In the ordinary way of business, which in his case was robbery on the highroad, Mister Bone would not have imposed upon a tired horse which had already carried him many miles that night. No, the highwayman was too fond of his horse for that. Besides which, he knew that often he depended upon the animal's strength and loyalty. But this was a different matter. Jimmie Bone rode his tired horse hard, knowing that if he could not get immediate word with Doctor Syn, the pick of the Marshmen, amongst whom he counted many friends, would be food for the gallows. So on through the storm he rode, determined to reach Dymchurch Vicarage before the parson was abed.
Meanwhile, by the help of a roaring fire, a smoking bowl of hot rum punch, good Virginia tobacco, and stout shutters close fastened against the howling night, Doctor Syn and Sexton Mipps were managing pretty well to forget the storm that raged outside. Their conversation turned on cargoes, names of vessels and skippers, lists of “hides", carriers, horses and pack ponies, and every now and then the Doctor would rap out such a remark as: “Not sure, eh? Not quite sure. Oh, but we must be. Look it up, my good Mipps. Look it up.
Refer to the Register, the Parochial Register.” Whereupon Mipps would drag from an iron chest a great tome marked “Register of Burials in the Parish of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall, County of Kent.”
Needless to say, there were no burials recorded in that particular book, but only reckonings of contraband and other business connected with the smugglers. It was indeed the Night-riders' daybook.
The two men presented a marked contrast. Doctor Syn, as he rose to relight his churchwarden pipe from the candle flame, looked tall, gaunt and elegant, his long romantic face deeply lined, his cheeks hollow and his brow noble. A sad aloofness seemed to envelop him like a cloak as he stared down into the fire. The sexton was small and wiry, with an inquisitive nose like a sniffing terrier's, and had always shown such loyal appreciation of his master's greatness, whether as Parson, Pirate or Smuggler, that he had begun to be a comic counterpart of Doctor Syn. When they were together the sexton was subservient, though ready to amuse or to be amused as his master demanded.
But alone he would clothe himself in his hero's mannerisms, and hold his own accordingly with any man in the parish.
Suddenly the Vicar changed the subject of contraband by asking, “By the way, did you think of bringing me that coil of rope I asked you for?”
“Left it in the hall,” nodded the sexton. “Nice bit of broken bell-rope, what I had kept as being likely to come in handy for the lowerin' of coffins. If you want it now, sir, I'll get it.”
When Mipps reappeared with vast coils over his shoulder, he found his master writing in a notebook he had never seen before. Too well trained to interrupt his old captain, he waited patiently till Doctor Syn had finished writing. Looking up, the Vicar caught the look of curiosity in the sexton's face, and as he closed the book he asked, “Wondering what this little volume is, my good Mipps?”
“I was just thinking I'd never seen it before, Vicar,” replied Mipps evasively.
“Mark the cover, my little sexton,” said Syn with a smile. “It is black. A black book. And the contents will be before long as black as the cover. Do you remember that we had such a book aboard the pirate ship, and that it contained the names of all the black sheep in the pirate flocks that flocked to the Spanish Main? Well, I find that such a book may prove of value to us here. The list is already started, and we must keep it in the iron chest yonder. It must never be seen by other eyes than our own. It will prove, as it were, a warning to ourselves, and a safeguard. And God help the name against which I put a black spot, for that will mean that if death does not come to the name in question, the name in question will bring death to us. In short, it is a list of suspected traitors and dangerous enemies, and it must be your duty to fix your gimlet eye on 'em.
Forewarned is forearmed, and if Death is to be let loose, let it not be our lives that are demanded. Aye, my hearty, this is the black book of Romney Marsh.”
“Who's in it?” asked Mipps eagerly. “I'd just like to know, so as to adjust my spy-glass on 'em, so to speak, with no waste of time.”
“You shall know all in good time,” replied Syn. “At the moment, however, I happen to be more interested in the coil of rope, for if I can do with it what I imagine I can, it may prove a safeguard against one or many of the names that may eventually be written in this black book. But I need your help.” The Vicar took the coil of rope from the sexton's shoulder.
“Get out your knife,” he ordered, “and cut me a length that will go twice round my body, with enough over to make a knot in the small of my back.” Mipps measured the required length quickly, and then, producing a knife which he wore in a sheath beneath his coat skirt, cut it.
