Throughout Romney Marsh, on any night when a big “run” was to go forward, it was a noticeable thing that a rough chalk drawing of a scarecrow would appear upon the many stable doors that harboured good horses, whether hunters, shires or ponies. Upon seeing this, the stablemen, whose duty it was to lock up for the night, either did not lock up or left the key in a place were the unknown Night-riders could find it. Certain horses might be spared, though these were few enough, and to mark this favouritism a chalk cross would mysteriously appear upon the post of the animal's stall. One animal that could always boast a cross was the fat pony belonging to the Vicar of Dymchurch, Doctor Syn.
“Open your stable doors tonight,” was a familiar whisper upon Romney Marsh.
On a certain evening in midsummer, a long string of gipsy caravans wended their way slowly along the winding Marsh road. They were all of the tribe Pettigrand, a name held in high honour amongst their race. They were led by old Silas Pettigrand, the patriarchal head of the tribe. He rode his horse bareback, letting the rope that served as rein hang loose upon the animal's neck.
A grave, gaunt figure, this Silas, as with long beard and far-seeing eyes, hawk-nose and long upright body, he seemed part of the horse on which he rode.
Leading the way, he turned off from the road into a large stretch of meadowland known in Dymchurch as the Fair Field, where he gave signal to draw in and pitch camp.
While the men of the tribe busied themselves with their horses and firebuilding, and the women set about preparing the night meal, old Silas approached one of his many sons and nodded towards a bridge that spanned a broad dyke on the far side of the camp. Leaning against the parapet of this Tudor brick bridge were three men.
The younger gipsy noticed the deep frown that spread upon his chief's face as he muttered, “My son, the carrion are here already.” As gravely as his father, the son replied with a smile that had to it no vestige of humour, but rather of deep respect. “You have still the sharp eyes, my father.”
306__ __"Not sharp enough to read their faces, though, at this distance,” replied Silas. “Can you?” The son nodded. “They appear to be amused at something.”
“And when the Tankerton brothers are amused,” went on the father, “it generally means that they have spied something to their own advantage. Let us go and see if we can discover what it is.” Slowly he walked across the Fair Field followed by his son. The Tankerton brothers were half-bred gipsies, and had no love for any of the Pettigrands, but as Silas came near they gave him the welcome, “Good tenting.” To this Silas replied, “and free from horse-thieves and other evils, we hope.” The three laughed, and one of them said: “Every man to his trade. You buy horses, old man, and sell them at good profit. If other men can get horses without purchase, and yet sell them to advantage, you should not grudge them their better fortune. Whenever we get the good luck to see an animal straying, out of our good nature we do our best to find it a good home. Is there so much evil in that?”
“It is evil to cut a picketing rope in order that an animal shall stray,” returned Silas. “I have come to warn you not to enter our camp circle; for we prefer to find homes for our horses ourselves. Knowing well that the Tankertons prefer riding to walking, I keep my eyes the wider open when I meet them afoot.” Again the Tankertons laughed, and another of them replied: “There are other horses than those of the Pettigrands in these parts, and we are not after yours. It amuses us, though, to see that someone else is after them. No doubt you will close your wide-open eyes when his horse-borrowers appear. Look.” The half-breed pointed to the brick wall on the opposite side of the little bridge, and Silas saw the rough chalk drawing of a scarecrow.
“When the Scarecrow borrows he pays back with good interest,” retorted Silas. “And with such I am ever willing to trade. But even for profit I do not allow my people to trade with a Tankerton. My men have also instructions to deal roughly with horse thieves, so again I tell you to keep clear of the Fair Field while our caravans are on it.”
“You cannot close the right of way upon the Marsh bridges, old man,” sneered the third Tankerton. “Neither can you frighten us with your threats. We are going now, not to humour you, but because we have some pressing business elsewhere. And may the Scarecrow return the horses which he will borrow from you, for should he at any time fail to do so there will be a great squealing from the Pettigrands.” And with this final retort the horse-thieves slouched over the bridge and set their faces towards the village of Dymchurch.
The Tankertons spent their evening drinking in the village taverns and talking amongst themselves. But they listened too, though the scraps of conversation which they overheard seemed harmless enough and failed to teach them what they were trying to find out. At last, however, there came into the bar parlour of the Ship Inn the quizzical little sexton of Dymchurch, Mr. Mipps.
The Tankertons watched him closely from their corner, and saw him cross over to a farm labourer who was leaning against the bar.
“Good evening, George,” they heard him say. “I owe you a good pint, I think, for you see you was right and I was wrong. That there haystack what we saw afire was not at Black's place but at Botolph's Bridge.”
“Aye, at Botolph's Bridge,” returned George.
