THE SCARECROW RIDES (18 page)

“No,” roared the squire, “I don't. I say you are trying to force
yourself to look old.”

“I must at least try to live up to my position as Dean of the
Peculiars of Romney Marsh,” smiled the doctor.

The squire, ignoring this, went on: “And rather than that, my old
friend—”

“Old?” queried the doctor.

“My
good
friend then,” corrected the squire. “Rather than my
good friend in his humility, in his mistaken humility, should eat
humble pie, I'll make his Blessed Majesty cook you a peacock pie in
Canterbury Palace. I'd rather push you up the ladder at the risk of
losing sight of you than have you imagining that you are old before
your time. Damme, Doctor, life is too good, and for my own part, I
refuse to grow old when I'm not, or pretend to be older than I am.”

Dr. Syn laughed good-humouredly, but it was then that he made a
resolution, for he had the soundest reasons for not wishing to eat
peacocks in Canterbury or Lambeth. As time crept on, he kept his
resolution faithfully, and yet so gradually were its ends achieved that
nobody noticed the change.

In plain words, Dr. Syn realised that he must sacrifice a good deal
of his brilliance if he wished to remain obscure, for whereas it was
easy to lie low upon Romney Marsh, he had only to be asked to preach in
Canterbury Cathedral to have his whole career searched out and
diligently inquired into by some ambitious biographer, and once he
allowed such an indefatigable Boswell to deal with him, he knew that he
might as well make up his mind to the surety of his pulpit eventually
turning into his scaffold, for certain chapters of his life, which
would have afforded the compilers of Newgate Calendar a fair
opportunity of moralising with high-flown adjectives, he had mentally
locked in a clasped book, which like Prospero he had sunk fathoms deep
into the bitter waters of his tragic past.

So two things he watched carefully. First, that his sermons should
very gradually deteriorate into the usual long sleeping-draughts which
parsons of this period were apt to administer to their spiritual
patients. Secondly, that he kept a clear head whenever the squire was
likely to demand a good true tale of adventure from America. On such
evenings, with the Cobtrees all gathered around the fire, while the
pungent fragrance arose from the fumes of burning logs, the smoke of
Virginian tobacco and the steam of strongly-brewed punch, the doctor
was never so popular as when recounting tales of the pirates,
especially those of the notorious Captain Clegg. Often, after the
recital of one of this arch-adventurer's exploits, the squire would
demand if such a yarn had not grown with the telling, when the doctor
would answer: “I have no reason to doubt the veracity since I was told
that tale by a merchant of New England who, being a Quaker, I can
depend on as a man of strict integrity.” Or to another doubt raised by
one or other of the thrilled circle, he would reply: “Now, that tale I
can vouch for, since I had it first hand from an Indian who was there,
a savage, certainly, but one whom I converted to the Gospel, and who
would rather die than lie to me, since I am blood brother to his tribe
by full ritual. Besides, these tales are all told of Clegg in family
circles from Maine to the Carolinas.”

And as the doctor watched the magic of his tales upon the faces of
his listeners, and saw the squire nodding his appreciation, he would
say to himself: “Aye, and wouldn't your eyes pop open the wider, my
hearty squire, if you were to know that I who lean over your pulpit
side with a clasped Bible in my hand have leaned to more immediate
purpose over the bulwarks of my own frigate with cocked pistols? Aye,
that I am the one of whom I speak, the calm bravado who paced the poop
of the most successful pirate vessel that ever terrorised the seas?
Would you credit the tales of Captain Clegg if you knew you were
hearing them first-hand? I wonder. But that, please God, you shall
never know, for what is the good of worrying an old friend and patron?”

So upon this argument, added to thoughts of his own safety. He
talked about his own exploits as though performed by another, for since
everyone coming from America spoke of Captain Clegg, it would have
seemed strange if he was not full of his yarns too.

Being a magistrate, the squire was bound to hold Captain Clegg's
exploits as very reprehensible, and Lady Cobtree, being the squire's
wife, held perforce the same view; but the Misses Cobtree, not being so
bound, and being romantic, looked upon the captain as a wonderful
creature that they vowed they were all in love with. What adoration the
doctor would have received from them had they known his real identity,
but what is the worth of fame that leads one to the scaffold?

