Текст книги "A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh"

Автор книги: Russell Thorndike

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Doctor Syn

A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh by Russell Thorndyke

1915

Contents

Dymchurch-under-the-wall …………………………… 5 The Coming of the King’s Frigate ……………………… 12 The Coming of the King’s Men ……………………….. 21 The Captain …………………………………….. 37 A Bottle of Alsace Lorraine ………………………….. 48 Doctor Syn Takes Cold …………………………….. 58 Clegg the Buccaneer ………………………………. 67 Dogging the Schoolmaster …………………………… 83 The End of Sennacherib Pepper ……………………….. 96 Doctor Syn Gives Some Advice ……………………….103 The Court House Inquiry ……………………………113

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12 The Captain Objects ………………………………120 13 The End of the Inquiry……………………………..133 14 At the Vicarage ………………………………….141 15 A Landed Proprietor Sets Up a Gallows Tree………………147 16 The Schoolmaster’s Suit ……………………………164 17 The Doctor Sings a Song ……………………………174 18 Behind the Shutters ……………………………….184 19 The Captain’s Nightmare……………………………189 20 A Terrible Investigation…………………………….195 21 The Bo’sun’s Story ……………………………….203 22 A Curious Breakfast Party …………………………..212 23 A Young Recruit …………………………………231 24 The Coffin-Maker Has a Visitor ………………………251 25 The Sexton Speaks ……………………………….259

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26 The Devil’s Tiring House …………………………..276 27 The Scarecrow’s Legion ……………………………284 28 The Fight at Mill House Farm ………………………..296 29 Captain Collyer Entertains an Attorney from Rye……………314 30 Doctor Syn Has a “Call” ……………………………324 31 A Certain Tree Bears Fruit ………………………….339 32 The Captain’s Experiment …………………………..347 33 Adventures in Watchbell Street ……………………….356 34 A Military Lady-killer Prepares for Battle ………………..381 35 Scylla or Charybdis ……………………………….391 36 Holding the Pulpit ………………………………..403 37 The Dead Man’s Throttle …………………………..416 38 Dymchurch-under-the-wall ………………………….430 39 Echoes………………………………………..434

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Chapter 1

Dymchurch-under-the-wall

To those who have small knowledge of Kent let me say that the fishing village of Dymchurch-under-the-wall lies on the south coast midway between two of the ancient Cinque ports, Romney and Hythe. In the days of George III, with Trafalgar still unfought, our coast watchmen swept with keen glasses the broad bend of the Channel; watched not for smugglers (for there was little in Dymchurch to attract the smuggler, with its flat coastline open all the way from Dover cliffs around Dungeness to Beachy Head), but for the French men-o’-war.

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In spite of being perilously open to the dangers of the French coast, Dymchurch was a happy little village in those days—aye, and prosperous, too, for the Squire, Sir Antony Cobtree, though in his younger days a wild and reckless adventurer, a gambler and a duellist, had, of late years, resolved himself into a pattern Kentish squire, generous to the village, and so vastly popular. Equally popular was Doctor Syn, the vicar of Dymchurch: a pious and broad-minded cleric, with as great a taste for good Virginia tobacco and a glass of something hot as for the penning of long sermons which sent every one to sleep on Sundays. Still, it was clearly his duty to deliver these sermons, for, as I have said, he was a pious man, and although his congregation for the most part went to sleep, they were at great pains not to snore, because to offend the old Doctor would have been a lasting shame.

The little church was old and homely, within easy cry of the sea; and it was pleasant on Sunday evenings, during the Doctor’s long extempore prayers, to

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hear the swish and the lapping and continual grinding of the waves upon the sand.

But church would come to an end at last, as most good things will, although there was a large proportion of the congregation—especially among the younger members—who considered that they could have even too much of a good thing.

The heavy drag of the long sermon and never-ending prayers was lifted, however, when the hymns began. There was something about the Dymchurch hymns that made them worth singing. True, there was no organ to lead them, but that didn’t matter, for Mr. Rash, the schoolmaster—a sallow, lantern-jawed young man with a leaning toward music—would play over the tune on a fiddle, when led by the Doctor’s sonorous voice, and seconded by the soul-splitting notes of Mipps, the sexton, the choir, recruited entirely from seamen whose voices had been cracked these many years at the tiller, would roll out some sturdy old tune like a giant pćan, shaking the very church with its fury, and

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sounding more like a rum-backed capstan song than a respectable, God-fearing hymn. They felt it was worth while kneeling through those long, long prayers to have a go at the hymns. The Doctor never chose solemn ones, or, if he did, it made no odds, for just the same were they bellowed like a chanty, and it was with a long-drawn note of regret that the seafaring choir drawled out the final Amen.

