“What the devil’s he burning his arm for?” thought the squire. Doctor Syn then began to whistle under his breath; to whistle that old tune the words of which the squire knew so well:
“Here’s to the feet wot have walked the plank.”
The squire remembered certain words of the captain: Clegg’s one tattoo—the picture of a man walking the plank, executed badly upon his forearm.
“Good God! Was it possible? No! Ridiculous!”
An uncanny feeling came over the squire, and he went downstairs quietly, without knocking at the Doctor’s door, as he had intended—went downstairs to the fire in the library, relit his pipe, and began to think about Doctor Syn.
So when Sunday morning broke, two more strange things had happened: Morgan Walters, for one thing, had disappeared, parson’s clothes and all, and Doctor Syn, on going to the vicarage, discovered a new ugly gash in the plaster of the wall, and he felt indeed thankful that he had passed the night at the courthouse.
The villagers had it announced to them at the morning service that, in order to undertake a great spiritual mission to the blacks, Doctor Syn was leaving Dymchurch that very night; leaving after evensong by fishing lugger which was timed to pick up a certain Spanish trader bound for Jamaica and sailing upon the next day from the port of Rye. So all that Sunday afternoon the villagers, with much sorrow in their hearts at the thought of losing their faithful shepherd and good friend, prepared great beacons along the coast seawall as far as Littlestone, in order to light and cheer their vicar on his lonely way at night.
XXXIII
Adventures in Watchbell Street
Imogene had got to Rye, and got there through the devil of a bad sea. It was Sunday morning, and by the time that the church bells were ringing for matins she had safely beached her boat with the help of two fishermen who knew her well. With these two old salts she breakfasted. A rude meal it was, served in a hut upon the shingle. Fish, bread, and hot broth were things that she liked, and she did credit to the fare, for she was hungry. She was also sorely in need of sleep, and the old fellows tried to persuade her to take a nap, but she would not hear of it, for time pressed and she had much to do.
Before leaving Dymchurch, Mrs. Waggetts had provided her with a case of pistols and a sealed packet of papers. This packet she now examined. It contained two papers. It was fortunate, indeed, that Doctor Syn had in his charity taught her to read. One of the papers was a letter of instructions telling her the easiest way of setting about the rescue of the squire’s son, and she knew the advice to be sound, for the signature bore the great name of the Scarecrow. What’s in a name, eh? More than Mr. Shakespeare gave credit for, because as the name of Robespierre had carried terror and power in France, and as the name of Napoleon was changed to Boney for the frightening of children by tyrannical nurses in England, so the title of the Scarecrow bore the like qualities on Romney Marsh, for it meant that the power of the smugglers was behind it, and would be used to force obedience to the Scarecrow’s behests. Imogene knew, therefore, that her papers were of power, credentials that would get her a hearing, and the rest must be left to her own initiative, her wits, and her courage, and to chance. Yes, if she carried out these orders to the letter she was pretty confident that all would be well. She read the letter of instructions till she had thoroughly mastered its contents, and then burned it on the bucket of live coals outside the hut. The other letter she kept, for she had great need of that. It was addressed to one Antony Whyllie, attorney-at-law, Watchbell Street, Rye, Sussex, and read:
We find that we have further need of your help. The son of our squire is in the hands of the Rye press gang. We have accordingly dispatched to you one of our messengers, a young girl upon whom no suspicions will fall. You must see to it that you and the girl succeed in rescuing the young man. If the girl returns without him, all we have to say to you is that it will be the worse for you both; it will also be the last of you both. We would have done well perhaps to send you more help in this difficult venture, but this we cannot do, the girl being the only one of our servants available. However, you will find in her a young woman of great resource, and of high courage, and those qualities, added to your well-known ability and cunning in getting out of difficult corners, should enable you to carry out our wishes for our own convenience and for the saving of your life, which we presume affords you some interest.
With this useful letter tucked away in her blouse in company with one of Mrs. Waggetts’ pistols, Imogene, after bidding farewell to the two fishermen, struck out from the beach across the mile or so of flat country that lies in front of the little rising town of Rye. It is a fortified town, an ancient stronghold against whose walls the sea at one time used to beat but has long since receded. Her heart beat high as she looked up at the great battlements and the quaint little houses that clustered in all shapes and sizes around them, higher and higher, until they reached the church tower, the highest point of all.
She did not enter the town by the north gate, but skirted the wall and ascended the long irregular step-way that rises from
