Never in the history of Dymchurch Rookery that sways above the church and court house had the black-robed inmates such cause to fear the snapping of their fighting tops as during the soul-shaking tempest that swept the English Channel on the night of November 13, 1775. The giant elms creaked and groaned as the racing wind shrieked in their bent riggings. Far beneath on the flat grass of the low-lying churchyard the headstones of the graves were torn from their sockets and in some cases hurled and splintered against the church. The roof of the old Manor Farm house opposite, through the weakening of a beam, rained tiles upon the road, while all along the straggling village street chimney tops crashed down. It was braving death to pass the strongest buildings on that ghastly night. And yet two men were daring enough to attempt it, and that when the storm was at its height.
They had been regaling their spirits in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Waggetts, the proprietors of the Ship Inn, and consuming a vast quantity of excellent French brandy. Then they had heard the guns. It echoed above the storm from the desolate pebble nose of Dungeness. A ship was in distress.
Simultaneously both men had risen and buttoned their coats.
“You're never going out in this,” protested Mrs. Waggetts.
“There's no call for Merry to, but I must,” answered the shorter of the two.
“If a ship's coming ashore, it's my duty to see what manner o' ship she be.” He was the Preventative Officer. A dogged, bitter man, and most unpopular in the village by reason of his trade. He knew that no throat in Dymchurch was in such constant danger of being cut. He also knew that no one was more likely to cut it than his drinking companion who was, like him, buttoning up his coat.
This Merry belied his name. He was sullen, intractable and cross-grained.
Tall and cadaverously thin, he was strong, and could pick up a living at most things that came his way.
“Why was he leaving the snugness of the 'Ship' parlour to court disaster outside?” the Preventative Officer asked himself.
A terrific crash near at hand.
“There goes our chimney stack,” whined Mr. Waggetts, who sat propped with pillows in a wheel-backed armchair by the fire. Waggetts was a sick man.
His wife was the reverse. Large, ugly, vain, but capable. She it was who steered the Ship Inn and made it the profitable concern it was.
“Well, I says, it's one of them nights when one must take the crashes as they come. Besides,” she went on, “the inn ain't going to come down. Ain't it stood all these years?” The officer turned in the door and said 'good night', and, when they both got outside, these ill-assorted companions had to negotiate their way over the branches of a great tree that had been blown across the road from the Grove House, the comfortable residence of Dr. Sennacherib Pepper, the local physician and surgeon. Lights were burning in the Grove House. Evidently Dr.
Pepper expected the storm to give him a duty call, and was not yet abed.
At the corner of Grove House, the road turns and forks into an upper path which runs up a bank and snuggles its way immediately below the sea-wall. Up this path the two struggled, making their way towards a snugly-gabled house known as 'the Sea-Wall Tavern'. The events of this night were, however, destined to change this name. The two adventurers looked up at the bedroom window, where in the light of a candle a good-looking young woman was peering through the diamond-shaped panes. Behind her loomed the figure of her husband.
Making a trumpet of his hands, the Preventative Officer shouted: “Ahoy there, Abel Clouder.” In a vivid flash of lightning Abel looked down over his wife's shoulder and recognized the two men standing on the gravel path beneath the window. At the same time his wife pointed out to sea and uttered a frightened cry that was echoed by what seemed like the wailing of lost souls.
Abel made a sign to the men below and disappeared from the window. In a few seconds they heard the chains being taken down from the door, and it suddenly opened inwards. The two men dashed into the passage and turned to help the owner close his door. Against the fury of the wind, it took their combined force to do it.
“There's a ship in distress, ain't there?” asked the Preventative man. “Do you know her?”
“No,” said Abel. “Come upstairs and have a look. There'll be lightning again in a minute.” Mrs. Meg Clouder left the window as the men came in, and sat down on the side of the big bed.
Her husband dragged the Preventative man to the window, where they waited for the next flash. Merry stood just inside the door and turned his cadaverous eyes upon the girl's clear-cut, almost classic, features, her broad honest brow with the light brown hair that crowned it and fell in a provocative kiss curl upon her firm young breast. Her eyes had the green of the sea in them, and he was afraid of the, but the suspicion of freckles under them somehow stirred his blood. She was dressed in an orange-coloured frock of rough cloth, open at the neck. His eyes that had been devouring Meg's face and figure, shifted to her feet. They were bare, and he had a mad desire to crunch those beautiful little bones between his teeth.
As the lightning flashed he saw what the others had been watching, a sturdy brig with broken masts and fallen sails being hurled nearer and nearer to the sea-wall.
“She's no doubt striking the sand already as she dips,” said Abel. “But she won't stick, not with that power of sea. It'll lift her off every time. She'll be broke up within the groyne. Maybe she'll get hoisted on to the wall before she breaks her back. By gad. She's on fire, too. Look.” The sky had gone black as the thunder crashed, but a dull red spot suddenly leapt into a fierce tongue of orange flame, and once more arose the wail as of lost souls. And that their bodies were lost there was no doubt. That flame, venomous and spiteful, had the ship. It was as though one element were striving with the other for the victim. Fire and water fought for the doomed vessel.
“Oh, poor people,” murmured Meg, trembling. “Can we do nothing but watch?”
“I fear that's what it will amount to, lass,” replied her husband. “It's no use trying to launch a boat, because it couldn't be done. But a line might help 'em.” The shrieking wind seemed to scoff at his words, for a sheet of water struck the lead-rimmed panes. Once more the lightning lit up sea and sky.
“She's nearer now,” said Abel. “But every time the waves drop her she sticks. When she stops shifting, if she does, I'll risk it.” Meg stood up and said firmly: “You are not to go, Abel. It is madness.” Abel, however, had decided that he must go. He turned and laid both his hands upon her firm young shoulders.
“You ain't going to make me unworthy of your love?”
