Whatever may be said against the complex character of Doctor Syn, there is every evidence amongst the parochial archives of Dymchurch to prove that he was an exemplary country parson, always ready to give spiritual and material help to all or any of this scattered flock. His title “Dean of the Peculiars” gave him an authority over his neighbouring brother clerics, who found him ever a man of sound judgment, welcoming his advice on matters temporal and spiritual. His gaunt figure, astride his sturdy fat white pony, was familiar to every parish from Lympne to Lydd. Needless to say, these constant expeditions gave the Doctor every opportunity of listening to gossip of the countryside, which he turned to the advantage of his immediate flock.
Hence we find him one wintry afternoon reading the Scriptures in the sickroom of an old grandmother who lived with her son in a cottage at Bonnington.
To catch the fading light, he sat close to the casement, since the family were too poor to waste artificial light. As his rich mellow voice dwelt lovingly over the literary genius of Isaiah, he was aware that four horsemen drew rein at the cottage door beneath him. Round the side of the house came the owner, Shem Ransley, telling his visitors to step in and take a drink, as his sons were busy saddling horses.
Without hesitation or interruption of the glorious words he was reading, Doctor Syn overheard this conversation as well as noting the effect it had upon old Grandmother Ransley.
She shuddered. She closed her eyes, and the pain on her face was intense.
Doctor Syn finished the chapter, still listening to the conversation of the men below.
“Are you in pain, Mother?” he asked.
“In spiritual pain,” she answered. “I can speak to you because you are a good man and will keep what I say in my old foolishness to yourself.”
“That goes without saying. It is my duty,” replied Doctor Syn.
“My son and my two grandsons down there,” whispered the old woman, “have got the bad blood of my poor husband in their veins. It is not their fault.
The old man is in Van Diemen's Land. He always promised to escape and come back to us. Perhaps if he had, the horror of his transportation would have turned his blood from the same foolishness for which he suffered. He escaped the gallows only to go into exile.” Doctor Syn nodded his sympathy.
“So sure was he of escape that he refused to take me with him, saying that a woman would make escape impossible.” The old woman sighed. “Many years ago. I might have been with him all this time. He loved me, and he needed me more than the children below. They will not listen to my advice. They go their own way, and it is the way of the gallows.” Doctor Syn crossed to the old lady and patted her hand. “Come now,” he said reassuringly, “I don't think things are as bad as that. As you know, I move about a good deal and hear things said. People are good enough to trust me.
They do not trouble to put a curb upon their tongue because, you see, it is only I, Doctor Syn, and they trust the old parson as you do. I also hear many things from dying people, and the source of such tidings is never divulged.”
“You mean you have heard something about my children to comfort me?” Doctor Syn nodded. “I know this. Your son and two grandsons refused to take part in the last smugglers' 'run'. They had been ordered out by the Scarecrow himself. They did not obey. Does not this look as though they repent the evil of their ways?”
“It is worse, far worse, sir,” whispered the old woman. “Smuggling is in their blood. There is no repentance. But they are Bonnington men and are envious of the Marshmen down below the hills. They grumble that the Scarecrow pays Marshmen a higher rate than the men up here who work the 'hides'. I tell them that the Dymchurch lads run greater risks than they do. It is the 'landings' that are dangerous and the crossing of the Marsh. Fools. Why, the hills are safe, especially under the Scarecrow. But now they are determined to work against him.”
“Against him?” repeated Doctor Syn innocently.
“They are changing the 'hides' without his knowledge,” went on the old lady. “They intend to dispose of the tubs themselves and not give the Scarecrow payment. They think to get rich on one 'run'.”
Doctor Syn shook his head sadly. “It looks as though it will come to blows.
Dear, dear. When thieves fall out amongst themselves it usually means bloodshed. Are you sure of this?”
“They are going tonight to make the new 'hides'. They have collected men who are to meet them at the Walnut Tree Inn. Many men from as far away as Hawkhurst. The very name of Hawkhurst frightens me. I fear the same calamity as fell upon the old Hawkhurst gang when my husband was with them.” Syn nodded. “I have heard about it. They were all hanged, but your husband.”
“Thirty years ago,” muttered the old woman, “and now like to be repeated, for my son will be no match for the Scarecrow.” Now although Doctor Syn was genuinely happy to read the Scriptures to any old woman in need of comfort, it must be admitted in this case that he had journeyed to Bonnington on purpose to find out the very information which old Granny Ransley had so innocently told him. And so, having gained his object, he quietly and leisurely prepared to take his leave, though listening very carefully to the gentlemen in the parlour below, in case he could gather any further facts. After giving the old woman his blessing, he therefore walked down the narrow stairs and entered the parlour.
“Your mother seems very weak, Ransley,” he said. “You must see that she is kept quiet and free from worry.”
“I though you was gone,” replied Ransley with an uneasy look of warning towards his companions. “You've been reading up there this hour, sir.”
“She seemed to enjoy it,” replied the parson.
“It's getting dark and you've a good seven mile to go, sir. Shall the boys bring your pony round?” Doctor Syn knew that Ransley was anxious to see the back of him. “Thank you,” he said. “And what's that you are drinking? Brandy? Now after so much reading I could do with a taste of that myself.” One of the strangers poured him a generous allowance into a glass, while the two grandsons, who were goodlooking lads, went out by the back door to bring round the parson's pony.
Meanwhile Doctor Syn chatted about the weather.
“You ain't captured the Scarecrow yet down on the Marshes I suppose, sir?” laughed the man who had poured out the brandy.
