The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

The driver, singing and very drunk too, jumped down and barged towards the crowd, keen to glimpse the day’s gruesome spectacle. The cart gave them perfect cover.

  Hal slipped forwards first and, kneeling to grasp the grating, lifted it easily and peered down into the blackness below, like Wickham’s old stone well, scowling at the horrible smell.

  “Phaaaaw.”

  The others were looking down too, at the mossy, dripping walls and a rusting ladder attached very shakily to the stone wall, and the little rivulet that was gurgling far below them through the dark.

  “Come on then,” hissed Henry.

  “H,” said Spike, “when I saw it first, some boys popped out. Up into the Square. Maybe they’re still down…”

  “Well, we’re about to find out, Nellie. So watch each other’s backs.”

  One after the other, the brave Pimpernels followed their leader down onto the rusting ladder and soon found themselves standing on the edge of a smelly little stream, snaking into the distance, down in the dank Paris sewers.

  The smell was appalling and Count Armande looked as if he wanted to throw up, while Francis had his notebook and pencil out, as dutifully as ever, to make a record of their increasingly strange history.

  Skipper was holding his scarf to his face, the only concession in his disguise to his own clothes, but Count Armande looked as if he was about to faint and all his hatred of dirt had returned, as he held Skank’s silk handkerchief to his own nose, still stained with red cabbage juice.

  “Sacré Blue.”

  The Pimples peered left and right, to find themselves in a low arched tunnel, of badly crumbling bricks, with enough of a pathway though to walk on either side of the evil looking stream that flowed through the sewer, wondering what to do.

  They could see not only because of the dim light from above, but because, here and there, the great sewer was punctuated with similar shafts of dusty sunlight, from other storm drains in the Paris streets above.

  “This way,” cried Hal, his voice booming in the echoing tunnels.

  Their leader began to pick his way in the direction that he sensed the Guillotine was, but they soon found this dark, malodorous tunnel curved around crazily.

  Twice, taking other passages off the main channel, they found themselves coming up against dead ends and had to double back.

  If they had not had their minds on other things, the place would have offered a field day for the Rat Catchers, because there were black and brown rats everywhere, scampering along the walls, or plopping in and out of the stinking stream.

  At last they spotted another dimmer shaft of light though and they heard a steady and ominous plop, plop, plop, among the dripping all round. They knew they were under Madame Guillotine herself now, because the sewer had turned a sickly pink.

  Francis reached it first and looked up, wondering if he would have to face the sight of more horrid blood, just as a thick drop of red plashed right onto his cheek, staining his freckles.

  “Yuch,” he cried in horror, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Get off me.”

  Poor Francis Simpkins had turned the colour of a very livid lime, and his eyes seemed to have misted over too. He had started to sway, hovering just over the drain, threatening to faint and fall right in.

  “Careful, F,” cried Henry.

  “Look out, ninnee,” shouted Spike.

  They others watched, aghast, as poor Francis began to rock back and forward, like a human pendulum. But gradually the swaying began to subside, and suddenly Francis breathed out, with a gasp, and his eyes seemed to clear.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, rubbing his cheek again, “I think I’m all right.”

  There was another rusting ladder leading straight up this storm drain and now Hal shinned up it, avoiding the red cascade, pushing up the grating above, and found himself right under the skirts of the terrible machine.

  “SHHHHCCCHNACK.”

  Hal only poked his head out slightly and saw the scaffold steps and a pair of boots walking up it, with very heavy tread, then, right above his head through the slats, he glimpsed that terrible wicker basket, oozing red.

  “This is it,” he said proudly though, as he stood back at the others’ sides a few moments later. “Our only chance to rescue Juliette now. We’ll snatch Juliette at her execution. This saturday.”

  “But how?” asked Francis doubtfully, opening his notebook and licking his pencil.

  “You and Spike must invent some kind of diversion in the Square, F.”

  Spike looked very pleased indeed to have some real responsibility in the boy’s bold new plan. Her plan really.

  “Then Armande and I will pull her down between the steps.”

  “And then what?” whispered Armande gloomily, “if we even manage.”