“Mrs. Clouder, that ain't a sea to swim in, I allow,” said the Preventative Officer. “There's but two men on Romney Marsh that might attempt it at a long hazard, and your man's the stronger swimmer of the two.”
“And is the other one a married man?” asked Meg.
The Preventative Officer shook his head. “It's the young vicar, I mean, Parson Bolden.”
“But look at that sea,” protested Meg.
“Why, there is the parson,” exclaimed Abel. “See him, crouching his was up by the boat-house wall. He's a dare-devil for all he's a parson.”
“There's quite a crowd of the lads collected,” said the Preventative man.
“Where?” asked Merry, going for the first time to the window. He had a purpose for doing it, too. He dropped his dark scarf upon the dark floor-board.
The light of the flickering candle did not betray this fact, as Merry leaned against the casement.
“On the lee side of the boat-house,” was the reply to Merry's question.
“Then it's time we joined 'em,” said Abel. “Have you got the key of the boat-house, in case them rescue ropes are needed, mate?”
“I've got it,” answered the Preventative man, making for the staircase.
“Come on, Merry.” Merry followed down the stairs. But one look he shot as he went, and he saw Meg in her husband's arms, and he hugged his hatred to his soul.
“Give a look to the parlour fire below, lass,” said Abel, “and keep a kettle going. We may get one or two of 'em ashore in spite of all, and they'll want reviving.” When Abel had his hand upon the bobbin of the front door, Merry put his hand up to his coat collar. “You go on. I'll join you,” he said. “I've left my scarf up in the bedroom.”
“You'll never pull this door to by yourself,” laughed Abel. “Here, Meg. Mr. Merry's left his scarf up there. Heave her down, will you?” But this didn't suit Merry. He had a word to say to Meg alone and he meant to say it. He was up the stairs before Abel realized he was going, and he entered the bedroom without a word.
Meg had evidently neither heard her husband call nor Merry's footsteps, for she was kneeling beside the bed with her face buried in her arms. Feeling a heavy hand upon her bowed head rumpling her hair, she imagined that her prayer was answered and that her husband had returned to tell her that the seas were too high to adventure.
Smiling through her tears she looked up into the cadaverous face of the miserable Merry.
Meg found herself suddenly afraid.
“What do you want here?” she asked.
He turned away, muttering: “My scarf.” He hovered round the bed, pretending to search for it.
She rose from her knees, dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, and in a business-like way went to the window-sill and picked up the candle. Her eyes immediately saw the scarf where he had dropped it. With her other hand she pointed to it.
“There it is,” she said, but made no attempt to stoop for it.
The voice of Abel jerked him into action.
“Can't you find it, man? You're wasting time.”
“Got it,” answered Merry, as he shambled forward awkwardly and picked up the scarf. As he straightened himself up, he seemed surprised to find himself so close to her. There was only the candle which she held between them. Now, he decided, was the time to give her his message.
“Should anything happen to him,” he whispered, jerking his head towards the stairs, “I shall be here to take charge of you, see?” Meg looked bewildered, as indeed she was. “I don't understand you, Mr. Merry,” she said.
“No?” he queried. “Well, you've made me understand something you have. I see now why them damned fool moths get caught up in the flame.” As he spoke his fingers had fluttered in tiny circles above the lighted candle which she held between them. Then suddenly they had dropped, extinguishing the flame and plunging the bedroom into darkness. Before she could cry out in her astonishment, her head was clenched to the crook of his arm and she was half suffocated against the wetness of his coat. As he held her there, she heard once more a wail of agonized terror from the ship outside.
“Come on,” cried Abel, climbing the stairs.
She felt herself freed, and as the lightning flashed again she was alone.
“Have you got a light to rekindle the candle for Mrs. Clouder?” said Merry from the top of the stairs. “The draught blew the damned thing out.” Abel produced a 'flasher' from his pocket, and passing Merry on the stairs went into the bedroom. 'Flashers' were small pistols without barrels, about four inches long in all, with flintlock and pan to hold about a quarter thimblefull of powder. 'Flashers' were used by the Dymchurch men to signal night messages to one another across the Marsh, or perhaps to the crew of a lugger awaiting a 'run' on Dymchurch Bay. They could also answer the innocent purpose of a tinder box.
Presenting the flasher at his wife's head, Abel growled in mock sepulchral tones, “stand and deliver,” and then, as he flashed the powder and lit the candle, he added, laughing: “And how's that for your handsome Jimmie Bone?” Jim Bone was the notorious highwayman who transacted a brisk business on the busy Dover road and periodically went into hiding upon the Marsh when the chase became too hot. Though a hard man to cross, by reason of his calling, he was a good friend to his friends, amongst whom the Clouders were numbered.
“The seas are too high for you to attempt a rescue, Abel.”
“That's for the other lads to decide,” he answered. “If they think it's possible, I shall have to attempt something.” Meg, who was seething with anger against Merry's madness, turned her temper against the villagers who took her young husband's strength and daring so much for granted.
“But why should you risk so much for others, for strangers? You forget you are married, Abel.”
“Not I,” he contradicted. “Why, that's the reason I'm married to you, and it's because I love you that I have to do more than the rest.”
Meg smiled. “You're a clever old flatterer, Abel, and as obstinate as you are good-looking. But for all that, I want you to do something for me.”
“Why, anything, except to be a coward, and you wouldn't ask that I know.”
“I want you to take care of that man Merry,” she said solemnly.
“I reckon he can more than take care of himself, but why—?”
“I mean avoid him,” she corrected. “Keep clear of him. He hates you, Abel.” Abel laughed. “Now why should anyone take the trouble to hate a good enough natured fool like me? I haven't an enemy in the world, please God.”
“Perhaps there are some who are jealous of your good nature,” she said.
