The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  “Ise a good eye ‘n all,” added Skipper though, “Spotted those strangers this mornin, though they seen me watchin’ and walked on to a carriage, near the old graveyard.”

  “Strangers?” said Henry, as Spike thought of the graveyard by the old church, that she would only ever pass at a frantic run.

  “Two strange gents, in fine black coats. Didn’t like the look of ‘em much.”

  “Can you speak Avagum though?” asked Henry, with a frown, wondering about these strangers and feeling a little nervous.

  “Eh?”

  “Our secret language, Holmwood. It takes knowledge of Latin.”

  Skipper Holmwood looked back in horror.

  “I’ll teach him, H,” said Spike quickly, “Avageas-avagee.”

  “And what about The Call?” asked Henry, “I suppose you’d better try the Catcher’s Call.”

  Hal cupped his hands now, to make a kind of bowl, blowing into his fingers and the air was suddenly filled with a loud hooting. Henry looked very proud indeed, as he made a sound just like an owl.

  “Oh THAT,” grunted Skipper.

  The burly country boy imitated Henry easily, in fact the sound was much more impressive, and far eerier too.

  “Good enough,” shrugged Hal, feeling even more deflated. “You’re in then, Holmwood. For the summer, anyway.”

  “But that’s not fair!” cried Spike furiously and Henry Bonespair blinked at her.

  “But Spike, you said you wanted him to…”

  “I know, but you’re not taking it seriously enough. You can’t just let him in like that. You asked me far more questions, made me stand on one leg too.”

  Henry Bonespair was hardly about to ask big Skipper Holmwood to do that, while they had had to creep out of the house in the dark to get here and the now whole thing seemed stupid.

  Hal was suddenly very glad that hadn’t been able to ask the St Honorés to join. It was far too babyish for his fourteen years, and with a real war coming too.

  “It’s just I think we should start a much better gang, Spike,” he said, “I was going to talk to you about it. Something where we can do really important things, with England at War. Really useful things, like the Scarlet Pimpernel himself.”

  “Scarley wot?” grunted Skipper, lowering the blasted rat’s tail again.

  “Pimpernel, Holmwood, like the flower,” explained the fourteen year old proudly, “It’s only his Code Name though. They say he’s a rich and powerful aristocrat, and a master of disguise too, who goes to France to rescue innocent aristos all the time.”

  Skipper Holmwood was suddenly scowling.

  “An why’d d’ya wanna do a stupid thing like that? Pa says them Frenchie aristos are ‘orrid, n deserve wots coming.”

  The London boy looked very shocked at the ignorant country bumpkin.

  “Skip’s right,” cried Spike though, “why’s anyone better than anyone else, ninnee? Except a Rat Catcher, of course. Frilly Armande’s just stupid.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow, although he suddenly wasn’t sure himself. He thought he was much better than half the boys at school in London, although Henry didn’t like Armande’s grand airs much either.

  “That’s not the point, Spike,” he said though, “the point’s the Pimpernel’s a true hero. Braver than anyone alive, and his League are loyal to the death, so he’s…”

  “No he aint, silly,” said Spike, “He’s just made up. Old Lavender breath said so.”

  Henry Bonespair was suddenly exasperated, but he thought of Juliette again and it made him very unhappy indeed. A coward, she had called him, to his face. The truth was that Henry wished he was as brave as this famous Pimpernel, real or not, but he rather knew that he wasn’t.

  “Oh let’s get on with it,” he said. “The oath, Holmwood. If you really want in.”

  Skipper raised the mouldy rat’s tail again, wondering if he could remember the special words that Spike had tried to teach him on the way up to the barn.

  “I swears to catch Mischeeef, to gets out of Trouble, to…”

  “No, Holmwood, to get into…”

  “HUSH,” cried Spike suddenly though, “Someone’s coming.”

  In the thin yellow moonlight the children could suddenly see a dark shadow stretching below the barn door, coming straight towards them, getting longer and longer.

  “Them village thieves,” hissed Skipper, “We can catch ‘em red ‘anded.”

  “Hide then,” ordered Henry, thinking of Skipper’s words of strangers, and in an instant the barn seemed empty again.

