Black Powder

by Ally Sherrick

  ‘As you can see, it was a big one. But we heard the sound of voices just before it happened, a sure sign we cannot be far off our goal. Though as Mister Cat said’ – the Falcon’s jaw tightened – ‘time is against us.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Falcon paused, then put down the lantern and turned to face him. ‘Cecil is in London now, but in another few days he departs for his estates in the country. So we must strike soon to be sure of getting our bird. See this?’ He held the torch up in front of the slump. A slight breeze caught it and blew the flame backwards. Tom nodded.

  ‘It means there is a gap. A gap which, by my reckoning, will lead us through into the Hunchback’s cellar. And that’s where you come in, Master Garnett.’ He slapped him on the back.

  Tom stared at the slump. A trickle of gravel slid down from the top and landed at his feet. He licked his lips. ‘You mean . . . you want me to climb up there and—’ His voice cracked. He swallowed, annoyed at himself for sounding afraid.

  ‘Dig through. That’s right. D’you think you can do it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good! I’ll help you up there. Use your hands first. I’ll pass you the shovel when you’ve made some progress.’ The Falcon bent and rammed the bottom of the torch into a mound of clay.

  ‘Wh–what if there’s another slide?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pull you off the moment I hear anything. Now, to work. The sooner we get to Cecil’s cellar, the sooner we trap our rat and get your father freed.’ Before Tom could change his mind, the Falcon grabbed him round the waist and hoisted him halfway up the slippery mound.

  He scrabbled for a moment before he found a foothold, then clambered slowly up it. As he neared the top, a current of cold air lifted his hair from his forehead. He reached with his fingers into the empty space beyond.

  ‘I’ve found the gap.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The Falcon picked up the torch and ran the flame over where Tom was perched. ‘Tell me when you have made it wide enough to crawl through.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He began to dig. It was dirty work, harder than anything he had ever done before. His shoulder muscles burned, his legs ached and his hands got so caked in clay they looked more like the paws of a bear. But, slowly, surely, the gap grew steadily wider. He paused to scrape the worst of the muck from his fingers then froze. Voices. Men’s voices.

  ‘What, boy? Why have you stopped?’

  He put a sticky finger to his lips and pointed into the gap.

  The Falcon yanked on his ankles. ‘Pull back. Now!’

  As Tom slithered down the slump, a pair of hands seized him round the middle and lifted him clear. He wiped his face with his sleeve and spat a lump of mud from his mouth. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Shh!’ The Falcon held up a hand, then snatched him by the arm and tugged him back until they were a safe distance from the slump. ‘We will have to wait awhile.’ He frowned. ‘We can’t risk digging while they are so close. In the meantime, best take the opportunity for some refreshment. There’s a flagon of ale in the kitchen. Go and fetch it while I keep watch.’

  Tom wiped his hands on his breeches, picked up the lantern and scrambled back the way they’d come. He blinked as he stepped into the daylight and took a deep gulp of air. It was good to be out in the open again.

  He left the lantern by the woodpile and darted across the yard to the kitchen. There was no sign of the ale flagon so he grabbed the leather water bottle, took a quick swig and headed back to the tunnel entrance. He was about to duck back inside when a crunch of footsteps sounded behind him.

  ‘Flagging, are we, Master Mole?’ A gloved hand gripped him by the shirt collar and yanked him round.

  Tom stared up into the hard grey eyes of Harry Browne. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a trickle of water.

  Browne gave an unpleasant chuckle. ‘Not so full of yourself now, are you? Well, stop standing there like a drowning fish and get back to your work. This tunnel won’t dig itself!’ He picked up the lantern and shoved him inside.

  Tom swung round, free hand clenched in a fist. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Or you’ll do what?’ Browne’s shadow loomed above him.

  A twist of hate shot through him. The man was a bully, just like Constable Skinner. But stronger, taller and twice as mean. His shoulders slumped. What chance did he stand? Reluctantly he turned and trudged back down the tunnel towards the glow of the Falcon’s torch.

