The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

Joey walked by his new acquaintance a few yards, when the lad turned to him, “I say, did your master whop you much?”

“No,” replied Joey.

“Well, then, that’s more than I can say of mine, for he was at it all day. Hold out your right hand, now your left,” continued he, mimicking; “my eyes! how it used to sting. I don’t think I should mind it much now, continued the lad, turning up his hand; it’s a little harder than it was then. Here’s the shop, come in; if you haven’t no money I’ll give you a breakfast.”

The lad took his seat on one side of a narrow table, Joey on the other, and his new acquaintance called for two pints of tea, a twopenny loaf, and two penny bits of cheese. The loaf was divided between them, and with their portion of cheese and pint of tea each they made a good breakfast. As soon as it was over, the young sailor said to Joey, “Now, what are you going arter; do you mean to ship?”

“I want employment,” replied Joey; “and I don’t much care what it is.”

“Well, then, look you; I ran away from my friends and went to sea, and do you know I’ve only repented of it once, and that’s ever since. Better do anything than go to sea—winter coming on and all; besides, you don’t look strong enough; you don’t know what it is to be coasting in winter time; thrashed up to furl the top-gallant sail when it is so dark you can’t see your way, and so cold that you can’t feel your fingers, holding on for your life, and feeling as if life, after all, was not worth caring for; cold and misery aloft, kicks and thumps below. Don’t you go to sea; if you do, after what I’ve told you, why then you’re a greater fool than you look to be.”

“I don’t want to be a sailor,” replied Joey, “but I must do something to get my living. You are very kind: will you tell me what to do?”

“Why, do you know, when I saw you come up to me, when I was looking at the pictures, in your frock and trousers, you put me in mind, because you are so much like him, of a poor little boy who was drowned the other day alongside of an India ship; that’s why I stared, for I thought you were he, at first.”

“How was he drowned, poor fellow?” responded Joey.

“Why, you see, his aunt is a good old soul, who keeps a bumboat, and goes off to the shipping.”

“What’s a bumboat?”

“A boat full of soft tommy, soldiers, pipes, and backey, rotten apples, stale pies, needles and threads, and a hundred other things; besides a fat old woman sitting in the stern sheets.”

Joey stared; he did not know that “soft tommy” meant loaves of bread, or that “soldiers” was the term for red-herrings. He only thought that the boat must be very full.

“Now, you see that little Peter was her right-hand man, for she can’t read and write. Can you? but of course you can.”

“Yes, I can,” replied Joey.

“Well, little Peter was holding on by the painter against a hard sea, but his strength was not equal to it, and so when a swell took the boat he was pulled right overboard, and he was drowned.”

“Was the painter drowned too?” inquired Joey.

“Ha! ha! that’s capital; why, the painter is a rope. Now, the old woman has been dreadfully put out, and does nothing but cry about little Peter, and not being able to keep her accounts. Now, you look very like him, and I think it very likely the old woman would take you in his place, if I went and talked her over; that’s better than going to sea, for at all events you sleep dry and sound on shore every night, even if you do have a wet jacket sometimes. What d’ye think?”

“I think you are very kind; and I should be glad to take the place.”

“Well, she’s a good old soul, and has a warm heart, and trusts them who have no money; too much, I’m afraid, for she loses a great deal. So now I’ll go and speak to her, for she’ll be alongside of us when I go on board; and where shall I find you when I come on shore in the evening?”

“Wherever you say, I will be.”

“Well, then, meet me here at nine o’clock; that will make all certain. Come, I must be off now. I’ll pay for the breakfast.”

“I have money, I thank you,” replied Joey.

“Then keep it, for it’s more than I can do; and what’s your name?”

“Joey.”

“Well then, Joey, my hearty, if I get you this berth, when we come in, and I am short, you must let me go on tick till I can pay.”

“What’s tick?”

“You’ll soon find out what tick is, after you have been a week in the bumboat,” replied the lad, laughing. “Nine o’clock, my hearty; good-bye.”

So saying, the young sailor caught up his new clothes, and hastened down to the beach.

