Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
“Well, that bothers me entirely,” said McShane; “an empty bottle is as good to them as a charged gun.”
“But look, sir, they are coming on again,” said Joey, “and faster than ever. I suppose they were satisfied that there was nothing in it.”
The courier mounted again to the box where Joey and McShane were standing. “I think you had a ball of twine,” said he to Joey, “when you were tying down the baskets; where is it?”
“It is here under the cushion,” replied Joey, searching for the twine and producing it.
“What shall we find to tie to it?” said the courier; “something not too heavy—a bottle won’t do.”
“What’s it for?” inquired McShane.
“To trail, sir,” replied the courier.
“To trail! I think they’re fast enough upon our trail already; but if you want to help them, a red herring’s the thing.”
“No, sir, a piece of red cloth would do better,” replied the courier.
“Red cloth! One would think you were fishing for mackerel,” replied McShane.
“Will this piece of black cloth do, which was round the lock of the gun?” said Joey.
“Yes, I think it will,” replied the courier.
The courier made fast the cloth to the end of the twine, and throwing it clear of the carriage, let the ball run out, until he had little more than the bare end in his hand, and the cloth was about forty yards behind the carriage, dragging over the snow.
“They will not pass the cloth, sir,” said the courier; “they think that it’s a trap.”
Sure enough the wolves, which had been gaining fast on the carriage, now retreated again; and although they continued the pursuit, it was at a great distance.
“We have an hour and a half more to go before we arrive, and it will be dark, I’m afraid,” said the courier; “all depends upon the horse holding out; I’m sure the pack is not far behind.”
“And how many are there in a pack?” inquired McShane.
The courier shrugged up his shoulders. “Perhaps two or three hundred.”
“Oh! the devil! Don’t I wish I was at home with Mrs McShane.”
For half an hour they continued their rapid pace, when the horse referred to showed symptoms of weakness. Still the wolves had not advanced beyond the piece of black cloth which trailed behind the carriage.
“I think that, considering that they are so hungry, they are amazing shy of the bait,” said McShane. “By all the powers, they’ve stopped again!”
“The string has broke, sir, and they are examining the cloth,” cried Joey.
“Is there much line left?” inquired the courier, with some alarm.
“No, it has broken off by rubbing against the edge of the carriage behind.”
The courier spoke to the driver, who now rose from his seat and lashed his horses furiously; but although three of the horses were still fresh, the fourth could not keep up with them, and there was every prospect of his being dragged down on his knees, as more than once he stumbled and nearly fell. In the meantime the wolves had left the piece of cloth behind them, and were coming up fast with the carriage.
“We must fire on them now, sir,” said the courier, going back to his seat, “or they will tear the flanks of the horses.”
McShane and Joey seized their guns, the headmost wolf was now nearly ahead of the carriage; Joey fired, and the animal rolled over in the snow.
“That’s a good shot, Joey; load again; here’s at another.”
McShane fired, and missed the animal, which rushed forward; the courier’s pistol, however, brought it down, just as he was springing on the hindmost horses.
O’Donahue, astonished at the firing, now lowered down the glass, and inquired the reason. McShane replied, that the wolves were on them, and that he’d better load his pistols in case they were required.
The wolves hung back a little upon the second one falling, but still continued the chase, although at a more respectable distance. The road was now on a descent, but the sick horse could hardly hold on his legs.
“A little half-hour more and we shall be in the town,” said the courier, climbing up to the coach-seat, and looking up the road they had passed; “but Saint Nicholas preserve us!” he exclaimed; and he turned round and spoke in hurried accents to the driver in the Russian language.
Again the driver lashed furiously, but in vain; the poor horse was dead-beat.
“What is the matter now?” inquired McShane.
“Do you see that black mass coming down the hill? it’s the main pack of wolves; I fear we are lost; the horse cannot go on.”
“Then why not cut his traces, and go on with the three others?” cried Joey.
“The boy is right,” replied the man, “and there is no time to lose.” The courier went down on the sleigh, spoke to the driver in Russian, and the horses were pulled up. The courier jumped out with his knife, and commenced cutting the traces of the tired horse, while the other three, who knew that the wolves were upon them, plunged furiously in their harness, that they might proceed. It was a trying moment. The five wolves now came up; the first two were brought down by the guns of McShane and Joey, and O’Donahue killed a third from the carriage windows.
One of the others advanced furiously, and sprang upon the horse which the courier was cutting free. Joey leapt down, and put his pistol to the animal’s head, and blew out his brains, while McShane, who had followed our hero, with the other pistol disabled the only wolf that remained.
