Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
“‘As she evidently did not perceive us, we continued our course towards her; the men were summoned to their quarters, and, in a very short time, were ready to uphold the honour of the English flag. The first collision between the two vessels was dreadful; but she contrived to disengage herself, and we were therefore prevented carrying her by boarding. After repeated broadsides, to which, in her disabled and confused state, she could make no return, she gradually increased her distance; still, she had remained in our hands, a proud trophy—I say, still she had been a proud trophy—had not the unequal collision’—(it was a very unequal collision, for she was a much smaller vessel than we were)—‘carried away our foreyard, cat-head, fore-top-gallant mast, jibboom, and dolphin-striker, and rendered us, from the state of our rigging, a mere wreck. Favoured by the thick fog and darkness of the night, I regret that, after all our efforts, she contrived to escape, and the spoils of victory were wrested from us after all our strenuous exertions in our country’s cause.
“‘When all performed their duty in so exemplary a manner, it would be unfair, and, indeed, invidious, to particularise, still, I cannot refrain from mentioning the good conduct of Mr Smith, my first lieutenant; Mr Bowles, my second lieutenant; Mr Chabb, my worthy master; Mr Jones and Mr James, master’s mates; Messrs Hall, Small, Ball, and Pall, midshipmen; and Messrs Sweet and Sharp, volunteers. I also received every assistance from Mr Grulf, the purser, who offered his services, and I cannot omit the conduct of Mr Spikeman, clerk. I am also highly indebted to the attention and care shown by Mr Thorn, surgeon, who is so well supported in his duties by Mr Green, assistant-surgeon, of this ship. The activity of Mr Bruce, the boatswain, was deserving of the highest encomiums; and it would be an act of injustice not to notice the zeal of Mr Bile, the carpenter, and Mr Sponge, gunner of the ship. James Anderson, quarter-master, received a severe contusion, but is now doing well; I trust I shall not be considered presumptuous in recommending him to a boatswain’s warrant.
“‘I am happy to say that our casualties, owing to the extreme panic of the enemy, are very few. I have the honour to be, Sir, your very obedient and humble servant, Alcibiades Ajax Boggs.
“‘Wounded—Very severely, James Anderson, quarter-master. Contusions—John Peters, able seaman; James Morrison, marine; Thomas Snowball, captain’s cook.’
“There, now; that I consider a very capital letter; no Frenchman, not even an American, could have made out a better case. The Admiralty were satisfied that something very gallant had been done, although the fog made it appear not quite so clear as it might have been; and the consequence was, that my commander received his promotion. There, now, write your letter, and tell your sister that she must answer it as soon as possible, as you are going out with me for orders in three or four days, and shall be absent for three months.”
Joey wrote a long letter to Mary; he stated the adventure with the two scoundrels who would have robbed him, his afterwards falling in with a gentleman who dealt in cutlery, and his being taken into his service; and, as Spikeman had told him, requested her to answer directly, as he was about to set off on a circuit with his master, which would occasion his absence for three months.
Mary’s reply came before Joey’s departure. She stated that she was comfortable and happy, that her mistress was very kind to her, but that she felt that the work was rather too much; however, she would do her duty to her employers. There was much good advice to Joey, much affectionate feeling, occasional recurrence to past scenes, and thankfulness that she was no longer a disgrace to her parents and her sex; it was a humble, grateful, contrite, and affectionate effusion, which did honour to poor Mary, and proved that she was sincere in her assertions of continuing in the right path, and dotingly attached to our hero. Joey read it over and over again, and shed tears of pleasure as he recalled the scenes which had passed. Poor Joey had lost his father and mother, as he supposed, for ever; and it was soothing to the boy’s feelings to know that there were some people in the world who loved him; and he remained for hours thinking of Mary, Mrs Chopper, and his good and kind friends, the McShanes.
Two days after the receipt of Mary’s letter, Spikeman and Joey went to the houses of their various acquaintances, and bade them adieu, announcing their intention to set off on the circuit. Spikeman paid up everything, and put away many articles in his room which had been taken out for use. Joey and he then put on their travelling garments, and, waiting till it was dusk, locked the chambers and set off to the little public-house, where the knife-grinder’s wheel had been deposited. Spikeman had taken the precaution to smudge and dirty his face, and Joey, at his request, had done the same. When they entered the public-house, the landlord greeted Spikeman warmly, and asked him what he had been about. Spikeman replied that, as usual, he had been to see his old mother, and now he must roll his grindstone a bit. After drinking a pot of beer at the kitchen fire, they retired to bed; and the next morning, at daylight, they once more proceeded on their travels.
