The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Yes, child, but it must be a good mile ahead of you,” said the old woman, “and you must walk fast to overtake it.”

“I have had no breakfast yet, and I am hungry; do you sell your cakes?”

“Yes, child, what else do I make them for? three a penny, and cheap too.”

Joey felt in his pocket until he had selected a sixpence, and pulling it out, desired the old woman to give him cakes for it, and, taking the pile in his hand, he set off as fast as he could. As soon as he was out of sight, he again made his way into the fields, and breakfasted upon half his store. He then continued his journey until nearly one o’clock, when, tired out with his exertions, as soon as he had finished the remainder of his cakes, he laid down under a rick of corn, and fell fast asleep, having made twenty miles since he started. In his hurry to escape pursuit, and the many thoughts which occupied his brain, Joey had made no observation on the weather; if he had, he probably would have looked after some more secure shelter than the lee-side of a haystack. He slept soundly, and he had not been asleep more than an hour, when the wind changed, and the snow fell fast; nevertheless, Joey slept on, and probably never would have awakened more, had it not been that a shepherd and his dog were returning home in the evening, and happened to pass close to the haystack. By this time Joey had been covered with a layer of snow, half an inch deep, and had it not been for the dog, who went up to where he laid, and commenced pawing the snow off of him, he would have been passed by undiscovered by the shepherd, who, after some trouble, succeeded in rousing our hero from his torpor, and half dragging, half lifting him, contrived to lead him across one or two fields, until they arrived at a blacksmith’s shop, in a small village, before Joey could have been said to have recovered his scattered senses. Two hours’ more sleep and there would have been no further history to give of our little hero.

He was dragged to the forge, the fire of which glowed under the force of the bellows, and by degrees, as the warmth reached him, he was restored to self-possession. To the inquiries made as to who he was, and from where he came, he now answered as he had before arranged in his mind. His father and mother were a long way before him; he was going to London, but having been tired, he had fallen asleep under the haystack, and he was afraid that if he went not on to London directly, he never might find his father and mother again.

“Oh, then,” replied the shepherd, “they have gone on before, have they? Well, you’ll catch them, no doubt.”

The blacksmith’s wife, who had been a party to what was going on, now brought up a little warm ale, which quite re-established Joey; and at the same time a waggon drove up to the door, and stopped at the blacksmith’s shop.

“I must have a shoe tacked on the old mare, my friend,” said the driver. “You won’t be long?”

“Not five minutes,” replied the smith. “You’re going to London?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Here’s a poor boy that has been left behind by his father and mother somehow—you wouldn’t mind giving him a lift?”

“Well, I don’t know; I suppose I must be paid for it in the world to come.”

“And good pay too, if you earn it,” observed the blacksmith.

“Well, it won’t make much difference to my eight horses, I expect,” said the driver, looking at Joey; “so come along, youngster: you may perch yourself on top of the straw, above the goods.”

“First come in with me, child,” said the wife of the blacksmith; “you must have some good victuals to take with you—so, while you shoe the horse, John, I’ll see to the boy.”

The woman put before Joey a dish in which were the remains of more than one small joint, and our hero commenced his attack without delay.

“Have you any money, child?” inquired the woman.

Joey, who thought she might expect payment, replied, “Yes ma’am, I’ve got a shilling;” and he pulled one out of his pocket and laid it out on the table.

“Bless the child! what do you take me for, to think that I would touch your money? You are a long way from London yet, although you have got such a chance to get there. Do you know where to go when you get there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joey; “I shall get work in the stables, I believe.”

“Well, I dare say that you will; but in the meantime you had better save your shilling—so we’ll find something to put this meat and bread up for your journey. Are you quite warm now?”

“Yes, thank’ee, ma’am.”

Joey, who had ceased eating, had another warm at the fire, and in a few minutes, having bade adieu, and giving his thanks to the humane people, he was buried in the straw below the tilt of the waggon, with his provisions deposited beside him, and the waggon went on his slow and steady pace, to the tune of its own jingling bells. Joey, who had quite recovered from his chill, nestled among the straw, congratulating himself that he should now arrive safely in London, without more questioning. And such was the case: in three days and three nights, without any further adventure, he found himself, although he was not aware of it, in Oxford-street, somewhat about eight or nine o’clock in the evening.

