Early next morning with the two friends mounted their horses and rode along with the sea-wall path to with the quaint old town of New Romney.
Not until they reached with the trees that fringe with the outer streets did Doctor Syn break silence:
“I warrant, Tony, that when I asked you to accompany me upon with the first stage of my Odyssey, you made up your mind that it would mean a ride to Oxford.”
“I expected you to speak of Oxford, certainly,” answered Tony; “and now you mention it, I can speak out the easier. I propose that I shall ride there in your stead. There are certain things to be done there. That villain's pack-horse is still in my father's stables, and should be returned to Iffley. You have many personal possessions left at Queen's, and there is the question of money owing at White Friars. All these things I can settle for you, if you will give me authority.”
“To save me pain, you think,” he answered. “But there is no more misery in the whole world that can affect me now. Reading her letter, I received my death-blow, and a dead man cannot suffer. No, I must go to Oxford personally, for I have many odd preparations to be made there against my ultimate seafaring.”
“You are intending to leave England?” asked Tony sadly. “I feared you would say so.”
“But not yet, Tony. No, not yet. Eventually, of course. But there must be no haste. Haste flusters a man, and I have sworn that through it all I shall remain most calm, and most deliberate. That devil, with his damned guitar and Spanish songs, expects me, as a man of spirit, to sweep to my revenge. I shall not sweep to please him, but creep to it. Yes, inch by inch, along the million miles, if needs be. Slowly, calmly and deliberately, but always very surely. I'll play the cat to his pathetic mouse. And when at last he fawns at me to kill, I'll whisper, 'No. Not yet. It is not quite time yet.'“ Moved by his friend's emotion, and resenting all that caused it, Tony leant forward, caught his companion's bridle and forced him to the halt.
“Christopher,” he said, “if you really wish revenge, leave this affair to me, and you shall have it fully. Suppose I follow them. Kill him, and bring her back to you repentant. Would you forgive her then?”
And at this, Syn laughed, but not unkindly. Gently he released his friend's hand from his bridle, and slowly pressed his horse into a walk, saying through his laughter:
“Oh, my good Tony, you almost persuade me to think that there is a little niceness in this dreadful world. But no, Tony, I have loved as maybe only you could love. But I have lost. And now I chase another mistress, and I find her most alluring. Her name is Revenge.” When they reached the old attorney's house, Tony tactfully insisted that he would remain outside and hold the horses.
“I shall not keep you long, I promise you,” said Syn. “I have my business at my finger-tips, which will please Uncle Solomon, since I interrupt his working hours.”
“You must not hurry on my account,” replied Tony. “Besides your business, you will have family affairs to discuss.”
“There will be no discussion,” returned Syn. “I can tell him the bare facts in a sentence, and then make my business request. A few minutes will suffice for all I have to say.” He was as good as his word, for in a few minutes the front door was opened again, not by the man-servant, but by Solomon Syn himself. He saluted Tony cordially, and assisted his nephew in arranging two bulky banker's bags across the saddle.
“Aye, Christopher,” said the old man, “they will ride there safe enough, for the webbing is strong, and you know how to tie a knot. If you meet a highwayman, avoid him.”
“We should be two to one, Uncle,” laughed the Doctor. “We are both armed, and can take care of ourselves, I think.” As they rode away he tapped the bags before him and explained:
“Guineas, Tony. I knew my uncle kept a store of them locked in his vault.
On our return to Dymchurch, old Wraight the builder is to meet me at the Vicarage. I wish to settle his account today. It is the first step of my Odyssey.
Each hour I must do something to advance it. I wonder, now, how many years it will take, and how many land and sea miles I shall cover?”
“I still hope,” said Tony sadly, “that God will show you there is something better than revenge.” But the Doctor shook his head and answered, “There can be nothing better in the world.” When they had handed their horses to the Court-House grooms, Tony insisted upon carrying the guinea-bags to the Vicarage, where they found the good old builder awaiting their pleasure.
“There was not this need of hasty payment, sir, as far as I'm concerned,” said the old man respectfully.
“I know, but I wish to get it settled,” replied Syn. “I see that you have the detailed list of items with you. Give it to Mr. Cobtree to look over, while you and I take a final look at the improvements.” So Tony sat down to the library table and checked the inventory, while Wraight followed the Vicar from room to room, and out into the garden, the builder talking proudly of the various results of his work, and the Doctor vouchsafing not a word of comment. Neither praise nor censure did he speak, till his silence worried the old man. Unable to stand it longer, he asked:
“I hope, sir, that my work meets with your approval?”