  “Skip. You’ll have Snareswood’s carriage waiting by the theatre, and when we’ve got Juliette on board, we’ll all drive straight for the main Paris gate and safely away. Then make hell for leather for Calais. Simple.”

  Armande St Honoré looked very sceptical indeed.

  “And how do we ever get back to England, ‘enri?”

  “Oh I don’t know that,” cried Henry in exasperation, desperately wanting to be back home, “Have I got to think of everything, Count?”

  Armande frowned but his head was aching.

  “Well, you’re the leader, Monsieur, or so you keep telling us.”

  Henry scowled.

  “Perhaps there’ll be boats for hire in Calais, Count?” suggested Skipper more helpfully though. “With some of Gonsy’s gold.”

  “Yes,” said Hal,“We’ll charter a boat.”

  “Or we could swim home,” suggested Spike, with a mischievous grin.

  “Oh shut up,” they all cried.

  It was the only plan they had though, as they headed back again, looking for the way up to the theatre exit, unaware of the small, ragged figure, who had just been listening in the shadows.

  It was nearly forty five minutes later too, according to the Chronometer, long, dark minutes of searching the Paris grimy sewers, with Armande really terrified now that he would trip and plunge into the filth, when the Pimples found that they were hopelessly lost, under the great Revolutionary city.

  “I don’t like this place, Hal,” whispered Spike, in a desperate little voice.

  “No, Nell, me neither. I’m sorry.”

  “Smells ‘orrid,” grunted Skipper, but just then Francis cried out, as if he had seen a ghost again.

  “Aggghhhhh.”

  Huge, eerie shapes were looming straight towards them down the tunnels.

  “M-m-more gh-gh-ghosts,” moaned Francis, nearly losing his reason now and making the others wonder what on earth he was talking about.

  Great shadows were climbing the dripping sewer walls, like terrible, spectral ogres.

  But Hal realised quickly enough though that people were coming towards them, and a lantern was swinging out of the darkness.

  “No, Francis,” he said, “see reason. What’s got into you?”

  Hal drew Skank’s broken pistol though and Skipper stepped up with clenched fists. As they saw the figures in front of them now, Francis noticed that others were coming up behind them too.

  They were suddenly surrounded in the sewers.

  These weren’t giants though, of course not – because the strange shape of the sewer walls had simply distorted the shadows cast by the lantern light - they were ragged children.

  Suddenly filthy faced boys and girls, maybe thirty, appeared from the dark, dressed incredibly poorly too, and led by a lad with jet black hair, Hal’s age, brandishing a rusty knife blade.

  He was one of the boys that Spike had seen darting out of the storm drain.

  “Er. Bonjour,” gulped Hal, in French. “Who are you, Monsieur?”

  The leader of the gang just spat into the sewer and scowled at Henry.

  “I ask the questions, you answer,” he cried, “Though we knows you’re up to something bad, d
on’t we, ZooZoo?”

  A little boy, as wretched as the others, and about Spike’s age, stepped up now.

  ZooZoo had been following earlier and so had heard all their plans. He had taken his own route in the sewers that he knew so well, to summon his comrades.

  “Sure, Pelle,” he cried, “I ‘eard ‘em.”

  “So what’yer doing?” asked Pelle. “Who are yer?”

  The Pimples were still in disguise, so now Hal tried bluffing.

  “We’re Revolutioners, just like you…er, inspecting the drains for….”

  “Revolutioners?” blinked Pelle though, “Why you little liar. What are you really doing in our sewer, Anglais?”

  “Our sewer?” said Hal.

  “Sure,” said Pelle, “I was born down here, like pa. And his pa, and his too. The only safety I’se ever known.”

  Pelle looked around him at his compatriots, like some diminutive father.

  “And these others ‘ere were too, since they’re mostly foundlings. But the sewer’s ours, and you’s tresspassin’.”

  The filthy children were nodding angrily, as if ready to defend La Patrie itself.

  “Orphans?” said Henry, “Living down here in this filth? But it’s terrible.”

