BY
RUSSELL THORNDIKE
compiled by Connie Lewis and Angie McCleary
FOREWORD
This is the fourth book in the saga of Doctor Syn, and, although complete in itself, follows chronologically
the events recorded in The Further Adventures of Doctor Syn
CONTENTS
13 Concerning a Cargo of Bones ………………………………………………………………….67
14 The Captain Sits Up Late ………………………………………………………………………71
15 The Removal of Captain Blain …………………………………………………………………75
covered the latter years of the eighteenth century, the Coffin Shop, presided over by his Sexton and general
factotum, Mister Mipps, was one of the chief centres for village gossip.
Situated at the cross-roads, and overlooking the vast expanse of Romney, it was the first building encountered
when entering the long straggling village street.
It consisted of a low and extenuated shed, housing a forge and carpenter’s bench, and joined to an old cottage, the
ground floor of which was utilized as a general store.
Though the cottage was known officially as Old Tree Cottage, from an ancient trunk which reared itself proudly
before its casements, the whole building was always referred to as the Coffin Shop.
And it was in the Coffin Shop that Mipps could always be found when at home. Anyone wanting to buy
anything, from a jar of pickled onions to a marline spike, would ask for it across a tresselled coffin, and wait while
Mipps retired into the store, and finally delivered it upon a coffin lid, for there was always one coffin there, which
Mipps explained as being in readiness for the next stock-size corpse that might come along.
Mipps was a thin, wiry little man, with a pointed nose like that of an inquisitive ferret. As though to balance it,
his scraggy back hair was screwed into a queue, stiffened with tar, a fashion he had adopted in the days when he had
served as a ship’s carpenter.
With the exception of Doctor Syn, who always seemed to have the best advice for everybody’s problems, there
was no one who carried more parochial respect than Mipps. Old and young would drop into his workshop with their
wants, or their gossip. Like his master, the Vicar, he was ever ready to listen to anyone’s troubles, and his
whispered solution would be followed by a nod and a look of satisfaction as his visitor departed.
These whisperings in the Coffin Shop had sometimes been looked upon with suspicion by Revenue men, which
was a great source of amusement to Mipps, who defied them to find anything against him.
“Prove that I’m the Scarecrow,” he would say, with a chuckle, “and I’ll be ever so proud. Besides I’ll be able to
retire from the undertaking business when I finds myself the head of the Romney Marsh Smugglers. I’ve heard you
say that their profits are ver good indeed. Mine ain’t very good, so a change will do me wonders.”
Very often Doctor Syn would hitch the reins of his fat white pony over the gate-post of the Coffin Shop, while he
went in to discuss parochial matters with his Sexton, and on such occasions the villagers would tactfully wait for his
departure before presenting themselves to Mipps.
It was on such an occasion that several villagers, more than anxious to receive a whispered message from Mipps,
waited dutifully till their spiritual leader should mount his white pony and ride away.
They quite understood that the Vicar’s business must come first, since Mipps was the Vicar’s man, but to most of
them there was something more important than parochial matters, namely, their next orders from the mysterious
Scarecrow who had led them for so many years against the Revenue men, without betraying his identity. Even
Mipps professed ignorance on this subject. Certainly he was often used as the Scarecrow’s mouthpiece, and passed
messages that had not been able to be given at the last meeting of the Nightriders. Sometimes, too, the Scarecrow
found it necessary to change his plans, which he was able to do through the medium of the Coffin Shop.
On the March morning in the year 1781, the Vicar’s consultation upon parochial matters with Mipps seemed to
those anxiously waiting unnecessarily long.
In the ordinary way the little knot of fishermen and farm hands would not have minded how long they were kept
gossiping outside the Coffin Shop. It was pleasant to sit on the old wall of the bridge that spanned a broad dyke
opposite the closed shed from which they could hear the swish of the plane as the old carpenter worked. Dymchurch
was a sleepy enough village in the daytime, whatever its activities might have been at night.
But these were anxious times. As they talked in low voices, they watched the evolutions of a squadron of
Dragoons, who were exercising their horses across the green meadows of the Marsh.