Although continuing to preach 'repentance' to his flock, he could
never bring himself to repent the part he had played in his wild days,
for he knew very well that he would do exactly the same if once more
driven to it by cruel fate. Indeed, he could see no cause for
repentance. He had lain aside the Bible for the sword in order to
avenge himself upon the scoundrel who had stolen his young wife. He had
given up his sacred calling in order to follow the guilty pair about
America. The man he sought, in fear of the figure of retribution that
was tracking him and keeping him and the woman ever on the move,
finally wrote to him, telling him that she was dead and would he not
now leave her poor soul in peace. This news, whether true or no, only
made his want of revenge the greater, and when he heard that his enemy
had taken refuge amongst the wild pirates of the Carribbean Seas, Syn
had turned pirate himself in order to meet his enemy on his own ground.
Blade to blade on some wild stretch of sand was all he asked.

Calling himself Captain Clegg, with a well chosen crew of rascals
who respected him, he became a success, preying particularly upon his
rivals in the trade, in the hope of getting face to face with his
enemy. No one ever thought of connecting the mysterious Clegg with the
sad young parson who, against all advice, had gone out into the unknown
in an attempt to save the savage Indians, for that same young saint had
long ago been included by his American acquaintances as but another
victim of the tomahawk and scalping knife. Unlike his contemporaries,
Clegg took little pleasure in roaring debauches, although when it
suited his purpose he would roar and sing with the wildest, in order
that he might perhaps pick up in the drunken conversation some clue as
to the whereabouts of his enemy. Setting little store upon the taking
of treasure, except as a means to keep his crew together, his own share
accumulated automatically where that of others was dissipated. And then
at last he began to think that his enemy must be dead, and like all
outlaws he began to hunger for home. Unlike other outlaws, however, he
was provided with a handy alias. Although all his crew respected and
feared him, there was one man, the ship's carpenter, who genuinely
loved Captain Clegg, and to this man Syn unfolded his plan. To his crew
he bequeathed not only the ship, but their own damnation, for not long
after his leaving them, not a man of them was alive, for a mysterious
explosion in the powder magazine sent the whole crew to their account.

In the meantime, the carpenter, to whom Syn had entrusted his
precious sea-chest, made his way with it from Charleston to Boston,
while Syn journeyed far inland, and claiming the services of a friendly
Indian, brought him to Boston for the purpose of identifying him as the
saintly parson named Christopher Syn who had not only converted him to
Christianity but had lived as his brother for many years with the
tribe. Thus it was that Dr. Syn was able to return to England with the
good wishes, blessings and thanks of the American church.

A far enough cry from the Carribbees to Romney Marsh rendered him
perfect safety. And how strangely it had all come about. The Boston
captain had agreed to land at Dover, for it was inconvenient to anchor
in the fairway outside Dymchurch Bay. From Dover the reverend gentleman
had purposed to visit his old friends, the Cobtrees. Fate, however, not
only saved him the trouble of the journey, but provided that the same
tempest that carried him directly to his destination should also remove
the man who stood in the way of the appointment he most coveted, so
that he was able to pop his own head into Parson Bolden's wig that very
night, to the great satisfaction of his patron, the squire.

Under such patronage most men would have felt secure against the
past, but Dr. Syn always kept his watch against calamity, and his first
care was to conquer his own restless spirit. When he went out with the
fishermen to enjoy a little harmless sport, he made out that he was
ignorant of sailing, and affected great delight in being instructed as
to what to do. In the same frame of mind, he even went so far as to
restrict his horsemanship, lest his daring and skill in the saddle
should call too much attention to himself in the horse-loving community
that dwelt upon the Marsh. So instead of riding neck to neck with the
still reckless squire and showing him how a spirited hunter could be
lifted across the widest dykes on magic wings like Pegasus, which he
could well have done, he purchased a fat white pony and pretended to
enjoy a meet from this comfortable armchair.

