The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Well, I’d do more than that for the old lady,” replied the poor midshipman, as Mr Small made his appearance.

The midshipman told his story in very few words, and Mr Small heard him without interruption. When he had finished, Mr Small commenced, “You see my man, you ask me to do what no navy-agent ever did before—to lend upon a promise to pay, and that promise to pay from a midshipman. In the first place, I have only the promise without the security; that’s one point, do you observe? (A punch with the knuckles.) And then the promise to pay depends whether you are in the country or not. Again, if you have the money, you may not have the inclination to pay; that’s another point. (Then came another sharp impression into the ribs of the middy.) Then, again, it is not even personal security, as you may be drowned, shot, blown up, or taken out of the world before any pay is due to you; and by your death you would be unable to pay, if so inclined; there’s a third point. (And there was a third dig, which the middy stood boldly up against.) Insure your life you cannot, for you have no money; you therefore require me to lend my money upon no security whatever; for even allowing that you would pay if you could, yet your death might prevent it; there’s another point, (and the knuckles again penetrated into the midshipman’s side who felt the torture increasing as hope was departing.) But,” continued Mr Small, who was evidently much pleased with his own ratiocination, “there is another point not yet touched upon, which is, that as good Christians, we must sometimes lend money upon no security, or even give it away, for so are we commanded; and therefore, Mr O’Donahue, you will tell Mr Sleek to let him have the money; there’s the last and best point of all, eh?” wound up Mr Small, with a thumping blow upon the ribs of the middy, that almost took away his breath. We give this as a specimen of Mr Small’s style of practical and theoretical logic combined.

“The admiral, sir, is coming down the street,” said Sleek, entering, “and I think he is coming here.”

Mr Small, who did not venture to chop logic with admirals, but was excessively polite to such great people, went out to receive the admiral, hat in hand.

“Now, Mr Small,” said the admiral, “the counting-house for business, if you please. I have very unexpected orders to leave Portsmouth. I must save the next tide, if possible. The ships will be ready, for you know what our navy can do when required: but as you know, I have not one atom of stock on board. The flood-tide has made almost an hour, and we must sail at the first of the ebb, as twelve hours’ delay may be most serious. Now, tell me—here is the list of what is required; boats will be ready and men in plenty to get it on board;—can you get it ready by that time?”

“By that time, Sir William?” replied Small, looking over the tremendous catalogue.

“It is now eleven o’clock; can it all be down by four o’clock—that is the latest I can give you?”

“Impossible, Sir William.”

“It is of the greatest importance that we sail at five o’clock; the fact is, I must and will; but it’s hard that I must starve for a whole cruise.”

“Indeed, Sir William,” said Mr Small, “if it were possible; but two cows, so many sheep, hay, and everything to be got from the country; we never could manage it. To-morrow morning, perhaps.”

“Well, Mr Small, I have appointed no prize-agent yet; had you obliged me—”

Our hero now stepped forward and ran over the list.

“Can you inform me, sir,” said he to the flag-captain, “whether the Zenobia or Orestes sail with the squadron?”

“No, they do not,” was the reply.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Small,” said Joey, “but I do think we can accomplish this with a little arrangement.”

“Indeed!” cried Sir William.

“Yes, Sir William; if you would immediately make the signals for two boats to come on shore, with steady crews to assist me, I promise it shall be done.”

“Well said, O’Donahue!” cried the captain; “we are all right now, admiral; if he says it shall be done, it will be done.”

“May I depend upon you, Mr O’Donahue.”

“Yes, Sir William; everything shall be as you wish.”

“Well, Mr Small, if your young man keeps his word, you shall be my prize-agent. Good morning to you.”

“How could you promise?” cried Small, addressing our hero, when the admiral and suite had left the counting-house.

“Because I can perform, sir,” replied Joey; “I have the cows and sheep for the Zenobia and Orestes, as well as the fodder, all ready in the town; we can get others for them to-morrow, and I know where to lay my hands on everything else.”

