The thing about it was, the plan had been a good one.
Now, Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet—elsewise and more secretly known as the Scarlet Pimpernel—was not so enamored of himself, nor so dismissive of his experiences, to claim that every plan he conceived of was good. No, there had been, and no doubt would continue to be, many bad plans: plans that oughtn't have succeeded, and only did so by purest luck; plans that, in fact, didn't succeed; and, thankfully, plans that were struck down by his lieutenants before they could fail and get people killed.
All this to say—this was not one of those plans. Yes, it was daring and dangerous, relying on absolute trust and precise timing; but all those were modi operandi of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The plan ought to have succeeded; and, indeed, it had.
(But, for the first time, the Scarlet Pimpernel, in his heart of hearts, maybe, almost, wished it had failed instead.)
It had been a good plan.
The plan was this:
However lax French Republican military and police discipline might be, those organizations were not light on suspicion—more and more heavy, in fact, as sneaking into the Temple Prison as yet another illiterate, greasy-haired, rosetted guard became a key tactic in the League's rescues. It was therefore becoming harder and harder for the Leaguers to get into positions to spirit off prisoners by either their own natural competence and schoolroom-imposed French or Sir Percy's acting tutelage and dab hand at disguises.
Hence, the plan.
A young, up-and-coming Revolutionary—enthusiastic, fanatical, and bloodthirsty—was being recommended by Louis St. Just himself for a ranking position at the heart of the Revolution, the court of Mademoiselle la Guillotine. Sir Percy had found this out quite by accident as a scullery maid whiling away time until his men got in place—and, moreover, he learned that, while the Commandant of the Temple Prison knew this new lieutenant was being sent to him, he had never met the boy. No, his newest officer would be granted his place only by bringing with him a note from St. Just, a note which contained a pass-phrase known only to the Commandant and St. Just himself—a guarantee that, with this guard, there could be no mistake, no stray Englishman.
Sir Percy did not learn the pass-phrase. But, as their newest rescuees were being settled on the Day Dream, the Scarlet Pimpernel, leaving them in the capable hands of Lord Anthony Dewhurst, drew away his other two lieutenants to communicate this information, and scheme.
"Were we to leave now," said Percy, his naturally lazy drawl belied by the fire in his eyes, "we could almost certainly catch that young cockerel before he even starts on the road to Paris. Ship him off somewhere—it doesn't matter where, really—and replace him, right under the prison Commandant's (admittedly rather large) nose!"
"Doubtless," said Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the most senior of the League and Percy's right-hand-man in all things. "It's a splendid opportunity. But, Percy, this was to be back to England for us—we've no supplies, no plans…no idea who's even in this next batch of prisoners."
(The implication remained unspoken. It was one of the more awful tasks of the League, and of its leaders in particular; but they could not save all, so they owed it to all—innocent, guilty, and victims alike (not to mention their own honor)—to be discerning in whom they rescued, and whom they left to die. Many were the long, sleepless nights dedicated to this task, both in Percy's study in England and in secret hideouts in France. But they had no information now, and no time to gather it.)
"Then we'll learn what we need from the inside," returned Percy. Not having his quizzing glass, he tapped the handle of his riding crop to his lips in thought. "Andrew, you'll take the lieutenant's place. I'll pose as an undesirable—we can work out the exact details later—and you'll drag me before the Commandant. Young officer, eager to prove himself—you know the drill."
He smirked at his friend, an inside joke. Andrew, too well-bred to roll his eyes, raised a skeptical eyebrow that nevertheless did not hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sir Timothy Hastings, just as well-bred as his friend but less inclined to uphold English politeness when not on English soil, did not even attempt to conceal his own eye roll.
"Come off it, Percy! You were as nervous as Andrew, I'd wager, during your early rescues—or more, since the whole thing was your idea!"
Percy's smirk broadened. He made an elaborate gesture of concession and apology toward both of his men in turn. Timothy rolled his eyes again; but then, abruptly, he sobered.
"But you know what this might entail," he said, gesturing sharply at Percy as he met Andrew's immediately focused gaze. "Could you do it?"
"Yes," said Andrew, lowly but with no doubt coloring his tone. "It's ugly, and I'll hate every second of it—but I've done it before."
"Sink me!" cried Percy, suddenly and brightly. "I dare say you were sharp enough, my dear fellow, when you called me out for bruises I had concealed well enough to deceive the Crown Prince himself and the entire Court—" He was interrupted by a snort, but, coughing delicately, he continued, unbothered—"yet had you been but a little more observant, you might have matched the shape of those bruises to Andrew's fist, and their color to the swelling in his knuckles!"
(Sir Timothy Hastings remembered that day, when he had confronted Sir Percy about the hurts he was hiding and had ended up recruited for his impertinence: the stalwart Captain and Lieutenant he had seen in Blakeney and Ffoulkes then, overlaid with the friends' care and loyalty he knew of now—all adding up to Andrew's confidence that he could rough up his Chief convincingly, and they could both come out all right on the other side.)
Timothy sighed. "Very well. And where shall I be?"
Percy squinted at him a moment, tapping his lips again with the riding crop. "Hay cart driver," he decided at last, and Timothy sighed again, gloomily remembering the days he spent picking hay out of his hair the last time that had been his disguise. "And we'll send Tony back to England—he's due for a break more than the rest of us," Percy finished.
Such was the plan—risky, elaborate, and dangerous, but seemingly no more so the normal.
It had been a good plan.
"Damnation," Sir Timothy Hastings swore, fervently.
True, the young revolutionary had been temporarily disposed of, with no horse, money, or his precious letter; the letter itself was carried safely in Sir Andrew's cigarette pocket; and the ancillary details of the plan had been duly arranged in the meantime. But the Scarlet Pimpernel's leg had not come through unscathed.
"Damned inconvenient," agreed Sir Percy with a pained grimace as Andrew finished shoring up the splint bracing his shin bone. "And—" he grunted at his friend's touch; Andrew murmured an apology—"damned idiotic!"
At that moment, Lord Anthony Dewhurst returned from the Day Dream, where he had been preparing to sail back to England with their current passengers.
"Is everything ready?" he began cheerfully. "I—Percy!" He rushed toward his Chief.
Percy groaned in response, holding up a quelling hand. "No need for that, Tony. I dare say my pride hurts worse than the blasted leg!"
Tony paused and glanced at Andrew where he rose from tending the splint. "It's broken," he said, matter-of-factly, though he rested a gentle hand on Percy's shoulder. "Rather thoroughly, too. You're out for at least a month, Percy."
The Scarlet Pimpernel groaned again.
"At least you'll get to spend some time with Marguerite," Tony sympathized. "But I'm afraid I came to tell you the tide's about to turn. Whatever we're doing, we need to decide now."
"Go home, Percy," said Timothy, bluntly, pausing in his pacing. "You'll be a liability here like this, and you know it."
"I do know it," agreed Percy, quietly. "And there's no one I would trust more than you two to run this mission in my place. But…"
"I'll stay, too," interjected Tony. "You need three of us leaders here, right? You take the Day Dream. I'll stay."
"You haven't been home for months," Percy protested, but he was quickly cut off by Andrew.
"Go, Percy," he said with a smile, reaching his hand down to heave a reluctant Percy up into a three-legged hobble out to the yacht. "We will see it done."
(And, indeed, it was done—but at such a cost.)