“Jealous?” he repeated. “My faith, the only jealousy I shall meet in life will be your fault. Everyone's jealous that I happened to win you, Meg, and quite right, too. But you can take it from me that Merry ain't that way. He's altogether too sour and selfish to be taken up with a pretty girl.”
“You may find you're wrong, husband, and later I'll tell you my reasons.”
“I must go, lass. I wouldn't have 'em say that Abel Clouder hung back. I love you too well, Meg.”
“Thank you, Abel,” she answered with a smile. “And as I love you, watch Merry.”
“Trust me,” he nodded, and with her kiss on his cheek, he went down the stairs and gave the sour Merry a hearty clump on the back which made him look the sourer.
“Now, lads, open the door, and let's see if we can cheat the devil and snatch a few souls from his grip. Ready? Then out into the lightning and the waves.” A splash of spray in the passage, a gust of wind that set every beam and floorboard creaking, and then silence, told Meg on her knees beside the bed that they had gone.
The three men reached the fast-gathering group under the shadow of the boat-house. They were joined by the parson with the news that the burning ship seemed to have stuck fast in the sand and that the waves breaking over the well deck kept the fire in the after hold beneath the poop deck cabin, and prevented it from spreading amidship. He agreed with the fishermen that it would be impossible to launch a boat, but he did think that a strong swimmer might reach the wreck with a rope, and he stoutly maintained that he was quite willing to attempt it.
Accordingly, the necessary tackle was brought out from the boat-house.
However, since both tide and wind were driving into the bay, it was doubtful whether a single swimmer would be able to make headway with the weight of rope hampering him. Abel immediately suggested that if another line were fixed to the rescue rope and each end attached to a cork jacket, that he would then adventure with the parson.
Both men accordingly stripped off their coats and boots and buckled on their life preservers to which the line's ends were fixed, and then with practically the whole male population of the village assembled to pay out the slack, the two heroes climbed the sea-wall, arm-in-arm, and waiting for a favourable backwash of a gigantic wave, they plunged in side by side, and were swept out to meet the incoming seas.
Meanwhile, the news of the wreck had spread through the village and reached the Court House, so that by the time the swimmers, fighting for every inch of progress, had cleared the end of the stone groyne which was about halfway to the ship, the helpers on the rope were augmented by the squire himself, four or five gentlemen who had been his dinner guests, and Dr. Sennacherib Pepper, whom they had collected on the way. With these extra strong and willing hands, it was simple for Merry to move away without being missed, for while his colleagues were busy over the living, he decided that it might be more to his advantage to get busy with the dead, or nearly dead.
By calculating tide and wind in relation to the wreck, he imagined such bodies would come ashore near the flight of steps built into the sea-wall opposite Sycamore Farm, so he scurried away under the shelter of the sea-wall till he reached his coign of vantage, and, crouched down in his strong recess like a wild beast scenting prey, he waited for what the devil would send him from the sea.
Crouched over the rope as they paid it out inch by inch from hand to hand, the villagers wondered what was happening at the other end, and whether both, or one, or neither of the men would effect a landing on the ship.
While the rolling rotundity of the resounding thunder was drumming up to its last grandeur, a strong stench of sulfur swept down across the sea and hung in spreading fumes upon the sea-wall, until with a sharp crackle as percussive as a square of muskets, another fire, a ball of flaming gas enveloping a thunderstone, darted across the sky and dashed with a hissing explosion into the sea.
Then up—and right above the sea-wall line rose the waters, lifting the ship into the sky and carrying it onwards, down the liquid hill that swept towards the wall.
Out went the sky as the thunder cracked, but not even that, nor the mighty roaring of the waters, could drown the great thud as the ship's bows cut into the masonry of Dymchurch Wall like a battering-ram.
Now although Meg, in a vain endeavour to catch sight of her husband, had braved the flashes of the lightning, the terror of the fireball as it burst across the sky made her involuntarily clap her hands over her eyes, and during the destructive seconds of the storm's ferocity that followed, she felt the house shake violently, give a sickening tilt and then shiver, as joists and beams groaned and croaked in their shifting. Built as it was upon the lower level of the sea-wall, the foundations slid with the soil as the waves, bursting through the cellarage, weakened it. The front door was torn from its hinges and blown bodily against the staircase, as the sea water gushed through the passage, silting up the floor with a loose deposit of gravel, sand and shell. At the same time the diamond-paned casement through which Meg had been looking, crashed inwards, its heavy leadwork striking her on the head and bearing her to the floor beneath its weight. This was the last wicked prank of the hurricane before departing. There followed what, in contrast to the noise, seemed almost a silence, broken only by the accustomed sound of waves against the Wall.
How long Meg lay there beneath that pile of twisted lead, glass panes and broken plaster, she could not tell, for the injury to her head had left her senseless, but when she recovered she still found herself looking through the casement, and for some time it puzzled her that she could only see the sky—a wild sky of fast-flying clouds lit with the full radiance of the moon. Then she realized that she was lying on the floor with the window resting upon her face.
She remembered the storm. Its violence had gone, but in her heart it had left behind its terror, and it was not the thunderbolt that had made her cover her eyes, nor the noise, nor the rocking house which made this terror so paralysing, but the thought of what it had brought, the thing which she had seen between her fingers, in that awful moment. It was the huge form of a giant, a devil of a storm, who with staring eyes had rushed towards her at the window. She had seen its face plainly, with its great eyes and black beard; as it rushed, it waved a great lantern above its head, and this swaying light had revealed the horrid face. The devil himself made manifest in the shape of a wooden giant.
Meg roused herself from the old oak floor, which, though never straight at the best of times, was now canting at an alarming angle. With all this calamity, no wonder she had imagined a wooden devil which was nothing more than a frightening dream. She could soon dispel that by looking out of the open space where the window had been. Comforting herself with the suggestion, she looked out.
