Doctor Syn A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh (19 page)

Jerry of course knew the terror with which the pallid host could affect the unwary wayfarer—for had he not seen them himself on the night of

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Sennacherib’s murder?—but had he needed other proof he would have got it in the case of a small encampment of gypsies. They were not a recognized band of gypsies, but a wandering family, tramping from town to town, from village to village, getting what they could here and what they shouldn’t there, to keep the poor life in their bodies. The gallopers came upon them in a ditch. They had lanterns there and a small fire around which three men and a young lad were sleeping. There was an old crone rocking herself to sleep on one side of the fire, and opposite, between two of the sleeping men, was a younger woman. Her garments were tattered and ragged to the last degree, and her shoulders and arms showed bare, for she had wrapped her shawl round the babe that was crying in her arms. The sudden appearance of the awful riders spread instant panic in this little circle. The old crone shrieked to her menfolk to awake, but before they could get to their feet the horses were upon them. Beelzebub, with daredevil precision, rode straight through the wood fire, his horse bellowing

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with fright as he scattered the crackling sticks. The young mother just avoided Jerry’s horse as he came crashing through after Beelzebub, and the shriek of fear that she gave made Jerry turn heartsick as he reined in his mount.

“An ill-famed baggage, I’ll be sworn,” said Beelzebub. “’Twould have been a good thing had you ridden her down, and as for the brat, such devil spawn should be put out of their misery.”

“Now I should have thought devil spawn would have had rather a way with us.” At which sally Beelzebub clapped Jerk on the back, and declared that he was a good Ketch, a remarkable good Ketch, and as the young recruit had all he could do saving his own neck every minute as they leaped backward and forward over the dyke, this unpleasant episode was forgotten, or, rather, slid back into his brain like the memory of a nightmare slides when we dream again. On they dashed, but stopping at numerous farms on the way, where they always found more packponies waiting to join the cavalcade. And the

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Scarecrow was always somewhere. As soon as any little hitch occurred—as one frequently did when the men placed the temporary bridge over the dykes for the transit of the packponies—the Scarecrow would suddenly appear in their midst, giving sharp orders, whose prompt obedience meant an instant end to the difficulty, whatever it chanced to be. But it was the laying of this same temporary bridge that caused most of the delays, for it was a cumbersome thing to move about, and it had to be built strong enough to support the weight of the packponies. These ponies, too, caused considerable bother at some periods of the march, as their packs of wool would sometimes shake loose from the harness, and the cavalcade would have to stop while this was being remedied. But although the packponies stopped often, the demon riders were never allowed that luxury. Beelzebub untiringly flagged the horse round and round, now in large circuits, now in small circles, always ringing in the packponies from any prying eyes. It would have meant death to any one who got a view

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within that sweeping scythe of cavalry. And as murders on the Marsh were all put down to the Marsh devils, except in the case of Sennacherib Pepper—for there was then a likely assassin known to be at large upon the Marsh to lay the deed to—and because of the dreaded superstition that had grown in the minds of Kentish folk, the smugglers were utterly callous as to what crimes they perpetrated, for they were as safe from the law as the most law-abiding citizen, for those who didn’t credit the existence of murdering hobgoblins at least possessed sufficient fear of the smugglers themselves to leave them alone; for, after all, it was not business of any one but the revenue men, and so to the revenue men were they left, and in nearly every record it may be seen that the revenue men got the worst of it.

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Mill House Farm was the last on Beelzebub’s list, and in the dyke facing the house, but on the other side of the highroad crouched the King’s men, commanded by the captain’s bo’sun. They were as still as mice, but the captain had given strict orders to the bo’sun on that score, but they need not have put themselves to such pains, for owing to the extreme vigilance of Sexton Mipps the smugglers knew exactly where they were and what they were going to do.