“Now,” went on the Vicar, “lash me up taut with a running 'Chink'.”
“You mean one of them dodgy knots what the Chinese juggler taught us in Malay?” asked Mipps.
“That's exactly what I mean,” assented the Vicar.
“What's the idea, if I may ask?” said Mipps.
“Just an idea,” chuckled Doctor Syn. “An idea that may prove valuable one day. I marvel that I never thought of it before. I'd better lie down so that you can get a good pull on it. It must be convincingly tight, so you must not mind hurting my arms.” He lay himself down full length, face downwards, on the heartrug, while the little sexton, with the skill of an old sailor, adjusted the rope and pulled the curious knot taut with all his strength.
“You remember how to do it?” asked Syn.
The parson strained with his pinioned arms till he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss of pain. “That bites into one's flesh. But I am grateful to John Chinaman all the same.” He then rolled over on to his back. “Now cut the coils in the centre of my chest,” ordered the Vicar.
Still mystified, the sexton obeyed. Leaving the rope spread out upon the heartrug, Doctor Syn got to his knees. “I shall want these ends longer. I need a double turn around each wrist to hold it. Cut some more lengths, and copy this design exactly but with longer ends.” Unknotting the ropes, Mipps did as he was told, and fashioned the second set. “But what's it for?” he repeated.
“Observe,” chuckled Syn. “I throw the knot over my back so. I grip the ends beneath me, so. And when I lie down so upon my face I am holding the loose ends beneath my body and at the same time I am keeping them taut with my wrists. Now suppose you were to find me lying like this and calling for help, what would you do? What would anyone do who wanted to help me?”
“Untie the knot of course,” nodded Mipps with a grin.
“Good,” chuckled Syn. “Well now, don't you see that it might be very useful to appear to be trussed up by villains?”
“Very convincing, sir, as you say,” replied Mipps. “Likewise very tricky, doin' it yourself.”
“Also, my good Mipps,” went on the Vicar as he rose to his feet, relighted his churchwarden pipe and sat himself down in his high-backed Jacobean chair, “I have long realized that it takes the Scarecrow some minutes to transform himself into the Vicar of Dymchurch. So far this has not mattered much, for there has always been time and to spare. But, as we should both know from our own experiences, there are occasions when a man's life hangs on seconds rather than minutes, and therefore it is only logical that those precious minutes should be reduced to seconds. In future, therefore, the Scarecrow's rags will cover the Parson's cloth, and from now on, whenever the Scarecrow rides, he will carry this fantastic rope design sewn into the lining of his long wild cloak. That you will see to tomorrow.” Suddenly Syn raised a finger of warning. “Listen,” he said. “There's a horse on the gravel.” Mipps heard it too, despite the noise of the storm, and then they both heard something else which caused Mipps to leap to his feet and pick up his old brass-barrelled blunderbuss which he had stood in the corner by the door.
Three hoots of an owl followed by the shrill cry of a curlew.
“The signal,” whispered Mipps.
“On such a night as this the matter must be urgent indeed,” replied the Vicar. “Whoever it may be must have sought you at your Coffin Shop, and then come on here. Use caution. Take him to the stable, and let me know, remembering, of course, that Doctor Syn had nothing to do with the smugglers.”
Mipps tucked his blunderbuss under his arm, letting go the trigger spring which adjusted the bayonet dagger, and thus prepared to meet emergency he crossed the hall and undid the front door on the chain. Outside stood the rainsoaked figure of Jimmie Bone.
“Quick,” urged the highwayman. “I must see the Vicar at once. My nag will wait, but my business cannot.” The horse stood by the garden gate beneath the trees. “He is a good sentinel,” said the highwayman. “He would let no one through that gate without giving me a warning neigh. I fear I am a wet visitor.” Mipps led the way to the study.
Now Jimmie Bone had had good cause to trust the well-beloved Vicar of Dymchurch, so that on entering the room he did not hesitate to remove the badge of his profession, a black silk mask. The Vicar had also learnt long since that he could trust the highwayman, and so had not hesitated to allow him to share with Mipps the secret of the Scarecrow's identity. Since they were both of a height, and both fearless horsemen, it was upon occasions very useful to have a second figure of the dread Scarecrow with which to draw a red herring across the track of hostile pursuers.
