Part 3

The bad success of the last expedition, and the loss of strength which they had sustained, kept the gang of plunderers comparatively quiet. Jack Wildgoose, however, and Black Will, again took to their old practice of wiring hares[e]; and contrived to dispose of a considerable number. The keepers were aware of it, but somehow could never manage to come upon them exactly at the right time. One Sunday morning, when Jack had gone round to examine into the state of his snares, and had just taken up a hare with the wire round its neck, Stokes the under-keeper, who had been concealed on the other side of the hedge, suddenly started up, and caught him in the fact. An information against him was immediately laid by one of Stokes's fellow-servants; a summons was procured; and John Wildgoose appeared at the Justice meeting, which took place next day.

[Footnote e: See Note [E.]]

The information having been read, and Wildgoose having pleaded not 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.