“Well, that’s lucky! but there is no time to be lost.”

Our hero, with his usual promptitude and activity, kept his promise; and, as Mr Small said, it was lucky, for the prize-agency, in a few months afterwards, proved worth to him nearly 5,000 pounds.

It is not to be supposed that Joey neglected his correspondence either with Mary or Spikeman, although with the latter it was not so frequent. Mary wrote to him every month; she had not many subjects to enter upon, chiefly replying to Joey’s communications, and congratulating him upon his success. Indeed, now that our hero had been nearly four years with Mr Small, he might be said to be a very rising and independent person. His capital, which had increased very considerably, had been thrown into the business, and he was now a junior partner, instead of a clerk, and had long enjoyed the full confidence both of his superior and of Mr Sleek, who now entrusted him with almost everything. In short, Joey was in the fair way to competence and distinction.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter of Infinite Variety, containing Agony, Law, Love, Quarrelling, and Suicide

It may be a subject of interest on the part of the reader to inquire what were the relative positions of Emma Phillips and our hero, now that four years had passed, during which time he had been continually in her company, and gradually, as he rose in importance, removing the distance that was between them. We have only to reply that the consequences natural to such a case did ensue. Every year their intimacy increased—every year added to the hopes of our hero, who now no longer looked upon an alliance with Emma as impossible; yet he still never felt sufficient confidence in himself or his fortunes to intimate such a thought to her; indeed, from a long habit of veneration and respect, he was in the position of a subject before a queen who feels a partiality towards him; he dared not give vent to his thoughts, and it remained for her to have the unfeminine task of intimating to him that he might venture. But, although to outward appearance there was nothing but respect and feelings of gratitude on his part, and condescension and amiability on hers, there was a rapid adhesion going on within. Their interviews were more restrained, their words more selected; for both parties felt how strong were the feelings which they would repress; they were both pensive, silent, and distant—would talk unconnectedly, running from one subject to another, attempting to be lively and unconcerned when they were most inclined to be otherwise, and not daring to scrutinise too minutely their own feelings when they found themselves alone; but what they would fain conceal from themselves their very attempts to conceal made known to other people who were standing by. Both Mrs Phillips and Mr Small perceived how matters stood, and, had they any objections, would have immediately no longer permitted them to be in contact; but they had no objections, for our hero had long won the hearts of both mother and uncle, and they awaited quietly the time which should arrive when the young parties should no longer conceal their feelings for each other.

It was when affairs were between our hero and Emma Phillips as we have just stated, that a circumstance took place which for a time embittered all our hero’s happiness. He was walking down High Street, when he perceived a file of marines marching towards him, with two men between them, handcuffed, evidently deserters who had been taken up. A feeling of alarm pervaded our hero; he had a presentiment which induced him to go into a perfumer’s shop, and to remain there, so as to have a view of the faces of the deserters as they passed along, without their being able to see him. His forebodings were correct: one of them was his old enemy and persecutor, Furness, the schoolmaster.

Had a dagger been plunged into Joey’s bosom, the sensation could not have been more painful than what he felt when he once more found himself so near to his dreaded denouncer. For a short time he remained so transfixed, that the woman who was attending in the shop asked whether she should bring him a glass of water. This inquiry made him recollect himself, and, complaining of a sudden pain in the side, he sat down, and took the water when it was brought; but he went home in despair, quite forgetting the business which brought him out, and retired to his own room, that he might collect his thoughts. What was he to do? This man had been brought back to the barracks; he would be tried and punished, and afterwards be set at liberty. How was it possible that he could always avoid him, or escape being recognised? and how little chance had he of escape from Furness’s searching eye! Could he bribe him? Yes, he could now; he was rich enough; but, if he did, one bribe would only be followed up by a demand for another, and a threat of denouncement if he refused. Flight appeared his only chance; but to leave his present position—to leave Emma—it was impossible. Our hero did not leave his room for the remainder of the day, but retired early to bed, that he might cogitate, for sleep he could not. After a night of misery, the effects of which were too visibly marked in his countenance on the ensuing morning, Joey determined to make some inquiries relative to what the fate of Furness might be; and, having made up his mind, he accosted a sergeant of marines, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and whom he fell in with in the streets. He observed to him that he perceived they had deserters brought in yesterday, and inquired from what ship they had deserted, or from the barracks. The sergeant replied that they had deserted from the Niobe frigate, and had committed theft previous to desertion; that they would remain in confinement at the barracks till the Niobe arrived; and that then they would be tried by a court-martial, and, without doubt, for the double offence, would go through the fleet.

