Doctor Syn on the High Seas

By Russell Thorndike

“Doctor Syn on the High Seas” is a 1936 novel by British writer Arthur Thorndike. The second in the Doctor Syn series, it tells the story of how a young clergyman called Christopher Syn loses his wife to a seducer and his consequent quest for vengeance. Arthur Russell Thorndike (1885 – 1972) was a British actor and novelist, most famous for his ‘Doctor Syn of Romney Marsh’ series of novels. Other notable works by this author include: ‘Children of the Garter’ (1937), “The Slype” (1927), and “The Master of the Macabre” (1946). Contents include: “Doctor Syn Meets Minister Mipps”, “Doctor Syn Becomes a Squire of Dames”, “Doctor Syn Escapes”, “The Challenge”, “The Abduction”, “The Duel”, “The Friend of the Family”, “The Elopement”, “The Dead Man”, “The Odyssey Begins”, “Pirates”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Nov 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447493242

Book preview

CHAPTER I

DOCTOR SYN MEETS MISTER M1PPS

ON a misty morning of late September in the year 1754, young Christopher Syn, D.D., was riding along the flat top of the Dymchurch Sea-Wall in the direction of Lympne.

The Oxford Summer Vacation was drawing to its close, and he had spent it happily, partly with his uncle, the red-faced, rotund and jovial attorney at New Romney, and partly with his boon companion Tony Cobtree at Sir Charles’ old Court-House at Dymchurch.

The young student left the sea-wall and cantered his horse along the winding roads that crossed the Marsh. Eventually he reached the grassy bridle-path which runs along the foot of the hills, and had been made in years gone by for easy access from camp to camp by the Roman Legions. On either side the path sloped steeply down into deep, broad dykes, fed by the surface-water from the hills, but Syn’s tall grey horse picked his way carefully. Meanwhile the sun, gathering strength, had dispersed the mist from the hills, and above him he could see his objective—the grim, frowning walls of Lympne Castle. He was on his way there to oblige Sir Henry Pembury, who had sent a Castle servant the night before to the Dymchurch Court-House, bearing a note requesting Doctor Syn to wait upon the Lord of Lympne at his earliest convenience. Being an old friend of his Uncle Solomon and a Justice of the Peace, the young cleric had taken the first opportunity to comply, though neither himself nor the Cobtrees could think why Sir Henry should thus summon him. Little did he imagine that such a simple journey was to be the prelude of a mighty Odyssey which would demand the abandonment of books and scholarship for murderous adventures with gunpowder and steel.

Opposite the Castle Hill, the bridle-path sloped gently down till level with the dyke-water, and it was here that a resolute horseman could save himself a good mile’s detour by leaping the dyke. Knowing what was required of him, the horse, at the first touch of his master’s heel, thundered down the slope, and with a sideways jump cleared the water with a good two foot to spare. Reining him on in the farther side, Doctor Syn patted the horse’s neck and dismounted, and with the bridle over his arm led the way up the steep meadow that swept down from the Castle walls: Throughout the ascent the man and horse threaded their way between giant blocks of crumbling masonry—all that was left of the great Roman, Portus Lemanis. In some of these walls could yet be seen the metal rings for mooring galleys, but the grim bulwarks which had once held back the sea were now embedded in grass and used as shelter by the grazing sheep.

Now, bright noon-time, with sun-rays sparkling upon dewy grass-blades and a fine expanse of sea about one, is no time for a man to ruminate on ghosts, of things long dead, and yet Doctor Syn fell to wondering whether any Roman spectre yet mounted his guard in spirit form upon those walls.

Hardly had this flight of fancy flown to his brain when a sharp voice belonging to some invisible shape cried out the challenge, Who goes there? I knows you. Halt and put your hands above your head.

Doctor Syn halted, not so much from fear as from astonishment. He looked hard at the ruined bastion he was approaching, and from which the voice had issued, but could-see nothing unusual.

Now, then, went on the voice. Hands up, I said, and I don’t see ’em up. No humbug now. I knows you and you knows me.

Whom do you take me for? asked Doctor Syn politely.

For what you are, of course, came the indignant answer: the new Riding Officer at Sandgate—grey horse and all, and dressed like an undertaker. Well, you won’t undertake me, because I ain’t a-going to be undertook.

