The news of the Scarecrow's sensational escape from Dover Castle spread rapidly and reached London by way of the stage coach, where it quickly circulated through inns and taverns as well as becoming the chief topic of conversation in the coffee-houses and fashionable gaming clubs, and, as Doctor Syn had conjectured, there were many who attributed supernatural powers to the mysterious leader of the Romney Marsh smugglers.
Down in Dymchurch Mr. Mipps did all he could to encourage this way of thinking, for he agreed with his master that it was a good thing for the Scarecrow to strike terror into the hearts of friends and enemies.
Although Doctor Syn appeared to be considerably shaken by the rough treatment he had received at the Scarecrow's hands, he did not neglect his parochial work, but was out and about amongst his parishioners within two days of what he called his “great adventure”. He chuckled with Mipps at the sympathetic inquiries he received from everyone, and his usual answer was that he had no great wish to be locked again in that cell in Dover Castle. But amidst all the excitement, he did not forget to see to it that Sir Antony Cobtree should take steps to make up his quarrel with Sir Henry Pembury, and he finally agreed that he would accompany his patron up to Lympne for this purpose.
“And should he remain insulting, Tony,” he laughed, “remember to keep your temper.”
“Very well,” agreed Sir Antony, “we'll go up there tomorrow and I will promise to avoid a duel if possible.” That night Doctor Syn entered the name of Sir Henry Pembury in his black book, and the next morning he thought on this with amusement as he sat in the ingle-seat of the great dining-hall of Lympne Castle and basked in the warmth of the pine logs.
After a cold ride across the Marsh such heat was pleasant. He knew that his sturdy fat white pony that had zigzagged its way along the dyke-bound roads and then climbed the hill till the sea-mist was far beneath them was now comfortably housed in one of the best stables in the county. He appreciated the fact that the glass at his elbow contained the best sherry in Kent, which was whetting his appetite for what he anticipated would be as good a dinner as any squire in England could give.
It did not disturb the genial Vicar in the least that his host was at the moment in a furious temper. It merely amused him. From the shelter of the great fireplace he watched him. Sir Henry Pembury, lord of the castle of Lympne, was actually challenging Sir Antony Cobtree to a duel. This did not disturb Doctor Syn at all, for he was well aware that the affair would end in smoke, because his own patron, the Squire of Dymchurch, was far too generous a man to take advantage of Sir Henry's ungovernable rage. Poor Sir Henry suffered from the gout. That was the truth of it, and gout was a respectable disease that any gentleman might well come to.
That they were both Justices of the Peace and that the argument was upon Law and Order only made the quarrel the more diverting to the Doctor of Divinity. He wished that the two old knights could only see themselves in a mirror to realize the absurdity of the whole business. Pembury was an old, fat, ponderous dandy. Cobtree was a hard-riding sportsman twenty years his junior, for Sir Henry was close on seventy. The only danger in the quarrel was that Sir Henry might get a bad gout attack, for he was striding up and down the hall in an endeavour to appear as young as Sir Antony.
“I am well aware, gentlemen, that I am the aggressor,” he boomed out. “But I am well prepared to take the consequences, and, as I have said, if it is a fight you want, I am more than ready to meet you.”
“My good Harry,” laughed the Dymchurch Squire, “I really could not think of obliging you, and I marvel that one who is so excessively loyal to the Government should suggest the advisability of two magistrates killing each other. Get over your spleen, man, as soon as you can, so that Doctor Syn and myself may enjoy your society, for after such a damned damp ride we fully intend dining with you.”
“What you are pleased to call my spleen, sir,” retorted their host, “I regard as righteous indignation. Are the doings of last night to be repeated without any protest? Are my stables to be broken open and my cattle taken by your damned thieving Dymchurch smugglers whenever it suits their convenience?”
“Come, now, hardly 'thieving',” urged Sir Antony, “for I understand that your horses were all returned.”
“In the filthiest condition and ridden to death,” answered Sir Henry. “You can see for yourselves, for they are not yet groomed, as my stables cannot boast of a sober man or boy. The whole pack of 'em drunk, sir, on the brandy left there by your smugglers. Is that not cause for the spleen? What can you say to that, eh?” Doctor Syn sipped his sherry and smiled. “Since I am preaching in your church next Sunday, I could certainly read them a homily on the evils of strong drink.”
“None of your clerical jokes with me, sir,” snapped Sir Henry. “I'm serious, and I repeat what I have said before. This mysterious person they call the 'Scarecrow' may terrorize the Romney Marsh. No doubt you find it convenient to take no steps to check him. But he won't terrorize me. Since he has had the impertinence to borrow my horses, as you say he has often borrowed yours, I intend to catch him and hang him myself. If you can't rid the county of a scoundrel, I can.”
