A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

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and in the other direction the long line of hills which bound the Marsh inland, with old Limpne Castle frowning from the top. But Jerk wouldn’t have changed his stronghold for any other, Limpne Castle included; it suited him admirably. From it he studied the Marsh and the creatures therein: the great brown water-rat that came out in the evening to hunt in the rushes; the swift-winged dragonfly that could stand in midair stock still, as it seemed, to look at you; the myriad mosquitoes with their fantastic air dance, hunting in tribes along the sluggish waters; the tadpole who looped about in the water below; and more especially the flabby flap of the night-prowling bat who hung all day head downward from a decayed old tree trunk that was rotting on the opposite bank to Jerk’s estate. Now this same tree trunk had put ideas into young Jerk’s head. It was obviously no good to any one, and yet Jerk found himself regretting that it had not lived and died upon his land, for it was shaped devilishly like a gallows tree, and if he could only erect a gallows tree upon the summit of Lookout Mountain he

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would be more than ever living up to his reputable name of Hangman Jerk. He half thought at one time of digging it up and replanting it on his own property, but when he had caught hold of a branch one day and it had crumbled away in his had he considered that, although very nice and weird to behold, it wasn’t much use as a genuine gibbet, and a genuine gibbet he then and there resolved to possess. Now the silver crowns of Doctor Syn would buy the most glorious scaffold, a regular professional affair, fixed snug and firm in the ground, and capable of supporting the weight of a wriggling man. Mipps was the man to undertake the job, for he was a first-rate carpenter, and there was wood and to spare in the yard behind the coffin-shop. Yes, if any man could supply him with a gibbet Mipps could; and there he was talking in the bar ready to hand, and here were the silver crowns in Jerk’s pocket. But to buy the gibbet and then to have to keep his mouth shut about the schoolmaster was no good. Mipps would never do the job for one crown, but for two Jerk thought he might. Well, he

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could see about that, and if he were unsuccessful, he must find a way of raising the money, and then, as soon as the apparatus was ready, he would get Rash condemned, and offer the authorities the loan of a brand-new gibbet. Oh, to watch the murderer swinging from the top of Lookout Mountain, right away on the lonely, windswept Marsh! That, indeed, was a glorious thought. Yes, he must come to terms with the undertaker at once—an undertaker now with a vengeance—Rash’s undertaker. But the little gentleman in question was talking to Mrs. Waggetts, so Jerry had to wait in honour bound, for he was staunch to his benefactress, and would not have interrupted her for the world. The conversation going forward in the bar was carried on in earnest tones but low, and Jerk began to think that Mrs. Waggetts was at last drawing the sexton into a proposal of marriage, and his interest in this one-sided love affair made him crouch by the bar door in hopes of gathering up some scraps of the honeyed vengeance—Rash’s undertaker. But the little gentleman in question was talking to Mrs. Waggetts, so Jerry had to wait in honour bound, for he was staunch to his benefactress, and would not have interrupted her for the world. The conversation going forward in the bar was carried on in earnest tones but low, and Jerk began to think that Mrs. Waggetts was at last drawing the sexton into a proposal of marriage, and his interest in this one-sided love affair made him crouch by the bar door in hopes of gathering up some scraps of the honeyed

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words. But the few disjointed words he did catch were more akin to passion

than to love.

“Alsace Lorraine—one bottle gone! Damn that captain’s soul!”

Yes, there was passion there—not love. “We know how to use the mist— they don’t.”

“It’s safe enough. Lots of it to-night—”

No, there was no vestige of love in that. And presently the conversation was terminated with the most uncomplimentary remark from the sexton.

“You can lay your old topknot, and throw in your face, that there’ll be a good haul out to-night, and a good haul in here,” saying which, with a knowing slap at his pocket, Mipps came hurriedly out of the bar door and fell a-sprawl over the crouching body of young Jerk.

“Why, in the name of all wot rots, can’t you tell me where you was?” cursed the sexton.

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“’Cos I prefers to tell you what I wants,” replied young Jerk.

“A thrashin’?”

“A gallows!”

“Aye, that you do, if any one did.”

“Will you make it for me, then?” said the boy.

“What do you mean?”

“What I says—will you make me one?”

“At a price.”

“And that is?”

“Depends on the size. Wot do you want a gallows for now?”

“That don’t concern you,” returned Jerk. “You’ll have all you can do makin’ it, without askin’ questions.”

“And you’ll have all you can do, when it’s made, a-preventin’ me a-stringin’ you up on it, if I has any more o’ your impert’nence.”

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But Jerry was in no way put out, and replied:

“If you don’t want to build my gallows, say so, and I’ll soon find some other cove wot does. Come, wot’s your price?”

“And wot’s your game?”

“My business, not yourn,” said the boy. “But you’ll find as how yourn won’t improve by a

“Employers? And who might they be now?” said the sexton.

“Well, I’m a-tryin’ to be one,” said Jerk, jingling the coins about in his pocket to lend weight to his words. “What price for a gallows, eh?”

The jingle of coins always made the sexton think.

“Wot size?”

“Big enough and strong enough to hang a man on, of course, and allowin’ for a good foot or two of timber in the earth.”

The sexton scratched his head. “Well, I’m cursed!” he said.

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“That’s nought to me,” replied Jerry. “Come on! Your price?”

“Well, say two crowns for making and one for fixin’.”

“One for makin’ and one for fixin’,” said Jerk, holding them out.

“No!” said the sexton, eying the coins.

“Then hang the fixin’!” cried the boy, “for I’ll fix it myself. So it’s one for makin’ and the wood, ain’t it, Mister Sexton?”

“No, it’s two for makin’, and I lose on that.”

“Very well,” agreed Jerk desperately, handing over the money, “and please, Mister Sexton, make it now, ’cos I wants it quick.”

So the bargain was struck there and then, and off they both set to the coffin shop to carry it out; and the gallows was made by nightfall and set up on Jerk’s property, the sexton carrying it there himself, digging the hole and fixing it up —a regular professional affair with a jangly rusty chain a-swing through the

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hook—and all this for the nominal price of two silver crowns, lately received by the purchaser from Dr. Syn.

“Ah!” cried Jerk, as they viewed the completed erection from the other side of the dyke; “ain’t it fust rate?”

“Slap up,” agreed the sexton.

“Quite strong, ain’t it?” inquired the owner anxiously, to which the sexton replied imperiously:

“It were Mipps as knocked it up, as you seed yourself; and when Mipps knocks up, you can lay it’s solid wot’s knocked,” saying which he turned and strode off toward the village, followed by Jerk.