At its southern extremity Stone Street curves round the top of a deep valley, and then plunges down a steep incline, which is so overtopped with great and ancient trees that even in sunlight it is dark and gloomy. At night, and especially on such a November night of storm, it looked like an impenetrable tunnel of blackness, as the horses of the Archbishop's coach were pulled up in order to allow the guard to climb from his lofty box and adjust the skids. Knowing his team to be well behaved, the coachman, partly to save time and partly to take the opportunity of stretching his cramped legs, climbed down likewise, patted his steaming charges, and condescended to fix the fore skids.
At the request of the General, Major Faunce opened the door and asked whether the guard wished any of them to walk down the hill.
“No, sir,” replied the guard. “I'll walk myself, while the coachman holds 'em back and takes it easy.”
“I notice you ain't got your blunderbuss under your arm,” said the coachman. “You'd best climb up and get it. You never know what's waiting for us under them trees down yonder.”
“What are you frightened of?” asked the guard scornfully. “There ain't no smugglers out tonight.”
“Just the weather for 'em,” growled the coachman. “Besides, what do you know about it?”
“Everyone knows when there's a run on,” retorted the guard. “That is, everyone what keeps his ears open. They was all abed at Slippery Sam's, and when there's a 'run' going forward they sits up and sings and shouts at their drinking. They've no fear of God or man, that lot.”
“And who said 'smugglers'?” demanded the coachman, who by the light of an unhooked carriage lamp was examining the set of his harness. “Smugglers avoids one, I find, but I don't say the same for that there Jimmie Bone.”
“Highwaymen works the Dover Road, not a cross-country cut like this,” replied the guard. “Besides, I have it on good authority that Mr. Bone is lying low since his last hold-up.”
“He'll get laid by the heels before long, same as they all does,” grunted the coachman. “Well, I'll be getting up on the box again, 'cos I left my pistols up there, same as you did your bit of artillery. But there, a coachman has his horses to mind, and ain't supposed to be an armed escort, whereas a guard's a guard, and it's his duty to guard, so next time you descends, bring the old blunderbuss with you, if you please.” Not relishing so long a delay at such a gloomy spot, the Archbishop querulously asked the General if he could see what his servants were doing.
“Anything wrong?” shouted the General, looking out.
The coachman jumped round nervously. “No, sir. Nothing's wrong.”
“But there will be if you don't take your foot from the step,” cried a deep gruff voice from the darkness ahead of them.
The coachman, who had been preparing to heave himself up on to his box, fell back on to the road. His worst fears were realized, as a masked rider on a tall black horse rode slowly from the trees into the glare of the coach lights.
“Jimmie Bone, by all that's damnable!” said the guard, and then turning on the coachman added, “This comes of you talking of the devil.”
“What's the delay?” asked the General, once more thrusting his head out of the window. “Anything wrong now?”
“Plenty, my old gentleman,” laughed Mr. Bone, riding closer. “To begin with, the weather's all wrong. As damned dirty a night as ever I rode in, so you'll oblige me greatly by forking out and stumping up as quick as possible so that I can take my long ride to safety.”
“Who the devil are you, sir?” roared the General.
“Better known on the Dover Road than here, sir,” replied the highwayman.
“You ask the guards of His Majesty's mails, and they'll tell you that Mr. Bone executes his business with what politeness he can, but prompt payments are essential, or he gets the very devil in him. I see by your coat that you're a military gentleman. Good. That means that you're used to giving orders and taking 'em as well. It also means that when you know you're beaten you surrender with good grace. Well, you can take it from me, sir, that you're beaten now, and better beaten than I hope you will ever be in the field of battle.
So just you pass the word of command along to your companions inside, whoever they may be, and turn 'em out one by one so that I can see the linings of your pockets. We'll start with you, my old soldier, so that you show 'em how to be smart and prompt.” General Troubridge was too wise a man not to realize that his sabre was of no avail against two levelled horse-pistols in the hands of a desperate villain.
Also knowing the rules of war, he was not so foolish as to turn his head from the muzzles for the highwayman might well believe that there was trickery and shoot. So he contented himself with growling over his shoulder to his travelling companions, “It's no use, gentlemen, we're stung, and properly stung, and our only satisfaction is to know at least that this rascal will eventually come to his death.”
“Alas, sir,” sighed Jimmie Bone, “that indeed is a certainty to which we must all come, sooner or later, but as I do not wish mine to be immediate, I would request you to be prompt and step outside as quickly as you may.
Otherwise I may lose my temper. On a night like this one's temper is none of the best. Jump to it.”
“It's outrageous,” cried Major Faunce, as the General opened the coach door and descended the step.
“One at a time, please,” rapped out the highwayman.
“Stay where you are, Major,” snapped the General.
“Yes, for heaven's sake, gentleman, do what he wants,” urged the Archbishop. “It's no use throwing away valuable lives.”
“Now then, Mister Guard,” went on the highwayman, “as each pocket is turned out, you will hand me the contents. Now then, Colonel, let's see the linings.”
