The Shadow of Doctor Syn

The Shadow Of Doctor Syn

by

Russell Thorndike

1944

“Serve God; honour the King; but, first maintain the Wall.’

Slogan of Romney Marsh

Keyed by Connie Lewis

To

Emma Treckman

with grateful thanks for

her collaboration

Contents

1 Two Topics Of The Town ........................................... 4

2 Two Beaux In Search Of One Topic ................................ 10

3 The Little Affair of The Dover Coach ............................ 17

4 The British Grenadiers .......................................... 24

5 Mr. Bone Whistles The Same Tune ................................. 28

6 In Which Lord Cullingford Gains More Than He Loses .............. 31

7 Concerning Various Happenings And In Which Aunt Agatha

Hears A Different Tune ................................ 36

8 The Squire Sums Up .............................................. 43

9 The Revenue Man Pays A Social Call .............................. 46

10 With The Scarecrow’s Compliments ................................ 47

11 More Compliments From The Scarecrow ............................. 54

12 In Which Cicely Forgets Her Gloves And Doctor Syn

Forget To Remember .................................... 59

13 In Which Mr. Mipps Discovers An Old Friend And

Doctor Syn Discovers A Secret ......................... 66

14 Concerning A Late-Blooming Rose And An Early Visitor ............ 72

15 Doctor Syn Receives An Invitation, And Sends One ................ 78

16 Citizen L’Epouvantail Not At Your Service ....................... 82

17 A Surprise For Seven Gentlemen .................................. 88

18 Aunt Agatha Scares The Scarecrow ................................ 92

19 November Lightning On Toldo Street .............................. 99

20 A Brand New Box Of Soldiers .....................................107

21 Mr. Mipps Remembers To Forget ...................................111

22 The Shadow Of The Scarecrow .................................... 120

23 The Shadow Of Doctor Syn ....................................... 123

24 The Shadow Of Clegg ............................................ 128

Appendix: American & British Words

Theater - is the American Spelling

Theatre - is the British Spelling

Font - open stone used for Christening

Save - to rescue (American spelling)

Save - but; except (British spelling)

Level - American Spelling: Leveller - British Spelling

Travel - American Spelling: Traveller - British Spelling

Notes:

You will come across words that have a number after it. The British meaning is below a thin black line.

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Chapter 1

Two Topics Of The Town

In the year 1793, not only in the isolate 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 were the Reign of Terror, raging across the Channel -- terrible and bloody. The second, and perhaps more popular, because of its humour, the latest exploits of the mysterious Scarecrow, who, in spite of the danger in France and the unpopularity of the British with the French, managed to keep successful his mighty organization of contraband running, backwards and forwards across the Channel.

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 though 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 Channel, his real identity was unknown. He was the Scarecrow -- L’Epouvantail. Well, whoever he was, he was certainly a public benefactor. To the vast majority his adventures were a joy. His audacity made the world chuckle, while locally he was keeping his followers’ necks out of the Government’s noose, and by risking his own he made the poor rich, so long as they obeyed his orders, and played the dangerous game against the Revenue men, according to his rules.

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 innocently paid their losses and called them debts of honour when trying to balance their accounts. Whenever Bully Foulkes was accused of not playing fair, by gentlemen who were not quite so innocent in the ways of roguery, the noble Captain was so insulted that he sent his second immediately to arrange a meeting. This was not a very risky thing for the Captain to do since he happened to be brilliant with sword or pistol. He had to his record twelve dead at Chalk Farm Tavern, where such matters were dealt with conveniently to all parties. Yes -- a brave man might well think twice before meeting Captain Foulkes in an affair of so-called ‘honour’.

