The wide curve of the river was empty and still. The ripples of the heavy green water were frozen and dirty. On the Fulham shore squatted the oil depots, faceless places waiting on faceless roads that led nowhere and where nobody lived. Just before dawn Wandsworth Bridge passed over the Battersea boat, casting a darker shadow than the night, and all that the rowers saw were the powerful and unmoving waves that stood and gnawed at the stone piers on which the bridge was built.
They were now into Wandsworth Reach and along the southern side stretched a great wasteland, and although the Adventurers saw nothing they could sense the existence of a wild space from the shapeless whistling of the wind. On the northern bank stood the Cement Marketing Factory and the Trinidad Asphalt Company but the Borribles could not see where the buildings touched the sky because the sky was as black as roof-slate.
It was so murky that Napoleon was convinced he would never find the mouth of the Wandle and his companions began to despair. After several fruitless attempts he went to the front of the boat and knelt down to peer into the blackness. There were dozens of barges here, deeply laden with the old lumber of all Wandsworth, for the land around the estuary was a vast rubbish dump and somewhere amongst the hillocks of refuse meandered the slimy river.
An overpowering stench was brewing by the bank, a mixture compounded of rancid sewage, mouldering waste-paper and the rotting flesh of dead sea-birds. The water dripping from the raised and expectant oars of the rowers made no sound, so thick and oily was it. The Borribles coughed and retched, drooping on their benches, only just able to obey Napoleon's commands as he made the boat nose this way and that, his torch stabbing at the fearsome night.
At last he turned and in a whispered shout, sharp with tired excitement, said, "I've got it."
The boat drifted. The rowers twisted on their seats to look and their hearts shrank to the size of peanuts. In the flat wall of the Thames embankment, hidden behind a flotilla of barges, a gap appeared in the feeble light of Napoleon's torch.
"This must be Wandle Creek," said Napoleon. "Anyway, there's only one way to find out, and that's go up the thing." It was obvious to the others that he was tense, that he didn't really know.
The boat swung slowly round until it was knocking against the solid current of the Wandle and as soon as he was on course Napoleon ordered his crew to paddle upstream. He ran quickly down the middle of the boat, freed Adolf's hands and told him to lift out the rudder.
"If you try to escape, I'll catapult you right up the back of the bonce."
Adolf looked surprised. "Escape? This is what I came for, I'm not leaving you now."
Napoleon ran back to the bows to direct the progress of the boat in a low voice and the Borribles pulled steadily, only too glad they couldn't see where they were in the fetid gloom.
They had gone only a short distance when the creek forked and after a moment's hesitation and drifting Napoleon steered them to the left and they rowed on, levering their oars with difficulty out of water that seemed as tenacious as treacle. After ten minutes they heard Napoleon swear loudly and then call out urgently for them to stop. He struck the boat in anger. "Dammit, I forgot the weirs."
The boatload of Borribles was utterly dismayed. Across the quiet of the night came a sound from beyond their experience, a rushing and a roaring of the elements. Swivelling again in their seats they saw a foaming slope of water slanting towards them in the torchlight; racing yellow suds forced themselves up through a black and shiny surface which slid, unstoppable, towards them, like the most precipitous moving staircase in the London Underground. Polythene containers, empty paint-cans and plastic bottles surged and danced around the boat, buffeting against its sides, like evil spirits on the river to hell.
"W-what is it?" asked Bingo, trying to keep his lips steady.
"It's an effin' weir, that's what, too high to get round. We'll have to take the other fork. There's another weir but it's not so steep." Napoleon's voice was dispirited and exhausted. He felt at the end of his tether, worn out by the responsibilities of the river trip and now this at the end of it.
"If we're caught out here in the daylight, we'll be sussed by the rubbish-men and caught by the Woollies for sure." He thought for an instant and the others waited, the boat still staggering under the onslaught of the swirling water.
"Ship yer oars," he said at length, and as soon as the oars were on board he took one of them and began to punt the boat back the way they had come, while his crew sat uselessly on the benches of The Silver Belle Flower, squinting hard to right and left but seeing little. It was all too silent and ugly.
"Keep your eyes peeled for that fork in the creek," growled Napoleon, "otherwise I'll miss it and we'll be out on the Thames again. We must be hidden by dawn. This place is lousy with adults in daytime."
His fear was shared by the others. Already the high banks of the Wandle, held in place by slimy green sleepers and sheets of pitted iron, were taking on a shape and the black sky was not so black as it had been. "The fork, the fork," sang out Adolf. Napoleon let the boat drift round into the other branch of the Wandle.
"Get those oars going quick," he commanded, wrenching his own from a mud-bank that was reluctant to let it go. There was a nasty squelch as the oar came away and large dollops of sludge rolled begrudgingly down the wood and slunk back into the river.
Napoleon urged his crew on. The flow of the tide was less strong here and they soon went under a railway bridge, the boat bashing through floating atolls of muck like a trawler in pack-ice.
Another fork came up before them but Napoleon did not hesitate this time.
"Bow side paddle," he called, "stroke side rest, one, two, paddle," and the boat veered to the left.
"We went left last time and it was wrong," said Torreycanyon, loudly with some edge to his voice.
"Yeah," said someone else.
Napoleon's face became so white with anger that it glowed phosphorescent in the dark dawn. "Well, we're going left this time and it's right."
