by Zack Mason
"Turn that wheel sharp now. Get us out of here or he dies."
He hesitated.
"Don't do it," the captain growled, "don't give up the ship."
Turning the gun around, Mark slammed its butt into the base of the captain's skull, knocking him unconscious. The only thing which kept his limp body from collapsing to the deck in a useless heap was the strength of Mark's forearm under his chin.
"I don't want to have to get nasty," Mark said flatly, turning the gun on the other officer.
The underling turned back to the wheel and whipped it around clockwise. Slowly, the ship began to turn, coming in line with the wind. The increase in speed was felt immediately. Their ship was now going to shoot past the stern of the American vessel. In a few minutes, they'd be behind the Americans and out of reach of their cannon. By the time the Americans got turned around, Mark's ship would be sufficiently far enough ahead to get away clean.
The melee was building on the lower deck. Hardy had taken out four officers and was working on a fifth. Swanson had gathered a group of five men and armed them. They were successfully disarming the rest of the British sailors.
Their stern passed uncomfortably close to that of the American ship.
The American cannons ceased firing. Perhaps they'd seen the mutiny in progress.
Out of the corner of Mark's eye, he spied movement. The British officer who'd been manning the rudder wheel was making a run for Mark.
Before Mark could fully turn to face the attack, the loud crack of a pistol shot cut through the air. The British officer dropped to the deck in a bloody heap.
Looking up, Mark saw the movement of the ships had brought their helms to within forty feet of each other. The American officers stood at the helm of their own ship, hands at their sides. Their captain held a smoking flintlock in his hand and a slight smile on his lips.
Snapping to attention, Mark saluted. The captain loosely saluted back, and then the ships pulled apart, leaving the American ship in their wake.
Hardy closed the door to the captain’s quarters and turned to see Mark fingering a knife.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“One of the Brits, just before I tied him up.”
"So, why didn't we give ourselves up to the good guys, buddy?"
After all was said and done, Swanson had found more sympathetic souls than just the seven Americans. They had a total of twenty-one sailors on their side, none of whom were British navy regulars, and they’d subdued the ship without a single man lost.
"’Cause I've got a plan forming. And don't call me buddy. I haven't fully forgiven you yet."
"Okay...you just let me know when I'm back in your good graces then," Hardy chuckled.
Mark cracked a smile.
"All right, let's assume Rialto's got a tracker like we think," Mark said.
"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet. Don't know how else he could find us so easy."
"Theoretically, what would be the range of such a tracking device? And how would it track us?"
"Not sure. Maybe it detects some kind of signal emitted from the watch. Hadn't you ever considered hiring some scientists to study these things."
"To be honest, no I hadn't."
"It might be a smart investment when we get back."
Mark harrumphed, rubbing his brow heavily with his forefingers. "There's really no way to know the range of their trackers, is there?" he asked.
"No."
"If it's very far, we're in trouble." Mark put away the knife.
"That's an understatement."
"Do you think they could detect us from Britain?"
"What do you have in mind?" Hardy asked.
"I'm feeling a bit patriotic.” Mark stood. “We could do our little part in this here war, maybe take out a few British ships on our way to England."
"You're crazy."
"C'mon, it'll be fun."
"That's what you said about going to the tavern."
Mark laughed.
***
Mark, Hardy, and the other Americans all donned British uniforms and regularly inhabited the upper deck. The actual British officers, at least the higher ranking ones, were in the brig. The captain, when a potential victim was available, spewed profanities and curses like a machine gunner, so they had to either keep knocking him unconscious or gagged just to get a little peace and quiet. The lower ranking British sailors, once stripped of their uniforms, were chained to the cannons below deck in pairs. If they got into a battle, it would be in their best interest to fire those cannon as quickly and accurately as they could or they'd find themselves blown to smithereens by a cannonball from the other ship, and it really wouldn't matter if that cannonball was British or American as far as they were concerned.
Mark gave the order to hoist the British flag when in sight of another British ship. If they spotted an American ship, they would all strip off their uniforms, hoist no flag, and hope for the best.
It was a thrill fighting in a war long gone by. In spite of the fact they were two hundred years removed from these men, Mark and Hardy felt a strong kinship with the fellow Americans of 1814. They were brothers and ancestors.
They sank three British ships on their way to Her Majesty's Realm. Each time, they pulled right up alongside the unsuspecting blokes and fired all their cannon from virtually point blank range right at the waterline. No ship of the age could resist such a barrage. Each vessel, however, sank slowly enough that there was more than enough time to rescue most of the enemy sailors. The number of prisoners they'd taken on board was approaching the capacity limit of the ship.
Mark had been forced to move the powder magazine up a deck so he could turn the lower hold into a massive brig. Of course, the Americans they liberated swelled their numbers as well, boosting their fighting ability. Still, if they'd run into a fourth vessel, they might have had to set a bunch of the survivors adrift in long boats.
The plan was to berth in Plymouth, England and restock their supplies. Mark worried about Swanson and the other Americans getting back safely. Their British uniforms would only get them so far in hostile territory.
