The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  The Pimpernal Club all grinned and went on and for nearly two whole days they raced hell for leather for the coast, hardly stopping to sleep or rest.

  There, near Calais, that coming Monday morning, William Wickham was standing on a headland in the rising wind, and wondering.

  The English ship Endurance, a strong three-masted schooner, was still anchored behind him and a little rowing boat was waiting on the rocky shore, with three sailors and a boatswain manning it in the rising surf.

  “We’ve got to go now, Mr Wickham, Sir,” cried the boatswain, “the Cap’ain can’t wait no longer. There are three Frenchie frigates laying just round the head.”

  “Wait, man,” snapped Wickham, “they’ll be here soon. I know it.”

  It was twenty minutes later, when William Wickham sighed with pure relief. Foxwood was driving a cart furiously down the track, now dressed in his own English clothes.

  Wickham’s face fell though, when it lurched to a halt but only his compatriots jumped off: The League of the Gloved Hand.

  “What’s happened, Foxwood?”

  “Aren’t they here?” cried Foxwood. “The imps vanished. A French boy brought us this.”

  Wickham snatched the note he was holding out and read it, then hurled it away furiously.

  “Damn their eyes.”

  “We’s got to sail, now,” insisted the Boatswain furiously in the water.

  “We can’t just leave ‘em,” said Foxwood desperately. Foxwood had children of his own.

  William Wickham seemed almost in an agony of doubt but something else decided it for the League.

  Just then a troop of French soldiers came over the brow of the hill, some on horseback, others on foot, firing their muskets, as soon as they saw the bold Englishmen, with Charles Couchonet and his nephew riding furiously at their head.

  “Into the demmed lifeboat,” snarled Wickham, “we’ll have to come back later somehow, and find ‘em. I have to be in London too, in four days time, to report to the boss. He’ll be mad, all right, but there’s a War on.”

  Into the skiff the adults clambered then and their sailors pulled for the Endurance.

  From his horse Couchonet was training a telescope on them, and although they were escaping, the Black Spider was delighted, because there was no sign of Juliette St Honoré or the wicked Club at all.

  It was they who still had the watch, the Pampelles, and, so Couchonet still thought, the vital letters concealed inside.

  The Spider had already locked the port of Calais as tight as a strongbox too, but it was only that same evening that an informer had brought him word of an English ship down the headland. It had to be their only escape route.

  The Frenchies all paused now and the soldiers were seeking directions whether to follow or not.

  “No,” snarled the Black Spider, “up onto the coastal path instead, and be ready for new arrivals.”

  William Wickham and the others reached the last ship for England safely, as the furious captain, in a passion to catch the tide and winds home, ordered them to weigh anchor. The ship’s great sails were unfurled and the Endurance turned for England.

  It was hardly half an hour later that the desperate Pimpernels crested the hill too, racing furiously for the sea. Hal Bonespair was holding up the map that Wickham had given him and Francis was lifting his own little telescope.

  “It’s gone, Hal,” Francis cried in horror, now wearing his three cornered hat again. “We’ve missed the boat again.”

  The Club sat there, staring desperately at the vanishing ship, and Juliette almost wanted to cry. But Hal suddenly grabbed Skank’s telescope, although strangely he didn’t point it out to sea at all.

  As Hal did so, Alceste, his uncle and their men stood on the coastal path, like a line of newly planted trees, wrapped in tricolours. The way ahead was barred and the only means of escape had just sailed with the tide. Not only that, but Alceste had just spotted the coffin cart racing along the hill.

  “We’re lost,” cried Francis Simpkins bitterly, as it rattled onwards.

  “Not yet, F,” said Hal, peering around, as the others wondered what on earth he was talking about now. “There, Skip, make for that barn on the hill.”

  Henry Bonespair was pointing at an extraordinary looking structure, in a field to the east, near the costal path, high sided, like a Dutch hay barn, with two sloping roofs, that didn’t seem to meet at the top.

  The Pimpernel’s cart went rattling along the brow of the hill, straight towards it, as the others wondered what on earth was going on.

  Alceste had them locked in his uncle’s telescope and he grinned, understanding now just how they had got out of Paris.

