Текст книги "A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh"

Автор книги: Russell Thorndike

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front of his demon cavalry. Jerry Jerk heard him give a short order to Beelzebub as he passed, and then saw him gallop away after the packponies. And then came the ordeal for the King’s men, for they were kept in that uncomfortable position for a full two hours, or maybe even longer. Folly to move, folly to fight, there they had to stop—a foolish-looking group of fighting men, if you like, but more foolish had they attempted resistance, for they were outnumbered in men, in arms, and in wits. Once, indeed, did the bo’sun nearly lose his head, and that was when Hellspite lowered his blunderbuss and produced a clay pipe which he lit. The bo’sun saw a chance, spat in his hand, grasped his cutlass, and clambered from the dyke. But instantaneously came the ominous noise of cocking pistols, and the old seadog grabbed the bo’sun’s leg and pulled him back swearing into the mud. Hellspite chuckled and smoked his pipe, the horsemen covered every man in the ditch with cocked weapons, and so another hour passed over the curious group. Suddenly from over the Marsh came the cry position for a full two hours, or maybe even longer. Folly to move, folly to fight, there they had to stop—a foolish-looking group of fighting men, if you like, but more foolish had they attempted resistance, for they were outnumbered in men, in arms, and in wits. Once, indeed, did the bo’sun nearly lose his head, and that was when Hellspite lowered his blunderbuss and produced a clay pipe which he lit. The bo’sun saw a chance, spat in his hand, grasped his cutlass, and clambered from the dyke. But instantaneously came the ominous noise of cocking pistols, and the old seadog grabbed the bo’sun’s leg and pulled him back swearing into the mud. Hellspite chuckled and smoked his pipe, the horsemen covered every man in the ditch with cocked weapons, and so another hour passed over the curious group. Suddenly from over the Marsh came the cry

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of a curlew, weird and repeated seven times. Hellspite put up his pipe and muttered an order to the two devils by the donkey, and then he addressed the sailors:

“Now, good sailors, we will trouble you for your arms. Pass them up to good Job Mallet and he shall stretch his legs and lay them at my feet.”

But again Job Mallet lost his head. He arose in the ditch and sang out bravely: “You and the rest of you are damned cowards in silencing the mouth of our captain. Had he his voice you know what he’d say—‘Shoot and be damned to you!’ and well you know it. Why don’t you meet us in fair fight, you damned cowards, instead of using such devil’s tricks?”

“’Cos we ain’t so bloody-minded as the good King’s bo’sun,” answered Hellspite in a piping voice, which drew forth a great laugh from the devils.

One of the seamen, considering that all eyes were now upon the bo’sun, leaped from the ditch and made a rush for Hellspite with his naked cutlass.

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Five or six pistols cracked behind him and over he fell, face downward in the road. Every shot had taken effect: he was dead.

“Oh, do keep your heads, you silly King’s men!” wailed Hellspite, “for look how we’ve spoiled that nice little man. He’s no use now to fight the French, no use at all. Oh, what a pity, what a pit, what a pity!”

Again came the cry of the curlew, seven times.

“Now, then, those weapons!” ordered Hellspite sharply, “and if they don’t come along quick we’ll put this captain out of service along with his man there.”

There was nothing for it but to obey. They were in the demons’ power. The sailors had found that the smugglers were good shots and that they meant business. No, there was nothing for it but to hand over their arms to the bo’sun, who with bad grace laid them upon the roadway, whence they were picked up by the jack-o’-lanterns, who bore them into the barn.

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“Now, then, my fine fellows,” said Hellspite, “we’ll plump this ’ere captain on the road. You will pick him up if you want him and take him home to bed, for the dawn ain’t far off, and as the wool packs are safe and away, we’ll bid you good repose.”

The captain was accordingly lifted from the donkey and laid upon the road. The sailors were filed up around him, and conducted ingloriously back to the vicarage barn. Three devils, having been told off for the purpose, bore away the body of the dead seaman, so that before the dawn lit up the Marsh there was no sign of smugglers anywhere, and Jerry Jerk, after disrobing with the others at the coffin shop, was packed off home to bed by Beelzebub, where, without disturbing his grandparents, he fell immediately to sleep, and dreamed his whole adventure over again.