Suddenly there was a clang and a boom and Napoleon was knocked forward and thrown down in the scuppers. The boat stopped moving with a jolt and a scraping was heard as the bows made contact with something. Napoleon jumped to his feet rubbing his head.
"Damn you, don't talk to me when I'm navigating," he shouted. "We've gone and run into a pipe, could have drowned us."
Slung low over the water a huge pipe-line spanned the Wandle near a foot-bridge and it was this that had flung Napoleon to the deck.
"You at the stern, row hard," he cried. "This pipe's so low over the water that we'll have to force the boat under it. Don't fall in any of yer, there's eels in here will have yer leg off."
Those at the rear of the boat leaned on the oars while those at the front got down on their backs and tugged and shoved The Silver Belle Flower under the pipe-line. When they emerged on the far side it was easy enough for them to push the boat through, while those behind ducked under in their turn.
"It's not over yet," said Napoleon, "there's a real waterfall here, ten foot high, right under The Causeway. To get round it we've got to pull this boat up and out and over this bridge."
Above their heads was a high fence that had been made by the rubbish-men, using old bed frames, bedsteads and strips of metal. Napoleon took a pair of wire-cutters from his pocket and got Bingo to give him a leg-up. He clung to the bankside and cut all the springs out of one of the bed frames, making a gap large enough to get the boat through.
"Throw up the painter," he ordered next and when he had the rope in his hands he told the crew to jam their belongings firmly under the seats and then to climb up the bank to join him.
"We've got to get this bleeder up here," explained Napoleon, whose weariness had dropped from him under the excitement of leadership, "and drag it across this island we're on, then we'll be above both weirs, but we've got to hurry."
The Adventurers gathered around the painter and hauled and hauled and slowly The Silver Belle Flower came up from the water to hang vertically above the Wendle. Napoleon looped a couple of turns of the rope around a notice board which said, "Wandsworth Borough Council. Danger Keep Out." The others seized the bows of the boat and manhandled her to The Causeway. They puffed and they panted and waited a while to regain their breath.
"Right, four each side," said Napoleon. "I'll pull, the Jerry can push." "Not half," said Adolf.
They dragged and pushed the boat across a littered roadway where splintered glass and the debris from long abandoned houses made a crunching sound under the keel. Fifty yards they had to go; it was hard work and they slipped and stumbled and cursed, but at last they came to the main branch of the Wandle, well beyond the two dangerous weirs.
It was pale daylight now and the danger of being spotted in this open and desolate country was increasing every minute. Hurriedly they balanced their boat on the river bank and Napoleon grouped them together.
"When I give the word, we've got to push like hell. She should land flat on the water. If she don't, she'll sink."
Oh his command they all heaved together, and The Silver Belle Flower flew out into the air and belly-flopped onto the water, with a sound that reverberated like a gunshot across the no-man's land of the empty estuary. Before she could float away Napoleon dived down after the boat, sprawled between the benches, scrambled to his feet and threw the painter upwards into the hands of Torreycanyon.
"All back in," yelled the Wendle, "quick as yer like."
As the others embarked Knocker looked back the way they had come, and now in the weak light he could see.
Two black steam cranes guarded the mouth of the Wandle, square and ugly, covered in sheets of flimsy metal, and they had iron wheels which ran on iron rails. These machines it was that loaded the barges with rubbish, scratching patiently every day into mountains of garbage that were always replenished, never diminishing. Scattered lorries waited to go scouring across Wandsworth in search of more waste; huge tipper trucks and skip-carriers stood idle between piles of discarded stoves and gutted refrigerators. Far off, between the Wandle and Wandsworth Bridge, was a mile of undulating mud-coloured barrenness, relieved only by the blobs of white that were seagulls, big as swans, tearing at offal with beaks like baling-hooks.
Knocker shivered at the awesome beauty of it. "Strike a light," he said, "what a place."
"Come on," Napoleon's voice was harsh, "get a move on."
Knocker jumped down into the boat and took up his oar.
"Row on," called Napoleon with venom. "This 'ere Wandle's the steepest river in London, like rowing up Lavender Hill it is, with the traffic against yer."
The Adventurers bent forward. Their hands were sore, their backs ached and the tensions of the night had exhausted them. With their eyes closing and their muscles burning they rowed on and on, across a windswept landscape with no trees or buildings, until, after Armoury Way, they came by the back-yards of factories to Young's Ram Brewery and at last they heard Napoleon's soft command.
"Hold it steady now, ship yer oars."
They relaxed and the boat came gently to rest. Behind them dawn was lying along the streets of Wandsworth like a tired animal and the straight sides of the buildings, raised up in smoky yellow bricks, towered into a dusty sky. And very high, one bright window of light showed where an early morning bus-driver grumbled his way from a warm bed into a cold kitchen.
Napoleon did not allow the crew to rest for long. "Right, you lot, we're here!" he said, a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice, and the Borribles turned and not one of them didn't gasp in horror. In a cliff-like factory wall a deep hole was visible: a brick culvert, barely large enough to allow the passage of the boat, hardly high enough to clear the heads of the rowers. It dripped with green slime and Napoleon's voice echoed feebly around it, dying weakly, sucked into nothing. The stench was disgusting and solid, rolling out onto the straggling river in misty clouds, like the final gasps of a decaying beast.
"Swipe me, man," said Orococco, his eyes and teeth looking green in the queer light that floated up from the water, "we ain't going in there, I hope."
