Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
“Well, now, it’s very odd; but do you know you are like poor Peter, and the more I look at you the more you are like him: poor Peter! did you hear how I lost him?”
“Yes, the sailor lad told me this morning.”
“Poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when I missed poor Peter so much? Well, it showed you had a good heart, and I love that; and where did you meet with Jim Paterson?”
“I met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when I was buying my clothes.”
“Well, Jim’s a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. I’ve been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. Well, and what can you do? I am afraid you can’t do all Peter did.”
“I can keep your accounts, and I can be honest and true to you.”
“Well, Peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?”
“Yes, to be sure I can; try me.”
“Well, then, I will: here is pen, ink, and paper. Well, you are the very image of Peter, and that’s a fact. Now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? Well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. Now sum that all up.”
Joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence.
“Well,” says Mrs Chopper, “it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while I go and speak to somebody.” Mrs Chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct.
“Yes, quite correct, Mrs Chopper,” replied the lass.
“And is it as good as Peter’s was, poor fellow?”
“Much better,” replied the girl.
“Dear me! Who would have thought it? and so like Peter too!”
Mrs Chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat—“Well,” said she, “and now what is your name?”
“Joey.”
“Joey what?”
“Joey—O’Donahue,” replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of McShane.
“And who are your parents?”
“They are poor people,” replied Joey, “and live a long way off.”
“And why did you leave them?”
Joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; “I left there because I was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away.”
“Poaching; yes, I understand that—killing hares and birds. Well, but why did you poach?”
“Because father did.”
“Oh, well, I see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?”
“If I could not do better.”
“But you shall do better, my good boy. I will try you instead of poor Peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. Dear me! how like he is,—but now I must call you Peter; it will make me think I have him with me, poor fellow!”
“If you please,” said Joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name.
“Well, then, where do you sleep to-night?”
“I did intend to ask for a bed at the house where I left my bundle.”
“Then, don’t do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in Peter’s bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me.”
Joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to Mrs Chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which Joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. Altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable.
“Here is poor Peter’s bed,” said Mrs Chopper; “I changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! Can I trust you to put the candle out?”
“Oh, yes; I’ll be very careful.”
“Then, good night, boy. Do you ever say your prayers? poor Peter always did.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Joey; “good night.”
Mrs Chopper left the room. Joey threw open the window—for he was almost suffocated—undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little Emma who had knelt with him on the road-side.
Chapter Twenty Three
In which our Hero goes on Duty
At five o’clock the next morning Joey was called up by Mrs Chopper; the waterman was in attendance, and, with the aid of Joey, carried down the various articles into the boat. When all was ready, Mrs Chopper and Joey sat down to their breakfast, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and red herrings; and, as soon as it was finished, they embarked, and the boat shoved off.
“Well, Mrs Chopper,” said the waterman, “so I perceive you’ve got a new hand.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs Chopper; “don’t you think he’s the moral of poor Peter?”
“Well, I don’t know; but there is a something about the cut of his jib which reminds me of him, now you mention it. Peter was a good boy.”
“Aye, that he was, and as sharp as a needle. You see,” said Mrs Chopper, turning to Joey, “sharp’s the word in a bumboat. There’s many who pay, and many who don’t; some I trust, and some I don’t—that is, those who won’t pay me old debts. We lose a bit of money at times, but it all comes round in the end; but I lose more by not booking the things taken than in any other way, for sailors do pay when they have the money—that is, if ever they come back again, poor fellows. Now, Peter.”
“What! is his name Peter, too?”
“Yes, I must call him Peter, William; he is so like poor Peter.”
“Well, that will suit me; I hate learning new names.”
“Well, but, Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you must be very careful; for, you see, I’m often called away here and there after wash clothes and such things; and then you must look out, and if they do take up anything, why, you must book it, at all events. You’ll learn by-and-bye who to trust, and who not to trust; for I know the most of my customers. You must not trust a woman—I mean any of the sailors’ wives—unless I tell you; and you must be very sharp with them, for they play all manner of tricks; you must look two ways at once. Now, there’s a girl on board the brig we are pulling to, called Nancy; why, she used to weather poor Peter, sharp as he was. She used to pretend to be very fond of him, and hug him close to her with one arm, so as to blind him, while she stole the tarts with the other; so, don’t admit her familiarities; if you do, I shall pay for them.”