“If you succeed, sir,” said Doctor Syn quietly, “I do trust that you will hang him in Lympne rather than Dymchurch, for, as I am always pointing out to Sir Antony, our gibbet is unpleasantly near the Vicarage.”
“I shall deal with him here, sir,” scowled Sir Henry. “We should never get him convicted at the Dymchurch Court House, for your jurymen would be scared of being involved. The rascal would turn King's Evidence against the lot of them if he thought things were going against him.”
“I believe you wrong him there, sir,” replied Doctor Syn. “Though I naturally deplore the notoriety which the Scarecrow has given to my parish, I confess that I admire his ingenuity and daring. I think he would never turn King's Evidence, since he has never turned his back yet on a comrade. In every case where a man has been taken for offence against the Customs, he has rescued him. A saucy rascal, no doubt, but, we must own, a clever one.”
“He has made the Government a laughing-stock, I'll allow,” returned Sir Henry, “but if he makes me one, he's cleverer than I take him to be. The wits in London may laugh at Dymchurch authorities, the Sandgate Customs, and those darned Dragoons from Dover Castle, but they'll not laugh at Lympne.”
“Best be careful then, sir,” suggested Doctor Syn solemnly, “that the story of your drunken grooms goes no further.”
“I'll stop them talking,” growled the Lord of Lympne, picking up a heavy hunting-crop from the table. “I'll give them something else to chatter about.
Aye, and you precious Scarecrow too,” and forgetting his good manners, he flung out of the hall, banging the great door behind him.
“Harry's a grand old bully when he's crossed,” laughed Sir Antony, “and we'll pay him out by drinking the rest of the sherry. Come, fill up, Doctor.”
“Shall we drink success to his enterprise?” asked the Doctor.
“For my part, I would rather drink to the Scarecrow,” replied the Squire.
“Well, let's put it that we drink to the better man of the two, and may he win,” said Doctor Syn, holding up his glass.
“And that will be the Scarecrow, you mark my words, for if either of them is to be made a laughing-stock, I think Sir Henry will earn the title.” So both gentlemen drank to the “better man”.
Fortunately for the grooms, their master's whirling hunting-crop ceased its activities on account of the arrival of two riders leading their horses to the stables when the punishment was being carried out. One was his youngest daughter Kate, a pretty girl of nineteen, and the other a Cornet of Dragoons named Brackenbury. Though the young man came of good family, Sir Henry did not approve of a younger son for his daughter, and it added fuel to his rage when the soldier explained that he had come to dinner on the invitation of Lady Pembury, who it appeared had more sympathy with his love affair than her lord and master. Sir Henry was in no mood to hide his irritation, so it fell to Miss Kate to put her lover more at ease.
“Come, Mister Brackenbury,” she laughed, “the boys will look to our horses, and dispose of your great helmet.”
“He can manage for himself without your fussing,” said Sir Henry. “You get along and change your clothes, and see that they lay extra places. We have Cobtree here from Dymchurch with his Vicar, Doctor Syn.” With an encouraging smile for her lover Kate went about her duties, while Sir Henry with an ill grace gave orders for the officer's horse to be stalled. On the way back to the Castle young Brackenbury took occasion once more to plead his cause, urging that he had every reason to believe that Miss Kate liked him, and that Lady Pembury had already treated him with good favour. To Sir Henry's snorts at this, he attempted to paint such expectations as he possessed in the most glowing colours, but Sir Henry was not encouraging.
“I fail to see why a Pembury of Lympne should marry his daughter to nothing but expectations. Realize them first, sir, and then let me hear a more definite proposal, though 'tis most like it will be too late, as my daughter is of a marriageable age. But marry her to poverty I will not, sir.” So it was a somewhat woebegone Dragoon that left his helmet in the outer hall and followed his host to the dining-chamber, where he was formally introduced to the Dymchurch gentlemen.
During dinner Doctor Syn summed up how the land lay between Kate and the young soldier, especially as Sir Henry, outwardly using the Scarecrow for his subject, railed against the crime of impertinence.
Sir Antony, who had a great liking for Kate, who had confided the state of her feelings to his own daughters, determined to take up cudgels with Sir Henry on behalf of the lovers. So as soon as the ladies had retired he asked outright when Sir Henry was going to announce the joyful news of Kate's betrothal.
