The Ninth Count of St Honoré, short as he was, felt his age again, as the oldest stepped forwards and extended a firm if very sooty hand. Hal, Francis and Skipper all stepped up too and shook it, one by one, very seriously indeed.
“But make sure you’re not followed from the Eagle,” whispered Hal, rather worried that his position was being usurped, “Give the Call outside too.”
Armande nodded, glanced fondly at his abandoned valise in the corner, sighed, then turned and slipped out of the room. Just ten minutes later they all heard it – ‘Awoooh. Awoooh.’
“He’s clear,” cried Hal, with relief, as outside Count Armande heard a noise behind him, “and I suppose I’d better go back upstairs.”
“Use Armande’s cot instead, Henry,” suggested Francis though, “you might wake Nellie, and if Armande can’t stowaway safely, we’ll have to change the plan anyhow.”
This seemed sensible enough, so the three went to bed, although none of the boys got much sleep. In between worrying about his little sister, Henry kept thinking about the fire, some great plot and the Frenchies searching for spies everywhere. The Club’s brave journey had suddenly become truly terrifying.
Francis Simpkins’ dreams were filled with shadows too, thinking about what lay across the Channel, and only Skipper seemed to sleep like a log. Henry had the most extraordinary dream that night, though close to dawn. He was sitting on a chair in the middle of a white room, filled with a bright white light that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Then suddenly someone was talking to him about tribunals, and clocks, and his future as a midhsipman. or a wine merchant.
But then someone was laughing horribly, a noise that seemed to bore into his very brain, and another voice said “No, he’ll never make it, he hasn’t a chance. No real future at all. He just does not believe.”
Both the other boys were already dressed, when Hal felt the dewy air change around him and woke with a yawn. It was still pitch dark outside, half five, by his watch, which he wound carefully now, as they breakfasted on the cold remnants of the previous night’s dinner. Then Hal handed Francis Nellie’s papers.
“Here, Spikey,” he said with a wink and Francis Simpkins grinned.
Together the boys slipped downstairs, terrified to be leaving England for real, carrying the dressing up bag and left the Eagle too, walking through the salty grey dawn towards the Spirit of Endeavour, their young hearts in their mouths.
Hal just prayed that Spike would get home to Peckham safely, but he suddenly felt freer without her too.
The waiting Spirit of Endeavour was filled with activity and almost ready to leave and the other guests from the Eagle were embarking up a steep gang plank. Obediah Tuck, Miss Merimonde, the lawyer Mr Thomas Guttery, and the three men who had been sitting at the table and seemed especially nervous now, were already waiting on deck.
There were several other characters from various Dover Inns, as the Englishcrew shinned up and down the great masts, in the half light, and all the passengers shared a deeply subdued air, as they thought of the dangerous journey to France and Paris, although each one had a very good reason to be going.
The fresh smell of salt and sea urchins braced the boys in the chill morning and woke them to the enormity of what they were really doing, as light began to crack all around them. The Pimpernels’ great adventure had truly begun.
None of the Pimpernels balked at the gang plank though and their papers weren’t of interest on this side of the Channel. They were soon aboard too then and standing on the deck, as the captain gave a cry: “Weigh anchor there, men. For France.”
The wiry English crewmen began to scurry about at high speed, unfurling the Endeavour’s great sails, like giant seagull’s wings.
“You think Armande made it?” shouted Francis in the breeze, looking around for any signs of a stowaway, as the packet began to glide through the water and away from Dover docks. It made the Club feel as if the whole world was being unanchored from its mooring ropes.
“He must be on board,” cried Hal, above the screeching seagulls, “he said he’d come back, if there was any trouble.”
Just then they heard a sound that made the passing captain scratch his head, wondering if owls really roosted so close to the harbour: The Call.
“He’s on board, all right,” said Hal with grin, wondering just where Count Armande had stowed away: The wind began to catch the sails though and the boys felt the thrill of a ship picking up speed through churning waters.
The three friends were leaning over the rail, looking in the direction of France now and Hal was holding the dressing up bag, dangling it cheerfully over the side, as Francis played with his telescope.
