A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

The cutter was not long in swinging alongside the lugger, and Collyer clambered aboard, with three or four of his men armed with pistols and cutlasses. The men on the lugger had stopped rowing when they saw that they had no chance of escape, and as soon as the captain hailed them they surrendered sullenly.

The men at the oars were ordered into the cutter, and then the captain turned to the cabin. Outside the door sat Sexton Mipps with his blunderbuss lying across his knees, ready to hand. But he appeared quite calm, and was enjoying his short clay pipe.

“Good evening, Captain,” he said. “Coming out fishing with us, are you?”

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“Lay that blunderbuss of yours on the deck,” answered the captain, “and step aboard the cutter after your pals.”

“I should like to know what you be,” said Mr. Mipps, “to order a respectable parish sexton about.”

“You won’t make it easier for yourself, my man, by lugging back,” said the captain. “I know quite enough about you to send you to the gibbet.”

“May I ask what?” replied the sexton, pulling away at his pipe.

“I’ve been having a look at that coffin shop of yours, and I’ve seen enough there to get you a free rope from the government; so come along and make the best of a bad job.”

Mipps pulled desperately at his short clay pipe and sent over his lap a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke. Under cover of this his fingers were stealing toward the trigger of the blunderbuss. He was calculating his chances, for there were

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three pistols pointing at him from the King’s men. If he was shot, he meant to take the captain with him.

“There’s one chance of saving your dirty carcass,” went on the captain, not noticing those crafty fingers moving.

“What’s that?” said the sexton behind the blue curtain of tobacco smoke.

“There’s one man I’d a deal sooner hang than you, and that’s Clegg. Tell me where Doctor Syn is and I’ll give you twenty-four hours to make yourself scarce.”

“Thank you kindly,” went on the sexton, “but I ain’t no wish to make myself scarce. I’m quite happy where I am, and if you’ve a fancy to make yourself scarce, I’ll be happier still.”

Just then there was a noise below of singing, and something splashed into the sea. The captain looked over the side and saw a black bottle. It was not a

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dark night, and he could see it floating away toward the shore, where the beacons were alight.

“He’s in that cabin!” the captain shouted. “He threw that rum bottle out of the stern hole.”

“If he is there,” replied the sexton, “I wouldn’t advise you nor any other of my friends to go in, for it’ll be the worse for you if you do. Hark! he’s in song to-night, and when Clegg’s in song, you can take it from me that he’s in a devil of a mood.”

From the cabin came that horrible song:

“Here’s to the feet wot have walked the plank, Yo ho! for the dead man’s throttle.”

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And then words were uttered in a drunken voice, the voice of a drunkard in terror.

“It’s the drink! There’s nobody there, there’s nobody in this cabin, I say. It’s a shadow, nothing but a shadow. He couldn’t have got here. It’s a shadow risen from hell to mock me, I say. He couldn’t have got off that reef. There was nothing for him to live upon but the filthy body of the yellow cook, and would even the foulest man eat food not fit for sharks? There was nothing else. I can hear the surf now breaking into the lagoon. There, listen! There, hark at him cursing! It’s no use, tell him. The crew’s afraid of me. They’re only muttering, they daren’t speak again, for I’ve settled with Pete, the yellow cook—broke his spine in with a capstan bar. How it did get wedged between the bone. I tore it out with my nails. There goes Pete’s body over the side into the clear water. Ugh! what a horrible splash it makes! The water doesn’t seem to hide him much! There’s his ugly yellow face still! Why don’t the water hide him? It

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hides lots of other ugly things, damn it! The breeze, thank God! We are slipping away, faster, faster. The coral reef is sinking into the deep sea. The marooned scoundrel, the damned mulatto, can’t throw a harpoon from there, he can’t! He’s dead already! Cram on the canvas, every inch! Get up aloft! Won’t take my orders, eh? Get up! Get up! I’ll teach you who Clegg is! Ah! look there! There’s something following the ship. What a horrible face it has! My God, it’s yellow! Horrible! It’s coming out of the sea! It’s creeping over the stern, along the deck! It’s coming to the roundhouse! Lock the door! No! No! It’s here inside the roundhouse. You’ve locked it in with me, you fools! You cowards, it’s following me round! It isn’t him! It isn’t him! It’s a shadow—a damned silly shadow. Where’s the rum? Mipps, you damned little pirate, where have you hid the rum?

“Here’s to the corpses floating round in the tank;

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And the dead man’s teeth in the bottle.”

The song turned into a scream of agony. There was the noise of a soul-sickening thud, and something leaped through the cabin door, tumbling Mr. Mipps all over in a heap. The three pistols of the King’s men flashed, another scream tore the air, and a tall figure sprang high into the night and disappeared into the sea.

“It’s Clegg! It’s Syn!” shouted one of the King’s men.

“And we’ve shot that damned little sexton, too!” shouted another, for Mipps lay flat on his face, with his fingers outstretched upon the deck.

Collyer rushed into the cabin, while the men reloaded a pistol in case the head of Doctor Syn should rise from the sea.

“Bring a light!” shouted the captain.

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The cabin was small, but larger than might have been expected from the size of the craft. When a lantern had been passed through, it showed a little room whose walls were the sides of the boat. On one side was a heavy little flap table, fixed into the ribs of the boat with rusty iron sockets. Upon this table, flat down on his face, indeed in the very position that Morgan Walters had appeared upon the vestry table, was Doctor Syn.

“My God!” cried the captain. “Look at the face!” The dead face pressed against the table was indeed a face of horror, for driven right through the neck was Clegg’s harpoon, and the hideous grin on the Doctor’s usually benign old face was entirely abominable to look upon.

“It’s Doctor Syn! It’s Clegg!” ejaculated the three seamen who had entered the cabin. “Then, in God’s name, what did we shoot out there?”

“The mulatto,” said the captain. “He has been here before us.”

“Then we shot the mulatto, sir!” exclaimed one of the men.

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“You shot the sexton,” cut in the captain, “but for the mulatto—well, it’s my honest opinion that—but there, that sort of thing is beyond a sailor. Here you!” he addressed one of the sailors, “just get a piece of sailcloth from the deck and we’ll stitch this body up, and you two help me get this damned harpoon from his neck. There’s a ballast shot in our boat that’ll do for his feet, for I’m not going to take this body ashore. It might cause a fresh outcry among the people. Besides, now that old Clegg’s log is entered, I’ve no desire to hang his body in chains. It’s a barbarous custom. If ever a man deserved to be buried at sea, Clegg did, for rascal though he was, he was a wonderful seaman, so a seaman’s grave he shall have, or I’m no sailor.”