Chapter Twenty Nine
In which the Tinker falls in Love with a Lady of High Degree
For many months Spikeman and our hero travelled together, during which time Joey had learnt to grind a knife or a pair of scissors as well as Spikeman himself, and took most of the work off his hands; they suited each other, and passed their time most pleasantly, indulging themselves every day with a few hours’ repose and reading on the wayside.
One afternoon, when it was very sultry, they had stopped and ensconced themselves in a shady copse by the side of the road, not far from an old mansion, which stood on an eminence, when Spikeman said, “Joey, I think we are intruding here; and, if so, may be forcibly expelled, which will not be pleasant; so roll the wheel in, out of sight, and then we may indulge in a siesta, which, during this heat, will be very agreeable.”
“What’s a siesta?” said Joey.
“A siesta is a nap in the middle of the day, universally resorted to by the Spaniards, Italians, and, indeed, by all the inhabitants of hot climates; with respectable people it is called a siesta, but with a travelling tinker it must be, I suppose, called a snooze.”
“Well, then, a snooze let it be,” said Joey, taking his seat on the turf by Spikeman, in a reclining position.
They had not yet composed themselves to sleep, when they heard a female voice singing at a little distance. The voice evidently proceeded from the pleasure-grounds which were between them and the mansion.
“Hush!” said Spikeman, putting up his finger, as he raised himself on his elbow.
The party evidently advanced nearer to them, and carolled in very beautiful tones, the song of Ariel:—
“Where the bee sucks, there lurk I,
In the cowslip’s bell I lie,” etcetera.
“Heigho!” exclaimed a soft voice, after the song had been finished; “I wish I could creep into a cowslip-bell. Miss Araminta, you are not coming down the walk yet; it appears you are in no hurry, so I’ll begin my new book.”
After this soliloquy there was silence. Spikeman made a sign to Joey to remain still, and then, creeping on his hands and knees, by degrees arrived as far as he could venture to the other side of the copse.
In a minute or two another footstep was heard coming down the gravel-walk, and soon afterwards another voice.
“Well, Melissa, did you think I never would come? I could not help it. Uncle would have me rub his foot a little.”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” replied the first young lady. “Well, it was a sacrifice of friendship at the altar of humanity. Poor papa! I wish I could rub his foot for him; but I always do it to a quadrille tune, and he always says I rub it too hard. I only follow the music.”
“Yes, and so does he; for you sometimes set him a dancing, you giddy girl.”
“I am not fit for a nurse, and that’s the fact, Araminta. I can feel for him, but I cannot sit still a minute; that you know. Poor mamma was a great loss; and, when she died, I don’t know what I should have done, if it hadn’t been for my dear cousin Araminta.”
“Nay, you are very useful in your way, for you play and sing to him, and that soothes him.”
“Yes, I do it with pleasure, for I can do but little else; but, Araminta, my singing is that of the caged bird. I must sing where they hang my cage. Oh, how I wish I had been a man!”
“I believe that there never was a woman yet who has not, at one time of her life, said the same thing, however mild and quiet she may have been in disposition. But, as we cannot, why—”
“Why, the next thing is to wish to be a man’s wife, Araminta—is it not?”
“It is natural, I suppose, to wish so,” replied Araminta; “but I seldom think about it. I must first see the man I can love before I think about marrying.”
“And now tell me, Araminta, what kind of a man do you think you could fancy?”
“I should like him to be steady, generous, brave, and handsome; of unexceptionable family, with plenty of money; that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all! I admire your ‘that’s all.’ You are not very likely to meet with your match, I’m afraid. If he’s steady, he is not very likely to be very generous; and if to those two qualifications you tack on birth, wealth, beauty, and bravery, I think your ‘that’s all’ is very misplaced. Now, I have other ideas.”
“Pray let me have them, Melissa.”
