A quarter of an hour later Dr. Syn was challenged by two Dragoons who were watching the road that led to Jesson Farm. He checked his pony.
“But I am Dr. Syn, vicar of Dymchurch,” he protested, “and am but on my way to visit a dying old woman on the Marsh.”
“Sorry, sir,” replied one of the soldiers respectfully, “but we've orders to let no one pass. You'll have to ride with us to the beach and report to the captain.” There seemed nothing for it but to obey, so Dr. Syn trotted alongside the Dragoon, rode up the sea-wall slope and down a sandslide to the beach.
Here, around a fire of driftwood, the Dragoons mounted guard over their prisoners.
“I'm sorry this has happened, sir,” explained Captain Faunce; “we were hunting for Grinsley when we surprised these wretched men unloading a French lugger. I'd rather by far have captured Grinsley, whom we suspected of being the cause of the lugger in the Bay; but I must do my duty.”
“And where is this lugger?” The Dragoon smiled. “We could not ride our horses across the Channel, and the Revenue cutter is some miles away.”
“And do you think that Grinsley was on board?” asked Dr. Syn.
“Oh, good gracious, no,” exclaimed the officer. “These poor fellows have all taken oath against such a thing and I know they are honest, except in this unfortunate business of the kegs.”
“You, too, are an honest man, Captain Faunce,” replied Syn. “You show your sympathy and your sentiment without shame, and I think you. Therefore, on the strength of your generosity, if I pledge you my word that this shall never happen again, will you free these unfortunate fellows?” The Dragoon shook his head sadly. “I'm sorry, sir. It is too late. I have sent half my men for the Sandgate cutter to arrest them. But if you are, as I understand, sir, visiting a sick woman upon the Marsh, let me not be further blamed for having detained you.” Dr. Syn looked at the prisoners. Needless to say, he recognized them all and was astonished to find so many respectable parishioners amongst them.
“My poor friends,” he said sadly, “you have brought this calamity upon yourselves. I can do nothing for you, it seems.”
Turning his pony, he rode up the beach with his Dragoon escort, who passed him by the sentry and watched him jogging across the Marsh until he disappeared in the mist.
Now not far from Mother Handaway's isolated cottage was a gipsy encampment. It was towards this that Dr. Syn directed his pony.
Dr. Syn had a shrewd idea that some of the gipsies would be awake on the night of the run, as it was the cheapest means of obtaining liquor, so he was not surprised at being challenged as he rode into the circle of caravans.
It was a gipsy lad of about eighteen who demanded what he wanted.
“I must see your leader, Silas Pettigrand,” he replied.
“The chief is asleep and must not be disturbed. You must see him in the morning,” said the gipsy lad, with his hand turning the pony's bridle.
Dr. Syn leant from the saddle and whispered a Romany password.
In three minutes, Silas of the Pettigrands stood before him.
“You know my people, it seems,” said the gipsy, by way of greeting.
“In Spanish America—yes,” replied the doctor. “I wish to purchase the black horse you have tethered behind your caravan. I noticed it yesterday, as I rode up to the hills, and it is a horse after my heart, and I have need of him.”
“He would be difficult for you to manage after that pony. He is a wild fellow. My own sons can hardly sit him.”
“I prefer an animal of my own breaking,” replied the parson. “How much?”
“It is an animal of mettle,” went on the gipsy. “But since you come here with such a message on your lips as you gave my youngest son, I will not ask more than twenty guineas. I confess, though, I took him for ten from a hunting squire in Sussex who was afraid of him and glad to see him go.”
“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted the parson, “and you are honest with me since your tribe are horse dealers. I will give you thirty guineas. That is twenty for the horse and ten for your Romany oath of silence concerning the transaction.”
“You have him, then,” answered the old man, “and I will include saddle and bridle.”
“I shall not need a saddle—but a bridle—yes, and a pair of spurs until the animal and I are better acquainted.”
“You are a horseman, evidently,” said the gipsy in admiration.
“You will hide my pony till I call for it in the dawn, and I will come to your caravan now and pay you the gold. I must also change my clothes there.” The gipsy led him to his caravan, took the money and the oath of silence, and then left him to change his clothes while he went out to cover the pony with a cloth.
