“There he is! Seize him! The devil! The murderer! Seize him!”
“So you’ve turned King’s evidence after all, have you. Mister Sexton?”
But Mipps only cried again: “There he is! Ain’t none of you a-goin’ to take him?”
Captain Collyer obeyed the sexton and cried: “Clegg, I arrest you in the name of the King!” and coming forward he laid his hand upon the Doctor’s shoulder. But the Doctor did not move. The captain shook him, but he did not move. Then the captain put his hand upon the white hair and the hand was covered with something white.
“My God!” he cried. “He’s nailed to the table. It’s not Syn! It’s Morgan Walters. Where’s that damned sexton?”
But the sexton had disappeared, and Clegg had gone, and there, with three nails driven, one through the neck and one through each arm, driven right through into the table, lay the theatrical figure of Morgan Walters, in all points resembling Doctor Syn.
XXXVII
The Dead Man’s Throttle
Then the redcoats got a bad time, for a great fight was put up by the Dymchurch men. Doctor Syn’s popularity had gone up at a bound. He had gauged his audience to a nicety, and had he declared himself to be the Prince Regent he couldn’t have bettered his position, for around Clegg’s name a million romances had been spun, but none so romantic, so daring, so altogether impertinent as this last announcement that he was the preacher Syn. That the greatest pirate hung should have unhanged himself upon the pulpit of a three-decker was indeed a colossal piece of impudence, and calculated to appeal to the innermost hearts of the Dymchurch folk, who at this period of history knew more about wool-running, demon riders, and Calais customs than anything else. Add to this the admiration that they had always borne toward Clegg, only surpassed by their dread of him, and couple this with Doctor Syn’s popularity and the Scarecrow’s ingenuity, not forgetting the remark in the sermon about King’s evidence, and the cleric’s escape was assured. For Doctor Syn could give evidence to hang them all, and although they thought that he was sportsman enough to hold his tongue if it came to a crisis, they didn’t like to risk it; for Clegg had proved himself true enough to his friends but utterly criminal toward his foes. For all these reasons they put up a fight, and a sharp fight it was.
There was a rumour that Doctor Syn and Sexton Mipps had taken cover in one of the smugglers’ retreats at the Ship Inn, and although Mrs. Waggetts innocently protested against it, the order was given to ransack the place from cellar to attic. But it was none so easy to ransack such a rambling old house, defended as it was by desperate ruffians fighting for the secrets of their livelihood, for since Doctor Syn had hidden the wool-running scheme under his black gown money had flowed freely among the Dymchurch men. But the blood of the redcoats was up, for three of their number had been shot dead, and several had been badly wounded, so when they eventually got possession of the inn they showed Mrs. Waggetts’ property no mercy. And for Mrs. Waggetts herself—well, the rage of the redcoats was so uncontrolled when the old house was found stacked with smuggled goods that they cursed her for an old witch and hanged her from the old Ship sign above the door.
Meantime a lugger was trying to catch the breeze, trying to get out of the great bay to the open sea; but the wind had failed, so certain men aboard got out the oars and pulled away with a will. Then some fool lit one of the piled beacons on the shore. Others were lighted, and the flames shot up along the wall to Littlestone, and the King’s men managed to launch the preventer’s cutter and chase the lugger. The men routed out of the Ship Inn crowded to the wall to hinder the King’s men, but Collyer was in command and bravely kept his men’s heads for them amid a hail of bullets from the seawall.
The cutter was not long in swinging alongside the lugger, and Collyer clambered aboard, with three or four of his men armed with pistols and cutlasses. The men on the lugger had stopped rowing when they saw that they had no chance of escape, and as soon as the captain hailed them they surrendered sullenly.
The men at the oars were ordered into the cutter, and then the captain turned to the cabin. Outside the door sat Sexton Mipps with his blunderbuss lying across his knees, ready to hand. But he appeared quite calm, and was enjoying his short clay pipe.
“Good evening, Captain,” he said. “Coming out fishing with us, are you?”
“Lay that blunderbuss of yours on the deck,” answered the captain, “and step aboard the cutter after your pals.”
“I should like to know what you be,” said Mr. Mipps, “to order a respectable parish sexton about.”
“You won’t make it easier for yourself, my man, by lagging back,” said the captain. “I know quite enough about you to send you to the gibbet.”
“May I ask what?” replied the sexton, puffing away at his pipe.
“I’ve been having a look at that coffin shop of yours, and I’ve seen enough there to get you a free rope from the government; so come along and make the best of a bad job.”
Mipps pulled desperately at his short clay pipe and sent over his lap a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke. Under cover of this his fingers were stealing toward the trigger of the blunderbuss. He was calculating his chances, for there were three pistols pointing at him from the King’s men. If he was shot, he meant to take the captain with him.
“There’s one chance of