But this danger which they had escaped from was nothing compared to that which threatened them; the whole pack now came sweeping like a torrent down the hill, with a simultaneous yell which might well strike terror into the bravest. The horse, which had fallen down when the wolf seized him, was still not clear of the sleigh, and the other three were quite unmanageable. McShane, Joey, and the courier, at last drew him clear from the track; they jumped into their places, and away they started again like the wind, for the horses were maddened with fear. The whole pack of wolves was not one hundred yards from them when they recommenced their speed, and even then McShane considered that there was no hope. But the horse that was left on the road proved their salvation; the starved animals darted upon it, piling themselves one on the other, snarling and tearing each other in their conflict for the feast. It was soon over; in the course of three minutes the carcass had disappeared, and the major portion of the pack renewed their pursuit; but the carriage had proceeded too far ahead of them, and their speed being now uninterrupted, they gained the next village, and O’Donahue had the satisfaction of leading his terrified bride into the chamber of the post-house, where she fainted as soon as she was placed in a chair.
“I’ll tell you what, Joey, I’ve had enough of wolves for all my life,” said McShane; “and Joey, my boy, you’re a good shot in the first place, and a brave little fellow in the next; here’s a handful of roubles, as they call them, for you to buy lollipops with, but I don’t think you’ll find a shop that sells them hereabouts. Never mind, keep your sweet tooth till you get to old England again; and after I tell Mrs McShane what you have done for us this day, she will allow you to walk into a leg of beef, or round a leg of mutton, or dive into a beefsteak pie, as long as you live, whether it be one hundred years more or less. I’ve said it, and don’t you forget it; and now, as the wolves have not made their supper upon us, let us go and see what we can sup upon ourselves.”
Chapter Sixteen
Return to England
The remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the Russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a Pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a Russian. He warmly greeted O’Donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. When the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his Majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the English ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for O’Donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of O’Donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. O’Donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. McShane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and O’Donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. Our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. O’Donahue wished him to remain with him, but McShane opposed it.
“I tell you, O’Donahue, that it’s no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady’s shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old England?”
“But what will he do better in England, McShane?”
“Depend upon it, major,” said the princess, for she was now aware of McShane’s rank, “I will treat him like a son.”
“Still he will be a servant, my lady, and that’s not the position—although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that’s not the position for little Joey.”
“Prove that you will do better for him, McShane, and he is yours: but without you do, I am too partial to him to like to part with him. His conduct on the journey—”
“Yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. He is too good for a menial, and that’s the fact. You ask me what I intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there’s a certain Mrs McShane in the way, who must be consulted; but I think that when I tell her, what I consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little Joey, a certain Major McShane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, I then think, as Mrs McShane and I have no child, nor prospect of any, as I know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with Mrs McShane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it.”
“That, indeed, alters the case,” replied O’Donahue, “and I must not stand in the way of the boy’s interest; still I should like to do something for him.”
“You have done something for him, O’Donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward—so you and he are quits. Well, then, it is agreed that I take him with me?”
“Yes,” replied O’Donahue. “I cannot refuse my consent after what you have said.”
Two days after this conversation the parties separated: O’Donahue, with his wife, accompanied by Dimitri, set off on their return to Saint Petersburg; while McShane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little Joey, on his way back to England.
Chapter Seventeen
The Day after the Murder
We must now return to the village of Grassford, and the cottage in which we left Rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband’s crime being discovered. For some time Rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: Mum sometimes would look piteously in his master’s face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. The intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. Finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which Joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master’s side.
“I’m glad that he’s off,” at last muttered Rushbrook; “he’s a fine boy, that.”
“Yes, he is,” replied Jane; “but when shall I behold him again?”
“By-and-bye, never fear, wife. We must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over.”
“If it does, indeed!”
“Come, come, Jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let’s go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. Come, Jane, let’s to bed.”
Rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept Rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. Jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise—the crowing of the cock—startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. They could remain in bed no longer. Jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: Rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought.
“I’ve been thinking, Jane,” said he, at last, “it would be better to make away with Mum.”
“With the dog? Why, it can’t speak, poor thing. No—no—don’t kill the poor dog.”
“He can’t speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot.”
“And if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing.”
“No! only it would go harder against Joey.”
“Against the boy! yes, it might convince them that Joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, Rushbrook; that will do as well.”
“Perhaps better,” replied he; “tie him up in the back-kitchen, there’s a good woman.”
Jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and Furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. This he was often in the habit of doing, to call Joey out to accompany him to school.
“Good morning,” said he; “now, where’s my friend Joey?”
“Come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door,” said Rushbrook; “I wish to speak to you. Mayhap you’ll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one.”
“Well, as Mrs Rushbrook does make everything so good, I don’t care if I do, although I have had breakfast. But where’s my friend Joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? Why Mrs Rushbrook, what’s the matter? you look distressed.”
“I am, indeed,” replied Jane, putting her apron to her eyes.
“Why, Mrs Rushbrook, what is it?” inquired the pedagogue.
“Just this; we are in great trouble about Joey. When we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since.”
“Well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?”
“We don’t know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and I’m afraid—” and here Rushbrook paused, shaking his head.
“Afraid of what?”
“That he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers.”
“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.