  Henry was crouching behind a broken water barrel and Skipper had swung himself up onto a rickety wooden platform, used to keep the hay dry, as Spike dived under a broken old crate.

  With a sinister creaking, the hung barn door swung slowly open, then gave an awful whine. Their hearts were in their mouths, as the stranger entered and an owl hooted eerily. “Awooh, Awooh.” It was Hal’s call to action.

  The smallest Catcher sprang into battle first. Reckless little Spike shot from her hiding place with a terrible cry - “Agggggh” - and hurled her brave arm’s around the thief’s leg, as if playing that stupid new ball game at Rugby school.

  Skipper came leaping from above too and buffeted him straight in the back. The intruder went crashing to the earth floor and soon they had the intruder pinned down in the dirt.

  “Keep still, you, or I’ll wallops you one,” grunted Skipper, raising a huge fist, as the boys turned the intruder over. He was still lashing out and as Henry leant in to help, he felt a horrible smack in his right eye.

  “Ouch,” he cried, as Henry was thrown backwards.

  “Cut that out,” grunted Skipper, using his full weight now, and grinning at Henry, but when they looked down, the three Rat Catchers pulled back in amazement.

  “Armande!” cried Henry Bonespair, “Armande St Honoré. What are you doing here, Count?”

  Armande St Honoré, dressed in his usual finery, was a dark faced lad of fifteen, although rather short, so that he looked younger, perhaps thirteen. His furry eyebrows were too close together and a strange curl of black brown hair flopped down the middle of his sweaty forehead. He was rather ugly, even in his fine clothes, and he looked as if he wanted to cry.

  The Rat Catcher’s astonishment was made far worse by Count Armande St Honoré’s terrible appearance though, because his delicate silk shirt was ripped and his top lip badly swollen. They hadn’t done it.

  “Well, Armande?” said Hal more softly, who had never called the Count of St Honoré Armande before.

  The poor French boy lad was shaking terribly and if he hadn’t looked so miserable, Spike might have burst out laughing.

  “Juliette,” was all Armande could splutter desperately, as they helped him up from the dirt, looking as if he wanted to burst into tears, “Ma souer. Juliette.”

  Count Armande was looking in horror at his clothes too because, even though they had been torn before, his battle in the dust had covered them in even more dirt and the Count hated dirt.

  “Calm down now, Count,” said Henry more kindly, although his eye was stinging furiously, “and try to tell us slowly. What’s going on?”

  The short fifteen year old looked very taken a back to be spoken to by a younger English boy. He was so lonely here in stupid England too and understood so little of their strange English ways, while he loathed their disgusting food.

  Count Armande kept to himself mostly, because the only people of his own age, apart from Juliette, were these wild, mad Bonespair children and, as his mother kept telling him, a Count could never get really close to mere ‘trades people’.

  “Ma Souer,” he whispered, dusting off his hands, “They’ve taken ur.”

  “Taken ur?” said Henry, “who’s taken ur, Count? Where?”

  Spike giggled.

  “A Paris,” answered Armande, glaring at Nellie, “Back to Paris, Monsieur. Espion. Government Spies.”

  The Rat Catchers’ eyes were suddenly o
n stalks.

  “Spies?” gulped Spike, “Golly.”

  “Your sister has been kidnapped?” cried Henry in astonishment.

  “Of course, Monsieur,” answered Armande, “This afternoon, by French spies. Zey came in a carriage near the old church, while we were taking our walk, and they tried to take us both. But at the big crossroads I bit one and jumped out. I hide in a ditch and at last they go. I saw you coming into the barn from the hill and followed.”

  Count Armande looked very guilty at abandoning his own sister. He had tried to pull her out too, but his hand had slipped and Spike thought he was about to cry for real, although she was most impressed that the French boy had really bitten someone.

  “But where are they taking her, Count?” asked her brother gravely, “And why?”

  “Dover,” gulped the young Count, blinking hard to stop the tears coming. “It was the Dover road, I’m sure. So they take ma sister back to France. La Revolution.”

