The day broke. The Preventive Officer rode hard for Rye. In his pocket he was armed with a warrant for arrest against Colonel Delacourt. It was signed by Antony Cobtree, Lord of the Level of Romney Marsh. By noon, exciting horrors of that night had passed from mouth to mouth, and were discussed in every tavern of the Marsh. During dinner hour when the working folk gossiped most, news spread the quicker, so that by one o'clock it reached across the Kent ditch into Sussex and was re-told by the post-boys at the Mermaid Inn. Although it became time to return to labour in shop or field, the public bar of the old 'Mermaid' kept full house, as the news spread of the wild doings in distant Dymchurch.
To avoid the local physician, Colonel Delacourt crept down into a corner of the bar and listened to the excited whisperings. As he unhooked his sword and slammed it down upon the table, the table was deserted. The cronies gathered at the further end, leaving the dangerously drunk gentleman to his own reflections, his tankard and his sword.
Although Colonel Delacourt was drunk, he could not but help realizing that he was being watched. Were these furtive looks merely the vulgar starings of curious villagers who seldom looked upon so fine a gentleman as himself—or was there something suspicious in the glances? He called for another tankard and asked the two nearest yokels to join him.
When they refused with the lame excuse that they had had enough already, which could be nothing but a lie since they could both stand up, the colonel knew that there was something wrong—in short, that he was not popular. He listened to them whispering behind their empty tankards, and he caught the name 'Dr. Syn'. He comforted himself with the thought that no one but Merry knew of his ride to Dymchurch, and therefore he would never be connected with Dr. Syn's murder. He would find a means of silencing Merry. Again he caught the whispered name of 'Dr. Syn'. Why couldn't one of them speak out about the murder? The whisperings and the furtive glances got on his drunken nerves. He could stand it no longer.
“Who is this Dr. Syn that the whole town is whispering about?” he asked.
“He preaches over here sometimes, and stays in this house. He's a wellloved man, eh, mates?” One or two cronies nodded silently in agreement.
“And what's he done,” demanded the colonel, “that you should all be gossiping about him?”
“You'd better ask him, sir,” answered the yokel. “He's a Dymchurch man.
Just been there, ain't you, mate?” The yokel had turned to address a man who had just entered the bar. The colonel had been irritated by this man for some days. He had a habit of staring at him. The landlord of the 'Mermaid' to whom the colonel had complained, said that the man was the Preventive Officer from Dymchurch, and 'staring' was his trade. He certainly was staring at the colonel now, and the colonel realized that he was expected to say something.
“You're the Dymchurch Customs officer, aren't you?” he demanded.
“Come and drink with me,” ordered the colonel.
The officer shook his head. “I never drink on duty, sir,” he replied.
“On duty, are you?” growled the colonel. “And yet you're a far cry from Dymchurch.”
“I was there early this morning, though,” was the reply. “But you see, the man I followed last night doubled on his tracks. Went to Dymchurch—then came back to Rye. Excuse me a moment.” He shouldered his way through the gaping rustics to the outer door and called, “Come in, lads.” Then he walked back to the center of the room and faced the colonel, who saw three men enter and group themselves behind the Customs officer. They were the Rye constables. The colonel watched them as he drank.
“You were asking just now, I believe, about the Reverend Dr. Syn,” said the Preventive man. “Well, I'll tell you something about him. He raised the Dymchurch men against the smugglers. 'Death to the Scarecrow' was his motto. Well—what happened? The Scarecrow beat him, as he'd beaten me and the Dragoons before. A very successful landing of contraband he had, and a very successful run to hiding. Had he been content with that, he'd have had the laugh of the law. But no, he vows revenge on Dr. Syn. He enlists the service of a rogue called Merry. They go to Dymchurch and their first act against the doctor was to break open the grave of our squire's unfortunate daughter. You may have heard that she was accidentally killed the night of the great 'run'.”
