The Terror Time Spies (14 page)

“Go to France ourselves?” trembled Francis, who had hardly been further afield thatn Stockwell and Fule.

“If we’re Terror Spies, yes,” insisted Henry, trying to think of a brave way of putting it, but his voice starting to crack slightly, “I’m not going to force anyone, but France is where
I’m
going.  I’ve made up my mind.”

Henry Bonespair was Leader after all, but he wondered if he would have to go to France all alone and suddenly prayed that he wouldn’t.  Hal felt a little false, pretending to be so brave when he really felt so terrified.

“Well, I’se on for it too, I reckons,” cried a loud voice suddenly, “n’ ma says they has nice cheese to eat, ‘aitch.  Them Frenchies.”

It was Skipper Holmwood, who had been thoughtful throughout this whole exchange, in his father’s big hat and his mother’s woollen  scarf.  But Skipper shrugged.

“Pa’s gonna punish me when I get back anyhows, so I might as well ‘av a
real
adventure first.”

Skip grinned and Henry Bonespair felt a sudden rush of affection for this rough country lad and he forgave him instantly for his fists.

“Bravo, Skip,” he cried delightedly, “I always knew you’d be a real Pimpernel.”

 “Oh no you didn’t,” muttered Nellie sourly.  “You big liar.”

“But you’d do this, ‘enri Bonespair?” cried Count Armande in the wind, “For me and Juliette?  For the St Honorés.”

“And for the Club, Count,” said Hal, all the while thinking of Juliette’s lovely face and that awful insult too, “it’ll be the greatest adventure of our lives.”

“The
only
adventure,” moaned Francis Simpkins miserably, “And it ends on that horrid machine.  If the Devil’s loose in France.  Death.  All of us.”

Hal’s open face darkened, as he clutched the strange watch.  Henry was trembling with excitement, but now with utter terror too.  The thought of Revolutionary France lay before them, and now its looming reality too.

“Maybe, F,” he whispered, with a gulp, “and if you were to come too, Armande, it would be far more dangerous for you.  A Frenchie Aristo, back in France, I mean.”

Armande St Honoré touched his neck softly.

“As dangerous as for Juliette,” he said though, “And what would father think, if I didn’t come?”  added the young Count, wishing he was rather taller, “Of course I’m coming, ‘enri.  Je suis un Pampernelle.”

Even as Count Armande straightened bravely he had another thought though.

“But, ‘enri, we are too late.  The Endeavour ‘as sailed already.  We are a day late.”

“Not necessarily,” said Hal, “old Nelson said the swell has delayed several ships.”

Hal suddenly thought Armande was not that bad, but he looked sharply at his best friend Francis, starting to shake in the breeze, in his three cornered hat, then Henry smiled kindly. 

Hal knew just what poor Francis Simpkins was thinking now and how he was feeling too.

“There, F,” he said softly,  “That’s settled then.  Three Pimpernels are going to France, if the Spirit hasn’t sailed yet.  We’ve only three letters of passage anyway.  Spike’s, mine and father’s, for Armande, me and Skip.”

“Oh yes, I forgot,” said Francis, much more cheerfully now.  “So that means…”

“That you’re to go straight back to Peckham, F, to tell mother we’re safely with my Grand Mamma in Paris, for a Holiday, and we’ll be back as soon as we can.  You think you can manage the coach?”

The boy was nodding but before Francis could answer, a little voice interrupted them both.

“And me, Hal?” said Spike, “What about me?  My name’s on one of those letters, and I’m a Pimple too.  The best.  Besides, Grandma asked to see….”

“Nellie Bonespair,” growled Hal, “if you think that….”

“Oh, I know,” said Spike grumpily, “I’ve got another thing coming.  But I
am
coming, Henry, I am.  I’m not a coward, like Francis is, who hates the sight of blood, and…”

“No arguing, Spike,” snapped Henry, as Francis glared at her, “Come on then.  Let’s find the Endeavour first.  Together.”

“’aitch,” said Skipper though, wrapping his mother’s scarf tight around his big neck, “I’se going back to the coach first, to check the ‘orses.  Didn’t like the look of that farrier none.   I’ll meet you at this Eagle, then.”

