Читать книгу The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook - Фредерик Марриет - Страница 9

In which the Advice of a Father deserves Peculiar Attention

It may be supposed that, as steward of the estates, Squireen O’Donahue had some influence over the numerous tenants on the property, and this influence he took care to make the most of. His assistance in a political contest was rewarded by the offer of an ensigncy for one of his sons, in a regiment then raising in Ireland, and this offer was too good to be refused. So, one fine day, Squireen O’Donahue came home from Dublin, well bespattered with mud, and found his son Patrick also well bespattered with mud, having just returned home from a very successful expedition against the woodcocks.

“Patrick, my jewel,” said the Squireen, taking a seat and wiping his face, for he was rather warm with his ride, “you’re a made man.”

“And well made too, father, if the girls are anything of judges,” replied Patrick.

“You put me out,” replied the Squireen; “you’ve more to be vain of than your figure.”

“And what may that be that you’re discoursing about father?”

“Nothing more nor less, nor better nor worse, but you’re an ensign in his Majesty’s new regiment—the number has escaped my memory.”

“I’d rather be a colonel, father,” replied Patrick, musing.

“The colonel’s to come, you spalpeen,” said the Squireen.

“And the fortune to make, I expect,” replied Patrick.

“You’ve just hit it but haven’t you the whole world before you to pick and choose?”

“Well,” replied Patrick, after a pause; “I’ve no objection.”

“No objection! Why don’t you jump out of your skin with delight? At all events, you might jump high enough to break in the caling.”

“There’s no ceiling to break,” replied Patrick, looking up at the rafters.

“That’s true enough; but still you might go out of your seven senses in a rational sort of a way.”

“I really can’t see for why, father dear. You tell me I’m to leave my poor old mother, who doats upon me; my sisters, who are fond of me; my friends here,” patting the dogs, “who follow me; the hills, that I love; and the woodcocks, which I shoot; to go to be shot at myself, and buried like a dead dog, without being skinned, on the field of battle.”

“I tell you to go forth into the world as an officer, and make your fortune; to come back a general, and be the greatest man of your family. And don’t be too unhappy about not being skinned. Before you are older or wiser, dead or alive, you’ll be skinned, I’ll answer for it.”

“Well, father, I’ll go; but I expect there’ll be a good deal of ground to march over before I’m a general.”

“And you’ve a good pair of legs.”

“So I’m told every day of my life. I’ll make the best use of them when I start; but it’s the starting I don’t like, and that’s the real truth.”

The reader may be surprised at the indifference shown by Patrick at the intelligence communicated by his father; but the fact was, Mr Patrick O’Donahue was very deep in love. This cooled his national ardour; and it must be confessed that there was every excuse, for a more lovely creature than Judith McCrae never existed. To part with her was the only difficulty, and all his family feelings were but a cloak to the real cause of his unwillingness.

“Nevertheless, you must start to-morrow, my boy,” said his father.

“What must be, must,” replied Patrick, “so there’s an end of the matter. I’ll just go out for a bit of a walk, just to stretch my legs.”

“They require a deal of stretching, Pat, considering you’ve been twenty miles, at least, this morning, over the mountains,” replied the Squireen. But Patrick was out of hearing; he had leapt over a stone wall which separated his father’s potato ground from Cornelius McCrae’s, and had hastened to Judith, whom he found very busy getting the dinner ready.

“Judith, my dear,” said Patrick, “my heart’s quite broke with the bad news I have to tell you. Sure I’m going to leave you to-morrow morning.”

“Now, Patrick, you’re joking, surely.”

“Devil a joke in it. I’m an ensign in a regiment.”

“Then I’ll die, Patrick.”

“More like that I will, Judith; what with grief and a bullet to help it, perhaps.”

“Now, what d’ye mean to do, Patrick?”

“Mean to go, sure; because I can’t help myself; and to come back again, if ever I’ve the luck of it. My heart’s leaping out of my mouth entirely.”

“And mine’s dead,” replied Judith, in tears.

“It’s no use crying, mavourneen. I’ll be back to dance at my own wedding, if so be I can.”

“There’ll be neither wedding for you, Patrick, nor wake either, for you’ll lie on the cold ground, and be ploughed in like muck.”

“That’s but cold comfort from you, Judith, but we’ll hope for a better ending; but I must go back now, and you’ll meet me this evening beyond the shealing.”

“Won’t it be for the last time, Patrick,” replied Judith, with her apron up to her eyes.

“If I’ve any voice in the matter, I say no. Please the pigs, I’ll come back a colonel.”

“Then you’ll be no match for Judith McCrae,” replied the sobbing girl.

“Shoot easy, my Judith, that’s touching my honour; if I’m a general it will be all the same.”

“Oh, Patrick! Patrick!”

Patrick folded Judith in his arms, took one kiss, and then hastened out of the house, saying—“Remember the shealing, Judith, dear, there we’ll talk the matter over easy and comfortable.”

Patrick returned to his house, where he found his mother and sisters in tears. They had received orders to prepare his wardrobe, which, by the bye, did not give them much trouble from its extent; they only had to mend every individual article. His father was sitting down by the hearth, and when he saw Patrick he said to him,—“Now just come here, my boy, and take a stool, while you listen to me and learn a little worldly wisdom, for I may not have much time to talk to you when we are at Dublin.”

Patrick took a seat, and was all attention.