“Rumour has it that the doctor was very attached to the young lady,” interrupted the landlord.
“And there's no wonder at that,” replied the officer, still staring at the colonel. “She was a lovely girl, was Miss Charlotte. Perhaps some day we'll find the man who killed her—then, God help him.”
“You said it was an accident just now,” sneered the colonel.
“Aye, but there's more rumour than one going on about that affair,” said the officer.
“Get on with your yarn,” ordered the colonel. “These rascals broke open the coffin, eh?”
“I never said so,” retorted the officer. “They quarrelled—for they left a blood-stained spade behind them. The Scarecrow must have chased Merry and lost him. He wants his help to open the coffin and get at Miss Cobtree's pearls, no doubt. As he searches in the vicarage garden the door of the vicarage opens and what does he see? Why, Doctor Syn himself. The Scarecrow fires to kill, and he does kill. He fires again to make sure, and then, afraid of being caught, he mounts his horse and rides away.”
“And he never opened the coffin?” asked the landlord.
“No. Afraid,” returned the officer.
“Did you see all this?” asked the colonel.
The officer shook his head. “Not all. I heard the shots and I saw the body of the murdered man. Then I goes to the churchyard and looks at the uncovered coffin, and the blood-stained spade. I waited around putting two and two together till I makes 'em four. Then I rides back here on purpose to tell the Scarecrow a very interesting fact.”
“Then you know who the Scarecrow is?” asked the landlord.
“Aye, I knows that all right,” replied the officer.
“And what is the interesting fact?” asked the colonel.
“Just this,” went on the officer stolidly. “As I examined the body and unbuttons the cassock to lay my head upon the heart, I hears the voice of Dr.
Syn himself, and there he was standing above the dead body right in front of me.”
“His ghost?” asked the amazed landlord.
“No, sir,” replied the officer. “Himself it was. Dr. Syn himself. The Scarecrow had made a mistake. He'd shot the wrong man. It certainly was the doctor's clothes—wig, spectacles and all—but the corpse was the rascal Merry dressed up in 'em.”
“Then Dr. Syn is—alive?” whispered the colonel.
“And kicking,” thundered the officer, “with no thanks to you. But Merry's dead, and that's for why we're here—me and the constables. I wants you for running contraband against His Majesty's Customs, but these 'ere constables wants you more pressing. Do your duty, Sergeant.” One of the constables drew a paper of authority from his belt and said, “Colonel Delacourt, I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilful murder.”
“And that,” continued the Preventive Officer, “is the first and last mistake you're like to make, Mr. Scarecrow.”
“It's a black lie,” roared the colonel. Both fists came down upon the table and his fingers gripped the long sheathed sword that lay there.
“Now then. Come quiet,” ordered the Preventive man, drawing his cutlass and advancing boldly.
With a rasp of steel, the long sword was out, naked. The Preventive Officer leapt like a bulldog. The colonel crashed the heavy table over against him and met the heavy blade with his long sword. The straight steel slid over the curved steel with a sharp hiss, and before the constables could throw themselves upon the colonel, the long sword had passed straight through the neck of the Preventive man.
Down came three heavy truncheons on the colonel's head, as the corpse of the Dymchurch Customs man crashed to the floor.
Mipps had filled in the desecrated grave. The Cobtree ladies had reconsecrated it with fresh flowers. Dr. Syn stood above it wrapped in thoughts of devotion when Mipps, leaving Shuhshuhgah at the churchyard gate, crept up to his master and told him what had happened at the “Mermaid Inn”.
Dr. Syn turned from the grave and looked at him.
“Where are the parish crutches that we lend to crippled parishioners? Whoever has them—get them. Then order the squire's coach. He has ridden to Lympne Castle and will not need it. I do. I must go to Rye.”
“The crutches, Vicar?” repeated Mipps. “Are you lame?”