  The Falcon spun round as he approached. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘No. Only water, but . . .’ He glanced over his shoulder. The space behind him filled with the hunched shape of Browne.

  ‘I thought you said you had urgent business to attend to?’ The Falcon spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘It turns out Robin did not need me after all. So I thought I’d come and lend a hand with the digging.’ Browne put the lantern down and reached for one of the shovels. ‘You should be glad of my help. This one’s muscles aren’t fit to lift a feather.’ He bared his teeth in a dog-like grin.

  ‘Keep it down, man!’ The Falcon pointed back to the slump.

  Browne raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve broken through?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to Master Garnett here. So, as you can see, we have no need of your services.’ The Falcon’s voice was calm, but his left cheek twitched and the scar on it bunched up like a worm.

  Browne glanced at Tom then narrowed his eyes. ‘But I insist. We can’t have your young friend injuring himself, can we?’ He peered about him then back at Tom. A sly look stole across his face. ‘Stay there, boy and let me show you how it’s done.’ He wiped his face with his sleeve, then lifted the shovel and sliced it into the section of wall nearest Tom. The blade made a crunching sound as it struck.

  Gravel! ‘No, stop!’ Tom dropped the water bottle and sprang forwards.

  Browne shoved him back and sliced again. A rush of stones showered to the floor. A low rumbling noise echoed around them. Browne jumped back, tossed the shovel to the ground then turned and ran.

  ‘Look out!’ The Falcon leapt at Tom and threw him to the ground.

  He rolled to one side and curled into a ball as a torrent of mud and gravel slammed down from above. He scrunched his eyes tight shut and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t die now. Father needed him.

  The rushing noise thundered on, like a river in full flood. But at last, after what seemed like an age, it slowed to a trickle and stopped. He raised his head, blinked and coughed. He blinked again, then staggered to his feet and peered into the darkness behind him. His stomach lurched. Where the Falcon had stood a few moments ago, there was nothing now but a great mound of dirt.

  ‘Help!’ He jerked round looking for Browne but there was no sign of him. Trust him to save his own skin and leave them to die. Except that wasn’t going to happen. Not if he could help it. Tom turned and scrambled over to the mound. If he uncovered the Falcon’s head and gave him some space to breathe, there was still a chance he might save him. He glanced over at the slump. What about the men in Cecil’s cellar? He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that now. All that mattered was saving his friend. Heart thumping, he plunged his hands into the dirt and began to dig.

  After what seemed like an age, his fingers brushed against something soft and warm. Matted hair and what felt like an ear. The earth shifted under his hands. Please, God, let him be all right, please.

  He dug on, clearing a space around the Falcon’s mouth and nose. His lips and nostrils were clogged with dirt. He tried to scoop it out but it was no use. He needed water. He twisted round. The bottle? Where was it? He raked the ground until at last he found it. He snatched it up, pulled out the cork and tipped what was left of the water over the Falcon’s face.

  The man choked and jerked his head away.

  Tom heaved a sigh and sank back on his heels. He was alive!

  The Falcon blinked and spat a gobbet of clay from between his teeth. ‘First buried, now drowned.’ He coughed and
lifted his head. ‘Where’s Browne?’

  ‘Run off.’

  He growled and spat again. ‘What about the men on the other side?’

  Tom strained his ears. Nothing. ‘I think they’ve gone.’

  The Falcon frowned. ‘If they heard the fall . . . Well, ’tis a chance we will have to take. Now for heaven’s sake, Soldier, let’s get out of this living grave, before it locks us in for good.’

  A shiver of pride rippled through Tom. Soldier. No one had ever called him that before. He liked how it sounded.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He reached for the shovel and set about digging his friend free.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Afire crackled in the kitchen hearth. Tom huddled beneath a blanket, sitting as close to the curling orange flames as he dared. The coating of mud had tightened on him as it dried, making it feel like a second skin. He shifted to get more comfortable and groaned. Everything ached.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself in the kitchen back at home. Mother would be getting the dinner ready. And when Father got back from the harbour, he might tell them a sailor’s tale of the New World or pull an exotic fruit from his sack. Like the oranges at Yuletide, or maybe even a pomegranate. Tom’s tongue tingled at the thought.