Though her fears had been acute, they were as nothing to the overwhelming horror that now possessed her, right opposite to her and leaning over the lip of the broken sea-wall, his lantern still alight, was the enormous head and shoulders of the wooden-looking giant. Its staring eyes regarded her with a fixed expression of contempt and hatred, and as she gazed, she listened too and heard a voice beneath her window saying: “Here's a shutter. Help me wrench it off.” There followed a squeaking of iron and a bump of wood, and then the slow, regular tramping of men's feet.
The malignant face told her to come and look at what was going on beneath the window. He swung his lantern invitingly. She was powerless to move, but she knew that the were carrying her Abel away on the shutter, and she guessed he was dead. “Wait, while I break the news to his wife.” She heard him enter the passage and wondered why his footfalls sounded as though they trod a beach. Then she heard him say: “I'll want a hand there. The stairs are all but gone under this door.” After much whispering and mumbling, and the noise of wood clearance, followed by the effort of someone climbing, she knew the squire was clinging to the crooked doorpost of the bedroom. She was unable to turn round, for the wooden man had her hypnotized, but she knew it was the squire before he spoke, which he did with difficulty.
“My poor Meg, I've got the worst possible news to break to you. Look at me, please, Meg, won't you? It will help me to tell you.”
“But I have been told, Sir Tony,” she answered. “I've been told in a cruel way, not kind, like you would do. He told me. Look. He's staring at me. He's killed my husband and destroyed my home and he's gloating on me there, leaning over the sea-wall. It is the devil. He told me so. And he sent that other brute to warn me. He looked at me with fixed eyes, too. He stared at me like that, before he put out the light and seized me. Don't let him get me, Squire, oh!”
The staring eyes, the monotonous, metallic sound of her voice frightened the squire. He had imagined that he would have to deal with a weeping, hysterical young woman, whom he could have taken home to his wife to be mothered. But the deathly still horror which possessed Meg was a symptom altogether more alarming, and he feared that her reason might be affected permanently.
He answered her calmly: “Why, Meg, this devil on the sea-wall, as you speak of it is no devil at all, but has no doubt for years been the pride of every honest sailor behind it, for it is nothing but the wooden figure-head of the illfated, broken brig City of London. Your heroic husband and our no less valiant vicar had almost reached it with a life-line, when a great tidal sea wave lifted the ship above them. It is some comfort to know that their death was quick. It is a great comfort to know that their death was heroic. Now, Meg, I have come to take you to the Court House.”
“And leave my home?” she asked, bewildered.
“It is unsafe to stay in it, Meg,” replied the squire. “I will undertake to see that it is guarded by responsible men answerable to myself, and tomorrow we will repair the damage.” For the first time she cut the spell which the wooden figure held on her, and turning to the squire, asked in a matter-of-fact tone: “Where is—Abel?”
“They are carrying the—they are carrying him,” he corrected, “to a shelter for the night. It is customary to use the barn at Sycamore Farm in cases like this. Come, Meg, it is something to know that you bear the name of a man whom the whole of the Marsh will always be honouring. Let me take you to her ladyship.” Meg took two steps towards him and then turning suddenly looked once more at the figure-head. Then with a pathetic moan she collapsed into the squire's arms. He carried her through the door and lowered her unconscious body to willing hands beneath the broken staircase.
And so in solemn procession were the Clouders carried towards the rookery where the party divided, those bearing Abel's body turning into the Farm Lane, and the squire's party, who carried Meg, going on to the old Court House, where Lady Cobtree and her three daughters busied themselves in preparing a guest-chamber and making ready such remedies as Dr. Sennacherib Pepper prescribed for the unconscious young widow.
Meanwhile Merry, soaked to the skin from salt water, peered out along the base of the sea-wall when the black thunder clouds rolling away across the Marsh uncovered the moon, and showed him the dark huddled body of a man lying face downwards on the stones. The ghoulish wretch approached the body cautiously, and perceived at once that the survivor was dressed as a sailor of rank, with long sea-boots, and his fingers were clasped around an oilskin package. Merry had some difficulty in wrenching it from him, and then he had ripped open the waterproof case, found that it was of no value to him, though the greatest import to a conscientious captain for it was the log book and bills of lading. The gallant captain of the brig had to the last preserved the good name of his ship.
A last wave of the full tide surged up and all but drew the body back with it, but Merry clung on, and when the water cleared, he dragged his find up the sloping stones beneath the shadow of the Wall. He then turned it over on its back, and in so doing heard the chink of gold. Of course, this would be the ship's money. With greedy fingers he unbuttoned the sea-coat and found, sure enough, a waist-belt fitted with many pouches. Fumbling for the buckle in order to transfer this to his own waist, the corpse of the captain, to his utter astonishment, opened his eyes and regarded him with an expression of wonder.
The captain was alive. What was more significant to Merry, the captain looked a man of iron, broad shouldered, and with hands hard and hairy. It was no time to hesitate. His victim was recovering his senses, for with a protective gesture, his hands moved to the belt. Better for him had he feigned death, for Merry flashed the knife out of his pocket and drove it into the captain's heart.
The cold-blooded murder did not upset Merry in the least, for what more likely than that the captain had been stabbed by a member of his crew. He drew out the knife and cleaned the blade upon the dead man's soaking clothes, and then dragged the heavy belt from the corpse and fastened it securely beneath his own coat.
Then he saw to his delight that another body was lying a few yards away.
Leaving the captain, he approached his second victim with every degree of caution. The body lay on its side dressed in a suit of somber black. Despite the rough passage of the waves, this survivor had managed to keep on his shoes, which were fastened with handsome silver buckles. Beneath the heavy but well-cut top-coat, he saw long, spindly legs in black hose and breeches. It seemed incredible to the murderer that this body had not only retained shoes but also a large, imposing three-corner hat, which, fitting tightly to an intellectual forehead, had yet been tilted to a rakish angle during its journey across the stones.