Napoleon stood up in the prow, his legs spread, his hands on his hips, like a ruffian pirate captain. "This is the River Wandle," he said. "An ordinary little river that flows under the houses."
"It stinks," said Bingo.
"You've had it too easy," retorted Napoleon, "this is Wandsworth where the best Borribles come from."
Knocker grinned to himself in spite of the trepidation he felt in common with his companions. Whatever else he thought about Napoleon Boot he had to admit that the Wendle had guts and style.
"Now, we're taking this boat in," said the navigator, "and anyone who don't like it can swim home in this." He bent and scooped up a handful of the river water and cast it into the gangway of the boat. The eyes of the Borribles were attracted by the evil-looking liquid while their bodies were repelled by it. The water hardly disintegrated at all but green globules of it rolled into the crevices of the woodwork to lie there glowing.
"Right," went on Napoleon, crouching in the prow. "Gently . . . keep your heads down and I'll fend off with my hands."
Under the cautious power of the rowers the boat shoved its nose into the steaming dankness of the sewer and Napoleon shone his torch this way and that, but it did little good, for the rolling clouds of fog swallowed and digested the tiny beam before it could travel a yard. The rowers leaned back in their seats, digging their oars through the surface of the water. Adolf sat on the stern seat, shining his torch backwards, and in its light the Adventurers could see the dripping roof of the cavern and sometimes the gaping holes of side tunnels where thick water slid slowly out to fasten itself to the main stream. The German hummed gently to keep up their spirits. "Ho, ho, heave ho." Then he repeated it, "Ho, ho, heave ho. Come, my brothers, ho, ho, heave ho."
Napoleon's commands came regularly in a quiet voice. "Slowly bow side, two strokes. Easy stroke side, now one stroke." And so they groped forward, hesitating at times before tunnels that forked to right and left, Napoleon sometimes knowing where he was going, sometimes guessing.
After what seemed hours of paddling the oars stuck against the walls and they were brought into the boat. "It's too narrow for rowing now," said Napoleon. "Someone will have to get into the water and pull the boat along."
There was silence amongst the Borrible crew. Napoleon bent under a seat and pulled out a pair of rubber waders. He was laughing to himself as the others could see in the light of his torch.
"I knew I'd have to do it," he said. "The best Borribles come from Wandsworth all right."
Adolf chuckled. "Ho, I don't know about that, we've got a lot of dirty water in Hamburg, my friend. Give me the waders, I will pull you, I haven't done any of the rowing." The German bustled down the boat. He took the waders from the astonished Napoleon, slipped them on and jumped into the stream with no hesitation at all.
The rowers swivelled in their seats to watch with amazement. Bingo knelt and shone his torch just ahead of the intrepid little German, so that he could see where he was going, but Adolf had his own torch hooked onto a button of his jacket. He grabbed the painter in both hands and with a "Ho, ho, heave ho," he pulled the boat smartly along as if it weighed nothing.
"Well I never," said Sydney.
Napoleon shook his head. "There'll be a kind of pathway by the side of the sewer a little further on," he called, "then you'll be able to get up on that."
This information turned out to be true and soon Adolf was striding out cheerfully along a brick bank that had been built originally for the sewer-men of Wandsworth, the only adults that the Wandsworth Borribles respected.
Suddenly Adolf stopped humming and tugging simultaneously. The rope went slack and The Siver Belle Flower bumped into the bank. Those in the boat looked up to discover what had stopped the German and saw, crouching aggressively against the curving wall of the sewer, an armed Wendle.
He was a thin and wiry figure and he was wearing the same kind of rubber waders that Napoleon had lent to Adolf. Instead of the normal woollen Borrible cap this Wendle, like other warriors of his aggressive tribe, wore a metal helmet to cover his ears and guard his head; made from an old beer can, it glowed coppery green in the light of the torches. He wore a thick chunky jacket of wool covered with plastic to keep out the water and the plastic shone orange and luminous, like the coats worn by the men who work on motorways. In fact the material had been stolen from them. The Wendle's face was hard and tough, much tougher than Napoleon's even, and his eyes moved quickly. He was not afraid even though he was one against ten. With a shout he thrust forward with the Rumble-stick he bore in his hands.
It was then that Adolf showed what a redoubtable fighter he could be. Unarmed, he was not one to avoid a good fight; as he had said, he liked fighting. The spear jabbed towards him and he slid gracefully to one side, his body folding into the water. His companions, who had come to like and admire the German, sprang to their feet in dismay. But Adolf was down not out, for as he fell he went under the vicious weapon and caught hold of the Wendle's right foot. As soon as Adolf's feet touched the river bottom he yanked as hard as he could and the Wendle lost balance and landed flat on his back on the edge of the pathway, the spear shaken from his grasp. The German grabbed his opponent's head and pulled it brusquely into the water and shoved it under the filthy surface.
"Ho, ho, ho," he roared, his face bright with triumph and his blue eyes flashing like police beacons revolving.
There was a clatter further along the tunnel and three more Wendles appeared, armed with powerful catapults, raised and ready, aimed at Adolf.
Napoleon waved his arms and his torch. "A Wendle, a Wendle, a Wendle!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Don't fire! Borrible! Adolf, let him up. Quick or you're as kaput as a kipper."
The German kept his eyes on the strung catapults and cautiously raised the limp body of his assailant from the black water. He held it in front of him like a shield and without being noticed, except by Knocker, who was now in the prow of the boat with Napoleon, he slid a catapult from the unconscious Wendle's pocket and secreted it in his own.
