THE SCARECROW RIDES (35 page)

Amidst the fleeting population of the busy 'Mermaid', he did well,
but it was towards two permanent guests that he chiefly focused his
attention and willingly gave a thousand little services.

These two men were something of a mystery to the townsfolk of Rye.
Magnificently dressed in the modish fashion of London, with a deal of
foreign swagger, and a prodigal disregard for money, with which they
appeared to be possessed in plenty, they cut a brave figure.

Although adorned with much lace and finery, their faces and figures
gave the lie to any accusation of foppery which in other men their
dress would have proclaimed. They were both sufficiently independent
from the prevalent fashion of exquisites to wear bearded chins. The
shorter of the two, who called himself Colonel Delacourt, was obviously
the lead. Stockily built and tattooed like a South Sea islander, which
showed towards evening when, merry with dice and drink, he would cast
aside his gay velvet coat, undo his cravat, flowered waistcoat and silk
shirt so that he showed his hairy, be-pictured chest, and he would call
on his companion to cry the stakes. And the play was high. The two men
presented a marked contrast, for Captain Vicosa, whom the colonel
addressed as “Captain Vic', was a red-bearded giant—a great
leonine-looking fellow with perhaps even more swagger than his
black-bearded companion and patron.

To the tactful inquiries of mine host of the 'Mermaid', Colonel
Delacourt gave out that he had made a fortune in the Indies, where he
maintained he owned much home property in plantations, and he
introduced the red-bearded and handsome 'Captain Vic' as his partner
and manager, who had come to England with him to transact certain
businesses connected with the Crown colonies.

Despite their fineries, the two men were excused from anything
appertaining to the coxcomb. Men and women recognised and respected
their obvious masculinity.

The reason of their enforced stay at the 'Mermaid' was the fact that
Madame Delacourt had given birth to a daughter upon the very night of
their arrival, and although the child was doing well enough, the mother
was rapidly sinking. The Rye doctor who attended her, although a
married man, was not above saying that 'Madame' at the 'Mermaid' was
the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He described her to his
friends as a Spanish Madonna, but he owned that he was going to be hard
put to it to save her life. She was listless. She showed no affection
for the baby girl, and the doctor suspected that she not only feared
her husband but hated him.

His manner to her was loud and rude, and her enforced convalescence
filled him with ungovernable irritation. And yet, strange to say, he
showed great affection to the wee mite that lay smiling in the big
drawer beside her bed. He would swing into the room when far advanced
in drink, swear that the child was his, and catch it up against the
protests of the woman whom the doctor had recommended to attend the
baby, and carry it into the adjoining room, where he diced and drank
with the red-bearded Captain Vic. He would twine the little fingers
around the dice-box and help her to throw the dice against his
companion, and cry out with joy at her cleverness when the score was
thrown high.

On one such occasion the doctor found him, and let him have his mind
on the subject.

“Now, understand me well Colonel Delacourt,” he said, in low,
threatening tones. “I don't know who you are or what you may or may not
be in the Indies, but you are behaving in this inn of ours as no
gentleman should behave. Gentleman? I should have said, as no
plough-boy would behave. Your wife is dying, and do you realise that it
is you who are killing her? I warn you that should she die, there will
be an inquiry, and as sure as I want to save her I'll take my oath
before the magistrate that you are her murderer. You will leave that
child alone, and if you must drink and shout and sing your ribald
songs, you'll do it in the common rooms below, where the beadle can
deal with you. I take your money for my services, it's true, but I'll
not be responsible for your lady's life unless you mend your ways with
her. A little sympathy from you, a little consideration, might make all
the difference between life and death, for I tell you the scales of her
fate are dropping fast towards death.”

Colonel Delacourt damned him for an interfering sawbones, but when
he saw the doctor stride out of the room in a fury, he repented and
sent Merry after him with a purseful of guineas, which the doctor
resolutely refused. Merry helped himself to a good half of the
contents, and returned with the depleted purse and the message that the
doctor had already been paid sufficiently for his services, but could
not be bribed to keep his mouth shut; whereupon Colonel Delacourt
damned him again in good round oaths and flung the purse at Merry's
head. Merry, however, thought fit to pocket the insult as well as the
guineas, which he knew from his experience of the colonel, would not be
remembered when the fumes of the 'Mermaid' wines had cooled from his
head.

