The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

It is a question whether these books of bad debts were not a source of enjoyment to her, for every night she would take one of the books down, and although she could not read, yet, by having them continually read to her, and knowing the pages so exactly, she could almost repeat every line by heart which the various bills contained; and then there was always a story which she had to tell about each—something relative to the party of whom the transaction reminded her; and subsequently, when Joey was fairly domiciled with her, she would make him hand down one of the books, and talk away from it for hours; they were the ledgers of her reminiscences; the events of a considerable portion of her life were all entered down along with the ’baccy, porter, pipes, and red herrings; a bill for these articles was to her time, place and circumstance; and what with a good memory, and bad debts to assist it, many were the hours which were passed away (and pleasantly enough, too, for one liked to talk, and the other to listen) between Mrs Chopper and our little hero. But we must not anticipate.

The permission given to Joey to stretch his legs induced him to set off as fast as he could to gain the high road before his little friend, Emma Phillips, had left her school. He sat down in the same place, waiting for her coming. The spot had become hallowed to the poor fellow, for he had there met with a friend—with one who sympathised with him when he most required consolation. He now felt happy, for he was no longer in doubt about obtaining his livelihood, and his first wish was to impart the pleasing intelligence to his little friend. She was not long before she made her appearance in her little straw bonnet with blue ribbons. Joey started up, and informed her that he had got a very nice place, explained to her what it was, and how he had been employed during the day.

“And I can very often come out about this time, I think,” added Joey, “and then I can walk home with you, and see that you come to no harm.”

“But,” replied the little girl, “my mother says that she would like to see you, as she will not allow me to make acquaintance with people I meet by accident. Don’t you think that mother is right?”

“Yes, I do; she’s very right,” replied Joey; “I didn’t think of that.”

“Will you come and see her, then?”

“Not now, because I am not very clean. I’ll come on Sunday, if I can get leave.”

They separated, and Joey returned back to the town. As he walked on, he thought he would spend the money he had got in a suit of Sunday clothes, of a better quality than those he had on, the materials of which were very coarse. On second thoughts, he resolved to apply to Mrs Chopper, as he did not exactly know where to go for them, and was afraid that he would be imposed upon.

“Well, Peter,” said his new mistress, “do you feel better for your walk?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

“Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you appear to be a very handy, good boy, and I hope we shall live together a long while. How long have you been at sea?”

“I was going to sea; I have never been to sea yet, and I don’t want to go; I would rather stay with you.”

“And so you shall, that’s a settled thing. What clothes have you got, Peter?”

“I have none but what I stand in, and a few shirts in a bundle, and they are Sunday ones; but when I left home I had some money given me, and I wish to buy a suit of clothes for Sunday, to go to church in.”

“That’s a good boy, and so you shall; but how much money have you got?”

“Quite enough to buy a suit of clothes,” replied Joey, handing out two sovereigns, and seventeen shillings in silver.

“Oh, I suppose they gave you all that to fit you out with when you left home; poor people, I dare say they worked hard for it. Well, I don’t think the money will be of any use to you; so you had better buy a Sunday suit, and I will take care you want for nothing afterwards. Don’t you think I’m right?”

“Yes, I wish to do so. To-day is Tuesday; I may have them made by next Sunday?”

“So you can; and as soon as William comes in, which he will soon, from the washerwoman’s, we will go out and order them. Here he comes up the stairs—no, that foot’s too light for his. Well, it’s Nancy, I declare! Why, Nancy, now,” continued Mrs Chopper, in a deprecating tone, “what do you want here?”

“Well, I leave you to guess,” replied Nancy, looking very demurely, and taking a seat upon a hamper.

“Guess, I fear there’s no guess in it, Nancy; but I will not—now it’s no use—I will not trust another shilling.”

“But I know you will, Mrs Chopper. Lord love you, you’re such a good-natured creature, you can’t refuse any one, and certainly not me. Why don’t you take me in your boat with you as your assistant? then there would be something in it worth looking at. I should bring you plenty of custom.”

“You’re too wild, Nancy; too wild, girl. But, now, what do you want? recollect you’ve already had some things to-day.”

“I know I have, and you are a good-natured old trump, that you are. Now I’ll tell you—gold must pass between us this time.”

“Mercy on me, Nancy, why you’re mad. I’ve no gold—nothing but bad debts.”

“Look you, Mrs Chopper, look at this shabby old bonnet of mine. Don’t I want a new one?”

“Then you must get somebody else to give you money, Nancy,” replied Mrs Chopper, coolly and decidedly.

“Don’t talk so fast, Mrs Chopper: now, I’ll let you know how it is. When Bill came on board he asked the captain for an advance; the captain refused him before, but this time he was in a good humour, and he consented. So then I coaxed Bill out of a sovereign to buy a new bonnet, and he gave it me; and then I thought what a kind soul you were, and I resolved that I would bring you the sovereign, and go without the new bonnet; so here it is, take it quick, or I shall repent.”

“Well, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, “you said right; gold has passed between us, and I am surprised. Now I shall trust you again.”

“And so you ought; it’s not every pretty girl, like me, who will give up a new bonnet. Only look what a rubbishy affair this is,” continued Nancy, giving her own a kick up in the air.