“Right, Skip,” said Hal cheerfully, wanting to slap the big lad on the back, “See you there then.”

As Skipper holmwood left, and they hurried on the rest of the Club soon found the boat Endeavour, a slim Dutch packet, its name emblazoned on the side in shiny brass lettering.  It had not sailed yet. 

The ship that was to take them to France was tethered by a thick, taught rope, covered in seaweed, to the harbour wall, and other boats were docked around it too, clippers and schooners and packets, obviously from France. 

Nervous foreigners were disembarking with their belongings, inspected by red coated soldiery, émigrés from the turmoil and terror across the waters.

Within twenty minutes though the Pimpernel Club had discovered from the rough Harbour Master that the Endeavour wasn’t due to sail until the next morning’s tide:  6.13 am.  The Club weren’t too late at all. 

They negotiated some barrels now, about to be embarked, but Francis suddenly stopped and was looking in horror at the dock, where a fisherman was gutting a pile of cod and bass.  The boy had gone a nasty apply colour, looking at the slime and blood washing across the sea wall and the slight breeze seemed to make him rock on his heels.

“Thank heaven he’s not going to France,” whispered Spike sourly, but Francis had turned away and was holding his telescope up, trying to distract the other.  He suddenly   pointed up the hill. 

“There,” he cried.  “The Eagle.”

Henry pulled out the bag of coins, considerably lighter now, as they all hurried towards it. 

“Those tolls nearly cleaned us out,” said Hal,” and the Eagle’s unpaid tonight.”

“It’ll be alright in France though,” reassured Spike, looking furious still though, “cos old granny’s got a huge pile of Huguenot gold.  See, Hal, you need me with you, to even think straight.”

Even as Nell said it, they came face to face with the most extraordinary sight.  In front of the low entrance to Dover’s Eagle Inn, a beautiful carriage had pulled up, with gilded doors and red felt windows and out of it climbed a very grand looking family. 

First came a thin, elegant man, of around forty, in exquisite tailored clothes, far finer than even Count Armande’s, a high ruff, in an absurd powdered wig, carrying a silver riding crop that he slapped at his side. 

He was helping his wife to descend, a beautiful russet haired woman, in a white crinoline dress, who looked as if she was made of porcelain.  Her wig was just as tall as her husband’s, and both their faces were powdered.

“Here we are, by gad,” cried the funny man, a beauty spot on his left cheek, near his bright red lips. Spike looked straight at Armande and grinned.  The lady tried to smile for her husband, as she lifted her skirts, to stop them trailing in the Dover filth, that Armande was eyeing just as warily as she.

“And sink me if we shan’t get a decent repast too, m’ dear,” cried the man, “by the scent of it.  Or as good as can be found these days, m’ dear.”

Henry wanted to laugh, and Armande looked rather embarrassed, but he suddenly smelt roast suckling pig on the air and his stomach grumbled.  The lad was starving. 

Spike almost giggled at the foppish aristo, wondering who he was.  Nellie’s silent question was answered as the publican emerged, followed by his plump, beaming wife, and a brow-beaten looking man servant.

“My Lord Snareswood,” cried the proprietor, bowing deeply to the English Aristo, “so generous of your Grace to, er, grace our ‘umble establishment, me Lord.  We’ve the finest rooms made up already, of course, and a hot meal ready.”

Snareswood gave a weary smile and waved a hand dismissively.

 “Yes, yes, Turnip.  Good, good.”

“Turnpike, my Lord.”

“Quite, Turnip, and it shall be pleasant to sleep on English soil again.”

Two children had just descended from the carriage too.  The boy and girl were dressed almost as impeccably as their parents and looked like overgrown dolls, in wigs and very fine English silks, far more decorous than anything Armande had on. 

The boy though, perhaps fifteen, like Armande, seemed almost irritated by the exquisite clothes he was wearing, then he noticed the Pimpernels and raised an eyebrow sharply.

Hal was staring straight back at him and he thought he had rather a nice face, although he looked very silly in all that tailoring.  Henry felt a little sorry for him and the lad seemed to sense it, since he glared at Hal’s nose.

