Although General Troubridge invariably quarrelled with his twin brother, Admiral Troubridge, there was one subject on which they not only agreed but actually co-operated in support of it. The subject which brought these cantankerous old warriors into unity was the Press-gang. Needless to say, very few people agreed with them, for the general opinion was that the Pressgang was an odious and barbaric institution, detrimental to the freedom of the citizen. To this, however, the Troubridges would reply: “The only way to maintain the freedom of the citizen is to keep His Majesty's Forces up to strength. If men will not join the Colours of their own will, then the Press-gang is the only solution.” On a cold but bright November morning a party of this “odious institution", consisting of nine picked men under the command of a petty-officer named Stubbard, came swinging along the main road from Dover. Chosen carefully for this particular job, they were about as rough a crowd as could be found in the King's Navy, and altogether presented a very formidable appearance. Weatherbeaten hulks every man of them, their faces tanned to a deep mahogany, and their muscles as hard as iron. In addition to their cutlasses they carried their kit bundles slung on to stout oak cudgels.
There was no pretence at any secrecy, for on each side of the gigantic Stubbard marched two little powder monkeys, one boy proudly banging away at a deep side drum, while the other led the sailors' whistling tunes on a long fife.
Not an able-bodied man did they encounter from Dover to Sandgate, for at the sound of their arrogant music, their likely victims made themselves uncommonly scarce. But this did not trouble Stubbard. He was on a special commission, bound for distant Dymchurch.
“Stubbard,” the Admiral had said to him, “the best manhood in this country of Kent is to be found on Romney Marsh. That damned Scarecrow picks his men well, and knocks 'em into fine shape too. If a man is strong enough to carry tubs against the Government, he's strong enough to carry cannon-balls against the foreigner. Go and collect as many of the rascals as you can, and send them in irons aboard the Revenue cutter. I need not tell you that if you can include the Scarecrow himself in one of your batches, the better I'll be pleased.
My brother the General has put a big price on the rascal's head, and that, added to the Government reward, would set you and your lads up very well in prizemoney. But you must use brains as well as your muscles, for this Scarecrow is about as mighty as a sperm whale, and if he finds you robbing young bulls from his school, you may look out for white water.” Stubbard had heard much talk about the Phantom Rider of Romney Marsh, but unlike his breed he was not superstitious, and he felt confident that could he but get within striking distance of the Scarecrow, one scientific blow with a belaying-pin would put an end to any more of the ridiculous ghost stories that were circulating.
Stubbard broke the march at Sandgate to allow his men a meal of fried fish at a wooden shanty upon the water-front. The proprietor obligingly sent his boy out for grog, and through the convivial conversation that followed he learned that the hated Press-gang were bound for Dymchurch. But the proprietor was a closer man with his tongue than the boastful Stubbard, who never dreamed that he was talking to one of the Scarecrow's most trusted agents. Indeed, so trusty was he that no sooner were the Press-gang out of sight from his shop window, and once more upon the march, than the dealer in fried fish was saddling up his horse.
Knowing that the sailors would keep to the sea-road, he climbed the hill, and by galloping around the summit was able to ride down into Hythe High Street ahead of them. He then rode hard for Dymchurch, and was fortunate in finding Sexton Mipps at work in the churchyard. They had plenty of time to call in at the taverns and pass the word that the Press-gang were on the way. Drinks were hurriedly swallowed, and by the time the drum and fife were heard from the sea-wall the male population of Dymchurch were nowhere to be seen.
Stubbard, who was well provided with Admiralty cash, repaired to the Ship Inn to command billeting for his men, and in spite of Mrs. Waggetts' protestations that she was a lone widow and could not deal with ten ruffianly men in her establishment, Stubbard overruled her and took possession, paying a day's board in advance. Asking whether the inn was the best frequented in the village, Stubbard learned that there was very little custom at any of the local taverns, as the Dymchurch men were either too old to go gadding about drinking, or too young to have learned the taste for strong waters. “Indeed,” said the landlady, “if you have come to collect men for the Colours, you will find Dymchurch an unlucky place for your purpose. Do you suppose for one moment that I would be a widow for the last two years if there were any ablebodied men about the place?” Stubbard thought it more than likely, but held his peace.