“No. But I must carry two swords—the ones from my chest—to Rye gaol. I will strap the blades to the crutches and wear my cloak to hide them. Colonel Delacourt must never appear alive in court. I must kill him in fair fight—in his cell.”
“Oh, crimes, Captain,” whispered Mipps. “It's dangerous. Be careful. Who will believe his word against yours?”
“They must not be given the chance. What I failed to do upon a deserted beach of the Caribbean Islands, I must do in the cell where he awaits justice.
Trust me. I have not lost my cunning. Order the coach.”
“You will come too. Also the Indian. We ride together in the coach to Rye.” At sunset the squire's coach drew up at the Mermaid Inn and Dr. Syn, with his crutches well hidden beneath his long black cloak, was welcomed by the landlord.
“I was about to send a post-boy to Dymchurch in the hopes of getting you, reverend sir,” he said. “Since Colonel Delacourt's arrest for murder this day, his lady has done nothing but ask for you. She is sinking rapidly, and the doctor has given up all hope.”
“Many years ago I knew her,” replied Dr. Syn. “Indeed, I came here on purpose to visit her wretched husband in his cell. I will see Madame Delacourt first. I should like my usual sitting-room, for I must write to the Mayor for permission to enter the gaol.” The landlord went upstairs to warn the physician of Dr. Syn's opportune arrival, and Dr. Syn thus had the chance of taking off his cloak and wrapping the tell-tale swords that were lashed against the crutches in its folds. He left Mipps to guard the secret while he allowed the landlord to help him upstairs to the sick-room.
The physician made way for the spiritual doctor, shaking his head sadly, and Dr. Syn found himself alone with the woman who had been his bride.
At the sight of that beautiful, sad face, all the bitterness of the years vanished, and he could feel nothing but sorrow for the dying woman.
“Imogene,” he said kindly. “It is I, Christopher Syn.”
“Ah, Christopher—yes. It is really you. I have always known that we should meet at the last.” Her voice was very feeble, and he had to put his ear close to her mouth to catch her whisperings.
It was a strange tale—the story of her life, from the time that she had run away with her seducer. When her boy was born, she knew that her husband was the father, but she deceived her lover into thinking it was his.
“But he was yours, Christopher,” she went on, “and as he grew it became only too patent. He looked like you. He developed little mannerisms and tricks of voice that brought you back to us. Nicholas at last suspected, and I confessed the truth. Then he took a hatred for the boy as he had hated you. I had two other children, both girls. They both died. One had the black fever in Charleston at the age of four. The other died at birth. She was born in a convent, for we had no money then, and it was while I was there that your son—our son— Christopher, disappeared. Nicholas swears that the boy broke camp and ran off with some friendly Indians. But we never heard of him again. After that, Nicholas used to leave me for months at a time—oh, and sometimes longer.
And then he found out that you were on his trail and he grew afraid. We went to the Indies and he joined the Brotherhood. They were pirates of the worst sort. They quarrelled and fought amongst themselves, but Nicholas was a good swordsman and he prospered. And then came the news of Captain Clegg. I think it was the name of his ship, the Imogene, that told him it was you. After that, we were rushed here and there, always on the move, afraid of you.
Somehow, we always managed to escape you—and then at last we heard that you had given up the quest of vengeance and had gone back to England.
Nicholas was rich then and had changed his name. He had had good trading with Captain Vicosa and they both hated and feared you. They came to England on trading business, but I know that their chief object was to unmask you as Clegg.”
“So my son may yet live,” said Dr. Syn, and she answered that she did not know whether to wish it so or not.
She told him many things about the boy, and he learnt that Nicholas had become cruel because his children did not live. “Even now I think he hates me,” she said, “because of our boy. I think this little girl that was born here will live, but I shall not, and what will happen to the poor mite now?” Dr. Syn pledged her his word that he would look after the child, which comforted the mother. For some time her mind dwelt on old days, and with almost a happy smile she asked him if he remembered this and that; persons, places and incidents.