"Good work," said Knocker to himself, "that kraut's a real find."
One of the three Wendles called out in a harsh voice that came grating along the tunnel wall. "You, put that Wendle back on the path, the rest of you keep dead still. There's another fifty of us up round the next bend."
Adolf carried his burden to the bank and unceremoniously dumped it. Then he stood against the prow of the boat. Knocker was right behind him now and it was easy to slip a few catapult stones into the German's right hand which was held behind his back in the hope that someone would know what he wanted.
Napoleon shouted out anxiously, "I'm a Wendle myself, on the Great Rumble Hunt. Flinthead knows about it, hasn't he told you?"
"He's told us," came the answer, "but if you've drowned Halfabar then you're in serious trouble." One of their number now came forward and knelt beside the half-drowned Wendle. He turned the sodden body over and pummelled the water put of it, ascertaining that the warrior would be capable of many more fights in the future. He nodded to the others and they seemed satisfied.
When Halfabar had been placed in The Silver Belle Flower to recover, Adolf was permitted to continue pulling the boat.
"Walk in the river and follow us slowly," he was ordered, "and do everything we tell you. If any of you make a move towards a catapult, well . . . you'd better tell them what, you Wendle in the boat. We could starve you out without lifting a finger. There's fifty behind you now, as well as fifty in front."
Knocker glanced round, as did his friends, and figures appeared wading through the water behind them, perhaps more than fifty, all bearing Rumble-sticks. The Adventurers were hopelessly outnumbered, all they could do was obey.
"Who's the Borrible who's been doing all the talking?" Knocker asked Napoleon, who looked worried, as if the Wendles might take it out on him for this incursion.
"He's a two-name Borrible," whispered Napoleon, "but he's just called Tron. If he had a name for all the things he's done he'd be a hundred-name Borrible, I can tell you. Hard as nails he is, and Flinthead, our chief, why, he's just the same. Nobody comes in or out of here without their say-so."
"I thought this had all been cleared by Spiff. I thought we had permission," said Knocker.
"No doubt we have," said Napoleon, turning his face to Knocker with some astonishment." If we didn't have permission we'd have been done over by now." "But you're a Wendle yourself . . ." "Don't matter. I've been out, away; they've got to be careful. Only right isn't it, when you think about it? I mean you jumped on the Rumbles quick enough when they came down to your patch."
"Where do Wendles get all their blessed Rumble-sticks?" asked Bingo, wide-eyed and amazed.
"We captures some and makes the others," said Napoleon, "but we've got catapults too, you know, and good with 'em we are. Tron can shoot round two corners and still knock a copper's hat off."
The tunnel widened out a little now. There was a path on either side and both of them were crowded with warriors who gazed without friendliness at their brother Borribles in the boat below. Adolf they prodded with their spears and the Adventurers sat quietly, hoping that he would not lose his temper and start another fight. They felt miserable and apprehensive. Borribles, although inclined to argue amongst themselves, were on the whole congenial people. The Adventurers had known that Wendles were the fiercest of all the tribes but hadn't realised that they were quite so military and suspicious. Napoleon tried to explain the situation to his companions as they went along.
The Wendles, he argued, lived in constant fear of the Rumbles; their territory was the nearest to Rumbledom and had a long frontier with it. Along that frontier the Rumbles outnumbered the Wendles by at least five to one and the Borribles of Wandsworth had only kept their freedom by maintaining a warlike stance. Over the years this had made them into warriors, mistrustful, cunning and hard.
"Still, they certainly look like a gross of top quality villains to me," said Vulge, "and I should know, we've got a few over in Stepney."
The conversation was brought to a halt by the loud voice of Tron shouting down at the exhausted Adolf.
"Stop there, you, mush!"
"I've got a name, you know, Wendle," said Adolf, looking up, his face covered in mud and sweat. "In fact, I've got three names, Adolf Wolfgang Amadeus, and I would never tell you the story of how I got them," and with that insult Adolf swore his favourite oath, "Verdammt."
"You probably got the names second-hand," said Tron sneering and beginning to bring out the first in a series of Borrible insults.
"Even that is better than finding your name in a dustbin," said Adolf with spirit. "Fingy is the name that would suit you well if it were not too flattering."
"Cut it out," yelled Knocker, "this can only lead to trouble. Remember we are after the Rumbles, not each other."
Adolf turned his muddy face to Knocker; even under the grime and weariness the blue eyes sparkled mischievously. "Yes, great leader," he said ironically. "Our adventure must come first," and then he whispered in a lower tone so that only Knocker could hear him, "but I hope I get a crack at this lot one day. I'll bash those tin helmets of theirs right down past their teeth."
The Adventurers were ordered to stand on the bank while the boat was made fast and Halfabar lifted out. He had recovered enough to stand now, although he looked a little groggy and his face was greener than usual because of the quantities of stinking water he had swallowed. He looked round until he saw Adolf, a wet and muddy figure who was being hauled ashore by Stonks and Torreycanyon. Halfabar staggered away from the two Wendles who held him upright and pushed roughly through the little knot of Adventurers who waited on the tow-path. He halted in front of Adolf and shoved his green face up to the slime– and sweat-covered one of the German.
"It is not over between you and me," he hissed, his angry and smelly breath enveloping Adolf's head and making him wince. "One day we'll meet again, where you can play no tricks, and I'll kill you."
