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Read Ebook: The Poacher; Or Joseph Rushbrook by Marryat Frederick
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Ebook has 2399 lines and 127074 words, and 48 pages
The Poacher, by Captain Marryat.
Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848. He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to writing. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are among the very best of English literature, and some of which are still in print.
Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his stories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he never knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literary genius.
"The Poacher" was published in 1841, the eighteenth book to flow from Marryat's pen.
This e-text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformatted in 2003, and again in 2005.
THE POACHER, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.
IN WHICH THERE IS MORE ALE THAN ARGUMENT.
It was on a blusterous windy night in the early part of November, 1812, that three men were on the high road near to the little village of Grassford, in the south of Devonshire. The moon was nearly at the full, but the wild scud, and occasionally the more opaque clouds, passed over in such rapid succession, that it was rarely, and but for a moment or two, that the landscape was thrown into light and shadow; and the wind, which was keen and piercing, bent and waved the leafless branches of the trees which were ranged along the hedgerows, between which the road had been formed.
"It's odd to me," said the pedlar, at last breaking silence, as he looked down upon the drunken man who lay at his feet, "why ale should take a man off his legs; they say that liquor gets into the head, not the feet."
"Well," replied the schoolmaster, who was much more inebriated than the pedlar, "there's argument even in that and, you see, the perpendicular deviation must arise from the head being too heavy, that's clear; and then, you see, the feet, from the centre of gravity being destroyed, become too light; and if you put that and that together, why, a man can't stand. You understand my demonstration?"
"It was heavy wet, that ale, and so I suppose it's all right," replied the pedlar; "but still ale a'n't poured into the head or into the feet of a man, but into the internals, which are right in the middle of a man; so, how do you make out your case, Mr Furness?"
"Why, Byres, you talk of the residuum."
"Never said a word about it; and, as I stand here, never even heard the word before."
"Perhaps not: the residuum is, you see, Byres, what is left."
"If that's residgium, I didn't mean to say a word about it; there was none left, for you drained the pot."
"Good, Byres; you have never been to college, that's clear. Now, observe, when a man pours down into his stomach a certain quantity of liquor, the spirituous or lighter part ascends to his head, and that makes his head heavy. Do you understand?"
"No; what's light can't make things heavy."
"Can't it?--you know nothing about the matter. Have you not a proof before you?" replied the schoolmaster, reeling, and catching hold of the parapet for support; "look at that unfortunate man, who has yielded to excess."
"Very true; I see that he's drunk, but I want to know how it is that he got drunk?"
"That I knew before."
"Then why ask any more questions? Had we not better proceed, and take him home to his expectant and unhappy wife? 'Tis a sad, sad thing, that a man should `put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains.'"
"Half a pint will do that with Rushbrook," replied the pedlar; "they say that he was wounded on his head, and that half his brains are gone already, and that's why he has a pension."
"Yes, seventeen pounds a year; paid quarterly, without deduction, and only to walk four miles to get it," replied Furness; "yet how misplaced is the liberality on the part of the government. Does he work? No; he does nothing but drink and lie in bed all day, while I must be up early and remain late, teaching the young idea at twopence per week. Friend Byres, `mercy is not itself which oft looks so.' Now, it is my opinion that it would be a kindness to this poor wretch if we were to toss him, as he now is, over the bridge into the rushing stream; it would end all his troubles."
"And save us the trouble of getting him home," replied Byres, who determined to humour his more inebriated companion. "Well, Mr Furness, I've no objection. Why should he live? Is he not a sinecurist--one of the locusts who fatten on the sweat and blood of the people, as the Sunday paper says? Don't you remember my reading it this morning?"
"Very true, Master Byres."
"What d'ye say, then?--shall we over with him?"
"We must think a little," replied the schoolmaster, who put his hand up to his chin, and remained silent for a minute or two. "No," resumed he, at last; "on second thoughts I cannot do it. He halves his beer with me. No pension--no beer; that's a self-evident proposition and conclusion. It were ingratitude on my part, and I cannot consent to your proposal," continued the schoolmaster; "nay, more, I will defend him against your murderous intentions to the very last."
"Why, Master Furness, you must be somewhat the worse for liquor yourself: it was your proposal to throw him over the bridge, not mine."
"Take care what you say," replied the schoolmaster; "would you accuse me of murder, or intent to murder?"
"No, not by no means--only you proposed heaving him over the bridge: I will say that."
"Friend Byres, it's my opinion you'll say anything but your prayers; but in your present state I overlook it. Let us go on, or I shall have two men to carry home instead of one. Come, now, take one of his arms, while I take the other, and raise him up. It is but a quarter of a mile to the cottage."
Byres, who, as we observed, was by far the more sober of the two, did not think it worth his while to reply to the pedagogue. After a few staggers on the part of the latter, their comrade was raised up and led away between them.
The drunken man appeared to be so far aware of what was going on that he moved his legs mechanically, and in a short time they arrived at the cottage-door, which the pedagogue struck with his fist so as to make it rattle on its hinges. The door was opened by a tall, handsome woman, holding a candle in her hand.
"I thought so," said she, shaking her head. "The old story: now he will be ill all night, and not get up till noon."
"What a weary life it is with a drunken husband. Bring him and thank you kindly for your trouble."
"It has been hard work and hot work," observed the schoolmaster, sitting down in a chair, after they had placed their comrade on the bed.
"Indeed, and it must be," replied the wife. "Will you have a drop of small beer, Mr Furness?"
"Yes, if you please, and so will Mr Byres, too. What a pity it is your good man will not keep to small beer."
"Yes, indeed," replied the wife, who went into the back premises, and soon returned with a quart mug of beer.
The schoolmaster emptied half the mug, and then handed it to the pedlar.
"And my little friend Joey, fast asleep, I'll warrant!"
"Yes, poor child, and so should I have been by this time; the clock has gone twelve."
"Well, Mrs Rushbrook, I wish you a good night. Come, Mr Byres, Mrs Rushbrook must want to be in bed."
"Good night, Mr Furness, and good night, sir, and many thanks."
The schoolmaster and pedlar quitted the cottage. Mrs Rushbrook, after having watched them for a minute, carefully closed the door.
"They're gone now," said she, as she turned to her husband.
What would have created much astonishment could anybody else have witnessed it, as soon as his wife had spoken, Rushbrook immediately sprang upon his feet, a fine-looking man, six feet in height, very erect in his bearing,--and proved to be perfectly sober.
"Jane, my dear," said he, "there never was such a night: but I must be quick, and lose no time. Is my gun ready?"
"Everything's ready; Joey is lying down on his bed, but all ready dressed, and he awakes in a minute."
"Call him, then, for there is no time to lose. That drunken fool, Furness, proposed throwing me over the bridge. It was lucky for them that they did not try it, or I should have been obliged to settle them both, that they might tell no tales. Where's Mum?"
"In the wash-house. I'll bring him and Joey directly."
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