“Wait till the sun sets, lads,” he laughed to his men, “and we'll see the manhood of Dymchurch crowding into the taverns for their drinks.” But in this Stubbard was doomed to disappointment, for that night saw three taverns with empty bars. Not a man of serviceable age was to be seen.
Exception must be made, however, for Mr. Mipps. All the Press-gangs of England would not have kept him out of an inn when he wanted a drink.
But it was not the usually quick-moving Mipps that went there. No, Mipps was not above taking precautions. A useful man on a man-o'-war was a carpenter, especially one who had most of his life been a ship's carpenter, and sailed over the seven seas. He had no wish to transfer from the Night-riders to the Navy, so he walked slowly, with his toes turned in, and dragging one leg in a limp. Likewise, he hunched up one shoulder as high as it would lift, and carried his head on one side. He went even so far as to tell the sea-dogs that he took it as a great insult that no Press-gang had ever compelled his services.
“But where are the young men of the place, my jolly old sexton?” asked Stubbard.
Mipps went to the casement and pointed towards the churchyard.
“There they lie, what there was of 'em, mister,” replied the little man. “All as dead as mutton. Folk around here are either born old or die young. Most unhealthy spot this, what with marsh fever and worse.”
“And what's worse than the fever, eh?” asked Stubbard.
Mipps made a very good attempt at a shudder as he whispered: “Them things what rides on the Marsh. Phantom horsemen, my son. It's death to meet 'em. Aye, and don't you laugh neither, my brave boys, I've seen 'em, and come off luckier than most. I wasn't always bent and twisted as you see me now. You see, like a fool I went out on the Marsh one night where no one of sense ought to go, and I meets the Scarecrow hisself on his spectral horse. I was glad enough to go home with no more than a bad twistin'. He just looks at me fiercelike, and I felt myself go all blarsted. Stricken like a tree with lightning.” Although they laughed at the old man's fancies, they did not feel quite so comfortable when they looked out over the great lonely Marsh.
Stubbard waited till nightfall in the Ship Inn, but not a man came in for a drink except the sexton, so falling in his men he went round to the other two taverns which the village boasted. But there again he found empty bars.
Returning to the Ship and cursing the village for its temperance, he surprised Mrs. Waggetts clearing a goodly row of wet tankards from the bar.
“So the rats have been in for drinks behind our backs, eh?” he said.
The landlady lied, assuring him that she had only left the sailors' tankards there for the sake of company.
“Very convenient to have two doors to a bar like you've got,” replied Stubbard sarcastically. “Well, we'll be biding here till the cunning rats show themselves. The Navy wants them to fight the French and the Americans, and by thunder if she can't get 'em by fair means we'll get 'em for her by foul.” The next day Stubbard paraded his men up and down the village street, while the powder-monkeys tried their best to bring the place to life with music; for by this means Stubbard hoped to attract the children, so that he could question them about their big brothers, fathers and uncles. But not a child answered the call of curiosity. The Vicar had ordered a special holiday so that they could not be waylaid on their journey to school.
“Well, it's the Sabbath tomorrow, lads,” said Stubbard. “We'll fill a pew for once, and keep our eyes open for likely men during the sermon. Folk what are so temperate over drinks will not resist going to church, I'm thinking.” But again Stubbard was to be disappointed, for the congregation consisted entirely of women and children, and the only presentable man was the Squire himself, and he was too exalted a gentleman for the Press-gang to play any tricks with, although Stubbard was all but driven to hit him on the head when he had the effrontery to wait for them in the churchyard and congratulate him for having brought such a good muster to the service.
Doctor Syn, the Vicar, was also pleased to be gracious, telling Stubbard that it was indeed a great pleasure to him to see such fine fellows in his church.
Stubbard found his men were none too pleased with their experience. They grumbled at having been ordered to church for nothing. However, Stubbard issued extra grog allowance, and promised that if no likely men appeared soon, he would break in and search every house in the village. “And God help the first man we catch,” he said. “We'll show them that we are not to be laughed at.” That very night they gained their first victim in a manner that set the whole village afire with indignation.
Young Hadley's wife was ill, and he had to risk the lurking Press-gang in order to get to the doctor. The front garden of Sennacherib Pepper's residence was a good lurking-place by reason of the cover of garden wall and trees.