Accustomed as he was to strange transactions with queer customers, old Silas could scarce believe his own eyes when his visitor reappeared.
The neat parson had given place to the devil in rags.
It was not only the blacked tow-curls which streamed from the battered three-cornered hat that gave such a fiendish look to the face, but rather a cruel, reckless deviltry that flashed from the eyes and smiled through the tight-set lips. This had obliterated a good face with the stamp of hell.
Striding towards the coal-black horse and leaping on to his back with the accustomed ease of a circus rider, the weird figure spoke to the gipsy in an altered—croaking, raucous voice. “I shall visit you before the dawn, and we will breakfast together. You will find my contribution to the feast in the nearside pannier upon the pony. And, by the way, look after my pony, for I shall return to you on foot and must ride it back to Dymchurch. All very mysterious, eh, friend Silas of the Pettigrands? But believe me, it is not for myself, but for many others for whom I go adventuring. I am secure in your silence?”
“To you I can speak when to others I must keep silent,” replied the gipsy solemnly. “For many years the safety of James Bone the highwayman, has been in my care. Let that satisfy you that I trust you as you may trust me. It is a life bargain.”
“Then till the dawn—good tenting,” cried Dr. Syn.
As though objecting to the bargain of these weird men, and certainly disapproving of yet another human being thinking he could master him, the black horse reared and plunged furiously.
“You see?” said the gipsy, not displeased that the animal was behaving as he had prophesied.
“And you will see,” retorted the rider with a laugh, as he dug in the spurs deliberately.
Off went the beast with a scream of rage across the field, leapt the broad dyke on to the road, and the gipsy listened to the ring of the hoofs as he galloped along it.
Meanwhile, he saw the weird figure chased, encircled, and again uncovered by the sinuous, ghostly ribbons of mist.
Fifty yards ahead the road curved to avoid the dyke, but Syn kept his wild steed straight at it, took off from the road, cleared the water easily and thundered on; took the next dyke and the next in full career, and so across four fields till he reared up at the door of Mother Handaway's hovel.
Whatever the old woman's creed was, she not only looked like a witch, but thought herself one. Her features were pinched, her sharp, curved nose and pointed chin guarded her one-toothed mumbling mouth like a pair of nutcrackers. Her eyes were beady and bright and protected by thick grey eyebrows that matched the straggly beard upon her chin. Her hair hung loose in long rats' tails. Her fingers were long and bony, and for ever clawing something invisible as she mumbled. She was hump-backed and in the worst weather she would not wear shoes or stockings, but would hobble along in a quick running glide upon bare feet.
Mother Handaway had heard the thud of the horse's hoofs getting nearer and nearer, and instead of being surprised she seemed to expect that the wild animal was bringing her a visitor, for she flung open the door, and prostrating herself, whimpered: “Hail, Master.”
“Aye,” replied Syn, in a truly terrible voice, “I am your Master. Your Master the Devil. But see to it that you tell no one that I favour you by appearing to you in the flesh, for if you do they will seize you for the witch that you are. Take this bag of guineas”—and he flung down the half-filled sack upon the threshold. “Each coin is stamped with King George's head and spade, though it was minted in the furnaces of hell. With it I buy your stable, in which you will hide and keep my horse. You will feed it as you are directed. But have a great care that no one sees it, for if they should, it will mean death. So long as you keep it truly well and hidden you shall never lack for gold. Is it a bargain?”
“Yes, Master,” answered the old woman. “But are you in truth Satan himself that I have raised by my incantations?”
“Aye,” replied Syn in a deep voice. “But you must call me 'the Scarecrow', for as such I come to rule the Marsh. I shall bring my horse to you before the dawn. After that, I shall send my chief messenger to fetch the horse when I have need of him.”
“How shall I know him, Master?” asked the old woman.
“I will send him in the guise of a man who can be seen travelling the Marsh without exciting suspicion. Do you know the sexton of Dymchurch?”
“Yes, Master. He is one of the few men who is not afraid to talk to me,” replied the witch. “I know him well. He and his master, Dr. Syn, have often come to cheer me.”
“The holy vicar of Dymchurch?” asked Syn scornfully.