At about nine o'clock there was a drumming in the street and the tramp of men's boots upon the cobbles. It was Colonel Delacourt being marched from the Town Hall back to his cell, for cries of “Down with the murderer. Let him hang” rang out with boos and hissings.
The shame of it was her death-stroke.
“Raise me,” she said. “Do you forgive me? Can you?”
Then she sighed and went to her last sleep in his arms.
Half an hour later Dr. Syn, armed with the Mayor's permit and followed by Mipps and the Indian, who had their own part to play in the coming adventure, accompanied the turnkey to the cell in the town lock-up.
“He is the only prisoner, as it happens,” explained the turnkey. “And it's lucky for any others that might have had to share the big cell, for this colonel is a powerful, quarrelsome brute. You've only to look at his great arms and mighty chest all covered with tattooings like a common sailor. He ain't the sort of man to put up with preachin', reverend sir. But I'll watch he don't harm you.
“It is not necessary,” said the doctor.
“But it is, sir,” replied the turnkey, “for it's orders.”
“Oh, very well,” said Dr. Syn resignedly. He knew that he could depend upon Mipps and the Indian to deal with the turnkey.
The door opened and shut behind him, and Dr. Syn was alone with the murderer.
“Good evening, Black Nick,” he said.
Colonel Delacourt, or rather Nicholas Tappitt, to call him by his right name, glared his hatred in the light of the dingy lantern.
Dr. Syn glanced back at the open grid, and saw the watching eyes of the turnkey. But only for a few seconds. There was a cry of astonishment, the noise of a slight scuffle and the grid was closed. Mipps and the Indian had dealt with the turnkey, and Dr. Syn would be undisturbed.
“So it's our parson, pirate, smuggler, eh?” sneered Tappitt. “Where have you sprung from to jeer at me?”
“From the Mermaid Inn,” replied Syn. “To be more exact—from your rooms there.”
“Been kissing your wife, eh?” went on the sneering voice. “A case of 'when the cat's away, the mice ain't afeared to play', eh?”
“She died in my arms within this hour, Nicholas Tappitt,” said Syn solemnly. “But she told me of my boy before she died, and I must add his quarrel to mine in dealing with you.”
“She's dead, eh?” repeated Tappitt huskily. “Well, God rest her soul. She was a beautiful girl when I took her from you—but plaguey irritating and I think I had the worst of the bargain.”
“God rest her soul, indeed,” said Syn. “But let us dispense with prayers, for we have very little time in which to settle scores.”
“Well, how do we set about it?” laughed Tappitt. “I fear that my cell here is inconvenient. There is no plank to walk, and no sharks awaiting me. Besides, you lack your crew to prick me over the side. There is not even a coral reef for your old trick of marooning.”
“We shall fight fair, and the better man will win, as in our pirate days. It was the ruling of the Brotherhood, if you recollect.”
“Fight fair?” repeated Tappitt. “With no weapons? Besides, you are on crutches, and I warn you I was never more muscular in my life. But perhaps you have brought pistols under that saintly garb, and think to wing me with the same luck as you winged my uncle, Bully Tappitt, in Magdalen Fields?”
“Aye, something of the sort,” nodded Syn. “But pistols are too noisy. They are also chancey weapons.”
“Your old trick of knife throwing, then?” suggested Tappitt.
“Which you were never handy at,” returned Syn. “No. I said fair fight.”
“We can hardly kill each other with crutches, Clegg,” laughed Tappitt, “and it seems they are the only equal weapons here. Or will you take the stool and I the table?”
“Listen, Nicholas Tappitt,” said Syn grimly. “During those long years of death and danger through which I trailed you, my one ambition was to meet you blade to blade on some deserted beach. Well, it seems that the beach is denied us, but our blades can meet, even though they will be cramped for space.