It was then that Doctor Syn noticed the brass bell of a blunder buss wobbling at him through a fissure in the wall.

‘Whom do you take me for?’ says you, all innocent like, went on the voice sarcastically. ‘The ruddy Customs,’ says I, ‘who goes spying round taverns listening to the talk of poor drunkards in order to get on my track.’ And what for? Why, for having given a hand with a tub or two to help the Dymchurch lads to a drink or two. We’ve had about enough of you ruddy Riding Officers, and I for one ain’t standing much more.

And I for another am not standing insult from any man, blunderbuss or no, replied Syn sharply. You call me a Custom man, do you? Well, as a Marshman born and bred, I take that as an insult—a ruddy insult, as you seem to like that adjective. You, no doubt, are the Mister Mipps who works in Wraight’s boatbuilding yard at Dymchurch-under-the-Wall. I know all about you from my friend Tony Cobtree, the Squire’s son. You’re a carpenter by trade and a smuggler for profit. I am no smuggler myself, perhaps for lack of opportunity, but my people, the Syns o’ Lydd, have saved many a one from the gallows.

A whistle of astonishment came from the other side of the wall, and the blunderbuss was withdrawn. Ah, well, then, there’s no quarrel, and I’ve been most damnably mistook in you, for which I asks your honour’s pardon. A Syn o’ Lydd, are you? Then you’ll be old Mister Solomon’s nephew, no doubt.

Quite right. They call me Doctor Syn.

What? A sawbones?

No, a parson. Come out of that fortification and shake hands.

Not me, even though you ain’t the ruddy Customs, replied the voice. No showing myself on no skylines in case ruddy Customs does appear. Step in, and I’ll give you as good a drink as ever you tasted. But I ain’t coming out.

I approve your caution, Mister Mipps, laughed the parson. I’ll come in, and if the drink you mention has not paid Customs it will of necessity taste the sweeter.

So Doctor Syn, after tying his bridle to a ring in the wall, walked into the ruined bastion.

Mister Mipps gave the young parson the impression that had he not been born a man, he would have been bred a ferret, for the most striking feature in the little fellow was his nose—long, thin, and inquisitive-looking. As though to balance it, his hair, though scanty, was dragged back and twisted into a tarred queue which stuck out at the back. In addition, Mipps proved to be very thin, very small, dressed like a sailor, and carrying an atmosphere of important impertinence. And, again like a ferret, he was quick in movement and comically commanding.

Glad to make your acquaintance, Mister Mipps, said the parson, holding out his hand.

Mipps wiped his on the skirt of his coat and welcomed his guest with a hard grip. He then removed the bung from a hand anker of brandy, a neat little cask bound with brass hoops. Doctor Syn drank with relish, and returned the anker. Mipps in his turn drank deep.

Good brandy never hurt nobody, he grinned.

No, not even a parson, replied the Doctor with a smile.

And I drinks to the Syns o’ Lydd, said Mipps, handing the anker back again.

And I drink to you, returned the Doctor, and to all Marshmen, and may the Customs never get a one of them to hang upon the grisly tree of old Jack Ketch. Then, looking round the interior of the bastion, he added: No wonder you preferred to shoot a Riding Officer rather than being carried away from here. It is all very cosy. I envy you this gypsy life. It is adventurous; it is simple and natural.

Aye, sir, said Mipps, looking pleased. A good clod fire always burning for food and warmth, and that there hurdle with broom on top for a shelter; what more can a man want?

Only brandy, it seems, and that you have, laughed Syn. How long have you been in hiding here?

Couple of weeks, replied Mipps. Though I’m thinking of moving myself on, and legging it down coast for Portsmouth.

What do you want to go there for? asked the parson.

To ship for the West Indies, replied the little man. Thinking of working my passage on a man-o’-war as ship’s carpenter. Then I’ll desert, ’cos they won’t want for to lose me, being good at my work, and then I’ll get down amongst the Brethren of the Coast.

You mean go pirating? asked Syn. For that’s all they are these days, I understand. The jolly buccaneers have given place to a scum of bloody-minded pirates. I suppose as a parson I should rebuke you for such a wish.