  A thud jerked him back to the small, mean kitchen of the lodging house. A piece of glowing wood rolled towards him across the stone hearth, sending out a shower of sparks. He kicked it away with his boot and frowned. Harry Browne had made the cave-in happen on purpose. He’d been trying to kill him, he was sure of it. Perhaps the Falcon too. And he’d nearly succeeded. What if he’d got plans to come back and make sure the job was done? Tom shivered and hugged the blanket tight against him.

  A pair of footsteps clattered down the stairs. The kitchen door swung open and the Falcon strode in, spurs clinking. He was dressed in a fresh shirt and breeches, his hair roughly combed and his face washed clean of all traces of mud. He snatched a grey leather jerkin from a nail on the wall then glanced at Tom and frowned.

  ‘I must go to Mister Cat’s lodgings across the water in Lambeth and give him the bad news. Our mission is in grave jeopardy. We need to act swiftly if we are to catch our prey in time.’ He shrugged the jerkin on, buttoned it quickly and snatched up his gloves from the table.

  Tom scrambled to his feet. ‘How long before we can start digging again?’

  The Falcon swung round. His frown deepened. ‘I don’t know. There’s a good deal of mud to excavate to get back to where we were. And we’ll have to shore up the roof and sides to make it safe. But one thing’s for certain, ’twill need more than you and I to get things back on track.’

  Tom’s heart sank beneath its own load of clay. They had been hours away from capturing Cecil. If he left London before they had a chance to take him, what would happen to Father then? His shoulders slumped.

  The Falcon ruffled his hair. ‘You saved my life back there. And for that I will always be grateful.’

  Tom flashed him a look. He hadn’t mentioned Browne yet. But he must know the cave-in was his fault?

  The Falcon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does something ail you, Soldier?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just that . . . Mister Browne, I think he made the tunnel roof collapse on purpose.’

  The Falcon’s jaw twitched. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He knew it was gravel above us. But he sliced straight into it. I . . . I think he meant to kill us.’

  The Falcon rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. ‘’Tis true Browne and I don’t always see eye to eye. And he does not like your joining us – he has made no bones about that. But my skills make me key to the success of our venture. He knows that. And to murder an innocent boy?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think even he would stoop that low.’

  ‘So why didn’t he stay and help me dig you out?’

  ‘Because for all his bragging, he’s a coward at heart. Still’ – he raked some stray bits of grit from his beard – ‘I will do what I can to keep him away from you. In the meantime, I must to Mister Cat’s with all speed.’ He slapped his gloves against his thigh. ‘And you should get cleaned up before that mud sets and turns you into a marsh boggart or worse.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Wait. Could you get this to my mother?’ Tom pulled a sheet of folded paper from beneath the blanket. ‘It’s a message. Telling her I’m safe.’

  The Falcon’s gaze sharpened. ‘What have you said? Nothing about our mission, I hope? If it were to fall into the wrong hands . . .’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I’ve told her I’ve come to London to save Father. And that she mustn’t worry. That’s all.’

  The Falcon snatched it from him and scanned the words. ‘Where did you get the tools to write it?’

  ‘I mixed the ink from soot and water and made a quill from a crow’s feather I found in the yard. The paper’s from this.’ He slid his mother’s prayer book from his mud-crusted doublet.

  ‘Most resourceful. Well, I will see what I can do. Portsmouth, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s staying with the Fosters in St Mary’s Street.’

  The Falcon slipped the letter inside his jerkin. ‘One of my comrades knows a bargeman. He might be able to find a way of getting it along the coast.’

  A warm glow spread through Tom’s chest. At least now Mother would know he was safe. ‘Thank you.’

  The Falcon nodded then furrowed his brow. ‘It must wait though. I have more urgent business to attend to first.’ He pulled on his gloves. ‘I’ll be back before nightfall. Listen for the signal. Three knocks. You remember? Admit no one who does not use it. And lock the door from the inside with the key when I leave.’