Neither can we move the furniture, for I see table and stool are clamped to the floor. Well, we can share these disadvantages, and still be fighting fair. Choose your sword.” Syn whipped the crutches from beneath his coat and placed their handles form him on the table.
“By God, Captain Clegg, you were ever an ingenious rogue, I'll say that for you.”
Nicholas Tappitt drew one naked blade from the binding round one crutch.
Dr. Syn drew the other, and laid the crutches on the table.
“It's a damned cramped fight we shall have of it,” growled the prisoner.
“But a better end than hanging, Colonel Delacourt,” sneered Syn, sliding his blade against that of his adversary.
The clamped table was between them as they fenced—each seeking for an opening. But they were both experts.
Now one would gain six or seven inches, and now the other, but for a long time neither of their backs touched the wall. An inch forward, an inch back, as the blades pressed and rapped above the corner of the table.
At last the prisoner let out a strangled sob. It was partly due to his bursting lungs, and partly to his rage at not being able to break through the other's guard. Dr. Syn answered the sob with a short little laugh, and it stung Tappitt to the quick. With his last effort he drove Dr. Syn inches back. Then, when he found he could not gain another inch, he slipped back a full foot.
As Syn followed up, Tappitt seized one of the crutches with his left hand, swung it beneath his blade and jabbed it down between Syn's legs, giving it a savage wrench which brought Syn down on one knee. He let go the crutch and lunged.
But the foul was his undoing. As Syn's knee dropped to the stone floor, so did his left hand drop with a crash upon the table. His fingers closed upon the foot of the other crutch. Up went his blade at the same time, and only just in time, for Tappitt's sword shot past over his shoulder but within an inch of his neck.
Dr. Syn's sword gave a wrenching twist and at the same second his left arm lunged up. The scooped head of the crutch caught Tappitt's neck like a collar and jabbed him back against the wall. Tappitt's sword dropped from his fingers while Syn's point pricked his side.
“Don't move,” said Syn. “I have something to say to you. This is but foul for foul. Brotherhood rules.” Tappitt could not move. The head of the crutch held him to the corner of the cell like a pillory, and he could feel the point of the sword pricking his ribs.
“If I push this home, you will die a gentleman's death, Black Nick,” continued Syn. “Otherwise, you will die upon the scaffold, for I tell you there is neither juryman nor judge in these parts who would dare to recommend mercy for killing the Customs man. Your very cruelty to poor Imogene has been the talk of the town, and you will get no sympathy. Your pirate name, Black Nick, describes you well, for your soul is as black as your beard, and Old Nick has been your master. But you have one redeeming quality and with that I will trade with you. You love your child, the baby girl at the Mermaid Inn. Have you considered what will happen to her? Both her parents dead. Your money squandered. Brought up on the parish. A poor child. The daughter of a murderer. His blood running in her veins. She would have no chance unless you give it to her, in one last generous gesture. You know me well, Nicholas. Even when I was Clegg you will own I kept faith according to the rules. I have always been a man of honour, according to the rules as I interpreted them. Therefore, you may safely trust my word. Then here is the bargain. I will be your child's guardian. I will educate her. I will see that she has a comfortable home and as far as lies in my power to give it, a happy life. I will see that she marries a good man, and I will leave her my money when I go to Day Jones, as though she were my daughter. Should my son, of whose existence I only heard today, fail to make his claim to me, I will leave her all my wealth, which is considerable. I will make her a respected girl that everyone will love in her home of Dymchurch. But for this, there is your gesture to be made in payment. You will go to the scaffold, Nick Tappitt, alias Colonel Delacourt, as Captain Clegg, the Terror of the Seas.” Nicholas Tappitt could not move even to nod his head, but he closed his eyes, which Dr. Syn accepted as assent.
The crutch was released and the sword was lowered.
