guilty, the keeper was sworn, and began to give his evidence. Being
asked at what hour in the morning the transaction took place, he
replied, "A little after seven: for I had heard the great clock at Sir
John's strike a few minutes before." "That's false, however," said a
voice from the crowd, which was assembled in the Justice room. "Come
forward there," said one of the Justices; when who should make his
appearance but Black Will. The magistrate told him not to interrupt the
witness, but that if he had any thing to say, he should state it upon
oath when the keeper's evidence had been gone through. This was soon
done; and then Atkins being sworn, and desired to state what he knew of
the business, replied, "I know but little about it; but this I _can_
say, before seven on Sunday morning Jack Wildgoose and I started
together to see a friend at Hollybourn, which your Worship may perhaps
know is about six miles off. We went to church there, and did not get
back till the afternoon. So how Jack can have been wiring hares after
seven I don't very well know." The Justices looked surprised, as the
under-keeper had the character of being an honest, truth-telling man.
Wildgoose himself said nothing. Mr. Hale, who acted as chairman, was
beginning to put some questions to Stokes, in the hope of finding
something either to confirm or to weaken his testimony, when an elderly
man in a smock frock came to the bar, and said, "I should be as glad as
any one to have the young man got off, both for his own sake, and for
the sake of his good mother; but I cannot stand by in silence, and hear
a man take such an audacious false oath as that sworn by Will Atkins.
Why you know, Will," continued he, "that you skulked by the Fighting
Cocks soon after seven; I was afraid that you were about no good, and if
the gentlemen won't believe me, I can name another who saw you as well
as I." This was old Truman, who had got a lift in Tomkins's cart for the
sake of hearing the proceedings, but without the most distant thought of
taking any part in them himself. His high respect for the name of God,
and his general love of truth, compelled him to speak against his own
wishes.
The fact was this. Atkins, who had gone to meet Wildgoose on the Sunday
morning, in order to receive from him the hares which he had snared,
heard that he had been detected, and almost immediately determined to
try the chance of setting up an _alibi_. For himself, as he had not the
fear of God before his eyes, he cared not whether what he swore was
false or true, so that it answered his purpose. He therefore had
directed Wildgoose, though without telling him his intention, to keep
close at home, and let no one see him; and had hastened himself to get
out of the village, unobserved as he thought by any one.
When Truman spoke, Black Will turned pale with vexation and rage, and
darted at the old man a look, which said that he longed to strike him to
the earth. When Truman, however, had repeated his statement upon oath,
Atkins endeavoured to get out of the scrape as well as he could, and
stammered out something about mistaking the hour. Mr. Hale the chairman
gave him a most serious reprimand. He told him, that "the deliberately
calling upon the God of truth to bear witness to a falsehood, was daring
the Almighty to his face. That, as the property, the good name, and
even the lives of men depended in great measure upon preserving the
proper respect for an oath, the man who wilfully took a false oath
deserved to be banished out of all civilized society; he added, that he
hoped Sir John would indict him for perjury." He then proceeded to
convict Wildgoose. "The penalty," said he, "for using engines for the
destruction of game, on other days, is, as you know well enough, five
pounds. But as your offence was committed on the Lord's Day, the penalty
is any sum that we think fit, provided it is not more than 20 [English
Pound] nor less than 10 [English Pound]. In compassion to your mother we
will fix the lower sum. This it is our duty to sentence you to pay. If
you cannot pay it, and have not goods which we can distrain, you must go
to prison." Wildgoose answered that as for the penalty, he neither could
nor would pay it: that he had no goods, as he was only a sort of a
lodger in his mother's house, and that he had as soon go to prison as
not. He knew that there he should have plenty to eat and little to do.
In this last supposition he was mistaken, as the magistrates had, though
with some difficulty, contrived to find work enough to keep the
prisoners continually employed. The parish constable, under whose care
Wildgoose was, said, that of his own certain knowledge he was able to
confirm the truth of his statement as to his having no goods to
distrain. The commitment therefore was made out, and Jack was sent off
to the county gaol.
Lightly as he had talked of going to prison, yet he felt a good deal
when actually on his way thither; and when he saw the high walls, the
grated windows, the narrow cells,--still more when he heard the clank of
the fetters of some of his fellow prisoners, who were confined for
heinous offences, his soul sank within him. He was shocked too and
mortified at being required to put on that token of disgrace, a prison
dress. He did not, however, remain there long. His poor mother was
thunderstruck at hearing that her son was really sent to prison, and
lost no time in endeavouring to get money enough to pay the fine in
order to procure his freedom. She had hardly any money in the house; but
her neighbours were ready to lend her what they had by them; and four
pounds, being the whole of her savings in service, were eagerly and
freely given by Lucy Wilmot, a well-behaved young woman, to whom Jack
Wildgoose had for some time been attached.