“Aye, but he's a good man, for all his sanctity,” argued the witch. “I mean, he is a man of wide sympathies. Both he and Miss Charlotte are not ashamed of bringing me nourishing foods. We must take people as we find them, Master.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Syn scornfully. “Good people are my enemies. Are they your only visitors?”
“There is another man who is good to me. I forgot,” added the old woman.
“I speak of Jimmie Bone, the highwayman. When the chase is hot I harbour him.”
“Well, that, too, is good,” continued Syn, “for he is a fellow that I may yet have use for. See to it, though, that none of these visitors sets eyes on my horse.”
“What must I call the horse, Master? Does he answer to a name?”
“He is called Gehenna, and he is wild and fierce. If you so much as lay hands on him, he'll send you to hell before your time.” Dr. Syn swung him round and gave him both spurs. The horse leapt forward and feeling the spurs drive into him relentlessly, galloped away into the rushing mists.
The storm now took a curious turn. The wind increased till it became a gale and before its fury the mist shrouds leapt as though the Marsh were invaded by sheeted giants. Then a stinging sleet shattered down in a torrential burst. The frozen shafts of rain stung the horse into madness and Dr. Syn used the cruel elements to subdue the vice in the horse. He kept the animal facing the storm till he had mastered his spirit and then at last, when he turned his back to the storm, he knew that the animal was his. The spirit was still there, the high, fierce mettle, but the viciousness had gone as far as he was concerned. Then Syn drove the spurs in again and rode like the wind and with the wind towards the distant sea-wall. The pursuing sleet gave the horse pace, and in company with the whirling shapes of flying mist, the black animal galloped with the weird black figure of the Scarecrow on his back.
And the thrill of it went to Syn's head like wine, and he laughed aloud.
“Even the elements are on the devil's side tonight. Oh, Gehenna! On! Faster, you great brute! Faster! The devil in scarecrow's rags rules the Marsh and he rides to Hell on Gehenna. Faster! On! Faster!” On the beach the soldiers tried valiantly to keep their fire alight, for it was to serve as a beacon to the cutter. But the wind had arisen, and already the waves in the Bay were dashing up against the shingle. It was doubtful whether the cutter would brave such a storm. Blinded with smoke, the Dragoons kept piling on driftwood, while the rain ran from their brass helmets. Suddenly one of them cried out: “Look!” At the same moment a piercing laugh echoed from the sand-hill behind them. Even the officer, Captain Faunce, was transfixed with horror at the spectral horseman that had appeared upon the sky-line. It seemed that the storm had opened hell gates to let the devil ride out.
But their superstitious dread was given the lie by the horseman himself, for after his maniacal laugh, which made his black mount rear and scream, in a derisive voice he cried out: “Leave these poor fools alone. I'm the man you want. Grinsley, the murderer. But you won't catch me this side of hell.” Captain Faunce sprang into the saddle, drew his pistols from the holsters, and pulled both triggers. The right one, damped with the rain, misfired, and the left went wide, though Dr. Syn heard the bullet whizz by.
“Mount and after him, boys,” cried the captain. “Granger and Metcalf, stay here mounted, and guard the prisoners. Any treachery, use your sabres without mercy.” The other troopers scrambled for their horses, and led by their officer, galloped towards the sand-hill.
Waving his hand in farewell, Syn turned his horse and slid down the bank on to the road, jumped the dyke on the farther side of it, and led the hunt madly across country for the distant hills.
In the meantime, Mipps had taken advantage of the confusion and profiting by the smoke of the fire which kept blinding the Dragoons, he managed to crawls behind the prisoners and sever their cords with his knife, going from one to the other with a whispered word of caution and concealing himself behind the captured kegs.
By the time Dr. Syn had led away the chase, he had freed all the men and had only the two Dragoons to deal with.
When he considered that the chase had gone clear away, he sprang up, and covering the chests of both troop horses with his pistols, he sang out: “About turn, you two, and follow the hunt. You may take a murderer, but you don't take us.”
“What the hell—?” cried one of the troopers, but Mipps interrupted.
“You've no chance, the prisoners are all free. Twenty of us against you two.
If you move forward or put your hands to your sabres, I fire, and my pistols ain't damp. Have respect for your horses. About turn.” By this time the smugglers were all on their feet, and were grabbing such weapons as they had been deprived of. These were mostly stout cudgels and poles. Some of them ran to where their horses had been tethered and mounted.