“I do not want my husband to be very handsome; but I wish him to be full of fire and energy—a man that—in fact, a man that could keep me in tolerable order. I do not care about his having money, as I have plenty in my own possession to bestow on any man I love; but he must be of good education—very fond of reading—romantic, not a little; and his extraction must be, however poor, respectable,—that is, his parents must not have been tradespeople. You know I prefer riding a spirited horse to a quiet one; and, if I were to marry, I should like a husband who would give me some trouble to manage. I think I would master him.”
“So have many thought before you, Melissa; but they have been mistaken.”
“Yes, because they have attempted it by meekness and submission, thinking to disarm by that method. It never will do, any more than getting into a passion. When a man gives up his liberty, he does make a great sacrifice—that I’m sure of; and a woman should prevent him feeling that he is chained to her.”
“And how would you manage that?” said Araminta.
“By being infinite in my variety, always cheerful, and instead of permitting him to stay at home, pinned to my apron-string, order him out away from me, join his amusements, and always have people in the house that he liked, so as to avoid being too much tête-à-tête. The caged bird ever wants to escape; open the doors, and let him take a flight, and he will come back of his own accord. Of course, I am supposing my gentleman to be naturally good-hearted and good-tempered. Sooner than marry what you call a steady, sober man, I’d run away with a captain of a privateer. And, one thing more, Araminta, I never would, passionately, distractedly fond as I might be, acknowledge to my husband the extent of my devotion and affection for him. I would always have him to suppose that I could still love him better than what I yet did—in short, that there was more to be gained; for, depend upon it, when a man is assured that he has nothing more to gain, his attentions are over. You can’t expect a man to chase nothing, you know.”
“You are a wild girl, Melissa. I only hope you will marry well.”
“I hope I shall; but I can tell you this, that if I do make a mistake, at all events my husband will find that he has made a mistake also. There’s a little lurking devil in me, which, if roused up by bad treatment, would, I expect, make me more than a match for him. I’m almost sorry that I’ve so much money of my own, for I suspect every man who says anything pretty to me; and there are but few in this world who would scorn to marry for money.”
“I believe so, Melissa; but your person would be quite sufficient without fortune.”
“Thanks, coz; for a woman that’s very handsome of you. And so now we will begin our new book.”
Miss Melissa now commenced reading; and Spikeman, who had not yet seen the faces of the two young ladies, crept softly nearer to the side of the copse, so as to enable him to satisfy his curiosity. In this position he remained nearly an hour; when the book was closed, and the young ladies returned to the house, Melissa again singing as she went.
“Joey,” said Spikeman, “I did not think that there was such a woman in existence as that girl; she is just the idea that I have formed of what a woman ought to be; I must find out who she is; I am in love with her, and—”
“Mean to make her a tinker’s bride,” replied Joey, laughing.
“Joey, I shall certainly knock you down, if you apply that term to her. Come let us go to the village,—it is close at hand.”
As soon as they arrived at the village, Spikeman went into the alehouse. During the remainder of the day he was in a brown study, and Joey amused himself with a book. At nine o’clock the company had all quitted the tap-room, and then Spikeman entered into conversation with the hostess. In the course of conversation, she informed him that the mansion belonged to Squire Mathews, who had formerly been a great manufacturer, and who had purchased the place; that the old gentleman had long suffered from the gout, and saw no company, which was very bad for the village; that Miss Melissa was his daughter, and he had a son, who was with his regiment in India, and, it was said, not on very good terms with his father; that the old gentleman was violent and choleric because he was always in pain; but that every one spoke well of Miss Melissa and Miss Araminta, her cousin, who were both very kind to the poor people. Having obtained these particulars, Spikeman went to bed: he slept little that night, as Joey, who was his bedfellow, could vouch for; for he allowed Joey no sleep either, turning and twisting round in the bed every two minutes. The next morning they arose early, and proceeded on their way.
“Joey,” said Spikeman, after an hour’s silence, “I was thinking a great deal last night.”
“So I suppose, for you certainly were not sleeping.”
“No, I could not sleep; the fact is, Joey, I am determined to have that girl, Miss Mathews, if I can; a bold attempt for a tinker, you will say, but not for a gentleman born as I was. I thought I never should care for a woman; but there is a current in the affairs of men. I shall now drift with the current, and if it leads to fortune, so much the better; if not, he who dares greatly does greatly. I feel convinced that I should make her a good husband, and it shall not be my fault if I do not gain her.”