“I wish I had a sovereign to give away,” said Joey to Mrs Chopper; “I wish I had not said a word about the clothes.”

“Do as you like with your own money, my dear,” said the bumboat-woman.

“Then, Nancy, I’ll give you a sovereign to buy yourself a new bonnet with,” said Joey, taking one out of his pocket and putting into her hand.

Nancy looked at the sovereign, and then at Joey. “Bless the boy!” said she, at last, kissing him on the forehead; “he has a kind heart; may the world use him better than it has me! Here, take your sovereign, child; any bonnet’s good enough for one like me.” So saying, Nancy turned hastily away, and ran downstairs.

Chapter Twenty Four

In which Mrs Chopper reads her Ledger

“Ah, poor girl,” said Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, as Nancy disappeared. “You are a good boy, Peter; I like to see boys not too fond of money, and if she had taken it (and I wish she had, poor thing) I would have made it up to you.”

“Is the man she calls Bill her husband?” inquired Joey.

“Oh, I know nothing about other people’s husbands,” replied Mrs Chopper, hastily. “Now then, let us go and order the clothes, and then you’ll be able to go to church on Sunday; I will do without you.”

“What, won’t you go to church?”

“Bless you, child! who is to give the poor men their breakfast and their beer? A bumboat-woman can’t go to church any more than a baker’s man, for people must eat on a Sunday. Church, like everything else in this world, appears to me only to be made for the rich; I always take my Bible in the boat with me on Sunday, but then I can’t read it, so it’s of no great use. No, dear, I can’t go to church, but I can contrive, if it don’t rain in the evening, to go to meeting and hear a little of the Word; but you can go to church, dear.”

A suit of blue cloth, made in sailor’s fashion, having been ordered by Mrs Chopper, she and Joey returned home; and, after their tea, Mrs Chopper desired Joey to hand her one of the account-books, which she put upon her knees and opened.

“There,” said she, looking at the page, “I know that account well; it was Tom Alsop’s—a fine fellow he was, only he made such a bad marriage: his wife was a very fiend, and the poor fellow loved her, which was worse. One day he missed her, and found she was on board another vessel; and he came on shore, distracted like, and got very tipsy, as sailors always do when they’re in trouble, and he went down to the wharf, and his body was picked up next day.”

“Did he drown himself?”

“Yes, so people think, Peter; and he owed me 1 pound, 3 shillings, 4 pence, if I recollect right. Aren’t that the figure, Peter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joey; “that’s the sum total of the account, exactly.”

“Poor fellow!” continued Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, “he went to his long account without paying me my short one. Never mind; I wish he was alive, and twice as much in my debt. There’s another—I recollect that well, Peter, for it’s a proof that sailors are honest; and I do believe that, if they don’t pay, it’s more from thoughtlessness than anything else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors don’t care for money when they do get it—and then those Jews are such shocking fellows; but look you, Peter, this is almost the first bill run up after I took up the business. He was a nice fair-haired lad from Shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another vessel, and brought here; and I let him have things and lent him money to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all and pay me, and he sailed away again, and I never heard of him for nine years. I thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad; I didn’t know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but I gave it up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called upon me, and said, ‘Do you know me?’ ‘No,’ said I, half-frightened; ‘how should I know you? I never see’d you before.’—‘Yes, you did,’ says he, ‘and here’s a proof of it;’ and he put down on the table a lot of money, and said, ‘Now, missus, help yourself: better late than never. I’m Jim Sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a mother to; but I’ve never been able to get leave to come to you since. I’m boatswain’s mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and now I’ve come to pay my debts.’ He would make me take 5 pounds more than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. Poor fellow! he’s dead now. Here’s another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. Let me see, what can this one be? Read it, Peter; how much is it?”

“4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence,” replied our hero.

“Yes, yes, I recollect now—it was the Dutch skipper. There’s murder in that bill, Peter: it was things I supplied to him just before he sailed; and an old man was passenger in the cabin: he was a very rich man, although he pretended to be poor. He was a diamond merchant, they say; and as soon as they were at sea, the Dutch captain murdered him in the night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at Amsterdam, and had his head cut off. The crew told us when the galliot came back with a new captain. So the Dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime; he paid my bill, too, that’s certain. Oh, deary me!” continued the old lady, turning to another page. “I shan’t forget this in a hurry. I never see poor Nancy now without recollecting it. Look, Peter; I know the sum—8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence—exactly: it was the things taken up when Tom Freelove married Nancy,—it was the wedding dinner and supper.”

“What, Nancy who was here just now?”

“Yes, that Nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and subscribed to a circulating library, they say. She was the daughter of a baker in this town. I recollect it well: such a fine day it was when they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. I never seed such a handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in misery.”

“Tell me how,” said Joey.

“I’ll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all the wickedness of this world. Her husband treated her very ill; before he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. Her husband was killed by a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to liquor, and that was her ruin. She don’t drink now, because she don’t feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. It’s only four years ago when I saw her come out of church, and thought what a happy couple they would be.”

“Where are her father and mother?”

