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.