“And to whom, sir?” asked their host, amazed. “I have not heard any rumour of such happiness. Your own son is a bit young for my daughters, I fancy.”
“I was rather thinking of young Brackenbury here,” explained Sir Antony.
“You may recollect that both Doctor Syn and myself were at Oxford with the boy's father, Sir Robert, and I naturally favour the match.” The silence that followed this bluff statement was embarrassing. Sir Henry stared at the young officer as though he had never seen him before in his life.
Then, as though his thoughts were wrenched unwillingly through his clenched teeth, he raped out, “Well, I confess that I have not been in favour of this match, but by God—” and he brought his fist crashing down on to the table as he said it, “Yes, by God, I'll give Mister Brackenbury a chance. The day you bring this infamous Scarecrow into this room, bound, and hand him over to me as my prisoner, you shall marry my daughter out of hand if she is free.
“These gentlemen from Dymchurch are my witnesses, and will tell you that whatever my faults, my word is my bond, and is never broken. If, however, the rascal makes a fool of you, as he has already made a laughing-stock of Major Faunce, an excellent officer as you know, and General Troubridge after him— well, then you must discontinue your attentions to my daughter. I'll allow you one month from today. If you fail, as you most certainly will—why, then will be the time for me to tackle the rascal myself, and he will not make a laughingstock of me.” Thus was the bargain struck before witnesses, who felt no more confidence in the young man's chance of success than he did himself as he rode slowly back to his quarters in Dover Castle.
That night in the fastness of the Vicarage, behind closed doors and shutters, Doctor Syn entertained his parochial factotum, Mister Mipps, to a plentiful allowance of excellent French brandy upon which no duty had been paid.
“I find, my good Mipps,” said the Vicar genially, “that as one gets older one develops a very tolerant sympathy towards the young.”
“One does,” agreed Mipps, remembering his pirate days and a young negress in Savannah with whom he had made a success.
“I look at you, my old Master Carpenter,” continued the Vicar, “always remembering the days when you and I stood back to back and saved each other from a thousand deaths. In smoke and steel we stuck together on the poop deck then, and I am grateful.”
“Referrin' to the days when we carried the gospel amongst the pirates, eh, Vicar?” asked Mipps with a knowing wink.
“That's so, Master Sexton,” nodded the Vicar, “and we did well together because we each stood by, proving each other many times worthy of the name of friend.”
“That's right, Captain—I should say Vicar,” corrected Mipps.
“And now when I look at you I realize you're getting old,” went on the Vicar. “Why, Mipps, your nose gets more pointed every day, your skin's cracked parchment and your tarred queue at the back of your half-bald head sticks out for all the world like a jigger-gaff. Your beady eyes are bright, though, still. You were always a shrunken little dog.”
“My mother told me I was like a ferret the first hour I was born,” replied the sexton.
“You've been fierce enough in a tight corner as long as I have known you,” agreed the Vicar. “Your mother's description was right. And am I getting older?”
“Much about the same still, Captain,” replied the little sexton. “You always give me the impression of a saintly archangel what can move and think devilish quick when occasion calls.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed the Vicar. “We retain a good deal of our younger days, I'll allow, and with luck we'll go adventuring till Davy Jones. But there are others, Mipps. Youngsters, nice children with good looks, but not endowed with our quick brains. We must do what we can to see that they inherit their own world.”
“What are you drivin' at, Vicar?” asked the sexton suddenly.
“Merely that I am old and foolish enough to sympathize with young lovers,” and Doctor Syn thereupon recounted the plight of Cornet Brackenbury and what had occurred at Lympne Castle.
At the end of the narrative Mipps shook his head, then winked. “Well, he'll never capture the Scarecrow, that's a certainty.”
Doctor Syn refilled the sexton's glass and then his own, before replying solemnly: “You've stood by me in tighter corners. That young man is going to take the Scarecrow as a prisoner to Sir Henry at Lympne Castle, see? Unlock he iron chest and get me the dispositions of our next 'run'. Let me see, next Thursday, isn't it?” For the next two hours Doctor Syn and Sexton Mipps pored over detailed lists, checking cargoes, names of boats, concealments aboard, hides ashore, lists of carriers, commandeered stables, guards and signallers. When this was completed the Doctor ordered Mipps to leave him, as he had many plans to work out in order that the young Cornet of Dragoons might win his bride.
“So you've made up your mind to let yourself be captured?” asked Mipps anxiously.
“A captured man can always get away. I once escaped death on the scaffold steps, remember. We must help these young people. You are not losing your nerve, I hope?”
“Not so long as you don't lose your head,” replied the sexton.