Merry's chief duty consisted of persuading both gentlemen to bed in
the early hours, and then carrying up more bottles till they fell
asleep. Not another member of the 'Mermaid' staff would venture near
them, so that the landlord blessed the fact that he had employed the
man from Dymchurch. It was Merry who tidied up the sitting-room in the
cold light of the dawn. Cards all over the floor, spilled wine and
broken glass, and many elusive guineas that had rolled from drunken
fingers into dark recesses of the old oak floor. After a more than
successful hunt for such gold, Merry would sometimes lay a solitary
guinea upon the breakfast-table and say he had found it in a crack of
the floor, whereupon both colonel and captain would cry out that at
last they had found an honest fellow in this cursed land of England.

One service only Merry resolutely refused to perform for them. They
told him to ride to the Romney Marsh and find out and order to attend
on them, one Jimmie Bone, a highwayman, for whom they had employment.

Merry excused himself, saying that it was more than his life was
worth to undergo such a duty. He told them the story of his attempted
betrayal of Mr. Bone, making himself out a most worthy citizen in that
he wanted the highroads rid of such an outlaw.

The answer he got from Colonel Delacourt surprised him.

“Well, I am rejoiced that you failed, Mr. Merry. You good
citizenship, as you call it, may have lost you a hundred guineas, but I
tell you we have need of Mr. Bone that is more valuable than such a
paltry sum. So you refuse to be our go-between, eh?”

“I tell you, sir,” whined Merry, “that if Mr. Bone meets me he'll
pistol me without a tremor.”

“That means you'll have to do it, Vic my lad,” said the colonel,
striding in a rage to the window which looked down upon the cobbled
street. “You know enough of my history to be sure that I am not in the
mood to ride Dymchurch way. The very sight of the Romney Marsh would
drive me into the doldrums with my lady's everlasting regrets dinning
in my ears.”

All of which, at the moment, was Greek to Mr. Merry.

“I'll go if I must,” growled Captain Vic, “but be damned to Merry
for a cowardly knave, I say.”

“No, no, Merry's a good servant to us, you must admit,” went on the
colonel, “and we'd never get our drinks so easy without him, seeing
that all the chambermaids avoid us like the plague since you started
kissin' 'em. Merry can't go—that's flat. Merry, give the captain a
glass of brandy, and fill one for me.”

Merry did as he was told, and at that moment they heard the rumble
of wheels over the cobbles, the crack of postboys' whips and the
stirring notes of a coach horn.

“More visitors, by God. Let's hope it's someone to dice with,” cried
the colonel, taking the glass of brandy from Merry's hand. “Fill a
glass for yourself, Merry, and never mind what the captain says—he's
drunk. There'll be no need for you to meet this Mr. Bone. We want no
murder done any more than you.”

As Merry proceeded to fill a glass for himself, the colonel gave a
cry which was followed by the noise of a smashed glass.

“What the devil's wrong with you?” growled Captain Vic, looking up
at his patron with bleared eyes.

Colonel Delacourt had staggered back into the folds of the window
curtain, and his glass of brandy lay shattered and unheeded at his
feet.

“Good God,” he muttered, and all the drink went out of his face,
leaving him stark staring sober. In answer to the captain's repeated
question, he but mumbled something unintelligible which brought the
red-bearded on to his feet with an oath. He lurched across to the
casement and peered out at the bustle of inn servants round the coach.

“There's only two passengers alighting,” he said, “and I fail to see
why they should upset a man of spirit. A doddering old parson and his
shabby servant, I presume. A little cove with a ridiculous brass
blunderbuss under his arm.”

“Doddering parson be damned,” gasped the colonel. “And the little
cove too. Well I know them.”

“Who are they then?” demanded Captain Vic, but got no reply from his
patron, who had rushed to the sitting-room door and shot the bolts on
the inside.

“Hell, can't you answer a gentleman?” growled Captain Vic. “Here,
you,” he ordered Merry. “Know either of these old dodderers?”

“Old dodderers—don't be such a fool,” snarled the colonel. “
You're
drunk, or you'd have jumped to it by now.”

“Who are they?” repeated Captain Vic to Merry. “Do you know 'em or
don't you, since the colonel's daft?”