"A Borrible who has no tricks is no Borrible," said Adolf pleasantly, reciting an old German proverb. "You'd better go and have a good rest; you need more strength, my little girl. Right now you could probably hit me a hundred times before I noticed you were there." And the German turned and followed his companions along a narrow but dry sewer tunnel that led upwards and away from the main river.
The Adventurers were escorted by an armed guard of Wendles and all around they heard the squelching tread of those who had captured them in the river. On their river patrols the Wendles always wear waders and when they walk the noise is strange and makes the hair creep, and when a hundred march together it sounds like a wet centipede on the move.
"Where's Napoleon?" Knocker asked Bingo who was beside him.
"They took him off ahead, on his own," answered Bingo. "I hope he sticks by us."
Knocker was worried but he comforted himself with the thought that however suspicious the Wendles might be of outsiders, it was in their interest that the Great Rumble Hunt should take place. The chances of it succeeding were small but if it did the Wendles would be safe for years to come. After all, they had sent one of their own men to be trained for the mission.
"It'll be all right," said Knocker, loud enough for all his companions to hear, "they've probably just taken Napoleon off to check that we're not trouble-makers. He'll be back."
They marched on and the tunnel rose and twisted and they shone their torches at the floor which was uneven and broken.
"Keep close together," said Knocker. "If there's any trouble we'll form two lines, back to back."
A few minutes later they came into a vast underground cavern with a floor that sloped steeply away from them. It must once have been the central chamber for the Wandsworth sewage system back in the nineteenth century. Now it was dry and its elegant brick arches were beginning to crumble.
Scores of Wendles were present, standing around the side of the cavern, with late-comers emerging from the many corridors that led there from all parts of the huge borough. Each Wendle held a torch and together they spread an eerie light over the scene. Tron's voice sounded from behind. "Keep going, straight in front of you, over there, where you see that platform. You're going to see Flinthead."
On the far side of the hall stood a small podium and on it was one chair and in that chair sat Flinthead himself; by his side stood Napoleon Boot, talking rapidly to his chief, who appeared to be ignoring him.
Flinthead gazed down at the Adventurers as they lined up. His eyes didn't move and though Knocker watched very carefully the Chief Wendle didn't seem to blink. Knocker surmised that this was because he always lived in the dark and never saw the sun, though it was said that he knew exactly what happened everywhere. Flinthead was the most cunning, the most merciless and the most unpredictable of all the Wendles. Every Wendle went in deadly fear of him, yet he commanded a strange loyalty, a loyalty born out of the threat that surrounded the whole community.
Knocker looked across at Napoleon for some hint of what was going to happen but Napoleon could only raise and lower his eyebrows quickly to indicate that they would all have to wait and see what Flinthead would do. Still the Chief of the Wendles said nothing. Everything that had been in the boat was now brought forward and exhibited in front of the line of captives and while they waited Knocker continued his scrutiny of the Chief Wendle. His eyes were frosted over like lavatory windows, impenetrable; they didn't gleam or glint and still they didn't move; it was uncanny. His face was rubbery and, in the light of the hundreds of battery torches, seemed streaked with grey and dark green. His nose was like a false plastic one that had been too near the fire and had melted. It was an evil nose, a dangerous nose, a nose that could smell out treachery and deceit even when there was none. On his head he wore a helmet of copper riveted together in sections and it had an extra piece that came between his eyes and attempted to protect, or hide, the nose, but the nose was too big for concealment. His body was small and wiry, like that of other Borribles, and he was clothed in warm wool-lined waders and a plastic jacket painted with bright golden paint.
His head moved at last and his eyes shifted with it as if they had no independent movement. He looked along the line of Adventurers and at their belongings, then his head became immobile again. Napoleon continued to pour his story into Flinthead's ear, pointing out his companions in turn, giving their names and telling what equipment they had brought. Flinthead began to nod as the tale went on.
"What power he has," thought Knocker, looking round the great hall. There must have been hundreds of Wandsworth Borribles in the cavern now and although they talked amongst themselves there was none of that cheerful anarchy that one normally associated with the general meetings of any of the Borrible tribes he knew.
"Is your lot like this?" he asked Chalotte, who was standing next to him.
"No, they certainly aren't," she replied. "Creepy, isn't it?"
It was amazing to Knocker how Flinthead had acquired this power. A Borrible community as a rule has little organisation above that of the Borrible house, or at the most, and in emergencies only, the street.
Knocker's thoughts were interrupted when Flinthead slowly raised his left hand, stopping all conversation in the great hall immediately. Every Borrible there must have had at least one eye on Flinthead, every Borrible that is except Bingo and Adolf who had been deeply engrossed in cheering each other with tales of what they were going to do to the Wendles when they got half a chance.
"Ja," Adolf's voice boomed over the silent hall. "Starting with Halfabar, I'll obliterate them."
"And I'll see to Flintbonce there, just for starters," yelled Bingo, and then stopped as he realised that maybe two hundred ears had heard him, that one hundred torches now beamed on him and two hundred eyes had seen him and would remember his face. Worst of all, the blank eyes of Flinthead himself now came to rest upon Bingo like the heavy hand of death.
Flinthead waited and the hall became quieter and quieter, every increase in the silence making the atmosphere more difficult to breathe. Then he spoke and when his voice came it came as a shock. It was a friendly voice, warm and solicitous, like a kind uncle asking after a favourite nephew's health. His mouth smiled, but no other part of his face shared in that smile; his mind was elsewhere, wondering perhaps how to injure the health that had been the very point of his question. He addressed the line of Adventurers.