“Then, who am I to trust?”
“Bless the child! you’ll soon find out that; but mind one thing; never trust a tall, lanky seaman without his name’s on the books; those chaps never pay. There’s the book kept by poor Peter; and you see names upon the top of each score—at least, I believe so; I have no learning myself, but I’ve a good memory; I can’t read nor write, and that’s why Peter was so useful.”
That Peter could read his own writing it is to be presumed; but certain it was that Joey could not make it out until after many days examination, when he discovered that certain hieroglyphics were meant to represent certain articles; after which it became more easy.
They had now reached the side of the vessel, and the sailors came down into the boat, and took up several articles upon credit; Joey booked them very regularly.
“Has Bill been down yet?” said a soft voice from the gangway.
“No, Nancy, he has not.”
“Then he wants two red herrings, a sixpenny loaf, and some ’baccy.”
Joey looked up, and beheld a very handsome, fair, blue-eyed girl with a most roguish look, who was hanging over the side.
“Then he must come himself, Nancy,” replied Mrs Chopper, “for, you know, the last time you took up the things he said that you were never told to do so, and he would not pay for them.”
“That’s because the fool was jealous; I lost the tobacco, Mrs Chopper, and he said I had given it to Dick Snapper.”
“I can’t help that; he must come himself.”
“But he’s away in the boat, and he told me to get the things for him. Who have you there? Not Peter; no, it’s not Peter; but, what a dear little boy.”
“I told you so,” said Mrs Chopper to our hero; “now, if I wasn’t in the boat, she would be down in it in a minute, and persuade you to let her have the things—and she never pays.”
Joey looked up again, and, as he looked at Nancy, felt that it would be very unkind to refuse her.
“Now, what a hard-hearted old woman you are, Mrs Chopper. Bill will come on board; and, as sure as I stand here, he’ll whack me. He will pay you, you may take my word for it.”
“Your word, Nancy!” replied Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.
“Stop a moment,” said Nancy, coming down the side with very little regard as to showing her well-formed legs; “stop, Mrs Chopper, and I’ll explain to you.”
“It’s no use coming down, Nancy, I tell you,” replied Mrs Chopper.
“Well, we shall see,” replied Nancy, taking her seat in the boat, and looking archly in Mrs Chopper’s face; “the fact is Mrs Chopper, you don’t know what a good-tempered woman you are.”
“I know, Nancy, what you are,” replied Mrs Chopper.
“Oh, so does everybody: I’m nobody’s enemy but my own, they say.”
“Ah! that’s very true, child; more’s the pity.”
“Now, I didn’t come down to wheedle you out of anything, Mrs Chopper, but merely to talk to you, and look at this pretty boy.”
“There you go, Nancy; but ain’t he like Peter?”
“Well, and so he is! very like Peter; he has Peter’s eyes and his nose, and his mouth is exactly Peter’s—how very strange!”
“I never see’d such a likeness!” exclaimed Mrs Chopper.
“No, indeed,” replied Nancy, who, by agreeing with Mrs Chopper in all she said, and praising Joey, and his likeness to Peter, at last quite came over the old bumboat-woman; and Nancy quitted her boat with the two herrings, the loaf; and the paper of tobacco.
“Shall I put them down, Mrs Chopper?” said Joey.
“Oh, dear,” replied Mrs Chopper, coming to her recollection, “I’m afraid that it’s no use; but put them down, anyhow; they will do for bad debts. Shove off, William, we must go to the large ship now.”
“I do wish that that Nancy was at any other port,” exclaimed Mrs Chopper, as they quitted the vessel’s side; “I do lose so much money by her.”
“Well,” said the waterman, laughing, “you’re not the only one; she can wheedle man or woman, or, as they say, the devil to boot, if she would try.”
During the whole of the day the wherry proceeded from ship to ship, supplying necessaries; in many instances they were paid for in ready money, in others Joey’s capabilities were required, and they were booked down against the customers. At last, about five o’clock in the evening, the beer-barrel being empty, most of the contents of the baskets nearly exhausted, and the wherry loaded with the linen for the wash, biscuits, empty bottles, and various other articles of traffic or exchange, Mrs Chopper ordered William, the waterman, to pull on shore to the landing-place.