They had been in the village for some days, encamped with horse-lines behind the Ship Inn, in a large field that
ran to the sea-wall. They had been applied for by the Preventive Officer, who had not enough men at his disposal to
deal with the strong force for smugglers that worked under the Scarecrow.
With their plumed brass helmets and scarlet tunics, the Dragoons lent an exciting touch of colour to the village,
and since the Scarecrow’s Nightriders had thoroughly worsted them, with two runs on a big scale since their arrival,
their harmless manoeuvres did not worry them.
But a new source of danger was looming over the village, which made the gossipers all the more anxious to see
the Vicar mount his white pony and ride away, so that they could discover from Mipps exactly what the new rumour
meant.
They had just gleaned the news of the arrival that very day of men from the Royal Navy, who were to augment
the already established Dragoons.
The majority had more respect for the Navy than for the Army, and so they took the rumour which Percy had
imparted to them on the bridge very seriously.
Percy was one of the most important members of the village community. Although most of them regarded him
as the village idiot, by reason of his being overgrown, lanky, loose-lipped, round-shouldered, and slow of speech,
discerning folk realized that amongst the may sluggish cells in the brain of this seventeen-year-old lad were some
that could act with the most acute perception. In other words Percy was not always the fool that he looked.
His physical strength enabled him to eke out a reasonably comfortable living for himself and his widowed
mother, by carrying buckets of fresh water from the village well to the various cottages. With their men-fold
working on the land or sea, for most of them were either at the fis hing or farming trades, housewives were only too
happy to save themselves the walk to the well and the labour of drawing and carrying by paying Percy his moderate
charges for two buckets full of well water delivered three times a day. The humblest cottage employed him, for it
was an accepted fact that he had the monopoly of the well.
From one of his clients Percy refused payment for his services, and that was Mipps, who had long promised him
a yoke to enable him to carry the pails of water the easier.
Mipps had measured it to fit the lad’s hunched shoulders, and it was on this particular morning that he was
putting the finishing touches to the work, planing it smooth while the Vicar talked to him in whispers.
The little knot of gossipers sitting outside upon the bridge wall would have been astonished could they have
heard the drift of this consultation, which had to do with the Scarecrow’s business.
“I tell you, my good Mipps,” the Vicar was saying, “that we shall have to adopt even more carefully laid plans in
the immediate future. We are used to the methods of the Dragoons which we have dealt with before when the
Government has seen fit to billet them upon us. But the Navy is a different proposition. This Captain Blain, who
has been detailed from the Guard Ship at Dover to break up our Nightriders, is a man whose record I am well
acquainted with, and believe me he has a strategic brain. He is an opponent worthy of our steel.”
“And he comes today, does he?” asked Mipps.
“And has been invited to the Court House as Sir Antony’s guest,” nodded the Vicar.
“I don’t envy the Squire,” said Mipps. “He’s already cluttered up with the Dragoons officers. Let’s hope they
pay well for the hospitality they receive.
“The Squire feels that the Cobtrees can hardly receive compensation for hospitality,” returned the Vicar, with a
smile, “so I gather that the Government allowance of rum for the troopers.”
“Well, so long as the Squire keeps the officers away from the Vicarage,” said Mipps, “all the easier for us, eh,
Vicar?”
Doctor Syn shook his head. “That’s not my view at all,” he said.
Mipps looked at his master, and checked the query that was on the tip of his tongue. His master was thinking.
Mipps knew Doctor Sy n better than any. Had he not served under him as ship’s carpenter when his master had
walked the deck of the Imogene as Captain Clegg, flying the black flag? Watching the long thin face now he
realized that the Vicar was working out a problem, and would speak in his own good time.
Doctor Syn was an arresting figure as he leant against the coffin. He was tall, slim, elegant and alert. A smile
suddenly broke over the pale intellectual face, and Mipps was fascinated, wondering what was coming.
“I have made up my mind that Captain Blain shall not be billeted with Sir Antony Cobtree at the Court House,”
he said. “He shall be looked after at the Vicarage. We will keep a close eye on him ourselves. It might even be
necessary to see that his door is fastened on the outside. Yes, we’ll put him in the little panelled room because the
door opens outwards. A wedge, eh, Mipps?”
