A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

Doctor Syn

A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh by Russell Thorndyke

1915

Contents

Dymchurch-under-the-wall …………………………… 5 The Coming of the King’s Frigate ……………………… 12 The Coming of the King’s Men ……………………….. 21 The Captain …………………………………….. 37 A Bottle of Alsace Lorraine ………………………….. 48 Doctor Syn Takes Cold …………………………….. 58 Clegg the Buccaneer ………………………………. 67 Dogging the Schoolmaster …………………………… 83 The End of Se

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12 The Captain Objects ………………………………120 13 The End of the Inquiry……………………………..133 14 At the Vicarage ………………………………….141 15 A Landed Proprietor Sets Up a Gallows Tree………………147 16 The Schoolmaster’s Suit ……………………………164 17 The Doctor Sings a Song ……………………………174 18 Behind the Shutters ……………………………….184 19 The Captain’s Nightmare……………………………189 20 A Terrible Investigation…………………………….195 21 The Bo’sun’s Story ……………………………….203 22 A Curious Breakfast Party …………………………..212 23 A Young Recruit …………………………………231 24 The Coffin-Maker Has a Visitor ………………………251 25 The Sexton Speaks ……………………………….259

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26 The Devil’s Tiring House …………………………..276 27 The Scarecrow’s Legion ……………………………284 28 The Fight at Mill House Farm ………………………..296 29 Captain Collyer Entertains an Attorney from Rye……………314 30 Doctor Syn Has a “Call” ……………………………324 31 A Certain Tree Bears Fruit ………………………….339 32 The Captain’s Experiment …………………………..347 33 Adventures in Watchbell Street ……………………….356 34 A Military Lady-killer Prepares for Battle ………………..381 35 Scylla or Charybdis ……………………………….391 36 Holding the Pulpit ………………………………..403 37 The Dead Man’s Throttle …………………………..416 38 Dymchurch-under-the-wall ………………………….430 39 Echoes………………………………………..434

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Chapter 1

Dymchurch-under-the-wall

To those who have small knowledge of Kent let me say that the fishing village of Dymchurch-under-the-wall lies on the south coast midway between two of the ancient Cinque ports, Romney and Hythe. In the days of George III, with Trafalgar still unfought, our coast watchmen swept with keen glasses the broad bend of the Cha

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In spite of being perilously open to the dangers of the French coast, Dymchurch was a happy little village in those days—aye, and prosperous, too, for the Squire, Sir Antony Cobtree, though in his younger days a wild and reckless adventurer, a gambler and a duellist, had, of late years, resolved himself into a pattern Kentish squire, generous to the village, and so vastly popular. Equally popular was Doctor Syn, the vicar of Dymchurch: a pious and broad-minded cleric, with as great a taste for good Virginia tobacco and a glass of something hot as for the pe

The little church was old and homely, within easy cry of the sea; and it was pleasant on Sunday evenings, during the Doctor’s long extempore prayers, to

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hear the swish and the lapping and continual grinding of the waves upon the sand.

But church would come to an end at last, as most good things will, although there was a large proportion of the congregation—especially among the younger members—who considered that they could have even too much of a good thing.

The heavy drag of the long sermon and never-ending prayers was lifted, however, when the hymns began. There was something about the Dymchurch hymns that made them worth singing. True, there was no organ to lead them, but that didn’t matter, for Mr. Rash, the schoolmaster—a sallow, lantern-jawed young man with a leaning toward music—would play over the tune on a fiddle, when led by the Doctor’s sonorous voice, and seconded by the soul-splitting notes of Mipps, the sexton, the choir, recruited entirely from seamen whose voices had been cracked these many years at the tiller, would roll out some sturdy old tune like a giant pćan, shaking the very church with its fury, and

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sounding more like a rum-backed capstan song than a respectable, God-fearing hymn. They felt it was worth while kneeling through those long, long prayers to have a go at the hymns. The Doctor never chose solemn ones, or, if he did, it made no odds, for just the same were they bellowed like a chanty, and it was with a long-drawn note of regret that the seafaring choir drawled out the final Amen.

Very often when a hymn had gone with more spirit than usual the Doctor would thump on the desk of the three-decker, addressing the choir with a hearty, “Now, boys, that last verse once again,” and then, turning to the congregation, he would add: “Brethren, for the glory of God and for our own salvation we will sing the—er—the last two verses once again.” Whereat Mr. Rash would scrape anew upon the fiddle, Doctor Syn would pound out the rhythm with a flat banging on the pulpit side, and after him would thunder the sea salts from the choir with an enthusiasm that bade fair to frighten hell itself.

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When they had hardly a note left in their bodies, the service would be rounded off by Doctor Syn, and the congregation would gather in little groups outside the church to bid him a good-night. But Doctor Syn would take some minutes changing his black gown for his cloth surcoat; besides, there was the collection to be counted and entered into the book, and a few words of parochial business with the sexton, but at last it would be all finished and he would come forth to receive the homage of the parish. He would be accompanied by Sir Antony, who was warden as well as squire and a regular churchgoer, as the well-thumbed pages of a large prayer-book in the family pew could prove. Bestowing a cheery word here and a kindly nod there, the gentleman would pass on to the Court House, where, after a hearty supper, Doctor Syn would metaphorically lay aside his robes of righteousness, and over a long pipe of his favourite tobacco and a smoking bowl of bishop, with many an anecdote of land and sea, make the jolly squire laugh till his sides ached, for

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he possessed to a lively extent that happy knack of spi

And while the vicar entertained his patron at the Court House, Mr. Mipps in a like ma