Just as the dawn was breaking Mipps was returning from the vicarage barn, where he had deposited a bundle of weapons outside the door, when he saw a

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yellow-faced man creeping along the field by the churchyard wall. As he watched the figure disappear into a deep dyke he muttered: “I wonder if that there thing is real or unreal? I wonder if he did get off that reef in his body? If he did, what the blarsted hell’s he findin’ to live upon? and if he ain’t—well, God help one of us in this ’ere place!” And he scurried back to the coffin shop like a sneaking rat.

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Chapter 29

Captain Collyer Entertains an Attorney from Rye

It was something of a difficult position which Captain Collyer was called upon to face. That he had cut a ridiculous figure no one was more conscious than himself, and being made absurd before his own men made the situation doubly difficult. But Captain Collyer preserved his dignity in a most meritorious manner. When the smugglers had gone and the bo’sun had freed him from his bonds, he stood up in the barn and addressed the sailors: “My men,” he began, “we have been badly beaten. Without a blow you were forced to lay down your

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arms, which I well know must have been a hard thing for you to do. After I had given the bo’sun orders of the night’s plan I went out to verify certain suspicions that I had formed against certain folk upon the Marsh. I was congratulating myself on how well I was succeeding, when I found myself a helpless prisoner in the wretches’ hands. I had walked blindly into a very clever trap. As you saw for yourselves, my captors made such a complete job of me that I was helpless to speak with you or give you any sign. Under the circumstances, I must thank the bo’sun for his gallant behaviour. I appreciate what he did, for he saved my life, although perhaps I could almost find it in my heart that he had acted otherwise, for a good seaman’s death is now on my hands—brave Will Rudrum, who was shot dead on the road. I also cannot find it in my heart to reprimand Joe Dickinson for his fit of laughter, because nobody saw the humour and disgrace of my position as much as I did myself. But when a man’s life is forfeited all humour slips away, and so it has for me

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and for you, I’m sure, who were Will Rudrum’s comrades at arms. I am very thankful that my life has been spared for this one purpose—namely, of avenging poor Rudrum’s death—and if any one should and can avenge him, I hold myself to be that man. For this purpose I intend to take you all into my confidence. Having failed dismally so far, I do not wish to fail again; therefore, listen. In the first place, we are not a strong enough body to cope with these Marshmen. I shall therefore demand a strong body of reinforcements. There are redcoats at Dover and there are seamen at Rye. To both of these towns shall I send couriers. Also at Rye there is a remarkable old man, a wise man, an attorney-at-law. He will meet me this very day at the Ship Inn, and will undertake all the legal points with regard to the arrests which I shall make as soon as I have gathered up a few more facts. Will Rustrum was the first to fall in a good cause, for this corner of England is a very hotbed of enemies to the

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government. Bo’sun, you will serve out an extra allowance of rum at once, for

we must drink together.”

The rum was served and the captain raised his pannikin:

“To the swift avenging of poor Will Rudrum, to the quick regaining of our dignity, and to the speedy hanging of his Majesty’s foes!”

The men drank, and then Joe Dickinson shouted: “And to our captain, God bless him, and blast them as does him dirty tricks!”

The toast was drunk greedily, and then the bo’sun led three cheers—three cheers which went echoing out of the old barn across the Marsh with a strength that made many a smuggler turn in bed uneasily.

When they opened the barn door at daybreak to let the captain go forth, they found there a neat pile of weapons: his Majesty’s pistols and his Majesty’s cutlasses were all returned.

“Aye, but there’s some honour amongst thieves, sir!” exclaimed the bo’sun.

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“Devil a bit of it!” said the captain. “The rascals know that we can soon get substitutes, and they’ve no wish to have such telltale things discovered on their premises. There’s more good sense than honour in it, I’m thinking, Job Mallet.” premises. There’s more good sense than honour in it, I’m thinking, Job Mallet.”

At ten o’clock that morning a coach rolled up to the door of the Ship Inn and out stepped Antony Whyllie, Esq., attorney-at-law from Rye, a man of sixty-five years, but upright and alert as any young man. He was attired in a bottle-green coat, black satin breeches, silk stockings, silver-buckled shoes, and faultless linen. His gray wig, tied concisely with a black ribbon, completed a true picture of the law: a man to desire for one’s defence, a man to dread for one’s accusation.

The captain received him at the door of the inn and conducted him to the privacy of his own bedchamber.

There he unburdened his mind to the lawyer, stating all his suspicions and clearly showing how he had arrived at them. By the end of the morning they

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thoroughly understood each other, the lawyer returning by coach to Rye with orders to the governor of the castle to prepare accommodation for a large number of prisoners and to see to it that there were chains enough to hang ’em to. But, strange to relate, that lawyer in bottle green never reached the little town of Rye, for his coach stopped at a certain farmhouse beyond Romney. Here he alighted to make room for another lawyer, a real lawyer, a man of sixty-five, who had left Rye that very morning to consult with a certain Captain Collyer residing at the Ship Inn, Dymchurch. For at a lonely spot on the road outside Romney a strong body of men had awaited the arrival of his coach. While two or three of them removed the driver from his box to the farmhouse, where they speedily made him drunk, two or three others had entered the coach, securely gagged and blindfolded the occupant, and conveyed him also to the house, the coach immediately proceeding to Dymchurch with another coachman and another lawyer, a man in a bottle-green coat.

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The blindfolded lawyer had been scared out of all knowledge, especially by the sound of the voice of a certain man known as the Scarecrow. This terrible ruffian had told the lawyer that if on returning to Rye he breathed a word of what had happened they would most certainly catch him again and do away with him, adding that there was no place more convenient than Romney Marsh for the hiding of a body. So with the exception of telling his awful experience to his wife, whom he feared nearly as greatly as he feared the Scarecrow, Antony Whyllie, attorney-at-law, held his tongue, being only thankful that the rascals had let him off so easily. The coachman, who was so muddled with drink and with falling off his box at least a dozen times on the way back, never even remembered what had happened or to whose kind offices he was indebted for the privilege of becoming so gloriously drunk. So the affair passed unheeded by the public, and the gentleman in bottle green, having changed his clothes, might that very afternoon have been seen going toward the church of

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Dymchurch. Down into the crypt he went, and there, at a dirty table lighted by a candle set in a bottle’s neck, he aided two other men to work out certain accounts that were spread before them in a book marked “Parish Register of Deaths.” But there were no deaths registered in that book. It was full of figures accounting for cargoes of wool, full of receipts for coffins loaded with spirits. candle set in a bottle’s neck, he aided two other men to work out certain accounts that were spread before them in a book marked “Parish Register of Deaths.” But there were no deaths registered in that book. It was full of figures accounting for cargoes of wool, full of receipts for coffins loaded with spirits.

Sexton Mipps and the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat then unlocked an old chest and took out certain money bags which they emptied on the table. The third gentleman, whom they addressed as the Scarecrow, helped them to sort the coin, French in one pile, English in another, and then referring to a list of names in the register, the three managers of the secret bank proportioned out their servants’ wages. When this was accomplished the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat presented his little account, which was promptly paid in golden guineas, and he left them, saying that he

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was very sorry that it was the last time that he could draw so many Georges from the bank.

“Yes, the bank closes accounts to-day,” said the Scarecrow, striking his name off the list, “though perhaps some day we shall open it again. Who knows?”

“Let’s hope so,” said the other, shaking hands with the Scarecrow and the sexton, “and let’s hope we meet again. Good-bye.” And he was gone, Mipps locking the door behind him.

“It’s all right to a penny,” said the Scarecrow.

“Hooray! I calls it,” chuckled Sexton Mipps, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll get this little lot of coinage nailed up in a coffin and sent to Calais, and old What’s-his-name wot’s just gone up the stairs has arranged with the Calais people to get it transferred to the Bank of Lyons, so you can get at it yourself from Marseilles, can’t you?”

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“Yes, we’re all square now. Everything shipshape. Mother Waggetts I’ve settled with, and Imogene gets the iron-bound casket. I’ve seen to it all. But it’s time I was off. I’ve a certain gentleman to see before nightfall.”

“Who’s that?” asked Mipps.

“The squire,” replied the Scarecrow, laughing as he tied up the money bags.

“And I have a gentleman to visit, too,” said Mipps.

“Who’s that?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Parson Syn, Doctor Syn, the worthy vicar,” replied Mipps, winking, at which the Scarecrow laughed and went out of the crypt.

Mipps, after locking up the money in the chest, followed leisurely, and as he crossed the churchyard he saw Doctor Syn ringing the front door bell of the Court House.

“Well,” murmured Mipps to himself, “I’ve met one or two of ’em in my time, but he’s a blinkin’ marvel.”

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Chapter 30

Doctor Syn Has a “Call”

Do you mean to say that you’re going to leave Dymchurch?” The squire was positively angry, a thing he had never been with Doctor Syn in all the years that he had known him. “You are undoubtedly pulling my leg—that’s what you’re doing. God bless my soul, sir, there’s precious few fellows can do that, and precious few that dare try; but that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” “I’m afraid not, Sir Antony. My dear squire, my good friend, I am afraid that for once in my life I am most dreadfully in earnest.”

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“But what don’t you like about the place? Is it something I’ve done? Do you want your stipend raised? Damme, I’ll treble the blessed thing, if it’s that. Oh, it’s that rascally son of mine that’s been putting you out. It’s that Denis scamp, who never took to his books and never will. But I’ll make him. I’ll take my riding whip to the young whelp if he causes you pain. It is he! He’s at the bottom of it. My soul and body, I’ll give the young puppy a shaking up. He doesn’t know a good tutor when he sees one. The impertinent young popinjay! Doesn’t appreciate anything. No! God bless my soul, why he’s no more respect for me than a five-barred gate. He’s always doing something to jar me. Why, do you know, that the cool-faced malefactor announced the other day in the most insolent manner that he was going to marry a barmaid? Yes, I assure you he did. He announced to me, sir, in the most condescending tones, as if he were conferring an inestimable favour upon my head, that he thought I ran a very good chance of having that girl Imogene for my daughter-in-law. You know

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Imogene, that serves and waits and does innumerable dirty jobs at the Ship Inn; and when I expostulated in fatherly tones, why, bless me, if the young spitfire didn’t fly into a passion, crying out that it was high time one of the Cobtrees introduced some good looks into the family. Said that to me, mind you—his natural father that brought him into the world. I told him that, used those very words, and what does he do but begin to bow and scrape and praise and thank me for bringing him into the world at the same period as that black-haired bargirl, just as if his mother and I had timed the thing to a nicety! Why, when I come to think of it, she’s the daughter of a common pirate, that rascally, scoundrelly Clegg, who was hanged at Rye. Isn’t she now? And she’s to be my daughter-in-law! Now, Doctor Syn, in the name of Romney Marsh, what the devil—I say, what the devil would you do if you had a son like that to deal with?”

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The squire absolutely had to stop for breath, and Doctor Syn, who had been vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, replied: “Well, sir, I should candidly confess that my son was a lucky dog if he succeeded in getting her, and which, I should very much doubt. In fact, were I in your place, I should go so far as to bet my wig that he would never win the girl. I’m very fond of Denis, devoted to him in fact, but I’m afraid he’ll have a great difficulty in marrying Imogene.”

“I should damn well bet my eyes he will, sir! I need none to tell me that. Difficulty in marrying her? Aye, that he will. My son will marry position, sir— money, sir—and if beauty comes along of it, well, then, beauty, sir, and all the better for my son, sir.”

“And provided of course that the lady is willing,” put in the vicar.

“Willing? What minx wouldn’t be only too damned willing to marry my son —old Cobtree’s son; and not so old either, sir, eh? Why, any woman would jump at the chance! And as for a bargirl, the daughter of a dirty pirate hanged

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in that silly conceited little town of Rye, why, poohpooh, my dear Doctor! Laughable!”

“Well, I think differently in this case, Squire,” said the Doctor. “I should call Denis a lucky dog. I might even stretch a point and, at the risk of being unfrocked, say a damned lucky dog if he succeeded in marrying that girl Imogene.”

“What?” cried the squire.

“Of course,” said the Doctor, “you mustn’t go entirely by what I say, because I hold myself very seriously gifted in the judging of attractive women.”

“And so do I, sir. I know she’s attractive. A damned fine, upstanding young woman, and if she were even a county pauper I might stretch a point and accept her, but beauty comes last on my list.”

“But Imogene possesses all other necessaries required. Rich she is, and very rich, though she doesn’t know it, and although her mother was but a dancer in a

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Raratonga gambling saloon, she was descended direct from an Indian princess, and as you said ‘poohpooh’ to me, sir, why, I’ll say ‘pooh’ back, sir: ‘pooh’ to your Kentish ladies of quality, for when Imogene comes into her own, why, damme, she could chuck their fortunes on to every horse in the village steeplechase.”

“Is she so very wealthy—that girl at the Ship Inn? Well, perhaps I am wrong in saying that the match is so very uneven. Perhaps I am.”

“Yes,” went on the vicar, “there is just the possibility that it might be brought to a successful issue, though if you’ll excuse my saying so, you are so very tactless at time, Squire.”

“What do you mean?” cried the squire hotly. “I am none too sure that I should care for my son to marry a bargirl, though she were the daughter of Croesus himself.”

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“My dear Squire, calm yourself, I beg. As a barmaid I admit Imogene is below Denis as regards position, but as an Incan princess, why, my dear friend, she is as far superior to the Cobtrees of the Court House as the reigning house of England. Why, do you know anything—but of course you do—of the pride, the magnificence, the omnipotent splendour possessed by the Incan kings? Why, the Palace at Whitehall would compare most unfavourably with their sculleries.”

“No? Really?” said the squire.

“And it’s for the wealth and fortunes of Imogene that I must leave you,” went on the cleric—“that is, leave you for a time, you understand? For although I shall bestow upon her certain things of value that I hold as her guardian, the bulk of her fortune has been lying idle, but now that she is growing into womanhood, it is high time I fulfilled my duties and lifted her money for her.”

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“Then she’s your adopted child, is she?” said the squire, pushing his wig back and scratching his head.

“Well, I suppose that’s how it stands in a sense,” replied the Doctor. “When that rascal Clegg died he actually paid me a good sum of money to see that his daughter was provided for, and of course I’ve kept that money for her till she came to years of discretion. He also told me where England’s treasure was buried, and that’s what I’m off to get.”

“England’s treasure? What’s that?” asked the amazed squire.

“Clegg was a partner of England, the notorious pirate. It is said that he killed England in a quarrel, though nothing was proved of it. Anyhow, Clegg was the only man who knew of the hiding-place, and at his death he imparted the secret to me, after I had given solemn oath upon the Bible to keep it to myself.”

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“God bless my soul!” said the squire, leaping to his fee; “and do you mean to say that you’ve kept the secret all this time and not fitted out a ship and gone to lift it? Why, there may be millions there!”

“There are,” said Doctor Syn. “I’m certain of that. That’s why I’ve been at pains to keep the whole matter to myself, not even telling the girl, for it will want careful handling. Once let any one know that I am off to lift Clegg’s treasure-chests, and all the dogs in Christendom will be nosing on my trail. Clegg had the same fear of this secret being stolen and so committed the exact lie of the island to my memory, and to no artificial map, but he did it so uncommon well that I can see point, bays, lagoons, soundings, and tracks just as if I had piloted ships there all my life.”

“Then all this pious talk of wanting to go out as a mission preacher to the smelly blacks is simply balderdash, and you haven’t had a ridiculous ‘call’ at all?”

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“Merely a cloak to hide my real designs.”

“Good Lord deliver us!” said the squire, pushing his wig clean off and allowing it to lie unheeded on the floor.

Just then there entered a servant who announced to the squire that the girl from the Ship Inn was outside with a note which she desired to give to the squire.

“Ask her to be so kind as to step in,” said the squire, with a touch of deference and awakened interest.

Imogene accordingly came into the room. Perfectly at ease she stood there, until with almost regal grace she accepted the chair that the squire brought forward. Yes, he thought the vicar was right. Her clothes were rough indeed, but her manner would have sat well on an empress.

“You have brought a note for me, I think—Imogene?” said the squire at last. He was ridiculously uncertain whether to call her Imogene as usual, or

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Madame; in fact in his confusion he was as near as not saying Mistress Cobtree, which would have been awful. Imogene held out a small sealed packet, and looked at the fire, and so taken up was the squire with looking at her and thinking of the Incan millions that, if Doctor Syn had not shuffled his foot, he would have forgotten to open the letter at all. But the moment he had, the girl, the Incan millions, his anger against his son, the mission ‘call’ of the Doctor, everything was forgotten, for he crunched the letter in his hand, threw his head back, and looking at the ceiling with the most appalled expression on his face, cried out: “If there’s a God in heaven, come down quick and wring this captain’s neck!”

“What is it?” cried the vicar.

“Read it out!” yelled the squire, flinging the crumpled paper ball upon the table. “If you love me, read it out and tell me what to do.”

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Doctor Syn recovered the note, which had bounced from the table to the floor, and when he had unravelled it and smoothed it straight and flat, he read:

“SHIP INN.

“To Sir Antony Cobtree of the Court House, Leveller of the Marsh Scotts,

“SIR: I beg to inform you on behalf of the British Admiralty that the person of Mister Rash, Dymchurch schoolmaster, has disappeared. I feel sure that there is somebody in power who is organizing Romney Marsh for his own ends. Somebody is running wool to France, and from the clever organization of these runs, I know that some cultured brain is directing affairs. Your attitude of utter indifference forces me to suspect you. As Leveller of the Marsh Scotts you are in a safe place to control such a scheme, and so I have taken a strong measure in attaching the person of your son, Mister Denis Cobtree. If the body of that unfortunate schoolmaster, dead or alive, is not produced before me within the next twenty-four hours, I shall take steps to force your hand.

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[Signed] “CAPTAIN HOWARD COLLYER, “Coast Agent and Commissioner.

“P.S. There is a press gang at work in Rye who will ship your son to sea in twenty-four hours.”

“Now what am I to do? Press gang at Rye! Twenty-four hours! What have I got to do with that flabby-faced schoolmaster? Where’s he got to? How the devil should I know? P’raps he thinks that I have danced him off somewhere. Never heard of such a thing in my life. But what am I to do? That’s what I want to know! What am I to do? My poor Denis! Why, I wouldn’t have quarrelled with him if I’d known. Why has that schoolmaster disappeared? By what infernal right, I say, has that insignificant anćmic louse disappeared?”

Doctor Syn then briefly related the bo’sun’s story of Rash’s disappearance, which the squire listened to impatiently.

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“Well, sir,” the latter exclaimed at the conclusion, “as far as that schoolmaster’s concerned, I don’t mind if he’s roasting on Lucifer’s spit, for I dislike the man, but when his disappearance concerns the safety of my son, my God! he’s got to put in an appearance and be quick about it. For I’ll have him routed out of his infernal hiding-place. I’ll rouse the Marshmen and have him routed out.”

“That’s all very well, Squire, but how?”

“How, sir?” echoed that irascible gentleman. “How? Do you ask me how? Well, I don’t know! How? Yes, how?”

“That’s the question,” ruefully remarked Doctor Syn.

“Of course it is,” returned the other. “Well, how would you set about it yourself?”

“I’d beat the Marsh from border to border.”

“So I will, sir, so I will!”

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“And I should get that mulatto and hang him, for he’s a sorcerer, a witchman; and I believe that as long as we have such a Jonah’s curse among us that nothing will come right.”

“I’ll do that at once. But we’ve only twenty-four hours.”

Imogene stood up and looked at the squire, and in a steady voice, as if she were pronouncing a definite judgment, she said: “It is enough for me. I will undertake to find your son for you, and the schoolmaster, too.” And without waiting for a reply she swiftly passed out of the room.

“But what can we do?” stammered the squire.

“I should find that mulatto and hang him.”

“But I don’t care a fig about finding him.”

“You must,” persisted the cleric, “for he is the cause of the trouble. Find the mulatto, and leave the rest to Imogene. She has spoken, and you may be sure she’ll keep her word. But find that mulatto!”

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