The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  “Fou,” snapped the soldier, shrugging, “’ees mad. But French, for sure.”

  This made Count Armande feel less terrified, since he couldn’t think of anything else to do, but remembering that poor boy outside the Eagle, who everyone had paid so little attention to in Dover, and little care for either.

  “Where are you from though?” asked the other, “Calais? You climbed aboard?”

  Armande had to think fast now, or pretend that the Count couldn’t think at all.

  He was thinking very hard indeed though and looking nervously over the side of the ship too, into the thick, sludgy waters at the harbour side, floating with flotsam and jetsom, like a nasty scum.

  “Calais?” he cried, “Calais, la. Oui. C’est moi. Ha, ha!”

  “Oh, leave him be,” called a French Captain, from the dock, “it’s just a local idiot lad, without papiers. And we’ve got to get on.”

  The soldier nodded, but turning back to Armande and irritated by the dancing lunatic, he swung his foohard t and gave the Count such a vicious boot in the backside, that Armande went flying straight overboard, straight towards the disgusting looking water.

  Spike gasped, as the Count dropped like a stone, with a great splash too, right into the Channel itself, as the Pimpernels, the soldiers on the dock, and the crew of the English packet all burst out laughing, together, despite the imminent threat of war.

  Even Nell giggled, thinking of Armande’s hatred of dirt.

  Francis wondered if Count Armande might drown though, but at last, much further down the dock, Armande St Honoré’s face emerged, his poor head carrying a halo of slimey seaweed and he began pulling himself out by a rusting mooring chain, coughing and spluttering terribly.

  “Thank heavens,” said Francis, “He’s safe and another Pimpernel’s in France.”

  “Shoosh, F,” snapped Henry.

  The checking of papers had resumed, while the boys found themselves moving again, and about to face their gravest challenge yet.

  A severe looking French Capitain, six foot two, stood inspecting the passbooks and letters of transit into Revolutionary France, flanked by ten or fifteen armed guards.

  “Papiers, Citizen,” he barked, “Purpose en France?”

  “Business,” was the common response, as the three Frenchmen from the Eagle, Thomas Guttery and Samuel Dugg all passed through. The man from Grub Street stepped up now.

  “Richard Foreman,” he said, “’ere to report on the great Revolutionary struggle, Citizens, and to tell the world the big news. I’m officially protected though, as a non-combatant.”

  The Captain eyed the English journalist most suspiciously of all, but waved him on. It was another figure Henry was looking at now though. A lad stood just behind the captain, in a long black coat, that Henry rather envied.

  Alceste Couchonet looked a little like the leader of the Rovers, back in London, the Catchers’ rival gang, with his sharp, angry eyes and his short red hair.

  Every now and then the lanky boy would mutter something to the Captain, which the Man usually just frowned at.

  Now the actress from the Eagle reached the checkpoint.

  “Arlene Merimonde,” she said beautifully, as she pressed her chest out, and held a pair of fine red silk gloves. “It’s wonderful to be home en France, Mon brave Capitain. So many theatres in our great country.”

  The Captain beamed and with a florid bow, he let her pass, wanting to follow her too.

  It was the Pimpernel’s turn. This was it.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” whispered Francis miserably, at the back.

  “Papiers, Citizen,” came the grunt, as Henry stepped up sharply. Skipper was just behind him, his face shawled, the tallest and largest of the group.

  The Captain seemed little interested in three boys at first and now he had grown rather tired, but as Henry handed the man his letters, Alceste Couchonet stepped forward sharply and spoke.

  “C’est rare, non, three Anglais boys travelling to France alone?” Alceste said loudly, lifting his chin.

  The Captain, who had no desire to fall foul of Alceste’s powerful uncle, checked the manifest more carefully and Henry disliked the lad immediately.

  “Bonespair,” read the captain “Huguenot. French.”.

  “Not three boys,” said Henry, in French himself, and turning to Skip, “Mon Pere’s, er, looking after us. Aren’t you pa?” he added loudly, in English.

  Skipper gave a grunt and tried to stand on tip toe, although his nose was streaming behind his scarf and he was trying not to sneeze.

