A quarter of an hour later Dr. Syn was challenged by to Dragoons who were watching the road that led to Jesson Farm. He checked his pony.
“But I am Dr. Syn, vicar of Dymchurch,” he protested, “and am on my way to visit a dying old woman on the Marsh.”
“Sorry, sir,” replied one of the soldiers respectfully, “but we've orders to let no one pass. You'll have to ride with us to the beach and report to the captain. Stay here, Tom, while I conduct the reverend gentleman.”
There seemed nothing for it but to obey, so Dr. Syn trotted alongside the Dragoon, rode up the sea-wall slope and down a sandslide to the beach.
Here, around a fire of driftwood, the Dragoons mounted guard over their prisoners.
“I'm sorry this has happened, sir,” explained Captain Faunce, “We were hunting for Grinsley when we surprised these wretched men unloading a French lugger. I'd rather by far have captured Grinsley, whom we suspected of being the cause of the lugger in the bay, but I must do my duty.”
The Dragoon smiled. “We could not ride our horses across the Channel, and the Revenue cutter is some miles away.”
“And do you think that Grinsley was on board?” asked Dr. Syn.
“Oh, good gracious, no,” exclaimed the officer. “These poor fellows have all taken oath against such a thing, and I know they are honest, except in this unfortunate business of the kegs.”
“You, too, are an honest man, Captain Faunce,” replied Syn. “You show your sympathy and your sentiment without shame, and I thank you. Therefore on the strength of your generosity, if I pledge you my word that this shall never happen again, will you free these unfortunate fellows. Indeed, I urge you to do so. Though admitting their fault against the Government, I assure you that in the event of war, these friends of mine would be the first to carry arms for His Majesty.”
The Dragoon shook his head sadly. “I'm sorry, sir. It is too late. I have sent half my men for the Sandgate cutter to arrest them. I sent so many as I feared that the news of my capture would arouse hostility on the way. I would to God I could release these poor fools, but having failed to catch Grinsley, it's as much as my rank is worth to let them go. But if you are, as I understand, sir, visiting a sick woman upon the Marsh, let me not be further blamed for having detained you.”
Dr. Syn looked at the prisoners. Needless to say, he recognised them all and was astonished to find so many respectable parishioners amongst them.
“My poor friends,” he said sadly, “you have brought this calamity upon yourselves. I can do nothing for you, it seems.”
Turning his pony, he rode up the beach with his Dragoon escort, who passed him by the sentry and watched him jogging across the Marsh until he disappeared into the mist.
Now not far from Mother Handaway's isolated cottage was a gipsy encampment. It was towards this that Dr. Syn directed his pony.
Dr. Syn had a shrewd idea that some of the gipsies would be awake on the night of the run, as it was the cheapest means of obtaining liquor, so he was not surprised at being challenged as he rode into the circle of caravans.
It was a gipsy lad of about eighteen who demanded what he wanted.
“I must see your leader, Silas Pettigrand,” he replied.
“The chief is asleep and must not be disturbed. You must see him in the morning,” said the gipsy lad, with his hand turning the pony's bridle.
Dr. Syn leant from the saddle and whispered a Romany pass-word.
In three minutes, Silas of the Pettigrands stood before him.
“You know my people, it seems,” said the gipsy, by way of greeting.
“In Spanish America—yes,” replied the doctor. “I wish to purchase the black horse you have tethered behind your caravan. I noticed it yesterday as I rode up to the hills, and it is a horse after my heart, and I have need of him.”
“He would be difficult for you to manage after that pony. He is a wild fellow. My own sons can hardly sit him.”
“That is my trouble, not yours,” replied the vicar, “and it is good in that you will be all the more ready to sell.”
“Oh, they will break him in time, when he will be the more valuable,” argued Silas.
“But I prefer an animal of my own breaking,” replied the parson. “How much?”
“It is an animal of mettle,” went on the gipsy. “But since you come here with such a message on your lips as you gave my youngest son, I will not ask more than twenty guineas. I confess though, I took him for ten from a hunting squire in Sussex who was afraid of him and glad to see him go.”
“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted the parson, “and you are honest with me since your tribe are horse dealers. I will give you thirty guineas. That is twenty for the horse and ten for your Romany oath of silence concerning the transaction.”
“You have him then,” answered the old man, “and I will include saddle and bridle.”
“I shall not need a saddle—but a bridle—yes, and a pair of spurs until the animal and I are better acquainted.”
“You are a horseman, evidently,” said the gipsy in admiration.
“You will hide my pony till I call for it in the dawn, and I will come to your caravan now and pay you the gold. I must also change my clothes there.”
The gipsy led him to his caravan, took the money and the oath of silence, and then left him to change his clothes, while he went out to cover the pony with a cloth.
Accustomed as he was to strange transactions with queer customers, old Silas could scarce believe his own eyes when his visitor reappeared.
The neat parson had given place to the devil in rags.
It was not only the blackened tow-curls which streamed from the battered three-cornered hat that gave such a fiendish look to the face, but rather a cruel, reckless deviltry that flashed from the eyes and smiled through the tight-set lips. This had obliterated a good face with the stamp of hell.
Striding towards the coal-black horse and leaping on to his back with the accustomed ease of a circus rider, the weird figure spoke to the gipsy in an altered—a croaking, raucous voice. “I shall visit you before the dawn, and we will breakfast together. You will find my contribution to the feast in the near-side pannier upon the pony. And, by the way, look after my pony, for I shall return to you on foot and must ride it back to Dymchurch, after I have bestowed this magnificent creature in hiding. All very mysterious, eh, friend Silas of the Pettigrands? But believe me, it is not for myself but many others for whom I go adventuring. I am secure in your silence?”
“To you I can speak when to others I must keep silent,” replied the gipsy solemnly. “For many years the safety of James Bones, the highwayman, has been in my care. Let that satisfy you that I trust you as you may trust me. It is a life bargain.”
“Then till the dawn—good tenting,” cried Dr. Syn.
As though objecting to the bargain of these weird men, and certainly disapproving of yet another human being thinking he could master him, the black horse reared and plunged furiously.
“You see?” said the gipsy, not displeased that the animal was behaving as he had prophesied.
“And you will see,” retorted the rider with a laugh, as he dug in the spurs deliberately.
Off went the beast with a scream of rage across the field, leapt the broad dyke on to the road, and the gipsy listened to the ring of the hoofs as he galloped along it.
Meanwhile he saw the weird figure chased, encircled and again uncovered by the sinuous ghostly ribbons of mist.
Fifty yards ahead the road curved to avoid the dyke, but Syn kept his wild steed straight at it, took off from the road, cleared the water easily and thundered on; took the next dyke and the next in full career, and so across four fields till he reared up at the door of Mother Handaway's hovel.