“My faith,” cried Doctor Syn when he saw the wet coat and muddy boots of his visitor; “come in, man, and warm yourself inside and out, for to ride abroad on such a night indicates that your business is urgent. Dry your coat by the fire and take this glass of hot punch.”
“I've no time but for the matter in hand, sir,” objected the highwayman.
“Nonsense,” cried the Vicar. “A gentleman adventurer can always find time for a good drink, and I protest that I will not listen to a word you say till you have consumed your first glass, and you may speak while I refill it.” So Jimmie Bone swallowed the first glass at a draught, while the genial cleric waited with punch ladle to replenish it.
“My haste concerns both of us, sir,” he said. “There is a piece of news which I have hit upon by good fortune which you must hear yourself, and for myself—well, when I tell you that within the hour I have held up another coach and taken toll of it, you will see that I have necessity for getting as speedily as possible back to old Mother Handaway's and safe hiding.”
“Ah, you have take toll, have you?” repeated the parson. “Then I take it you have dutifully sought me out as your parson to whom you delight to pay legal tithe out of your illegal gains.” This was not altogether a joke on Doctor Syn's part, though he appreciated the humour of the situation, because it was part of Mr. Bone's curious code of honour to pay to the parson a tenth of all his ill-gotten gains, and it was duly entered into Church Accounts as an anonymous gift to the Sick and Needy Fund.
“You shall certainly take your tithe, reverend sir,” he answered. “Here are the purses, so that you can count it over yourself, and there will be more to come for your Poor Fund when I have turned some pretty trinkets into gold. It might have been a great deal more had not my conscience forbade me to rob a parson.”
“Well, parsons are not rich men as a rule,” laughed Syn.
“No, but I venture to think that the Archbishop would carry a few guineas with him as he travels.”
“Have you held up the Archbishop's coach, you rogue?” asked the Vicar.
“But I did not rob him,” replied the highwayman. “I contented myself with the two officers.”
“What, my old friends General Troubridge and Major Faunce?” exclaimed Syn. “I heard they were accompanying His Grace to Lympne. Was this upon Stone Street, or nearer at hand?”
“To be exact, on Quarry Hill, at the very spot where you held me up after robbing the guinea runners. But, sir,” continued Mr. Bone, “I think you have little cause to call the General and Major your friends, for they were hot on your track once.”
“Aye, and will be again,” laughed Syn. “Indeed, I have but a few minutes ago entered their August names in my Black Book, of which we were speaking just now, my good Mipps. I think that our valiant Dragoons will not let revenge rest though they are now promoted.”
“I can soon give you proof that you are right there, sir,” went on Bone. “It pleased me to rob the Major of his sabretache, which contained papers, and amongst them this,” and he held out the document that had caused him to ride so fast through the storm. “Read it, reverend sir, and you will see that someone has betrayed the Scarecrow. The 'run' planned for Thursday is known to the authorities, and those damned Dragoons are counting on it to take the Scarecrow prisoner.” Doctor Syn read the document through twice and then chuckled. “My dear fellow, although my cloth hardly permits me to applaud your mode of livelihood, I confess that you are a better friend to certain misguided folk on Romney Marsh than these eminent soldiers appear to be. If I remember rightly, this Scarecrow, whoever he may be” (and at this Mr. Bone and Mr. Mipps exchanged a wink and a smile), “distinctly scored over these military gentlemen last year. In fact I will go so far as to say that he made them both look damnably ridiculous.” Doctor Syn continued: “This paper goes to prove, as you say, that their recent promotion has not cured them of a deplorable lust for revenge, and they are willing to use the might of England on their own authority to gain it. This will mean grave trouble to many of the Marshmen, and since these officers are no parishioners of mine, I think it my bounden duty to look first after my own flock and range myself against the officers. I will visit them and see if I cannot ascertain a little more than these details hint at. A full regiment of Dragoons moved from Canterbury to Dover Castle to be in readiness, eh? That shows a very serious antagonism on the part of the army against this Scarecrow.”
“Whoever he may be,” added Mipps facetiously.
“But you can find means to stop the Thursday 'run', I take it,” said the highwayman.