Perhaps his hardest task in the part he had set himself to play was
forcing himself to an indifference where Charlotte Cobtree was
concerned. Through his bitter experiences which had made him sceptical
as regards human affection, he realised that from this young woman he
could depend upon an unselfish loyalty and love that had always shown
itself in his dealings with his dirty-looking little ship's carpenter.
In fact, he went so far as to tell the squire one day that the amount
of his affection for his eldest daughter was only comparable to that
which he bore to two other people in the whole of his life.

“Your misguided wife being one?” suggested the squire, while hoping
he was the other.

“Certainly not,” retorted the doctor. “I find that my feeling
towards my wife was nothing but a wild, young passion. Not what I
should catalogue as affection at all. No, they are both men, and one at
least is living, since I am talking to him now.”

“And the other?” asked the gratified squire.

“A fellow of not much account as this world goes,” replied the
doctor, “since he was nothing but a species of sea-dog. The little
rascal had a quick humour that appealed to me. I never met anyone of
his class who would do me a service quicker than he.”

“What was his name, I should remember him in my prayers for his
service to you at least,” said the squire.

“It proves that he must have a good hold on my affection,” laughed
the doctor, “since I cannot forget him, neither remember his name, nor
do I know if he be alive or dead. Dead, I should think though.”

“So Charlotte and I have a rival in your affections, eh?” replied
the squire. “Well, we have no intention of letting you return to this
sea-dog of yours, wherever he may be. I cannot be without you, as
you're not only my oldest friend, but the very parson for the Marsh,
and I'll answer for Charlotte that she feels the same. Do you know, I
more than suspect that she's in love with you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” retorted the doctor. “In her great kindness she does
much to cheer up an old bookworm who likes young people about him.”

This was dangerous talk for Dr. Syn, who was conscious of how easy
it would be to return that love which he knew she had given him at
first sight. He had done his best to cure her, but even Bolden's wig
had made little difference. Whether he acted rightly or wrongly in the
matter is a debatable point, but as he saw it, an honourable union
between him and his friend's daughter was not to be thought of, since
he held it unfair to her and exceedingly unwise towards himself to lay
a burden of secrecy upon her, and to marry her without giving her his
full confidence was likewise not to be thought of, and as to how she
would behave when she knew that his hands were guilty of bloodshed he
had no means of telling. To such a loyal, loving nature, the knowledge
of his wild days might be a dreadful shock, and would she understand
that even amongst the pirates there was a strict code of honour in
certain things? To add to his difficulty in this matter, the squire
would always prove himself unsympathetic to the many young suitors who
begged to be allowed to pay their addresses to his eldest daughter,
especially since Charlotte invariably asserted that the young man in
question was not for her. Then in a rage the squire would carry the
story to his friend, beginning with, “Of all the pieces of
impertinence”—and ending with: “I cannot understand Charlotte. She
just laughed. It's my belief that she'll never marry anyone but you.”
And Dr. Syn would exclaim again: “Why, Miss Charlotte is far too young
and too good to waste herself on an old widower like me. It's
impossible.”

And all the time, there was Charlotte running in and out of the
vicarage on this errand and that in the most natural manner, and at
each visit Dr. Syn suffered more and more from the longing that she
would stay with him for good. But he cared for her too well to act
unscrupulously where she was concerned, and so did his best not to
succumb to such a temptation, but to do or say anything to hurt her,
that he could not do, and so their friendship and affection increased
daily.

Unlike Charlotte, the two younger sisters were surrounded with
beaux, including many who had given up the eldest sister as
unobtainable, and both Maria and Cicely flirted and frivolled to their
hearts' content. Lady Cobtree devoted herself to her family, and the
society in which they moved, and although interested in the parish, it
was not the mother but Charlotte who carried out most of the work
amongst the poorer class. This fact furthered her association with the
vicar, who, like her, was loved and respected by all, giving not only a
dignity to the little church but a jollity to the parish. Though his
prayers were lengthy and his sermons long, he made up for any dullness,
which he had purposely adopted, in the singing of the hymns, leading
the congregation with a heartiness that compelled them to join in, and
the fact that he could, according to the testimony of Robert, out-drink
the squire at the squire's own table and yet remain sober, gave him a
fine glamour with the Dymchurch men. Astride his fat white pony, he was
a familiar figure all over the Marsh where he lived a pleasant, jovial
life, doing good year in and year out to all who came his way.