Very often when a hymn had gone with more spirit than usual the Doctor would thump on the desk of the three-decker, addressing the choir with a hearty, “Now, boys, that last verse once again,” and then, turning to the congregation, he would add: “Brethren, for the glory of God and for our own salvation we will sing the—er—the last two verses once again.” Whereat Mr. Rash would scrape anew upon the fiddle, Doctor Syn would pound out the rhythm with a flat banging on the pulpit side, and after him would thunder the sea salts from the choir with an enthusiasm that bade fair to frighten hell itself.

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When they had hardly a note left in their bodies, the service would be rounded off by Doctor Syn, and the congregation would gather in little groups outside the church to bid him a good-night. But Doctor Syn would take some minutes changing his black gown for his cloth surcoat; besides, there was the collection to be counted and entered into the book, and a few words of parochial business with the sexton, but at last it would be all finished and he would come forth to receive the homage of the parish. He would be accompanied by Sir Antony, who was warden as well as squire and a regular churchgoer, as the well-thumbed pages of a large prayer-book in the family pew could prove. Bestowing a cheery word here and a kindly nod there, the gentleman would pass on to the Court House, where, after a hearty supper, Doctor Syn would metaphorically lay aside his robes of righteousness, and over a long pipe of his favourite tobacco and a smoking bowl of bishop, with many an anecdote of land and sea, make the jolly squire laugh till his sides ached, for

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he possessed to a lively extent that happy knack of spinning a good yarn, having travelled far and read much, albeit he was a parson.

And while the vicar entertained his patron at the Court House, Mr. Mipps in a like manner held court behind the closed doors of the old “Ship Inn.” Here, with his broken clay pipe asmoke like a burning chimney and with eminent peril of singeing the tip of his nose, he would recount many a tale of wild horror and adventure, thoroughly encouraged by Mrs. Waggetts, the landlady, who had perceived the sexton’s presence to be good for trade; and thus it was that by working his imagination to good effect Doctor Syn’s parochial factotum was plied with many a free drink at the expense of the “Ship.” The little sexton was further encouraged into yarning because it gratified his vanity to see that they all believed in him. It was exhilarating to know that he really made their flesh creep. He felt a power and chuckled in his heart when he saw his audience swallowing his exaggerations for gospel as easily as he himself could

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swallow rum, for Mipps liked rum—he had served for a great part of his life as a ship’s carpenter and had got the taste for it—and so as a seasoned traveller they respected him, for what he hadn’t seen of horrors in the far-off lands— well, the whole village would have readily staked their wigs was not worth seeing.

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Chapter 2

The Coming of the King’s Frigate

Now Doctor Syn was very fond of the sea, and he was never far away from it. Even in winter time he would walk upon the sea-wall with a formidable telescope under his arm, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of a long sea-coat, and his old black three-cornered parson’s hat cocked well forward and pulled down over his eyes. And although the simple old fellow would be mentally working out his dry-as-dust sermons, he would be striding along at a most furious speed, presenting to those who did not know him an altogether alarming appearance, for in tune to his brisk step he would be

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humming the first verse of an old-time sea chanty that he had picked up from some ruffianly seadog of a parishioner; and as he strode along, with his weather eye ever on the lookout for big ships coming up the Channel, the rough words would roll from his gentle lips with the most perfect incongruity:

“Oh, here’s to the feet that have walked the plank, Yo ho! for the dead man’s throttle, And here’s to the corpses floating round in the tank, And the dead man’s teeth in the bottle.”

He was as proud of this song as if he had written it himself, and it was a continual source of amusement to the fishermen to hear him sing it, which he frequently did of an evening in the parlour of the old Ship Inn when he went there for a chat and a friendly pipe; for Doctor Syn was, as I have said, broad-minded, and held views that would certainly have been beyond those of the

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diocesan dignitaries. The very daring of a parson drinking with the men in a public inn had a good effect, he declared, upon the parish, for a good parson, as a good sailor, should know when he has had enough. The squire would back him up in this, and there they would both sit every evening laughing and talking with the fishermen, very often accompanying some crew down to the beach to help them launch their boat—and of course all this added to their popularity. But on Sunday nights they dined at the Court House, leaving the field open for the redoubtable Mipps, who, as has been said, took full advantage of it.