Joey wished the sergeant good morning, and passed on in his way home. His altered appearance had attracted the notice of not only his partners, but of Mrs Phillips, and had caused much distress to the latter. Our hero remained the whole day in the counting-house, apparently unconcerned, but in reality thinking and rethinking, over and over again, his former thoughts. At last he made up his mind that he would wait the issue of the court-martial before he took any decided steps; indeed, what to do he knew not.

We leave the reader to guess the state of mind in which Joey remained for a fortnight previous to the return of the Niobe frigate from a Channel cruise. Two days after her arrival, the signal was made for a court-martial. The sentence was well known before night; it was, that the culprits were to go through the fleet on the ensuing day.

This was, however, no consolation to our hero; he did not feel animosity against Furness so much as he did dread of him; he did not want his punishment, but his absence, and security against future annoyance. It was about nine o’clock on the next morning, when the punishment was to take place, that Joey came down from his own room. He had been thinking all night, and had decided that he had no other resource but to quit Portsmouth, Emma, and his fair prospects for ever; he had resolved so to do, to make this sacrifice; it was a bitter conclusion to arrive at, but it had been come to. His haggard countenance when he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, shocked Mrs Phillips and Emma; but they made no remarks. The breakfast was passed over in silence, and soon afterwards our hero found himself alone with Emma, who immediately went to him, and, with tears in her eyes, said, “What is the matter with you?—you look so ill, you alarm us all, and you make me quite miserable.”

“I am afraid, Miss Phillips—”

“Miss Phillips!” replied Emma.

“I beg your pardon; but, Emma, I am afraid that I must leave you.”

“Leave us!”

“Yes, leave you and Portsmouth for ever, perhaps.”

“Why, what has occurred?”

“I cannot, dare not tell. Will you so far oblige me to say nothing at present; but you recollect that I was obliged to leave Gravesend on a sudden.”

“I recollect you did, but why I know not; only Mary said that it was not your fault.”

“I trust it was not so; but it was my misfortune. Emma, I am almost distracted; I have not slept for weeks; but pray believe me, when I say that I have done no wrong; indeed—”

“We are interrupted,” said Emma, hurriedly; “there is somebody coming upstairs.”

She had hardly time to remove a few feet from our hero, when Captain B—, of the Niobe, entered the room.

“Good morning, Miss Phillips, I hope you are well; I just looked in for a moment before I go to the Admiral’s office; we have had a catastrophe on board the Niobe, which I must report immediately.”

“Indeed,” replied Emma; “nothing very serious, I hope.”

“Why, no, only rid of a blackguard not worth hanging; one of the marines, who was to have gone round the fleet this morning, when he went to the forepart of the ship under the sentry’s charge, leaped overboard, and drowned himself.”

“What was his name, Captain B—?” inquired Joey, seizing him by the arm.

“His name—why, how can that interest you, O’Donahue? Well, if you wish to know, it was Furness.”

“I am very sorry for him,” replied our hero; “I knew him once when he was in better circumstances, that is all;” and Joey, no longer daring to trust himself with others, quitted the room, and went to his own apartment. As soon as he was there, he knelt down and returned thanks, not for the death of Furness, but for the removal of the load which had so oppressed his mind. In an hour his relief was so great that he felt himself sufficiently composed to go downstairs; he went into the drawing-room to find Emma, but she was not there. He longed to have some explanation with her, but it was not until the next day that he had an opportunity.