"Welcome, my friends," he said, looking as if he wished Adolf and Bingo six feet deep in Wandle mud. "Welcome to Wandsworth. You must forgive us, fellow Borribles, if we seem so . . . defensive. You live far from these rugged frontiers, whereas we exist under the constant threat of Rumbledom and its rapacious denizens. It would be so easy for them, you understand, to come pouring down the hillsides and across Southfields and into this Borough where we . . . pick up a poor living. Heaven knows why they covet what is ours, but then greed is a terrible thing, and although the Rumbles seem to us to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice, we find them everywhere, taking more and more. You captured only one Rumble on your frontier and yet you immediately gathered an elite force from all over London to punish them. Think how much more we feel the need to protect ourselves when we have thousands of Warrior Rumbles on our very doorsteps. But let us forget your awkward welcome. Now that we know exactly who you are, and where you are going, we join in common cause with you. Your enemy is our enemy, your fight our fight."
He coughed, thought for a moment and then went on. "Napoleon Boot, a warrior who carries our trust as well as our love, has told me of you and who you are and what you intend to do when once you reach Rumbledom. It is a good plan, though hazardous, and we hope you succeed. For the present our warriors will look after you. Sleep well and tomorrow Tron will set you on your way to Merton Road; there you leave our territory. Eat well, too. We shall give of our best."
Knocker stepped forward and bowed low and then raised his head and looked straight into the cold eyes. "What," he asked, making his voice sound even and mature, "will happen to our boat? We shall need it for the return journey."
A smile lived for a second on Flinthead's face and then died. "We shall guard your boat as carefully as something of our own. After all, you will need it to carry your spoils."
"If indeed there are any," replied Knocker. "Can you, on our return, guarantee us a passage down the Wandle, till we are safe on the Thames?"
"My own personal bodyguard shall be with you as you leave here and shall be at your disposition when you return. That shows how important it is to us that your mission succeed and will be a measure of our gratitude if it does. Next time we shall know you and our welcome will be more . . . amiable. For the present Tron will take you all to a comfortable room that has been prepared."
Flinthead gestured and Tron and Halfabar came forward and indicated that the Adventurers should follow them. After bowing in the direction of the podium they turned about and walked across the huge hall in the footsteps of their guides. The Wendle crowds pushed back and made room for them as if frightened of touching their bodies, but they gazed curiously at their cousins for it was rare for them to meet Borribles from another Borough.
Knocker did not follow the others immediately. He moved closer to the platform and looked up at Flinthead once again.
"Does Napoleon come with us, or does he stay here with you?" he asked the Chieftain.
The Chief Wendle smiled like a tombstone. "He had best stay with you, I think, then you can leave together in the morning. He has told me all I want to know, especially about you, Knocker. I think the Adventure might succeed with you at its head."
"I am not its leader, Flinthead," protested Knocker, looking angrily at Napoleon.
"I know," said, Flinthead dismissively, "you are a—what is it—Historian? We all know how to bend the rules, especially that Spiff fellow. Well, whatever you are, I hope you win through. I ask only one thing, and this I want you to promise, that you come back to us and recount all the details and dangers of your expedition and adventures. One of the few pleasures I have is listening to the stories of those who set off to earn their names. I want to hear how you fare, including Napoleon here; a fine name he will have."
"It will be only a small recompense for all the hospitality we have received at your hands," said Knocker politely, though he was deeply troubled in his mind by Flinthead's behaviour. He knew from Spiff that the Chief Wendle had a reputation for meanness and double-dealing. But at that moment all Knocker could do was to pretend he believed everything he was told. Knocker looked at Napoleon. He was a Wendle too and in a crisis would stand and fight with the Wendles, that was only natural. It wouldn't do to trust him with any secrets; secrets would only get to the ear of Flinthead and if the secrets were valuable then Knocker's life, and the lives of the others, wouldn't be worth a handful of Wandle mud.
Flinthead stood, ready to leave. "You are too kind," he said and then without another word he raised his hand and the Wendles in the hall began to leave. Flinthead's bodyguard assembled at the rear of the platform and the Chief went down the steps and was lost in the middle of his men. The bodyguard was formed of well-armed and experienced fighting Wendles, about fifty of them. It would be almost impossible to harm the Chieftain without their connivance, and they were probably loyal to a man.
Napoleon watched his leader go and then came to the front of the platform and jumped down to stand beside Knocker.
"That is a great Borrible," he said scornfully, "no little Spiff in a dressing-gown, but a warrior who thinks and plans and knows things. He sees what you are thinking even as it comes to your mind."
"Spiff is just as crafty and just as clever in his own way," answered Knocker. "Anyway, let us catch up with the others, I'm starving."
Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and turned to lead the way across the hall which was emptying now of Wendles. "They should have sent half a dozen of us on this expedition," he said, "we'd have done it easy."
"You may think that Wendles are better than anyone else, but we think we're pretty good, too." Knocker spoke evenly, trying not to argue with Napoleon.
Napoleon drew a deep breath as if going to launch into an angry speech, but he stopped as if he had remembered something. He half smiled. "Yes," he said at length, "we'll just have to put up with what we've got."
They ran along a dry tunnel and soon caught up with their companions who were being escorted by Tron, Halfabar and about twenty other armed Wendles. After a while they were led into a well-furnished and comfortable room which by Borrible standards was luxurious indeed, with carpets on the floor, a few armchairs and an abundance of cushions and blankets for relaxation and sleep.