  “Father doesn’t speak any French, Sir,” explained Henry, improvising again, “We’re French on ma’s side. And Pa has lost his voice now, with a sea cold.”

  “And your purpose en France, Citizens?” asked Alceste, very suspiciously, and looking rather evilly at Henry’s gently purplish right eye.

  “Father takes us to Paris to see a dying relation,” answered Henry resentfully, “My Grandmother.”

  The Capitain could see the sudden aggression between the two teenage boys.

  “You’re French,” said Alceste though, “but have chosen to side with les Anglais, against your own country. A little traitor.”

  Henry didn’t like Alceste’s tone at all, nor his arrogant sneer, yet something was in Hal’s head now, something about this image of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and his favourite disguise of being a foolish fop.

  “er, egad, I was born in England, Sir,” he cried, in a rather odd voice and blushing hotly, “so I’m English first, Sir. It’s my demmed home.”

  “Home?” snorted Alceste, blinking at the funny voice and strange manner, “A Monarchy, and so a country of slaves.”

  Henry’s back stiffened but still he kept up that odd manner. The manner of the Pimpernel himself, or Lord Peter Snareswood.

  “Every Englishman’s born free, e’gad,” he answered, “And free we shall stay too. To serve our King and Country.”

  Henry Bonespair hardly knew where the words had come from, but the Captain was inspecting Simon’s papers now and Skipper’s too, who was suddenly sweating furiously. Skip was very glad of the hat.

  “Is that answer enough, good Monsieur?” said Hal, glaring defiantly at Alceste, and suddenly thinking that the manner he had chosen was not a good disguise at all, as Francis stepped up too, in Skank’s three cornered hat.

  “Monsieur!” said Alceste angrily. “There are only Citizens in France now. But how do you travel to Paris?”

  Henry Bonespair felt his cheeks burning at the impertinence of the arrogant teenager, who was suddenly staring straight at Henry’s nose.

  “A coach at the Petit Moulin,” Hal answered though. “The coach of Lord Snareswood himself.”

  “Hmm,” said Alceste, “well, we have many on duty to sniff out liars, traitors and spies. To nose them out.”

  Henry blushed violently.

  “And that,” asked Alceste suddenly, “What is that?”

  The impudent lad was looking at Henry’s shirt and the glinting chain attached to William Wickham’s gift. Hal was furious with himself for letting it slip out yet again.

  “Show it, Anglais,” demanded the Captain now and Henry half pulled out the Chronometer and dropped that overblown voice.

  “It’s just a watch,” he whispered sheepishly, “A birthday present from an English Gentleman. Mr William Wickham.”

  Henry resisted saying Patent Revolutionary Time Piece.

  “And perhaps we should arrest such a thing,” said Alceste sharply, who wanted the thing very much indeed, as Henry noticed the livid spot beginning to erupt just right of his nose: The nasty little pimple.

  “Though it is wrong by an hour,” added Alceste, blushing himself, “For we have French time here, and French laws too. It would be better in our hands.”

  “I hadn’t realised,” said Henry sharply, remembering Thomas Guttery, “that property means nothing in France anymore. Are your laws so cheap then, Sir, that you steal f
rom travellers?”

  Henry suddenly felt that he would have fought with his bare knuckles rather than give up the beautiful thing. Besides, he wanted to punch this stupid French boy on his pimple.

  Francis and Skipper were wondering what Henry was saying so forcefully, but Alceste Couchonet felt the colour come to his cheeks.

  “Laws that my uncle Charles Couchonet makes good every single day,” he said.

  Henry Bonespair jolted immediately, remembering that name from the letter from Dr Marat. Couchonet. So this was the man’s nephew. Did he know anything of Juliette then?

  “As will I,” added Alceste, standing straighter, “So be sure you do not fall foul of the law in our country, Citizen Bonespair.”

  Hal was wondering if Juliette was here, in Calais, right now. The boy’s hearts were in their mouths, but now Alceste took a path that helped the brave Pimpernel Club, by attempting to be as scornful as possible.

  “Well I’m satisfied, Capitain,” he snorted, “that mere boys could be no threat to our great Republic.We must show subtlety too, Capitain, and it’s Men that France has to fear, not children.”

