We’ll change over crews and you may lie anchored aboard here, while I go and fetch Hart from the Guard Ship. I’ll
come aboard.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the unsuspecting officer, and as Syn climbed on to the cutter’s deck, he sang out the
necessary orders.
“Make fast, Bos’n, and send our men aboard,” growled Syn.
“Aye, aye, sir,” sang out Mipps.
Before the first man rolled out of the fo’c’sle curing, Syn’s men were at the ropes. Canvas was spread and
anchor weighed, while the workers kept sullen backs to the awakened sleepers. Keeping away from the ship’s
lanterns Syn strode the deck, curing Swinnerton for not driving his men harder, so that in a few minutes the last of
the cutter’s crew was aboard the lugger, and Syn gave a curt good night to the officer as he followed his crew aboard
the unsavoury lugger. As he went over the side with a salute, Swinnerton said, “We’ll stand by you at anchor here,
sir.”
“Right. And between ourselves, Mister Swinnerton, was mister Rowton drunk as usual when you reported
aboard the Guard Ship?”
“Well, sir,” replied the young officer diffidently, “he was not altogether pleasant, but he seemed put out that the
Admiralty have superseded Admiral Troubridge for Admiral Chesham, who I believe is to take over the command.”
“I know Chesham well,” chuckled Syn. ‘He’ll make us jump for him.”
As the cutter drew away into the fairway they heard the anchor being dropped aboard the lugger.
On the way to Dover, Mipps and two others who had served aboard a man-o-war trained the crew as to their
bearing, and in the meanwhile Syn having sent for white paint and tar, and procuring a flag from the locker,
bedaubed a white scarecrow on a black ground. “The adventure has so far been a joke with no bloodshed. With
luck it may so continue, Mipps,” he laughed, “and I have a mind to run this flag up on the guard Ship peak-head.”
The cutter entered the harbour and came alongside the guard Ship without suspicion. The officer of the watch
saluted Syn. “I was appointed here, sir, since you left for shore duty.”
“Name?” growled Syn.
“Osmund, sir.”
“Mister Rowton below?”
“Yes sir.”
“In his cups, too, I’ll be bound.”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” replied the tactful midshipman.
“Order two men to put the prisoner Hart aboard the cutter. I am taking him ashore for trial.”
“Yes sir. Shall I take the order to Mister Rowton, sir?’
“No. Take me to him. I’ll make it clear to him. Have the prisoner put aboard at once. Rowton’s in my cabin?:’
“No, Captain Blain. Admiral Troubridge has been ashore for two nights and Mister Rowton is preparing the
quarters for Admiral Chesham.”
“Very well. Get the prisoner aboard.”
Syn closed the door of the Admiral’s cabin behind him, and called a very drunk officer asprawl across a chart
table to attention.
“Mister Rowton,” he said sharply, “I shall have you suspended for this. I come unexpectedly to escort the
prisoner Hart back to shore trial, and I find you drunk on Admiral’s liquor. Get to bed and you’ll hear that
tomorrow which will surprise you.”
Suddenly the drink seemed to drop from Rowton’s eyes. “What’s all this? “Just a minute. Who the hell are
you? You’re like Blain, but I’ve served under that devil for years, and you ain’t him. Who are you?”
Syn strode towards him, saying, “An officer whom no subordinate shall insult.”
With a terrific blow on his chin Rowton went down on the cabin floor. There was a knock at the door and young
Osmund announced, “Prisoner’s being taken aboard, sir.”
“Mister Rowton has fallen over drunk. When I’ve sailed come back here, pour a bucket of water over him and
let him sleep. And take example. Don’t drink on duty if you wish to get on in the Service.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” replied Osmund.
On deck Syn saw Hart being hustled below on the cutter. Leaning over the side he called, “Got the Admiral’s
flag there?”
“Yes sir,” replied Mipps. “Shall I bring it aboard.”
“Throw her up.”
The rolled flag fell on the deck. “Do you know how to break a flag, Mister Osmund?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then let’s see you run up Admiral Chesham’s.”
“He’s not aboard, you know, sir.”
“Obey orders, and don’t try to teach me regulations,” snarled Syn. “If the new Admiral wishes his colours to be
seen in the morning as though he were aboard, that’s his look-out and mine, not yours.”
As Syn stood once more on the cutter he saw the black bundle mounting to the peak, and then with a convulsive
twitch break out into t he breeze. “You strike that at Admiral Chesham’s orders, and see that Mister Rowton does
not tamper with it.”
The next morning there was fine to-do when the Scarecrow’s flag was seen waving above the flagship. There
was more to-do when the cutter was discovered run on Dymchurch sands with all her brass guns, fourteen in all,
shining below the water, and a hue and cry for Fred Hart who was shipped over to France that night for internment
in the Scarecrow’s secret port.
Meanwhile the Captain’s uniform and wig were brought to his room neatly brushed and powdered, and doctor
Syn, in the clothes that Mipps had brought to him from the hidden stable, went out before breakfast to give comfort
to Mrs. Hart.
“I will see that you join your husband as soon as you are well enough to cross the Channel,” he said. “He is alive
and well, having escaped from the jaws of death through the skill of the mysterious Scarecrow. How I came to this
information I may not say, and for the sake of your husband’s safety we must not speak of it. But you see, my
daughter, it was as I thought. My dream was a visitation from God.”
As to Captain Blain, he had a lot to puzzle him, and he vowed to be revenged upon the Scarecrow.
4
THE SCARECROW RIDES TO THE HOUNDS
That the Prince of Wales should invite himself to reside for a day or so at Lympne Castle was a great feather in the
cap of Sir Henry Pembury, Lord of Lympne. That His Royal Highness should express the wish to hunt with the
Romney Marsh Pack was perhaps a greater feather in the cap of Sir Antony Cobtree, Squire of Dymchurch-underthe-Wall. Chief Magistrate of the Marshes, and Master of the Hounds. That Doctor Syn should be invited to meet
the Prince in order to pronounce grace at the Hunt Dinner, was only right and proper, since he was Dean of
Peculiars, and consequently the head cleric of the district.
On his fat white pony the reverend gentleman jogged his way from Dymchurch Vicarage, and mounted the hill to
the castle, in order to accept the invitation personally, and to learn details of the Royal visit. He was attended as
usual by his henchman, sexton Mipps, perched upon the donkey that pulled the churchyard roller. Although the
stone roller was not on this occasion attached to the sexton’s mount, they could not have proceeded slower if it had
been, for it was never the custom of the Vicar to urge his lazy pony to any speed beyond a walk. Besides, Lympne
hill is a steep climb for a man or beast.
As Doctor Syn gazed at the majestic walls he began to chuckle.
Mipps, wishing to know what was passing in his master’s mind, asked, “Notice something funny, sir?”
“No, my good Mipps,” replied the Vicar. “Do you?”