“Do you know your way now, boy?” said the carman.

“I can ask it,” replied Joey, “as soon as I can go to the light and read the address. Good-bye, and thank you,” continued he, glad at last to be clear of any more evasive replies.

The carman shook him by the hand as they passed the Boar and Castle, and bade him farewell, and our hero found himself alone in the vast metropolis.

What was he to do? He hardly knew—but one thought struck him, which was, that he must find a bed for the night. He wandered up and down Oxford Street for some time, but every one walked so quick that he was afraid to speak to them: at last a little girl, of seven or eight years of age, passed by him, and looked him earnestly in the face.

“Can you tell me where I can get a bed for the night?” said Joey.

“Have you any brads?” was the reply.

“What are those?” said Joey.

“Any money, to be sure; why, you’re green—quite.”

“Yes, I have a shilling.”

“That will do—come along, and you shall sleep with me.”

Joey followed her very innocently, and very glad that he had been so fortunate. She led him to a street out of Tottenham-court-road, in which there were no lamps—the houses, however, were large, and many stories high.

“Take my hand,” said the girl, “and mind how you tread.”

Guided by his new companion, Joey arrived at a door that was wide open: they entered, and, assisted by the girl, he went up a dark staircase, to the second storey. She opened a room-door, when Joey found himself in company with about twenty other children, of about the same age, of both sexes. Here were several beds on the floor of the room, which was spacious. In the centre were huddled together on the floor, round a tallow candle, eight or ten of the inmates, two of them playing with a filthy pack of cards, while the others looked over them: others were lying down or asleep on the several beds. “This is my bed,” said the girl; “if you are tired you can turn in at once. I shan’t go to bed yet.”

Joey was tired, and he went to bed; it was not very clean, but he had been used to worse lodgings lately. It need hardly be observed that Joey had got into very bad company, the whole of the inmates of the room consisting of juvenile thieves and pickpockets, who in the course of time obtain promotion in their profession, until they are ultimately sent off to Botany Bay. Attempts have been made to check these nurseries of vice: but pseudo-philanthropists have resisted such barbarous innovation: and upon the Mosaic principle, that you must not seethe the kid in the mother’s milk, they are protected and allowed to arrive at full maturity, and beyond the chance of being reclaimed, until they are ripe for the penalties of the law.

Joey slept soundly, and when he awoke next morning found that his little friend was not with him. He dressed himself; and then made another discovery, which was, that every farthing of his money had been abstracted from his pockets. Of this unpleasant fact he ventured to complain to one or two boys, who were lying on other beds with their clothes on; they laughed at him, called him a greenhorn, and made use of other language, which at once let Joey know the nature of the company with whom he had been passing the night. After some altercation, three or four of them bundled him out of the room, and Joey found himself in the street without a farthing, and very much inclined to eat a good breakfast.

There is no portion of the world, small as it is in comparison with the whole, in which there is more to be found to eat and to drink, more comfortable lodgings, or accommodation and convenience of every kind, than in the metropolis of England, provided you have the means to obtain it; but notwithstanding this abundance, there is no place, probably, where you will find it more difficult to obtain a portion of it, if you happen to have an empty pocket.

Joey went into a shop here and there to ask for employment—he was turned away everywhere. He spent the first day in this manner, and at night, tired and hungry, he laid down on the stone steps of a portico, and fell asleep. The next morning he awoke shivering with the cold, faint with hunger. He asked at the areas for something to eat, but no one would give him anything. At a pump he obtained a drink of water—that was all he could obtain, for it cost nothing. Another day passed without food, and the poor boy again sheltered himself for the night at a rich man’s door in Berkeley-square.