Mrs. Wildgoose could not bear to be in debt; and as she never was able
to do much more than just maintain her family, she knew that she must
deny herself and her children every little indulgence in order to repay
her kind neighbours. But she thought that any thing was better than
suffering her son to remain in prison, in the society, it might be, of
depraved and abandoned characters.
The penalty having been paid, Jack was immediately set at liberty. He
felt a little abashed at first coming home; but the kind manner of his
mother, who, though her heart was full of grief, would not utter the
least reproach, relieved him. Jack soon observed in a variety of little
things a change in his mother's manner of living. She had been
accustomed, for instance, to give her children a bit of meat baked with
a pudding on Sundays. When, instead of this, nothing made its appearance
but some potatoes and dripping, with bread and cheese, the girls looked
disconcerted, and Sam cried out, "Why, mother, what's become of the
meat and pudding? This is no better than a working-day's dinner." Mrs.
Wildgoose told them, that she could not at present afford to give them a
better, and they should be thankful for what they had. John knew well
enough the meaning of this, and, to do him justice, felt a good deal.
Often did he now wish that he had in his pocket again those many
shillings and sixpences, which he had uselessly spent at the Fighting
Cocks.
His mother, who had always been pleased with his attachment to Lucy
Wilmot, thought it but fair to tell him one day how generously she had
contributed to his enlargement. John was much overcome, and took the
first opportunity of warmly thanking Lucy for her kindness to him. Lucy
was vexed at his knowing it, and was a good deal confused; but there was
something in her manner, which encouraged him to express his hopes of
being some day united to her. Lucy was a frank, ingenuous, open-hearted
girl, and did not pretend to deny the regard that she felt for him;
"but, John," said she, "I can never consent to marry a poacher; I should
not think it right to unite myself to a man who lives in the habit of
breaking the laws. I could not bear to have for a husband, the companion
of nightly plunderers, drunkards, and sabbath-breakers. Besides, I
should never have a moment's peace. The thoughts of fines, and
imprisonments, and fightings with game-keepers, and all sorts of
terrible things, would never be out of my head. Instead of your coming
home to me at night, I should expect to hear of your being taken up, or
wounded, or being forced to fly the country. No, John; I don't pretend
to deny the kindness I feel for you. We were play-fellows when children;
were always good friends as we were growing up; and--perhaps--I might
now use a stronger term of regard; but I never will--I never can--marry
a poacher." Wildgoose promised again and again, that he would give it
up. "So you said before, John. Nobody could promise fairer than you did;
and for a little while I hoped you would keep your promise. But you know
how little came of it after all." John promised that this time he would
be more steady. Lucy replied, "As yet, John, we are both much too young
to think of settling. If I know my own heart, I think that I shall
never love any man but you: but I will never become your wife, until you
have shewn, by the experience of a year or two, that you have firmness
enough to keep to your present resolution."
Wildgoose's spirit was a little _up_ at Lucy's not choosing to _trust_
him at once. He was deeply gratified by her acknowledgment that she was
attached to him; but at the same time felt something like pique and
ill-humour, at what he called her want of confidence in him. He was
doubly resolved, however, to prove by his conduct that she had no reason
to doubt his steadiness.
Every thing now seemed going on well. John passed his days in honest
labour, and spent his evenings at home. He saw Lucy frequently; but soon
after Christmas she was obliged to return to her place, which was in the
family of a respectable gentleman, at some distance.
Towards the latter end of the second week in January, Wildgoose happened
to be passing the public house, when Atkins and two or three others came
running out, and eagerly asked him whether he had heard the news.
"News!" said John, "what news do you mean?" "News in which you are very
nearly concerned," said Mike Simmons; "but we can't tell you here; come
in with us into the house." To enter the door of the Fighting Cocks was
rather contrary to Wildgoose's resolution; but his desire to hear news,
in which he was so greatly interested, got the better of his scruples.
He therefore went in, and found two or three other men, of no very good
character, sitting round the fire, with their beer on the table. Jack
felt bound to call for some too, and asked to hear their news. "And sad
news it is," said Will; "the Quarter Sessions are just over; and--would
you believe it!--they have sentenced poor Tom Cade to transportation."
Wildgoose did not happen to have heard of the law, by which such nightly
depredators, if armed in any way, are made liable to that punishment[f],
and expressed some surprise. "Yes, they have condemned him to
transportation," exclaimed the whole party; "transportation! only for
trying to shoot a pheasant or two." "Now there you mistake the matter,"
said old Truman, (who, as he lodged with his son-in-law, was present at
more of these conversations than he wished,) "you mistake the matter
altogether. The law does not transport a man merely for killing a
pheasant, but for going out at night _armed_, and prepared for deeds of
violence against those whose duty it is to protect the game. The law
gives every man a right to take care of his property. It gives the owner
of a manor and land a sort of property in the game on his manor and
land, and a right to appoint persons to preserve it. If lawless men
choose to go, where they have no right to be at all, prepared to beat,
wound, and perhaps to kill, the men, whose duty it is to protect the
game, they deserve to be trounced pretty tightly. Besides, you must
remember, when a man is taken to in this way, he can't be punished at
all without a fair trial by a jury; while in common game cases the
justice is both judge and jury too. To be sure," added he, "if a man
thinks himself wronged by a justice's judgment, he has always a right to
appeal against it." Having said this, old Truman, who did not much like
the company, and had no hopes of reforming them, went to bed.