“General, sir. General,” corrected old Troubridge, with a dignity that was somewhat impaired by the indignity of turning out his pockets, and handing the contents to the guard.
A gold watch, a fat purse of guineas, and a signet ring were the only items that attracted Mister Bone's interest. He had thrust one of his pistols into the holster as he took the articles one by one from the guard's hand and examined them by the light of the coach lamp. The purse and watch he dropped into the capacious side pocket of his riding coat, but the ring he gave back to the guard saying: “A family ring. I'll not rob a gentleman of his crest. Give it to the General, and I'll take your spurs, sir, instead. A pair of good spurs are always useful.”
“Damn it, sir,” retorted the General, “they are part of my uniform.”
“Take 'em off,” ordered the highwayman sharply, “or I'll have your sword, boots and breeches too.”
Fuming with rage, the General sat himself down on the coach step, removed his spurs and handed them over.
“Thank you, General,” laughed Jimmie Bone. “And now inside with you and let us have a look at the property of the other officer.” Major Faunce produced two purses, three rings, not signets, a gold watch, a jewelled snuff-box, and a diamond brooch from his cravat. He took his misfortune with philosophy until Jimmie Bone cast a favourable and inquisitive eye upon his sabretache.
“Full of military papers, no doubt,” he said. “It will be amusing reading. It look bulky enough, and I dare say the loss of whatever documents it may hold will disorganize your command. Well, if it only keeps some poor devil of a trooper from trouble, my carrying them away will be justified. Hand over the sabretache, my officer. Next passenger, please.”
With ill grace the Major stepped back into the coach to make way for His Grace of Canterbury.
At the sight of his victim's clerical garb, the highwayman uttered an oath, for which he quickly apologized with the explanation: “A parson, eh? And no doubt I shouldn't have sworn. But the sight of a parson in the way of business is always enough cause to make your humble servant annoyed, for I never yet robbed a parson upon the high-road. An old witch once told me that if I robbed a servant of the Lord my luck would be out. So you may get back into the coach, think a little better of Jimmie Bone, thank God for His uniform which has saved your scanty purse. Good night to you, Master Curate.” The delighted Archbishop turned to climb back into the coach, when the guard sprang forward to help him with, “Mind the step, Your Grace.”
“Grace?” repeated the highwayman. “Why, bless me, so it is, and I'm stung.
For if it ain't the old Aggerbagger himself. Yes, sir, I am acquainted with your nickname since I once kept company with a chambermaid in Canterbury Precincts, and she told me that boys of the King's School called you Aggerbagger behind your reverend back. Well, sir, I will not break my rule even for you, who no doubt carries more guineas in his pockets than your military companions.” As soon as the door was closed against the Archbishop, Jimmie Bone addressed the guard with: “And now you will help the old coachman to unharness the horses, which you will hold on each side of the coach. This will keep you occupied and your itching fingers away from your artillery, for which service to me I will spare you the necessity of turning out your own pockets.” The two servants quickly availed themselves of their chance, and as soon as the highwayman saw that the horses were being led to the sides of the coach, he gave them a cheery wave of his hand and, crying out, “My compliments, gentlemen,” he turned his magnificent horse and galloped away into the blackness of the trees.
While the servants were reharnessing the horses, the Archbishop with a curious lack of tact remarked to the General that the fellow was not without his good points.
The irritated General replied hotly: “The fact that he did not rob Your Grace will not save him as far as I'm concerned. I shall hunt him down, sir, and attend his hanging with a great relish.”
“I wonder, sir,” said the Major, “whether he could by any chance be the other candidate for your gallows. I mean, could this rascal be the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh?”
“No, sir,” retorted the General. “It's been proved very conclusively that they are not the same. Have you forgotten the occasion when this Bone held up the guinea coach and was in turn robbed by the Scarecrow and his men? It was the talk of the county.”
“I remember well enough, sir,” replied the Major. “But I have lately been wondering whether that many not have been a ruse, a friendly ruse on the part of the Scarecrow to clear the name of the highwayman. And yet why should the leader of the smugglers have wished to dispel a rumour so greatly to his own advantage, unless, as it occurred to me just now, they are one and the same?” The General shook his head violently. “My brother, the Admiral, was talking much the same sort of nonsense to me but the other day, and I don't hold with it. However, it makes very little difference now, for I swear that I will bring not only the Scarecrow but this highwayman to book before very long.
We'll see what our host has to say about it tonight. Sir Henry is a Justice of the Peace, and as Lord of Lympne he must for his own honour bestir himself and give us every assistance.”
“And I am sure he will,” said the Archbishop. “And so will the Squire of Dymchurch, Sir Antony Cobtree.”
“I'm not so sanguine about that gentleman,” put in the Major. “He is apt to get very testy when outside people interfere with his rule upon the Marsh. We have seen that in the past.”
“Other people have to interfere,” replied the General, “when he shows, or seems to show, no interest in putting a stop to the scandal of his Marsh.
However, I shall certainly consult him again.”