“Botolph's Bridge it is, George,” echoed Mipps, “and what's more it will go on burning till midnight, for the lazy old Ted ain't the man to leave his tankard for to put out a fire if I knows him.”
“We'll have one more, brothers, and then get along,” said the eldest Tankerton.
“Have you found it out then?” asked the second brother, when they got outside.
“How on earth?” asked the youngest, “for I never heard nothing.”
“Aye, because that sexton is cautious on behalf of the smugglers,” explained the eldest. “No one will ever catch that little rat unless an officer of the Crown comes along with as much brain as me, which I take it ain't likely. I puts two and two together, and the answer comes out very much four as I sees it.
Through information received like, I knows that George Betts is the best hand with horses around Dymchurch. He can keep a bunch of wild 'uns tame 'cos he's got the way with 'em, see? He's one of the Scarecrow's horse-holders consequently. Therefore when Mipps comes in and says all that nonsense about a burning rick, I looks out for a message and watches for the words to be laid on, see? Well, I gets Botolph's Bridge, and that's the place you can lay to it where he's to be waiting to take over the Night-riders' horses, so that they can lend a hand with loading the pack ponies. And I gets the time, too, midnight, and for want of better information I suggests that we get along to Botolph's Bridge and spy out the land, as it were.”
Doctor Syn walked slowly from the church towards the Vicarage, talking quietly to his sexton. The parish beadle came out of the Court House as they passed and remarked to the Vicar that he considered it would be a fine night.
“And glad I am of it too,” he added. “When it's wet I finds I has to tuck up my shirt collar, and that interferes with my hearing, which is dangerous when all them wild foreign Egyptians is encamped in the Fair Field. Far be it from me to question the Squire, but why he lets them folk stay about the village buying and selling horses I don't know.”
The Vicar laughed. “Why, my good Mr. Beadle, there's nothing wrong with the Pettigrands. They keep to themselves and behave themselves very properly.
Old Silas looks after his people, just as the Squire looks after us.” The beadle shook his head and pointed to the gallows outside the Court House.
“If I had my way I'd have all them Egyptians strung up yonder,” he said.
“With all respects to you opinion, Vicar, I thinks thieving's in their blood, and they sells horses that they never buy.”
“Some of them, perhaps,” replied Doctor Syn, “but not the Pettigrands.”
“You thinks everyone's as honest and good as yourself, sir,” said the beadle.
“But for all that, being beadle, and responsible for the safety of the parish, I'm going to warn the village that Egyptians is in our midst, and to look to their property. Good night, Vicar.”
“He gives me a good character, Mipps,” said Syn with a chuckle, as the beadle walked away. “And now you had better saddle up my pony, for it is time for me to be starting across the Marsh. Also get word to Jimmie Bone that he must meet me at the secret stable a quarter of an hour sooner than we said.
That applies to you as well. I've heard that a troop of Dragoons are to be out tonight, and I am in the mind to give them a race. Our three horses are in good fettle, and I think the gallant soldiers will follow us if we break away from the rest. They would rather capture the Scarecrow and his lieutenants, Hellspite and Beelzebub, than all the tubs in Smuggledom.” With a nod, Doctor Syn passed on to the front door of the Vicarage, while Mipps went to the stable and saddled up the parson's sturdy little white pony.
At the same time, Silas Pettigrand was making his final inspection of the gipsy camp before retiring to his own caravan. “You will keep the strictest watch for the Tankerton thieves,” he ordered his sons. “Whoever is on watch and sees a glimpse of them, rouse the camp. But when you hear three hoots of an owl, followed by the cry of a curlew, turn your backs upon the picketing lines till the Scarecrow's men have taken what horses they need.” Old Silas did not realize that for once the Tankertons had spoken truth.
They had a better plan than attempting a raid upon the camp. They were waiting for the Night-riders' horses at Botolph's Bridge.
For some hours they lay concealed, grasping their thick cudgels. About midnight they heard firing at sea, for the Revenue cutter was being driven off by the smuggling fleet, and then in the silence that followed came the sound of horses along the road. Some dozen riders in all, dressed as Marsh Witches, and, much to the satisfaction of the Tankertons, all were mounted well. They drew rein and waited by the bridge, while the robbers watched them from the ambush of a deep dry dyke.
Presently there arose in the silence of the night three hoots of an owl, and then the plaintive cry of a curlew. Upon this signal the party dismounted, and after handing over their reins to two of their party the other ten walked along the road to meet a string of pack ponies that were making their way towards the beach.
“They're not risking losing these horses to the Dragoons,” whispered the eldest Tankerton.
The horse-holders sat on the ground facing their charges, and with their backs to the Tankertons, who very quietly crept from the dyke and crawled towards them. Two sickening cracks from the cruel cudgels and the Nightriders were senseless. Though the horses shied, the Tankertons were quickly in the saddle, and each with three led horses they galloped away in the opposite direction to that taken by the smugglers, leaving their victims behind them, dead for all they cared.