Merry had looked down at the little man in black who stood awaiting
his master, who was collecting a paper case and some books from the
inside of the old vehicle.

“I knows 'em too well,” replied Merry. “And I wishes 'em both more
ill-luck than I fear will come to 'em. That's Parson Syn of Dymchurch
and his sexton, Mipps.”

“Here, you don't mean—” began Captain Vic, swinging round on the
colonel.

“I do,” snapped the colonel. “Parson Syn be damned. It's Clegg, I
tell you. Aye, and the little rat with the blunderbuss is his ship's
carpenter—two of the bloodiest pirates that ever terrorised the seas
and my most mortal enemies.”

“What did you say, sir?” asked Merry, hardly able to believe what
had been said, and yet hoping there might be truth in it.

Whereupon, Colonel Delacourt, with one eye on the bolted door,
recounted something of the terrors of Clegg, and how Clegg had followed
him from sea to sea in order to get his revenge.

“And revenge for what?” exploded the colonel. “Why, for robbing him
of the burden next door. He's welcome to her now, if he cares to
relieve me of her. I mean my wife, Mr. Merry.”

“Your wife? But was this parson sweet on her, sir?” he asked.

“Sweet?” repeated Delacourt. “He was married to her, you fool, and
I, like a fool, carried her off. She's his wife now in the eyes of the
law, not mine. But the child's mine. Illegitimate, but mine.”

This news was getting better and better. Here was Dr. Syn's wife in
the possession of another man, true, but still Dr. Syn's wife.

“I told him she was dead, but even then he followed me,” went on
Colonel Delacourt.

So Dr. Syn did not know that his wife was living, and so near. Here
was at least a means to strike shame to Charlotte Cobtree, and this
pirate talk of Clegg—that would be sufficient weapon against the
doctor. There was a bigger price on Clegg's head than on a hundred
Jimmie Bones. Clegg had fought the world. All manner of ships he had
sunk, ships of all nations. Yes, Clegg was wanted internationally. Here
indeed was the most glorious and unexpected revenge on a man he hated.
Meg would be his yet, and he would strip those pearls from Charlotte
Cobtree's neck to give to her.

“And how long will this damned fellow stay here?” asked the colonel.
“I've a mind to slip my cable and leave a letter for him to call for
his dying wife.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” growled Captain Vic. “Have you
forgotten why we are employing this Mr. Bone?”

“I know I'll do nothing of the sort,” replied Delacourt. “But not
for that reason. I stay here because the child ain't fit to be taken
from its mother yet—that's all.”

“Well, praise to God you're crazy about the kid,” said Captain Vic.
“Otherwise, there's no telling but you'd be off if I gave you the
chance.”

“How long does he stay—this parson, and what's he here for?” asked
the colonel of Merry.

Merry told him that he usually came by this—the Saturday—coach and
stayed in the 'Mermaid' till Monday. “He will preach a sermon to-morrow
morning and will dine with the rector afterwards. He'll no doubt be
supping out to-night as well, but he'll take a drink in the common bar
and stand treat to all the fishermen. That's his way to popularity.”

“Then we must lie low up here. We'll admit no one but the saw-bones,
and that only to avoid him talking of us to Dr. Syn. Merry shall watch
and fetch and carry for us. We're prisoners here till the fellow takes
coach for Dymchurch on Monday.”

Merry told them a good deal. The good brandy made him talkative.
Besides, it was good to relieve his spleen against Dr. Syn to two men
who shared a common hatred. Both colonel and captain dropped their
attitude of masters to a servant. They clapped Merry down at the table,
plied him with drink, and vowed they were all friends together, and as
gentlemen they would take oath to hound Dr. Syn to his death. Merry,
who gave them full details of the doctor's miraculous preservation from
the wreck, was in favour of a public accusation against him as Clegg,
but to this the colonel would not consent.

“We'll kill him first,” he declared, “and accuse him after, so that
his tongue cannot wag against me. As Colonel Delacourt I am safe
enough, but as Nick Tappitt—well, there are things I have no wish to
be made public. A gentleman does not care to do his washing in the High
Courts. But we'll kill him, by God, and then see him hung in chains.
And you, friend Merry, shall be in it with us.”