Now the ungainly little sexton had a great admirer in the person of Mrs. Waggetts, the landlady of the Ship. Her husband had been dead for a number of years, and she was ever on the lookout for another. She perceived in the person of Mipps her true lord and master. He was enterprising, he had also money of his own, for he was parish undertaker as well as sexton, and ran from his small

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shop in the village every trade imaginable. You could buy anything, from a bottle of pickles to a marlin spike in that dirty little store, and get a horrible anecdote thrown in with your bargain from the ready lips of the old fellow, who would continue to hammer away at an unfinished coffin as he talked to you.

But the burning passion that smouldered in the breast of the Ship landlady was in no way shared by the little sexton.

“Missus Waggetts,” he would say, “folk in the death trade should keep single; they gets their fair share of misery, Lord above knows, in these parts with the deaths so uncommon few.”

“Well,” Mrs. Waggetts would sigh, “I often wish as how it had been me that had been took instead of Waggetts. I fair envy him lying up there all so peaceful like, just a-rottin’ slowly along in his coffin.”

But the sexton would immediately fly into a rage with: “Waggetts’ coffin rottin’, did you say, Missus Waggetts? Not mine. I undertook Waggetts, I’d

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have you remember, and I don’t undertake to rot. I loses money on my coffins, Missus Waggetts. I undertakes, ma’am, undertakes to provide a suitable affair wot’ll keep out damp and water, and cheat worm, grub, slug, and slush.”

“Nobody would deny, Mister Mipps,” the landlady would answer in a conciliatory tone, “as to how you’re a good undertaker. Any one with half an eye could see as how you knocks ’em up solid.”

But Mipps didn’t encourage Mrs Waggetts when she was pleased to flatter, so he would take himself off in high dudgeon to avoid her further attentions.

This actual conversation took place one November afternoon, and the sexton, after slamming the inn door to give vent to his irritation, hurried along the sea-wall toward his shop, comforting himself that he could sit snug inside a coffin and cheer himself up with hammering it.

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On the way he met Doctor Syn, who was standing silhouetted against the skyline with his telescope focussed upon some large vessel that was standing in off Dungeness.

“Ah, Mr. Mipps,” said the cleric, handing his telescope to the sexton, “tell me what you make of that?”

Mipps adjusted the lens and looked. “The Devil!” he ejaculated.

“I beg your pardon?” said the Doctor. “What did you say?”

One of the king’s preventer men had come out of his cottage and was approaching them.

“I don’t make no head nor tale of it,” replied the sexton. “Perhaps you do, sir?”

“Well, it looks to me,” continued the parson, “it—looks—to—me— uncommonly like a King’s frigate. Can’t you make out her guns on the port side?”

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“Yes!” cried the sexton; “I’ll be hanged if you’re not right, sir; it’s a damned King’s ship as ever was.”

“Mr. Mipps,” corrected the parson, “again I must ask you to repeat your remark.”

“I said, sir,” replied the sexton, meekly handing back the glass, “that you’re quite right: it’s a King’s ship, a nice King’s ship!”

“And she’s standing in, too,” went on the parson. “I can make her out plainly now, and, good gracious! she’s lowering a long-boat!”

“Oh!” said Mr. Mipps, “I wonder wot that’s for?”

“A revenue search,” volunteered the preventer.

Mipps started. He hadn’t seen the preventer.

“Hello!” he said, turning round; “didn’t know you was there, Sir Francis Drake. What do you make of that there ship?”

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“A King’s frigate,” replied the preventer man. “She’s sending a boat’s crew ashore.”

“What for?” asked the sexton.

“I told you: a revenue search; to look for smugglers.”

“Smugglers,” laughed the parson, “here in Dymchurch?”

“Aye, sir, so they say. Smugglers in Dymchurch.”

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the parson incredulously.

“How silly!” said the sexton.

“That remains to be seen, Mister,” retorted the preventer.

“What do you say?” said the sexton.