Meanwhile three horsemen rode out of the woods at Lympne and drew rein, listening.
“We've shaken off the rascals,” said the Scarecrow. “I thought our doubling back through the wood would do the business.” As his two lieutenants nodded, a bright light shot up in the sky.
“And there goes the beacon on Aldington Knoll. That means the tubs are landed, packed and off to the hides in Dungeness. We can now ride down to the sea-wall and dismiss the others.” Saying which the Scarecrow and his companions rode down the hill to the Marsh. When they reached the sea-wall, ten dismounted witches rose to meet them.
“All clear, Scarecrow,” they muttered.
“Then get back to the bridge as quick as you may, get mounted and ride like hell for home. The dawn will be on us soon,” and the Scarecrow and his two mounted men rode off for the hidden stables.
An hour later Doctor Syn, having seen to his pony, closed the Vicarage door and, after a copious drink of brandy, mounted the stairs for bed. Half way up he stopped and listened, for in the garden had arisen the hooting of an owl. This was followed by a gentle scratching at the hall casement. He went down and opened the door, admitting Mipps and, much to the Doctor's astonishment, Silas Pettigrand.
“The boys found the horse-holders senseless at Botolph's, Vicar,” gasped the out-of-breath sexton. “The horses were gone. The boys, suspecting the Pettigrands, searched the camp. No sign of the horses, and old Silas here accounted for all his men. No one had left camp.”
“It is the Tankertons,” said Silas, and he told the Vicar of his encounter with them. “You are my friend and brother. Whether you come to me as Doctor Syn or the Scarecrow I would never betray you.”
“I know it,” replied Syn, grasping the old man's hand. “I trust you. But others will not. The Scarecrow cannot ride after the thieves now, for the dawn is upon us, but for your sake as well as mine, let one of your people ride on the rascals' track and find out where they are bound, and tomorrow night the Scarecrow's men will ride after them.”
“I will send two of my sons,” replied the gipsy. “They will find them, and while one keeps watch the other can return with news.”
“Then go quickly,” ordered Doctor Syn. “No doubt the rogues will ride across the Kent Ditch, and hide in Sussex till they can sell the horses. And may your sons have good hunting.”
“They will find them,” said the old man as he went out into the dawn.
The following morning a notice was fixed to the gallows post outside the Court House:
The Scarecrow regrets to inform such as it may concern, that while my Night-riders were busy landing a most goodly supply of contraband last night, two of my horse-holders were set upon by villains and their charges driven away. I pledge you my word of honour that you will not be losers, for I shall make it my business to recover the stolen cattle. I will also hand over the thieves to be tried at our Court House for the heinous crime of horse-stealing.
When the beadle discovered that two of the Pettigrand men were missing, he took old Silas into custody. Doctor Syn, however, went to the Squire, and after some difficulty obtained his release from the cell. Thus it was that the gipsy was able to bring Doctor Syn news later in the day that the horse thieves were in hiding at a deserted farm across the Kent Ditch which they were planning to vacate as soon as darkness fell. Meanwhile Silas's son would follow them and leave gipsy signs behind him for his people to pick up.
Not wishing to lose his own valuable horses, which were amongst those missing, the Squire saw to it that no steps were taken to embarrass the mysterious Scarecrow in the fulfilling of his promise, and so it happened that after darkness had fallen a large body of Night-riders were galloping across the Marsh for the border.
Under the same darkness the Tankertons also set out, never suspecting that they had been trailed by one of the hated Pettigrands. Although hampered by their led horses, they made good pace. But the pace of the Scarecrow's Legion was faster, and at a lonely part of the road between Rye and Winchelsea they were charged before and behind by the Scarecrow's Demon Riders. With the fear of death upon them, when they realized who it was that had them in his power, they were bound upon the stolen horses, face downwards and facing the horse's tail. In this manner they were brought back ignominiously to Dymchurch.
It was the beadle who discovered them, for, waking up in the dawn by the continual hooting of an owl, he opened his casement and saw three horses tied to rings in the wall beneath him, and upon their backs lay three bound men more dead than alive. The same dawn discovered the remaining stolen animals peacefully standing in their accustomed stalls.
The trial of the Tankertons was a great sensation in the neighbourhood. Sir Antony Cobtree, presiding, took a serious and hard line of action, so that despite Doctor Syn's urging clemency, the jury, in support of the Squire's summing up, found the brothers guilty. They were to be made an example, and hanged from the Dymchurch gallows.
The night before the execution Doctor Syn sat drinking with Sexton Mipps in the Vicarage study.