  Count Armande thoroughly agreed, but Henry was looking around at the angry, frightened little faces peering out of the dark, wondering what kind of tragic lives these poor children must have lived already.

  Henry Bonespair suddenly felt a strange fire in his gut and it was followed by the oddest feeling of his life, a shame.

  Hal thought of his games back in England, around the Scarlet Pimpernel, with his egads, and his zounds and his gadzooks, and blushed in the darkness.

  The sewer children varied in age, from three or four, to nearly sixteen or seventeen, and some of the older children seemed to be acting like parents to the little ones.

  A pretty, dirty faced girl, around Juliette’s age, had her arms around two of them, and another was carrying a crying baby.

  Their clothes were desperately ragged and the Pimple Club wondered what kind of world it was that could allow people to live like this.

  “It’s home,” said Pelle flatly.

  “But the Revolution,” cried Henry, “I thought it had changed all that.”

  “Revolution,” spat Pelle, “Wots that got to do with us, fool? That’s for the enemy. The Revolution made us all.”

  “Enemy?” whispered Armande though.

  “Grown ups,” said Pelle, eyeing Armande’s thick eyebrows and stained kerchief. “In Paris you have to look after yersel. So we run the sewers, and makes a living, best we can. Filching in the Square mostly. Picking up scraps.”

  Armande St Honoré was trying not to look as scornful as he had done listening to Lord Jack Skanks, back in England, because it must be a terrible existence.

  Now Pelle’s clever, wary eyes hardened.

  “And we know you wants to rescue someone from the great Chopper. Which is fine by me, long as you pays the tax.”

  Hal and Armande, of course the only two who had fully understood this fluent French exchange, glanced at each other sharply.

  “Tax, Monsieur?” said Armande.

  “To use our sewer, stupid.”

  “But we don’t have any money,” said Hal, which was perfectly true, although he was sweating a little now.

  “Then you’re not using our alleys,” said Pelle, putting his knife in his belt, though eyeing Skipper especially warily, “And now we’ll give you all a dipping, just for coming down without permission. You’re rescuing no ones, free of charge.”

  “But I can get some money,” added Hal suddenly, remembering Gonsy’s gold, “from our Granny’s house. We’ll bring it later. Promise.”

  Pelle laughed in Henry Bonespair’s face though.

  “Later? You think anyone keeps their promises now?”

  “We do,” said Hal indignantly, “We’ll swear, if you like. On our word of honour.”

  Pelle had just decided to throw the Pimplernels into the drink, especially Armande and even the menacing Skipper.

  “Which of yous is the leader?” he said, as the others stepped in around him, “because they’re getting a dipping in the drain.”

  “He is,” said Henry and Armande at once, pointing at each other.

  But Henry B suddenly blushed.

  “I am,” he whispered guiltily, “I’m their leader.”

  “Then you’re going in the…” started Pelle, when ZooZoo suddenly nudged his boss hard.

  “Looks, Pell,” he hissed.

  ZooZoo was pointing not at the Leader of The Pimpernels but at Spike, who, only able to understand half of this silly Frenchie talk, had grown nervous at the horrible surroundings and started fingering all the things in her pockets, for reassurance.

  The catapult was still there, that she had wisely decided not to try and use, but Spike had just pulled out something that she had carried all the way from the barn in Peckham, and ZooZoo was pointing straight at that.

  “Well, why didn’t yous say so, straight?” cried Pelle, who reached into his own pocket and pulled out a little tail too, just like the Sacred Rat’s Tail that Spike was now holding up, scrawny as ever.

  As Pelle did so, all the others in the gang pulled out tails too, as if they were drawing a hundred sparkling swords.

  “Safe passage, brother,” said Pelle, “these give yer safe passage down here. How else to keep a check on the gangs muscling in, or control the rats too? Got to have rules, and be scientific, or it’d be murder down here. Just like up there.”

  “Oh,” said Spike, thoroughly agreeing and thinking it very PC too.

  “So I’ll take your word, right,” said Pelle, looking at Hal and rather liking his face now, “an you can pay us later, and use the tunnels too. Just once, mind.”