Hadley was striding towards the physician's front door when the gang surrounded him with their cudgels. They carried him away to the sea-wall, and flashed a signal to the Revenue cutter which was anchored in the bay. A boat came ashore and the unconscious young husband was thrown in, and in the morning discovered that he was in irons and in the hold. He raved and swore to no avail, crying out that this would be the death of his wife.
When the news of this outrage became known, Hadley's two brothers and father went to the Squire and lodged a protest. Sir Antony Cobtree promised to do all he could, though, knowing Admiral Troubridge supported the Press-gang, he said frankly that he could not hold out much hope of Hadley being released.
This enraged the Hadleys and they went to the Ship Inn, with their tempers strung to murder point. But they were no match for the Press-gang, who served them the same as their young relative, while Stubbard chuckled to himself to think what fools they had been to rush into the trap. Mipps had been a witness when they knocked the Hadleys out, and he carried the news to Doctor Syn.
On receiving certain instructions from the Vicar, Mipps went back to the inn, where he pretended to get talkative over his drink. Stubbard not only listened to what he had to say, but encouraged him to talk more, and when at last Mipps staggered out for his bed, Stubbard's triumph was complete.
“I've pumped that little sexton dry, lads,” he confided to his men. “There's to be a 'run' tomorrow night, and this Scarecrow is to direct it, and the sexton assures me that if we hide at a place called Black's Farm we'll see the Scarecrow and his Phantom Riders. Now if we can get the Scarecrow, well and good, and we're all made men, but in any case we'll get some of them. Our tack is to watch out for stragglers, twos or threes, and bowl 'em out.” But the next night was destined to hold some surprises for Stubbard and his gang, and for the Admiral too, as things fell out.
During the day, Stubbard and his men went out to Black's Farm and took careful note of the ground. There seemed to be no one there to interfere with them, so they caught four fowls from the farmyard and roasted them over a gipsy fire, while Stubbard unfolded his plans in a loud voice, every word of which was overheard by the farmhands, who were safely hidden in a smugglers' room in the roof.
After washing down their stolen dinner with some brandy which they discovered in the abandoned kitchen, Stubbard marched them back to get some sleep at the Ship Inn, telling the powder-monkeys to wake them at eight o'clock. Though longing for sleep themselves, the poor boys did not dare to close their eyes for fear of failing in their duty. All they hoped for was that Stubbard might leave them behind so that they could sleep till their lords and masters returned from their night's adventure.
But that was not Stubbard's way. There would be rough and tumble, and the more heads they saw cracked in their youth, the more useful would they be to the Navy in their manhood. They were merely told to leave the drum and the fife behind, as there must be no noise, and also that they could then carry the grog tub. By nine o'clock the party were safely entrenched in a dry dyke that was within a stone's throw of Black's Farm.
They had a long and dreary wait, enlivened about midnight by gunfire at sea. It was the Revenue cutter attacking the smugglers' fleet. Three of the luggers replied to the fire with spirit, but the Press-gang could not see the results, for all vessels were suddenly swallowed up in the sea mist.
“If that sexton has hoodwinked me about this spot, I'm sorry for him,” growled Stubbard. “No signs of those phantoms yet he talked about.”
“Not phantoms, but men: smugglers,” whispered one of the gang.
True enough, they heard voices, and a minute later saw a party of three men cross a foot-bridge and enter the same field.
“Come on, lads, we'll make sure of these at any rate,” whispered Stubbard.
“They're strong-looking, and will be good prizes. Come.”
Out of the dyke they scrambled with cudgels in hand and their cutlasses loosened in the scabbards. As it happened, one of the powder-monkeys was actually the quickest to get over the lip of the dyke, and thus finding himself for a second alone in advance he turned to see whether the others were following him. As he turned he let out the most ghastly scream of terror, so much so that the sailors forgot the smugglers for the moment and turned to see what the lad was pointing at. It was the Phantom Horseman. The Scarecrow himself. There he sat grinning at them upon his gigantic black horse, not twenty yards behind them. So that there should be no doubt as to his identity, he cried out in mocking, raucous voice: “Yes, I am the Scarecrow. Are you going to take me? Am not I a fine figure for your Horse Marines?” To do Stubbard justice, he was the first to recover, and waving his cutlass above his head, he shouted to his men: “There's prize-money to last us a lifetime. Follow me.”