“I hardly know what to say to you,” said our hero, “or how to explain my conduct of yesterday.”

“It certainly appeared very strange, especially to Captain B—, who told me that he thought you were mad.”

“I care little what he thinks, but I care much what you think, Emma; and I must now tell you what, perhaps, this man’s death may permit me to do. That he has been most strangely connected with my life is most true; he it was who knew me, and who would, if he could, have put me in a situation in which I must either have suffered myself to be thought guilty of a crime which I am incapable of; or, let it suffice to say, have done, to exculpate myself, what, I trust, I never would have done, or ever will do. I can say no more than that, without betraying a secret which I am bound to keep, and the keeping of which may still prove my own destruction. When you first saw me on the wayside, Emma, it was this man who forced me from a happy home to wander about the world; it was the reappearance of this man, and his recognition of me that induced me to quit Gravesend so suddenly. I again met him, and avoided him when he was deserting; and I trusted that, as he had deserted, I could be certain of living safely in this town without meeting with him. It was his reappearance here, as a deserter taken up, which put me in that state of agony which you have seen me in for these last three weeks; and it was the knowledge that, after his punishment, he would be again free, and likely to meet with me when walking about here, which resolved me to quit Portsmouth, as I said to you yesterday morning. Can you, therefore, be surprised at my emotion when I heard that he was removed, and that there was now no necessity for my quitting my kind patrons and you?”

“Certainly, after this explanation, I cannot be surprised at your emotion; but what does surprise me, Mr O’Donahue, is that you should have a secret of such importance that it cannot be revealed, and which has made you tremble at the recognition of that man, when at the same time you declare your innocence. Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?”

“Your addressing me as Mr O’Donahue, Miss Phillips, has pointed out to me the impropriety I have been guilty of in making use of your Christian name. I thought that that confidence which you placed in me when, as a mere boy, I told you exactly what I now repeat, that the secret was not my own, would not have been now so cruelly withdrawn. I have never varied in my tale, and I can honestly say that I have never felt degraded when I have admitted that I have a mystery connected with me; nay, if it should please Heaven that I have the option given me to suffer in my own person, or reveal the secret in question, I trust that I shall submit to my fate with constancy, and be supported in my misfortune by the conviction of my innocence. I feel that I was not wrong in the communication that I made to you yesterday morning that I must leave this place. I came here because you were living here—you to whom I felt so devoted for your kindness and sympathy when I was poor and friendless; now that I am otherwise, you are pleased to withdraw not only your good will, but your confidence in me; and as the spell is broken which has drawn me to this spot, I repeat, that as soon as I can, with justice to my patrons, I shall withdraw myself from your presence.”

Our hero’s voice faltered before he had finished speaking; and then turning away slowly, without looking up, he quitted the room.

Chapter Forty

In which our Hero tries Change of Air

The reader will observe that there has been a little altercation at the end of the last chapter. Emma Phillips was guilty of letting drop a received truism, or rather a metaphor, which offended our hero. “Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?” If Emma had put that question to us, we, from our knowledge of the world, should have replied, “Yes, very often, my dear Miss Phillips.” But Emma was wrong, not only in her metaphor, but in the time of her making it. Why did she do so? Ah! that is a puzzling question to answer; we can only say, at our imminent risk, when this narrative shall be perused by the other sex, that we have made the discovery that women are not perfect; that the very best of the sex are full of contradiction, and that Emma was a woman. That women very often are more endowed than the generality of men we are ready to admit; and their cause has been taken up by Lady Morgan, Mrs Jamieson, and many others who can write much better than we can. When we say their cause, we mean the right of equality they would claim with our sex and not subjection to it. Reading my Lady Morgan the other day, which, next to conversing with her, is one of the greatest treats we know of we began to speculate upon what were the causes which had subjected woman to man; in other words, how was it that man had got the upper hand, and kept it? That women’s minds were not inferior to men’s we were forced to admit; that their aptitude for cultivation is often greater, was not to be denied. As to the assertion that man makes laws, or that his frame is of more robust material, it is no argument, as a revolt on the part of the other sex would soon do away with such advantage; and men, brought up as nursery-maids, would soon succumb to women who were accustomed to athletic sports from their youth upwards. After a great deal of cogitation we came to the conclusion, that there is a great difference between the action in the minds of men and women; the machinery of the latter being more complex than that of our own sex. A man’s mind is his despot: it works but by one single action; it has one ruling principle—one propelling power to which all is subservient. This power or passion (disguised and dormant as it may be in feeble minds) is the only one which propels him on; this primum mobile, as it may be termed, is ambition, or, in other words, self-love; everything is sacrificed to it.