  The Captain, who disliked Alceste intensely too, was thinking of a delicious terrine waiting back at barracks, and of trying to get a last glimpse of the beautiful Arlene Merrimonde, so he thrust Francis’s papers straight back at him.

  “Oui, you may all passé. Your papers are in order. Le Petit Moulin’s there, along the harbour wall. Your carriarge will attend on the main road, where my soldiers will escort you all the way, a Paris.”

  “Escort us?” cried Hal, his stomach turning over. “All the way?”

  “Of course. To protect travellers from the counter-revolutionaries that plague our land everywhere now, like an illness, Citizen. Girondins and filthy aristos.”

  “You see,” hissed Alceste, with a cruel smile, “France is strong enough to contain even the enemies of freedom. But we are at war, Citizen, so do not think that France will not keep an eye on you too. Half French, or not. On that you have the word of Alceste Couchonet.”

  Henry glared at the pompous sixteen year old, and wanted to punch him even more, but he wisely didn’t answer back now, as the Captain waved them on.

  So the three boys found themselves walking hurriedly from the harbour checkpoint, towards the building the Captain had indicated earlier, that lay along the field, out on its own. They had made it, passed the checkpoint at least.

  “Blimey,” said Francis, as the hot French sun shone down, and they strode on together, out of earshot, “you had a cheek, H.”

  Henry remembered his imitation of the Pimpernel, or what he thought he must be like at least, and felt a little embarrassed.

  It wasn’t long before they reached the Petit Moulin though and their evident relief and satisfaction was increased immediately by what they heard now.

  “Awooh, awooh.”

  There sat Count Armande, on a large mossy mounting stone, just on the edge of the courtyard that flanked the inn. He was drying his dripping disguise in the sunlight and blowing on his hands to hoot. Armande was absolutely filthy, with all he had been through, but his dark eyes were sparkling proudly.

  “Armande,” cried Hal delightedly, “Or is it Alfonse now?”

  “That was amazing, Count,” said Francis, “pretending to be nutty like that.”

  The Count smiled and dipped his head slightly, with a wave of Skank’s delicate silk handkerchief.

  “Rien Monsieur. Nothing. Proof of a leader, perhaps?” he added.

  Armande looked at Henry sharply but Hal just gazed back, pretending not to understand at all.

  “But let’s hear it for the Club,” said Henry loudly, “my Club,” yet Hal shut his mouth again, as a man emerged from the Inn, in simple clothes, finishing a chicken bone, that he tossed over his shoulder.

  He had a round, cheerful, well fed face, but with very wary eyes.

  “Bonjour, mes amis,” he grunted, with his mouth half full, wondering how old these strangers were. “And how may I serve you, Messieurs?”

  Hal pulled out Adam Snarewood’s ring and held it up.

  “A coach, Monsieur. To take us on to Paris. In return for this. If you please.”

  The man snatched the gold ring and bit into it hard, but then he beamed.

  “Parfait,” he said, “Solid gold. It will be got ready straight, but you boys must eat a proper French meal first and drink to your arrival.”

  The man winked too and left them standing there and now they all noticed the delicious smell of spit roast lamb on the breeze. They were famished.

  The fifth and last member of the famous Pimple Club was not nearly so happy, as Nellie Bonespair looked out from the deck of the Spirit still. Spike had no noosepapers at all, Francis had just used up her own letter of transit, and the poor little creature was still on board ship, crouched in the life boat, trembling like a leaf.

  Just then the little girl noticed that the crew had started to unload its cargo though. Ten yards away the men were lifting a number of brand new wooden oak barrels, with DOVER stamped in white on their sides, onto a great board, to be swung up and down onshore.

  “Them’s light,” said one, “what’s in ‘em?”

  “Nought,” answered another, “just casks for wine and brandy. Only thing the damned Frenchies seem to want nowadays. English oak.”

  “Where’s they headed then?”

  “Paris. Vintner named Roubelon, or Roubechon, or some’at.”

  Nellie Bonespair looked up sharply - their own cousin. Something else was running through the youngest Pimple’s brain too. These barrel were empty, and so, for a person of her size, a way of getting off the horrid boat.

  With that a sailor dropped a crate of lobsters, to a chorus of loud cursing and the crew working at the barrels ran over, to help them gather up their snapping pink cargo.

