Time of Terror

by Hunter, Seth

  “Oh my God,” she cried when she saw him, her hand leaping to her throat as if she felt the blade of the guillotine upon it. The babe, shaken from the nipple, let out a terrible howl and Hélène scooped Alex off the swing and ran for the house.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Nathan called from the gate. “I will come back later.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary shut the babe up by the simple expedient of shoving her nipple back in its mouth. “Come in off the road before someone sees you.”

  Nathan did as he was told and stood with his hat in his hands looking at his feet.

  “Have you not seen a woman breast-feeding before?” she demanded. “So . . .” She surveyed him with suspicion and a measure of hostility. “Here you are again. I thought we had seen the last of you.”

  “I was hoping to find Imlay,” he began but his eyes roamed towards the house looking for Sara.

  “You are not the only one,” she responded tartly. “I have not seen him since the child was born. Her name is Fanny by the by, in case you are interested. Is she not beautiful?”

  “Beautiful,” Nathan agreed. Indeed she was a pretty babe, as babes went. He could not see Imlay in her. “My sincere congratulations. I heard . . . in Le Havre . . . that you had had it. Her.”

  “Why do you wish to find Imlay or should I not ask?”

  “I have another cargo for him. And besides, I thought he—or you—might have news of Sara.”

  She watched him carefully, saying nothing.

  “I went to the house in Rue Jacob,” he said, “but it was locked up and—”

  “You did not know?”

  “Know what?” But he felt as if he had been thumped violently in the stomach, the wind knocked out of him.

  “She is in prison.”

  It was almost a relief. He had feared worse.

  “When?”

  “It must be two months now. Just after the trial of Danton and Camille. Did you really not know?”

  “How could I have known? I was in prison myself. And then I had to leave the country.”

  But Imlay must have known. He must have known when they met in Le Havre.

  “You were in prison?” She was staring at him, shaking her head. “I do not know what game you are playing Nathaniel Peake. Your mother always said you were more complicated than you looked. But for her sake you should leave. Go back where you came from. Now.”

  “I came back to find her,” he said, “and I will not leave without her.”

  “Well . . .” Her expression was less severe. Nathan wondered if Sara had told her about them. “She is in the Luxembourg.”

  “You have seen her?”

  “No. They have stopped the visits—since the business of Danton. But we have had news of her and she is well. At least as well as can be expected in such a place. I came to take Alex back with me to Le Havre. You are lucky to find us here. We leave tomorrow.”

  “And Imlay?”

  “I told you—he left a day after Fanny was born. He feared he might be under surveillance. In ‘dire need’—as he put it—I may contact him through the American Minister, though quite what is more dire than having a baby I cannot imagine. Oh, but of course, another cargo waiting for him in Le Havre. I suppose that will flush him out.”

  Clearly her passion for Imlay had cooled somewhat.

  “So you have come from Paris? I suppose you saw the festival?” And when Nathan indicated he had, “Ridiculous! Now Robespierre thinks he is the Christ come to save France from its sins. But then he was taught by Jesuits. At least I think they were Jesuits. They certainly taught him the bit about coming with a sword.”

  “And yet I did not see the guillotine—in the Place de la Révolution.”

  “That is because it is removed to the Place du Trône. People had begun to complain about the stench of blood. But the Machine is busier than ever. Before they killed Danton they rarely got through more than a dozen a day. Now it is thirty or forty. As fast as the tribunal can convict them. Which is fast, I can assure you, now they have stopped people from putting up any kind of a defence. There, there my little one, am I upsetting you with my talk of blood and Robespierre? Or has it dried? Here, sup upon the other and I will try to think tranquil thoughts.”

  “I am sorry.” Nathan stood, looking away. “I will leave now. I came only to hear if you had news of Imlay. And Sara.”

  “Well, and now that you have heard, what will you do?”

  How much did she know? And how much could he risk telling her?

  “There is a quarry,” he began, cautiously, “near the Porte d’Enfer . . .”

  “I know. Another of Imlay’s business concerns.” She shook her head sadly. “It is closed by order of the Committee. And guarded by the police.”

  “He told you that?”

  “I learned of it.” She lowered her head over the baby at her breast. It was asleep, making little puttering noises with its mouth, a milky dribble on its chin. She wiped it gently with a piece of cloth. “So many fingers,” she said, “in so many pies. And I thought he was such a simple man when we met. He was saving for a farm, he said, on the American frontier where we would live together. The dream of Rousseau. Well, clearly he has imbibed his views on parenthood.”

  “Mary,” he prompted her gently, “if you have any idea where he is . . .”

  Her eyes flashed angrily. “I have told you. He could be anywhere. He could be skulking in the catacombs. Or in the sewers, more like, with the rats.”

  The sewers. He remembered the smell where the two sets of tunnels met—and the rush of rats . . .

  And then he remembered Philippe.

  Philippe, the failed footpad, the égoutier from the sewers . . .

  If I can ever be of service, ask for me at the Café de Carthage in the Rue Saint-Antoine . . .