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Now it is depressing to the most seasoned fighters to have to crouch for hours in a soaking muddy dyke waiting for an outnumbering enemy; for it was common knowledge that if smuggling was carried on upon the Marsh, it was well manipulated and relied for its secrecy upon the strength and numbers of its assistants. So the bo’sun had no easy task in keeping his men from grumbling; for whatever Captain Collyer’s opinion may have been with regard to maintaining the law according to his duty, it was pretty evident that his men had no great relish for the task, and the bo’sun heartily wished that the captain had not left him responsible, for his absence was having a poor effect upon the men, and the unfortunate bo’sun was greatly afraid that they would fail to put up a good fight when the time came. It is one thing to fight an enemy, but quite another to shoot down your own countrymen, and although every man jack of them was itching for the French war, they felt no enthusiasm for this suppression of smuggling, for the whole of the countryside would have taken

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the side of the lawbreakers, and who knows how many of these same King’s men had not themselves done a very profitable trade with the illegal cargoes from France.

These were the feelings that existed as the King’s men lay in the dyke opposite Mill House Farm, listening to the noise of ponies’ hoofs in the yard, and waiting to fire upon any one who presented himself.

But the order “Not to kill, but to fire low,” also damped their spirits, for what chance would they have against desperate fellows keeping their necks out of the rope, who would not hesitate but would rather aim to kill?

The bo’sun had great difficulty in preventing one old seadog who lay next him in the ditch from voicing his opinion of the proceedings in a loud bass voice, but what he did say he after all had the good grace to whisper, though a whisper that was none too soft at that.

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“What the hell’s the sense, Mr. Bo’sun, of sending good seamen like we be to die like dogs in this blamed ditch? Ain’t England got no use for seamen nowadays? ’Tain’t the members of Parleyment wot’ll serve her when it comes to fighting, though they does talk so very pleasant.”

“They don’t talk as much as you do,” was the hushed retort of the bo’sun.

“Look ye ’ere, Job Mallet,” went on the seadog, “you’ve been shipmate o’ mine for longer than I well remembers, and you be in command here. Well, I ain’t a-kickin’ against your authority, mind you, but I’m older than you be, and I want to voice my opinion to you, which is also the opinion of every mother’s son in this damned ditch. Why don’t we clear out of this and be done with the folly? We looks to you, Job Mallet, I say we looks to you as our bo’sun, and a very good bo’sun you be, we looks to you, we does, to save us bein’ made fools of. We wants to fight the Frenchies and not our own fellows. The Parleyment’s a-makin’ a great mistake puttin’ down the smugglers. If they only talked nice to

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’em they’d find a regiment or two o’ smugglers very handy to fight them ugly Frenchies. For my own part I don’t see why the Parleyment don’t put down other professions for a bit and leave the smugglers alone. Why not give lawyers a turn, eh? They could do with a bit o’ hexposin’! Dirty swabs! And so could the doctors wot sell coloured water for doses. Bah! dirty, dishonest fellows! But, oh, no! It’s always the poor smugglers who be really hard-working fellows; and very good fighters they be, too, as we’ll soon be called upon to see.”

At this time Job Mallet tried to silence him, but threats, persuasions, and arguments were all alike useless.

“Old Collywobbles thinks the same as wot we does.”

“I’ll have you to remember,” whispered the bo’sun stiffly, “that I bein’ in command in this ’ere ditch don’t know as to who you be alludin’ when you say Collywobbles. I don’t know no one of that name.”

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“Oh, ain’t you a stickler to duty?” chuckled the seadog. “Still I respec’s you fer it, though p’raps you’ll permit me to remind you as how it was you in the fo’csle of the Resistance as gave the respected Captain Howard Collyer, R.N., the pleasant pet name of Collywobbles. Though p’raps that’s slipped your memory for he moment.”

“It has,” answered the bo’sun.

“Very well, then, but you can take it from me as how it was, so there, and a very clever name it be, too; but there, you always was one of the clever ones, Job Mallet.”

“I wish I were clever enough to make your fat mouth shut, I do,” muttered the bo’sun.

“Now, then, Job Mallet, don’t you begin getting to personalities. But there, now, I don’t want to quarrel with you. You’ve always had my greatest respec’s, you has, and as we’ll probably be stiff ’uns in a few minutes, we won’t quarrel,

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old pal. But I give you my word that I don’t like being shot down like a rabbit, and I’m sorry as how it’s you as is in command, ’cos if it was any one else I declares I’d get up now and walk home to bed.”