With his left hand grasping his knife, Merry's right explored the corpse cautiously. To his great delight, he found that this one had also a money belt, which by the size of its well-filled pouches promised a better return than the one he had filched from the captain. He also noticed above the collar of the coat a lanyard, the ends of which disappeared beneath the white cravat, and wondering what valuables the man thus secured around his neck, he tugged it out and found a large handsome silver key. That was of no use to Merry, for it was no doubt the key of a sea-chest which would by now have been consumed in the hold fire. He then saw that a rope was fastened round one of the wrists.
The other end was trailing in the water. The man had most likely been lashed to a spar which had broken loose.
On the whole, the belt interested Merry more than any other detail, but before transferring this to his own waist, a perverted sense of humour which this knowledgeable villain possessed prompted him to a course of action which would save him the exertion of returning the bodies to the sea that brought them up. He resolved to stab this corpse as he had stabbed the other, and then lock them arm-in-arm upon the stones as though they had perished in a fatal fight.
He thereupon drew out his knife, and for greater caution glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being observed. That movement was his undoing, for as he turned his head he received such a violent crack over the skull that for some time he knew nothing.
The first thing he discovered on coming to himself was that the situation as he slowly remembered it, had been woefully reversed. In other words, he was now lying on his back while his intended victim was sitting upon his chest and grinning at his discomfort.
“So you've decided not to rid the world of yourself as well as of the captain, eh?” asked the survivor of the wreck. “Not that you would have journeyed together, for if ever a sea captain was sure of a berth in heaven, he was, and from the little I have observed of you, I should suggest that hell flames would not be hot enough. I say 'the little' I know of you advisedly, because here's to our longer acquaintance,” and the speaker, producing a silver flask of large proportions, tilted a dram of good brandy down his throat. “No doubt you could do with a drop yourself?” Merry could, and moved one hand, which in a mysterious way drew the other with it. He glanced at his hands and saw that his wrists were tied very efficiently with rope. He looked at the rope and saw that one end stretched away into the fast receding waves.
“What's the idea?” he grunted.
His captor took another pull at the flask and sighed with satisfaction.
“You ask me what is the idea?” continued the survivor. “I will tell you. To stick a knife in a helpless man as you did to that unfortunate captain merely to steal a belt of money which is now round my waist—no, my friend! And, by God, unless you comply with my terms—”
“And what are the terms?” growled Merry. “To say nothing about the money belt, I suppose.”
“The terms are first of all obedience,” replied the other. “Open your mouth wider.” Into his open jaws he poured a few drops of brandy on to the tongue, then took another generous pull at it himself.
“And now,” he continued, “speak up smart and true. Your name?”
“Merry,” replied the unfortunate.
“Your name belies you, then. Occupation?”
“Very odd jobs, it seems. Where do you live?”
“Here in Dymchurch, by the great sluice gates. I've a room in the long white cottage that lies alongside, and what's more, I've lived there all my life.”
“And what's more, you'll go on living there all your life,” retorted the stranger, “until such time as it pleases me to send you to the gallows, for if you try to slip your cables without my leave, I'll have the constables on your heels for this night's murder, and get this clear in your head. Just as you have lived here all your life, so am I going to live here the rest of mine, and since I am all for peace and quiet and we are likely to be neighbours, you can take it that I shall keep a weather eye on you, Mister Merry Murderer.”
“But what are you going to do now?” asked Merry.
“My good and murderous friend, it was not the magistrates you tried to murder, but me,” replied the stranger. “A dead man, swinging, is only serviceable to the crows and rooks that nest above the gallows. To see you as a picked corpse is small compensation to me for the shocking reception I sustained at your hands, but as a strong living slave, as one who must willynilly do my bidding—why, there is every chance that I shall exact full compensation for your wrong-doing? And now, tell me. Does a Cobtree still rule at the Court House here?”
“Aye, Sir Antony Cobtree. He's chief magistrate now.”
“Then Sir Charles is dead, I take it, for he was never the man to retire.”
“That was his trouble. He wouldn't retire even from hunting. Broke his neck after the fox he did.”
“Well, there's a worse way of breaking your neck than that,” replied the stranger with an ominous gesture. “And how long ago was this tragedy?”
“Ten or twelve years,” explained Merry.
“Well, with all respect to the late squire, I rejoice to learn that my old college friend Tony is now the King's Authority upon the Marsh, and the sooner the tide allows us to visit him the better shall I be pleased.”
“But there's no need to wait for the tide,” corrected Merry. “Here's steps up to the sea-wall.” The stranger pulled the rope attached to Merry's wrists. “But here's my baggage, on the end of this cord. The captain helped me to heave it overboard.
It is waterproof, but I was not so sure of it being fireproof. The silver key which you ignored belongs to it. When the water goes out a little further you will wade in and lift it from the sand. And now up on your feet and let us wind in this rope till it's taut. You're wet enough, and so am I, to bid defiance to further wading. But I'm hungry, thirsty and tired, and I dare swear you can say the same and can add 'disappointed'. When my sea-chest is safe at New Hall of the Court House, I'll expend one of the captain's guineas on you, which will give you the price of a good hot supper, plenty of drink, treatment for your head, and payment against loss of a good knife.” Merry got to his feet with some groaning occasioned by the wound to his head and the black hate in his heart. He followed his new master across the rough boulders to the level beach. At the water's edge the stranger stopped and gathered in the slack of the rope.