The haversacks were brought in and the guards hurried away, only Tron and Halfabar stood at the door for a moment, looking at the Adventurers as they threw themselves down to rest. Then they too departed, locking the door behind them.
Orococco stood up quickly. "They've locked the door," he said angrily, looking at Napoleon.
"Yeah," said Bingo. "What's that about, eh? Answer me that."
"It's all right," said Napoleon, "I . . . asked Flinthead to do it, so we could sleep and eat without being disturbed."
"We could get drowned in here if the tide rose," said Vulge, "I don't like it. Us Borribles hate being locked in anywhere."
"You've got a cheek." Napoleon defended himself. "Why, this is part of Flinthead's own apartments that he's gone and let us use."
"He don't exactly trust us, do he?" said Vulge, striding up and down the room. "Don't let us go anywhere on our own, and locks us in for the night. I hates being locked up at all. It's worse than the nick, underground, gives me the creeps."
"It's not natural," continued Bingo. "All this bowing and scraping to Flinthead, shouldn't bow an' scrape to anyone, a Borrible. I don't think your lot are very Borrible, come to that."
"Are you saying that I'm not a Borrible?" cried Napoleon, livid, and he pulled off his hat and pointed to his ears.
"We don't know about you, yet," put in Knocker, quietly.
"And we don't know about you, yet," retorted Napoleon, turning on the Battersea lookout.
"How does a bloke like Flinthead get all that power, eh?" asked Orococco, "that's what I should like to know."
"Because he saw what needed doing and he did it, because he's tougher and brighter than anyone else," answered Napoleon furiously. "You're not at home now. We came on this trip to get the Rumbles, not for a holiday. Why don't you all just have a good meal and a good night's sleep. That's what I am going to do," and with that he began to help himself to the food that was lavishly distributed around the room and he would not be drawn into any further conversation that night. The others grumbled amongst themselves but then, being just as hungry and as tired as Napoleon, they tucked into the good food, chose a few cushions and blankets and soon they were asleep.
They slept long and deeply and woke late. Fresh food and drink was brought to them and when they were ready to march there was a loud knocking at the door and it was thrown open. In the doorway, and in the high corridor beyond, stood a crowd of about thirty Wendles: the elite guard, bearing torches and armed and dressed for a foray beyond the limits of the underground caverns. Each one carried a Rumble-stick as well as a catapult, and bandoliers were slung over their shoulders. The detachment was again led by Tron and Halfabar.
"Come," called Tron into the room, "we are to take you to King George's Park, then you have only a little way to go before you cross Merton Road and so leave our territory."
The Adventurers checked their catapults and stones, stepped out into the corridor and stood together. The Wendle guards formed up tightly, and the whole group made off down the tunnel, guiding their steps with circles of light from their torches.
After a brisk march they entered the huge hall where they had met with Flinthead. The small stage was still there but now no one sat on it nor was there one Wendle to be seen. They crossed the hall and entered a tunnel which soon joined the Wandle and they followed the tow-path along its edge. They met no one and Tron explained.
"Do not forget that it is night-time, about four in the morning above, and the night-stealers have not returned from their work and the day-stealers are still sleeping. The daytime shift dress as other Borribles dress, like normal children. We have permanent lookouts everywhere along Merton Road; that is the beginning of no-man's land. There is a system for getting messages back here, though we are gradually stealing enough components to build our own early warning relay with radios. We're getting them out of old taxis."
The Adventurers had to admit to themselves that the Wendles seemed much more friendly this morning. Even Halfabar was sorry that he and Adolf had misunderstood each other so much on their first meeting and he hoped that in the future they would be good friends.
"Come back safely so that you can tell me the story of your adventures," he admonished the German in warm tones.
"So I will, Halfabar," hooted Adolf, "so I will."
Suddenly on a command from Tron the column halted. They had come to the end of the underground section of the River Wandle. All torches were extinguished and the warriors stood motionless in the obscurity, waiting patiently until their eyes had become completely accustomed to the darkness. Only then did Tron make a sign and one of his scouts slipped soundlessly from the tunnel, wading slowly through the mud and water.
Once outside he gave a low whistle which was answered by the guard on duty. Tron lifted his hand again and two more of the bodyguard went into the river. Tron did this several times until half of his command had gone. Then the first Wendle re-appeared and assured Tron and Halfabar that all was well. Guards had spread out down the Wandle and had seen no suspicious activity; it was not quite dawn and they could get their Borribles to King George's Park and be back underground before it was full daylight and people started going to work.
Tron waved the Adventurers forward and one by one they slithered down the steep bank until they were waist deep in clinging sludge. They strode away stiffly, well protected in their borrowed waders, but they could not escape the ghastly odours of the mud which were released in visible clouds as they pushed their legs and feet along. But they did not have far to wade. As soon as they were clear of the tunnel entrance the guards hauled them onto a small path lying on the east side of the river and there the escort awaited them.
"And how do you like Wandsworth, my friend Adolf?" asked Halfabar as he pulled the German to the bank. Adolf spat down into the muddy stream. "Why, it is just as smelly as Hamburg, I feel quite at home," and he grinned.
The column formed up once more, half the bodyguard in front with a torch or two to show the way, the Adventurers in the middle, and the rest of the bodyguard behind. Tron gave the word and they stepped out in good order. The Wendles sang heartily as they marched, a stirring fighting song which was their favourite.