They delayed their arrival until nightfall and then docked. They would restock as quickly as possible and send the ship back to America in Swanson's charge. Mark and Hardy would stay behind in England.
It wasn't easy to convince the new American crew to take their ship into the heart of enemy territory, so they'd had to make up a story about being on an espionage mission.
To get the necessary supplies, they were going to need the help of one of the real British officers. Mark had the captain dragged up from the lower hold as they pulled into port.
"Who's your purser?"
The captain glared at the floor. You had to admire the guy. Stripped of his uniform and imprisoned in a dark, dank hold for weeks on end, he still had spirit.
"Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which will it be?"
The captain spat at Mark's feet. "Cook. Randall Cook."
"All right. Take him back down and bring Cook up here."
They dragged the captain to his feet and ushered him out of his former quarters and back to his prison. A few minutes later, Swanson and Hardy returned with the stinking form of a large sailor with long, dingy blonde hair. Mark recognized him as one of the sailors who'd shanghaied them back in Washington DC.
"You!"
The man smiled evilly, a hole where one of his teeth should have been.
Mark wanted to throttle him senseless for that insolent smile, but he restrained himself. "Cook, if you were going to restock this ship in Plymouth in the middle of the night, where would you go to do it?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" He laughed.
"Hardy...if you don't mind."
Hardy slammed the butt of a long rifle into Cook's stomach. The man doubled over in pain, grunting and heaving to catch his breath.
"Now, how about you answer my question?"
"Aw'right...aw'ri
ght. Sam's Tavern and Inn. He's got a storehouse around back that's always full."
"Is he going to be suspicious, us restocking in a hurry at night?"
"He might think it queer, but sometimes ships do that. Depends on the story I tell him."
"You think you're coming along with us?"
"If I don't, he'll know something's up. He's a friend of mine."
"Then, you better think up a whopper. I'll be right behind you and I've got a pistol ball with your name on it if he doesn't believe you."
***
They waited in the dark until the noise from inside the tavern died down, the patrons having either gone home or bedded down for the night. The low glow of a lantern moved from window to window of the lower floor. Somebody was locking up.
Mark, Hardy, and Cook were there with fourteen other American sailors in British uniform to help with the loading. Swanson had stayed back to oversee things on the ship.
Cook rapped lightly on the door. After a minute, it swung open decisively.
Sam was a portly fellow with curly brown hair standing out in tufts on the sides of his balding head. His irritated frown turned upward when he saw Cook's darkened visage.
"Randy, my boy! How's it been fer ye? Ah' thought ye were out to sea."
"So I was. So I was. We've ported tonight though, an' the cap's after me to restock in a hurry. Wants to pull back out ’fore sunlight."
"What's the blasted hurry? I was set to bed down fer the night, I was."
"Got me. You know the navy, Sam. Who knows what crazy ideas an officer's gonna get stuck in his skull?"
Sam laughed heartily. "By gosh, yer right about that. What do you need?"
Cook rattled off the list Swanson had recited to him.
"And payment?"
"Don't worry, Sam. The crown'll pay, you know that."
For the next three hours, the men took turns loading wagons and driving them back to the ship, where more men unloaded. When they were done, Swanson, who was playing the role of captain, sent payment to Sam from the ship's treasury. They could have robbed him blind, but failure to pay might have raised the alarm prematurely. The further they could get away before being found out, the better.
They brought Cook back on board when it was time to say goodbye. He and all the other British sailors would soon be prisoners of war back in the good old USA.
Mark shook hands with Swanson and the other Americans.
"Goodbye gentlemen, and good luck."
"Goodbye to you, Mark. Our hearts are with you both. May God bless your mission."
A loud splash sounded to their left. Whirling, Mark knew immediately what had happened. Cook had dived over the side in a mad break for freedom. In the dark, they weren't likely to be able to recover him before he blew their cover.
"You guys need to get out of here now."
Swanson wasn't waiting for instructions.
"Weigh anchors!" he shouted.
Mark and Hardy ran down the gangplank and began helping crew members hastily undo the tie ropes. Shortly, the ship was out of its berth and moving. Mark waved his hat at Swanson before they retreated to the darkness of the town.
"All right. We're in England. Now what?" Hardy asked.
"We shift."
"Back to the present?"
"Yeah, but let's do it in the water."
"Why?"
"Just in case they are capable of detecting us this far away. We'll duck under the water before we shift, and then swim in opposite directions as far as we can under water before surfacing. That way, even if they detect us, they won't be able to see our exact position until we're well away from it."
They were about to dive when Mark was tackled from behind. Randall Cook had been lurking in the dark, waiting for them, and now he was on top of Mark brandishing a wicked looking knife.
"Shift now!" Hardy called.
Mark's answer was a flash of static and then both he and Cook disappeared. Hardy followed.
The thuggish storesmaster was distracted by the sudden appearance of sunlight, though it was muted by dull grey clouds shrouding the sky. A chilling drizzle of rain quickly coated their exposed skin.
