The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“But did he ever do so before?”

“Not by night, if he did by day. I can’t tell; he always has had a hankering that way.”

“Well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. Why do you keep a gun?”

“I’ve carried a gun all my life,” replied Rushbrook, “and I don’t choose to be without one: but that’s not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?”

“Why, you see, friend Rushbrook,” replied the schoolmaster, “advice in this question becomes rather difficult. If Joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?”

“Hand in it—hand in what?” replied Rushbrook. “Do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?”

“I should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. That will acquit you; but still, it will not help Joey; neither do I think you will be able to recover the gun, which I anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor.”

“But, the child—what will become of him?” exclaimed Jane.

“What will become of him?—why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him—at least, I should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. I do not see what you can do but remain quiet. I should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more.”

“But suppose we do not hear?”

“That is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition.”

“What else could the boy have gone out for?” said Rushbrook, hastily.

“Very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder,” replied the pedagogue.

At the word “murder” Rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again.

“No, no, Joey commit murder!” cried he. “Ha, ha, ha—no, no, Joey is no murderer.”

“I should suspect not. Well, Master Rushbrook, I will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. Byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house.”

“Byres help you, did you say? No, no, Byres never will,” replied Rushbrook, solemnly.

“And why not, my friend?”

“Why,” replied Rushbrook, recollecting himself, “he has not been over cordial with me lately.”

“Nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can,” replied Furness; “if not for you, he will for me. Good morning, Mrs Rushbrook, I will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?” continued Furness, appealing to Rushbrook.

“I will go another way; it’s no use both going the same road.”

“Very true,” replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of Rushbrook, and Furness then left the house.

Mr Furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of Joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. He then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse.

Although Mr Furness had advised secrecy to the Rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished Rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that Joey Rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father’s gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. Some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever.

Mr Furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find Byres the pedlar. When he arrived, he found that Byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. Mr Furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to Rushbrook, but on calling, he found that Rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. Furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper’s lodge, and solve the mystery. He took the high road, and met Rushbrook returning.

“Well, have you gained any tidings,” inquired the pedagogue.

“None,” replied Rushbrook.

“Then it’s my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper’s cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, I have been to the ale-house, and my friend Byres is also missing.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. “Be it so, then; let us go to the keeper’s.”

They soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. Rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak.

“You haven’t taken my poor Joey, have you, sir?” said he to the keeper.

“Not yet,” replied the keeper, surlily.

“You don’t mean to say that you know nothing about him?” replied Rushbrook.

“Yes, I know something about him and about you too, my chap,” replied the keeper.

“But, Mr Lucas,” interrupted the pedagogue, “allow me to put you in possession of the facts. It appears that this boy—a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father’s gun, and has not been heard of since.”

“Well, I only hope he’s shot himself, that’s all,” replied the keeper. “So you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?” continued he, turning to Rushbrook.

“Which,” replied Furness, “as I have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, Mr Lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, Byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the Cat and Fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since.”

“Indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. I think you were not the best of friends, were you?” said the keeper, looking at Rushbrook; and then he continued, “Come, Mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for Dick and Martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. Never fear, Mr Furness, we will soon find it out. Never fear, my chap, we’ll find your son also, and your gun to boot. You may hear more than you think for.”

“All I want to know,” replied Rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, “is, where my boy may be.” So saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper.

As Rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for Joey. This conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. In the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. The gun, however, which Joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. None could identify the gun, as Rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. Lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it.

Such were the events of the first day after Joey’s departure. Notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the Cat and Fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. Various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little Joey. The keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed.

Rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

A Coroner’s Inquest

Day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. The snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. This brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar.

“Murder, as I expected,” said Lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; “right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? Look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. What is Nap scratching at?—a bag—take it up, Martin. Dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the Cat and Fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more.”

In a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities.

Furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to Rushbrook’s cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. Rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared.

“My good people, I am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, I feel for you—your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar.”

“Impossible!” cried Rushbrook.

“It is but too true; I cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition—nay, Mrs Rushbrook, don’t cry—brought up, I may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly—”

“He never murdered the pedlar!” cried Jane, whose face was buried in her apron.

“Who then could have?” replied Furness.

“He never shot him intentionally, I’ll swear,” said Rushbrook; “if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. I suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away.”

“Well,” replied the schoolmaster, “such may have been the case; and I do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like Joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty—I may add, religiously and piously instructed—could ever commit such a horrible crime.”

“Indeed, he never did,” replied Jane; “I am sure he never would do such a thing.”

“Well, I must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; I will go down to the Cat and Fiddle, and hear what they say,” cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage.

“Jane, be careful,” said Rushbrook; “our great point now is to say nothing. I wish that man would not come here.”

