The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  The coach stopped dead, hurling Armande St Honoré straight into Francis Simpkins’ lap, as they heard a terrible cry outside.

  “STAND ‘N DELIVER, THERE.”

  The three boys froze at the adult voice, magnified horribly by the wailing wind.

  “You, man, get down.,” it cried again, “An ‘ooevers inside, out with yer too.”

  Count Armande climbed off Francis and opened the right door slowly, as their nervous young faces peered outside.

  Skipper was on the ground already, his hands high, while in the middle of the track stood a dappled mare and, on her back, the most extraordinary looking man they had ever seen.

  He was wearing shiny brown boots, up to his knees, a long brown coat, florid woven waistcoat and a green handkerchief, across the ridge of his nose. He had a beaten-up three cornered hat on, with an old peacock’s feather sticking out at the side.

  A lantern was swinging from the man’s saddle and in his gloved hands was a pistol, pointing straight as Skipper Holmwood’s large head.

  “I said out there, sharpish,” he grunted.

  The three boys climbed out meekly, Armande stepping straight into a puddle and stood in a line beside Skipper, shivering as the murderous Highwayman unhitched the lantern and held it up high, casting a lurid pool of yellow light across their terrified young faces. They glowed before him, though Armande kept glancing down in horror at his muddy shoes.

  “An’ wot in Bedlam’s name ‘av we ‘ere?” cried the stranger, “You there, take that stupid hat off.”

  Skipper Holmwood obeyed reluctantly and looked much younger for it too.

  “Boys!” cried the stranger in astonishment, “Well, blow me down, if it ain’t all boys, in a coach, in the middle of the Dover Road. I think I ‘ad too much rum. So what you all doin’ ‘ere?”

  The Club said nothing to the adult enemy, who slipped to the ground himself, the pistol barrel steady as ever and aimed straight at them still.

  “Speak up, there. With soldiers about, I’ll not dawdle ‘ere. Who are ye? Pinch purses, who’ve stole a fancy coach and brought it straight to Lord Jack Skanks.”

  “We’re not thieves, Sir,” said Henry rather primly, but swallowing too and shaking slightly. “If you don’t mind.”

  Francis Simpkins was quivering like a leaf too, but Lord Jack Skanks’s dark eyes glittered behind his green ‘kerchief.

  “An’ nor you are. But not frightened of getting into a scrap,” he added, staring suspiciously at Henry’s black eye, “Well then, what’s yer name, lad?”

  “Bonespair,” answered Henry, angry at being called a boy again, “Henry Bonespair. I’m the son of a Land…”

  “Bones to spare,” cried Skanks, “And I’ll make soup of yer soon.”

  Skanks laughed and began to circle them, holding the lantern higher, his eyes glittering viciously and Francis suddenly wished he was back in Fule.

  “Where’s the loot then?” he growled, “Don’t be thinkin’ I won’t shoot, just cos you’s boys. I’ve two more pistols, a bullet in each. I’ll do the last wiv me bare ‘ands.”

  “H-h-here, S-ir,” said Francis Simpkins suddenly, reaching into his pocket for the coin that he had snatched up in the carriage. His stutter, which often came on him at school when he was teased, had suddenly got far worse.

  Henry scowled at him, thinking he would not have given it up so easily, but rather relieved that he had not had to test his courage.

  Skanks hooked the lantern onto the coach roof now and snatched the bag away, weighing it in his gloved hand, as Henry looked at Francis accusingly.

  “Twenty shillin’s, I reckon,” cried Skanks, “Not bad booty at all. What else though?”

  “That’s all we have,” answered Henry crossly, but just then Hal realised that his shirt button was open, so the top of Wickham’s silver Chronometer was glinting furiously in the lantern light. Henry was horrified and clamped his hand over it.

  “Out with that,” cried Skanks greedily, “Right now.”

  “But I can’t,” said Henry, “I …I swore to keep it safe. Besides, it’s my Birthday present. Mr William Wickham himself gave…”

  “I said give it here, boy.”

  Slowly Henry drew out Wickham’s wonderful gift, but just as Skanks reached out to snatch it, the Highwayman let out a cry and jumped back, as if the thing was boiling hot.

  “Ouuuuuch!”