“The great wave was a help to you,” said the stranger, as soon as the rope was taut. “It carried the chest further than one could have hoped, otherwise, you might have had a long vigil before reaching it. But we must wait even now until the water is only to your waist.” Merry was thinking quickly now. Never would he be safe while this mysterious stranger lived. And never would a safer opportunity arise than now for killing him. He was the only one in Dymchurch who knew of his safe landing. The beach was deserted, for between them and the villagers was the wreck, and they were waiting to board her from the further side. The stranger dead, Merry would win back the captain's guineas as well as the stranger's money belt, which promised to be the more valuable, and then there was the rope attached to the submerged sea-chest with the silver key around his victim's neck. Such a chance was a gift from the devil himself and he must take it. The thought of a hand-to-hand fight was dismissed. The stranger had taken his knife, but the devil showed him a handier weapon. This was a broken billet torn by the waves from a wooden breakwater. In size it resembled a belaying pin, and its end was weighted with an iron plate from which protruded a heavily studded clamp bolt.
Covering his movement with a blasphemous oath against an uncomfortable sea-boot, Merry stopped, pretended to adjust the boot in question, and rose up again with the likely weapon in hand and hid it in the fold of his coat. The moment was ripe, for the stranger had not turned round, but was engrossed in the hidden sea-chest, flapping the rope upon the surface of the waves in an endeavour to locate its lie. Merry approached behind his back, slowly and stealthily.
Reasoning that the stranger had not got eyes at the back of his head and was therefore ignorant of his silent advance, he ignored the fact that the 'likely weapon' had not escaped his eye. Indeed, the stranger had expected that Merry would stoop for it, and smiled grimly to himself at the string of oaths against the innocent sea-boot. Although he had not got eyes at the back of his head, his alert instincts told him just exactly when Merry was crossing the danger line, and then changing the rope to his left hand, he whipped Merry's knife from his pocket and balanced it in the palm of his hand, so that the moonlight shone on the blade.
“Nice knife, this of yours, Mister Merry,” he said, without turning round.
The glint on the blade and the suspicion of a threat beneath the words made Merry stand still. “Sharp, and on the whole well-balanced, though a trifle heavy in the blade to my thinking. But not bad. Oh no, damme, not at all bad.” And as he spoke he sent it spinning up into the air and caught it neatly by the handle.
This he did not once but many times, and at each toss the knife seemed to soar a little higher than the last, and each time the knife was in the air Merry did some quick thinking and mental timing.
“The devil save us,” laughed Merry, with what affability he could muster.
“That's a pretty trick, Mister. And where did you come by that?”
“A keen eye and a quick hand,” replied the other pleasantly.
“And about how high can you toss it?” asked Merry, scarcely able to conceal the pleasure at his own cleverness.
“In the sunlight I have caught a knife falling from the height of a church steeple,” boasted the stranger.
“I can hardly credit that,” scoffed Merry. “It's easy to brag in the light of the moon about what you do in the sunlight.”
“I'll not be accused of bragging without an attempt at proving my words,” retorted the other, with some annoyance. “As you say, there's moonlight, and it's clear enough. I have been something of a thorn in your flesh so far, Mister Merry, that I feel it would be scurvy of me not to amuse you. I can't promise to judge exactly the height of a steeple, but I'll throw it as high as I can, and your eyes shall judge whether I catch or no.” The stranger took off his three-cornered hat, much to the satisfaction of Merry, who had not liked the look of it covering his target. The stranger dropped it on to the sand beside the rope and then looking up began to move the knife up and down.
“Keep you eyes skinned on it, Mister Merry,” he enjoined.
“I will,” laughed Merry, coming nearer as though in interest.
“One, two, three and UP.” The stranger had crouched and shot up, and away went the knife into the sky. Merry saw it go and then forgot it. He was watching the other's bent-back head. A perfect target.
Gripping the iron-loaded billet with all his strength, he swung it up when the stranger whipped around like lightning and the astonished Merry was being driven back with a long blade pricking into his chest.
“Drop that, you dog, or I'll drive this knife out through your back.” Merry dropped the billet of wood and retreated gibbering with fear from the point of the knife.
“So you thought I was going to follow your knife up to heaven did you? It never occurred to you that I had another of my own already to send you to hell. I seem destined to upset your plans, Mister Merry.”
“All right,” grunted Merry. “I'm beaten. Let me go and pick your hat up for you, sir.” The stranger shook his head. “Not yet, Mister Merry, for your knife is sticking in the sand but a yard away from it, and it might tempt you to be foolish again, and I am going to show you just how foolish. Since you interrupted one knife trick, I am about to show you another. You see the post behind you. It is about your height. Put your hat on the top of it.” Merry sullenly removed his hat and walked towards the breakwater, only too glad to escape from the pricking knife. He put the hat upon the six-foot post.
“Very life-like, upon my soul,” laughed the stranger. “Let me introduce you, Mr. Merry that shall be, to Mister Merry that for the moment is. A man of your perception, Mister Merry that shall be, will realize that this Mister Merry that is has little to recommend him. He is at the best as stubborn as old oak and iron, but the oak is rotting, and the iron eaten with rust. Twice has he tried to murder me tonight, and he is thinking hard how best to try again. Let me show you how I deal with such a stumpy idiot. Ha!” The stranger made a quick movement.
The knife whistled past the live Merry and stuck deep and quivering in the centre of the post a foot beneath the hat.
“Right through the neck, Mr. Murderer. Right through the neck. Now pluck it out and give it back to me.” Once more Merry saw a chance, a faint chance, and leaping to take it, he worked the knife with difficulty out of the post. But when he turned he saw that the stranger had retreated and while settling on his hat, was also balancing the other knife which he had picked out of the sand.
“And now,” he said, taking up the slack of the rope and giving it a spin on Merry's wrist, “drop that knife in the sand in front of you and step in after my chest, for this little diversion has filled up time while the water dropped, and don't fear at being carried out by the tide, for I have the rope as a reins with you as one horse and the chest as the other.” Merry strode desperately towards the waves and then stopped.
“Is this chest a big one?” he asked.
“Very big, and very heavy,” smiled the stranger.
“Then how the devil do you think I can carry it with my wrists lashed together?” he demanded.
“I don't for one minute. If you will come here, I will free you.”
