On the beach the soldiers tried valiantly to keep their fire alight, for it was to serve as a beacon to the cutter. But the wind had arisen, and already the waves in the Bay were dashing up against the shingle. It was doubtful whether the cutter would brave such a storm. Blinded with smoke, the Dragoons kept piling on driftwood, while the rain ran from their brass helmets. Suddenly one of them cried out: “Look!”
At the same moment a piercing laugh echoed from the sand-hill behind them. Even the officer, Captain Faunce, was transfixed with horror at the spectral horseman that had appeared upon the sky-line. It seemed that the storm had opened hell gates to let the devil ride out.
But their superstitious dread was given the lie by the horseman himself, for after his maniacal laugh, which made his black mount rear and scream, in a derisive voice he cried out: “Leave these poor fools alone. I'm the man you want. Grinsley, the murderer. But you won't catch me this side of hell.”
Captain Faunce sprang into the saddle, drew his pistols from the holsters, and pulled both triggers. The right one, damped with the rain, misfired, and the left went wide, though Dr. Syn heard the bullet whizz by.
“Mount, and after him, boys,” cried the captain. “Granger and Metcalf, stay here mounted and guard the prisoners. Any treachery, use your sabres without mercy.”
The other troopers scrambled for their horses, and led by their officer, galloped towards the sand-hill.
Waving his hand in farewell, Syn turned his horse and slid down the bank on to the road, jumped the dyke on the further side of it and led the hunt madly across country for the distant hills.
In the meantime, Mipps had taken advantage of the confusion and profiting by the smoke of the fire which kept blinding the Dragoons, he managed to crawl behind the prisoners and sever their cords with his knife, going from one to the other with a whispered word of caution and concealing himself behind the captured kegs.
By the time Dr. Syn had led away the chase, he had freed all the men and had only the two Dragoons to deal with.
When he considered that the chase had gone clear away, he sprang up, and covering the chests of both troop horses with his pistols, he sang out: “About turn, you two, and follow the hunt. You may take a murderer, but you don't take us.”
“What the hell—” cried one of the troopers, but Mipps interrupted.
“You've no chance. The prisoners are all free. Twenty of us against you two. If you move forward or put your hands to your sabres, I fire, and my pistols ain't damp. Have respect for your horses. About turn.”
By this time the smugglers were all on their feet, and were grabbing such weapons as they had been deprived of. These were mostly stout cudgels and poles. Some of them ran to where their horses had been tethered, and mounted.
The Dragoons saw that their only chance of re-capturing the men was by getting more help, so as if bowing to the inevitable they turned their chargers and galloped away after their colleagues.
“Quick, lads,” cried Mipps. “Stamp out the fire. Load them kegs on the pack ponies, and away with them as arranged before the soldiers get back.”
The smugglers, overjoyed at their deliverance, worked feverishly to get away before the possible arrival of the cutter, which they could now see tacking from Sandgate in the teeth of the driving storm.
“Seems to me,” laughed one, “that we owe our freedom to this Grinsley.”
“That wasn't Grinsley,” replied Mipps. “That's our new leader, if we behaves ourselves. If we get clear away this blessed night, he'll lead us, I'll take my oath. And what's more we'll never get laid by the heels if we obeys him. And if we gets him, why he gives the orders and not me.”
“Never you mind. No proper names is best as we've found out, but amongst us he's the Scarecrow, that's what he is.”
“I know,” cried one of them. “I can tell who he is by the way he rides. It's Jimmie Bone the Highwayman. Now isn't it?”
“Maybe,” allowed Mipps, “but he's to be called The Scarecrow from now on, and if he takes on the job and don't lead them Revenue men a dance—well—you wait.”
As the dawn broke, Dr. Syn, looking remarkably clean and fresh in his clerical clothes, jogged along the curving Marshland road towards Dymchurch. He presented a marked contrast to the Dragoon officer whom he met at the crossroads, leading a lamed charger.
Captain Faunce's red coat was mud-stained, and he had lost his helmet.
“My faith, Captain,” cried the vicar, drawing his pony's rein, “the storm has wrought havoc with you. I just reached the cottage I was bound for when it broke. I was fortunate. My clothes are dry.”
“I've been chasing Grinsley all night,” explained the captain. “And all to no purpose. They say that the devil looks after his own. Anyway he taught that recruit of his to ride, for I'll swear Grinsley learned his horsemanship in hell. The rascal played with me. Would wait for me to draw level with him, then off he'd go again like lightning. And so it has been all night, for it's but an hour ago that I lost him for good in the woods behind Lympne. With my horse lamed I gave him best.”
“And where are your men?” asked the vicar.
“I outride the rascals early in the chase. Not seen them for hours.”
“Safe under lock and key at Sandgate, I hope,” replied the captain.
At that moment a trumpet call rang out, and along the sea-wall they saw the Dragoons riding.
“They make a brave picture in the morning light,” said Dr. Syn. “The red coats and the helmets.”
“Hope they feel better than I do,” grumbled the officer. He blew a shrill blast on a whistle. Up went the leader's hand and the troop halted. Then seeing their officer signalling to them, the troop sergeant slid his horse down the steep embankment and galloped towards them.
“We couldn't keep pace with you, sir,” he explained, “but we got Grinsley.”
“You've got him?” repeated the officer, smiling.
“Yes, sir. As you disappeared into that first wood, he broke cover, on his black horse to your left, and we chased him inland till finally we ran him down in Tenterden.”
“Must be over two hours, sir. The church clock struck four as his horse fell dead.”
“Dead too, sir. Metcalf ran him through the neck as he tried to break past him.”
“But I heard a clock strike four when I sighted him again the other side of the wood. In God's name—was he then dead?”
“Makes one believe in the supernatural, that sort of experience,” said Dr. Syn quietly.
“And Metcalf killed him, you say?” questioned the astounded officer. “But I left Metcalf to guard the prisoners.”
The sergeant then broke the news of the smugglers' escape and how the cutter had arrived to find a deserted beach.
“Ah, well we can get 'em again,” laughed the officer. “I dare swear you can identify your own flock, vicar?”
“I purposely did not look at them,” answered Dr. Syn. “Though you could hardly expect me to hand over my own parishioners if I had. I am a man of peace. I can promise you, though, Captain, that you will never take them again in the act of cheating the Revenue.”
The captain turned to his troop sergeant. “Are you sure it was four o'clock by Tenterden church?” he asked.
“As surely as I saw Grinsley killed, sir.”
“Good God!” muttered the captain—and whether it was from cold or fright, Dr. Syn saw the gallant Dragoon shiver.