  Count Armande was delighted that his sister’s only possible escape route had just reappeared, thanks to a simple rat’s tail and the help of the Lower Orders, but Spike looked rather suspicious of any further alliance.

  It was their secret Club, not anyone else’s.

  “Now where do you want to go?” asked Pelle though, “Tunnels run for miles, wiv exits points all round the city. You’d never find your own way round them, and you have to be careful not to take one that drops you straight in the river Seine, or lands you in the catacombs.”

  The filthy children around him suddenly looked very frightened indeed.

  “Catawot?” whispered Spike.

  “The great catacombs. Yer don’t want to be lost in there. That’s where they all ends up. Their ‘eads.”

  As Pelle said it, from the holes above, they heard another great Snaaack and a furious roar, louder than ever.

  “Back to the theatre please,” said Henry, with a gulp.

  So, within just ten minutes, the Paris sewer Gang had led the daring Pimple Club back to the spot where they had entered and they were all climbing back up again.

  “An’ don’t forget the tax, brother,” cried the sewer leader.

  “Sure, Pelle,” called Henry, feeling strangely moved at the appellation, “You have my word of…”

  “Honour,” snorted Pelle, with a grin, “Yeah, I know.”

  Pelle laughed and the foundlings were left in the dark again.

  “You trusts ‘em, boss?” whispered ZooZoo, down below.

  “They had a tail, didn’t they?” answered Pelle, with a shrug, “but no, Zoo. So wait a bit, then follow ‘em back to their hideout. Don’t be seen.”

  Above the cart was still obscuring the drain, as the Club climbed out again, covered in gunge, looking more Revolutionary and Liberty-striken than ever. They suddenly felt a kind of wild joy though, all except Francis Simpkins.

  “What now?” he said, as non-plussed as Skipper at what had just happened, so following Henry as meekly as a lamb.

  “Back to Headquarters,” ordered Hal, “to plan some refinements, but it’s what happens afterwards that I’m reallly wo
rried about now.”

  “Oh, not another meal,” said Francis, with a groan. “Don’t think I can stomach it, H. Rather eat paper.”

  The Pimpernel Club hurried off in the direction of Grandma’s though and at the sewer grating the cart had just moved off. A little face had just popped up too that rarely waited for cover anyway, well used to darting safely in and out of the thronging crowds.

  ZooZoo was just in time to see the Pampernelles then, on the far side of the Square, as Count Armande paused and turned back alone, while three new tumbrels came rattling loudly into La Place, with a batch of brand new prisoners, obscuring his view.

  Zoo was pulling himself out to follow them, when the grimy ragamuffin felt a heavy hand on his collar and was yanked right out of the storm drain.

  “Oiiiiii. Get off me.”

  Poor Zoo started to kick furiously, but whoever was holding him now was managing to keep him at arms length too.

  The sewer rat was turned, to find himself looking up at a cruel faced boy, with a livid spot right next to his nose and red hair.

  Alceste Couchonet’s appearance had changed distinctly. Now the sixteen year old had a brand new liberty sash on, bound tightly about his waist, while there was a definite air of officialdom about the lad.

  This would have been enough to check Zoo-Zoo itself, even if six armed revolutionary guards had not been standing right behind Alceste too, pointing their horrid muskets straight at his furious little head.

  Alceste’s uncle had relented at last and even given his nephew a troupe of soldiers, all of his own to command.

  They were all fresh faced, little older than Alceste, new recruits to fight for their country, or with it, and angry to find themselves ordered about by a mere teenager.

  The Black Spider could not quite believe that English children were really working for the English Crown. Yet the secret policeman was not foolish enough not to cover his options.

  So the Black Spider had set his own nephew loose, with his little band of toy soldiers, and for five days Alceste Couchonet had been searching out the Club himself.

  He had just seen them again in the Square too and spotted the last of them coming out of the storm drain: Hateful Henry Bonespair.

  Alceste Couchonet had raced towards them, only to be foiled by the tumbrels cutting off his path. But then, seeing ZooZoo, he had collared the filthy little boy, to find out all he knew.