As soon as the baskets and other articles had been carried up to the house, Mrs Chopper sent out for the dinner, which was regularly obtained from a cook’s-shop. Joey sat down with her, and when his meal was finished, Mrs Chopper told him he might take a run and stretch his legs a little if he pleased, while she tended to the linen which was to go to the wash. Joey was not sorry to take advantage of this considerate permission, for his legs were quite cramped from sitting so long jammed up between baskets of eggs, red herrings, and the other commodities which had encompassed him.
We must now introduce Mrs Chopper to the reader a little more ceremoniously. She was the widow of a boatswain, who had set her up in the bumboat business with some money he had acquired a short time before his death, and she had continued it ever since on her own account. People said that she was rich, but riches are comparative, and if a person in a seaport town, and in her situation, could show 200 or 300 pounds at her bankers, she was considered rich. If she was rich in nothing else, she certainly was in bad and doubtful debts, having seven or eight books like that which Joey was filling up for her during the whole day, all containing accounts of long standing, and most of which probably would stand for ever; but if the bad debts were many, the profits were in proportion; and what with the long standing debts being occasionally paid, the ready-money she continually received, and the profitable traffic which she made in the way of exchange, etcetera, she appeared to do a thriving business, although it is certain the one-half of her goods were as much given away as were the articles obtained from her in the morning by Nancy.
It is a question whether these books of bad debts were not a source of enjoyment to her, for every night she would take one of the books down, and although she could not read, yet, by having them continually read to her, and knowing the pages so exactly, she could almost repeat every line by heart which the various bills contained; and then there was always a story which she had to tell about each—something relative to the party of whom the transaction reminded her; and subsequently, when Joey was fairly domiciled with her, she would make him hand down one of the books, and talk away from it for hours; they were the ledgers of her reminiscences; the events of a considerable portion of her life were all entered down along with the ’baccy, porter, pipes, and red herrings; a bill for these articles was to her time, place and circumstance; and what with a good memory, and bad debts to assist it, many were the hours which were passed away (and pleasantly enough, too, for one liked to talk, and the other to listen) between Mrs Chopper and our little hero. But we must not anticipate.
The permission given to Joey to stretch his legs induced him to set off as fast as he could to gain the high road before his little friend, Emma Phillips, had left her school. He sat down in the same place, waiting for her coming. The spot had become hallowed to the poor fellow, for he had there met with a friend—with one who sympathised with him when he most required consolation. He now felt happy, for he was no longer in doubt about obtaining his livelihood, and his first wish was to impart the pleasing intelligence to his little friend. She was not long before she made her appearance in her little straw bonnet with blue ribbons. Joey started up, and informed her that he had got a very nice place, explained to her what it was, and how he had been employed during the day.
“And I can very often come out about this time, I think,” added Joey, “and then I can walk home with you, and see that you come to no harm.”
“But,” replied the little girl, “my mother says that she would like to see you, as she will not allow me to make acquaintance with people I meet by accident. Don’t you think that mother is right?”
“Yes, I do; she’s very right,” replied Joey; “I didn’t think of that.”
“Will you come and see her, then?”
“Not now, because I am not very clean. I’ll come on Sunday, if I can get leave.”
They separated, and Joey returned back to the town. As he walked on, he thought he would spend the money he had got in a suit of Sunday clothes, of a better quality than those he had on, the materials of which were very coarse. On second thoughts, he resolved to apply to Mrs Chopper, as he did not exactly know where to go for them, and was afraid that he would be imposed upon.
“Well, Peter,” said his new mistress, “do you feel better for your walk?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
“Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you appear to be a very handy, good boy, and I hope we shall live together a long while. How long have you been at sea?”
“I was going to sea; I have never been to sea yet, and I don’t want to go; I would rather stay with you.”
“And so you shall, that’s a settled thing. What clothes have you got, Peter?”
“I have none but what I stand in, and a few shirts in a bundle, and they are Sunday ones; but when I left home I had some money given me, and I wish to buy a suit of clothes for Sunday, to go to church in.”
“That’s a good boy, and so you shall; but how much money have you got?”
“Quite enough to buy a suit of clothes,” replied Joey, handing out two sovereigns, and seventeen shillings in silver.
“Oh, I suppose they gave you all that to fit you out with when you left home; poor people, I dare say they worked hard for it. Well, I don’t think the money will be of any use to you; so you had better buy a Sunday suit, and I will take care you want for nothing afterwards. Don’t you think I’m right?”