Doctor Syn shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if he is really human,” he said. “I believe in devils just as I believe in angels, and I begin to think he must be a devil.”
“Aye,” growled Ransley, “if devil's luck means anything.”
“But cheer up, reverend sir,” went on the other, “for devil's luck don't hold for ever, and the Scarecrow, whether he be man or devil, will overreach himself soon.”
“If only some of the scoundrels who work for him would betray him. But they all seem very faithful to him,” said the parson. “For myself, being on the side of law and order, I naturally would be glad to see at least my own Dymchurch freed from such law-breaking.”
“He'll be betrayed sooner than he thinks,” returned the other.
Ransley coughed awkwardly, for the drink was making his companion too talkative, it seemed. Though perhaps the other men were too silent, sitting there in their mud-splashed clothes and saying nothing.
“I notice that you, Ransley,” went on the lively one with a laugh, “do seem almost afraid to mention the very name of the Scarecrow.”
“And that's true,” replied Ransley, frowning. “You never know when he's going to spring up at you. The reverend gentleman's right. He's no man but a devil, and I pity any of those associated with him who might be foolish enough to betray him. Remember Brazlett of Burmarsh? We know how the Scarecrow punished him. Hanged him before the whole parish. I tell you, it's dangerous even to talk of the Scarecrow.” Well aware that this conversation was but to put him off the scent, Doctor Syn changed the subject once more to the old woman upstairs, urging Ransley to call upon the Bonnington parson if his mother was short of nourishment.
“Oh, we shall do well enough for her,” he replied. “I'm no great friend to our parson. He'll never call for a drink of brandy same as you, Doctor Syn, but, by God, we respect you the more for it.” So in friendly fashion Doctor Syn rode away, conscious that one of the lads was sent after him to see whether he stayed in Bonnington village or took the long road down to Dymchurch.
Knowing that he was being spied upon, and having every intention of playing the spy himself, Doctor Syn put the pony to a jog-trot and did not pull rein till he had put the hills behind him and crossed the first great dyke of the Marsh. He then made a circuit to bring him back to the hills between Aldington and Lympne, and in less than an hour he had picketed his pony, well hidden in a wood while he went on afoot, and crawled into a clump of scrub-brush over the road, from which he could get a good view of anyone who passed along towards the Walnut Tree. He had not long to wait, nor did he have to strain his ear to catch the sound of Ransley's gang, for he heard them chorusing a ribald song long before they appeared out of the darkness. Besides this they carried lanterns, and he was able to count them as they rode by—some twenty of them.
By the time they reached the Walnut Tree they were acclaimed by a cheering, roystering gang of some sixty more. Doctor Syn followed them on foot till, hidden by the hedge facing the old inn, he was able to recognize many of the Scarecrow's men.
“We'll do our work first, lads, and then come back to drink,” cried out Ransley.
Immediately they formed into procession and, followed by five great farm wagons stacked high with brushwood, they rode off at a walking pace till they disappeared over the hill. Doctor Syn tracked them at a safe distance, and watched them turn into a large copse, where they began to empty the brushwood in great piles along by the side of a deep ditch that had been cut for the purpose. Making a careful observation of the spot, the parson left them, found his pony and rode down across the Marsh to Dymchurch.
The sexton, being summoned to the Vicarage on parochial business, found his master in a very serious mood.
“This is the greatest danger we have run yet, Mipps,” he said, after telling all that he had heard and seen. “We cannot afford a mutiny amongst our associates, and I think it behooves the Scarecrow to teach these men a lesson they will never forget. Pass the brandy and let us work out ways and means.”
As Mipps produced bottle and glasses, Doctor Syn unfolded a large map of the district, over which he pored, making nice calculations with a pair of silver dividers.
Mipps was sufficiently privileged to sip down two glasses of the good brandy before his master looked up. When he did, the sexton was relieved to see the tears of silent laughter in the Vicar's eyes.
“What's the joke, sir?” he asked.
“A very excellent one, my good Mipps,” chuckled the parson. “Aye, and we'll play it too. I confess that at first I feared these mutineers more than all the soldiery in Kent. But inspiration always seems to come to one from somewhere.
A little concentration, and lo! one had found a cure for the worst trouble. Pass the brandy, and then I will instruct you in the part you must play in my next comedy. Perhaps you already guess the theme, eh?”
Mipps scratched his head. “I guess this much,” he said. “We can't afford to lose next Tuesday's cargo, that's sure. You can see by the invoice from France how valuable it is. If these Bonnington brutes thieve us of so many tubs, we'll not only look silly, but their discontent against the Scarecrow will spread to our own Night-riders. I suppose you'll put off the 'run' till we can get others to do the work of the mutineers, eh?” Doctor Syn shook his head. “The 'run' goes forward. The twelve hundred tubs shall be landed as arranged. We must not embarrass our organization across the water.”
“But we'll need at least two hundred of our best men to deal with the Bonnington lot,” objected Mipps. “That leaves us three hundred men short. We must wait for new hands to come aboard, sir.” Again Syn shook his head. “We shall only be short of the Ransley gang.
True, they must be dealt with, but why should we worry? Don't the Government provide us with an army of protection? Very well, I will see that the Dragoons look after our interests for us. Why not?”
“For God's sake, sir, explain,” urged Mipps. “By your chuckling it seems that you've got one of your tricky schemes in your head.”
“Which I will now put into yours.” And for the next hour Doctor Syn told the sexton things that made the little fellow chuckle with his master.