The room was crowded with seamen and women, but they were too busy talking and laughing to pay any attention to Joey and his comrade. Our little hero sat some little time at the table after his new acquaintance had left, and then walked out into the streets, telling the people of the house that he was coming back again, and requesting them to take care of his bundle.

“You’ll find it here, my little fellow, all right when you ask for it,” said the woman at the bar, who took it inside and put it away under the counter.

Joey went out with his mind more at ease. The nature of his new employment, should he succeed in obtaining it, he could scarcely comprehend, but still it appeared to him one that he could accomplish. He amused himself walking down the streets, watching the movements of the passers-by, the watermen in their wherries, and the people on board of the vessels which were lying off in the stream. It was a busy and animating sight. As he was lolling at the landing-place, a boat came on shore, which, from the description given by his young sailor friend, he was convinced was a bumboat; it had all the articles described by him, as well as many others, such as porter in bottles, a cask probably containing beer; leeks, onions, and many other heterogeneous matters, and, moreover, there was a fat woman seated in the stern.

The waterman shoved in with his boat-hook, and the wherry grounded. The fat personage got out, and the waterman handed to her a basket, a long book, and several other articles, which she appeared to consider indispensable; among others, a bundle which looked like dirty linen for the wash.

“Dear me! how shall I get up all these things?” exclaimed the woman; “and, William, you can’t leave the boat, and there’s nobody here to help me.”

“I’ll help you,” said Joey, coming down the steps: “what shall I carry for you?”

“Well, you are a good kind boy,” replied she; “can you carry that bundle? I’ll manage all the rest.”

Joey tossed the bundle on his shoulder in a moment.

“Well, you are a strong little chap,” said the waterman.

“He is a very nice little fellow, and a kind one. Now, come along, and I’ll not forget you.”

Joey followed with the bundle, until they arrived at a narrow door, not eighty yards from the landing-place, and the woman asked him if he would carry it upstairs to the first floor, which he did.

“Do you want me any more?” said Joey, setting down the bundle.

“No, dear, no; but I must give you something for your trouble. What do you expect?”

“Nothing at all,” replied Joey; “and I shall not take anything; you’re very welcome; good-bye;” and so saying, Joey walked downstairs, although the woman halloed after him, and recommenced his peregrination in the streets of Gravesend; but he was soon tired of walking on the pavement, which was none of the best, and he then thought that he would go out into the country, and enjoy the green fields; so off he set, the same way that he came into the town, passed by the school of little Emma, and trudged away on the road, stopping every now and then to examine what attracted his notice; watching a bird if it sang on the branch of a tree, and not moving lest he should frighten it away; at times sitting down by the road-side, and meditating or the past and the future. The day was closing in, and Joey was still amusing himself as every boy who has been confined to a schoolroom would do; he sauntered on until he came to the very spot where he had been crying, and had met with little Emma Phillips; and as he sat down again, he thought of her sweet little face, and her kindness towards him—and there he remained some time till he was roused by some one singing as they went along the road. He looked up, and perceived it was the little girl, who was returning from school. Joey rose immediately, and walked towards her to meet her, but she did not appear to recognise him, and would have passed him if he had not said, “Don’t you know me?”

“Yes, I do now,” replied she, smiling, “but I did not at first—you have put on another dress; I have been thinking of you all day—and, do you know, I’ve got a black mark for not saying my lesson,” added the little girl, with a sigh.

“And, then, it is my fault,” replied Joey; “I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, never mind; it is the first that I have had for a long while, and I shall tell mamma why. But you are dressed as a sailor-boy—are you going to sea?”

“No, I believe not—I hope to have employment in the town here, and then I shall be able to see you sometimes, when you come from school. May I walk with you as far as your own house?”

“Yes, I suppose so, if you like it.”

Joey walked with her until they came to the house, which was about two hundred yards farther.

“But,” said Joey, hesitating, “you must make me a promise.”

“What is that?”

“You must keep my secret. You must not tell your mother that you saw me first in what you call gentleman’s clothes—it might do me harm—and indeed it’s not for my own sake I ask it. Don’t say a word about my other clothes, or they may ask me questions which I must not answer, for it’s not my secret. I told you more this morning than I would have told any one else—I did, indeed.”