“I wonder what’s waiting over there,” whispered Henry suddenly, shivering slightly. “What it’s really like in Revolutionary France, I mean.”
“Extraordinary,” said Francis.
“What, F?”
“Tribunals, H. Extraordinary Criminal Tribunals,” said Francis, and Hal remembered his dream of the night before, “they set up in Paris last March. Danton’s idea, they say. ‘Revolutionary Tribunals’ some call them, and they’re the key.”
“Key, F?” said Hal rather nervously.
“Oh yes. There’s no higher Court in the land now, Hal, no right of appeal either, and they’re using Madame Guillotine’s terrible kiss to do it too. To impose order. No one’s safe now, for mere ‘opponents’ are no longer the only target of the Frenchie Revolution.”
“What ever do you mean, Francis?” whispered Henry, wondering if this History lesson was exactly reliable.
“I mean at first nearly any new idea was tolerated there,” said Francis owlishly, “even encouraged. But now anyone who doesn’t play an active part’s considered a threat. It’s more than your life’s worth to stay on the sidelines too, H, or so I heard. Everyone must be involved, Hal, everyone must believe. In their Revolution.”
“I feels ill,” said Skipper, wobbling slightly on the now gently bucking boat, “it’s just not natural, if you asks me. Prefer a coach, any day, and dry, firm land. English land.”
Actually all three were beginning to feel rather sick now, because although they had often rowed out onto Wickham’s pond, when they weren’t swimming, they knew very little about ships, or finding their sea legs either. Nor did the boys trust the dark storm clouds that were brewing on the horizon.
“Hal,” said Francis suddenly, “What do you tell your granny though, when your father and sister don’t appear at all?”
“Dunno,” answered Henry, “although I’ve another excuse for being in Paris, F, if I need it. My apprenticeship to Cousin Roubechon.”
“Paris,” gulped Francis, holding onto his three cornered hat in the stiffening wind, “I wonder what my parents would say if ever they could see us now.”
“Quake, F, I bet. But best not to think about it,” added Hal more kindly, though just then something terrible happened. The ship dipped violently and as they leant over the rail, Hal let go of the dressing up bag.
“NO!”
It went plunging over the side, into the sea, coming open in the water, as all their extra clothes went churning around in the salty waves; waistcoats, and a priest’s cassock, a soldier’s old hat and a painter’s smock. The Club’s brilliant disguises were adrift already and they all felt strangely exposed.
“That’s done it,” said Henry Bonespair bitterly.
The Spirit of Endeavour was beginning to ride the water too, pushing the vital clothes carelessly aside, as the other passengers milled about on deck, turning their eyes back mournfully to look at the great chalky white cliffs of Dover and the safety of England.
“What Adam said about spies, H,” said Francis, putting the telescope away, and slipping out his notebook and pencil, “do you think the passengers could….”
“Hush, F.”
The three Frenchmen they had seen at the table came walking towards them. They passed, but now the Pimpernels heard a voice, that the
y recognised immediately.
“Aspire, Acquire, Retire!”
The Patent Lawyer Thomas Guttery reached the rail near them too, his Quizzing Glass clamped to his right eye, with the man with the horrid scar following him. He settled at the rail and just stared out to sea, looking slightly bored.
“Not so easy to aspire in France nowadays though,” boomed Guttery, beside him, “although the French mob aspire to rob and murder, daily, in the name of Equality and liberty. Which means the Lower Orders want every one just as poor and wretched as them.”
The silent, scarred man nodded, although he hardly looked very upset.
“So I journey to Paris to help my client get his Patents and possessions out,” explained Guttery, with a frown, “Prank and True are, er…unavailable. You Sir, though, why do you journey into murderous France?”
“Coffins,” answered the other, with a yawn, and the Lawyer’s Quizzing Glass dropped out, as the boys started to listen even more intently.
“Coffins, Sir? You’re an Undertaker then, man?”