“Do you mean to propose in form with your foot on your wheel?”
“No, saucebox, I don’t; but I mean to turn my knife-grinder’s wheel into a wheel of fortune; and with your help I will do so.”
“You are sure of my help if you are serious,” replied Joey; “but how you are to manage I cannot comprehend.”
“I have already made out a programme, although the interweaving of the plot is not yet decided upon; but I must get to the next town as fast as I can, as I must make preparations.”
On arrival, they took up humble quarters, as usual; and then Spikeman went to a stationer’s, and told them that he had got a commission to execute for a lady. He bought sealing-wax, a glass seal, with “Espérance” as a motto, gilt-edged notepaper, and several other requisites in the stationery line, and ordered them to be packed up carefully, that he might not soil them; he then purchased scented soap, a hair-brush, and other articles for the toilet; and having obtained all these requisites, he added to them one or two pair of common beaver gloves, and then went to the barber’s to get his hair cut.
“I am all ready now, Joey,” said he, when he returned to the alehouse; “and to-morrow we retrace our steps.”
“What! back to the village?”
“Yes; and where we shall remain some time, perhaps.”
On reaching the village next morning, Spikeman hired a bedroom, and, leaving Joey to work the grindstone, remained in his apartments. When Joey returned in the evening, he found Spikeman had been very busy with the soap, and had restored his hands to something like their proper colour; he had also shaved himself, and washed his hair clean and brushed it well.
“You see, Joey, I have commenced operations already; I shall soon be prepared to act the part of the gentleman who has turned tinker to gain the love of a fair lady of high degree.”
“I wish you success: but what are your plans?”
“That you will find out to-morrow morning; now we must go to bed.”
Chapter Thirty
Plotting, Reading and Writing
Spikeman was up early the next morning. When they had breakfasted, he desired Joey to go for the knife-grinder’s wheel, and follow him. As soon as they were clear of the village, Spikeman said, “It will not do to remain at the village; there’s a cottage half a mile down the road where they once gave me a lodging; we must try if we can get it now.”
When they arrived at the cottage, Spikeman made a very satisfactory bargain for board and lodging for a few days, stating that they charged so much at the village alehouse that he could not afford to stay there, and that he expected to have a good job at Squire Mathews’s, up at the mansion-house. As soon as this arrangement was completed, they returned back to the copse near to the mansion-house, Joey rolling the knife-grinder’s wheel.
“You see, Joey,” said Spikeman, “the first thing necessary will be to stimulate curiosity; we may have to wait a day or two before the opportunity may occur; but, if necessary, I will wait a month. That Miss Mathews will very often be found on the seat by the copse, either alone or with her cousin, I take to be certain, as all ladies have their favourite retreats. I do not intend that they should see me yet; I must make an impression first. Now, leave the wheel on the outside, and come with me: do not speak.”
As soon as they were in the copse, Spikeman reconnoitred very carefully, to ascertain if either of the young ladies were on the bench, and finding no one there, he returned to Joey.
“They cannot come without our hearing their footsteps,” said Spikeman; “so now we must wait here patiently.”
Spikeman threw himself down on the turf in front of the copse, and Joey followed his example.
“Come, Joey, we may as well read a little to pass away the time; I have brought two volumes of Byron with me.”
For half an hour they were thus occupied, when they heard the voice of Miss Mathews singing as before as she came down the walk. Spikeman rose and peeped through the foliage. “She is alone,” said he, “which is just what I wished. Now, Joey, I am going to read to you aloud.” Spikeman then began to read in the masterly style which we have before referred to:—
“‘I loved, and was beloved again;
They tell me, Sir, you never knew
Those gentle frailties; if ’tis true
I shorten all my joys and pain,
To you ’twould seem absurd as vain;
But all now are not born to reign,
Or o’er their passions, or as you
There, o’er themselves and nations too,
I am, or rather was, a Prince,
A chief of thousands, and could lead
Them on when each would foremost bleed,
But would not o’er myself
The like control. But to resume:
I loved, and was beloved again;
In sooth it is a happy doom—
But yet where happiness ends in pain.’