“Of course. Of course,” replied Syn, but in a tone that showed the builder that his mind was elsewhere. “The work has been faithfully carried out, according to my instructions, and whatever mistake has been made, it is mine, and not yours, and I will take the blame.”
“Mistake? The blame?” repeated Wraight. “I beg, sir, that you will point out any mistake, that I can rectify it.” The Doctor changed the subject suddenly, and pointing to a ladder that leaned against the new wing in which Imogene had planned her nurseries, he asked what it was there for. “I see it gives access to the roof. Is it not finished?” Wraight explained that he had been up there before the Doctor's arrival to inspect the new red tiles.
“Did you find them satisfactory?” asked the Doctor.
“I did, sir. Very pleased with them I was. I wager they'll keep out wind and water for a century.”
“I wonder now,” said Syn, with a smile.
Bridled that his work should be thus criticized, the old man was angry, but before he could speak, Syn left him abruptly, and walked quickly to a toolshed from which he brought a heavy pick-axe. Then he climbed the ladder and stood upon the gently sloping tiles. Suddenly he laughed, and, to Wraight's astonishment and indignation, he swung the pick above his head and brought the flat blade of it down with a sweeping blow. Using the implement as a lever, he forced the tiles from their pegs and sent them crashing down into the garden below. In a minute he had torn a hole in the roof through which he cast the pick, and with such force that it tore its way with falling plaster into the room below which was to have been the nursery. Dusting his clothes deliberately, he climbed down the ladder and told the amazed Wraight to follow him into the house.
Tony, who had heaped up the requisite pile of guineas on the table, crossed to the window to find out the cause of the noise, but seeing the grim expression upon the two men's faces as they entered, he kept silence and waited for an explanation.
“I have thoroughly satisfied myself, Tony,” said the Doctor, “that Mr.
Wraight has carried out the work I gave him faithfully. I see you have the guineas waiting for him, so if you will count it, Mr. Wraight, Mr. Cobtree will give you a receipt to sign. I then shall want from you, my good Wraight, another estimate, which I will pay for now, as soon as we agree. I want all the work which you have executed to be removed as soon as possible. In short, I wish this good Vicarage to be put back exactly as it was. As I told you, I am willing to abide by my mistake, and I do not choose to saddle my successors with so large a house as now it stands. Dilapidations become a heavy charge for outgoing incumbents. You need not question my authority for this, since I have gained the permission of my patron, Sir Charles Cobtree, who, as you know, is warden of this Living. Will you undertake this at once?” Wraight nodded. “It be the strangest job I ever had.”
“Ah, Wraight, old friend,” said the Doctor sadly, “there are the strangest circumstances connected with it, I assure you, and in giving you this order, I confess I am not thinking only of my successors here.”
“We are not wanting your successors, sir,” replied Wraight. “As to any other motive you may have, I respect your silence, sir. And in that I know I speak for the whole village, sir.”
“God has at least possessed me with many faithful friends,” replied the Doctor.
Thus did old Wraight voice for the village their unspoken sympathy.
A few days later Doctor Syn rode back to Oxford. In returning the borrowed pack-horse to Iffley, he found that the estate was up for sale.
So the fox will not return to that hole, he wrote to Tony. He also described the ordeal he undertook while visiting White Friars.
The deeper I plumb the depths of their deception, the higher must I soar in the Heaven of my Vengeance. It appears that the sudden illness of my wife was for the most part feigned. And I dare swear at his suggestion. Hardly had I left her, but he was there and welcomed. He wrote to me each day of her improvement, as you know, and she did improve to him. Why did I not obey a loving instinct that came to me when but a mile outside the town? It was a compelling urge to gallop back and kiss her. Thinking she would be sleeping, I conquered the desire. Had I not done so, I should have found her up and singing with him to those damned guitars. More could I tell you, but why abuse good ink and paper with things so damnable? One fact enraged me at the time, I think almost as much as their worst sinning, for when I asked for my account of accommodation, I found that the rascal had had the impertinence to settle this for me. Since the good lady honestly refused my double payment, I took the amount into St. Giles' and gave it to the first beggar I encountered. My few possessions here I have packed and sent by coach, and I intend to ride back within the next day or so. But I must first glean what information I can concerning our rascal from the servants at Iffley. Disgruntled at their abrupt discharge, they will no doubt be bribable.
