It was plain that everyone had worked with a will. The requests to help had been so overwhelming, not only from the adjacent parishes but from villages far removed across the Marsh, that in order to incorporate all these volunteers, night-shifts of labourers were enrolled, so that by the time Meg first viewed it from the sea-wall, it was obvious that as far as the house was concerned, the storm had been a blessing in disguise, for the old tavern, falling to pieces even before the disaster, was now strong, solid and straight, floors and ceilings interlaced with the fine old oak ribs of the brig, all cut even and fitted into place. Gone were the old familiar chinks and crevices through which the wind had used to whistle, and around the wainscot not a hole remained, for a mouse to air his whiskers. Lead-rimmed casements shut and opened easily, and not a draught could creep through the fresh-set diamond panes.
After careful estimation of what was required, it was Josiah Wraight's boast to the committee that every piece of wood left on the brig had been utilised for the tavern. Even the little hut erected as the office of works, and in which Josiah kept the plans, was knocked up out of the bulkhead of the fo'c'sle.
“There's more brig than tavern about her now, Master Foreman,” laughed one of the workmen, and when Josiah went to meet Meg Clouder, and she exclaimed: “Oh, but it's so different, and so much more important. How Abel would have loved it like this,” he paraphrased the workman's remark with: “Aye, Meg, and when you go aboard you'll say: 'There's more City of London than “Sea-Wall Tavern”.' It's the brig what has rebuilt it so fine.”
It was just as they were about to enter the front to 'go aboard', as Josiah put it, that a sign-painter from New Romney approached and asked if he were to get busy yet.
“Just a minute, son,” said Josiah, and then looking at Dr. Syn, he gave the reverent gentleman a nod.
“Ah, yes,” replied the doctor. “We will ask Mrs. Clouder what she thinks, and if her wishes are the same as the squire's this good fellow may paint the words. You see, Mrs. Clouder, since so many good folk have helped to rebuild the tavern, not only out of respect for your brave husband, but also for all those poor souls who perished in the brig which has now given its very ribs to build the house, the squire is of the opinion that the house should stand now, and in generations to come, as a memorial, and as he is giving you a new licence to run the tavern to more advantage, now would be the convenient time to change the title from 'Sea-Wall Tavern' to 'The City of London'.”
“Aye, and I think Abel would like it,” put in Josiah, “for in days to come, when strangers look at the sign and say 'What has London to do with Romney Marsh?' why, the story will be told of how Abel and Parson Bolden died, and how the wreck not only rebuilt your house but brought us our new vicar.”
“If it is the squire's wish, and your wish, why then it is mine too,” replied Meg.
“Then the sign-painter can measure out his letters,” went on Josiah. “Between the two windows there, we thought, in large bold script, eh? And black paint, eh? It will show up against the white-wash, and is the fitting colour for a memorial. Then as to the sign itself—well, what better than this, Meg, eh? Will you step round to my little office for a minute?”
They entered the hut that had been set up on the grass patch before the inn door, and Josiah, waving his hand towards the far corner, said: “And what inn upon the whole of the Marsh has a finer sign than that. Just imagine him sticking out from an iron bracket between the two big bedroom windows, Meg, eh?”
Meg shuddered as she saw the honest Josiah patting the wooden face of the brig's figure-head. “Oh, no,” she said, “just the words on the wall, but not that ghastly thing—please, Josiah.”
“Ghastly?” repeated the astounded foreman. “I calls it handsome. Fierce, perhaps. Yes, it might have been carved jollier, if it's meant to be the City of London. I've been to London more than once, and though its smoky and gloomy with fog and river mist, there's a feeling of jollity in them City taverns and coffee houses. Now what might this gentleman be meant to be? A city sheriff or what, sir?” He thought that if Dr. Syn would only make the figure-head sound interesting, that Meg might be reconciled to it. Though why she didn't take to it immediately he was at a loss to understand.
“Why, yes,” said Dr. Syn, “I can tell you all about this curious fellow, for during the voyage I enjoyed the full confidence of our ill-fated captain, whom I nicknamed 'The Lord Mayor' in that he ruled over us in the City of London. The owners of this brig formerly possessed two, built for the New England trade. One was called Gog and the other Magog, and they sailed from Boston to the Pool of London. This was the figure-head of Gog until her sister ship was sunk in fighting the notorious pirate, Clegg. Instead of building another ship, they re-christened this one City of London, though, as the captain pointed out, he had never heard of any good coming to a ship with an altered name. Fearing lest this vessel should also fall a victim to Clegg, they armed her with a brass cannon, and painted up poor Gog into a fighting uniform, so that the brig might seem to be a man-o'-war. Certainly, such merchant ships as we passed fought shy of us and steered clear. But for all that, we met Clegg's frigate, four days out of port, and it would have gone hard with us had not our captain run into a mist and made good our escape.”
“Well, then,” exclaimed Josiah, “if that don't make this 'ere Admiral Gog more valuable still. What a sign for a tavern. It'll draw the whole Marsh for years to come.”