  Jack Skanks was holding up his thumb, which was bleeding. Henry noticed the symbol marked with Mouth was at the XII, as it flopped around his neck again, but now he and the others definitely heard a voice, coming from the dark wood beyond: A woman’s ghostly voice.

  “Let ‘em go you, or you’ll hang with the dead yerself, Dead Jack Skanksie.”

  The Pimpernel Club were looking at the trees in as much terror as the highwayman, and at a giant oak tree, creaking furiously in the wind.

  Henry Bonespair was convinced that the haunted Chronometer was magic now, or that the horrible wood and the Hanging Oak were, especially as Jack Skanks suddenly started jumping about, as if he was doing a Navy Horn Pipe.

  The Highwayman looked bewitched, or even possessed.

  “Owwwww, ouch. Ooooh,” he cried.

  Francis Simpkins wondered what had happened to the day, but he suddenly saw a stone whizz through the air and strike Jack Skanks in the neck. What was going on?

  “Agggggh. Stop that,” wailed Skanks, “Who’s there, I say? The devil himsel’. They says the devil’s abroad, disguised as a Frenchie, but ol’ Nick can take on any shape.”

  Suddenly Skipper Holmwood lunged at him though. His big hand was going for Jack Skank’s pistol and brave Skip managed to knock it away, but Skanks swept out a foot and felled the boy.

  Henry dived too now, but too late, because the adult stepped aside elegantly, pulling out his other two pistols and rounding them on the boys again.

  Hal tripped over Skipper’s large legs and went sailing forwards, his arms flailing out for anything to break his fall. He caught onto some webbing just below the carriage.

  Suddenly the side of a long box for extra luggage, that Francis had noticed before, swung open, and out of it came rolling a scruffy little body, tumbling down in a painful heap, right between Skipper Holmwood and Henry Bonespair.

  “Spike!” criedd Hal in horror, as Nellie Bonespair rolled against him, dressed as ever as a tom-boy.

  Little Eleanor Bonespair looked very crumpled indeed, although she had been delighted by her clever hiding place. Francis was both amazed and rather delighted, but Jack Skanks was peering accusingly at the new catapult in her little hand, a sudden revelation dawning on the villain.

  “An who’s this?” he growled, “Your their cracksman, right, throwin stones?”

  “I told you, Spike,” hissed Henry angrily, as they all got up, “How could you?”

  “Told him what?” growled Skanks, his eyes flaming like a devil.

  “I’m not an ‘im,” piped Spike indignantly, “I’m an ‘er, though one of the boys too. And my fingers were crossed, silly. You weren’t leaving me behind, Hal. Hello F.”

  Francis Simpkins tried to grin, although he was terrified, but Jack Skanks looked so astonished that he cocked both pistols, as Skipper raised his fists, glaring as dangerously as he could at the Highwayman, although shackling terribly too.

  “You ‘arm an single ‘air on her head and I’ll do yer,” said Skipper, wanting the ground to open beneath him.

  Skipper was big enough to say it, but he looked rather ridiculous too in front of the armed adult.

  “All of you,” spat Skanks suddenly, looking strangely impressed by Skipper, “You’ve got some explaining ta do. What the Devil’s goin’ on?”

  “Why don’t you just tell him, Hal?” said Spike, with a little shrug.

  “Navago, Spavagike,” hissed Henry, “Thavagoath.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a ninnee,” said Spike, “we’ll be dead if you don’t tell. Like those Frenchies.”

&n
bsp; “TELL ME WHAT?” bellowed Jack Skanks, stamping his boot in the mud.

  “That we’re the famous Pimple Club,” answered Spike, yawning and feeling far more loyal to the Rat Catchers, “and off to cause trouble, chasing a gang of Frenchie spies, who napped Juliette, Armande’s sister. They’re driving her to Dover to chop off her silly head.”

  Armande St Honoré glared at her, but if they could have seen what was going on behind that green handkerchief, they would have witnessed Jack Skank’s mouth drop wide open.

  “Pimples?” said Skanks, who had never heard of this stupid Club, nor of a Scarlet Pimpernel either.

  “The Club we just formed to fight, silly,” said little Spike, her cheeks glowing in the dark, and delighted with the success of her trick, “so to be scared of nothing, and to rescue Juliette before they leave, and do lots of brave and good things too. Ideeels. And we’ve got a magic….”