“Christopher Syn, I have hated you as few men have hated another, but I grudgingly admit that I can trust your word. I also envy you for being the most ingenious rascal I have ever met or heard tell of. Your damned black cloth will be a protection for my little Imogene—yes, I named her after your wife who loved me, as you named your pirate ship. Not even to Captain Vic, were he alive, would I have entrusted my girl, but to you, I do. Give me the proofs to tell the judge and I will hang as you, you lucky devil.”
“That will be easy,” replied Syn, with a sigh of relief which he did not attempt to disguise. “I shall visit you every day, exhorting you to repentance, and you will sign the confession which I will make out for you. When that is read out in court, at your request, there will be no doubt at all that you are Clegg. You will at least go to the scaffold with a great reputation. Despite your crimes, you will be admired. It will be a great occasion—your hanging.”
“By the God I never have believed in, you are, I think, the devil himself,” replied the prisoner.
“At least, I will not ask you to believe in God,” said Syn. “You can go to the scaffold brazenly unrepentant. It will at least seem more natural in Captain Clegg. But I shall have to exhort you to repentance with all the eloquence I can command.”
“The situation will not be devoid of humour, I am thinking,” laughed the prisoner.
“I rather think that I agree with you,” laughed Dr. Syn, secure in his own salvation.
So Clegg died—alias Colonel Delacourt—and despite the vigorous pleading of the eloquent Dean of the Peculiars upon the scaffold itself—Clegg died hard, blasphemous and unrepentant, till he had taken his last kick and the soldiers' drums had rolled. He was hung in chains and later buried without benefit of clergy at a cross-roads hard by the Kent Ditch.
Needless to say, Shuhshuhgah, the Blue Heron, was well loaded with presents from his blood-brother, Dr. Syn, and in return, he promised before he sailed that when he reached America he would inquire most diligently for some tidings of Dr. Syn's son.
For the doctor himself—well, he took his guardianship of the little baby Imogene seriously. But he did not overdo it. He put her out to nurse with a maid-servant at the Ship Inn, appointing Mrs. Waggetts as paid woman guardian. There would be time enough later for him to cultivate the child as he had promised.
On the ride back from the hanging it might be interesting to recount a few words that passed between Doctor Syn and his henchman, Mipps.
Mipps began it. “Well, he looked more like himself with his hair cropped and no beard. That Admiralty man saying he identified him, too. He was doing nothing but repeat what I'd told him myself, for he was the officer on the Royal ship what I served on. And didn't them tattoo marks make the natives stare! A fine show, the hangin', takin' it all round, but it made me sick to see the vanity of that there Nick. When you was exhortin' him so nice at the last to show repentance, and he roared out that there oath and said 'No', why, I believe he thought he'd done all Clegg's exploits himself. He took the glory of 'em, anyhow. I never saw a man so swagger his way to death.”
“A most fortunate thing for me, Mipps, that he did, for Clegg is hanged now for good and all, and the past is not likely to trouble us.”
“Another thing that struck me about the hangin',” went on Mipps, “was the number of folk what think that he was the Scarecrow. Mind you, opinions differ as to that. Some still thinks it is old Jimmie Bone, despite you provin' contrary, and some goes so far to whisper that it was Miss Charlotte—poor lass.”
“Does anyone think that?” asked Dr. Syn, amazed.
“Well, you know how rumours get about,” said Mipps defensively. “You see, she did ride that there black horse, didn't she?”
“Such rumours must be stopped for all time, Mipps. We'll ride now by way of Gehenna and have a word with Mother Handaway.”
“D'you want to say 'Hullo' to the old horse? It's some time since you saw him, ain't it? I mean, what with one tragedy after another, we've had our hands full lately.”
“I like to warn the old woman in good time,” said Syn.
“Warn her?” repeated Mipps. “What about?”
“Why, that the Scarecrow will ride again with the next full moon.” And as their horses crossed the little bridge that spanned the Kent Ditch, Dr. Syn fell to singing the old song of Clegg the buccaneer:
“Oh here's to the feet what have walked the plank— Yo-ho for the dead man's throttle.”