Chapter Seven

If you want Employment go to London

The exhausted lad awoke again, and pursued his useless task of appeals for food and employment. It was a bright day, and there was some little warmth to be collected by basking in the rays of the sun, when our hero wended his way through Saint James’s Park, faint, hungry, and disconsolate. There were several people seated on the benches; and Joey, weak as he was, did not venture to go near them, but crawled along. At last, after wandering up and down, looking for pity in everybody’s face as they passed, and receiving none, he felt that he could not stand much longer, and emboldened by desperation, he approached a bench that was occupied by one person. At first he only rested on the arm of the bench, but, as the person sitting down appeared not to observe him, he timidly took a seat at the farther end. The personage who occupied the other part of the bench was a man dressed in a morning suit à la militaire and black stock. He had clean gloves and a small cane in his hand, with which he was describing circles on the gravel before him, evidently in deep thought. In height he was full six feet, and his proportions combined strength with symmetry. His features were remarkably handsome, his dark hair had a natural curl, and his whiskers and mustachios (for he wore those military appendages) were evidently the objects of much attention and solicitude. We may as well here observe, that although so favoured by nature, still there would have been considered something wanting in him by those who had been accustomed to move in the first circles, to make him the refined gentleman. His movements and carriage were not inelegant, but there was a certain retinue wanting. He bowed well, but still it was not exactly the bow of a gentleman. The nursery-maids as they passed by said, “Dear me, what a handsome gentleman!” but had the remark been made by a higher class, it would have been qualified into “What a handsome man!” His age was apparently about five-and-thirty—it might have been something more. After a short time he left off his mechanical amusements, and turning round, perceived little Joey at the farther end. Whether from the mere inclination to talk, or that he thought it presuming in our hero to seat himself upon the same bench, he said to him—

“I hope you are comfortable, my little man; but perhaps you’ve forgot your message.”

“I have no message, sir, for I know no one: and I am not comfortable, for I am starving,” replied Joey, in a tremulous voice.

“Are you in earnest now, when you say that, boy; or is it that you’re humbugging me?”

Joey shook his head. “I have eaten nothing since the day before yesterday morning, and I feel faint and sick,” replied he at last.

His new companion looked earnestly in our hero’s face, and was satisfied that what he said was true.

“As I hope to be saved,” exclaimed he, “it’s my opinion that a little bread and butter would not be a bad thing for you. Here,” continued he, putting his hand into his coat-pocket, “take these coppers, and go and get some thing into your little vitals.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you, kindly. But I don’t know where to go: I only came up to London two days ago.”

“Then follow me as fast as your little pins can carry you,” said the other. They had not far to go, for a man was standing close to Spring-garden-gate with hot tea and bread and butter, and in a few moments Joey’s hunger was considerably appeased.

“Do you feel better now, my little cock?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

“That’s right, and now we will go back to the bench, and then you shall tell me all about yourself; just to pass away the time. Now,” said he, as he took his seat, “in the first place, who is your father, if you have any; and if you haven’t any, what was he?”

“Father and mother are both alive, but they are a long way off. Father was a soldier, and he has a pension now.”

“A soldier! Do you know in what regiment?”

“Yes, it was the 53rd, I think.”

“By the powers, my own regiment! And what is your name, then, and his?”

“Rushbrook,” replied Joey.

“My pivot man, by all that’s holy. Now haven’t you nicely dropped on your feet?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied our hero.

“But I do; your father was the best fellow I had in my company—the best forager, and always took care of his officer, as a good man should do. If there was a turkey, or a goose, or a duck, or a fowl, or a pig within ten miles of us, he would have it: he was the boy for poaching. And now tell me (and mind you tell the truth when you meet with a friend) what made you leave your father and mother?”

“I was afraid of being taken up—” and here Joey stopped, for he hardly knew what to say; trust his new acquaintance with his father’s secret he dare not, neither did he like to tell what was directly false; as the reader will perceive by his reply, he partly told the truth.

“Afraid of being taken up! Why, what could they take up a spalpeen like you for?”

“Poaching,” replied Joey; “father poached too: they had proof against me, so I came away with father’s consent.”

“Poaching! well, I’m not surprised at that, for if ever it was in the blood, it is in yours—that’s truth. And what do you mean to do now?”