“You’ll just observe, Pat, that it’s a very fine thing to be an officer in the king’s army; nobody dares to treat you ill, although you may ill-treat others, which is no small advantage in this world.”

“There’s truth in that,” replied Patrick.

“You see, when you get into an enemy’s country, you may help yourself; and, if you look sharp, there’s very pretty pickings—all in a quiet way, you understand.”

“That, indeed.”

“You observe, Pat, that, as one of his officers, the king expects you to appear and live like a gentleman, only he forgets to give you the means of so doing; you must, therefore, take all you can get from his Majesty, and other people must make up the difference.”

“That’s a matter o’ course,” said Patrick.

“You’ll soon see your way clear, and find out what you may be permitted to do, and what you may not; for the king expects you to keep up the character of a gentleman as well as the appearance.”

“O’ course.”

“Mayhap you may be obliged to run in debt a little—a gentleman may do that; mayhap you may not be able to pay—that’s a gentleman’s case very often: if so, never go so far as twenty pounds; first, because the law don’t reach; and secondly, because twenty pound is quite enough to make a man suffer for the good of his country.”

“There’s sense in that, father.”

“And, Patrick, recollect that people judge by appearances in this world, especially when they’ve nothing else to go by. If you talk small, your credit will be small; but if you talk large, it will be just in proportion.”

“I perceive, father.”

“It’s not much property we possess in this said county of Galway, that’s certain; but you must talk of this property as if I was the squire, and not the steward; and when you talk of the quantity of woodcocks you have bagged, you must say on our property.”

“I understand, father.”

“And you must curse your stars at being a younger brother; it will be an excuse for your having no money, but will make them believe it’s in the family, at all events.”

“I perceive,” replied Patrick.

“There’s one thing more, Pat; it’s an Irish regiment, so you must get out of it as soon as possible by exchange.”

“For why?”

“This for why. You will be among those born too near home, and who may doubt all you say, because your story may interfere with their own. Get into an English regiment by all means, and there you’ll be beyond the reach of contradiction, which ain’t pleasant.”

“True enough, father.”

“Treasure up all I have told you—it’s worldly wisdom, and you have your fortune to make; so now recollect, never hold back at a forlorn hope; volunteer for everything; volunteer to be blown from a cannon’s mouth, so that they will give you promotion for that same; volunteer to go all over the world, into the other world, and right through that again into the one that comes after that, if there is any, and then one thing will be certain, either that you’ll be colonel or general, or else—”

“Else what, father?”

“That you won’t require to be made either, seeing that you’ll be past all making; but luck’s all, and lucky it is, by the bye, that I have a little of the squire’s rent in hand to fit you out with, or how we should have managed, the saints only know. As it is, I must sink it on the next year’s account; but that’s more easy to do than to fit you out with no money. I must beg the tenants off, make the potato crop fail entirely, and report twenty, by name at least, dead of starvation. Serve him right for spending his money out of Old Ireland. It’s only out of real patriotism that I cheat him—just to spend the money in the country. And now, Patrick, I’ve done; now you may go and square your accounts with Judith, for I know now where the cat jumps; but I’ll leave old Time alone for doing his work.”

Such was the advice of the Squireen to his son; and, as worldly wisdom, it was not so bad; and, certainly, when a lad is cast adrift in the world, the two best things you can bestow on him are a little worldly wisdom and a little money, for without the former, the latter and he will soon part company.

The next day they set off for Dublin, Patrick’s head being in a confused jumble of primitive good feeling, Judith McCrae, his father’s advice, and visions of future greatness. He was fitted out, introduced to the officers, and then his father left him his blessing and his own way to make in the world. In a fortnight the regiment was complete, and they were shipped to Liverpool, and from Liverpool to Maidstone, where, being all newly raised men, they were to remain for a time to be disciplined. Before the year had expired, Patrick had followed his father’s advice, and exchanged, receiving a difference, with an ensign of a regiment going on foreign service. He was sent to the West Indies: but the seasons were healthy, and he returned home an ensign. He volunteered abroad again after five years, and gained his lieutenant’s commission, from a death vacancy, without purchase.

After a fifteen years’ hard service, the desired Captain’s commission came at last, and O’Donahue, having been so unsuccessful in his military career, retired upon half-pay, determined, if possible, to offer his handsome person in exchange for competence. But, during the fifteen years which had passed away, a great change had come over the ingenuous and unsophisticated Patrick O’Donahue; he had mixed so long with a selfish and heartless world, that his primitive feelings had gradually worn away. Judith had, indeed, never been forgotten; but she was now at rest, for, by mistake, Patrick had been returned dead of the yellow fever, and at the intelligence she had drooped like a severed snowdrop, and died. The only tie strong enough to induce him to return to Ireland was therefore broken, his father’s worldly advice had not been forgotten, and O’Donahue considered the world as his oyster. Expensive in his habits and ideas, longing for competence, while he vegetated on half-pay, he was now looking out for a matrimonial speculation. His generosity and his courage remained with him—two virtues not to be driven out of an Irishman—but his other good qualities lay in abeyance; and yet his better feelings were by no means extinguished; they were dormant, but by favourable circumstances were again to be brought into action. The world and his necessities made him what he was; for many were the times, for years afterwards, that he would in his reveries surmise how happy he might have been in his own wild country, where half-pay would have been competence, had his Judith been spared to him, and he could have laid his head upon her bosom.