“Well,” replied the little girl, after thinking a little, “I suppose I have no right to tell a secret, if I am begged not to do it, so I will say nothing, about your clothes. But I must tell mother that I met you.”

“Oh, yes; tell her you met me, and that I was looking for some work, and all that, and to-morrow or next day I will let you know if I get any.”

“Will you come in now?” said Emma.

“No, not now; I must see if I can get this employment promised for me, and then I shall see you again; if I should not see you again, I shall not forget you, indeed I won’t—Good-bye.”

Emma bade him adieu, and they separated, and Joey remained and watched her till she disappeared under the porch of the entrance.

Our hero returned towards Gravesend in rather a melancholy mood; there was something so unusual in his meeting with the little girl—something so uncommon in the sympathy expressed by her—that he felt pain at parting. But it was getting late, and it was time that he kept his appointment with his friend, the sailor boy.

Joey remained at the door of the eating-house for about a quarter of an hour, when he perceived the sailor lad coming up the street. He went forward to meet him.

“Oh, here we are. Well, young fellow, I’ve seen the old woman, and had a long talk with her, and she won’t believe there can be another in the world like her Peter, but I persuaded her to have a look at you, and she has consented; so come along, for I must be on board again in half an hour.”

Joey followed his new friend down the street, until they came to the very door to which he had carried the bundle. The sailor boy mounted the stairs, and turning into the room at the first landing, Joey beheld the woman whom he had assisted in the morning.

“Here he is, Mrs Chopper, and if he won’t suit you, I don’t know who will,” said the boy. “He’s a regular scholar, and can sum up like winkin’.”

This character, given so gratuitously by his new acquaintance, made Joey stare, and the woman looked hard into Joey’s face.

“Well, now,” said she, “where have I seen you before? Dear me! and he is like poor Peter, as you said, Jim; I vow he is.”

“I saw you before to-day,” replied Joey, “for I carried a bundle up for you.”

“And so you did, and would have no money for your trouble. Well, Jim, he is like poor Peter.”

“I told you so, old lady; ay, and he’ll just do for you as well as Peter did; but I’ll leave you to settle matters, for I must be a-board.”

So saying, the lad tipped a wink to Joey, the meaning of which our hero did not understand, and went downstairs.

“Well, now, it’s very odd; but do you know you are like poor Peter, and the more I look at you the more you are like him: poor Peter! did you hear how I lost him?”

“Yes, the sailor lad told me this morning.”

“Poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when I missed poor Peter so much? Well, it showed you had a good heart, and I love that; and where did you meet with Jim Paterson?”

“I met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when I was buying my clothes.”

“Well, Jim’s a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. I’ve been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. Well, and what can you do? I am afraid you can’t do all Peter did.”

“I can keep your accounts, and I can be honest and true to you.”

“Well, Peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?”

“Yes, to be sure I can; try me.”

“Well, then, I will: here is pen, ink, and paper. Well, you are the very image of Peter, and that’s a fact. Now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? Well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. Now sum that all up.”

Joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence.

“Well,” says Mrs Chopper, “it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while I go and speak to somebody.” Mrs Chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct.

“Yes, quite correct, Mrs Chopper,” replied the lass.

“And is it as good as Peter’s was, poor fellow?”

“Much better,” replied the girl.

“Dear me! Who would have thought it? and so like Peter too!”

Mrs Chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat—“Well,” said she, “and now what is your name?”

“Joey.”

“Joey what?”

“Joey—O’Donahue,” replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of McShane.

“And who are your parents?”

“They are poor people,” replied Joey, “and live a long way off.”

“And why did you leave them?”

Joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; “I left there because I was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away.”

“Poaching; yes, I understand that—killing hares and birds. Well, but why did you poach?”

“Because father did.”

“Oh, well, I see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?”

“If I could not do better.”

“But you shall do better, my good boy. I will try you instead of poor Peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. Dear me! how like he is,—but now I must call you Peter; it will make me think I have him with me, poor fellow!”