On returning to Dymchurch, Doctor Syn continued to reside at the CourtHouse. When the Vicarage had been restored according to his direction, he installed there, at his expense, a married parson, who should act as his curate, and be ready to take over his duties when he was ready to set out upon his vengeance. Tony and his wife, who lived in a separate wing of the CourtHouse, never dared to ask him when this would be, and as the months went by, and still he carried on his work, they hoped he might in time forget. But all the while the Doctor was preparing. Relieved of much of his work, he had ample 238__ __leisure to ride about the countryside. In the town of Sandgate he discovered, to his joy, a Spanish prisoner living on parole. He struck a friendly bargain with this gentleman to teach him Spanish. With him he wrote and read and talked, promising this exile that as soon as he had made him proficient, he in his turn would pay the residue of his ransom and use his influence to get him back to Spain. Many an hour did these two pore over Spanish maps, and from many a lively description Doctor Syn was soon familiar with the manners and customs of that country. Fortunately the Spaniard was well acquainted with the port of San Sebastian, and he described this place so vividly that Doctor Syn could walk the streets of it in imagination. This was important to him, for he knew that San Sebastian was the port of lading for his enemy's ship. The Spaniard was also a master of fence, and knew many tricks that were new to the Doctor, who was able to pass them on to Tony, with whom he exercised with swords daily.
At last there came a day when, in the midst of a lesson, the Spaniard clapped the Doctor on the back and said:
“I have no more need to teach. Your conversation is admirable, and, hardest of all to accomplish, your accent and pronunciation are as good as any Spanish gentleman I know.”
“Then I can wind up my business here,” replied the Doctor. “I have already settled yours for you, and so the sooner we set sail for San Sebastian, the better we shall both be pleased.” It was then arranged that they should sail together, and Captain Esnada—for that was the Spaniard's title—begged of him to stay in his company at his daughter's house upon arrival. Liking him well, and perceiving that he would be of the utmost service to him in Spain, the Doctor readily consented.
It took him but a day or so to arrange with his Uncle Solomon a banker's system by which he could readily draw money abroad, and then, after handing over his full duties to the worthy curate who it was arranged should succeed him, Doctor Syn preached his farewell sermon, took leave of the Cobtrees and the village of Dymchurch, and in company with Esnada took coach to London.
To be sure, he had first taken solemn oath to keep Tony informed of his progress, and as a parting gift bequeathed him his favourite horse, an old and faithful friend he was loth to lose.
“I will but keep him for you against your return,” Tony had said. “When you have settled your score, you must return, for you know that my father will see you back again into the Living.” But the Doctor shook his head at that. “I fear,” he had said, “that my good friend's hunting days will have passed away before I preach again in Dymchurch. In fact, 'tis likely I shall never preach again.” This was untrue, as afterwards befell, but it was long years before he was to preach again in Dymchurch.
While waiting for a vessel to convey them to Amsterdam, whence they could re-ship for Spain, Doctor Syn occupied his time in making inquiries concerning the fruit-ship owned by Nicholas. He learnt that it had not returned to London Docks since the voyage of seduction. He was glad of this, knowing that Nicholas was afraid of him. They were not long in Amsterdam, for they found a Spanish merchantman ready to sail the very next day after their arrival, and having no other passengers booked for that voyage, the captain was glad of their company and money.
Now, since they were bound for a Catholic country, Esnada persuaded Syn to drop his title of an English parson, and, as England was not popular, to confine his talk to Spanish. This the young Doctor agreed to do, and although he still retained his black cloth suit, which was elegantly cut, he changed his white tabs of office for a lace cravat. He had never shaved his head to wear the formal wig then in use for parsons, but wore his own hair long. Also he had buckled on his father's sword, so that on the whole he looked more like a sedate young gentleman of means than a peace-pledged parson. Studious he looked, but resolute. He handled his sword-hilt with confidence, and his manner suggested an alert authority. He was quick to make inquiries from the Captain concerning Nicholas. It happened that the Captain knew him well, and was much amused in telling Syn how that English rascal had adopted Spain in honour of a Spanish girl whom he had recently married.
“And he carried himself wonderfully, like a real Se—or. He is truly Spanish in his talk as you and I, and he boasts of his blood like the most arrogant grandee. He used to make money taking fruit to England when I first knew him, but now he contents himself with carrying all sorts of ladings from one Peninsula port to another. His Spanish wife has cured him of England. 'Tis more than likely we shall meet with him in San Sebastian. You know him, too, perhaps?”
Syn answered that he had the honour, and hoped the meeting would be forthcoming.