“Not exactly, Sir, no, but I help take them under, and work for Baldertons of London, designing coffins. Samuel Dugg’s the name,” said the scarred coffin maker, “We’ve a branch in Paris too. One of the only English firms not forced out by their Revolution. I’ve special papers to advise on the swiftest, cheapest methods of manufacture too. Our coffins are much in demand there.”
The Pimpernels felt as if they wanted the deck to open and swallow them up.
“I’m sure,” said Guttery coldly, putting a hand to his delicate throat and looking a little green, against the dark green sea. “Now that the law has been abandoned there.”
“To root out tyrants, they say,” said Dugg. “So the Frenchies remove outdated laws and overturn the World. Would you not knock down mountains to get to the devil?”
“I, Sir?” said Guttery doubtfully, “and when you take away all the laws, and knock down all the mountains too, but the Devil turns round and stares you straight in the face, Sir, then where would you hide?”
Samuel Dugg frowned and shrugged, but his keen eyes sparked.
“Baldertons even made a special wooden suit for his Majesty,” he said, “after King Louis’s Royal head was…”
“How terrible,” gulped Guttery, yet wondering if his firm could draw up a document establishing Baldertons as Coffin Makers to Royalty.
“Aspired, Acquired, then Retired,” said Dugg, rather pointedly, “by hungry Madame Guillotine. But now they say that his pretty Queen will be required to retire too.”
“Queen Marie?” cried Guttery sadly, “the lovely Marie Antoinette herself. Artless, graceful, and an innocent among wolves.”
“Innocent?” said Dugg, in surprise, “Is there any such thing, Sir? But they’ll have her head, all right.”
“An innocent,” insisted Thomas Guttery angrily.
“You speak freely,” said Dugg, turning to look Guttery straight in the eye, “If I were you, I’d keep a tighter tongue in Paris though. Especially with these rumours that there’s some great plot afoot.”
Francis nudged Henry in the ribs.
“And where is she now?” asked Guttery mournfully though, staring at the deepening waters, “Which stinkhole of a prison have those Barbarians got her in, unfit for a dog or a rat to die in, let alone a truly anointed Queen?”
“You’re not allowed to call her Queen, friend,” cried Dugg, “She’s just an ordinary Citizeness now. ”
“Citizeness,” snorted Guttery scornfully, “Because those butchers try to rewrite language itself.”
“Language,” cried another voice and the man who had been writing in the Eagle came marching towards them, “Now there’s my speciality, gents.”
“Speciality, Sir?” said Thomas Guttery, as they both turned to look at the newcomer.
“I work for Grub Street, on the London Times,” replied the man, holding up a printed pamphlet, “Reporting on the abominations abroad. That’s the future, Gents -the printing Presses. Pen and Ink. Lit up a whole Revolution and spread the word too. They know its power, all right.”
Francis Simpkins, trying to take notes in the breeze, although the salt spray was blunting his pencil, seemed especially interested now.
“The new power of the Press, Sir. That’s what them clever Jacobin Clubs really understand. And exactly what wins the future too, as Modern Men.”
Thomas Guttery looked rather distastefully at the journalist, thinking him very much of the Lower Orders, as a gust of wind licked across the deck and snatched the newspaper from his grasp, sending it curling over the heads of the Pimpernel Club.
The three men, following its course, noticed the boys listening now and Guttery glared, so Hal and the others passed on hurriedly down the deck.
“A Plot,” said Francis though, slipping his book safely away, “that’s just what Snareswood said too. What plot though, Hal?”
“Mabye there’s really Frenchie spies on board then, ‘aitch,” said Skipper, making a large fist. “Or Frenchie Double Agents. English ones too.”
“Then keep your ears open, and your eyes peeled,” said Hal, “If one of them’s a spy, we should spot him easy enough. It’s our job now, as Terror Spies too.”
The terrified spies began to look around at the other passengers, although the lads really had no idea how to spot a spy at all.
All of the other nervous travellers, whether spies or mere innocents, adults at least, soon had something else to worry about though; the storm that came raging from the South, turning the calm English Channel to a growling sea, with waves as big as little cliffs.