“I say, Mister, it remains to be seen.”

“’Course it does!” went on the sexton. “Let’s have another blink at her. Well,” he said at length, closing the telescope with a snap, and returning it, “King’s ship or no, they looks to me more like a set of mahogany pirates, and

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I’m a-goin’ to lock up the church. King’s men’s one thing, but havin’ the plate took’s another, and one that I don’t fancy, being held responsible; so good afternoon, sir”—touching his hat to the vicar—“and good afternoon to you, Christopher Columbus.” And with this little pleasantry, which struck him as being the height of humour, the grotesque little man hopped off at high speed in the direction of the inn.

“Odd little man that, sir,” said the preventer.

“Very odd little man,” said the vicar.

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Chapter 3

The Coming of the King’s Men

Meantime the little sexton had arrived, breathless and panting, at the inn. Here he was accosted with a breezy, “Hello, Mr. Mipps, where’s the Doctor?” The speaker was Denis Cobtree, the only son of the squire. This young worthy of some eighteen summers was being prepared in the paths of learning by the vicar with a view to his entering the university; but Denis, like his father before him, cared very little for books, and the moment the Doctor’s back was turned, off he would slip to talk to some weather-beaten

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seaman, or to attempt a flirtation with Imogene, the dark-haired girl who assisted the landlady at the inn.

“Just been talkin’ to the vicar on the sea-wall,” said Mipps, hurrying past into the parlour and calling loudly for Mrs. Waggetts.

“What do you want?” said that good lady, issuing from the kitchen with a teapot in her hand. Tea was the luxury she indulged in.

“A word,” answered the sexton, pushing her back into the kitchen and shutting the door behind him.

“Whatever is it?” asked the landlady in some alarm.

“What’s the time?” demanded the sexton.

“A quarter to four,” replied Mrs. Waggetts, turning pale.

“Good!” said the sexton. “School will be closing in a minute or two, so send Imogene round there to ask Mr. Rash to step across lively as soon as he’s

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locked up. But no”—he added thoughtfully—“I forgot: Rash is a bit struck on

the girl and they’ll linger on the way; send young Jerk, the potboy.”

“Jerk’s at school hisself,” said Mrs. Waggetts.

“Then you go,” retorted the sexton.

“No,” faltered the landlady. “It’s all right, I’ll send the girl; for she can’t abide Rash, so I’ll be bound she won’t linger. And while she’s gone I’ll brew you a nice cup of tea.”

“Throw your tea to the devil,” snarled the sexton. “One ’ud think you was a diamond duchess the way you consumes good tea. When shall I knock into your skull that tea’s a luxury—a drink wot’s only meant for swells? Perhaps you don’t know what a power of money tea costs!”

“Come, now,” giggled the landlady, “not to us, Mister Mipps. Not the way we gets it.”

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“I don’t know what you means,” snapped the wary sexton. “But I do wish as how you’d practise a-keepin’ your mouth shut, for if you opens it much more that waggin’ tongue of yours’ll get us all the rope.”

“Whatever is the matter?” whimpered the landlady.

“Will you do as I tell you?” shrieked the sexton.

“Oh, Lord!” cried Mrs. Waggetts, dropping the precious teapot in her agitation and running out of the back door toward the school. Mipps picked up the teapot and put it on the table; then lighting his short clay pipe he waited by the window.

In the bar sat Denis Cobtree, making little progress with a Latin book that was spread open on his knee. From the other side of the counter Imogene was watching him.

She was a tall, slim, wild creature, this Imogene, dressed as a fisher, with a rough brown skirt and a black fish blouse, and she wore neither shoes nor

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stockings. Her hair was long and her eyes black. She had no parents living, for her father—none other than the notorious pirate Clegg—had been hanged at Rye—hanged publicly by the redcoats for murder; and the mother—well, no one knew exactly who the mother was, Clegg having lived a wild and roving life; but it was evident that she must have been a southerner, from the complexion and supple carriage of this girl—probably some island woman of the Southern Seas. Imogene was a great favourite with all the men on account of her good looks and her dauntless courage when on the boats at sea; for she loved the sea and was wonderful upon it—her dark eyes flashing, her hair blowing wild, and her young bosom heaving with the thrill of fighting the waves.

Imogene liked Denis because he was nice to her, and, besides, he made her laugh: he was so funny. His ways were so funny, his high manners were so funny, but his shyness attracted her most.