Mipps nodded. “Maybe as well to have him clapped under our own hatches,” he said, and then added miserably,
“but I’ll wa ger that when the time comes you’ll be letting him out so that you’ll have an opponent worthy of you
steel, as you calls him, working against us when the Nightriders are out.”
Doctor Syn chuckled. “The Nightriders may scare some folk from the Marsh when a ‘run’ is on, but I fancy it
will take more to frighten Captain Blain. Their illuminated faces, the phosphorus on the horses, their wild trappings,
as they circle in and out of the mists, will not impress Blain. No, Mipps, we must think out new methods to deal
with this Captain.”
From the village street came the monotonous wail of the lad, Percy, crying out, “Water, water.” The gossipers
saw in him a means for interrupting the conversation going on between the Vicar and the Sexton.
“Hurry up, my lad,” one of them sang out. “Old Mipps is cursing in there for want of a pail of water for his
work.”
“Percy’s on time,” rejoined the half-wit. “In a fine hurry he is, so don’t be hindering him with you talk now. The
Sexton has promised the yoke this morning, and Percy’s lost a good pint of slopping walking fast. All over my
breeches. The yoke will keep the buckets from bumping my legs.”
“You get inside,” said one of the fishermen, “or old Mipps will be out of temper, and you’ll get no yoke at all.”
“If you stop, talking, and don’t go hindering,” drawled Percy, “I’ll go.”
Percy, continuing his trade wail of “Water,” pushed his way through the Coffin Shop door, and was reprimanded
by Mipps for daring to enter when he had seen the Vicar’s white pony tethered to the gate-post.
Doctor Syn came to the rescue by saying kindly that he was glad to be there when Percy received his present of
the yoke, which Mipps had so kindly made for him.
“Let’s see you put it on,” he said.
Percy stood the buckets down and took the yoke in both hands. It was finer than he had imagined. He stroked
the smoothly shaped wood with his finger-tips, and felt the neat splicing of the ship’s rope that gripped the strong
iron hooks. He gave a gurgling moan of appreciation as he finally lifted the yoke over his head and gently lowered
it till it fitted his hunched shoulders.
“Fits shipshape and Bristol fashion,” said Mipps, eyeing his work with admiration. “Pick up the buckets, and
let’s see if all’s easy.
The Vicar bent down and raised the bucket ropes, while Mipps adjusted the hooks. The stooping Percy watched
them with anxiety.
“Now then, take the strain,” ordered Mipps.
Very gingerly the lad began to raise himself. The bucket ropes were taut and then the buckets left the floor.
When Percy saw them swinging he gave vent to another gurgle of joy.
Then he took a slow step forward.
“Steady ‘em with your hands,” ordered Mipps, “or you’ll have ‘em swinging all over the place and slopping
water worse than ever.”
“That’s it,” said the Vicar. “Now let’s see you walk down the shed.”
With wonder and ecstasy written all over his face, and his mouth wide open, Percy started on his walk down the
shop. When he reached the end he turned slowly, and grinned at his own cleverness. On the way back to his
benefactor he walked quicker, and began to call out his long-drawn wail, “Water.”
“Still slops a bit,” said Mipps critically. “But it don’t splash his breeches like it used to.”
“Just a minute, Mipps,” replied the vicar. “Something has come back to me from the old days. Do you
remember a native water-carrier, who used to fill up our ship’s barrels from the quay of San Diego? I have just
recollected a clever dodge he employed.”
“A thin-looking, half-nigger in stripe-cotton breeches?” queried Mipps. “I’ve got him. And I remember a dodge
he had, which was nothing less than highway robbery, saying he’d filled the barrels when he’d only drained ‘em out,
and tilted the same water back again. I remember catching him at it and drawing my claspknife across his throat,
saying that if pork was in season I’d have him for it. Was it that dodge you was thinking of, Vicar? You was
preaching at the Red Injun Ch ristian church at the time.
“No, my good Mipps, though I remember the fellow as a rascal,” laughed Doctor Syn. “I’ll show you what his