consultation, it was at last decided that they should make an attempt to see Austin, and bide the issue of the interview, when they would again communicate with the lawyer, who was to return to town on the following day. They then set off as fast as four horses could convey them, and drove direct to the Hall, where they arrived about six o’clock in the evening.
It had so happened that Austin had the evening before inquired for his wife. The servant reported to him what Mary had told them, and Austin, who was in a fidgety humour, had sent for the coachman who had driven the carriage, to inquire whether Mrs Austin’s friend was very ill. The coachman stated that he had not driven over to the place in question, but to the nearest post-town, where Mrs Austin had taken a postchaise. This mystery and concealment on the part of his wife was not very agreeable to a man of Mr Austin’s temper; he was by turns indignant and alarmed; and after having passed a sleepless night, had been all the day anxiously waiting Mrs Austin’s return, when the sound of wheels was heard, and the carriage of McShane drove up to the door. On inquiry if Mr Austin was at home, the servants replied that they would ascertain; and Austin, who imagined that this unusual visit might be connected with his wife’s mysterious absence, desired the butler to show in the visitors. Austin started at the announcement of the names, but recovering himself; he remained standing near the table, drawn up to his full height.
“Mr Austin,” said O’Donahue, “we have ventured to call upon you upon an affair of some importance: as Mr Austin, we have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but we were formerly, if I mistake not, serving his majesty in the same regiment.”
“I do not pretend to deny, gentlemen, that you once knew me under different circumstances,” replied Austin, haughtily; “will you please to be seated, and then probably you will favour me with the cause of this visit.”
“May I inquire of you, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “if you may have happened to look over the newspapers within these few days?”
“No! and now I recollect—which is unusual—the papers have not been brought to me regularly.”
“They were probably withheld from you in consequence of the intelligence they would have conveyed to you.”
“May I ask what that intelligence may be?” inquired Austin, surprised.
“The trial, conviction, and sentence to transportation for life of one Joseph Rushbrook, for the murder of a man of the name of Byres,” replied McShane; “Mr Austin, you are of course aware that he is your son.”
“You have, of course, seen the party, and he has made that statement to you?” replied Mr Austin.
“We have seen the party, but he has not made that statement,” replied O’Donahue; “but do you pretend to deny it?”
“I am not aware upon what grounds you have thought proper to come here to interrogate me,” replied Austin. “Supposing that I had a son, and that son has as you say been guilty of the deed, it certainly is no concern of yours.”
“First, with your leave, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “let me prove that he is your son. You were living at Grassford, where the murder was committed; your son ran away in consequence, and fell into the hands of Captain (now General) O’Donahue; from him your son was made over to me, and I adopted him; but having been recognised when at school, by Furness, the schoolmaster of the village, he absconded to avoid being apprehended; and I have never seen him from that time till yesterday morning, when I called upon him, and had an interview as soon as his mother, Mrs Austin, had quitted the cell in Exeter gaol, where he is at present confined.”
Austin started—here was the cause of Mrs Austin’s absence explained; neither could he any longer refuse to admit that Joey was his son. After a silence of a minute, he replied—
“I have to thank you much for your kindness to my poor boy, Major McShane; and truly sorry am I that he is in such a dilemma. Now that I am acquainted with it, I shall do all in my power. There are other Rushbrooks, gentlemen, and you cannot be surprised at my not immediately admitting that such a disgrace had occurred to my own family. Of Mrs Austin’s having been with him I assure you I had not any idea; her having gone there puts it beyond a doubt, although it has been carefully concealed from me till this moment.”
It must not be supposed that, because Austin replied so calmly to Major McShane, he was calm within. On the contrary, from the very first of the interview he had been in a state of extreme excitement, and the struggle to command his feelings was terrible; indeed, it was now so painfully expressed in his countenance, that O’Donahue said—
“Perhaps, Mr Austin, you will allow me to ring for a little water?”
“No, sir, thank you,” replied Austin, gasping for breath.
“Since you have admitted that Joseph Rushbrook is your son, Mr Austin,” continued McShane, “your own flesh and blood, may I inquire of you what you intend to do in his behalf? Do you intend to allow the law to take its course, and your son to be banished for life?”
“What can I do, gentlemen? He has been tried and condemned: of course if any exertion on my part can avail—but I fear that there is no chance of that.”
“Mr Austin, if he were guilty I should not have interfered; but, in my opinion, he is innocent; do you not think so?”
“I do not believe, sir, that he ever would have done such a deed; but that avails nothing, he is condemned.”
“I grant it, unless the real murderer of the pedlar could be brought forward.”
“Y–e–s,” replied Austin, trembling.
“Shall I denounce him, Mr Austin?”
“Do you know him?” replied Austin, starting on his feet.
“Yes, Rushbrook,” replied McShane, in a voice of thunder, “I do know him,—’tis yourself!”
Austin could bear up no longer, he fell down on the floor as if he had been shot. O’Donahue and McShane went to his assistance; they raised him up, but he was insensible; they then rang the bell for assistance, the servant came in, medical advice was sent for, and McShane and O’Donahue, perceiving there was no chance of prosecuting their intentions, in Mr Austin’s present state, quitted the Hall just as the chaise with Mrs Austin and Mary drove up to the door.