On arrival at the harbour, Doctor Syn looked eagerly for his enemy's ship, for there were many of similar rig at anchorage, but he was to be disappointed, for one of the port officials was able to inform them that Nicholas had sailed that morning for Lisbon, but would be returning to San Sebastian with cargo.
The house to which Captain Esnada led him was conveniently placed for Doctor Syn, for it stood up high above the harbour and commanded a fine stretch of sea, so that when out upon the balcony, the Doctor was able, through a powerful telescope, to watch and speculate upon any vessel the moment it topped the horizon.
Finding in Esnada a man of great discretion, Doctor Syn had confided in him something of his purpose, so that the Spaniard, who owed much to the Doctor, was equally anxious to bring the affair to a settling.
“Your Odyssey, as you are pleased to call it,” he said, “will be finished shortly. When his ship arrives, we will be standing out there on the harbour wall for his reception.”
“Aye, he must come back, as you say,” replied Syn; “and yet I have the strongest presentiment that he will somehow give us the slip. No doubt my grim desire to track him round the world from place to place, never letting him settle here or there, has persuaded my instincts to this conclusion. I may be forced to kill him here, and at once; for I fear that my patience would be uncontrolled at first sight of him. Well, we shall soon know.” It was one midday, when Doctor Syn was drinking sherry with Esnada and his daughter in their cool upper room, that his eyes strayed back again to the horizon which he always watched. Through the open arches that led to the balcony and showed such a magnificent sea-scape, he had seen a sail appear.
Up she came, a fine and full-rigged ship. In three strides he was at the telescope and swinging it round to bear upon the ship. The unspoken sentence that had stuck in the throat on Dymchurch Wall now passed his lips aloud:
“It is the ship.” In a second Esnada was beside him. His daughter, on the other hand, went on reading a broadsheet containing local news, sipping her sherry at the same time. Curious she may have been, and was, if truth were known. But her father, with that tactful courtesy for which the best of his country had ever been famed, had strictly enjoined her never to notice anything queer about their guest. So much did they both owe him for his deliverance from England, that she must never by word or look appear to be sounding the depths of his mystery.
“When I tell you that he has a mystery which is not a mystery to me, I am not boasting of any keen perception, for he did your father the honour of his confidence. Therefore in this house it must be respected, perhaps more than in any other.”
Like father, like daughter, she therefore showed not the slightest interest in the ship, at least not outwardly, for this serenely beautiful Spanish lady was middle-aged and very sensible. She had never married because her soldier lover had been killed in war. Grateful to Doctor Syn for having brought here father back to her, she allowed herself a motherly regard for him, and she somewhat envied her father that this attractive but mysterious young man had chosen him instead of her as his confessor.
She heard her father say, as he in his turn looked through the telescope, “You are right, my friend; but it will be a long time yet. Suppose meantime we eat our meal here on the balcony. A soldier's instinct is to snatch what food he can before an action, and we cannot tell when we shall eat again today. At all events, he shall not have the satisfaction of knowing that he has inconvenienced our stomachs.”
“Just as you wish, sir,” replied Syn calmly. “We can at least watch while we eat. But for my part, the sight of those sails is meat and drink to me.” Esnada gave orders to his daughter, who never questioned his reason for thus hastening the meal, and before the incoming ship had grown perceptibly nearer in their eyes, the three of them were served with omelettes, bread and wine.
So obvious was it that their guest was suppressing a growing excitement as the vessel drew slowly nearer, that the daughter thought to put him at his ease by saying:
“Can you wonder that my father used to think lovingly of this balcony when he was in exile? You must own it is a pretty sight. Look at that ship! I have always thought that there is a wealth of drama in a homing voyage. How many hearts are fluttering with excitement like those sails? It is a joyful thing to reach harbour, and home.”
“It is indeed,” replied Syn, and then he added, with a somewhat grim significance: “Yet, however joyful the anticipation may be, the wise heart should prepare itself against uncertainty. For when you think of it, what terrible surprises, what evil news may not be waiting for someone on that very ship out there? And yet I'll wager that not one of them is contemplating on the possibility of such a shock.”
“Perhaps God in His mercy does not wish them to,” said the lady.
Their meal finished, and the ship growing nearer, Esnada rose and ordered his daughter to her siesta.
“I'm taking our guest down to the harbour,” he added. “The sun will be too hot for you, and our complexions do not matter as yours. But first give me my sword, and our guest's sword too, for there are sometimes worse sharks on those ramparts than in the sea, but the mere wearing of a sword keeps them at a distance.”