  “Oh Spike,” snapped Henry in exasperation.

  Eleanor had not only disobeyed their noble brave and brilliant leader, but had broken all the oaths in a single go too, although so had he, Henry suddenly realised, or at least his promise to Mr Wickham, in not hiding his special watch properly.

  “C’est vrai, Monsieur,” said Count Armande grandly though, as if his word on the matter was bound to be believed, “it is all true, every word. My sister Juliette has been kidnapped, by the Revolutionary Committee of Public Security.”

  Count Armande St Honoré was drawing out the letter from Dr Marat, but Francis Simpkins stepped up beside him and Hal now, and they all felt much braver, standing shoulder to shoulder andsuddenly closer too.

  “The C-c-count’s not lying, Sir,” stuttered Francis, “we all sw-sw-swear it, S-S-Sir. Though I only j-j-joined today and we don’t have much equipment.”

  Although Francis Simpkins had started to stutter again, he was pleased at his sudden courage. It was most unlike the owlish lad.

  “Though ‘enri thinks he’s the leader,” said Armande, “but I’m a Count and one day I’ll…”

  “Shut up, Armande,” ordered Henry.

  The Highwayman’s sparkling eyes narrowed, but suddenly Jack Skanks threw back his head and gave such a belly laugh that he almost startled his horse, Betsy, into flight.

  Skanks rocked back, and laughed and laughed, roared with laughter, so freely that Henry started to get annoyed. But then the highwayman stopped, growing serious again and backed away from the strange Club and the coach.

  “That-a- way,” he grunted suddenly, indicating a path with his brace of pistols.

  “You’re going to m-m-murder us, aren’t you, S-s-sir?” moaned Francis, but now Jack Skanks pulled down his soggy black handkerchief and the boys and little girl were surprised to see a kind and very cheerful face behind it. The terrible highwayman was no more than twenty two.

  “Murder you, lad?” he cried. “No fear. I’m goin’ to ask you all ta dinner.”

  That is how Skipper Holmwood got warm again by the heat of a glowing open fire, in the not so haunted forest, and how the brand new Club sat on great logs around its dancing flames and ate poached wild partridge, off the bone, as they shared a bottle of cider with an infamous Highwayman. Well, the boys did, at least.

  That is how Nellie Bonespair told them how she had hidden inside the coach luggage box, when the others had gone off to get the spare wheel from the barn, then found herself locked inside and started banging, when she couldn’t breath.

  Gradually Spike had made a hole for air though, with the catapult stick, perfect for firing the stones in her pocket through, that had so startled silly Major Bishop’s horse, then wicked Jack Skanks too.

  As she told it Skanks held up his thumb, which had started to bleed again and Armande noticed that the colour had suddenly drained from Francis’s cheeks.

  Henry looked furiously at his little sister, then grew more understanding, as the cider made him dizzy and giggly.

  Hal was holding a raw steak to his eye now, that Skanks had given him. It felt delicious, but as Francis turned his gaze on it, he suddenly went white and seemed to rock backwards.

  “What’s wrong, F?” said Henry, with concern.

  “Blood,” whispered Francis Simpkins, trying to sit up straight nd going red. “I hate the sight of blood.”

  “But the talking wood,” grunted Skanks suddenly, by the fire. “That hanging voice? I still don’t…”

  Nellie Bonespair squatted forwards now, cupped her little hands and called through them, as loudly as she could, at an old elm tree. The boys were amazed, and rather envious too, for the sound seemed to come from over there, somehow bouncing off the tree: A voice - “HELLOOOOO.”

  “I taught her ‘ow te throw her voice,” smiled Skipper Holmwood proudly, on the edge of the circle.

  “Why you little devils,” grunted Skanks admiringly, “Clever as Old Nick himself.”

  Henry Bonespair looked up sharply, thinking of what the tramp had said, but his frowning face cleared. Of course! That voice in the well, and in the barn too. It had only been his sister, clever little Eleanor Bonespair.

  Henry Bonespair was half furious, but half delighted too, certain again that magic did not exist, in this age of reason, and that his horrid vision in the fire had just been tiredness and strain. Henry had imagined the whole thing.

  One thing was sure though, thought Henry now, this adventure was real enough and the Pimpernel Club needed to keep their wits and their courage about them.