“Yes, I wish to do so. To-day is Tuesday; I may have them made by next Sunday?”
“So you can; and as soon as William comes in, which he will soon, from the washerwoman’s, we will go out and order them. Here he comes up the stairs—no, that foot’s too light for his. Well, it’s Nancy, I declare! Why, Nancy, now,” continued Mrs Chopper, in a deprecating tone, “what do you want here?”
“Well, I leave you to guess,” replied Nancy, looking very demurely, and taking a seat upon a hamper.
“Guess, I fear there’s no guess in it, Nancy; but I will not—now it’s no use—I will not trust another shilling.”
“But I know you will, Mrs Chopper. Lord love you, you’re such a good-natured creature, you can’t refuse any one, and certainly not me. Why don’t you take me in your boat with you as your assistant? then there would be something in it worth looking at. I should bring you plenty of custom.”
“You’re too wild, Nancy; too wild, girl. But, now, what do you want? recollect you’ve already had some things to-day.”
“I know I have, and you are a good-natured old trump, that you are. Now I’ll tell you—gold must pass between us this time.”
“Mercy on me, Nancy, why you’re mad. I’ve no gold—nothing but bad debts.”
“Look you, Mrs Chopper, look at this shabby old bonnet of mine. Don’t I want a new one?”
“Then you must get somebody else to give you money, Nancy,” replied Mrs Chopper, coolly and decidedly.
“Don’t talk so fast, Mrs Chopper: now, I’ll let you know how it is. When Bill came on board he asked the captain for an advance; the captain refused him before, but this time he was in a good humour, and he consented. So then I coaxed Bill out of a sovereign to buy a new bonnet, and he gave it me; and then I thought what a kind soul you were, and I resolved that I would bring you the sovereign, and go without the new bonnet; so here it is, take it quick, or I shall repent.”
“Well, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, “you said right; gold has passed between us, and I am surprised. Now I shall trust you again.”
“And so you ought; it’s not every pretty girl, like me, who will give up a new bonnet. Only look what a rubbishy affair this is,” continued Nancy, giving her own a kick up in the air.
“I wish I had a sovereign to give away,” said Joey to Mrs Chopper; “I wish I had not said a word about the clothes.”
“Do as you like with your own money, my dear,” said the bumboat-woman.
“Then, Nancy, I’ll give you a sovereign to buy yourself a new bonnet with,” said Joey, taking one out of his pocket and putting into her hand.
Nancy looked at the sovereign, and then at Joey. “Bless the boy!” said she, at last, kissing him on the forehead; “he has a kind heart; may the world use him better than it has me! Here, take your sovereign, child; any bonnet’s good enough for one like me.” So saying, Nancy turned hastily away, and ran downstairs.
Chapter Twenty Four
In which Mrs Chopper reads her Ledger
“Ah, poor girl,” said Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, as Nancy disappeared. “You are a good boy, Peter; I like to see boys not too fond of money, and if she had taken it (and I wish she had, poor thing) I would have made it up to you.”
“Is the man she calls Bill her husband?” inquired Joey.
“Oh, I know nothing about other people’s husbands,” replied Mrs Chopper, hastily. “Now then, let us go and order the clothes, and then you’ll be able to go to church on Sunday; I will do without you.”
“What, won’t you go to church?”
“Bless you, child! who is to give the poor men their breakfast and their beer? A bumboat-woman can’t go to church any more than a baker’s man, for people must eat on a Sunday. Church, like everything else in this world, appears to me only to be made for the rich; I always take my Bible in the boat with me on Sunday, but then I can’t read it, so it’s of no great use. No, dear, I can’t go to church, but I can contrive, if it don’t rain in the evening, to go to meeting and hear a little of the Word; but you can go to church, dear.”
A suit of blue cloth, made in sailor’s fashion, having been ordered by Mrs Chopper, she and Joey returned home; and, after their tea, Mrs Chopper desired Joey to hand her one of the account-books, which she put upon her knees and opened.
“There,” said she, looking at the page, “I know that account well; it was Tom Alsop’s—a fine fellow he was, only he made such a bad marriage: his wife was a very fiend, and the poor fellow loved her, which was worse. One day he missed her, and found she was on board another vessel; and he came on shore, distracted like, and got very tipsy, as sailors always do when they’re in trouble, and he went down to the wharf, and his body was picked up next day.”
