The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“What, then, are your present intentions?” inquired our hero.

“I wish you to return with me to your hotel,” replied Mr S—; “I will then take a chaise, and leave for Scotland as fast as four horses can carry us, and unite myself to Miriam, and, as soon as I can, I shall leave the country, which will be the best step to allow their rage and indignation to cool.”

“I think your plan is good,” replied Joey, “and I am at your service.”

In a few minutes Mr S— and our hero went out by the back way into the mews, and, as soon as they came to a stand, took a coach and drove to the hotel.

They had not, however, been in company with Miriam more than five minutes, when the waiter entered the room in great alarm, stating that two gentlemen were forcing their way upstairs in spite of the landlord and others, who were endeavouring to prevent them. The fact was, that our hero and Mr S— had been perceived by Joseph and his father as they came out of the mews, and they had immediately followed them, taking a coach at the same stand, and desiring the coachman to follow the one our hero and Mr S— had gone into.

The waiter had hardly time to make the communication before the door was forced open, and the man was so terrified, that he retreated behind our hero and Mr S—, into whose arms Miriam had thrown herself for protection. The father and brother did not, however, enter without resistance on the part of the landlord and waiters, who followed, remonstrating and checking them; but Joseph broke from them with his dagger drawn: it was wrenched from him by our hero, who dashed forward. The enraged Israelite then caught up a heavy bronze clock which was on the sideboard, and crying out, “This for the Gaw and the Meshumed!” (the infidel and the apostate), he hurled it at them with all his strength: it missed the parties it was intended for, but striking the waiter who had retreated behind them, fractured his skull, and he fell senseless upon the floor.

Upon this outrage the landlord and his assistants rushed upon Joseph and his father; the police were sent for, and after a desperate resistance, the Israelites were taken away to the police office, leaving Mr S— and Miriam at liberty. Our hero was, however, requested by the police to attend at the examination, and, of course, could not refuse. The whole party had been a quarter of an hour waiting until another case was disposed of, before the magistrate could attend to them, when the surgeon came in and acquainted them that the unfortunate waiter had expired. The depositions were taken down, and both father and son were committed, and Joey, and some others bound over to appear as witnesses. In about two hours our hero was enabled to return to the hotel, where he found that Mr S— had left a note for him, stating that he considered it advisable to start immediately, lest they should require his attendance at the police-court, and he should be delayed, which would give time to the relations of Miriam to take up the question: he had, therefore, set off, and would write to him as soon as he possibly could.

This affair made some noise, and appeared in all the newspapers, and our hero therefore sat down and wrote a detailed account of the whole transaction (as communicated to him by Mr S—), which he despatched to Portsmouth. He made inquiries, and found that the sessions would come on in a fortnight, and that the grand jury would sit in a few days. He therefore made up his mind that he would not think of returning to Portsmouth until the trial was over, and in his next letter he made known his intentions, and then set off for Richmond, where he had been advised to remain for a short time, as being more favourable to an invalid than the confined atmosphere of London.

Our hero found amusement in rowing about in a wherry, up and down the river, and replying to the letters received from Mary and from Portsmouth. He also received a letter from Mr S—, informing him of his marriage, and requesting that as soon as the trial was over he would write to him. Our hero’s health also was nearly re-established, when he was informed that his attendance was required at the court to give his evidence in the case of manslaughter found by the grand jury against Joseph, the brother of Miriam.

He arrived in town, and attended the court on the following day, when the trial was to take place. A short time after the cause came on he was placed in the witness-box. At the time that he gave his depositions before the magistrate he had not thought about his name having been changed; but now that he was sworn, and had declared he would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, when the counsel asked him if his name was not Joseph O’Donahue, our hero replied that it was Joseph Rushbrook.

“Your deposition says Joseph O’Donahue. How is this? Have you an alias, like many others, sir?” inquired the counsel.

“My real name is Rushbrook, but I have been called O’Donahue for some time,” replied our hero.

This reply was the occasion of the opposite counsel making some very severe remarks; but the evidence of our hero was taken, and was indeed considered very favourable to the prisoner, as Joey stated that he was convinced the blow was never intended for the unfortunate waiter, but for Mr S—.

After about an hour’s examination our hero was dismissed, and in case that he might be recalled, returned as directed to the room where the witnesses were assembled.

Chapter Forty Four

In which the Tide of Fortune turns against our Hero

As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,—“Step this way, if you please, sir; I have something to say to you.”

Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, “Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?”

“Yes,” replied Joey, “that is my true name.”

“Why did you change it?” demanded the officer.

“I had reasons,” replied our hero.

“Yes, and I’ll tell you the reasons,” rejoined the other. “You were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated.”

Joey’s heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.

As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.

Joey replied that it was.

“Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?” demanded the magistrate.

“Nothing, except that I am not guilty,” replied Joey.

“I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me,” observed the peace-officer; “he was but a lad then.”

“He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance,” observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. “I now perfectly recollect the affair.”

The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him—the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of Emma—and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would not—one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter.

“It shall go safe enough, young master,” replied the man. “Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?” continued the man; “we’ve been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Joey; “I am twenty-two.”

“Then don’t you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done—for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that—and it won’t be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you’ll cross the water, that’s all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can.”

Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.

“What is the matter, Mary?” said Mrs Austin.

“I have received a letter from my brother, madam,” replied Mary; “he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately.”

“Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?” asked Mrs Austin.

Mary did not reply, but wept more.

“Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?”

“He is in prison, madam.”

“In prison for debt, I suppose?”

“No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of.”

“Murder!” exclaimed Mrs Austin, “and not guilty! Why—when—and where did this murder take place?”

“Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child.”

“How very strange!” thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. “But where, Mary?”

“Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford.”

Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary’s arm, said in a solemn tone—

“Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy is your brother—tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary.”

“He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one,” replied Mary.

“Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?”