Bravely he jumped back into the dry dyke and clambered up the other side before his men could move from their astonishment.
The Scarecrow drew a pistol from his holster and cried out, “Stay where you are.” Stubbard replied: “Shoot and be damned to you. I ain't afraid.”
“You will be,” croaked the Scarecrow, reining his horse back on to his haunches, so that he pawed the air with his terrible fore-hoofs. But instead of firing straight as Stubbard expected, the Phantom Horseman fired above his head, and at that signal the most dreadful howl arose, as round from the back of Black's Farm some fifty Night-riders came galloping. The sight of their hideous masks, their wild blazing cloaks, and fierce bare-backed horses demoralized the sailors, who were fighting out of their element. The cutlasses and short cudgels were useless against the longs stout poles which the riders used as lances.
Outnumbered, they were ridden down beneath the weight of the fierce charge.
Afraid of the horses' hoofs, they huddled on the ground without striking a blow.
All save the desperate Stubbard. He aimed a swinging blow at the Scarecrow's horse, but the rider took it on his long blade, and with a twisting wrench ripped the cutlass from the sailor's hand and dug his point deep into his forearm.
“The Press-gang pressed,” laughed the Scarecrow. “The Hadleys are avenged. Now let's see whether these poor lands have the strength to carry tubs.” With the precision of trained cavalry, half the troop dismounted, and while some of them covered the sailors at pistol point, others bound their arms to their sides with cords prepared for the purpose. These had been cut long enough to allow a rider to grasp the end.
“What about these boys, Scarecrow?” asked one of the smugglers who grasped the terrified powder-monkeys by the wrists.
“Poor little devils,” rasped the Scarecrow. “Shame on you, Mr. Stubbard, to bring such youngsters out on dirty work. Well, they shall have a joy-ride: aye, an adventure that will make you the envy of all the King's powder-monkeys.
Hellspite, do you take one up behind you, and Beelzebub the other. But hold on, my sons, for we have some ground to cover and the going must be fast. By the time dawn breaks, you'll at least be not so stiff in the joints as your great bully masters.” Then turning to the sailors he added, “And now, my bully tars, let's see how your sea-legs can spring to it ashore.” Waving his sword, he pointed across the marsh seawards before breaking into a canter, which was followed by the cavalcade.
As the Press-gang afterwards confessed, the journey to the beach would not have been so long had the Scarecrow led them as the crow would fly. But with devilish ingenuity he stretched the route out to the breaking-point, zig-zagging this way and that. No sooner had they leapt a dyke than the Scarecrow would double back and plunge into it, the muddy water round the sailors' heads, and all the time he kept urging them to greater speed. Jumping, leaping, falling and splashing, the Press-gang's curses dwindled down to moaning, till, torn with brambles, caked with mud, kicked by the flying hoofs, cut by their ropes, and soaked with the cold dyke water, the facetious leader brought them to the endless shingle of Dungeness. Here he called a halt, and while signals were exchanged with flashers to a distant point, the powder-monkeys were allowed to stretch their limbs.
“We'll spare the horses the pebbles,” said the Scarecrow. “The boys are waiting for us yonder with the tubs. Escorting party, dismount, and put your back-stays on. We've got to move before the dawn.” The men who held the ropes dismounted, as well as ten others who carried pistols. From a hiding-place amongst the scrub-bush some twenty pairs of backstays were produced. These were flat boards, which from time immemorial the dwellers of Dungeness were used to slide over the great pebbles, snow-shoewise, for a long walk there is death to shoe-leather and breaking to the ankles.
Needless to say, the unfortunate Press-gang were not supplied with them.
“The powder-monkeys can stay with us,” said the Scarecrow, “while you lads go to help with the tubs. See whether these bully tars are better at the carrying than they have proved themselves at the jumping.” The agony of that long tramp through millions of slipping pebbles completed the misery of the sailors. But they had still to find that the Scarecrow had not finished with them. Some forty tub-carriers hoisted their burdens with the ease that came of use. A tub on the chest and a tub on the back, supported by braces of stout webbing, was the method employed by the Scarecrow's carriers, who wore long smocks and blackened their faces with gunpowder. In grade and pay they were the third rankers of his organization. The Night-riders being scaled first, and the boats' crews second.
