Black Powder (18 page)

‘Pah! I don't know what's got into you! You went away a soldier and have come back a sentimental fool.'

His heart sank. Harry Browne. He'd recognize that snarl anywhere.

‘Say that again and I'll open your guts.'

‘And what good would that serve, except to get you arrested and put our whole venture at risk? Robin's a fool for agreeing to take the boy. Use him for the tunnel, but
when the deed is done, I say he's on his own. The rest of us will be too busy with the big fish to have a care about a paltry cloth merchant and his brat.'

A rush of anger surged through Tom. How dare Browne insult Father like that! He was worth ten of him. He curled his fingers into fists.

‘Let me pass will you? I have urgent business to attend to with Robin and it will not go well for you if you make me late.' There was the sound of a scuffle then a pair of boots thudded away down the passageway. A few moments later a door banged shut.

He sucked in a breath. Good! At least he wouldn't have to face him. He reached for the rope and made his way down the rickety stairs.

The Falcon stood at the bottom flexing his knuckles. He glanced up as Tom approached. ‘Did you hear that?'

‘A bit.'

He frowned and tugged at his beard. ‘Harry Browne is a hot-tempered fool. He thinks because of certain family connections he can lord and master it over the rest of us. Truth is, he is about as honourable as a fox in a henhouse.'

‘So why do you and Mister Cat let him stay with you?'

The Falcon sighed. ‘He's an old friend of Mister Cat's, more's the pity. Besides, those lordly connections of his are useful. But enough of him. Let's eat. Then, Master Garnett, you and I have work to do.'

After a quick breakfast in the small, dark kitchen, the Falcon picked up a lantern next to the door and led Tom out into a dirt yard. It was bounded on three sides by a
rough-made wall. A huge church with buttresses and spires loomed away to the right. Closer still a high stone building with great arched windows blocked out much of the daylight. Tom wrinkled his nose. The river wasn't far. He'd recognize that stink anywhere.

The Falcon laughed. ‘I see you have worked out where old Thames is. But can you tell where the tunnel entrance lies?'

Tom glanced around the yard. There was a stack of wood at the far end, but that was all. He frowned and shook his head.

‘The wood pile bears closer inspection. Come.' The Falcon led him over to it. ‘We keep it hidden from prying eyes with these faggots and bundles of sticks.' He yanked them away to reveal a black gaping hole beyond. ‘They also serve as props to keep the walls and ceiling from caving in where there are weak spots. The soil is a mix of wet clay and gravel. Not good for tunnelling.'

Tom poked his head inside. The air was dank and rivery. He shivered and pulled it out again. ‘How close is Cecil's cellar?'

‘Not far. 'Tis why we rented this house. For its nearness to our target. And the seclusion too. Once we're inside you'll see what progress we have made. And why we need your help. Do you have a tinderbox?'

He nodded.

‘Strike a light, then.' The Falcon pulled a tallow candle from his belt.

Tom fumbled in his waist-pouch. As he pulled out the
box, a shower of black mouse droppings scattered to the ground. He puffed his cheeks. Poor Jago! He'd have to make it up to him later. He opened the lid of the tinderbox, piled scraps of straw into it and struck the flint with the metal fire-striker. A spark flew and caught the straw. He shielded it with his hand.

The Falcon lips twisted into a smile. ‘You have the makings of a good fire-starter. A useful skill.' He dipped the candle wick into the flame, slid back the lantern cover and fixed the candle on the spike inside. Leaning forwards, he reached into the mouth of the tunnel and pulled out two shovels.

‘Now, Master Garnett, time to show me what you're made of.' The Falcon handed one of the shovels to Tom. Then, shining the lantern into the blackness, he stooped and disappeared inside.

Chapter Twenty-four

A
t the entrance, the tunnel was big enough to stand up in, but as they went further in, it got lower and narrower, forcing Tom to duck and the Falcon to move into a crouch. They skidded over the greasy clay, round wooden posts and past slumps of flinty black gravel until, finally, the Falcon came to a stop.

‘This is where we had got to when we suffered another earth-fall.' Dropping his shovel, he reached for a torch propped against the wall and touched it to the flame inside the lantern. The woody stalks crackled and flared into life.

Tom squeezed between two more wooden props and joined the Falcon in front of a fresh slump of soil and stones.

‘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.'