So armed for battle, the two men left the house.
But Esnada did not go to her siesta. She watched her father and his friend striding away through the idle crowds, many of whom were being drawn by curiosity to see the vessel come to anchorage. But these made way for two gentlemen of such military bearing, especially when they saw the worthy Harbour-master saluting them with the gravest courtesy. Indeed, this official conducted them to the very end of the wall, ordering the loiterers back to a respectful distance, so that the great gentlemen, his friends, might not be incommoded. He then bustled off upon his business.
“There is space enough here for a fight,” said Esnada.
Doctor Syn said nothing, but loosened his sword in the scabbard. Amidst the bawling and the singing of the seamen, they heard the orders given for the furling of the sails, as slowly the ship drew nearer to the entrance.
“Will he land hereabouts?” asked Syn.
“Aye,” returned Esnada. “The Harbour-master said by those steps there. I could wish now he had not driven away the crowd, for then you could have ambushed amongst them. From the height of his deck, he could spot a mouse upon this quay, and you are so plaguey tall, my friend. Besides, the blackness of your dress against this dazzling whiteness makes you the more conspicuous.”
“Oh, I want him to see me,” said Syn, with a sardonic smile.
“But he'll skulk then in his cabin, and sent others ashore about his business,” argued Esnada.
“If so, and should my patience pass all bearing,” returned Syn, “we could find some means of boarding her. No cabin door would keep me out, did I once allow myself to say, 'Now is the time'.” Suddenly Esnada heard him draw his breath through his set teeth so sharply that it whistled. Then, without opening his mouth, he spoke through his throat:
“He is there upon the poop. Blue coat, gilt buttons and the white feather in his hat. So he flaunts the badge of his cowardice, it seems. He will do his best to avoid a fight, for there has never been a game-cock yet with a white feather.
You see him?” Esnada nodded: “He is leaning against the bulwark.” Instinctively the Spaniard loosened his scabbard, but Syn checked the movement sharply:
“Remember this is my quarrel. You could command anything from me, but not a drop of his blood.” He drew a brass spy-glass from his side pocket and brought his enemy the nearer. “This Tappittino, or whatever he calls himself, is a true Tappitt of Iffley, for the rascally fool is as drunk as an owl. If his eyes are not too bleared to see me with, I fancy the sight of me will sober him.”
“Do you see a woman standing in the bows?” asked Esnada.
Round swung the spy-glass to the bows. For a few tense seconds Syn said nothing. Then he whispered, “It is she. My wife.” Esnada wondered whether his emotion was about to get the better of his friend, for the hands that held the glass began to shake. With the same fear that he might lose his grim determination, Syn snapped the glass into its sockets and thrust it in his coat. Then he said sadly:
“She is far too beautiful to have been spoiled by a devil. I never thought she would be there amongst so many men. Well, perhaps 'tis better I should confront them both.” At that instant, Imogene saw him and with a cry of terror raced for the poop, crying aloud to Nicholas.
“He is there!” she cried. “He is waiting there to kill us! Don't you see? The figure in black. The figure in black. It is my husband—Christopher. I tell you it is Doctor Syn.”
Frightened by the vehemence of her terror, Nicholas jerked himself into soberness. A cold panic drove the drink right out of him, as beads of perspiration burst from every pore. With clenched fists she beat against him like a terrified child. She drove him into instant action, for springing at his sailing-master he cried out with an oath to “'Bout ship!” Ignorant of what dreadful catastrophe was about to fall upon them, their panic impelled the crew into a quick and blind obedience. The sharp and ringing orders were promptly answered, and the ship, dangerously swinging round in a water-space that was hardly adequate, all but crashed into the masonry of the quay. As it was, the helmsman's skillful steering did not avoid a staggering scraping from the wall.
“What are they doing? Good God! are they mad?” cried out the Harbourmaster, and his question was echoed from the crowd.
That there was method in their madness became at once apparent, and with sails already unfurled again she was standing far away to sea.
The Harbour-master came puffing up to the end of the jetty and, making a funnel with his hands, bawled out, “Santa Maria, what is wrong?” But since no one on board the Santa Maria called back, Doctor Syn vouchsafed a suggestion:
“It almost seems as though they had seen some dreadful phantom who frightened them away.”
“I never saw a ship do that before,” replied the Harbour-master. “Right to the mouth of Port, her cargoes eagerly waited for, then of a sudden, round, at great risk to the ship and all upon her, and off to sea. Look, she is sailing resolutely, as though all Hell were after her. I think, good Se—or, you are in the right of it and this is devil's business.”