“Anything I can to earn my bread.”

“What can you do—besides poaching, of course? Can you read and write?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you like to be a servant—clean boots, brush clothes, stand behind a cab, run messages, carry notes, and hold your tongue?”

“I could do all that, I think—I am twelve years old.”

“The devil you are! Well then, for your father’s sake, I’ll see what I can do for you, till you can do better. I’ll fit you out as a tiger, and what’s more, unless I am devilish hard up, I won’t sell you. So come along. What’s your name?”

“Joey.”

“Sure that was your father’s name before you, I now recollect and should any one take the trouble to ask you what may be the name of your master, you may reply, with a safe conscience, that it’s Captain O’Donahue. Now come along. Not close after me—you may as well keep open file just now, till I’ve made you look a little more decent.”

Chapter Eight

A Dissertation upon Pedigree

Our readers will not perhaps be displeased if we introduce Captain O’Donahue more particularly to their notice: we shall therefore devote this chapter to giving some account of his birth, parentage, and subsequent career. If the father of Captain O’Donahue was to be believed, the race of the O’Donahues were kings in Ireland long before the O’Connors were ever heard of. How far this may be correct we cannot pretend to offer an opinion, further than that no man can be supposed to know so much of a family’s history as the descendant himself. The documents were never laid before us, and we have only the positive assertion of the Squireen O’Donahue, who asserted not only that they were kings in Ireland before the O’Connors, whose pretensions to ancestry he treated with contempt, but further, that they were renowned for their strength, and were famous for using the longest bows in battle that were ever known or heard of. Here we have circumstantial evidence, although not proof. If strong, they might have been kings in Ireland, for there “might has been right” for many centuries; and certainly their acquirements were handed down to posterity, as no one was more famous for drawing the long bow than the Squireen O’Donahue. Upon these points, however, we must leave our readers to form their own opinions. Perhaps some one more acquainted with the archives of the country may be able to set us right if we are wrong, or to corroborate our testimony if we are right. In his preface to “Anne of Geierstein,” Sir Walter Scott observes, that “errors, however trivial, ought, in his opinion, never to be pointed out to the author without meeting with a candid and respectful acknowledgement.” Following the example of so great a man, we can only say, that if any gentleman can prove or disprove the assertion of the Squireen O’Donahue, to wit, that the O’Donahues were kings of Ireland long before the O’Connors were heard of; we shall be most happy to acknowledge the favour, and insert his remarks in the next edition. We should be further obliged to the same party, or indeed, any other, it they would favour us with an idea of what was implied by a king of Ireland in those days; that is to say, whether he held a court, taxed his subjects, collected revenue, kept up a standing army, sent ambassadors to foreign countries, and did all which kings do nowadays? or whether his shillelagh was his sceptre, and his domain some furze-crowned hills and a bog, the intricacies of which were known only to himself? whether he was arrayed in jewelled robes, with a crown of gold weighing on his temples? or whether he went bare-legged and bare-armed, with his bare locks flowing in luxurious wildness to the breeze? We request an answer to this in full simplicity. We observe that even in Ireland now, a fellow six feet high, and stout in proportion, is called a “prince of a fellow,” although he has not wherewithal to buy a paper of tobacco to supply his dhudeen: and, arguing from this fact, we are inclined to think that a few more inches in stature, and commensurate muscular increase of power, would in former times have raised the “heir-apparent” to the dignity of the Irish throne. But these abstruse speculations have led us from our history, which we must now resume.

Whatever may once have been the importance of the house of O’Donahue, one thing is certain, that there are many ups and downs in this world; every family in it has its wheel of fortune, which revolves faster or slower as the fates decree, and the descendant of kings before the O’Connor’s time was now descended into a species of Viceroy, Squireen O’Donahue being the steward of certain wild estates in the county of Galway, belonging to a family who for many years had shown a decided aversion to the natural beauties of the country, and had thought proper to migrate to where, if people were not so much attached to them, they were at all events more civilised. These estates were extensive, but not lucrative. They abounded in rocks, brushwood, and woodcocks during the season; and although the Squireen O’Donahue did his best, if not for his employer, at least for himself; it was with some difficulty that he contrived to support, with anything like respectability (which in that part of the country means “dacent clothes to wear”), a very numerous family, lineally descended from the most ancient of all the kings of Ireland.

