Some twenty minutes later he reached the loneliest spot — a small dilapidated cottage that the Marsh-folk shunned, for in their seafaring, superstitious minds they feared the old woman who lived there, believing her to be a witch and in the Devil’s pay. In the eyes of these simple folk Doctor Syn became the more respected because he did not fear to visit her. But then the Vicar was such a very holy man.
Upon this night he was not the only one who had the courage to enter Mother Handaway’s abode, for three others were there before him.
The fact that it was avoided by all God-fearing folk, and by reason of its lonely situation, cut off by intersecting dykes whose dilapidated bridges were unsafe, gave this poor hovel a value to anyone who wished to work in secret. For many years it had served the Scarecrow well, for in a dry dyke close to the house was a well-built, underground stable, dating, some said, from the days of the Roman occupation. Its roof was the natural pasture soil and its only door was hidden beneath a stack of drying bullrushes. The inside was commodious and dry, owing to the excellent drainage system of the builders in those ancient times.
With these advantages, therefore, it was an admirable hiding-place for the Scarecrow’s wild, black horse, Gehenna, and used as well by another gentleman whose way of business demanded secrecy. Gentleman James sheltered there when a hue-and-cry was at its height, or when the Scarecrow wished him to ride as deputy. In this way the Authorities had been fooled many times, for having seen the Scarecrow in one part of the Marsh, dumbfounded Dragoons or Preventive men, discussing their experiences the next day, would discover that this fearsome creature had also appeared some miles away at that particular time, and the rumour had grown that the Scarecrow was in truth a demon. So it appeared almost natural for this terrifying, unearthly horseman to disappear in the vicinity of this haunted spot. The smugglers took full advantage of the old woman’s fearsome reputation, and saw that it was enhanced by weird shriekings in the night and oily smoke rising from the chimney-stack, thus giving encouragement to many a gruesome tale about the old woman’s secret practices. The old hag’s appearance was enough to quell the stoutest heart. Sharp curved nose and pointed chin guarded her one-toothed, mumbling mouth. Her evil eyes were beady and protected by straggly brows that matched the grey beard upon her chin. Her hair hung in long rats’ tails, and her gnarled fingers made her hands look like claws. Half crazed, she too believed herself the witch of popular belief, for had she not conjured up the Devil in the likeness of that holy man, the Vicar of Dymchurch? And did not the Devil pay her more golden guineas than a poor parson could ever afford?
Upon this night she sat in a corner by the fire surrounded by her clawing cats, huddled and mumbling to herself, while round a table, seated on barrels, talking and drinking, were three men.
Heaped into a pile in front of Jimmie Bone was a various assortment of the kind of trinkets that delight a feminine heart. It waas the Highwayman’s habit to keep in reserve a goodly selection of such baubles, and he took great care always to have some about him as a reward for services rendered. Though as a rule these gifts were bestowed carelessly enough, upon this occasion Mr. Bone did not seem able to make up his mind. He scratched his head, took up a ring, only to put it back in favour of a brooch or bracelet, and then thumping the table which made the whole heap jump, he cried out in his perplexity: ‘S’death, I cannot tell which one would suit her best.’
The other two looked up, surprised from their earnest conversation.
‘Why, what troubles you, Jimmie?’ asked Mr. Mipps. ‘Can’t you find one to your likin’? Seems to me that a wench should be well-pleased with any of ’em. Who’s it for? That new one at the Red Lion in Hythe, I’ll be bound. Now bein’ a sandy-’aired, I should suggest a garnet, or isn’t it ’er? If you describes ’er we might be able to assist. Pedro ’ere will give you first-rate information. ’Ad to leave Spain, he did; too many señoritas wanted to call him Papa, didn’t they, me old flirt-man?’
‘No, no, my excellent Mipps,’ protested Pedro, in laboured English. ‘The señoritas wish me to call on their Papa.’
‘Means the same thing in the end, don’t it, you old Spanish bullfight? Anyway,’ he went on to Jimmie Bone, ‘what he don’t know about what they want ain’t worth tellin’ to your auntie. So come, give us a look at her riggin’ and we’ll tell you ’ow to deck her figure’ead.’
The little Spanish sea-captain tugged excitedly at his beard, his black eyes dancing at the thought of hearing a description from Señor Bone of the girl who was lucky enough to please him. His weatherbeaten little face, tanned to old leather and having indeed the same texture, wrinkled into a mesh of smiling expectancy. He turned his grizzled head this way and that, which made the golden rings in his ears flash in the light. He spoke with the knowledge of an expert: ‘I know, I know, before you start, I know. She is like the peach against the wall ready for the — ’ow you say? — ah, the pluckings.’
Mr. Bone had other ideas on the subject, though he seemed as unable to describe the lady as he had been to select her present. After much humming and ha-ing and entreating them not to laugh at him, he confessed that although the lady in question was sparkling, witty and full of charm, he didn’t know what colour her hair was as she wore the most enormous white wig, and that she stood no higher than the tip of his horse’s nose, had a face like a bright little robin, was unmarried and well-nigh eighty.
‘Well, blow me down and knock me up!’ cried Mipps. ‘If that ain’t Miss Agatha Gordon at Squire’s, I’ll keel-haul myself.’
‘That’s the party,’ cried Mr. Bone. ‘As nice a little old lady as ever I robbed. But I’ve give back her jewels and I want to apologize with a keepsake.’
Captain Pedro was too bewildered to speak. He could not understand how it was that so fine a caballero as this highwayman should be heart-troubled by an old lady of eighty. Like all foreigners, he knew, of course, that all Englishmen are mad, but he had not imagined anyone being as strange as this. He was hoping to hear more upon the matter when the door opened and Doctor Syn stood looking at them.
The effect on Mother Handaway was remarkable. She stretched out her scraggy arms straight before her with finger turned up and palms towards her master as though to ward off any curse he might think to hurl at her. By her averted frightened eyes, and lips that muttered invocations, the three men at the table knew that the old hag was in the grip of fear, waiting to hear whether the inscrutable black-clothed figure was angy with her.
He did not keep her long in this awful suspense. Though he had walked the Marsh, his soul had still been singing with the stars, and he could not find it in his heart to enjoy the power he exercised over this misguided creature, so in a quiet calm voice he said: ‘You have done well, old mother, and shall be well repaid. Go to the stables, and light the lanterns there.’
After uttering a wild cry of joy, she fell forward in ecstasy of genuflexions, and when she heard another kindly order — ‘Go. There, there.
All’s well’ — she chuckled in delight and, followed by the cats about her, hobbled past him through the door.
Quickly Doctor Syn closed the door behind her and with a smile of real affection lighting up his eyes went over to the table from which the three men had risen.
‘’Tis good to see you, Pedro,’ and he took the Spanish captain’s hands in both of his. ‘You managed the last business so well and with such care for the valuable cargo in those barrels — oh yes, I have heard how gently they were handled — that I am reluctant to send you back again so soon to France. Mipps will have told you that there are two prisoners to be taken to our harbour in the Somme, and there is no one who can slip through the blockade like our Pedro —’