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He was shy now because they were alone, and the boy knew that she was watching him; so he made a feint of studying his book of Latin, but Imogene could see that his mind was not on his reading.

“You don’t get on very fast, Mr. Denis,” she said.

Denis looked up from the book and laughed. “No,” he said, “not very, I’m afraid; I’m not very fond of books.”

“What are you fond of?” said the girl, leaning across the bar on her bare elbows.

“Oh, what a chance to say ‘you’!” thought the young man; but somehow the words wouldn’t come, so he stammered instead: “Oh, nothing much. I like horses rather; yes, I like riding.”

“Is that all?” said the girl.

“About all,” said the boy.

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“Mr. Rash, the schoolmaster, tells me that he likes riding,” went on the girl mischievously; “he also likes books; he reads very fast, much faster than you do.”

“Not Latin books, I’ll be bound,” said young Denis, starting up scarlet with rage, for he hated the schoolmaster, in whom he saw a possible rival to the girl’s affection. “And as for riding,” he cried, “a pretty fellow that to talk of riding, when he doesn’t know the difference ’tween a filly and a colt. He sits on an old white scragbones, jogs along the road at the rate of dyke water, and calls it riding. Put the fool on a horse and he’d be skull under the hoofs before he’d dug his heels in. The man’s a coward, too. I’ve heard tales of the way he uses the birch only on the little boys. Why, if they’d any sense they’d all mutiny and kick him round the schoolhouse.”

“You’re very hard on the schoolmaster, Mr. Denis,” said the girl.

“You don’t like him, do you?” asked the boy seriously. “You can’t!”

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But the girl only laughed, for into the bar-parlour had come Mrs. Waggetts, accompanied by the gentleman under discussion, and followed by young Jerk, the potboy.

Jerry Jerk, though only a lad of a dozen years, possessed two excellent qualifications: pluck and a head like a bullet. He had got through his schooling so far without a taste of the birch: not that he hadn’t deserved it, but the truth was—Mr. Rash was afraid of him, for he once had rapped the little urchin very severely on the head with his knuckles, so hard, indeed, that the blood had flowed freely, but not from Master Jerk’s head—oh, no: from the teacher’s knuckles—upon which young Jerry had burst into a peal of laughter, stoutly declaring before the whole class that when he grew up he intended to be a hangman, just for the pleasure of pulling the bolt for the schoolmaster. So ever after Jerry went by the name of “Hangman Jerk,” and whenever the pale, washy eye of the sandy-haired Mr. Rash fell on him, the schoolmaster pictured himself

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upon a ten-foot gallows with that fiend of a youngster adjusting the running noose around his scraggy neck.

This young ruffian, entering on the heels of the schoolmaster, and treading on them hard at every step, took over the bar from the fish girl, Mr. Rash remarking with a show of sarcasm that “he hoped he didn’t interrupt a pleasant conversation, and that if he did he was more sorry than he could say to Mr. Denis Cobtree.”

Denis replied that he shared the schoolmaster’s sorrow himself with a full heart, but the door being open, he—the schoolmaster—could easily go out as quickly as he had come in. At this young Jerk let fly a loud guffaw and doubled himself up behind the bar, laughing. Upon this instant the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the head of Mr. Mipps appearing round the kitchen door, inquiring whether it was their intention to keep him waiting all night.

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“Quite right, Mr. Mipps, quite right!” retorted the schoolmaster, and then turning to Imogene, he said: “Mr. Mipps wants us at once.” Denis was about to make an angry retort, but Imogene passed him and went into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Waggetts and the sandy-haired Rash, that gentleman carefully shutting the door behind him.

Denis now found himself alone with young Jerk. The would-be hangman was helping himself to a thimble of rum, and politely asked the squire’s son to join him; but Denis refused with a curt: “No, I don’t take spirits.”

“No?” replied the lad of twelve years. “Oh, you should. When I feels regular out and out, and gets fits of the morbids, you know, the sort of time when you feels you may grow up to be the hanged man and not the hangman, I always takes to myself a thimble of neat rum. Rum’s the drink for Britons, Mister Cobtree. Rum’s wot’s made all the best sailors and hangmen in the realm.”

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“If you go on drinking at this rate,” replied Denis, “you’ll never live to hang that schoolmaster.”