Napoleon joined in energetically, showing his companions that he knew the words and was really quite superior to any ordinary Borrible.
They had emerged from the underground stronghold on the south side of Wandsworth High Street and Tron and the others led them along at a fast pace in a southwesterly direction. The sky became lighter and the torches were turned off, as daylight began to show the travellers where to put their feet. They had not marched for long when the green fields of King George's Park came into view of the leaders. Tron raised his right hand and the column halted.
"What's going on?" Bingo asked Napoleon, who was standing just in front of him.
"Wait and see," said Napoleon. "They know what they're doing, it's their manor, you know."
"I'll be glad when we're away on our own," whispered Vulge, who though small was very independent.
As if in answer to their impatience Tron came back down the line and spoke to them. "We have to cross the river here," he said, "but there are some secret stepping-stones, just under the surface of the water, so you shouldn't even get wet. Halfabar will go over first and show you where they are. I must get back underground before it gets much lighter. We're too conspicuous along here, not like the streets."
Halfabar stepped down from the towpath and using his spear to prod out his way he found the stepping stones below the mud. He knew very well where the stones were but he wanted to make them obvious to the Adventurers. Each one of them was lent a spear by a member of the bodyguard and they followed Halfabar across the wide stretch of hard-topped, soft-centred mud. The mud became slimy water eventually and they crossed that too until they came up against the railings of the park. Here Halfabar had tied himself to a spike and he leant right over to pull up each member of the expedition as he or she arrived.
Not one person slipped from the sunken stones and soon Tron joined them to give directions for the next stage of their journey. The bodyguard remained on the east bank, squatting on their haunches, obediently waiting for their leaders to return.
"Right," said Tron as soon as he stood amongst them, "now we must leave you. The next part of your trip will be easy. We have sent messages out during the night and our lookouts know of your passage. You won't see them but they will see you, but as they know what you look like, and how many you are, they won't bother you as long as you keep to the route. If you stray from it, we shall not be responsible for the consequences. You will follow the river through the park until you come to the end of the fields. There the river goes under a bridge. Above you is a road, Mapleton Road. That will take you westward, across another bit of the park, past the bandstand, and at the end of Mapleton turn into Longstaff, right at the end, then left, then right. You will find yourself in Merton Road, where our influence and power to help you ends. Take a southward direction along Merton until you reach Replingham. We have our last outpost in a school there. Take that road westward until you reach the Southfields, which lie under the great hill you will have to climb to reach Rumbledom. Once you have left our last outpost the dangers that wait for you are many. Beyond Southfields there will be a Rumble scout behind every tree. You will have to devise some way of passing their lines unnoticed, or you will never reach Rumbledom alive, let alone achieve your aim. I wish you success and the gaining of a good name and . . . don't get caught."
With this Tron and Halfabar left the Adventurers, taking the spare Rumble-sticks and waders with them. They bounded over the Wandle without hesitation, flitting across the mud of the river as if it had been as solid as the pavement along Wandsworth High Street. On the other side they gathered their bodyguard together and with one wave of the hand only they ran off at a trot, back to the safety of their underground citadel.
When they had gone, Vulge patted Napoleon on the back with a friendly hand. "Lost your playmates, now. Have to put up with us again, won't yer?"
Napoleon looked sad. "He is a fine Borrible that Tron," he said, "and he has given us good advice."
Torreycanyon shouldered his haversack and looked out over the deserted park. "Well, my chinas, I think we'd better get a move on and get as far as we can before too many people are out and about." And without a further word the ten Adventurers moved off through the green silence bearing their burdens with them.
Under Napoleon's guidance and using their street maps they stayed exactly on the route that Tron had indicated and it led them to Merton Road as he had said it would. It was a busy and noisy road, with cars flashing by and adults rushing along with their heads down. Some stood in bus queues, shifting from foot to foot or staring helplessly after the buses that had left them behind.
When the Borribles came to Replingham Road they gathered together and crossed in a bunch, avoiding the heavy traffic. On a corner stood a large secondary school of five storeys. Groups of pupils stood outside the main gates waiting for the whistle blast that would announce the start of lessons. Just to one side of the group stood two Wendles disguised in the uniform of the school. Napoleon went up to them and asked, "Borribles?" They nodded and waited for the rest of the band to approach, moving away from the school-children before they spoke.
"We are the last outpost. When you leave us you're on your own. You go straight up there. See the twist in the road? Follow it. It's a long walk, they say, lonely, a kind of no-man's land; no Borribles, no Rumbles . . . as far as we know. Things will change when you get to the Southfields and cross over a large windy space into Augustus Road. It will start to climb rapidly; steep, very. Then more trees and lots of posh houses. Some Wendles have won their names up there. The stories say there are no shops, so you won't be able to live off the land, and there will be Rumble patrols in every garden, I should think. I don't know how you'll get through without being sussed—but then that's your problem, isn't it?"
The two Wendle scouts looked at each other as if to say that nobody would get them on such a foolhardy mission. They were being brave enough just guarding this place and likely to "get caught" at any minute.
The Adventurers thanked them and strode on, realising that their Adventure was perhaps a lot more forlorn than they had at first imagined and that they had many perils still between them and the achievement of their goal.
"Now," thought Knocker, "the Adventure begins in earnest, with dangers everywhere, and it will be a long, long while before we return to the safety of Wandsworth."