The Time Pirate

by Ted Bell

  So he stayed down, hidden in the reeds, until he felt as if the soldier above would surely have run out of patience at his lonely post in the chill night air. By now, surely he would have rushed up to join his comrades still in full pursuit, wouldn’t he? Nick dared not take the chance. His teeth were chattering now, but he stayed put.

  It felt like hours, but it was probably only half an hour or so. He heard the man grunt and saw the glowing coal of a cigarette flicked from above land in the river. Then the last German was gone. Nick’s whole body was shaking violently as he heaved himself up onto the bank and collapsed, lying on his back, staring at the underside of the bridge. He was glad to spit the now mushy end of the reed out of his mouth and take gulps of cool air. He was cold and wet, muddy and exhausted, but he was still alive. He lay there on the muddy bank, considering all of his options, one by one. By the time he’d gotten to the third, he’d fallen fast asleep.

  He awoke with the rising sun glinting off the river, sharp daggers of light in his sleepy eyes. He sat up, rubbing his face vigorously, remembering how he’d come to be under this little wooden bridge. His clothes had dried a bit during the night, but he felt a shiver as he scrambled up the bank to look around. No dogs. No Nazis.

  He was pretty sure they’d given up on the search sometime during the night. The dogs had lost his scent, and the soldiers must have been at least as tired as he was. The evening had turned much colder while he slept. The SS men were probably even now snoring peacefully in their warm barracks.

  He stood up, climbed the banks, took off his sodden jacket, and spread it across some bushes in the warm sun. He took stock of himself. Apart from his painful right shoulder, where a section of the Camel had caught him on her way to the bottom, he seemed in reasonably good shape. And just the fact that he’d managed to outsmart those bloodthirsty dogs filled him with enough confidence to face whatever came next.

  Surely some German soldiers might well still be out there looking for him. But he doubted they would still be searching these woods, the dogs having been unable to find him.

  Rejuvenated by this newfound optimism, he put on his still-damp jacket and headed across the old wooden bridge. He would make his way to the hilltop, in hopes that he might find sanctuary there.

  He had seen Fordwych Manor, which stood atop Saint George’s cliff overlooking the Gulf of Saint Malo, from the air. The day when he’d made his first aerial surveillance flight over Guernsey. He knew it belonged to one of Lord Hawke’s oldest friends, an elderly Baroness named Fleur de Villiers, one of the original founders of the Birdwatchers secret society along with Lord Hawke.

  He had never met the Baroness, but as he made his way slowly up the narrow lane that led to her home, he was fairly sure she would recognize his family name when he presented himself. The McIver clan had enjoyed a brief moment of celebrity when his sister, Kate, and Commander Hobbes had captured an experimental Nazi U-boat. They’d then managed to keep the submarine penned up inside Hawke Lagoon until Winston Churchill and a team of Royal Navy engineers had flown in from London and inspected her from stem to stern. Kate McIver, only seven years old, had been the talk of every pub and shop on both Guernsey and Greybeard islands for weeks. She was actually—though no one in her family would ever dare tell her so—famous.

  The imposing manor house stood at the very summit of the cliff, surrounded by acres of green parkland. It was rather grand, even by Guernsey standards, but Nick would not describe it as a castle or a fort, though it had many of the features of both. There was a great, high stone wall surrounding the place, with massive iron gates. And there were tall turrets with battlements atop them and a great tower, covered in ivy, that looked as if it might once have been home to a massive cannon pointed seaward.

  The lane had eventually turned to gravel, and Nick marched up to the iron-gated entrance. It was open, not much but enough for him to slip through. At the entrance to the house, a little man was busily washing an amazingly large automobile, singing “The Rose of Tralee” in a lovely Irish tenor.

  Almost as big as a locomotive, the auto appeared to be made completely of sterling silver or some kind of highly polished metal. Why, the bonnet alone was nearly the length of Nick’s small sailing sloop, Stormy Petrel.

  “Good morning, sir!” Nick shouted as he approached, not wanting to startle the man. He stood up, turned round, and smiled at the approaching boy.

  “And top of the mornin’ to you, sir,” the little fellow replied, in an Irish voice so beautiful and light it was almost like singing. He had to be at least seventy, yet his bright blue eyes, red cheeks, and white smile made him seem almost elf-like.

  “I am Nicholas McIver, sir,” Nick said, extending his hand.

  “Are you indeed, Mr. McIver? And I am Eammon Darby, formerly of Galway Bay. And where are ye from, young Mr. McIver. You dinna look like a Guernseyman.”

  “Greybeard Island, sir, and I’m trying to get back there as quickly as possible so I can—”

  “McIver from Greybeard, eh? Surely not related to that little girl who—”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “Sister, is she? Must be a right scrappy little colleen, then?”

  “Scrappy doesn’t even begin to describe her, sir.”

  “Want to get home, do you? I could drive you over,” Eammon said, patting the gleaming bonnet of his car and laughing, as if it was the best joke ever.