“Both dead. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. It’s bad enough when a man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but some people’s feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to drown care and misery. Put up the book, Peter; I can’t look at it any more to-night; we’ll go to bed.”

Joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as soon as his money was all gone. Finding that the vessel was going up the river to load, Joey determined to write a few lines to the McShanes, to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned, Jim Paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he arrived at London.

Our hero simply said, “My dear sir, I am quite well, and have found employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as I never shall forget your kindness.—Joey McShane.”

On the following Sunday Joey was dressed in his sailor’s suit, and looked very well in it. He was not only a very good-looking, but a gentlemanlike boy in his manners. He went to church, and after church he walked out to the abode of his little friend, Emma Phillips. She ran out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the hand to present him to her mother. Mrs Phillips was a quiet-looking, pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance. They made many inquiries about his friends, and Joey continued in the same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of his parents. They were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in his favour; and as Joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on Sundays, but preferred meeting Emma on the road from school; and the two children (if Joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if they did not every day exchange a few words. Thus passed the first six months of Joey’s new life. The winter was cold, and the water rough, and he blew his fingers, while Mrs Chopper folded her arms up in her apron; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day’s work was over. He became a great favourite with Mrs Chopper, who at last admitted that he was much more useful than even Peter; and William, the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was, in his opinion, worth two of the former Peter, who had come to such an untimely end.

Chapter Twenty Five

In which the Biter is bit

The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane. The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. “I recollect,” said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair—“I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty.”

“And so am I,” replied McShane. “However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?”

“Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O’Donahue, I think, or a little before—that was in October.”

McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour’s search found the report of the coroner’s inquest.

“Here it is, my dear, sure enough,” said McShane.

As soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, “Yes; wilful murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. This it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although I have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. Now, my dear,” continued McShane, “I think I can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that’s evident, by somebody, but not by Joey, I’ll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and I believe him. Nevertheless, Joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. My dear wife, I happen to know the father of Joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if I could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by Rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father.”

The reader will acknowledge that McShane was very clear-sighted.

“That’s my opinion,” continued McShane. “How it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, I cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, I’d stake my commission that I’ve guessed at the truth.”

“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs McShane; “well, the Commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. What can be done, McShane?”

“Nothing at present; it would injure Joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; I will, however, make some inquiries about Rushbrook himself, and if I can I will see him.”

The same evening the schoolmaster again called upon McShane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a class in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, “I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Slappum; if so, may I request the favour to see my little friend Joey, whom I met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as I have a message to him from his father and mother? The dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as I have no doubt that he has done you.”

Now, the usher had told Mr Slappum that Joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was Joey McShane, replied,—“I am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. He left a letter for Major McShane, which I have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circumstance.”

“Bolted, by all that’s clever!” said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded.

“You really have astonished me, my dear sir,” replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be Furness; “that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, I may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. Major McShane, I think you said, lives at —?”

“Major McShane lives at Number – in Holborn,” replied the schoolmaster.

“And the lad has not gone home to him?”

“No, he has not; he left a letter, which I took to Major McShane; but I did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents.”

“I really am stupefied with grief and vexation,” replied Furness, “and will not intrude any longer. Bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?”

So saying, Furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero.

McShane heard the schoolmaster’s account of this visit without interruption, and then said, “I have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that I may know him at first sight.”

The schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of Furness, and then took his leave.

As the eating-house kept by Mrs McShane had a private door, Furness (who, as McShane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the Chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about Major McShane before he called upon him. Although McShane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when Furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. McShane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. Furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major.

“A good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?”

“Yes, sir,” replied McShane; “it is considered a very good house.”

“Do you frequent it much yourself?”

“Always, sir; I feel much interested in its success,” replied McShane; “for I know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her.”

“I saw her as I passed by—a fine woman, sir! Pray may I ask who is Major McShane, who I observe lives in the rooms above?”

“He is a major in the army, sir—now on half-pay.”

“Do you know him?”

“Remarkably well,” replied McShane; “he’s a countryman of mine.”

“He’s married, sir, I think? I’ll trouble you for the pepper.”

“He is married, sir, to a very amiable woman.”

“Any family, sir?”

“Not that I know of; they have a young protégé, I believe, now at school—a boy they call Joey.”

“Indeed! how very kind of them; really, now, it’s quite refreshing for me to see so much goodness of heart still remaining in this bad world. Adopted him, I presume?”

“I really cannot exactly say that; I know that they treat him as their own child.”

“Have you seen Major McShane lately, sir?”

“Saw him this morning, sir, just after he got up.”

“Indeed! This is remarkably good ale, sir—will you honour me by tasting it?”

“Sir, you are very kind; but the fact is I never drink malt liquor. Here, girl, bring a half pint of brandy. I trust, sir, you will not refuse to join me in a glass, although I cannot venture to accept your polite offer.”

Furness drank off his pot of ale, and made ready for the brandy which had been offered him; McShane filled his own glass, and then handed the decanter over to Furness.

“I have the pleasure of drinking your good health, sir,” said McShane. “You are from the country, I presume; may I inquire from what part?”

“I am from Devonshire; I was formerly head of the grammar school at —; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. Here’s to our better acquaintance, sir.”