“I'd rather have it empty, Josiah,” cried Meg, “than that I should see that ghastly face looking in at my bedroom window.”
Now Dr. Syn, to whom she had confided the dreadful horror of first seeing the figure-head upon the sea-wall, began to argue on her side. “The ladies have likes and dislikes, Master Foreman,” he said, “and it is well that they can generally tell us their wishes, and here is Miss Cobtree in full agreement with Mrs. Clouder that the figure-head is not a work of art that any woman would covet. Therefore, we must find some other use for it. We cannot set it up above the grave of the captain, though I dare say he would wish it, for as you know, a sailor takes a pride in his figure-head, but it would be unseemly in a churchyard. It would smack too much of a Popish idol, I'm thinking. Were I a sea captain, I should no doubt beg to be allowed to set it up in my garden, but imagine the fright it would cause the good parishioners who may care to visit me. Why, I believe it would scare me in the moonlight. No, since the master foreman is so struck with it, I propose that he sets it up in his building yard as a sign of his trade. You build boats, I hear, in your timber-shed, Mister Wraight. Well, what more fitting than to set it up high on the shed's prow?”
This suggestion quite made up for Josiah's disappointment at Meg's disapproval, and nobody objecting, he had the figure-head immediately removed to his timber yard and set up high on his great work barn, where to this day it is the honoured possession of Josiah's descendants. Indeed, Admiral Gog, in his resplendent uniform is still one of the popular sights of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall.
With the removal of the Admiral, everything was delightful in Meg's eyes, and even the hard aching void of separation from Abel was softened in a great measure by the glory of his death, and the kindness shown towards the young widow of such a hero by everybody upon the Marsh. So that after the bodies had been buried in honour, Meg felt not only ready but anxious to start in her new home, and that her tavern was patronised well went without saying. Even the buxom Mrs. Waggetts of the 'Ship Inn', who would have been quite justified in fearing this new rival, went out of her way to share her own prosperity with Meg, for she was often overheard to say to her own special customers: “Now, instead of having another round here, why not step along to 'The City' and try a glass of something at Mrs. Clouder's?”
So, even in her sorrow, Meg had a lot to be thankful for, and her youthful strength and winning beauty helped her to face her new life bravely.
As to Merry, it was the general opinion that he was making an effort, in his own morose way, to amend his ways. Certainly, he spoke to none, unless it was to whisper to his unpopular friend, the excise man. But he worked hard under the new vicar's direction. The brass shone bright in the old church and the vicarage garden took on new life. Dr. Syn had worked wonders with the man in some mysterious way, they all said, and agreed that the City of London brig had brought them a great blessing in their new vicar, for the squire, in his forceful, blustering heartiness, had lost no time in getting through the deeds of Installation from the Archbishop, who agreed with him that Dymchurch was fortunate indeed to find such an able divine willing to take charge of the parish.
On the day of his installation, Dr. Syn, who had till then remained at the Hall, took up his quarters in the vicarage, upon which the women of the parish, headed by the Cobtree ladies, had lavished as much care as they had already bestowed upon Meg's tavern.
“It's a wrench leaving you, my good Tony,” he said, “although it is but for a matter of a few yards, but I know you agree with me that since this is the principal village of the Marsh it is meet and right for the vicarage to be maintained with that dignity it deserves.”
“Well, I make it a condition that you dine every Sunday at the Hall, and that whenever I brew a particularly good bowl of punch that you shall be there for the ladling.”
“Which means that I shall be with you every night,” laughed Dr. Syn.
“And all the better, say I,” cried the squire heartily. “In the meantime, my Charlotte has found you a jewel of a woman to housekeep for you. A quick tongue, which you'll no doubt cure, but one that can cook, and well. She's an ugly enough old widow too, so there'll be no scandal. She's a daughter to help her, plain as a cod-fish, so there you are. Name of Fowey. Hails from Cornwall or some such foreign place. But, as Charlotte says—she can cook. By the way, you seem to have done wonders with that rascal Merry, but I don't like to think of him around here.”
“Oh, he's all right,” said Dr. Syn. “I've got my eye on him, never fear. He seems to find quite a pleasure in obeying me.”
Aye, and so he did, and he hugged himself when he did. And yet he did not obey him in all things. For one day he went all the way to Rye and purchased there a knife. A long, sharp, hefty knife. And every night when he returned to his own room at the end of the long white cottages over against the 'Ocean Inn', he would take out the knife from its hiding place to assure himself that it was sharp, both point and edge. And every morning when he went back to work he watched Dr. Syn out of the corner of his eye and thought, to cheer himself when he was being more than servile, of the knife's sharpness.
Meanwhile, the great pessimist would have said that at least Dymchurch-under-the-Wall in the County of Kent was a village ideally happy, but neither optimist nor pessimist could smell the black hate that smouldered in the heart of Dr. Syn's queer servant, Merry. But Merry bided his time and knew that it would come.
And Dr. Syn went in and out amongst the cottages daily, respected and loved by all, while Merry, shunning and shunned by all, thought of his knife, and nightly tried the edge and point of it.