“Then you'd best pick up your own knife,” advised Merry. “It seems handier for cutting rope.”
“I have been brought up to believe it a crime to cut rope wantonly. I'll untie it.”
Merry watched the stranger's long, sensitive fingers working, and he realized that any man possessing such hands and such penetrating eyes must be someone above the average. In a few seconds his left wrist was free, but the rope's end still held his right firmly.
“I noticed that you are left-handed,” remarked the stranger. “You killed the captain, at least, with your left. And in my own defence I should like you to realize that the first thing I remember after my buffeting on the stones, was the descent of your knife. Had I recovered sooner I should have saved your victim's life.”
“Don't make another speech about it,” growled Merry, striding off into the waves.
He picked up the other section of the rope and, lifting it from the water, waded along it.
The chest lay in deeper water than the stranger thought, for as Merry stooped to up-end it, a wave broke over his shoulders. This discomfort irritated the baffled Merry beyond all bearing, and he expended his rage upon the chest.
He would anyway show the stranger that he was a man to be feared for his strength, and with a superhuman effort fed with rage and wounded pride, he somehow got the breaking weight upon his back and staggered with it from the water.
“Splendid,” cried the stranger, with a great show of admiration as Merry passed him.
'And when I have a knife in your shoulder-blades, I'll say “splendid” too,' said Merry to himself. Aloud he grunted: “To the Court House, you said?”
“I did,” replied the stranger, “where I intend to spend this night unless Tony Cobtree be much changed from the gallant lad he was when I knew him.”
As they climbed the steps cut in the sea-wall, Merry rested the chest upon the ledge of masonry, for the stranger, who had coiled the long slack of the cord over his arm, had given Merry's wrist a pull as he stopped and regarded the captain's body.
“Yes,” ejaculated Merry, as though blaming the stranger for the dead man's plight. “What are you going to do about that? Best thing is to give him a seaburial, eh?”
“No, we'll lay him to rest in the churchyard with full honours,” said the stranger. “I happen to know his wishes on burial. We discussed it. I was for sea-burial, having witnessed one, and he, the sailor, said not for him. So we'll respect his wish and cheat Davy Jones. I'll take his papers and report his death.”
“But the wound?” muttered Merry in interrogation. “They'll find that and wonder. Unless they think the fire aboard spread panic and it was a case of every man for himself. I've known cases where sailors run against authority.
Now, if you, being a survivor, could tell them some such panic took place—” The stranger, who had stowed the oilskin packet in his pocket, silenced Merry with a gesture, then straightened out the dead man's limbs. A sea-gull screeching and hovering overhead, then caused him to lay his kerchief over the face. Having concluded the last service of respect, he removed his hat and with bowed head uttered a prayer. Then, signing to Merry to proceed, he climbed the steps and fell in at his side, saying quickly:
“As to what they will think of the captain's death wound, I cannot say, but you can be sure of this. Cross me but once, and they shall know the truth, for just as surely as they will believe my words against yours, I shall denounce you for tonight's murder at the next assizes.” They walked on silently save for Merry's heavy breathing. It was slow going, for the rough road was littered with branches of trees, and bricks and tiles. At the corner of the churchyard the stranger stopped and gave a little tug on the rope. Merry stopped too and eased the weight of the chest on the low churchyard wall.
“Yes, a moment's rest before we ring at the door, I think,” said the stranger.
“The old church, eh? Looking very beautiful in the moonlight. But I see that you are more interested in the gallows and the rags and bones that swing there.
“No. Sheep-stealer,” growled Merry.
“And to think that a love of mutton should bring a poor fellow to that,” philosophized the stranger.
“It was other people's mutton, you see,” grunted Merry.
“Oh, I am not excusing him,” replied the stranger. “The law of the Marsh must be kept, just as the Wall must be maintained.”
“It seems then you're no stranger to these parts,” said Merry. “Since we are to be further acquainted, it might be as well if I knew what your name and occupation might be.”
“All in good time, Mister Merry. This is Friday? Very well then, on Sunday you will attend morning prayer inside there. Then you may learn something, if you keep awake.”
“I don't attend church. I ain't a hypocrite,” growled Merry.
“Nevertheless, you will be there,” continued the other. “It is a command.
Understand? And one thing more, before we part. To insure your good behaviour, your guilty secret will be made public at your first legal offence. In plain words, if Mister Merry appears for any misdemeanour at the Petty Sessions, he will appear also at the Assizes for the captain's murder and attempted murder on me. Now, up with the chest again and follow me.”
As the church bells were pealing out their danger summons to the Marsh, the stranger and Merry had not heard the ringing of the Court House bell, but as they crouched their way across the gravel to the front door, they saw that they were forestalled, and that another man was being admitted into the hall.
The footman was about to close the door again when the stranger called out to him.
“I wish to see Sir Antony,” and then, without waiting for the footman's reply he turned to Merry and added: “You can bring my chest in here and put it down. Not on the rug, but against the wall there on the flagstones, where the sand and wet won't harm.” New Hall, the residence which surrounded the Marsh Court House and legal offices, in those days kept up a great show of state, all the Cobtree serving men wearing scarlet liveries and powdered hair. Although taken aback by the stranger's unexpected entrance and air of command, which assured him that he had to deal with a gentleman above the ordinary, the pompous young footman was not so impressed when he recognized that the bearer of the chest was none other than the infamous Merry. Also, the stranger's clothes of solemn black were badly damaged by sea water and sandy mud.
Before the footman could utter a word, the stranger continued: “I take it that the squire has not departed from the Cobtree habit of sitting up o' nights.
However, if he should be abed, I fear that the occasion demands you to call him.” There was a something about the stranger which made the footman realize that if he tried any browbeating he would fare the worse. But the presence of Merry demanded that he should demonstrate his own dignity.