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 a lap of luxury without a penny piece for three years, these same kind financiers

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advanced him a further sum, which, banked, would bring him in sufficient for his needs. Unfortunately the noble lord did not bank the money. Instead he cut a great dash with it, and for a few glorious and hilarious weeks managed to make himself the envy of his rivals, the other young dandies who roistered in the company of Captain Foulkes. Indeed, while the money circulated, he was raised to the rank of the Captain’s boon companion, and was privileged to swagger arm-in-arm with him when taken the air in St. James’s. The Captain permitted young Cullingford to imitate him, knowing that this was a form of flattery, and being well aware that, while the money lasted, the vain and stupid fop could never eclipse him when they were seen together.

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 the 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 ill thing for this 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 conge. Foulkes had no use for anyone who could not say 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.”

“I’m bored and tired -- not sulky,” replied his lordship, trying to free himself from the persuasive arm that was leading him towards the empty chair.

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“Take the throw yourself as you luck’s so good.”

The grip of his arm tightened as the Captain’s voice took on a bantering tone. “Never change my mind. ‘Tis a good rule, which helps a man never to break his word. Don’t be a fool, Cullingford. Play.” There was something dominating about Foulkes which Cullingford, to his cost, had always found difficult to resist.

“All right. One throw -- and damn you, Foulkes, if I lose.”

He went to the table. He threw. So did nine other gentlemen. Foulkes’s place had served him well that evening, but it did no miracle for Cullingford. He lost.

“Try again,” cried Foulkes, who now seemed in no hurry to leave. His unfortunate victim, already flushed with excitement and subject to the gambler’s delusion that this one throw will bring an run of luck and retrieve all, called his opponents to cast again.

Again he lost, but stung by what Foulkes had said he challenged the gentlemen to double the stakes.

The loud rattling of the dice-boxes answered his lordship’s wager, and the enthusiastic cries of acceptance to a sporting bet in no way disturbed the flow of polished conversation being carried on by three gentlemen in a remote corner of the room. Seated at their ease, near a glowing log fire, they smoked, sipped a fine old brandy, talked and listened, as cultured men are wont to do who admire and respect each other, knowing that each, in his own way, is master of his calling.

Indeed, it was a remarkable trio, and had the interest not been so high at the gaming-table, the more curious might have wondered why a dignitary of the Church should be in the company of two notables of the Theatre, but he was listening with the greatest attention and obvious enjoyment. Here was no ordinary person. Although dressed in the sombre black of his calling, the cut of his clothes and the way he wore them might have put to shame any of the well-known dandies present. Relieving the severity of the clerical garb was the exquisite white linen at neck and wrists, and the slim hand holding the brandy glass denoted a man of taste and refinement. The fire-light played on the silver buckles of his elegant shoes as, legs crossed, one elegant foot slowly swung to and fro. His free hand swept back a stay lock of hair which he wore long and loose to his shoulders and unhampered by the ribbon of the day. Indeed he was setting a new fashion for the clergy, who still wore the formal white wigs. But for his glasses and the slight scholarly stoop of his shoulders the casual onlooker might have taken him for a younger man, since his hair was still raven black, making an unusual contrast as it framed a face pale and classical. In repose it might be the face of a man who had lived and experienced much, but at the moment his features were full of charm as he expressed contentment with the luxurious surroundings and gay companions. In fact -- Doctor Syn, D.D., Vicar of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall and Dean of the Peculiars of Romney Marsh, was enjoying himself. Proffering a snuff-box to his companions, he remarked: “Yes, indeed, Mr. Sheridan, the loss of Garrick dealt a sorry blow to the Theatre, but it has ever been a puzzle to me why you of all people should have forsaken Old Drury for Westminister.”

“Pray, Doctor Syn, do not encourage Richard on that subject,” laughed the youngest of the party, “or we shall have an eloquent lecture lasting all night.”

“Indeed, Mr. Kemble -- and begging your pardon, sir, you being manager of Drury Lane,” replied the parson, “but I vow I have not seen a play to my liking since

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Mr. Sheridan’s School for Scandal. So I trust you will prevent the Theatre from going to the devil, for that indeed would be a further bar to the fulfillment of my ambition.”