“I think the wisest man to consult would be Doctor Syn, his Vicar,” said the Major. “He is always out and about amongst his Marsh flock, and no doubt hears a great deal more confidences than the Squire. Whether he would betray such confidence for the good of his parish I cannot say.”
“Doctor Syn is a conscientious man, certainly,” answered the Archbishop.
“He is not the man to break a confidence that his cloth would forbid, but he might well see his way into persuading one of his flock to turn King's Evidence for the good of the community. I will speak to him myself on the subject.”
“He certainly gave us very valuable assistance before,” said the Major. “It was he who organized the Marshmen to assist our Dragoons, but the Scarecrow was one too many for them as for us.”
“Ah, well,” sighed the Archbishop, “as the Psalmist tells us, the ungodly may flourish for a time like the green bay tree, but eventually we seek him and his place can nowhere be found.”
“Your text certainly fits this Scarecrow, but in the wrong way,” remarked the General dryly. “I for one would be delighted if his place could be found. He is certainly the most elusive gentleman that ever I encountered. But I'll get him, aye, and this rascally Bone along of him.”
The horses were ready once more. The coach lurched forward, and the Archbishop was again bumped this way and that as the stout General swayed against him with every jolt of the road.
Meanwhile, Jimmie Bone had descended Lympne Hill, and was galloping hard along the winding roads of Romney Marsh, till at last he saw the lighted cottage he was looking for, and which his good horse knew as well as he did. A lonely dilapidated cottage surrounded by fields that were broad dyked, and inhabited by an old witch named Mother Handaway.
The poor old harmless creature was avoided by the Marsh folk, especially after dark, for many rumours were afoot concerning her. Her cats, her cauldron and her eccentricities caused her to be shunned by God-fearing folk, who although smugglers were yet sufficiently righteous to fear the devil and his servants.
The isolation of the old woman suited our highwayman perfectly, especially as she owned a stable so cunningly hidden that the presence of his horse and another's was never dreamed of by the passers-by by day. This stable, built of stone below ground like a pit, was concealed behind a cow-house. Its roof was covered with growing grass. The door stood in the steep side of a deep dry dyke, and when shut looked like a stack of bulrush reeds put up for drying. It had been made years gone by for a smugglers' hide.
Uttering a curious whistle, Jimmie Bone leapt his horse from the road across a broad dyke and, crossing a field, leapt another and yet a third, which surrounded the little farmyard. At his signal Mother Handaway had lighted the lamp, and by the time the horseman entered the yard she had opened the secret door. At the far end of the subterranean stable the highwayman saw another black horse, higher, bigger-boned and fiercer than the fine animal which he rode. As he put his own horse into the stall, he jerked his head towards the far stall and addressed the witch: “So the Scarecrow does not ride tonight.”
“The word has been passed for next Thursday,” she replied. “A greater landing of contraband than has ever yet been attempted.”
“Well, I didn't do so badly myself tonight,” laughed the highwayman, sitting down upon a rough bench and emptying his coat pocket of the treasures.
“Two gallant officers, and a parson whom I didn't rob, you'll be pleased to hear, since you have warned me against it. However, the more I think of it, the more I regret it, for the old fellow was none else than the Archbishop himself, and no doubt rolling in guineas. Now then, Mother, since you cannot read and I can, give the horse a rub down while I glance through these papers which I removed from the officer's sword-hanger.” Emptying the contents of the sabretache beside him on the bench, he went rapidly through them. “Routine work, Mother. Nothing but dispositions of troops, bills for fodder, lists and rubbish not worth the paper they are written on. Hallo, though, what's this?” Seizing one of the papers, he held it closer to the stable lantern. As the old witch watched him out of the corner of her cunning eye she saw that he was deeply moved by what he read, but she knew him well enough not to interrupt. She went on rubbing down the tired horse, and then saw to the food in the manger.
“Don't give him any more food, Mother,” he cried out suddenly as he jumped to his feet, “for it ain't good for a beast to go all out on a full stomach, and it seems to me that I must saddle up again immediately.” He glanced through the writing once more and then shook the paper in the old woman's face. “Here's as pretty a piece of military knavery as ever I heard of, and the Scarecrow must know of it at once. Store those trinkets there for me, though I'll carry the money with me. It's a mercy that I thought of collecting these papers, or the Scarecrow would have wakened up on Friday morning in Dover Castle with a sentry at his door and a gallows pole thrust through the window.” Thrusting the paper into his coat pocket, and sweeping the purses after it, he motioned the old woman to collect the other trinkets while he once more saddled up his horse.
“Dover Castle for the Scarecrow,” cackled the old witch. “And what of that? He'd be a match for 'em even there, dearie. He's the very devil he is, and the only chains he'll ever be fettered with are the chains of his own black conscience forged in hell. When first I had dealings with him, he told me he was the devil, and since then he has proved it a score of times. Still, good luck to him, for the devil looks after his own, as I have good cause to know.” So once more Mr. Bone braved the wind, the rain and the darkness, setting his horse at a gallop across the Marsh to Dymchurch.