When the sailors were loaded up with their tubs, they groaned beneath the weight, not knowing that the Scarecrow had ordered twenty tubs to be filled with stones for their especial benefit. To add to their misery and in order that they should not know their destination, they were all blindfolded. When they objected to this, a sprightly little Night-rider called Hellspite replied, “You submit with a good grace, for if I had my way I'd have doused your glims so that you could never squint through a telescope again to spy on honest men.” It would have been galling to Stubbard had he recognized this fierce little devil as “the old blasted Sexton Mipps”.
After some two hours of being prodded along in the dark, the wretched sailors were utterly exhausted with the weight of the tubs, their constant falls, and the gruelling pace over the roughest ground. At last a halt was called and the tubs were removed. The sailors were then allowed to lie down and rest.
When their bandages were removed they found that they were lying side by side, with their ropes fastened to iron rings in the stone wall of what proved to be a large underground stable. At the far end, at a table lit by two tallow dips in bottles, sat the Scarecrow writing. Behind him two Night-riders were in attendance, and in front stood the two little powder-monkeys.
“And now, my brave lads,” said the Scarecrow, addressing them, “you two will be released, in order that you may carry this message to Admiral Troubridge. I will read it to you:
“I have pressed your Press-gang. They are employed in carrying tubs of contraband. When the four Hadleys are restored to their homes, I will return to you the ten sailors. The Hadleys are not smugglers, but at least they are Marshmen, and as such I take their part. On receipt of this message you will have four-and-twenty hours to make up your mind. If the Hadleys are not returned by then, the King's Navy will be short of ten sea-dogs. You must further undertake to see that no more of your Press-gangs come to Romney Marsh. —The Scarecrow.”
The boys were then blindfolded and led away, after which the Scarecrow blew out the tallow dips and left the sailors in the dark.
Although Admiral Troubridge was at first defying the Scarecrow, hoping that Stubbard and his men might effect their escape, the strong opinion on both quarter and lower decks forced him to release the Hadleys, after which they waited in Dover for the reappearance of the Press-gang, no one doubting, except the Admiral, but that the Scarecrow would keep to his side of the bargain.
The next night the Scarecrow's fleet once more put into Dymchurch Bay, and after successfully beating off the Revenue cutter, made good a very profitable landing. But they were not destined to have it all their own way, for one of the smaller luggers tacked too far from her protecting vessels, and the Revenue men were able to cut her off. Seeing danger, and determined at all costs to avoid capture, her crew of four men sprang overboard and swam for the beach, where they had the mortification of seeing their prize of good barrels taken in to by the cutter towards Dover, where they eventually came to anchor in the harbour, the officer putting a couple of armed men aboard the lugger to guard it till morning. Knowing that their officer had not examined the barrels carefully, nor checked up their number, the two guards agreed to broach one of the casks and sample the liquor. With the help of a mallet and a marline-spike they stove in the bung. No sooner had the marline spike gone home than, to their astonishment and terror, a dull moaning issued from the cask, and as though this were not enough to unsettle their nerves, a chorus of gibbering and moaning issued from all the other barrels. It was then that they noticed chalk letters round the barrels, and by the light of a lantern read, “Pressed Press-gang returned for duty, with the Scarecrow's compliments.” After giving the alarm, the casks were opened, and each contained one of the gagged Press-gang. Ten miserable, half-suffocated sailors.
When the news spread to Dymchurch, Doctor Syn looked at Sexton Mipps and chuckled. “I'm relieved to think that the rascals have gone back to duty alive. I had no fear that they would suffocate, and as the barrels were warped and let in sufficient air; but I suffered some qualms about the lugger. She had got so cursedly unseaworthy that I was afraid she might let in enough water to drown the rascals, and I had no wish to send them to their deaths. We are well rid of the old lugger, though.”
“Aye,” returned Mipps. “She was past repair, and I doubt if she'd have weathered another cross-Channel trip.”
“I'd like to have seen the unpacking of that Stubbard,” laughed the Vicar.
“Poor devil. Suppose you open a bottle of brandy, Mipps, so that we can drink the like damnation to all our enemies.”