  Spike did not hesitate. She slipped over the edge of her hiding place and shot towards one of the empty barrels. It had a lid on, but as Spike pressed it, it swivelled and Nellie squeezed down inside, swivelling the lid back over her head.

  In just five minutes, Spike felt a jolt too and was tipped sideways in the darkness. Nell was being rolled onto the loading plank to be hoisted off the ship.

  “Empty, you says?” scowled the sailor handling the barrel.

  “Sturdy,” called the other, with a laugh.

  The barrel and Nell came to a stop, as she waited, her little heart in her mouth. Another few minutes passed, then the plank, the barrels and the foolhardy Pimple were lifted clean into the air, from off the deck, and swung out away from the ship and down.

  “Ouch,” said Spike herself, as the cargo hit foreign ground.

  Now Spike found her barrel being lifted by hand onto a cart. She was searching the inside, testing the well made oak slats and metal hoops, and as her little fingers explored, she touched something that felt like cork. Spike pressed.

  ‘Pop.’

  Out the stopper flew, dropping at a soldier’s feet and Nell found herself blinking in the sudden sunlight, peering at the French harbour side and a group of sleepy guards, polishing their muskets.

  Almost immediately Spike began to move again though, as the carriage jolted and trundled towards the checkpoint.

  “Allez, Jaques,” came a voice, “they want these on the road with the prisoner. They’re keen to get moving. Passé. Passé.”

  Spike sighed with pure relief, as the cart passed the checkpoint, then stopped once more, next to another cart. She peered through the spy hole again.

  This cart was piled with boxes of vegetables - tomatoes, cucumbers, marrows, and the like- while Spike found herself right next to a row of strange looking bottles, in a long wooden crate, marked Vinegre. She crouched there in the snug darkness, peering out fearfully.

  Suddenly a man in a long black coat appeared right in front of her, with a hard, rat like face, and next to him one of the passengers from the Spirit of Endeavour.

  “It’s saf
er here, I think, Citizen,” said Charles Couchonet softly, in broken English, and looking about suspiciously, “Voila.”

  The Spider held up a little bag and Spike heard the jangling of hard coin.

  “Thanks, Couchonet,” said Samuel Dugg, reaching out and pocketing it, “Much obliged, I’m sure.”

  “You may call me Citizen, Citizen. I’ve been waiting for you all month.”

  “Don’t mind if I don’t,” said Dugg. “I’m an Englishman, Couchonet. Don’t you forget that.”

  “And one willing to betray his own country, for the right price,” said the Black Spider coldly, as Spike’s Pimply ears stood on end.

  “When it comes to business, I’ve no allegiance,” said the coffin specialist, touching his scar “And it’s your lot that’s turned everyone into Spies now.”

  “Indeed, Citizen,” said Couchonet, with a smile, “and England’s famous for its taste in trade. Deliver your report then. What news of the League?”

  Spike thought of the Scarlet Pimpernel immediately, wondering if he was real after all then, until the coffin man spoke again.

  “The League of the Gloved Hand,” said Dugg, with a nod, “It certainly exists, Couchonet, I’m sure of it now. Sure they lie at the very heart of our spy network too. There are rumours everywhere. Something big’s up too, some great plot to end your damned Revolution, in a single, sudden stroke.”

  “Then it’s true,” cried the Black Spider, clenching a gloved fist, “A plot, that I, Charles Peperan Couchonet, will foil all alone.”

  The French Policeman’s eyes glittered savagely.

  “Don’t you mean ‘I the Black Spider’, CPC?” said Dugg though, as Couchonet scowled, furious that Dugg should know his secret code name, even if the traitor did work for him too.

  “It is just what the new Republic needs now,” Couchonet whispered to himself though, “Dr Marat believes we need a Great Happening, Citizen.”

  “Happening, Sir?” said Dugg.

  “Of course, Citizen. La Patrie herself is in the balance, and if we have a civil war, with war abraod, what hope has France against her enemies? Yet a plot, exposed and defeated now, will be Marat’s Great Happening, so will finally tip the country in favour of the Jacobin Club’s absolute power. Total Dictatorship.”