Knowing that he had an hour or so to his credit, Mr. Bone allowed himself the luxury of complete relaxation. With the wing of a chicken in one hand and a foaming tankard in the other he exchanged confidences and he felt, as indeed he was, prince of the road.
It was while Mr. Bone was in this enviable position that the coach came down Strood Hill and then with horn blowing gaily, rattled across Rochester Bridge. The four occupants by this time had become more or less acquainted through such close proximity, though for some time after leaving London the Captain had appeared aloof and ill-mannered. It had by no means improved his temper that he had to sit with his back to the horses, and, having been so rudely bundled into the coach, it was annoying enough when the coach stopped again so soon after Haxell’s to pick up, as he thought, such an insignificant passenger, who had bespoken the only other comfortable seat. A parson was the last person he had wished to travel with, for his mind still rankled when he thought of his encounter with one at Crockford’s.
Imagine then his rage upon closer examination when the coach had left the City and the daylight streamed through the windows to discover that here he was cooped up with none other than that confounded cleric who had so quietly scored off him the night before. Coupled with the warning he had received, the uncomfortable feeling he had hoped to forget was increased a thousandfold by the presence in the coach of its instigator. So he had turned up his collar and glared in sulky silence out of the window, purposely ignoring the fact that they had met before, at the same time somewhat mystified that the parson did not seem to recognise him. To feign sleep was out of the question owing to the continual barking of that confounded dog and the perpetual chatter of the little old lady who, damme, appeared to have another poodle on her had. And so he continued to sulk and stare.
Miss Gordon, on the other hand, had found a fellow traveller to her liking, for Mister Pitt, contrary to his habit of being thoroughly rude to strangers, had swept aside all social barriers, and with much jingling of bracelets, he had attempted to lick the parson’s nose. Miss Gordon, though secretly delighted, had pretended to be horrified, as she exclaimed, ‘Fie, Mister Pitt, manners, please. What a rude gentleman we are. Lisette, lift the Minster of War off the minister’s lap.’ Whereupon Mister Pitt showed his warlike tendencies by worrying with obvious enjoyment one of the Captain’s silver coat-buttons. The old lady had then produced a miniature handkerchief edged with the finest lace and handing it to the parson requested him to use it.
Doctor Syn, declining, was amused and charmed and settled down to enjoy her lively wit, while Miss Gordon, making a mental note that she must remember to reward Mister Pitt for introducing to her such a delightful travelling companion, prattled gaily.
‘I am indeed felicitated that we are bound for the same part of the coast and quite overwhelmed that I should be talking to the famous Doctor Syn whose ecclesiastical books are widely read by our ministers in Scotland. So you see, Mister Pitt, what a clever dog you are to have recognised such a well-known figure. Is he not like his namesake, sir,’ she said, ‘in bestowing honours where honours are most due’ — and she laughed so infectiously that Doctor Syn quite looked forward to the remainder of the journey, and was delighted to discover that she was a relation of his old friend, Sir Antony Cobtree, to whom she was paying a visit.
‘Then I vow, madame, you are no stranger to me, for I knew your niece, Lady Cobtree, before she married Tony, and your name has ever been a household word in the family. Indeed, on more occasions than I can remember I have heard Tony refer to “me wife’s Aunt Agatha”.’ Here Doctor Syn gave such a graphic imitation of the Squire of Dymchurch that Miss Gordon was quite paralyzed with giggles. ‘’Tis Tony to the life. You have caught his excellent pomposity. But he’s a good boy. I have ever been fond of him, though I think he regards “me wife’s Aunt Agatha” as a most eccentric old body, and what he will think of me now I hardly dare think, since it is many a year since I have visited them. Indeed, sir, the last time I was in Dymchurch was when you must have been away in the Americas. They often spoke of you. I was deeply distressed to learn of my favourite niece’s death. Poor Charlotte. She was so young.’ Engrossed in her family reminiscences, she failed to note the look of pain that for a moment clouded the Doctor’s face on her mentioning the name of Charlotte. ‘But tell me,’ she went on, ‘what of Cicely? I hear she is a fine girl. Good rider too. That’s to my liking. Indeed, she is my god-child. And thank heaven for that, since I never could abide her elder sister Maria. ’Twas a great blow to Caroline and Tony, as you must well know, when Maria went off and married that French nincompoop, though naturally now they are in a great state about her, and no wonder. To have a daughter of Maria’s disposition in the midst of these Paris horrors must be more than worrying. Indeed, I had a long letter from Cicely upon that subject before I left Kildrummy. It seems that the poor girl is worrying herself to a fiddle-string about her sister, though goodness knows Maria never cared a fig for anyone except herself. But tell me, Doctor Syn,’ she continued, ‘is not the position serious? — especially as we are now at war with France. Tony, with his English insularity, is often apt to deceive himself. I can almost hear him saying, “Damme, they’d never dare to touch a Cobtree. She may have married a Frenchman, but she’s still my daughter, sir.”’ Which rendering was as perfect an imitation of the Squire as Doctor Syn’s had been, which amused them both considerably, but returning almost at once to the seriousness of the situation, she added: ‘But I have a notion that that French husband of hers is not worth his salt and would be far too concerned for his own safety than to worry over Maria’s. For I am not sharing Tony’s convictions, and am quite certain after what they have done to their own Royal Family, one Cobtree more or less wouldn’t worry ’em.’