“I am afraid that is but too true, my dear boy,” said Spikeman, laying down the book; “Shakespeare has most truly said, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ Nay, he cannot be said to be original in that idea, for Horace and most of the Greek and Latin poets have said much the same thing before him; however, let us go on again—
“‘We met in secret, and the hour
Which led me to my lady’s bower
Was fiery expectation’s dower;
The days and nights were nothing—all
Except the hour which doth recall,
In the long lapse from youth to age,
No other like itself.’
“Do you observe the extreme beauty of that passage?” said Spikeman.
“Yes,” said Joey, “it is very beautiful.”
“You would more feel the power of it, my dear boy, if you were in love, but your time is not yet come; but I am afraid we must leave off now, for I expect letters of consequence by the post, and it is useless, I fear, waiting here. Come, put the book by, and let us take up the wheel of my sad fortunes.”
Spikeman and Joey rose on their feet. Joey went to the knife-grinder’s wheel, and Spikeman followed him without looking back; he heard a rustling, nevertheless, among the bushes, which announced to him that his manoeuvres had succeeded; and, as soon as he was about fifty yards from the road, he took the wheel from Joey, desiring him to look back, as if accidentally. Joey did so, and saw Miss Mathews following them with her eyes.
“That will do,” observed Spikeman; “her curiosity is excited, and that is all I wish.”
What Spikeman said was correct. Araminta joined Miss Mathews shortly after Spikeman and Joey had gone away.
“My dear Araminta,” said Melissa, “such an adventure I can hardly credit my senses.”
“Why, what is the matter, dear cousin?”
“Do you see that man and boy, with a knife-grinder’s wheel, just in sight now?”
“Yes, to be sure I do; but what of them? Have they been insolent?”
“Insolent! they never saw me; they had no idea that I was here. I heard voices as I came down the walk, so I moved softly, and when I gained the seat, there was somebody reading poetry so beautifully; I never heard any one read with such correct emphasis and clear pronunciation. And then he stopped, and talked to the boy about the Greek and Latin poets, and quoted Shakespeare. There must be some mystery.”
“Well, but if there is, what has that to do with the travelling tinkers?”
“What! why it was the travelling tinker himself; dearest; but he cannot be a tinker; for I heard him say that he expected letters of consequence, and no travelling tinker could do that.”
“Why, no; I doubt if most of them can read at all.”
“Now, I would give my little finger to know who that person is.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No; he never turned this way; the boy did when they were some distance off. It’s very strange.”
“What was he reading?”
“I don’t know; it was very beautiful. I wonder if he will ever come this way again? If he does—”
“Well, Melissa, and if he does?”
“My scissors want grinding very badly; they won’t cut a bit.”
“Why, Melissa, you don’t mean to fall in love with a tinker?” said Araminta, laughing.
“He is no tinker, I’m sure; but why is he disguised? I should like to know.”
“Well, but I came out to tell you that your father wants you. Come along.”
The two young ladies then returned to the house, but the mystery of the morning was broached more than once, and canvassed in every possible way.
Spikeman, as soon as he had returned to the cottage, took out his writing materials to concoct an epistle. After some time in correcting, he made out a fair copy, which he read to Joey.
“‘I tremble lest at the first moment you cast your eyes over the page, you throw it away without deigning to peruse it; and yet there is nothing in it which could raise a blush on the cheek of a modest maiden. If it be a crime to have seen you by chance, to have watched you by stealth, to consider hallowed every spot you visit—nay, more, if it be a crime to worship at the shrine of beauty and of innocence, or, to speak more boldly, to adore you—then am I guilty. You will ask, why I resort to a clandestine step. Simply, because, when I discovered your name and birth, I felt assured that an ancient feud between the two families, to which nor you nor I were parties, would bar an introduction to your father’s house. You would ask me who I am. A gentleman, I trust, by birth and education; a poor one, I grant; and you have made me poorer, for you have robbed me of more than wealth—my peace of mind and my happiness. I feel that I am presumptuous and bold; but forgive me. Your eyes tell me you are too kind, too good, to give unnecessary pain; and if you knew how much I have already suffered, you would not oppress further a man who was happy until he saw you. Pardon me, therefore, my boldness, and excuse the means I have taken of placing this communication before you.’
“That will do, I think,” said Spikeman; “and now, Joey, we will go out and take a walk, and I will give you your directions.”