“If Captain Collyer was here, you know you’d do nothing of the sort.”

“Why, ain’t he here? That’s wot I wants to know. Strike me dead! it’s easy enough to send out poor old seadogs to be shot like bunny rabbits. I could do that. There ain’t no pluck in that, as far as I can see, though p’raps I be wrong, and if I be wrong, well, I’ll own up to it, for I don’t care bein’ put in the wrong of it when I is in the wrong of it.”

“You ain’t a-settin’ a very good example to the young men, I’m thinkin’,” said Job Mallet. “You, the oldest seaman here, and a-grumblin’ and a-gossipin’ like an old housewife. You ought to think shame on yourself, old friend.”

“Oh, well,” growled the other, “I won’t utter another blarsted word, I won’t. But if you does want to know my opinion in these ’ere proceedin’s, it’s—hell!”

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“I don’t say as how I don’t agree with you,” returned Job Mallet, “but there it is and we’ve got to make the best of it. It won’t do no good a-grumblin’. We’ll make the best of a bad job, and I hopes as I for one will be able to do my duty, ’cos I don’t relish it no more than you do.”

“Well, strike me blind, dumb, and deaf!” thundered the seadog in a voice of emotion as he clapped Job Mallet on the back, “if I’ve been a snivellin’ powder monkey I ought to be downright ashamed of myself, and seein’ as how I be the oldest seaman here, instead—well, I’m more than damned downright ashamed, Job Mallet, thank you! You set a good example to us all, Mister Bo’sun, and I’ll stand by you for one. Damn the smugglers, and wait till I get at ’em, that’s all!”

“Thank yer,” said the bo’sun, “but you’ll greatly oblige me by keeping quiet, ’cos here be the smugglers, if I ain’t mistook.”

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Indeed at that instant along the road came the sound of the sharp, quick steps of the packponies. At present they were hidden in the mist which floated thickly about that part of the Marsh, but they could not only hear the ponies but a sound of a voice singing as well. This voice was raised in a wailing monotone and the words were repeated over and over again. They were intended for the ears of the wretched sailors who were waiting in the ditch for the attack:

“Listen, oh, you good King’s men who are waiting to shoot us from the damp ditch. We have got your kind captain here, a blunderbuss alooking at the back of his head. If you fire on us, good King’s men, then the blunderbuss will fire at the good captain, and then:

“‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men Could not put captain together again.’”

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Even if the words were not sufficient to explain the situation to the sailors, the first figures of the cavalcade were all sufficient. A donkey led by two jacko’- lanterns on foot jolted out of the fog. Upon its back was a man bound and gagged, supported on either side by two devil-men. That the gagged wretch was the captain needed no words to tell, for his uniform showed by the lantern’s light, and there right behind him, sure enough, was the blunderbuss in question, pointed by a snuffy little devil called by his colleagues Hellspite, who sat hunched up on a shoddy little pony. This little group halted at a convenient distance from the sailors in the ditch, and Hellspite again rehearsed his little speech, ending up with:

“‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men Could not put captain together again.’

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Now the poor bo’sun in command had all his life grown so used to taking other people’s orders that he didn’t know what to do for the best. He liked the captain and didn’t want to see him killed, though he knew what he must be suffering in his ridiculous position. He knew that had the captain but got the use of his speech he would have shouted, “Fire! and be damned to’ em!” But then the captain had not got the use of speech. The Scarecrow and Hellspite knew enough of the man to see to that, and as they had no great desire to be fired at, they had seen that the gags were efficient. So it was, after all, small wonder that the old grumbling seadog next to him, who possessed a rollicking vein of humour, laughed until he rolled back into the mud, for the sight was enough to make the proverbial cat laugh, much less a humorous old tar, and the rest of the men were divided into two classes, some following the example of the bo’sun and being struck stiff with amazement and powerless wrath, others joining the laughing tar in the muddy ditch and guffawing over the ridiculous