Now, as in proportion as a machine is simple so is it strong in its action—so in proportion that a machine is complex, it becomes weak; and if we analyse a woman’s mind, we shall find that her inferiority arises from the simple fact, that there are so many wheels within wheels working in it, so many compensating balances (if we may use the term, and we use it to her honour), that although usually more right-minded than man, her strength of action is lost, and has become feeble by the time that her decision has been made. What will a man allow to stand in the way of his ambition—love? no—friendship? no—he will sacrifice the best qualities, and, which is more difficult, make the worst that are in his disposition subservient to it. He moves only one great principle, one propelling power—and the action being single, it is strong in proportion. But will a woman’s mind decide in this way? Will she sacrifice to ambition, love, or friendship, or natural ties? No; in her mind the claims of each are, generally speaking, fairly balanced—and the quotient, after the calculation has been worked out, although correct, is small. Our argument, after all, only goes to prove that women, abstractedly taken, have more principle, more conscience, and better regulated minds than men—which is true if—if they could always go correct as timekeepers; but the more complex the machine, the more difficult it is to keep it in order, the more likely it is to be out of repair, and its movements to be disarranged by a trifling shock, which would have no effect upon one of such simple and powerful construction as that in our own sex. Not only do they often go wrong, but sometimes the serious shocks which they are liable to in this world will put them in a state which is past all repair.

We have no doubt that by this time the reader will say, “Never mind women’s minds, but mind your own business.” We left Emma in the drawing-room, rather astonished at our hero’s long speech, and still more by his (for the first time during their acquaintance) venturing to breathe a contrary opinion to her own sweet self.

Emma Phillips, although she pouted a little, and the colour had mounted to her temples, nevertheless looked very lovely as she pensively reclined on the sofa. Rebuked by him who had always been so attentive, so submissive—her creature as it were—she was mortified, as every pretty woman is, at any loss of power—any symptoms of rebellion on the part of a liege vassal; and then she taxed herself; had she done wrong? She had said, “Innocence and mystery did not walk hand in hand.” Was not that true? She felt that it was true, and her own opinion was corroborated by others, for she had read it in some book, either in Burke, or Rochefoucault, or some great author. Miss Phillips bit the tip of her nail and thought again. Yes, she saw how it was; our hero had risen in the world, was independent, and was well received in society; he was no longer the little Joey of Gravesend; he was now a person of some consequence, and he was a very ungrateful fellow; but the world was full of ingratitude; still she did think better of our hero; she certainly did. Well; at all events she could prove to him that—what?—she did not exactly know. Thus ended cogitation the second, after which came another series.

What had our hero said—what had he accused her of? That she no longer bestowed on him her confidence placed in him for many years. This was true; but were not the relative positions, was not the case different? Should he now retain any secret from her?—there should be no secrets between them. There again there was a full stop before the sentence was complete. After a little more reflection, her own generous mind pointed out to her that she had been in the wrong; and that our hero had cause to be offended with her; and she made up her mind to make reparation the first time that they should be alone.

Having come to this resolution, she dismissed the previous question, and began to think about the secret itself, and what it possibly could be, and how she wished she knew what it was; all of which was very natural. In the meantime our hero had made up his mind to leave Portsmouth, for a time at all events. This quarrel with Emma, if such it might be considered, had made him very miserable, and the anxiety he had lately suffered had seriously affected his health.