“Even in our hardest days, old friend,” he said, “I think you will own that I used clemency wherever possible. The wretches that we made to walk the plank aboard the old ship deserved their deaths far more than these wretched horse thieves. Yet we spared when we could, and often at the risk of our own safety.”
“That's right, sir,” agreed Mipps. “But you can do no more for those men.
You have pleaded, and it's no good.” Doctor Syn smiled. “But suppose the Scarecrow rescued them? I think it would cause a sensation, and a valuable one at that. Where does the beadle keep the keys of the cell at night?”
“He carries 'em up to bed with him,” replied Mipps.
“Then saddle my pony, for the Scarecrow is going to rescue them.” Three hours later the grim figure of the Scarecrow was standing upon his horse's back immediately beneath the casement where the beadle slept. He awoke hearing a raucous whisper ordering him to get out of bed and hand over the cell keys. The sight of the levelled horse pistol persuaded him to obey.
“And if you attempt to leave your house before the dawn you will be shot by one of my men who is watching your door from the churchyard wall. I am not having the prisoners hanged tomorrow morning. I have decided to deal with them myself.” Two minutes later the wretched prisoners were as terrified as the beadle had been when the Scarecrow entered the cell and ordered them to walk out quietly.
Outside Mipps, dressed as Hellspite, waited with three horses, which they were ordered to mount. They rode to the beach, where a fishing boat was waiting for the tide to carry the Scarecrow's orders to France. Here they were ordered into the cabin and shut in.
When the sun rose and the first of the crowd began collecting to get good places for the execution, a notice was found fastened to the gallows:
There will be no hanging. I have decided to punish these Tankertons myself.
And as Mipps remarked to the Vicar that night over their brandy: “There's no one in the neighbourhood or out of it what don't think the old Scarecrow ain't a perfect marvel. And so say I, and here's to you, sir.” Doctor Syn's reply to that was, “Pass me the black book, Mipps, for I believe that with our settlement against these Tankertons our debts are paid.” Mipps unlocked the iron chest and handed his master the sinister volume.
“Well, Vicar, there's no doubt but that all these names what you wrote in it has caused us a coffin-load of trouble.”
“Excitement as well,” replied the Vicar. “Come, my good Mipps, you must allow them credit for giving us some exciting adventures.”
“Well, we've finished with 'em now for a bit,” said Mipps, “and p'r'aps we can enjoy a nice little bit of anchorage. Go ashore, as it were, sir, for a bit and spend our profits.”
“Not quite yet, I think, for there is still a name here to be dealt with, my good Mipps.”
“Who's that then?” asked the sexton.
Doctor Syn, whose thin fingers had been turning over the pages of the black book, suddenly closed the clasps with a snap as he answered, “The Archbishop.”
“Oh, leave him alone,” urged Mipps. “There's not much fun in mucking about with an Archbishop.”
“But he was a proscribed enemy, my good Mipps,” went on the Vicar.
“Perhaps you have forgotten the very rude and personal things he said about the Scarecrow in his sermon.”
“No, he laid it on think, I confess,” admitted Mipps. “But let's leave the old grumbletonian alone.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten my comment at the time.”
“No, I never forgets nothing what you says, sir. It don't pay to forget them things, I've found.”
“Then what did I say?” asked the Vicar.
“Why, you thought of taking him along to repeat his sermon to the Nightriders. But he'd never do it, not proper. He'd turn it all milk-and-watery.”
“Not if the Scarecrow ordered otherwise,” replied Syn. “Oh, and it would be vastly amusing. Most diverting, on my soul. Think of it, Mipps. Think of removing His Grace, night-gowned and night-capped, from his bed in Canterbury Palace, mounting him on Gehenna in front of the Scarecrow, and then galloping through the narrow echoing streets and out into the country along Stone Street. Think of meeting the Night-riders at Slippery Sam's, then on and down to the Marsh for the sermon.” Mipps grinned. “Yes, sir. Very funny if you looks at it in that way. But there's two sides to everything, even a joke.”
“And what's the other side to this joke?” asked Syn. “The Archbishop's discomfort?”
“No, sir. The Night-riders'. What have they gone and done that they should be inflicted with the Archbishop's sermon all over again?”
“Aye, Mipps, there is that way of looking at it,” sighed Syn. “Well, then we'll leave His Grace alone and pass the brandy.” And as he took the bottle from the sexton, Syn began to sing quietly Clegg's old chanty:
Oh, here's to the feet what have walked the plank; Yo-ho for the Dead Man's Throttle.
Mipps grinned again. “I believe you hankers to be Clegg again.”
“Well, who knows, my good little Mipps, but that even yet it may not be cut and run for us, and another spell of piracy upon the high seas.
So here's to the corpses afloat in the Tank, And the Dead Man's teeth in the Bottle.”