  It was the Pamples, all right, and Juliette St Honoré, although Alceste had no idea where they were going now, since they were moving away from any point where they might board a boat.

  On the Endurance, riding the growing waves, William Wickham was training the Captain’s spy glass back on land, wondering what all the sudden activity was. The secret agent gasped though, as he saw the coffin cart with the Pimple Club on it.

  “They’ve nowhere to run now, Alceste,” said Couchonet on land, as his nephew pointed them out too, “Take some men and horses and get them, my boy. No mistakes this time. Redeem yourself, lad.”

  “Yes, Citizen Uncle.”

  Alceste was more than delighted, so he and his soldiers mounted and soon were galloping along the brow in hot pursuit.

  “It’s that creep, Alceste,” cried Francis on the cart, although rather jealous that Alceste seemed so good on a horse.

  “I know, F,” grunted Hal, “And hurry, Skip. The barn’s our only hope now.”

  Spike pulled out her catapult, wondering why a barn could be a hope, but she was suddenly firing stones wildly at their pursuers.

  “Straight inside, Skip,” ordered Hal though, as they reached the thing.

  The cart swerved and since the large doors were open, drove straight inside.

  As Alceste saw them, his eyes glittered. He and the soldiers pulled up outside it too and jumped down. The barn doors had closed. They were trapped.

  “Surround it,” he snarled, as the young soldiers began fanning out across the grass. Alceste was waving for them to close in.

  “We know you’re in there, Bonespair,” he cried triumphantly. “So in the name of France and Freedom, I order you to surrender.”

  Alceste Couchonet felt ten feet tall.

  “Can’t we turn her, captain?” cried Foxwood, on the deck of the Endurance, wondering where the children had suddenly gone.

  “No chance, the tide’s wrong and those rocks would sink us.”

  “Then they’re lost, Wickham. Poor children.”

  Alceste was thinking exactly the same thing, about being lost, not about poor children, and promising to reward himself with some more rats, as the Little Spider and his boys closed their fatal trap, and his uncle raced to catch him up.

  It would be a very swift Tribunal, then mass execution, within twenty four hours, young Couchonet had just decided, when Alceste Couchonet suddenly looked up at the top of the barn, in absolute astonishment.

  Something was rising steadily from the open roof.

  At first it looked like an enormous pillow, or a giant bolster, then, steadily, a great white canvas ball climbed straight from the half open roof, lifting up into the blue skies like a gigantic globe: A world.

  SEVENTEEN - CLOUDBURSTS

  “Where we learn the truth of a magic Nometer, and a lot else besides, that’s equally unbelievable…”

  The thing climbed higher and higher into the sky and the Frenchie soldiers thought themselves bewitched, as they saw ropes hanging from it and the great wicker basket they were suspending in mid air, enough for two hundred severed heads.

  The strange revolutionary flying machine lifted into the sky, with the Pimpernel’s happy faces staring down from the basket edge, the gigantic ball above them emblazoned with these proud words:


  United Boston Balloon Company

  In the middle of the great beast, working the brazier furiously, stood the extraordinary figure of Obediah Tuck, in his splendid blue waistcoat, his moustache flying in the wind.

  “Snooks to you, Couchy,” cried Spike, managing to peer over the edge too, because of an old crate that she was standing on, with Malfort scratching at the wood.

  The others had been as amazed as Spike, when Skipper had turned into the barn, to see the extraordinary machine, and Tuck’s men holding the guy ropes, for the Boston Balloon company’s second trial flight in Revolutionary France.

  Obediah Tuck, already aboard and looking rather irritably at his own fob watch, had asked no questions about why the children seemed to be in such a flap, but hurried them into the basket nevertheless.

  “Farewell, Citizen Alceste,” cried Henry Bonespair, from above, “we’ll have the pleasure again one day soon, Monsieur, I’m sure.”

  Henry almost stuck out his tongue and below Alceste shook a fist at his now arch enemy, climbing safely into the skies. His enemy was only fourteen.

  “There, H,” said Spike, “told you the magic Nometer would protect us.”