“Oh, I do not think the Scarecrow would do that, do you?” replied the Doctor innocently. “No, but if you will return me these officers' trinkets, so that I can take them with these purses and papers to the General, I will not only see that you are compensated for your loss but will be told the exact plans they are about to take, and in all probability the name of their informer.”
“If it is to serve the Scarecrow, whoever he may be,” smiled the highwayman, “why, I'll return the full swag and be damned to the compensation. My night's adventure with all its wetness will be well worth my pains if the safety of certain people on the Marsh is assured.”
“Thank you,” nodded Syn. “Now have another drink and get away into hiding. Our friend Mipps here will call upon you for the trinkets and bring you the latest news.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Bone, “and I shall be glad to know what they intend to do about the robbery, for I take it that they'll raise a howl, whether the goods are returned or not.” The highwayman's conjecture proved to be right, for the next evening, when the Archbishop occupied the Dymchurch pulpit, His Grace chose for his text “Render unto Cæsar", and thundered out disapproval against the local scandal of the Scarecrow and Mr. Bone. He urged strongly that it was the bounden duty of every law-abiding citizen to assist the authorities in bringing the rascals to justice, and practically accused the congregation of being in a position to do so.
Sir Henry Pembury, who accompanied the Archbishop with General Troubridge and Major Faunce, went even further, for during supper at the Court House he lost his temper and stated definitely that their host, Sir Antony Cobtree, if not an actual participant in the smuggling, was at least sympathetic, and no doubt increased his income by its success. Despite the presence of the Archbishop, and the calming influence of Doctor Syn, high words ensued, Sir Antony affirming stoutly that he was prepared to defend his honour in the usual way against any gentleman who doubted it. The Archbishop agreed with Doctor Syn that it ill behooved two Justices of the Peace to fight a duel, at which Sir Antony laughed, pointing out the impossibility of poor old Pembury fighting anyone till he had cured himself of the gout. This set Sir Henry into a further passion, so that he called for his coach, and drove back to Lympne Castle with his guests, in the highest dudgeon.
When Doctor Syn had calmed down the irate Squire of Dymchurch, he urged him to take an early opportunity of apologizing for the remark about the gout, when no doubt Sir Henry would also take back his unwarranted insinuations.
“I believe the old fool takes me for the Scarecrow himself,” said Sir Antony.
“Well, at least I should take that as a great compliment,” replied Syn with a smile. “You are still as good in the saddle, Tony, as ever you were, so at least you might qualify for the Scarecrow's horsemanship. I suppose you and this Bone rascal are the best riders in the county.”
“Which is more than can be said for you,” laughed Sir Antony. “Until you get an animal more fiery than your own, no one will suspect you of being the Scarecrow.”
The Squire was thinking of Doctor Syn's fat white pony, but the Vicar, far from being offended, laughed too, thinking of the great fierce beast called Gehenna, which the Scarecrow rode, and which the Squire, for all his career in the hunting field, could never have managed.
Now, late at night, it was customary for Sexton Mipps to call at the Vicarage for orders, parochial or otherwise, and also to impart such news, parochial or otherwise, which he may have gleaned at either the Ship Inn or the City of London Tavern, for the tidings of the Marsh crept in many a mysterious way to these houses of resort.
On this Sunday night Syn's first demand was that Mipps should unlock the iron chest and give him the black book, into which he carefully wrote a name.
“Putting in another, sir?” asked the inquisitive Mipps.
“Aye,” nodded Syn. “And no less a person than the Archbishop.”
“He certainly attacked the smuggling, didn't he?” replied Mipps.
“He did,” agreed the Vicar. “And do you know, I am not sure that he does not deserve a lesson. I should like to see him repeat that sermon, not in the safety of our church, but out on the Marsh one of these nights and to a full congregation of Demon Riders. It would be a humourous situation. Aye, very tempting. But there are other names to deal with first, and I think we shall be starting somehow with our old enemies, Troubridge and Faunce. The Dragoons are being moved to Dover tomorrow, in order to terrorize the Night-riders. Well I rather think that the Scarecrow may terrify the Dragoons first. We will ride to Dover Castle on Tuesday and open the campaign. Let us drink success to what I think may prove to be the Scarecrow's most daring adventure.”
“Well, sir,” replied the sexton, “I'm in the dark, certainly, but it has never been my way to refuse a drink.”