The Dragoons saw that their only chance of re-capturing the men was by getting more help, so as if bowing to the inevitable they turned their chargers and galloped away after their colleagues.
“Quick, lads!” cried Mipps. “Stamp out the fire. Load them kegs on the pack ponies, and away with them as arranged before the soldiers get back.” The smugglers, overjoyed at their deliverance, worked feverishly to get away before the possible arrival of the cutter which they could now see tacking from Sandgate in the teeth of the driving storm.
“Seems to me,” laughed one, “that we owe our freedom to this Grinsley.”
“That wasn't Grinsley,” replied Mipps. “That's our new leader, if we behave ourselves. If we get clear away this blessed night, he'll lead us, I'll take my oath. And what's more, we'll never get laid by the heels if we obeys him.
And if we gets him, why, he gives the orders and not me.”
“Never you mind. No proper names is best, as we've found out, but amongst us he's the Scarecrow, that's what he is.”
“I know,” cried one of them. “I can tell who he is by the way he rides. It's Jimmie Bone, the highwayman. Now isn't it?”
“Maybe,” allowed Mipps; “but he's to be called The Scarecrow from now on, and if he takes on the job and don't lead them Revenue men a dance—well, you wait.”
As the dawn broke, Dr. Syn, looking remarkably clean and fresh in his clerical clothes, jogged along the curving Marshland road towards Dymchurch.
He presented a marked contrast to the Dragoon officer whom he met at the cross-roads, leading a lamed charger.
Captain Faunce's red coat was mud-stained, and he had lost his helmet.
“My faith, Captain,” cried the vicar, drawing his pony's rein, “the storm has wrought havoc with you. I just reached the cottage I was bound for when it broke. I was fortunate. My clothes are dry.”
“I've been chasing Grinsley all night,” explained the captain. “And all to no purpose. They say that the devil looks after his own. Anyway he taught that recruit of his how to ride, for I'll swear Grinsley learned his horsemanship in hell. The rascal played with me. Would wait for me to draw level with them, then off he'd go again like lightning. And so it has been all night, for it's but an hour ago that I lost him for good in the woods behind Lympne. With my horse lamed I gave him best.”
“And where are your men?” asked the vicar.
“I outrode the rascals early in the chase. Not seen them for hours.”
“Safe under lock and key at Sandgate, I hope,” replied the captain.
At that moment a trumpet call rang out, and along the sea-wall they saw the Dragoons riding.
“They make a brave picture in the morning light,” said Dr. Syn. “The red coats and the helmets.”
“Hope they feel better than I do,” grumbled the officer. He blew a shrill blast on a whistle. Up went the leaders' hand and the troop halted. Then seeing their officer signalling to them, the troop sergeant slid his horse down the deep embankment and galloped towards them.
“We couldn't keep pace with you, sir,” he explained; “but we got Grinsley.”
“You've got him?” repeated the officer, smiling.
“Yes, sir. As you disappeared into that first wood, he broke cover, on his black horse to your left, and we chased him inland till finally we ran him down in Tenterden.”
“Must be over two hours, sir. The church clock struck four as his horse fell dead.”
“Dead too, sir. Metcalf ran him through the neck as he tried to break past him.”
“But I heard a clock strike four when I sighted him again the other side of the wood. In God's name—was he then dead?”
“Makes one believe in the supernatural, that sort of experience,” said Dr.
“And Metcalf killed him, you say?” questioned the astounded officer. “But I left Metcalf to guard the prisoners.” The sergeant then broke the news of the smugglers' escape and how the cutter had arrived to find a deserted beach.
“Ah, well, we can get 'em again,” laughed the officer. “I dare swear you can identify your own flock, vicar?”
“I purposely did not look at them,” answered Dr. Syn. “Though you could hardly expect me to hand over my own parishioners if I had. I am a man of peace. I can promise you, though, Captain, that you will never take them again in the act of cheating the Revenue.” The captain turned to the troop sergeant. “Are you sure it was four o'clock by Tenterden church?” he asked.
“As sure as I saw Grinsley killed, sir.”
“Good God!” muttered the captain—and whether it was from cold or fright, Dr. Syn saw the gallant Dragoon shiver.
