The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair—and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded.”

“Indeed! What was his name?”

“Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher—a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority—‘Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?”

“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” replied McShane. “So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?”

“The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where.”

“Indeed! are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure, sir; for I was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success.”

“What did the people say thereabouts? Was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?”

“I do not think there was. He gave evidence at the inquest, and so did I, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. I beg your pardon, sir—you say you are acquainted with Major McShane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?”

“I really cannot positively say,” replied McShane; “but this is not holiday-time. Come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. You must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as I am, I must treat myself and you too. I wish I knew where I could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low.”

Furness was now more than half drunk. “Well, sir,” said he; “I have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction.”

“I thought as much,” muttered McShane; “the infernal scoundrel! I suspect that you will find him where you are going to, Mr Furbish, he’s got that far by this time.”

“Between you and I, I think not, sir. My name is Furness, sir—I beg your pardon—not Furbish.”

“Why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?”

“The wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others,” replied Furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly.

“That’s truth, sir. Help yourself; you drink nothing. Excuse me one minute; I’ll be back directly.”

McShane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon Furness. As he expected, he found, on his return, that Furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him.

The conversation was renewed, and McShane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of Furness, who informed him that he had recognised the protégé of Major McShane to be the identical Joseph Rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. He concluded by observing to McShane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy’s capture. It was lucky for Furness that McShane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. The major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish Furness. At last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. Furness consented, and reeled out of the box; McShane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give Furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. As soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, McShane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. He then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised Furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. The sergeant told long stories, clapped Furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. “Say ‘yes,’ to please him,” said McShane in his ear. Furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for Portsmouth. All remonstrances were unavailing; McShane had feed (paid a fee to) the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let Furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate.

Chapter Twenty Six

In which our Hero again falls in with an Old Acquaintance

For nearly two years Joey had filled his situation as chancellor of the exchequer to Mrs Chopper. He certainly did not feel himself always in the humour or the disposition for business, especially during the hard winter months, when, seated almost immovably in the boat during the best portion of the day, he would find his fingers so completely dead, that he could not hold his pen. But there is no situation, under any of the powers that be, that has not some drawback. People may say that a sinecure is one that has not its disadvantages; but such is not the case—there is the disgrace of holding it. At all events, Joey’s place was no sinecure, for he was up early, and was employed the whole of the day.

Nancy, the young woman we have introduced to our readers, had contracted a great regard for our hero, ever since his offering her his money; and Joey was equally partial to her, for she possessed a warm heart and much good feeling, she would very often run upstairs into Mrs Chopper’s room, to talk with the old lady and to see Joey, and would then take out her thimble and needle, examine his clothes, and make the necessary repairs.

“I saw you walking with little Emma Phillips, Peter,” said Nancy: “where did you come to know her?”

“I met her in the road the day that I came down to Gravesend.”

“Well, I’m sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?”

“No; but I was unhappy, and she was very kind to me.”

“She’s a very sweet child, or rather, I can only say that she was, when I knew her?”

“When did you know her?”

“Four or five years ago. I lived for a short time with Mrs Phillips; that was when I was a good girl.”

“Yes, indeed, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

“Why ain’t you good, now, Nancy?” replied Joey.

“Because—” said Nancy.

“Because why?”

“Because I am not good,” replied the girl; “and now, Peter, don’t ask any more questions, or you’ll make me cry. Heigho! I think crying very pleasant now and then; one’s heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. Peter, where are your father and mother?”

“I don’t know; I left them at home.”

“You left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?”

“No.”

“But why not? I am sure they have brought you up well. They must be very good people—are they not?”

Joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had passed?

“You don’t answer me, Peter; don’t you love your father and mother dearly?”

“Yes, indeed I do; but I must not write to them.”

“Well, I must say there is something about Peter and his parents which I cannot understand, and which I have often tried to make him tell, and he will not,” said Mrs Chopper. “Poaching ain’t such a great crime, especially in a boy. I can’t see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, I hope, Peter, you have told me the truth?”

“I have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if I gave evidence against him, which I must do, if put to my oath. I’ve told you all I can tell; I must not tell of father, must I?”

“No, no, child; I dare say you are right,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Now, I don’t ask you to tell me, Peter,” said Nancy, “for I can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that’s the reason why you keep out of the way. Ain’t I right?”

“You are not far wrong,” replied Joey; “but I will not say a word more upon it.”

“And I won’t ask you, my little Peter; there—that’s done—and now I shall have a peep out of the window, for it’s very close here, Mrs Chopper.”

Nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the passers-by. “Mercy on us! here’s three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed,” cried she. “Who can it be? he’s a sailor. Why, I do believe it’s Sam Oxenham, that belongs to the Thomas and Mary of Sunderland. Poor fellow! Yes, it is him.”

Joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of Nancy.

“What soldiers are those?” inquired he.