[Footnote f: See Note [F.]]
"For all the old man's fine talking," cried Atkins, "I say it is very
hard and cruel usage of poor Tom: and I never suffer a friend to be
wronged without being revenged. Sir John's pheasants, at all rates,
shall pay for it, and I would advise the keepers not to put themselves
in harm's way." "Let's go to-night," said Tim Nesbit, "there will be a
fine moon; and besides, I understand Sir John comes home to-morrow from
Wales, and then we shan't have so good a chance." This was agreed upon,
and Tim began singing the poacher's song;
Oh! 'tis a merry moony night;
To catch the little hares O!
They sat on drinking, though not so as to get intoxicated, till they
thought the time suited their purpose. When preparing to start, Atkins
said to Wildgoose, who had taken a good deal more beer than of late he
had been accustomed to, "You'll go with us, Jack?" Wildgoose replied,
that he had given up poaching for good and all, and should go quietly
home. "Now don't ye be shy," said Maurice Croft, "come along, like a
hearty fellow as you used to be." John still continued firm, and said
that he should go back to his mother. "Aye, let Johnny go and be tied
to his mother's apron string; that's a good Johnny," cried Tim Nesbit,
"I always thought him a chicken-hearted fellow. Why, did'nt Bob tell you
that he was turned methodist? You can't expect a fellow like that to be
true to his friends, or to have any spirit about him." "When a man has,
as you may say, lost a limb in the service," said Bob Fowler, who was
sitting by the fire with his arm in a sling, "it's all fair that he
should be a little backward, but I can't bear that a stout young fellow
like that should turn coward." Wildgoose felt mortified, and vexed, and
angered; and his anger was upon the point of so far getting the better,
as to make him still more determined upon avoiding their company; when
Atkins, who had not joined in the cry against him, pretended to take his
part. "Jack's as stout-hearted a fellow as any of you," said he, "and
he'll shew it to-night. I know he'll go with us, if it's only to
pleasure me, that have always been his friend, and run the risk of the
pillory to get him off; and just to prove to you once for all that he's
no coward." "Come, Jack, I know you'll come with us this once, and we
won't plague you again about it. What has been said now, was all said in
joke, so you mus'nt be angry. You know you need'nt carry a gun if you
do'nt like it, but you _shall_ just come and see the sport. No harm
_can_ come of it: as we shall be five of us, you may be sure the keepers
will be wise enough to keep their distance."
Wildgoose, at last, suffered himself to be persuaded. He thought that
Lucy would not hear of it; and that at all events it should be the last
time. Away they went, and were soon at the outside of Sir John's
preserve. It was a still serene night. The moon shone brightly, and the
hoar frost sparkled like diamonds on the twigs and few dead leaves.
Atkins, who on these occasions always took a sort of lead, turned to his
companions, and said, "Now, remember, my boys, we don't come here to be
taken, and sent out of the country like poor Tom. For my part I don't
think the keepers will come near us; but if they do, we must stand true
to each other, and send them home again as wise as they came." They
entered the wood, and dispersing themselves so as to be at no great
distance from each other, began their attack upon the sleeping
pheasants. They had not fired many shots before the game-keeper, who was
going his rounds, was brought to the spot. As he was getting over the
hedge, one of the stakes of which he had taken hold broke short off, and
let him fall back into the ditch. The noise gave the alarm to the
poachers, and they most of them concealed themselves behind large trees,
or the inequalities of ground in an old gravel pit. Michael Simmons was
not so quick as the rest. The keeper got sight of, and soon contrived to
seize him, exclaiming, "So ho! my lad! you must go along with me." He
hardly uttered the words, when Maurice Croft came to the rescue of his
comrade. The keeper, who was a powerful man, still kept hold of him, and
warded off a blow or two which Maurice aimed, as well as he could, when
he found himself suddenly seized by two men from behind, and borne to
the ground. "Blind his eyes, that he may'nt see too much of us," said
Black Will; "tie his hands behind him, and make him fast to this young
oak tree; he shall then have the amusement of hearing what pretty work
we make among his pheasants."