“Did he drown himself?”
“Yes, so people think, Peter; and he owed me 1 pound, 3 shillings, 4 pence, if I recollect right. Aren’t that the figure, Peter?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joey; “that’s the sum total of the account, exactly.”
“Poor fellow!” continued Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, “he went to his long account without paying me my short one. Never mind; I wish he was alive, and twice as much in my debt. There’s another—I recollect that well, Peter, for it’s a proof that sailors are honest; and I do believe that, if they don’t pay, it’s more from thoughtlessness than anything else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors don’t care for money when they do get it—and then those Jews are such shocking fellows; but look you, Peter, this is almost the first bill run up after I took up the business. He was a nice fair-haired lad from Shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another vessel, and brought here; and I let him have things and lent him money to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all and pay me, and he sailed away again, and I never heard of him for nine years. I thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad; I didn’t know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but I gave it up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called upon me, and said, ‘Do you know me?’ ‘No,’ said I, half-frightened; ‘how should I know you? I never see’d you before.’—‘Yes, you did,’ says he, ‘and here’s a proof of it;’ and he put down on the table a lot of money, and said, ‘Now, missus, help yourself: better late than never. I’m Jim Sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a mother to; but I’ve never been able to get leave to come to you since. I’m boatswain’s mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and now I’ve come to pay my debts.’ He would make me take 5 pounds more than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. Poor fellow! he’s dead now. Here’s another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. Let me see, what can this one be? Read it, Peter; how much is it?”
“4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence,” replied our hero.
“Yes, yes, I recollect now—it was the Dutch skipper. There’s murder in that bill, Peter: it was things I supplied to him just before he sailed; and an old man was passenger in the cabin: he was a very rich man, although he pretended to be poor. He was a diamond merchant, they say; and as soon as they were at sea, the Dutch captain murdered him in the night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at Amsterdam, and had his head cut off. The crew told us when the galliot came back with a new captain. So the Dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime; he paid my bill, too, that’s certain. Oh, deary me!” continued the old lady, turning to another page. “I shan’t forget this in a hurry. I never see poor Nancy now without recollecting it. Look, Peter; I know the sum—8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence—exactly: it was the things taken up when Tom Freelove married Nancy,—it was the wedding dinner and supper.”
“What, Nancy who was here just now?”
“Yes, that Nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and subscribed to a circulating library, they say. She was the daughter of a baker in this town. I recollect it well: such a fine day it was when they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. I never seed such a handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in misery.”
“Tell me how,” said Joey.
“I’ll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all the wickedness of this world. Her husband treated her very ill; before he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. Her husband was killed by a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to liquor, and that was her ruin. She don’t drink now, because she don’t feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. It’s only four years ago when I saw her come out of church, and thought what a happy couple they would be.”
“Where are her father and mother?”
“Both dead. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. It’s bad enough when a man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but some people’s feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to drown care and misery. Put up the book, Peter; I can’t look at it any more to-night; we’ll go to bed.”
Joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as soon as his money was all gone. Finding that the vessel was going up the river to load, Joey determined to write a few lines to the McShanes, to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned, Jim Paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he arrived at London.
Our hero simply said, “My dear sir, I am quite well, and have found employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as I never shall forget your kindness.—Joey McShane.”
On the following Sunday Joey was dressed in his sailor’s suit, and looked very well in it. He was not only a very good-looking, but a gentlemanlike boy in his manners. He went to church, and after church he walked out to the abode of his little friend, Emma Phillips. She ran out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the hand to present him to her mother. Mrs Phillips was a quiet-looking, pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance. They made many inquiries about his friends, and Joey continued in the same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of his parents. They were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in his favour; and as Joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on Sundays, but preferred meeting Emma on the road from school; and the two children (if Joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if they did not every day exchange a few words. Thus passed the first six months of Joey’s new life. The winter was cold, and the water rough, and he blew his fingers, while Mrs Chopper folded her arms up in her apron; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day’s work was over. He became a great favourite with Mrs Chopper, who at last admitted that he was much more useful than even Peter; and William, the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was, in his opinion, worth two of the former Peter, who had come to such an untimely end.