“If you please,” said Joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name.

“Well, then, where do you sleep to-night?”

“I did intend to ask for a bed at the house where I left my bundle.”

“Then, don’t do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in Peter’s bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me.”

Joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to Mrs Chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which Joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. Altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable.

“Here is poor Peter’s bed,” said Mrs Chopper; “I changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! Can I trust you to put the candle out?”

“Oh, yes; I’ll be very careful.”

“Then, good night, boy. Do you ever say your prayers? poor Peter always did.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Joey; “good night.”

Mrs Chopper left the room. Joey threw open the window—for he was almost suffocated—undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little Emma who had knelt with him on the road-side.

Chapter Twenty Three

In which our Hero goes on Duty

At five o’clock the next morning Joey was called up by Mrs Chopper; the waterman was in attendance, and, with the aid of Joey, carried down the various articles into the boat. When all was ready, Mrs Chopper and Joey sat down to their breakfast, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and red herrings; and, as soon as it was finished, they embarked, and the boat shoved off.

“Well, Mrs Chopper,” said the waterman, “so I perceive you’ve got a new hand.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Chopper; “don’t you think he’s the moral of poor Peter?”

“Well, I don’t know; but there is a something about the cut of his jib which reminds me of him, now you mention it. Peter was a good boy.”

“Aye, that he was, and as sharp as a needle. You see,” said Mrs Chopper, turning to Joey, “sharp’s the word in a bumboat. There’s many who pay, and many who don’t; some I trust, and some I don’t—that is, those who won’t pay me old debts. We lose a bit of money at times, but it all comes round in the end; but I lose more by not booking the things taken than in any other way, for sailors do pay when they have the money—that is, if ever they come back again, poor fellows. Now, Peter.”

“What! is his name Peter, too?”

“Yes, I must call him Peter, William; he is so like poor Peter.”

“Well, that will suit me; I hate learning new names.”

“Well, but, Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you must be very careful; for, you see, I’m often called away here and there after wash clothes and such things; and then you must look out, and if they do take up anything, why, you must book it, at all events. You’ll learn by-and-bye who to trust, and who not to trust; for I know the most of my customers. You must not trust a woman—I mean any of the sailors’ wives—unless I tell you; and you must be very sharp with them, for they play all manner of tricks; you must look two ways at once. Now, there’s a girl on board the brig we are pulling to, called Nancy; why, she used to weather poor Peter, sharp as he was. She used to pretend to be very fond of him, and hug him close to her with one arm, so as to blind him, while she stole the tarts with the other; so, don’t admit her familiarities; if you do, I shall pay for them.”

“Then, who am I to trust?”

“Bless the child! you’ll soon find out that; but mind one thing; never trust a tall, lanky seaman without his name’s on the books; those chaps never pay. There’s the book kept by poor Peter; and you see names upon the top of each score—at least, I believe so; I have no learning myself, but I’ve a good memory; I can’t read nor write, and that’s why Peter was so useful.”

That Peter could read his own writing it is to be presumed; but certain it was that Joey could not make it out until after many days examination, when he discovered that certain hieroglyphics were meant to represent certain articles; after which it became more easy.

They had now reached the side of the vessel, and the sailors came down into the boat, and took up several articles upon credit; Joey booked them very regularly.

“Has Bill been down yet?” said a soft voice from the gangway.

“No, Nancy, he has not.”

“Then he wants two red herrings, a sixpenny loaf, and some ’baccy.”

Joey looked up, and beheld a very handsome, fair, blue-eyed girl with a most roguish look, who was hanging over the side.

“Then he must come himself, Nancy,” replied Mrs Chopper, “for, you know, the last time you took up the things he said that you were never told to do so, and he would not pay for them.”

“That’s because the fool was jealous; I lost the tobacco, Mrs Chopper, and he said I had given it to Dick Snapper.”

“I can’t help that; he must come himself.”

“But he’s away in the boat, and he told me to get the things for him. Who have you there? Not Peter; no, it’s not Peter; but, what a dear little boy.”