And so the conversation rolled on from one topic to another. Doctor Syn had by this time politely insisted upon Lisette taking his more comfortable seat, which though it infuriated the Captain, placed him in a better position for conversing with the old lady.
By the time the coach had reached Canterbury, their talk had brought them to the most popular topic of the day — occasioned by Doctor Syn remarking the little grotesque black patch upon Miss Gordon’s cheek — the topic which was inevitable at any fashionable gathering — namely, the Scarecrow, whose exploits amused the old lady vastly, though Lisette, frightened out of her well-trained servility, showed signs of apprehension at every mention of the name, till the old lady rated her for being a superstitious fool, and told her not to listen.
The Captain, on the other hand, appeared to come to life for the first time on the journey and listened to every word with avid attention, though neither he nor the old lady noticed the gleam of amusement that lurked behind the parson’s spectacles, as he spoke to the Captain.
‘I trust, sir, you will forgive a comparative stranger for addressing you, but you will understand from our conversation that our Marshes are not considered healthy at the moment. Indeed, Dymchurch-under-the-Wall is not as fashionable as Brighton.’ Then with an admirable piece of play-acting he pretended to recognise the Captain for the first time, exclaiming: ‘Dear me — your face is familiar. Have we not met before?’
To which the Captain was forced to reply: ‘Yes, sir. Last night — in Crockford’s.’
‘Yes, indeed, of course — the wager. Had you but spoken sooner, I would have recognised your voice. Pray forgive me. My eyesight, you know. At Crockford’s, yes. Foolish of me to think you were coming to Dymchurch for your health.’
Although to the ladies the words conveyed precisely what they meant, the Captain had that same uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach that he had experienced earlier in the day.
Doctor Syn, turning to Miss Gordon, added: ‘May I present, ma’am, a very famous English gentleman, and indeed a brave one, for he has wagered two thousand guineas that he will catch our Scarecrow within the week. Captain Foulkes — Miss Gordon.’
Miss Gordon gave the Captain a curt nod and did not seem very impressed, though Lisette was obviously gratified that she was riding in the same coach with a fine gentleman who was about to destroy the chief cause of her worries.
And so, on through the busy narrow streets of Canterbury, with the coach-horn playing a merry tune which caused Miss Gordon to exclaim: ‘Sakes alive, is that the only tune he can blow? Have you noticed he has played nothing else the whole journey?’
To which Doctor Syn replied with a smile: ‘You have a musical ear, madame. ’Tis the “British Grenadiers” is it not? In honour, no doubt, of our noble Captain here.’
‘Oh, I know the tune,’ replied Miss Gordon. But what she did not know was that the honour was due to the Scarecrow, who by this ingenious method told his followers throughout the countryside of his activities, each tune played meaning a different order. Had the guard been of a communicative disposition he could have told the occupants that in Scarecrow’s music, the ‘British Grenadiers’ meant ‘A false run tonight to lead the Revenue astray.’
Pulling up at the ‘George and Dragon’ for a final change of horses and half an hour’s rest, they started off again to the strains of the same enlightening tune, past the Cathedral and shops and on into Stone Street with its long stretch of straightforward road, lying open and innocent save for the lurking farm-house, and the coppice which had served its purpose earlier that morning. A good run until the southern end — the dread of every driver — Quarry Hill. Here the coach had to be stopped for skids, and then slowly down the winding gorge, which was overhung so heavily with giant foliage that even in the strongest sunlight it was like passing through an endless tunnel.
So went our coach — the horses straining back, the coachman leading them and the occupants forced to cling to their straps, as the vehicle lurched on its tortuous way down the hill.
‘Might be in the Highlands,’ exclaimed Miss Gordon.
‘Yes indeed,’ replied Doctor Syn. ‘’Tis precipitous as the stretch which we have just left is straight. You must blame the Romans if there is any blame for such a lasting road. The hill takes its name from the quarry which they used to work, transporting the stone for the building of Canterbury. Though we may not like to admit having been conquered, we must yet thank the Romans for much. Indeed there cannot be a man o’ Kent on our coast who does not sing their praises for the ingenious construction of Dymchurch seawall — a magnificent piece of engineering. Otherwise the seas would still be lapping against the hills behind the Marsh.’