  “Bleedin’ miraculous, Spike,” grunted Jack Skanks though, “But yer all sure about this?” the adult added, as he helped himself to some more grog and belched loudly. His thumb had stopped bleeding.

  “Yes,” said Henry, for the others too, “But you’re not going to stop us, though, or give The Club away?”

  Jack Skanks grinned and winked at them.

  “Not me, lad. I swears it. I know there’s a war on, and it does my heart good to hear of such a grand and brave adventure. Reminds me of my yoof.”

  “Were you always a Highwayman, Sir?” asked Francis Simpkins suddenly, plucking up the courage to speak, and not stuttering at all. Francis sometimes tried to cure it by holding a pebble in his mouth and orating in the schoolyard, or under his breath, at least.

  “Not a bit, matey,” answered Skanks, “Butcher’s boy turned cracksman, turned highwayman, and Master at reinventin’ myself too. So old Nick don’t get me in his black clutches. The Devil’s abroad again, all right, in the Frenchie lands, any rate.”

  Francis was suddenly pleased that his best friend was not going to France at all. This adventure was frightening enough, but something they could just manage together, if they kept their courage up and their wits about them in Dover.

  Besides, they would be back in a few days time, safe and sound again.

  “Porquois?” asked Count Armande haughtily though. “Why a common thief, monsieur? Just like these hateful Revolutionaries.”

  “Common?” answered Jack Skanks, frowning, although not much put out, “Well, survival, lad, and no denying. They got me first for steelin’ an apple, and nearly transported me ta the Australias, so I turned to bigger pay. But for the love of the chase too, and the life of the open road.”

  Francis was suddenly looking up into the black night, with this talk of the Australias, at the millions tiny stars glittering above them in the darkness.

  His young mind was suddenly filled with dreams and wild adventures, despite his nervous disposition, and his mind was spinning like a globe. It was wonderful.

  Francis Simpkins so loved to study that old wooden globe, back in their schoolroom in Stockwell, and he thought of a famous book that he had sworn to read one day called Principia Methematica. It was by none other than the great Sir Isaac Newton himself, who had talked of the laws of Motion and Gravity, and how the whole world, the whole Universe, is just like a great clock, designed by God, to make everything move perfectly in the Heavens.

  As they sat there, Henry Bonespair was feeling eq
ually liberated to be on the road, dining with a real Highwayman in the firelight. All that wild sense of freedom had returned now.

  “You aren’t a real Lord, then, Monsieur Skank?” asked Armande rather scornfully, “I am a Count, Monsieur, the Ninth St Honoré.”

  Count Armande had straightened but Skanks laughed and jumped up, looking down kindly at the funny faced French lad, with his heavy eyebrows. He was sitting on his valise, to keep his britches clean.

  “Nope Siree,” he cried. “Except a Lord of the open road, Count Armande. Lord J Skanks, that’s me, or Highway Jack. The Green ‘anky, some call me, or The Swingin’ Lantern. Up north though it’s Roadside Roger, the Nighthawk, or Botany Bay Jim. Just a few of me aliases, lads.”

  The brave Pimpernel Club wondered how many aliases and disguises funny Jack Skanks had, but they all thought it miraculous too, and that night they slept in a neat row under the stars, the newly formed Club, five of them now, wrapped in their blankets in the damp grass, by the fading embers and around them the Universe felt quite gigantic.

  A warm summer morning, twittering with birdsong, found them on the edge of the Dover road again, with a dry and rested Skipper, ready to get cracking again in pursuit of their vanishing quarry.

  Henry Bonespair’s eye looked much better too, now that it was turning a gentler purple, with the healing effects of the raw steak.

  “Good luck to yer then, Pimples,” cried Skanks, chuckling as he sat on dappled Betsy, as Nellie sat in the back of the coach with the boys and Skipper perched up front again, dry as straw and clasping the reins intently.

  They all seemed closer now, with their first real adventure.

  “But one more thing, boys n girl,” said the cheerful highwayman.

  Jack Skanks slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a beautiful white lace handkerchief, with a little flourish, which he offered to Count Armande, very graciously.

  “For you, my dearest Count,” he said, in a funny voice, “courtesy of our finest English nobility too, by gad. Sink me if it aint from an aristo of the Soul.”