  Chapter 38

  the Cloaca

  They went in from the river after dark through a grim black maw that opened on to the Seine just below the Palais de Justice, breathing its noxious fumes into the night air like Cerberus, the canine guardian of the Underworld.

  Classical references batted at Nathan’s memory and distracted him from more troubling thoughts of disease. He recalled the five rivers that surrounded Hell: the Acheron, river of woe; the Styx, river of hate; the Lethe, river of forgetfulness and . . . He had forgotten the other two. You had to put a coin on the mouth of a corpse to pay the ferryman. If a god gave his oath upon the River Styx and failed to keep his word, Zeus forced him to drink from the waters, which were said to be so foul the god would lose his voice for nine years.

  Nathan peered down at the filth beneath his feet. A mouthful of that and you would lose more than your voice, he imagined.

  “Have you ever fallen in?” he inquired of his guide.

  His voice echoed down the dark shaft like a challenge. An irreverence. What gods might he offend, or what demons? All might enter but none might leave the world of the dead.

  “No,” said Philippe, which was one word more than he had spoken since they had left the river. It had taken more than one coin to secure the services of this particular ferryman who had been less eager to be of service than when they last met. And he would not venture into the catacombs, he insisted, for he had a great fear of ghosts.

  It was Nathan’s first direct experience of a sewer and saving the stench it was by no means as bad as he had anticipated. The construction was of brick and possessed a narrow ledge above the stream of effluent which allowed one to stand almost upright without being immersed in the stuff. The entire system, Philippe had revealed in one of his rare confidences, was between twenty and thirty kilometres in length and went back to Roman times. In fact the égoutiers continued to call it by its Latin name: the Cloaca. There was no official map and though
Philippe had made a rough sketch map at Nathan’s request he had no concept of scale, or indeed, of the points of the compass. He navigated entirely by memory and the homing instincts, Nathan suspected, of a sewer rat, which creature he somewhat resembled with his sharp features and spiky unwashed whiskers.

  And there, a few yards in from the entrance, was his boat.

  At least that was what Philippe called it. Nathan would have called it a plank with sides. More generously it might have been described as a punt, and like a punt it was propelled with a pole thrust from the stern. There was just sufficient headroom for Philippe to stand while Nathan crouched in the prow, with their two lanterns at his feet. Their gleam projected no more than a few yards ahead and cast huge shadows on the walls and roof as they glided by. And at first it was a glide. There was enough water within several hundred yards of the mouth of the sewer to allow them to float but viscous enough for their passage to cause little more than a ripple. After that it became more difficult. They moved through a thick, black ooze, like treacle, that soon made punting impractical so that they were forced to push the craft along with their hands against the wall. They both wore gloves and hooded oilskins and Nathan had covered his mouth and nose with a scarf steeped in oregano and vinegar as a disinfectant.

  It was increasingly difficult to move the craft across the sludge and the tunnel itself had deteriorated rapidly. The walls and roof were no longer of brick but bare rock with only the crumbling concrete ledge on each side and the rotting timber supports to indicate that it was something more than a fissure in the limestone. Finally they became embedded in a glue of stagnant mud and excrement which only shifted, from what Nathan could gather, when it rained, generating a sufficient flow of water down the drains to move at least some of this sludge in the direction of the Seine. Philippe indicated that they must continue on foot.

  Reluctantly Nathan climbed out of the boat and crouched uneasily on the concrete ledge constricted by the slope of the walls while the égoutier set off down the tunnel with a confidence that Nathan could not hope to emulate, dragging his boat behind him on the end of a rope. After about fifty yards he found an iron ring set into the side of the wall where he tied it up. Nathan found it hard to breathe, much less walk, in his contorted position, especially through the scarf round his face but he had no intention of removing it. It was his only protection against the wide range of infectious diseases that doctors attributed to the foetid miasma of sewer or swamp. The squealing of the rats increased his fears. He could see more of them now, the dark furry shapes scuttling out of the light. Where there were rats there was always disease. Cholera, typhoid, yellow fever. Even the plague.

  What on earth had possessed him to come anywhere near this foul, stinking place? And with no certainty of finding what he was looking for.

  Well, he knew the answer to that.

  Philippe had stopped a few yards ahead at some kind of intersection. The tunnel that led off to right and left was clearly not a sewer. Was this where Le Mulet had brought them? Philippe clearly believed so, and would, in any case, go no further. He was crossing himself already.

  How anyone could fear the catacombs more than the sewers was beyond Nathan’s comprehension but he knew there was no reasoning with the man. From now on he must go alone. Philippe would wait for him for one hour. After that, he must find his way out alone.

  At least he could walk more or less upright again. He could breathe without a pain in his chest and there was no fear of slipping into that unspeakable filth. But surely it was too easy. He seemed to remember having to crouch more. He walked on. Then he reached another crossroads. Which way? Impossible to tell. He took the opening to the right and continued with an increasing sense of futility. Then he saw a light.

  A light in the tunnel ahead—and advancing towards him dancing on the walls . . .