  Count Armande suddenly reached inside his shirt and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “I snatch this from one man. From ‘ees coat.”

  The Catchers all looked down in the shimmering moonlight and even Spike realised that the document was in French, as Henry translated for the others, rather proud of his special schooling. He mouthed it very carefully.

  To Agents Peurette and Deforlarge.

  Your secrret orders are to proceed directly to Calais, to present yourself to Citizen Couchonet, and from there to travel into England. On enemy soil you will disguise yourselves and turn your efforts to tracking down the St Honoré traitors. The old lady is not your concern, but the children must be brought to me as soon as possible. The trial is scheduled for next month in Paris.

  By Order of Jean-Paul Marat, Docteur

  Revolutionary Committee of Public Security

  “Public Security,” gasped Henry Bonespair. “From Dr Marat himself.”

  Henry Bonespair suddenly thought of the Devil and felt sick.

  “But he’s a monster.”

  “Trial,” grunted Skipper Holmwood, in the shadows, “Of children?”

  “Blimey,” gulped Spike, who felt her short hairs standing on end.

  The Rat Catchers and Skipper Holmwood - technically still to be initiated - stood gawping at the young French Count, in utter disbelief, until Henry Bonespair spoke up again.

  “It says to try Juliette and you, Armande. But you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Except to flee to England,” said the young French aristo gloomily, thinking that these English weren’t that bad after all, “and to be émigrés, too, so enemies of the new Republic. Everyone must be loyal to the Republic now, or…”

  Spike looked hard at the young French aristo and drew a finger across her little throat, with that horrid gurgling noise.

  “Oui, Eleanor. I was thinking though, as I came looking for you. Perhaps it is to do with our uncle, Charles. He followed the Girondins, then joined these Jacobins. He’s always made trouble though and has many enemies. Perhaps that’s why they really want us. To get at ‘im.”

  It all sounded very adult and political. Far too confusing for little Nellie too.

  “We’ve got to tell the grown ups,” said Spike suddenly though, despite her deepest instincts.

  “But ma soeur will be in Paris in a few days and then it’ll all be trop tarde - Too late. Dead.”

  Hal was holding his large nose, as he always did when really thoughtful, or just embarrassed, and the leader of the Rat Catchers seemed suddenly to be stealing himself.

  “Unless we can stop them,” he cried, and the three rounded on Hal in astonishment, especially Count Armande.

  Henry Bonespair wondered what he had just said and a voice he had heard several times that summer was suddenly echoing in his mind, like a warning: “Limitations, boy. Know your Limitations.”

  “We’ve got to rescue her,” Henry went on though, despite Penhaligon’s warning voice, “before she ever leaves England. We’re the only ones who can. The carriage, Skipper. It’s still ready for the journey, aint it? Could you drive it though?”

  Skipper Holmwood hesitated, as he realised just what Henry Bonespair was asking. He was a rough lad, untutored, but honest and honourable to a fault.

  “Yeah,” he stammered, “Er. Think I could, ‘n all. It’s only reins and strength. I know how to ‘arness the ‘orses. But my Pa won’t like…”

  Skipper stopped. He was nearly a Rat Catcher too.

  “Then we leave tonight,” said Henry grandly, “We stop them getting Juliette to Dover and rescue her. Or nab her at the port. Simple. You said there were only two adults?”

  “Yes,” said Armande nervously, “One inside and one as coachman.”

  Count Armande wrinkled his nose rather disdainfully and Skipper glared.

  “Then we’ll sneak up on them somehow,” said Hal, trying to stand taller, “In disguise, maybe. We can pick up Francis too.”

  “Oh, what good’s he?” said Nellie, “He’s just a swot. Besides, Francis Simpkins was only coming to Dover, anyways. He hasn’t the guts.”

  Henry’s best friend Francis Simpkins was indeed a swot, fascinated with books and maths and science at school, and he never stopped reading things. He was badly bullied at the little school house back in London and Henry had often had to step in and defend him, in their battles with the rival London gang, The Rovers.

  It was true that Francis Simpkins had only planned to make the Dover trip with his friends too, because his serious Quaker parents would never let their son do something as foolhardy as make a trip to revolutionary France.