Before the squireen had obtained his employment, he had sunk his rank and travelled much—as a courier—thereby gaining much knowledge of the world. If, therefore, he had no wealth to leave his children, at all events he could impart to them that knowledge which is said to be better than worldly possessions. Having three sons and eight daughters, all of them growing up healthy and strong, with commensurate appetites, he soon found that it was necessary to get rid of them as fast as he could. His eldest, who, strange to say, for an O’Donahue, was a quiet lad, he had as a favour lent to his brother, who kept a small tobacconist and grocer’s shop in Dublin, and his brother was so fond of him, that eventually O’Carroll O’Donahue was bound to him as an apprentice. It certainly was a degradation for the descendant of such ancient kings to be weighing out pennyworths of sugar, and supplying halfpenny papers of tobacco to the old apple and fish women; but still there we must leave the heir-apparent while we turn to the second son, Mr Patrick O’Donahue, whose history we are now relating, having already made the reader acquainted with him by an introduction in Saint James’s Park.

Chapter Nine

In which the Advice of a Father deserves Peculiar Attention

It may be supposed that, as steward of the estates, Squireen O’Donahue had some influence over the numerous tenants on the property, and this influence he took care to make the most of. His assistance in a political contest was rewarded by the offer of an ensigncy for one of his sons, in a regiment then raising in Ireland, and this offer was too good to be refused. So, one fine day, Squireen O’Donahue came home from Dublin, well bespattered with mud, and found his son Patrick also well bespattered with mud, having just returned home from a very successful expedition against the woodcocks.

“Patrick, my jewel,” said the Squireen, taking a seat and wiping his face, for he was rather warm with his ride, “you’re a made man.”

“And well made too, father, if the girls are anything of judges,” replied Patrick.

“You put me out,” replied the Squireen; “you’ve more to be vain of than your figure.”

“And what may that be that you’re discoursing about father?”

“Nothing more nor less, nor better nor worse, but you’re an ensign in his Majesty’s new regiment—the number has escaped my memory.”

“I’d rather be a colonel, father,” replied Patrick, musing.

“The colonel’s to come, you spalpeen,” said the Squireen.

“And the fortune to make, I expect,” replied Patrick.

“You’ve just hit it but haven’t you the whole world before you to pick and choose?”

“Well,” replied Patrick, after a pause; “I’ve no objection.”

“No objection! Why don’t you jump out of your skin with delight? At all events, you might jump high enough to break in the caling.”

“There’s no ceiling to break,” replied Patrick, looking up at the rafters.

“That’s true enough; but still you might go out of your seven senses in a rational sort of a way.”

“I really can’t see for why, father dear. You tell me I’m to leave my poor old mother, who doats upon me; my sisters, who are fond of me; my friends here,” patting the dogs, “who follow me; the hills, that I love; and the woodcocks, which I shoot; to go to be shot at myself, and buried like a dead dog, without being skinned, on the field of battle.”

“I tell you to go forth into the world as an officer, and make your fortune; to come back a general, and be the greatest man of your family. And don’t be too unhappy about not being skinned. Before you are older or wiser, dead or alive, you’ll be skinned, I’ll answer for it.”

“Well, father, I’ll go; but I expect there’ll be a good deal of ground to march over before I’m a general.”

“And you’ve a good pair of legs.”

“So I’m told every day of my life. I’ll make the best use of them when I start; but it’s the starting I don’t like, and that’s the real truth.”

The reader may be surprised at the indifference shown by Patrick at the intelligence communicated by his father; but the fact was, Mr Patrick O’Donahue was very deep in love. This cooled his national ardour; and it must be confessed that there was every excuse, for a more lovely creature than Judith McCrae never existed. To part with her was the only difficulty, and all his family feelings were but a cloak to the real cause of his unwillingness.