  Whether its bearer was human or supernatural, Nathan had no desire to make its acquaintance. He began to walk rapidly back the way he had come. But looking back he saw that the light was gaining on him. And it was not just one. There were several. He began to run, stumbling on the uneven ground. He reached the crossroad and paused for a moment, wondering what to do next. He did not wish to lead them back to Philippe in the sewer. Besides, they would probably catch him before he got there. He slid up the glass of his lantern and blew out the candle; then turned to the right, groping his way forward in the dark until his probing hands encountered an opening in the wall, some kind of fissure in the rock. He pressed himself into the crack, peering back towards the intersection . . . and there they were. Three of them. At least they were human. He could see them clearly in the light of their lanterns. Two men . . . and a smaller figure that could be a child or . . .

  The figure turned its head. In the second before Nathan darted his own head back into the rock he recognised the unmistakable features of the dwarf Bulbeau.

  So he had survived his drop into the Empire of the Dead. And so presumably had Le Mulet. Nathan held his breath and groped for the knife in his boot, bracing himself for a fight. But there was no sound of approaching footsteps—and no advancing light. He inched his head around the rock. They were no longer there. They must have moved straight across the junction. Nathan waited a moment, wracked by doubt. If he waited long enough they would be out of sight and he could return safely to Philippe. But what if they were going to the chapel?

  He had to stay with them. He darted out from his hiding place, moving as rapidly as he could in the dark and trying to make as little noise as possible. When he reached the crossroads the lights were bobbing away from him in the distance.

  He followed, feeling his way with his hands on the sides of the wall, trying to keep the lights in view but after a few minutes they vanished and he was forced to go much slower in the darkness. Eventually he reached a turning and saw them again, a long way ahead. He proceeded in this manner for some time, mostly keeping the lights in view, sometimes losing them when they turned a corner. He had lost all sense of time and direction. He knew he would never find his way back to Philippe.

  Then he turned another corner and they were stopped about thirty yards ahead of him. They appeared to have reached a dead end. Nathan was prepared for them to turn round and start back towards him when an oblong of light appeared in the rock wall directly in front of them. A door. He watched as they filed through. Then the door closed with a loud definitive slam that echoed down the passage towards him like a gunshot and he was plunged into darkness.

  It felt as if someone had slammed down the lid of his own coffin.

  Chapter 39

  the Counterfeiters

  Nathan had not feared the dark as a child, or in the cramped cabin of a ship at sea—but this was something more than the darkness of night: this was the darkness of the pit, the eternal abyss. Darkness so complete it pierced his eyes and filled his brain. Striking a light required the utmost concentration for to lose any of his materials in the dark would spell disaster. He squatted down and felt the ground. It was cold but surprisingly dry which made things a little easier. He sat down with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out before him. Then he laid out his materials very carefully in the space between them. Lantern, candle, tinder box, flint and steel. He prised open the lid of the metal tinder box and pulled out a bunch of tinder, making a small bird’s nest on the ground between his legs. He placed a wad of char-cloth in the centre, took the steel in his left hand and the flint in his right and struck down as sharply as he dared in the dark. At first he was too cautious for fear of gashing his finger but it was a fine piece of quartz and at about the sixth or seventh stroke he succeeded in knocking a good spark down from the steel. A small red glow started in the char-cloth and he quickly dropped flint and steel between his legs and blew at the widening ember until the tinder caught. The smoke made his eyes water but he lit the candle from the flame and set it firmly in the lantern. Then he stood up to inspe
ct the door.

  It was a substantial affair of oak reinforced with iron studs and struts fitting into a stout timber frame that had been cemented into the rock. There was an iron ring-pull and a large keyhole—but no key. Nor was there a knocker or bell rope. Clearly visitors were neither expected nor encouraged. Nathan knelt down and peered through the keyhole but either it was dark on the other side or there was something blocking it. He could feel no draught. He put his ear to it and listened. Not a sound.

  He examined the hinges. The door clearly opened towards him. He tried twisting the ring-pull both ways and pulling hard but the door was firmly secured. He took out his knife and forced it into the slit between door and frame just above the lock and eased it down, not without difficulty, until it encountered an obstacle, presumably the bolt. He was not sure if that helped him much, except to assure him that the door was locked. He wondered if he could chip away with the knife at the doorframe until he exposed the bolt. He tried an experimental jab but was not encouraged. A midshipman’s dirk is excellent for some things but not for cutting wood. What he really needed was a chisel. Or a carronade. Failing which . . .

  He sat down on the floor again and considered the alternatives. He could stay here until the door was opened, if it was opened, and take his chances with whoever opened it. Or he could go back the way he had come. He took out his pocket watch and held it to the light. Ten past twelve. Twenty minutes before Philippe would give up waiting for him. Probably too late to get back to him in time, even if he could find the way.

  It now seemed the most sublime act of folly to have followed the men so far. But he had been so convinced that they had been going to the Black Chapel. There were probably other exits but he did not care to start wandering around trying to find them. It was probably wiser to abide here a while to see if the door was opened from the other side—and to abide in darkness. Accordingly he settled himself as comfortably as possible with his back to the wall, opened the lantern and blew out the candle.