  “Oh Spike,” said Henry wearily, but he was suddenly not so sure.

  “Good ta have ye on board, Sirees,” cried Obediah Tuck, as he added more coals to the brazier, “After ye came to see me, Henry B, I didn’t think you lot were going to make it, no Siree.”

  “We nearly didn’t, Sir,” said Hal, with a grin at the American.

  “That noosepaper report,” cried Spike suddenly.

  “Exactly, Nell. I went to see Mr Tuck on Friday too. Just across the street from Granny’s. I spotted him from the house.”

  Tuck seemed so engaged in his amazing balloon, that he had not noticed the French soldiers below at all, but after Hal had called on him in the Rue Beaulieu, he had readily agreed to take the lad he had met in the Eagle flying.

  No good inhibiting young minds.

  “But we won’t get very far with so many aboard her,” cried the strange American, as the thing began to drift beautifully over the French soldier’s heads.

  “Just to that ship,” said Hal. “If you please, Mr Tuck.”

  The man from Boston noticed the fully sailed English ship in astonishment now, and seemed to wake to what was happening too, and why French soldiers were scurrying around like mice below, shrinking mice at that, lifting their matchstick muskets.

  For a moment a frown darkened his strong features and the Pimpernel Club wondered if the American would pitch them overboard.

  Then Obediah Tuck’s generous eyes lit up, and being a person of a very ‘can do’ attitude, he sucked his finger and stuck it in the air.

  “You’se in luck. Don’t have much control, ladee, but the wind’s onshore, right enough, carrying us that ways anyhow. You need some assistance, don’t ye, lad?”

  “Yes, Sir,” answered Henry softly.

  Francis was fascinated with all that he was seeing and he kept scribbling frantically in his notebook with his pencil, which by now was hardly bigger than his thumb.

  It was all so wonderfully scientific though.

  “You rise higher and lower to catch different currents of air, don’t you S-s-sir?” stammered Francis breathlessly, “So control the b-b-balloon’s direction.”

  “Well done, ladee,” said Tuck, his grand moustache quivering furiously, “And by heating the brazier too, Siree. Simple mechanics.”

  They were moving faster now, loving the sensation of the wind on their cheeks, as if the Pimple Club were sailing through the clouds themselves, when they all ducked, as they heard shots.

  Alceste had ordered his troupe to start firing. Musket bullets went whizzing around the Pimple’s young ears and as they ducked again, they heard a dull thud, as a musket shot pierced the wall of the balloon itself.

  “Nothing to fear,” said Tuck cheerfully though, looking up into the billowing shrouds, “can’t break this beauty easy. It’s only canvas and hot air.”

  With that the basket lurched to the side though and Spike went flying forwards. She would have fallen out too, if Skipper had not grabbed her.

  “Thanks, Skip,” gulped Spike, “Thanks again.”

  The basket was tilting badly though and the Pimples thought it would drop out of the sky itself.

  “What wrong now?” said Tuck irritably, craning over the side. “Ah. I sees the issue, Sirees.”

  The long tether rope was trailing below and, clinging to the bottom now was none other than Alceste Couchonet, who had raced in desperation for the thing, jumped for it and held on hard.

  Now brave Alceste was being swept across the ground too, fifteen feet in the air, his legs kicking wildly, the lad wailing horribly too.

  “Helllllp meeee. Agggggh.”

  “Now that may slow us, indeedee,” observed Tuck, with a grin, and shaking his head.

  The Pimples heading out to sea faced another danger though, because Charles Couchonet had lined his own men up along the costal path, ready to fire a murderous barrage straight into the basket, as it passed right overhead.

  Yet the whole thing stayed the Black Spider’s hand.

  “Don’t shoot,” Alceste’s uncle suddenly snarled bitterly, as the great balloon swept towards them, “You’ll hit my idiotic nephew.”

  The wind was catching the great American balloon and it was about to pass the French cliff edge altogether and race straight out to sea.

  “Let go, fool,” cried The Spider.

  Poor Alceste was far too terrified to let go, but Spike leant out again and fired her catapult, with such dead eye accuracy that it hit the Little Spider right in his face and burst that horrible pimple.