“A good journey, my Lord?” asked the proprietor, rubbing his hands eagerly, “I trust Paris weren’t too terrible for yer dear children.”

“By gad, Turnip, you imagine I’d take my heirs to Revolutionary France?” cried Snareswood, “Poppycock, Man.  Adam and my dearest little Emily here were waitin’ to meet us on the Dover docks, safe n sound.”

Snareswood glanced back at his porcelain children, who seemed very embarrassed indeed by the other youngsters watching them, and the publican screwed up his face in an awkward smile and started ringing his hands.

“Corse not, m’ Lord.  Corse not.  How stupid of me, m’Lord.”

“But the journey was a horror, man.  Them Frenchies held us for hours in Calais, even if I’ve diplomatic protection.  They hunt for spies and agents everywhere now, like trained blood hounds, don’t they m’ dear?”

Her Ladyship smiled sweetly, but remained perfectly silent.

“Calais’s locked as tight as a strongbox too now,” Snareswood went on, and the Pimpernels heard it, feeling even more nervous, “and strangely they seem to be showing ‘special interest in Frenchie accents, even over English ones.  Double Agents, I suppose.  As for Paris, tis become a pigsty, Man, run by murdrin’, common swine.”

Henry had noticed Snareswood looking sharply at his wife, and the keen glance seemed in marked contrast to what he was saying now, and how he was saying it too.

“
Havagal,”
whispered Francis Simpkins suddenly, “
Davagoo yavagoo thavagink …Thavagee Scavagarkalavaget…”

The boys had had exactly the same thought.  Could this really be the famous Scarlet Pimpernel?

“Hush, F, and listen,” said Hal though, who had just noticed young that Adam Snareswood’s head had turned towards them again.  Adam seemed to have noticed Armande now, and was scrutinising his clothes sceptically.

“Revolution,” cried his father though, looking as if he wanted to faint, “Tis too terrible.  Heaven forbid such a thing could ever happen here, in England, but these demmed democratic ideas are infectious.”

Snareswood snapped the riding crop against his boot again. 

Hal didn’t like this silly man at all, but now his Lordship was sweeping inside, with a ‘
come, m’dear’
and her Ladyship following, with a ‘
yes, Peter’,
  as the lordly boy turned to caste another very suspicious look at the Pimpernel Club. 

As Adam Snareswood turned back again, he almost collided with the scruffy servant and raised his head haughtily. 

“Stand aside you ragamuffin, and make way for yer betters,” he cried, as the servant cowered away and Snareswood’s heir swept inside too.

“Ninnee,” whispered Spike, looking at Armande again.

“Hal,” said Francis though, “Do you think that was really the Scarlet…..”

“Don’t be daft, F.  He can’t really be like
that
.  ”

Hale was cut off by the owner of the Eagle, who was glaring at them all.

“An wot yer lot loafing about for?” he grunted.

“Bonespair, Man,” answered Hal indignantly, feeling very much only fourteen, “Travelling to Calais tomorrow on the Spirit of Endeavour.  We’ve rooms.  Er.  My pa’s coming on later, too.  Father, I mean.  We’re a day late, Sir.”

“Oh,” said Turnpike immediately, seeing Armande’s attire too, “Yes, of course, and I’m very sorry, Sirs.”

He bowed slightly, but just then they heard a low groan and all looked round to see a strange figure shambling towards them.  It was a boy, with a trailing, lame foot and one lazy eye, who kept running his hand through his wild hair and shaking his head and dribbling. 

He seemed hungry and frightened, but as soon as he got closer, the proprietor’s servant snatched up a stick.

“Hey, you there.  Shooh with yer, go on there, filthy scum.”

The wretched boy took fright, wailed, leered and turned on his heels, running off with an awful moan.

“Just the port idiot,” smiled the Proprietor, wringing his hands again and bowing low this time, “No one pays
‘im
no heed normal, like.  But if you’ll be so good as to come inside, my wife’ll be glad to sign you all in.”

“Where it’s time we meet some very significant fellow travellers, bound to turn up later…”

“E’er we are then, lovies,”
cried the poprietor’s huge wife inside the inn, five minutes later, opening the heavy leather register at the inn’s reception.