‘There, Lisette, what did I tell you?’ cried the delighted old lady. ‘Though the sea is higher than the land, you will not get your feet wet.’ The maid, at last understanding the significance of the wall at Marsh, was loud in her praise of those ancient builders. And so on down the hill, their voices echoing against the steep wooded sides of the gorge, the Captain uncomfortably tilted back, and being exceedingly bored at this archaeological lecture, cried, ‘Confound the Romans, say I. I would they had made this road straighter, and I fail to see why we should overpraise them. For my part, I have no wish to render unto Caesar praise or anything else…’
‘No, my fine gentleman, but you’ll have to render a lot more than praise to Gentleman James,’ rang out a strong voice.
Our friend, the highwayman, had timed his attack to a nicety. The coach had stopped at the bottom of the hill, and both coachman and guard were busy removing the skid chains, the latter having most carelessly left his loaded blunderbuss upon the roof of the coach. Both men, taken by surprise, and powerless to assist, took cover behind the huge wheels, while a gay masked face and two horse-pistols menaced the confused passengers. The terrified Lisette, thinking the apparition none other than the Scarecrow, broke into her native tongue and mingled with the Captain’s oaths and Mister Pitt’s excitement; the voices of the little old lady and Doctor Syn were hardly heard at all.
‘Come now,’ cried Mr. Bone, enjoying the joke hugely, ‘who will be the first to render unto Jimmie Bone? Oh no, Captain, I shouldn’t try and touch your sword. This is my territory — not your St. Martin’s Fields.’ And that angry gentleman, whose fingers indeed had been twitching at his hilt, was flummoxed into silence. ‘Ladies first, sir, I’ll relieve you of that later,’ continued Mr. Bone. ‘Come, miss, the guard will assist you to descend.’ The trembling maid, clutching the jewel-case, was helped out of the coach while Mr. Bone emptied the jewel-case into his saddle-bag. Lisette, having no personal effects, was allowed back into the coach, and Miss Gordon was the next to descend, which she did, all outward indignation, though secretly enjoying the adventure. Taking the rings from her plump little fingers, she advanced fearlessly to Mr. Bone and handed them to him. He had to stoop low in the saddle to take them from her and he said, ‘’Tis a crying shame to take the rings from such a pretty hand.’
‘I have no wish to cry, and no compliments, please,’ she snapped. ‘I am too old for jewellery, as anyone can see, but ’tis most annoying of you, sir, or rather ’twill annoy my niece Cicely Cobtree, for I had planned to leave them to her. And shall have something to say to her father if he can’t keep order on his own land better than this.’ So saying, the old lady handed over the rest of her baubles, and called to the poodle, ‘Come, Mister Pitt, give the gentleman your bracelets.’ Thus summoned as he thought for another perambulation, the white poodle took a happy flying leap through the open door and pranced, jingling, round the hooves of Mr. Bone’s horse, which said gentleman was so amused and having taken a liking to the courageous old lady, swept off his hat and laughed. ‘Though I have robbed many a dirty dog, ma’am, I have no wish to rob a clean one, and with such a famous name to boot.’ So Mister Pitt, with property intact, followed his mistress back into the coach, and Jimmie Bone peered inside to select his next victim.
Upon seeing Doctor Syn he seemed to be most annoyed. ‘Devil take it!’ he cried. ‘A parson, and I must live up to my old slogan and respect the cloth. I never robbed a cleric yet, though I once had the Archbishop himself in my power, and I don’t doubt that the old Agger-bagger hadn’t more in his bags than you, eh, Mr. Clergyman?’ And had anyone been able to see beneath Mr. Bone’s mask they might have been surprised to see him give Doctor Syn a gigantic wink.
So there was nothing else for the Captain to do than to scramble ignominiously out on to the road, while Jimmie Bone surveyed him critically, and said: ‘Well, here’s a fine gentleman, and with a fine reputation too if I’m not mistaken. I warrant you’ll be visiting the coast for the good of your health.’ Again, the warning note. ‘Then you’ll not be needing the sword that’s hanging by your side. Come, sir, hand it over. Oh no, sir, sheath and all. You might be tempted else to pick one of your customary quarrels with some poor Kentish lad.’
And the glowering Captain could do nought else hand over his infamous duelling-sword. After which he was made to turn out his pockets while the guard was ordered to go through the mail bags and luggage. So it was that when the Captain was finally prodded back into the coach by the tip of his own sword, he had very little left other than what he stood up in, his stock-intrade, guineas for gambling, and weapons for killing gone, as were his beautiful Hessian boots.