These orders were immediately obeyed. His gun was given to Wildgoose,
who was growing more and more eager in the sport. A handkerchief was
placed over his eyes, and he was bound to the tree so tightly, as to
occasion a considerable degree of pain. The gang went gaily to work
again, and the keeper had the mortification of hearing the pheasants
fall on all sides of him.
His trusty fellow-servant, Stokes, however, was not idle. He inhabited a
cottage in the park. The first shot that was fired had made him rub his
eyes and raise his head from the pillow: and the second made him jump
out of bed. From the number of shots he judged that the poachers were in
force; and accordingly called up the two garden-men, the stable
servants, and a labourer or two, who were kept in pay for such
occasions. They hastened altogether to the scene of action, armed, some
with guns, and the rest with stout bludgeons. The marauders soon got
together, and appeared disposed to face them: but when a few blows had
been struck, they found themselves so decidedly outnumbered, that they
turned about and ran off in different directions. Some of Sir John's men
hastened to unbind the game-keeper, while others went in pursuit.
Stokes, as it happened, followed Wildgoose, and having nearly come up
with him, called upon him to surrender. Wildgoose turned short round,
presented his gun, and bad him keep off, or he would fire. He was
determined not to be taken: and upon recognizing Stokes, he saw in him
the occasion of his imprisonment, and of the difficulties which the
payment of the fine had occasioned to his mother. He ought rather to
have felt that he himself was the only cause of these evils, and that
Stokes had merely done his duty. He had no time for reflection however;
and his angry feelings of hostility, together with the desire to escape,
so got the better of him, that upon Stokes's advancing to take hold of
him, he fired. Stokes uttered a cry--exclaimed, "I'm a dead man"--and
fell lifeless upon the ground.
Upon hearing the report of the gun, the keeper and his men quitted the
pursuit of the other poachers, and hurried to the spot. For a moment or
two Wildgoose stood motionless with horror at what he had done; but
when he saw the men coming towards him, he endeavoured to provide for
his safety by flight. Some difficulty which he found in clearing a
hedge, enabled three of them to get up with him. He defended himself for
a short time with the butt end of the fowling piece, but was at length
overpowered and taken.
During the remainder of the night he was guarded at the keeper's house;
and next morning was carried before a magistrate, who having taken the
evidence of Sir John's men, committed him to the county gaol in order to
take his trial at the Assizes.
Every body was sorry for poor Stokes, who was as honest and civil a
fellow as any in the neighbourhood. All too felt for his widow, who with
three small children were thus suddenly deprived of a kind husband, on
whose industry and good character she depended for subsistence.
When the dreadful intelligence reached Wildgoose's mother, she stood
like a statue. She shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she
stirred neither hand nor foot. At last, uttering a faint scream, she
dropped senseless on the floor. Her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who
had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to
herself. At first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had
happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream. In proportion as
her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality.
Her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get
up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed. A violent fever
came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had
great apprehensions for her life.
The country house of the gentleman, in whose family Lucy Wilmot lived as
house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied
her master and mistress to London. It so happened that the sad news did
not reach her till a few days before the Assizes. When she had a little
recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to
hasten to poor Wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or
assistance his awful situation would admit of. She requested therefore
her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few
pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and
next morning reached the county town. With an aching heart, and
trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol. The gaoler, who, like most of
his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked
her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to
bring Wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him
to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not
repeating any thing of what might pass between them. Poor Lucy's heart
sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners'
day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps
approaching the little parlour where she was sitting. When Wildgoose
entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his
hand. He, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his
face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing.
Lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in
a smothered voice, "Oh! Lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand
of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a
murderer." He then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to
command himself, gave way to an agony of grief. Lucy could hardly stand;
she had, however, been internally seeking strength from Him, who alone
can give it, and by his aid was supported. Her ardent wish too, to be of
use, led her to exert herself to the utmost. When, after some minutes,
Wildgoose became a little more composed, she spoke to him of taking
steps for his defence at his trial; and said that she was provided with
money in order to secure the assistance of a lawyer. At first he would
not hear of it. He said that it would be of no use, and that he deserved
to suffer. Lucy herself, from what she had heard, hardly indulged any
hope of his acquittal; but still urged him to make use of what
assistance he could, both that he might have longer space for
repentance, and also for the sake of his mother. "Oh, my mother! my
dear, dear mother!" exclaimed Wildgoose, striking his hand to his
forehead, and giving way to the expression of the most piercing anguish.
Several minutes passed before he could at all compose himself, but when
he was a little calmed, he at last consented that Lucy should take
whatever steps she thought expedient. With a voice almost stifled with
emotion, Wildgoose then asked Lucy if she had heard any thing of the
poor woman who had been deprived by his rashness of a tender husband.
Lucy replied that she had not. "Alas!" said he, "what is done cannot be
undone, nothing can make up to her for her loss; but if my life should
be spared, how gladly would I work night and day, to keep her and her
poor children from want."