He was right! I had been so focused on him and the men who were after us that I hadn’t noticed how the tunnel around us had become steadily brighter and brighter. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they had, I could make out a patch of bright blue. Sky? No, it glittered. The sea! The Mediterranean. Dear God, the tunnel didn’t open onto the sea, did it? I had a brief flash of Mr Ambrose and me plunging three hundred feet to our deaths, to provide a meal for the lobsters of the island, eager to take revenge on humans for the massacre the cooks of France had committed among their people. Not a jolly thought. Especially since I hadn’t eaten a single lobster in my life.
Suddenly, though, there was brown and green mixed in with the blue. I caught the blurred forms of bushes and grass. Grass didn’t grow on the Mediterranean. Huzzah!
Behind me, another shot from Mr Ambrose’s revolver ripped the air apart. Quickly, I pressed my hands to my ears. My head was beginning to hurt.
‘Why don't you take your own advice, Sir, and do that more quietly?’
‘I am afraid nobody has yet invented a noiseless gun, Mr Linton.’
‘How disappointing!’
He didn’t even glance at me, which, under the circumstances, I suppose I could understand. His eyes were firmly trained on our pursuers. ‘Back to the matter at hand, Mr Linton. Do you see the exit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it far ahead?’
‘No, I don't think so.’ I growled. ‘These aren’t the best circumstances to judge distances, though. I don't have a yardstick, and I’ve never sat on a draisine racing downhill in a mining tunnel with shooting maniacs right behind me, before.’
‘You don't say. What do you see outside?’
‘Why don't you look yourself, Sir?’
‘There’s this small matter of me trying to shoot our pursuers before they shoot us; it is distracting me slightly. Now - what do you see?’
I squinted in the direction of the opening again. The light outside was still so bright in comparison with the tunnel’s gloom that I could hardly make out anything.
‘Some bushes, I think. Grass.’
‘Good. As soon as we leave the tunnel, we are going to throw ourselves into those bushes.’
‘To disrupt the nests of innocent nightingales, Sir?’
‘To cushion our fall, Mr Linton. Cover your face with your arms so your eyes won’t be stabbed by a branch. And… be careful.’
I had just opened my mouth for a witty comeback, but closed it again. Had I heard right? Mr Rikkard Ambrose had just wasted valuable time and breath telling me to be careful? Not only that, but he had sounded genuinely concerned. Could it be that he…?
Another gunshot sheared through my half-finished thought. Hurriedly, I turned my gaze from Mr Ambrose to the approaching exit. I had to keep an eye on it. He was guarding our backs, making sure those sons of bachelors didn’t get us. I had to do my part.
‘We’re getting close,’ I announced. Sweat had started to bead on my forehead again, although the air in the tunnel was still icy, and I was just sitting, doing nothing, only watching. ‘On the count of three we have to jump.’
He gave a grunt, and fired again. I took a deep breath.
‘One,’ I called.
Two more shots burst from his revolver, and the enemy answered.
‘Two.’
He slowly pulled back his revolver and crouched lower, preparing to jump.
‘Um… two and a half.’
‘What? Mr Linton, what is that supposed to mean?’
‘I misjudged the distance, all right? Two and three quarters!’
‘Your version of a countdown is not very reliable, Mr Linton!’
‘Why? I said on the count of three, and on the count of three it'll be. Two and four fifths!’
‘Mr Linton…!’
‘Three!’
I snatched his arm and hurled myself sideways, into free air.
Rising Waves
Mr Ambrose had suggested that the bushes would cushion our fall. I didn’t know what kind of cushion he preferred, but the landing in the bushes gave me a pretty good idea. Basalt, maybe? Sandstone?
By the time I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill on which the bushes were perched, I felt as though I had been squeezed through a meat-grinder. A strangled moan escaped from my throat.
‘You should have rolled,’ a cool voice commented from above me.
‘I did roll! I did nothing but roll and jump and bump! I feel like a flipping football!’
‘I mean actively. To break your fall.’ A firm hand gripped mine and pulled me up so quickly I couldn’t even try to protest. In a moment, I was standing beside Mr Ambrose, whose red uniform - curse him! - somehow still looked immaculate. He hadn’t even gotten one twig in his smooth, shiny black hair.
For a moment, we stood like this, each close enough to hear the other’s heart beating, our hands intertwined. Then he let go and abruptly turned.
‘Let’s go!’
‘There they are!’ The gruff voice from the tunnel entrance was much too familiar. ‘Get them!’
Behind us, a shot rang out. It was the starting signal for our race. We dove into the brushes, and now I blessed the thick foliage I had cursed a moment ago. Bullets whipped through the forest to my right and left, but none hit Mr Ambrose or me. We were too well hidden among the green leaves. As quickly as possible, we slid between the trees, farther away from the tunnel.
Suddenly, Mr Ambrose stopped.
‘Be quiet!’
‘Oh really?’ I hissed. ‘This isn’t the right time for your obsession with silence! We’ve got to run, and I don't care how loudly we do it! We-’
‘No. I mean, I heard something. Be quiet and listen, just for a second.’
Grudgingly, I did as he told me. Over the hammering of my own heart I couldn’t hear anything, at first. Then, slowly, I began to hear a low chatter, far off on the other side of the undergrowth.
‘Voices!’ I exclaimed.
Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Yes. Probably the crowd at the harbour. If we can reach it in time, we’ll be safe!”
Without another word, he dove between two bushes and disappeared.
Muttering a low curse, I followed. The farther I got, the louder the voices became. I redoubled my effort, almost running headlong, raising my arms to shield my face from the sharp branches that attacked me from all sides. It was with a shocking suddenness that I stumbled out of the trees and into the open, onto a square paved with cobblestones.
The harbour. We had really managed to reach the harbour. In front of me stretched a wide, seaside promenade, with dozens of people strolling up and down, enjoying the view. Some of them glanced towards the forest when I burst out from between the trees, and looked more than a little surprised by the sight of a soldier with leaves and twigs in his bird’s nest of hair, but most were too busy watching the ships arrive and leave.
Or, to be more precise - two ships arriving, one ship leaving. The ones that were arriving looked older, but the one that was about to embark was a brand-new steamship. Passengers were just getting on board the shiny, new vessel, all looking like wealthy tourists returning to England after a wonderful holiday. For a moment, my eyes fixed on the cursive word emblazoned on the ship’s hull: Urania.
Quickly, I threw a sideways glance at Mr Ambrose and saw in his eyes the mirror of my own thought: our only chance. We rushed forward, slipping into the line at the gangway of the luxurious ship, and ignoring the protest of a thick-set French gentleman right behind us.
‘Two tickets to England, please,’ I gasped, slamming my hands on the counter of the official at the gangway to steady myself.
‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’ the man asked, looking at me with his nostrils instead of his eyes. But I worked for Mr Rikkard Ambrose! This little Frenchman’s derisive glances were nothing in comparison to the ones I had learned to withstand.
‘Tickets. To England. You do sell tickets to England, don't you?’
‘Naturalement, Monsieur - since this is our vessel’s only destination.’
‘Well, then, you heard my companion.’ Mr Ambrose stepped up beside me and fixed the official with an icy glare. ‘Two tickets to England, third class.’
The official didn’t back down. If anything, his look became even more disgusted. ‘Third class, Monsieur? I am afraid you have the wrong vessel. This is a ship of a respectable line, offering its services only to the better classes of society. We have no cabins of third class on board.’
Behind the granite mask on Mr Ambrose’s face, a momentous struggle seemed to be going on. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His left little finger jerked erratically. Finally, he managed to say: ‘Fine! Second class, then! How much does it cost?’