  “Agggggh,” he cried and, with a terrible ‘woooah’, Alceste Couchonet let go and went plummeting downwards, right into the middle of a particularly prickly looking gorse bush, just next to his uncle on the path.

  “Ouch,” he groaned, as he hit it with a thump. “Oaaah.”

  “Idiot,” snarled Couchonet, stamping his boot.

  “An so the Whirligig of time,” cried Obediah Tuck above, looking sharply at Hal, “to quote your Mr Shakespeare, brings in its revenges.”

  With that the great balloon straightened and lurched forwards, caught properly by the wind, and although Couchonet’s soldiers had started to fire, the thing was moving out of range, as it sailed straight towards the Endurance.

  All Charles Couchonet saw now, standing next to his idiotic nephew, was the row of Pimpernels, laughing and waving goodbye, as they left French soil forever.

  They were free.

  “Made it,” cried Henry Bonespair, with a gulp, “You know, I’m glad it’s all over, and so scientifically too. I started seeing things back there. People in the firelight.”

  “What, H?” said Francis, blushing. “But why didn’t you tell us, Hal? In the house. I thought I saw a ghost, a blue woman in a tapestry and a strange light.”

  “Me too,” said Spike, as Henry looked sharply at his little sister, “outside the Tribunal, H, I saw her with two funny men. The silly bald one spoke to…”

  “FIRE,” roared Charles Couchonet below, his face snarling like that terrible face he had seen at Dr Marat’s, “KILL THEM ALL.”

  His men fired a terrible volley, that came shattering straight at the Pimple Club, yet suddenly something truly extraordinary happened.

  The balloon was moving towards a great swirling bank of cloud, a storm cloud, and as it did so, it just stopped.

  Now it is quite impossible for a hot air balloon to stop in mid air, but it just had, like Obediah Tuck, suddenly frozen there, motionless as a statue at the brazier, or a waxwork.

  Just like the musket ball that was about to hit Armande’s head, but was simply hanging there in mid air now, about an inch from the Count’s bold if strange young face.

  The whole balloon and basket were suspended there, at a slight angle too, although the Pimpernels themselves could move perfe
ctly.

  The six of them blinked and looked around in astonishment, along with Malfort the cat, as Henry Bonespair noticed the Chronometer. Its big dial was whizzing round at the most terrifying speed now, in one direction, making frantic revolutions, and its little dial span in the other.

  “What the …”

  Over the side of the basket Charles Couchonet, Alceste and the Frenchie soldiers had also frozen, just like the good ship Endurance in the distance.

  The whole world had stopped moving completely.

  “What is ‘appening, Henri,” gulped Juliette, rather less amazed than she might have been, after all the extraordinary events in the Square.

  The Pimples and the stationary balloon were inside the strange cloud now and the air was glittering with coloured water crystals and strange wisps of light, as the sun shone through it.

  “And where are we?” whispered Henry Bonespair, his voice echoing unnaturally around them, as the Club looked about in astonishment.

  There was a strange orange white glow everywhere.

  “In a Cloudburst, bambini,” rumbled a deep foreign voice suddenly, that seemed to fill the cloud itself, and which Henry recognised immediately from the barn and the well - an elegant Italian voice.

  It was as if God himself was talking to them.

  “A revolutionary historic maelstrom, Bonespair,” said the foreigner, “or special atmospheric interference.”

  “Interference?” gulped Henry, wondering if they were all dead.

  The astounded Pimpernels looked out of the basket to see three figures, standing in mid air near the edge of the cloud, the three that Henry had seen in the firelight, twice, and Spike for real in Paris, on a kind of floating wooded platform.

  It was just like the trial box that Juliette had stood in in the Champs de Mars.

  That tall man, the blue stockinged woman, who had emanated from the tapestry, and the seemingly overgrown child, held leather satchels in their gloved hands, watching them all rather blithely, although the short one kept looking at his wrist too, which had a miniature Chronometer attached to it: A wrist watch.

  “Who are you, please?” gulped Nellie Bonespair, as Francis Simpkins remembered that woman from the portrait, with a shudder. “Are you Gods?”