Hardy slammed his palm into the back of Cook's neck, knocking him unconscious. He rolled off Mark and fell helplessly onto the wet asphalt. Mark leapt to his feet.
"Guess we don't have to worry about Cook raising the alarm for Swanson and his men now," Mark commented.
"Yeah. Good luck to the jerk, coping with the 21st century on his own."
"You don't want to shift him back to his own time?"
"Why should we? He shanghaied us. We just returned the favor. Not to mention he just tried to kill you. Plus, the more we shift, the bigger the chance Rialto will detect us."
"Good point."
They walked down the dampened street, Cook's prostrate form a blot on the pavement behind them.
"We need to get out of here and figure out how to deal with Rialto and his cronies." Hardy muttered.
"First things first. We need to get to London and take a plane back to Boston."
"What about Ty?"
Mark eyed him. "That's my number one priority."
"Time is but the stream I go a‑fishing in."
~ Henry David Thoreau
September 18th 2013, London, England
The atmosphere was jovial in this London pub as they sipped on a couple of beers. Whoever owned this bar must have loved the Middle Ages, because suits of armor and medieval weaponry were on display throughout the premises.
Beige wall treatments and honey-colored wood accents created a warm sanctuary in the middle of an otherwise drizzly day.
"Don't you think Rialto will be watching every plane coming from London?" Hardy asked, head down, fingers playing with his shifter.
"Only if he knew we came to England, and when we came here. How could he?"
"He detected our shifts before."
"We haven't seen hide nor hair of him since arriving here."
"Still..."
"Look, the guy's not all-powerful. And if he's not with the government, there's going to be a severe limit to what he can do."
Hardy said nothing as he continued to play with his buttons.
"Hey, Mark, maybe our shifters have some kind of detector on them too. Maybe we just haven't figured out that feature yet."
"Not bloody likely."
Hardy looked up, laughing. "A Brit already, eh?"
"It's the atmosphere. Look, don't worry about it. We'll fly from here to Paris, and then fly to Boston from there. Even if he somehow knew we came to England, he wouldn't know to look for planes coming from Paris."
"Why not call Savannah and have her send the corporate jet?"
"’Cause if Rialto's watching anything, it'll be Savannah and our headquarters. We have to get home incognito."
Hardy held his shifter out for Mark to see, his expression mischievous.
"How about we shift there?"
Hardy's shifter read:
120000P-08031100
"1100 AD? You wanna shift back to the Middle Ages?" Mark asked incredulously.
"Why not? We're in England. Let's go see some real life knights while we're here."
"Man, we don't have time to play around. Maybe we'll come back after we find Ty."
"What do you mean we don't have time? We can return to the very second we leave."
"I know, but...” Mark rubbed his hand along his jaw. “It just seems like we shouldn't have fun on the mind until we find Ty."
"I guess I know what you mean. Sorry." He looked dejected.
"Hardy?"
"Yeah."
"Don't turn, but I just saw the usher from Ford's Theater pass in front of that bay window behind you."
"You mean the usher who kidnapped you after the Lincoln assassination?"
"Yeah, and we need to move now. He works for Rialto. "
Abandoning their beers, Mark hastily scribbled his signature on the credit card slip. They moved to the bac
k of the pub, looking for another way out. Their best bet seemed to be a side door that would let them into a side alley. They slipped out...
...and immediately regretted the move.
Usher stood at the head of the alley, blocking their exit to the street. Rialto himself guarded the alley's rear. A third man with a grey patch in his hair appeared in the doorway they'd just used. They didn't know him, but he was obviously part of the Rialto gang. All three men raised their weapons.
"Shift!" Hardy grabbed Mark's shoulder. They both reacted instantly, reaching for their shifters at the same time, but Hardy's finger was a fraction of a second faster.
***
Gunshots shattered the silence of the alley as all three men fired their weapons. Cries rose up inside the pub.
"Call the bobbies!" A voice yelled faintly.
"You idiot, you almost shot me!" Rialto scolded Graves.
"If they hadn't shifted out, I would have been dead on," Graves grumbled.
"Where'd they go, Torino?"
Torino looked at the detector in his hand. "Uh..."
"Spit it out, man! We've got to move," Rialto hissed.
"Are you sure this thing is working right?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"It says they went back to 1100."
"As in 1100 AD? Why would they go to the Middle Ages?"
They looked at each other, surprised by the turn of events.
"No matter," Rialto decided, "If they want to die 900 years ago, let ’em. We'll finish them off one way or the other. Let's go."
***
August 3rd 1100, London, England
As they shifted in, Hardy saw the alley had transformed into a very rustic looking horse stable. It was a huge stable actually, with hundreds of stalls, separated into rows and divided by walls made of roughly-hewn, wooden planks. The stall Hardy now found himself in was thankfully devoid of horses, or any other animal life for that matter, but the distinct odor of manure indicated there had been one here not too long ago.