  ‘What about Mister Browne?’

  ‘I will look out for him. But Mister Cat had other duties planned for him, so it would surprise me if he shows up here again today. Besides, having caused the earth-fall, he will be keen to steer clear for a bit, knowing how quick to temper I and my small pointy friend can be.’ He patted the dagger at his waist and gave a grim smile.

  Tom locked the door as the Falcon left, then made his way back to the kitchen. He wrapped the blanket around him and stepped out into the yard. A cold wind had got up and the darkening sky was thick with heavy grey clouds. He bundled up some more faggots for the fire. The sounds of the city blew in on the breeze. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the cries of the wherrymen out on the river, and above everything the mewing of red kites scavenging for scraps of rotten meat. He peered at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Somewhere beyond them lay the Clink and Father locked up inside it.

  He shivered. Jago. He must be starving. Lugging the faggots inside, he filled a bowl from the water pail, tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and hurried upstairs. Scuttling noises came from Jago’s box. He pushed the lid back. The mouse gave an angry-sounding squeak and crawled out on to his hand.

  ‘I’m really sorry, boy.’ Tom tickled him between the ears then tipped the bowl towards him. Jago dipped his mouth in the water and drank, then nibbled greedily at the bread. ‘Now, how about that run.’ He dropped Jago on to the mattress and watched as he scampered across it and jumped up on to the wooden chest. He peered up at the window, eyes shining, whiskers twitching. Tom wagged a finger. ‘No you don’t.’ He scooped Jago up and let him run along his arm and on to his shoulder. A damp mousy nose burrowed into the side of his neck. He giggled. ‘Stop it, will you?’ He cupped him in his hands and flopped down on the mattress.

  Rat-tat! Rat-tat! Rat-tat!

  He sat up. Was the Falcon back already?

  ‘I’ll be back soon, boy.’ He dropped Jago into his box, slid the lid shut and ran downstairs.

  The banging started up again.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m coming.’ He crept along the passageway to the front door. Best check first. He bent down and peered through the keyhole. But all he got was an eyeful of black cloth.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘A friend.’ The voice was low and se
cretive.

  His heart hammered against his chest. What if it was Browne? He shrank back from the door fingering his knife. ‘What friend?’

  ‘George Hunt.’

  The stranger at the Duck and Drake. Tom licked his lips. Mister Cat had said they could trust him, but the Falcon hadn’t seemed so sure. And he was a friend of Browne too.

  ‘Quickly, lad. I have something important to tell you.’

  Tom frowned. He’d not heard the man speak before, but now he did, his voice sounded familiar.

  ‘I don’t have much time.’ The door handle rattled.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘If you don’t, you will be making a grave mistake.’

  The door rattled again. Tom stayed where he was.

  ‘Very well, you leave me no choice.’ A thin metal stick shot through the keyhole and jiggled up and down. The lock clicked and the door swung open. A black cloaked figure filled the frame.

  Tom reached for his knife. ‘Stop! You can’t—’

  In one swift move, the man grabbed his arm, tugged the knife from him and rammed it into his own belt. ‘Hold still, boy!’ Keeping a tight grip on Tom, he banged the door shut with the heel of his boot and locked it fast with the strange metal stick.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder. If he could make him think the Falcon was still here . . . He yanked free and dashed towards the stairs. ‘Help, sir! Come quick!’

  He was halfway up the stairs when a hand clamped his shoulder and dragged him back down. ‘Nice try, Master Garnett. But I know you’re alone. I watched your friend ride off on that proud horse of his more than an hour ago.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Tom made to twist free but Hunt’s grip tightened. A pair of silver-grey eyes shone back at him over the top of the black muffler he wore.

  ‘Has Browne sent you?’

  ‘Harry Browne?’ Hunt snorted. ‘I do not run errands for that hot-tempered fool.’ He steered Tom into the kitchen and pushed him towards the chair by the fire. ‘Sit down and I will tell you the reason for my visit.’