“I told you so,” said Mrs Chopper to our hero; “now, if I wasn’t in the boat, she would be down in it in a minute, and persuade you to let her have the things—and she never pays.”

Joey looked up again, and, as he looked at Nancy, felt that it would be very unkind to refuse her.

“Now, what a hard-hearted old woman you are, Mrs Chopper. Bill will come on board; and, as sure as I stand here, he’ll whack me. He will pay you, you may take my word for it.”

“Your word, Nancy!” replied Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

“Stop a moment,” said Nancy, coming down the side with very little regard as to showing her well-formed legs; “stop, Mrs Chopper, and I’ll explain to you.”

“It’s no use coming down, Nancy, I tell you,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Well, we shall see,” replied Nancy, taking her seat in the boat, and looking archly in Mrs Chopper’s face; “the fact is Mrs Chopper, you don’t know what a good-tempered woman you are.”

“I know, Nancy, what you are,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Oh, so does everybody: I’m nobody’s enemy but my own, they say.”

“Ah! that’s very true, child; more’s the pity.”

“Now, I didn’t come down to wheedle you out of anything, Mrs Chopper, but merely to talk to you, and look at this pretty boy.”

“There you go, Nancy; but ain’t he like Peter?”

“Well, and so he is! very like Peter; he has Peter’s eyes and his nose, and his mouth is exactly Peter’s—how very strange!”

“I never see’d such a likeness!” exclaimed Mrs Chopper.

“No, indeed,” replied Nancy, who, by agreeing with Mrs Chopper in all she said, and praising Joey, and his likeness to Peter, at last quite came over the old bumboat-woman; and Nancy quitted her boat with the two herrings, the loaf; and the paper of tobacco.

“Shall I put them down, Mrs Chopper?” said Joey.

“Oh, dear,” replied Mrs Chopper, coming to her recollection, “I’m afraid that it’s no use; but put them down, anyhow; they will do for bad debts. Shove off, William, we must go to the large ship now.”

“I do wish that that Nancy was at any other port,” exclaimed Mrs Chopper, as they quitted the vessel’s side; “I do lose so much money by her.”

“Well,” said the waterman, laughing, “you’re not the only one; she can wheedle man or woman, or, as they say, the devil to boot, if she would try.”

During the whole of the day the wherry proceeded from ship to ship, supplying necessaries; in many instances they were paid for in ready money, in others Joey’s capabilities were required, and they were booked down against the customers. At last, about five o’clock in the evening, the beer-barrel being empty, most of the contents of the baskets nearly exhausted, and the wherry loaded with the linen for the wash, biscuits, empty bottles, and various other articles of traffic or exchange, Mrs Chopper ordered William, the waterman, to pull on shore to the landing-place.

As soon as the baskets and other articles had been carried up to the house, Mrs Chopper sent out for the dinner, which was regularly obtained from a cook’s-shop. Joey sat down with her, and when his meal was finished, Mrs Chopper told him he might take a run and stretch his legs a little if he pleased, while she tended to the linen which was to go to the wash. Joey was not sorry to take advantage of this considerate permission, for his legs were quite cramped from sitting so long jammed up between baskets of eggs, red herrings, and the other commodities which had encompassed him.

We must now introduce Mrs Chopper to the reader a little more ceremoniously. She was the widow of a boatswain, who had set her up in the bumboat business with some money he had acquired a short time before his death, and she had continued it ever since on her own account. People said that she was rich, but riches are comparative, and if a person in a seaport town, and in her situation, could show 200 or 300 pounds at her bankers, she was considered rich. If she was rich in nothing else, she certainly was in bad and doubtful debts, having seven or eight books like that which Joey was filling up for her during the whole day, all containing accounts of long standing, and most of which probably would stand for ever; but if the bad debts were many, the profits were in proportion; and what with the long standing debts being occasionally paid, the ready-money she continually received, and the profitable traffic which she made in the way of exchange, etcetera, she appeared to do a thriving business, although it is certain the one-half of her goods were as much given away as were the articles obtained from her in the morning by Nancy.