“Oh, Rushbrook!” cried Jane, “what would I give if we could live these last three days over again.”

“Then imagine, Jane, what I would give!” replied Rushbrook, striking his forehead; “and now say no more about it.”

At twelve o’clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner’s inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. On examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar’s purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person.

The first person examined was a man of the name of Green, who had found the gun in the ditch. The gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong.

The next party who gave his evidence was Lucas, the game-keeper. He deposed that he knew the pedlar, Byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that Byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from Rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but Rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that Byres had informed him on the Saturday night before the murder was committed, that Rushbrook was to be out on Monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. Byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when Rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, Joey. As the boy was missing on Monday morning, and Byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on Saturday night, he presumed that it was on the Sunday night that the pedlar was murdered.

The keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it.

The evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of Martin and Dick, the underkeepers.

Mr Furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the Rushbrooks. He deposed that, calling at the cottage, on Monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father’s gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to Rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that Rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. Mr Furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little Joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. Mr Furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business.

It was then suggested that Rushbrook and his wife should be examined. There was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance.

Mrs Rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. She did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, “If he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder.” Nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed.

Rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. He had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all.

“Do you know at what time your son left the cottage?”

“I do not.”

“Does that gun belong to you?”

“Yes, it is mine.”

“Do you know that bag?”

“Yes, it belongs to me.”

“It has been used for putting game into—has it not?”

“I shall not answer that question. I’m not on trial.”

Many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. Rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to Joey. After summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of Wilful Murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero’s apprehension.

Chapter Nineteen

A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed

Rushbrook and Jane returned to their cottage. Jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband’s arms. “You are saved at least,” she cried: “thank Heaven for that! You are spared. Alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us.”

Rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. Jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. Had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. As it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. No one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. She was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. It was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed.

To do Rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. He was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. He, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had Rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. His courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers—and so he was by his companions—as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company.

We are the creatures of circumstances. Frederick of Prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. The savant did so, and turning to the king, said, “Sire, this person,” pointing to the highwayman, “whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. As for the other, he is quite in a different line. He may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier.” The king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; “for,” as he very rightly observed, “what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?”

“Calm yourself, dear Jane,” said Rushbrook; “all is well now.”

“All well!—yes; but my poor child—200 pounds offered for his apprehension! If they were to take him!”

“I have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. It is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof.”

“But they have hanged people upon less proof before now, Rushbrook.”

“Jane,” replied Rushbrook, “our boy shall never be hanged—I promise you that; so make your mind easy.”

“Then you must confess, to save him; and I shall lose you.”

A step at the door interrupted their colloquy. Rushbrook opened it, and Mr Furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance.

“Well, my good friends, I am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine.”

“You!” exclaimed Rushbrook; “why, did they call you up?”

“Yes, and put me on my oath. An oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth.”

“And what had you to tell?” inquired Rushbrook, with surprise.

“Had to tell—why, I had to tell what you told me this morning; and I had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little Joey, poor fellow. Wilful Murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!”

Rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt.

“Pray, may I ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if I recollect right, you desired me to be secret.”

“Very true, and so I did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, I suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath.”

“I don’t understand it,” replied Rushbrook; “they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that I had told you anything?”

“My dear friend, you don’t understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct—as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,—you see—”

“Yes, I do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week,” replied Rushbrook, turning away.

“And why do I go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely—yourself, for instance? How often have I seen you home?”

“Yes, when you were drunk and I was—” Jane put her hand upon her husband’s mouth.

“And you were what, friend?” inquired Furness, anxiously.

“Worse than you, perhaps. And now, friend Furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, I wish you a good night.”

“Shall I see you down at the Cat and Fiddle?”

“Not for some time, if ever, friend Furness, that you may depend upon.”

“Never go to the Cat and Fiddle! A little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although I should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you—”

“And drink half my ale, eh? No, no, friend Furness, those days are gone.”

“Well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. Mrs Rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?”

“I have none to spare,” replied Jane, turning away; “you should have applied to the magistrates for beer.”

“Oh, just as you please,” replied the pedagogue; “it certainly does ruffle people’s temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. Good night.”

Furness banged the cottage door as he went out.

Rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, “He’s a scoundrel.”

“I think so too,” replied Jane; “but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank God for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. Come, dearest.”

The next morning Mrs Rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. Rushbrook’s indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge.

Whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for Rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. The gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend Furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. The consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever.

One Saturday night, Rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with Furness, went down to the ale-house. Furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. Rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. One word brought on another, till Furness challenged Rushbrook to come outside and have it out. This was just what Rushbrook wished, and after half an hour Furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. As soon as this revenge had been taken, Rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and Jane went; and Furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown.