THE SCARECROW RIDES (28 page)

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.”

“Who is it?” they asked.

“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.”

“And your prisoners?”

“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.”

“How long ago?”

“Must be over two hours, sir. The church clock struck four as his
horse fell dead.”

“And where is Grinsley?”

“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.

When Mipps called at the vicarage for orders that morning at the
usual hour of nine, he was informed by the housekeeper that the
reverend gentleman had breakfasted in his bedroom, as he had been out
all night visiting a sick woman, but that Mr. Mipps was to go up.

The sun was streaming through the open casement, but the curtains of
the bed were close-drawn.

“That you, Mipps?” asked the voice of Dr. Syn.

“Yes, Vicar,” replied the sexton.

“Shut the door.”

Mipps did so.

“Find the bottle behind the books. I have replenished it. Help
yourself.”

While Mipps carried out this excellent command, Dr. Syn pulled back
the curtains of the bed and gave him a detailed account of the
Scarecrow's ride.

“And there'll be a fearful ghost story told this day by that captain
of Dragoons,” he chuckled, “for he'll never realise that there were two
scarecrows on black horses riding the hills last night. It was a piece
of luck that it was I who made Grinsley break cover from that wood.
Hardened sinner though he was he had enough religion in him to make him
believe in the Devil. I could see by the fright in his eyes that as we
met face to face in the glade, he thought I was Satan come for him. I
have never seen a strong man so scared. He forgot everything but his
endeavor to get away from me, for I rode neck to neck with him up the
glade, laughing in his face and clawing the air for him with my hand,
till round he swung in a panic, galloped out of the wood, only to find
the Dragoons in full cry after him.”

Dr. Syn chuckled again. “But, my faith, that Captain Faunce wanted
some shaking off. I began to think that, short of using my pistols, I
should never change my horse for my pony before the dawn, and for half
an hour I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had made a grave mistake
in not allowing the captain to gallop after his men and the real
Grinsley.”

“Why, did you get such a chance?” asked Mipps.

“Aye, that I did,” went on Syn, “and at Grinsley's first break away
from the woods, for the captain heard his men hallooing and dashed off
in the direction. I was then governed entirely by a philanthropic
reason—”

“A how much reason, sir?” asked Mipps.

“I thought of others, Mr. Mipps,” exclaimed Dr. Syn. “I put the
interests of my erring parishioners before my own safety. I knew that,
better mounted than his men, the captain would the more speedily
overtake the murderer and, thought I, the chase may be ended all too
soon, for the rascal Mipps to get his kegs into hiding. I realised that
some delay was necessary, so I galloped after the captain, who in his
astonishment at finding the murderer, as he thought, pursuing him,
struck his helmet against an overhanging branch and lost it, as he
turned to fight. But I had turned already and waiting till he was all
but at sabre's length I led him a chase away from his men, to whom he
shouted in vain. It was a gallant run we had.”

“But how were you quit of him at last?” asked Mipps.

“I led him at length to the Warrens, where I found that my
newly-acquired beast had a miraculous instinct for avoiding the rabbit
holes. My friend's charger was not so blessed, and although his luck
held good for a time, down he came at length, and finished as far as a
good rider could allow. I tell you I had much ado to keep my face when
the captain spoke of it, for all that I was grieved at his horse's
laming. And now, my friend, tell me. When is the next run likely? For I
think that I had best lend a hand.”

Mipps grinned. “No compunction about being a parson now, sir?”

“My good sexton, I am pledged to look after my flock. Well, if they
must smuggle, I really must see that they do it properly.”

“And a very praiseworthy sentiment, Vicar. Does you credit,” said
Mipps.

“And to do it properly,” continued Syn, “involves a lot more trouble
than you have hitherto found necessary. First of all, where you have
used one lugger, I will have ten, and the cargo must be hidden with
neat contrivances. We'll carry brandy in tanks beneath live or stinking
fish. We'll send back wool packs under false planks with a cargo of
dung on top. We'll see if these Custom officers have delicate noses.
We'll have hollow masts, sunken rafts, tobacco twist ropes put inside
hawsers. When we have a great run in commission, we'll sacrifice a few
kegs as a sop to the Preventive men. Abandon a boat-load in a panic, my
friend, on one beach while we land a fleet's cargo on another. Oh there
are ways—many ways, but it wants the brain behind it. And no robbers
like Grinsley shall be employed. No extortion monies. We sell at high
prices off the Marsh, but here we give what we get and so build up a
local popularity. And meantime I must thunder against the smugglers in
the pulpit, for that will keep us on the side of the Customs. Let me
think. Let me work, and there will be no repetition of last night's
business.”

“Where would we be without you, sir, now, I trembles to think,”
exclaimed Mipps.

“Well, don't tremble, but pass the bottle,” ordered Syn.

“Having taken a pull, he nodded at the sexton facetiously, which
brought the tassel of his night-cap over one eye.

“Like old times,” he added. “Here's to the Scarecrow, the Demon
Rider of Romney Marsh. Aye, it's like old times, Master Carpenter.”

“Yessir,” replied the gratified Mipps, “but with this difference.
Clegg is dead. Long live the Scarecrow.”

“Aye,” muttered Syn to the bottle, “Clegg is dead and so is the
Master Carpenter.”

“Aye, sir, he's dead, too, so it's long live—who?” asked Mipps.
“Hellspite is a good name, ain't it? For I'll serve the Scarecrow same
as I did Clegg in spite of hell.”

“Hellspite then,” replied Syn, drinking to the sexton, and as he
passed the bottle he began to sing in a soft voice:

“Oh, here's to the feet what have walked the plank—

Yo-ho For the dead man's throttle.

And here's to the corpses afloat in the tank

And the dead man's teeth in the bottle.”

Half an hour later Dr. Syn stepped out into his garden and surveyed
with every mark of pleasure the bright spring morning. Not a sign of
his night's exertions could be traced as he briskly walked amongst the
flowers, picking the best blooms for a birthday bouquet. When he had
collected one of quite vast proportions, he approached the kitchen
casement and called his housekeeper.

“Mrs. Fowey, I think you ordered me some wig ribbon. Would you give
me some for this?”

“And is that for your dear god-daughter's birthday? Oh, moi dear
Vicar, it will never do to toi it with black. An ill omen, moi dear.”

“Nonsense. The black indicates the old parson, and the flowers Miss
Charlotte,” laughed Syn.

“But oi can do better, moi dear,” went on the housekeeper. “Oi have
some whoite here in the drawer. Oi bought it for moi girl, but she
wants pink. Let us toi it with whoite. Weddings are more in Miss
Charlotte's loin than funerals oi'm thinkin'.”