The Spirit was thrown about on it like a cork and around the ship, an hour later, the quickly sickening younger travellers were trying to shelter from the tempest.
“I want to die, H,” groaned Francis, as he finished being sick over the side again. Francis ducked back from the soaking deck, towards a little makeshift cabin, only big enough for three.
Henry and Skipper were huddled there together, shivering miserably. The storm was raging now, as Hal fancied he heard the occasional hooting around them. Hal had no desire to look for Armande though, because he was feeling dreadful too, although, as leader, he was trying his hardest not to show it.
Skipper Holmwood was as silent as a tomb, under his huge dripping hat.
“How long’s the crossing, F?” groaned Hal, thinking that the scientifically minded Francis would surely know. “How long til we’re safe in France?”
Francis scrunched up his freckled face, doubting it was safety that awaited them there, and thinking of death too, but it was too wet to try and do some sums now.
“Depends on the wind, tides, and currents,” he answered, “things like that.”
“Yes, F, and the sails…Ooooooohhh.”
Henry lurched up and went outside to throw up as well.
As he did so, Count Armande St Honoré, who had indeed safely navigated the thick anchor rope the night before, shinning up it like a Powder Monkey, was huddled miserably under a canvas tarpaulin himself, among a pile of sliding crates, feeling nothing like the Ninth Count of St Honoré at all.
His curl of black hair was dripping down his forehead and his thick, wolfish eyebrows were streaming. Armande had been hooting, but now the French lad had stopped and he felt truly desperate.
Not just because of the dreadful storm either, but because Armande realised that every gut-churning lurch of this English boat was taking the Count closer to France, and the greatest peril he had ever faced in his young life.
Armande had felt some considerable courage among the others, but now, isolated and all alone, that had evaporated, despite his desperate desire to prove his leadership. He had no papers and if this boat didn’t sink and drown them all, no idea how he would ever get ashore in Calais. Besides, poor Armande was the very thing those murderers had started a Revolution against: An aristo.
Meanwhile Henry B had not thrown up on deck, but now he stood at the rail, faci
ng out to sea, feeling so seasick that he felt dizzier than he had trying Skank’s cider.
The skies had grown so dark it felt like night, as the ship bucked and tossed in the storm and the wind scoured the sails. Lightening flashed on the horizon, forking and cutting the sky in half, as Henry wondered if they would ever make it to France at all.
Under his dripping shirt, Hal found himself twiddling the dial nervously though, on his Patent Revolutionary Time Piece, flicking that little catch, that did nothing at all. It rather irritated him and Henry could not see that he had just moved the symbol of a Cloud to Twelve, thinking of France and whether the Devil was really abroad there.
Suddenly there was a deep orange glow all around him and the most shattering crash, as giant lightening bolts tore the skies, and the black rain clouds in the heavens seemed to billow before him, like tidal ways.
As Henry watched in horror, just like the fire in the Eagle, the very sky seemed to rip apart.
“What the..?”
Henry gasped, seeming to see stars through the storm itself, except that they were in the clouds. Henry felt like he often had, lying on his back in the soft grass by the little lodge and looking up at the immense night skies, although they seemed before him now, in the middle of the day.
Yet this stormy sky was filled not only with stars, but strange coloured lights; blues and reds, greens and shimmering yellows. Among them the water seemed to lift from the ocean in reverse lightening bolts and spiral straight upwards.
Henry Bonespair’s eyes were boggling, as water lashed his face.
“How the…” he cried, with a shudder, “What’s going on?”
Strange stings of water and light seemed to be weaving in and out of each other now, spiralling up into the blackness of outer space beyond and suddenly Henry Bonespair thought he heard a ticking too, very loudly in his ears, just like some enormous heavenly clock: A gigantic, celestial clock.
Hal jolted violently. Now he fancied that he could see a clock, there in the distance of the stars, the most gigantic clock face. As Hal watched it, the numerals themselves seemed to come to life, and there were the Pimpernels themselves, looking like little black mice, running around its face, to escape its huge moving hands.
The Terror Time Spies Page 13