“Oh,” answered Jerry thoughtfully, “oh, Mister Denis, if I thought there was any truth in that, I’d give it up. Yes,” he went on with great emphasis, as if he were contemplating a most heroic sacrifice, “yes, I’d give up even rum to hang that schoolmaster, and it’s a hanging what’ll get him, and not old Mipps, the coffin knocker.”

Denis laughed at his notion and crossed to the kitchen door listening. “What can they be discussing in there so solemnly?” he said, more to himself than to his companion. But Jerry Jerk tossed off the pannikin of rum, clambered on the high stool behind the bar, and leaned across the counter, fixing Denis with a glance full of meaning.

“Mister Cobtree,” he whispered fearfully, “you are older than I am, but I feel somehow as if I can give you a point or two, because you’ve got sense. I’m

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a man of Kent, I am, and I’m going to be a hangman sooner or later, but above all I belongs to the Marsh and understands her, and them as understands the Marsh—well, the Marsh understands them, and this is what she says to them as understands her: ‘Hide yourself like I do under the green, until you feels you’re ready to be real mud’. I takes her advice, I do; I’m under the green, I am, but I can be patient, because I knows as how some day I’ll be real dirt. You can’t be real dirt all at once; so keep green till you can; and if I has to keep green for years and years, I’ll get to mud one day, and that’ll be the day to hang that Rash and cheat old Mipps of his body.” And to encourage himself in this resolve Jerry took another thimbleful of rum.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” said Denis.

“Don’t try to,” replied the youngster, “don’t try to. You’ll get it in time. The Marsh’ll show you. She takes her own time, but she’ll get you out of the green

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some day and ooze you up through the sluices, and then you’ll be a man of Kent, and no mistaking you.”

Denis, not able to make head or tail of this effusion, laughed again, which brought Jerry Jerk with a bound over the bar.

“See here, Mister Cobtree,” he hissed, coming close to him; “I likes you; you’re the only one in the village I haven’t hanged in my mind, and, what’s more to the point, you won’t blab if I tell you (but there, I know you won’t), you’re the only one in the village I couldn’t get hanged!”

“What on earth do you mean?” said the squire’s son.

“What I’ve said,” replied the urchin, “just what I’ve said, and not another word do you get from me but this: listen! Do you hear that sexton in there a-mumbling? Well, what’s he mumbling about? Ah, you don’t know, and I don’t know (leastways not exactly), but there’s one who does. Come over here,” and he led Denis to the back window and pointed out over Romney Marsh. “She

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knows, that there Marsh. She knows everything about this place, and every place upon her. Why, I’d give up everything I’ve got or shall get in this world, everything—except that schoolmaster’s neck—to know all she knows, ’cos she knows everything, Mister Cobtree, everything, she does. In every house there’s murmurings and mumblings a-going on, and in every dyke out there there’s the same ones, the very same ones a-going. You can hear ’em yourself, Mister Cobtree, if you stands among ’em. You try. But, oh, Mister Denis”—and he grabbed his arm imploringly—“don’t try to understand them dykes at night. She don’t talk then, she don’t; she does—she just does then. She does all wot the mumbles and murmurs have whispered to do; and it’s death on the Marsh at night. I found that out,” he added proudly. “Do you know how?”

“How?” queried Denis.

“By going out on her in the day, and gradually getting used to wot she says; that’s how; and that’s the only way.”

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Just then a most infernal noise arose from the front of the inn, and before Denis had disengaged himself from the earnest clutches of his guardian angel, and before the murmurs of Mr. Mipps had ceased in the kitchen, the bar was swarming with seamen—sailors—rough mahogany men with pigtails and brass rings, smelling of tar and, much to the admiration of Jerk, reeking of rum, filling the room with their jostling, spitting, and laughing, and their calls on the potboy to serve ’em with drink. But their entrance was so sudden, their appearance so startling, and their behaviour so alarming, that the young hangman was for the moment off his guard, for there he stood open-mouthed and awestruck, watching the giants help themselves freely from the great barrels. To Denis they had come with no less surprise. He had seen preventer men before; he had many friends among the fishermen, but these were real sailors, men-o’-war, who had lived through a hundred sea-fights, and seen

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hellfire on the high seas—real sailors, King’s men. Yes, the King’s men had come to Dymchurch.

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