Never rebuke a man for wishing to live a man’s life and playing the man when he’s in it, returned the other. There’s good and bad in every trade, and I expects piracy included. And I’ll play the man with the dirtiest of ’em. Small I may be, but I’ve grit sharp as flint. A life of adventure for me. And from all accounts you gets it there. Battle, murder——

Aye, and sudden death, completed the Doctor.

Aye, aye, sir, grinned Mipps; but always allowing that you don’t shoot first and straight.

There’s Execution Dock too, argued the parson. Have you thought on that?

It’s better to die in old England at the last, said Mipps. Besides, some of us has been born with a rare talent for escape, and I’d never believe no one could hang me till I felt myself cut down.

A true adventurer, I see, replied Doctor Syn; and once more I envy you. Whether you are boasting of your talents or not, I cannot say as yet, though it seems that they are to be put to an immediate test. While we have been talking I have had my eye on Lympne Castle, and it may interest you to know that three horsemen are riding down along the western wall. It is significant to me that they are heading in our direction, and that their leader is riding a dappled grey, very similar to mine.

Sandgate swine, hissed Mipps, grasping his blunderbuss. Well, I’ll at least prove my boast about shooting first and straight.

You’ll attempt no such folly, retorted Syn sharply. Unless of course you wish to forgo all possibility of becoming a good and bloody-minded pirate. You leave the officers to me, and you may yet see your battle and murder on the Spanish Main. Hold these, and keep yourself most religiously out of sight.

Doctor Syn had quickly unbuttoned his long black riding-coat, and from one of his breeches pockets had taken out a handful of coins. These he counted into the little man’s hand, saying: Three guinea spades, two crowns and a new fourpenny. Keep them safely and yourself hidden, or you’ll hang.

Waiting a few moments till the approaching riders were behind a clump of trees, he slipped out of the bastion walls and un-tethered his horse. By the time the officers had emerged from the trees he was slowly climbing the hill towards them, and since there were many other ruins scattered about the hillside, there was nothing to connect him with the bastion occupied by Mipps. Meanwhile, the fugitive, with his weapon at the ready, cautiously peeped through a hole in the wall, straining his ears to listen to whatever the parson might say. This was easy enough, since the voice of the officer turned out to be coarse, loud and overbearing, while that of the parson extremely clear-spoken.

The officer was the first to speak. Have you seen anything, you, sir, of a dirty-looking little rat of a man in this immediate neighbourhood?

I was about to put the very same question to you, sir, replied Doctor Syn; for he must have passed within a few yards of you as he went up the hill but now. I hope for your own sakes that you are not as anxious as I am to lay him by the heels.

Considering he’s an approved smuggler and we are Riding Officers for Customs, replied the officer, I should say that no one could be more anxious than we are to shackle him. What’s your quarrel with the rascal?

Just this, replied Syn, making a wry face as he turned out the empty lining of his breeches pocket. He came upon me unawares, and relieved this very pocket of three guinea-pieces, two crowns and a silver fourpenny.

And you offered no resistance? asked the officer scornfully. An agile man like you, tall, young and commanding, should have been a match for that little rat. Or did you resist him and let him get the better of you?

Doctor Syn shook his head. I did not resist for two reasons. First I am a parson and man of peace. And secondly I preferred to give him my gold rather than let him give me his lead.

Aye, and the reverend young gentleman’s quite right, said one of the other officers. That there Mipps would pull a blunderbuss at a man as soon as I would at a rabbit.

Which way did he go? Up the hill, you said? And it’s just time for the carrier’s cart to start for Ashford. He’ll no doubt use some of your money to save his legs. Come on, my lads, we’ll ride him down yet. And the officer turned his horse.

I’ll be vastly obliged if you catch him, called out the parson. I am but now on my way to lodge complaint with Sir Henry Pembury, who is a Justice of the Peace. I am Doctor Syn, residing at the Court-House of Dymchurch, and I shall be grateful if you can return at least some of the money to that house. Sir Charles Cobtree is also a magistrate, as you may know.

We’ll catch the bit of gallows meat before he gets much farther, don’t you worry, and, followed by his assistants, the officer set his spurs to his horse and galloped up the hill.

