Страница 1 из 56
The Shadow of Doctor Syn
by
Russell Thorndike
1944
‘Serve God; honour the King; but, first maintain the Wall.’ Slogan of ROMNEY MARSH
To
Emma Treckman
with grateful thanks for
her collaboration
Chapter 1
Two Topics of the Town
In the year 1793, not only in the isolated taverns of the remote district of Romney Marsh, but in the fashionable clubs of London, two subjects of news were passed from mouth to mouth, and were discussed in leading columns of the papers. The first of these was the Reign of Terror, raging across the Cha
Even the most literary of the political periodicals found space enough to exploit the adventures of the Romney Marsh smugglers, in the same editions that screamed out execrations against the murderous Paris mob. Indeed they used the Scarecrow and his men as an excuse to howl against the Government, which seemed quite powerless to put the audacious scandal down. True, they had offered a thousand-guinea reward to any person who should hand over, or cause to be handed over, this notorious malefactor, alive or dead, but although this sounded a large sum in proclamation, it was nothing when compared to the many thousands which were slipping through the fingers of the Revenue.
‘In the devil’s name, who is this Scarecrow?’ was the question on everybody’s lips. The general opinion was that he must be a man of education, since it was known that he spoke French fluently and was as powerful in the coastal districts of France as he was in his own territory of the Marsh. But on both sides of the Cha
There were other adventurers who played a dangerous game without adhering to any code of fairness, and one of these was Captain Foulkes, a successful gambler and soldier of Fortune. Oh yes, ‘Bully’ Foulkes, not without reason given this nickname, played for the highest stakes in the most exclusive London clubs. He cheated so cleverly that his fashionable victims i
Yet he was not without disciples — young men of rank and fashion who admired his dash and tried to emulate his success. Such a youngster was Lord Cullingford, who, having recently come into his family title, found that he had mortgaged the next three years of his income.
He had raised the money from the City Jews in order to satisfy his creditors. But since it was utterly impossible for a young lord of the realm to live in the lap of luxury without a pe
Captain Foulkes cut a fine figure, tall, broad shouldered, athletic. Cullingford was not so tall, thin shouldered and effeminate. But the tailors managed to pad out his shoulders, and the bootmakers elevated his feet, while the Captain’s personal barber attended on him. In fact, the general opinion was that Cullingford’s friendship with Captain Foulkes had improved his looks and bearing considerably.
One miserable night in late autumn Lord Cullingford left the gaming-table at Crockford’s and strolled over to the fire. All day he had played cautiously, which is often an ill thing for a gambler to do. On this occasion it was certainly an ill thing for his young lordship. As he gazed into the flames, his mental arithmetic told him he was down to his last three hundred pounds, and was owing to various tradesmen. His credit was good enough, since none of the tradesmen in question were aware of the precarious state of his purse, but having tasted the dubious honour of being the chosen companion of so envied a man as Bully Foulkes, he had no desire to be given his congé. Foulkes had no use for anyone who could not stay the course. An ignominious position to be in, and one thing was certain to his lordship — he must play no more tonight. In fact, Lord Cullingford was very sorry for himself. His nerves, none too good, from a succession of routs and late parties, were strained to the highest tension, when a burst of noisy laughter from the table behind him aggravated them beyond bearing, which decided his lordship to go home to bed, thinking that a stroll up St. James’s in the fresh air would dispel the fumes of wine from his head and his financial worries with them.
As he turned to put his resolution into practice, Bully Foulkes pushed back his chair, swept a pile of guineas from his place at the table, and swaggered over to him.
‘Come on, Cullingford,’ he said; ‘my luck is in, but I’m quitting for an hour as I have an appointment at Bucks. Take my place.’
‘Oh, the devil damn the rascal that first thought of cards and dice!’ snapped his lordship. ‘I’ve lost all day and will play no more.’
‘Then take my place and perhaps your luck will change all night,’ replied Foulkes. ‘And damme, I hope it may. You’ve been an ill enough companion for the past week, and if there is one thing I can’t abide ’tis a poor loser.’
‘I tell you, man, I have no wish to play and am going home.’
‘I vow you’re as sulky as the bear in Southwark pit,’ laughed the Captain, taking his arm. ‘Come, a glass of brandy will cure your spleen and a rattle of dice will take that sour expression from your face. My place is reserved for you. I beg you to take it and try one throw. A hundred guineas round the table and the highest takes the lot. ’Tis a quick way to earn a thousand, and I warrant a thousand guineas will soon cure you of the sulks.’