As he hurried away to write down in his harbour log of the extraordinary occurrence, Doctor Syn turned to Esnada and smiled. But the smile was very grim.
“I am glad there was no kill today, for I think this is the method of torture to employ. He was obviously afraid. The poor, sly fox! Well, I have covered his cover at Iffley, and I've covered his cover here. He will not dare to go on breaking harbourage like this. He must put into some port, and from that port he must sail. We must get a system of spying on him, my good Esnada, and make it so perfect that should we miss him at one port, we must find whither he has sailed, and post by road or faster vessel to arrive there first.” With the help of the Harbour-master, Esnada was enabled to get in touch with agents in the different ports of the Peninsula, so that in a little the movements of the Santa Maria were known to Syn before she made them. No sooner was her destination known, but the Doctor would set off to await his arrival. But Nicholas was cautious. He was also very much afraid. The certainty of seeing that mysterious elegant figure in black for ever standing before him upon the end of every harbourage he sought got on his nerves. As he could not run away each time, as he had done at San Sebastian, he would never anchor save in mid-water. He set a guard to watch his enemy continually, with the strictest orders that on no account was he to be allowed to board the ship.
Nicholas himself could never go ashore, for even in the dead of night, although the figure of Syn might disappear for an hour or so, he knew that it would reappear again without a warning. And, as Syn guessed, Imogene was just as frightened as Nicholas, and their horror communicated itself to the crew, who, whenever they landed either on pleasure bent or for business connected with the ship, avoided contact with the figure, never lingering in case it might address them. The mere fact that it never seemed to notice them filled these fellows with superstitious dread, and the hardest dogs amongst them would cross themselves devoutly as they hurried by.
And this went on and on, until the Santa Maria disappeared. She was due to arrive at her port of lading, and, as usual, Syn was there. But this time he waited in vain. He then travelled back the longest road through Spain right from Cadiz, the port in question, to rejoin Esnada in the north. There, month after month went by, and to all inquiries the various agents' answer was: “No news of the Santa Maria.” After a year the agents answered finally, “She is posted amongst the Lost.” But this Syn resolutely refused to believe. He told Esnada that is was only a question of waiting, and that sooner or later he would surely hit upon some clue as to the whereabouts of his enemy.
In the meantime Syn set himself to study languages. He added Portuguese to his Spanish, and polished up his French.
“And I shall add to these as time allows,” he said, “for wherever the rascal may have hidden, when I shall reappear to him it will be useful if I can speak the language.” Esnada and his daughter humoured him, but they were glad of the way things had befallen, for they were fond of the Doctor, and had missed him badly when he had been travelling from port to port. And then at last news came.
It was the Harbour-master who brought it in the shape of a sailor. A native of San Sebastian, he had just returned home from the Americas. He had been a member of the Santa Maria's crew for a long time, but had left her in Charleston when she was put up for sale. The owners had bought a shallower craft to trade up-river.
Oh yes, indeed, the owner's wife was with him. She had a child, too—a boy —and by this time doubtless had another. The husband, Black Nick, was for ever dragging her around with him, baby or no. The sailor went on to speak of Black Nick's bad habits: drinking and the worst brutality. When Syn gave him three guineas for his story, he was back again next day, with details he had not thought on.
Esnada warned the Doctor not to pay more heed or money, for he thought the rascal had realized that they had no good regard for his Black Nick, and so, by further blackening his character, he thought to purse more guineas.
“Besides,” he added, “'tis months and months since he set eyes on your enemy, who may be anywhere by now.” This did little good in swerving Doctor Syn. He was determined to follow his destiny, and that was clearly pointing to America.
“It is so vast a continent,” objected Esnada.
“All the more room to follow him about in,” laughed Syn. “And 'tis something to know what continent he is in.” A few days later, writing to Tony Cobtree on the subject, he ended with:
“And so I go to America. It is the only thing I can do. Perhaps I am called to convert the Red Indians—who knows? Or perhaps they will convert me.
Well, I know whose scalp I hunt. Life in England, despite your father's entreaties couched with yours and your dear wife's, I fear, would be to me unbearable at present. It may be long before I see you, but I cannot think that I have walked my last on Dymchurch Wall.”
A month later, having taken a sorrowful farewell of his Spanish friends, he crossed into Portugal and sailed from Lisbon on the Intention, a cargo vessel bound for the port of Boston in Massachusetts.