When it was safe for Doctor Syn to return to the bastion, he found his comical little companion chuckling. Well, you certainly settled them very neat, sir. But I must first give you the lie and return the money. Here it is.

No, indeed, smiled the parson. So long as you have it I have told no lie except that you went up the hill. Instead, I strongly advise you to go down it. Get on to the friendly Marsh, and use the money to help you the quicker towards Portsmouth. Were it not for my cloth and duty, I should be tempted to accompany you. Together we could rule it royally amongst the pirates. Who knows but that we might not terrorize the Spanish Main?

Well, sir, replied Mipps with a wink, if ever you should tire of your pulpit, go a-voyaging and fall into my hands, I pledge you my solemn word that I will not make you walk the plank. You shall walk the poop-deck with a sword at your side and a sash stuffed with pistols. So let’s drink to the possibility. Success to us both. Long life for the King, and Down with the Government and Customs.

Doctor Syn laughed, and humorously drank the proffered toast, adding that should he ever tire of his own profession in England, he would leave his beloved brethren to another’s cure and seek out the wilder Brethren of the Coast, where no doubt he and Mister Mipps might forgather on the poop of some black pirate ship.

Great would have been the astonishment of these ill-assorted companions had they realized that very soon their joking was to turn into grim reality. Ignorant of this, however, they parted after mutual commendations of Good Luck, Mipps shouldering his few bundled possessions and taking the lower road for Portsmouth, by way of Dymchurch and Rye, and Doctor Syn leading his horse up the steep incline to Lympne Castle.

At the top of the hill, under shadow of the old bulwarks, he turned and looked back down upon the flat Marshland, intersected with the silvery ribboned water of the dykes, and spread out beneath him like a vast map. He was amused to see that his little companion had already reached the dyke, and from some-where in the grass Mipps had discovered a long plank, which he had successfully pushed across the water, and over this perilous bridge the little man was now walking. And then there came, owing to his former conversation with Mister Mipps, the first line of a chanty that was destined to become the terror of the pirate crews, Oh, here’s to the feet what have walked the plank. Aye, aye, sir, a grim slogan that was to strike fear into the very fo’c’sles of the worst ships flying the Jolly Roger. Mister Mipps wobbled over to the other side of the dyke and then turned round and waved. Doctor Syn waved back.

CHAPTER II

DOCTOR SYN BECOMES A SQUIRE OF DAMES

SIR HENRY PEMBURY received his young clerical visitor in the Great Hall of the Castle. He apologized for not rising to greet him by pointing to his right foot, which, heavily bandaged, rested upon a stool in front of the large armchair in which he sat.

I must ask your pardon also for having put you to the trouble of climbing Lympne Hill, but, you see, Doctor Syn, since this mountain of gout could not go to Mahomet, I had to ask you to come to me instead. Also the nature of the request I have to put to you makes it more convenient for you to be here, so that you may see with your own eyes what you are letting yourself in for. But first may I ask you when you think of journeying back to Oxford?

A week today, sir, replied Doctor Syn.

And how did you propose to get there? went on Sir Henry. By the stage-coach or private conveyance?

By neither, sir, returned the Doctor. I ride there on horseback, and I am glad to say that my good friend Tony Cobtree is to ride with me.

But I understand from Sir Charles that his son had finished with the University.

So he has, sir. More than a year since. He is revisiting the town on a more romantic mission than book-learning. He is taking a proposal of marriage to the lady of his affections.

That’s capital! cried the Squire of Lympne heartily, as, without thinking, he brought his hand crashing down on to his bad leg. This caused him such excruciating pain that it was some time before he could continue speaking.

In the meantime Doctor Syn expressed his sympathy by saying that he was surprised that so young a man as Sir Henry should be plagued with an old man’s disease.

Aye, replied the other, as he slowly recovered. "I’m still just on the right side of fifty, but I’m running to fat, and refuse to give up my two bottles of port for the whole faculty of doctors. My tailor could as easily persuade me to wear an ill-fitting coat. But to return to this Oxford business. You may nor may not be aware that I undertook recently a Government mission to Spain. While in Madrid, my wife and I were lavishly entertained by a wealthy South American family. We naturally extended to them the hospitality of Lympne Castle if by