  But his parents also thought that the journey might let their son see a little of England, so Francis was planning to wave his friend off at the harbour and travel back safely to his aunt’s, with Arthur Holmwood.

  “But I want him with us,” insisted Henry, “Francis knows things, Spike, and he’s a Rat Catcher too, and the more the better. Then together we’ll make sure that Juliette stays in England. Kidnap her back again.”

  It seemed impossible. Utterly terrifying. Wonderful.

  That wild sense of freedom had gripped Henry Bonespair once again, although the others looked petrified.

  “Oh come on,” he cried, “it’s just what we’ve been waiting for, and what would the Scarlet Pimpernel do? Besides, everything’s already set, down to the smallest detail. All on paper. The Itinerary.”

  “Course,” cried Spike, with a grin.

  “You would really do this, for Juliette?” asked Armande, and he was going to add ‘mere trades people’, but the well dressed young Count stopped himself.

  “Of course, Count,” answered Hal, “and for the adventure.”

  Hal looked at the other three sharply, remembering Juliette’s terrible insult and felt a sharp pain in his heart.

  “We’re only going to Dover, at the very most. And I’m fed up with them calling us children, all the time. With this terror abroad, there’s nothing worse than doing nothing. We’ll show them, all right. Together. But you’re coming, Armande? I mean, Count.”

  “Bien sure,” said the fifteen year old, if rather doubtfully, “Of course, Monsieur.”

  Armande was shaking and Henry suddenly felt very grown up indeed.

  “But he can’t,” said Spike hotly, “he’s not one of us.”

  “He’s a Frenchie you mean, Spike?” said Henry, suddenly puzzled, “and now that we’re at war, not on our…”

  “No, ninnee, he’s not a Rat Catcher.”

  “Oh, blast the Rat Catchers,” cried Henry Bonespair angrily, “This is going to be a far better gang now.”

  Spike glared at her stupid brother, thinking it horribly unfair, since she had only just joined, but Skipper and Armande looked up.

  “A gang that isn’t frightened by this Frenchie Terror,” said Hal.

  The young people all stood a little straighter and the boys nodded. This French Revolution seemed everywhere now and an idea like thi
s made them feel rather better.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Henry, reaching into his shirt, “We leave inside the hour. But there’s something we should do first. We’ll swear on this.”

  “The Magic Nometer,” nodded Spike, as Henry pulled it out and it flashed in the moonlight, “but swear what?” she added, looking loyally at the Rat’s Tail and feeling guilty.

  “The new oath, Spike, of our brand new Secret Society.”

  Skipper Holmwood dropped the mouldy rat’s tail in the dirt.

  “And what do wes calls ourselves?” he asked, excitedly now.

  “The Guilteen Gang,” suggested Spike and Armande looked green. Henry paused portentously, wondering about some name like The Terror Spies.

  “The Pimpernel Club,” he cried instead.

  The name’s association with the dashing Scarlet Pimpernel, real or not, seemed to give the children added courage. One by one they all whispered it together - ‘The Pimpernel Club’ - as the boys and Spike put out their right hands too.

  “And the Oath?” urged Spike, delighted to be one of the boys.

  Henry nodded and slowly he began -“I swear…on the Sacred Time piece, and my life, to dedicate myself to the cause of the world famous Pimpernel Club.”

  Skipper, Nellie Bonespair and Armande, 9th Count St Honoré, felt strange and a little silly, as they all began to mouth it too.

  “And I swear to keep the Secrets of the Pimpernel Club, whatever happens,” prompted Henry Bonespair, wondering what exactly would happen, “to conceal the identity of its loyal members, to honour its secrets and honourable codes, and to uphold all its brave ideals.”

  Henry’s eyes flickered bravely, as the boys and Spike waited.

  “Which are?” asked Armande, not feeling very heroic at all, as Henry suddenly remembered Mr Robespierre’s words.

  “Er…To act boldly in the cause of the innocent,” he said, even more loudly, “Um. To use cunning and disguise in the name of the oppressed. To defeat tyranny and injustice at every turn, like the Scarlet Pimpernel himself.”