So, avoiding the stranger's gaze, which disconcerted him, he looked at Merry down his exalted nose as he replied: “The High Lord of the Level is at present engaged in the company of several local gentlemen. One of the villagers who arrived just before you, and is the bearer of grave news, has been admitted, so that for a time the squire is fully occupied. No doubt, he would see you by appointment in the morning if your business be urgent.”
“Urgent?” repeated the stranger. “It would seem so, I think, in that I have successfully negotiated fire, tempest and sudden death to transact it. When a man sets out from New England to Old in bad weather even those more exacting than yourself will admit the urgency, I think. As to the villager you mention, I rather gather that his bad news concerns myself, since I have now swum from the brig, City of London, which lies with her back broken on Dymchurch wall.”
“Are you then a survivor of the wreck, sir?” asked the footman.
“Unless you can convince me that I am a ghost,” smiled the stranger.
“I was about to say, sir, that if you are a survivor, Sir Antony will see you, and immediately, for such were his orders, though he had small hope that any could live.”
“Then that bad news you spoke of,” continued the stranger, “was no doubt a report that no survivor had reached land, eh?”
“It was somewhat worse than that, sir,” replied the footman solemnly. “It was the report that the body of our vicar, who had attempted with another to swim out with a life-line, has been recovered. He is dead.”
“The vicar of Dymchurch is dead?” repeated the stranger.
“Aye, sir. Parson Bolden. He went out with young Clouder. Both lost. The young widow Clouder has been brought here. Going on something shocking till Dr. Pepper give her something to quieten her. She's asleep now.”
“Poor lass,” said the stranger.
He undid his coat and his long sensitive fingers felt in one of the many pockets of the captain's belt. He took out a guinea piece and dropped it ringing on a table.
“And now, my very young friend of the scarlet livery, be good enough to carry that coin to the man Merry there.”
“A guinea, sir?” ejaculated the astonished footman. “For a porter's fee? We can change this at the bursar's office and he can call for a shilling.”
“Give him the guinea, sir, and have done with it. The money is mine and the chest is heavy. I will give you the same if you can carry it up to my bedroom here later.” The footman eyed the stranger with a puzzled look, something between admiration and suspicion. Who was this man who came from Boston, referred to the squire as 'Tony', and boldly talked of his chest being carried to his room for a guinea? If he were a survivor of the wreck, then it was probable that the squire would offer him hospitality, and since he wore such a well-filled money belt and was obviously a gentleman of importance, it would be wise to show him attention in order to gain, perhaps, another guinea at his departure.
So he picked up the guinea and carrying it to Merry, handed it over with some disgust. Merry, however, showed no sign of moving.
“Well?” asked the footman. “Why don't you hop it now that the gentleman's treated you handsome? You ain't wishing to stay the night, I suppose, for the only time you honour us is on a pallet bed in the cells. So get along with you.”
“How can I get along when I'm lashed to the gentleman's chest?” asked Merry with a scowl.
“You have at least two free hands to unfasten the rope from the chest,” suggested the stranger. “I shall not need the rope any more, I think, and I daresay you can find use for it, if only as reminder that a knot at the wrist is better than a noose round the neck.”
It took even the strong fingers of Merry some time to loosen the knot attached to one of the iron handles of the chest, for it had been tied by one who knew something of knots and cordage. But at last it was undone, and with a snort of disgust from the footman and quite a cheery “good night and keep Sunday in mind” from the stranger, Merry was shown the door and barred out.
As he clutched his guinea he was reminded again of what he had missed.
The two money belts and the contents of that chest. With a little luck, he should by now have been a rich man, and then Meg would have been his for the asking. The exasperation at such a failure sent his blood racing in red rage, and he vowed that, somehow or other, he would find the means of settling scores with the mysterious stranger. Cudgelling his brain how best to accomplish this, a magnetic curiosity, common to criminals, compelled him to make his way towards the scene of the crime.
A glance showed him that so far the corpse had not been discovered, and it occurred to the murderer that it might be worth his while to go through the captain's pockets. No horror of what he had done assailed him. Only an increasing black hate that he had not accomplished more.
The white silk handkerchief placed there so reverently by the stranger had at least preserved the face from the greedy sea-gulls, who walked around it suspiciously, afraid of one of its flapping corners. As he appeared they flew off screaming.
Realizing that he must not be discovered lest his story of discovering the corpse might not agree with whatever it pleased the stranger to tell the squire, he went through the pockets rapidly, becoming the richer by two crown pieces and three silver four-pennies, a brass whistle and a clasp knife, which he used to sever the rope around his wrist. It was then that he noticed particularly the flapping corner of the stranger's kerchief that had successfully kept the sea-birds at bay. It was worked. Now, although not claiming to be a scholar, Merry at least had this superiority over many—that he could write and read. A silk kerchief was, as he knew, of sufficient value to safeguard, especially to a traveller who did not know his washer-woman. He ripped the kerchief quickly from the dead man's face and read by the light of the moon the owner's name.
Yes—there it was. Beautifully worked in violet silk thread. A large 'D' and a small 'r'. That, he knew, stood short for 'doctor'. So, he thought, this archenemy is none but a bloody saw-bones. There followed a capital 'S', a 'y' and an 'n'. 'Syn.'
'Doctor Syn.'? And just as the murderer spelt out the name and committed it to his memory, the footman in the hall, turning back to the stranger, added: “Oh, and what name shall I say, sir?”
His answer astonished him. At first he thought the gentleman was giving way to an oath, and resentfully he said: “Well, I must know the name in order to announce it, sir.”
“Syn,” repeated the other. “Doctor Syn. Not S-I-N but S-Y-N, and I rather imagine it will astonish the good squire more than it has you.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but the name is unusual.”
“I beg yours, but 'tis none of my fault,” smiled the owner of the name. “All we can do for our names is to hold them in honour as well as we can.” He then repeated: “Doctor Syn.”