  Nick said, “I’ve never seen an automobile like that. What is it?”

  “She’s called the Silver Ghost, sir. Made by the Rolls-Royce company back in the year 1922. I’m taking her into town this morning for her weekly exercise. Otherwise her muscles get stiff. Say, Nick, yer lookin’ a bit grey about the gills, lad.”

  “I—I’m afraid I require assistance, Mr. Darby.”

  Darby stepped back and appraised him from head to toe. “You do look like you’ve been through a bit of heavy sledding, lad. A rough patch. Are ye all right? Yer right arm hurting you, is it, now?”

  “I did injure my right shoulder, but that’s about it. I’m mostly cold. Cold and very, very hungry, Mr. Darby.”

  “What have ye been about then, to bring yourself to such a state.”

  “Hiding from Germans, sir.”

  “I see. On the run, are you? Well, we can help with that. So you could use some food, I imagine?”

  “Ever so grateful.”

  “Well, yer in luck. Food, now that’s something we can provide here at Fordwych Manor. We’ve a fine kitchen garden and a right good cook, though temperamental at times she is. Bronwyn makes a good stew. Not a fine Irish stew, mind you—she’s Welsh. But her lamb stew will make yer heart sing!”

  “I wonder, sir. Is the Baroness herself at home?”

  “She is indeed. See that blue and white flag flying atop the battlements? That means she’s in residence.”

  “I wonder if I might have a word with her, sir?”

  “Does she know you, laddie?”

  “No, sir. But I believe she would know my father. And, of course, my famous sister.”

  “Well, nothing to it, then. She’s in her library, paying the monthly bills. She hates spending money, she does, and I’ll wager she’ll be happy for the distraction. Just follow me, I’ll take care of you, young McIver, never you worry. Come along now, we’ll get you some nice hot tea and cakes for starters!”

  23

  THE NARROWEST ESCAPE

  Nick and Eammon found the Baroness at a small French desk in a bay window that overlooked the sea. There were floor-to-ceiling books on every wall. Nick, deliriously happy to have a mug of warm tea in his hands, was starting to feel much better. The white-haired woman with the startling blue eyes looked up from her desk as Darby and the disheveled boy entered the room.

  “Beg pardon for the intrusion, ma’am,” Mr. Darby said, “but may I please introduce young Nicholas McIver, madame? I’m afraid he requires some assistance.”

  “McIver, did you say? You’re not related to—”<
br />
  “She’s my sister, ma’am.”

  “Kate’s brother! Great fun having such a famous sibling, I imagine. Well, then, what’s all this about assistance? What kind of assistance?”

  “Any kind would do, ma’am,” Nick said.

  “Come closer and let me get a look at you, Mr. McIver,” she said, waving him toward her with a pale white hand. “Mind you don’t get any of your mud on my rug.”

  Nick did as he was instructed. The sun was strong through the windows. And he was very conscious of his soggy, ragged appearance.

  The Baroness peered into his eyes, looked him up and down, and said, “You’re Angus McIver’s boy all right.”

  “Yes, I am,” a startled Nick said. “You’re the living spit of him, boy. I’d recognize those blue eyes and that pugnacious chin anywhere.” She stood up and offered her hand across the desk. “I know all about you, Nick McIver. Lord Hawke, my good friend of many years, is a great admirer of yours.”

  “Well, I—I’m, I mean to say, I don’t—”

  “Always accept a compliment. It’s bad manners not to. Now, Eammon, weren’t you planning to take the Ghost out for some much-needed exercise? Stetch her legs a bit?”

  “Indeed, I was just about to leave when the lad appeared on our doorstep.”

  “Well, hop to it. I’m sure young Nicholas and I will have a great deal to talk about.”

  Mr. Darby did a little bow and pulled the doors closed behind him.

  “You look awful, my child,” she said. “Come over here and sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some nice warm blankets and a bowl of stew. Back in a flash,” she said and winked at him merrily.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Nick must have fallen fast asleep by the fire because it truly did seem like the work of a moment before she reappeared with a tray and some soft woolen blankets.

  When he was settled and determinedly eating his lamb stew as slowly as humanly possible, she pulled up a velvet slipper chair, leaned forward, and said, “Someone bombed the aerodrome last night, Nick. The Germans are in a frightful uproar about it, I daresay. They’re going house to house in Saint Peter Port, turning everything upside down.”

  “Looking for the pilot,” Nick said, staring into his bowl, thinking of all the trouble he’d caused his fellow islanders.

  “Yes, they are. This pilot was, if I heard correctly on the telephone, flying an old World War I aeroplane when he executed a daring nighttime raid. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you, Nick?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “First-hand knowledge?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were the pilot?” she said in some amazement.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, it was brilliant. Really quite marvelous. Apparently you destroyed half their fighter squadon’s Messerschmitts and blew up their entire ammunition dump. I’ve never heard of such a thing attempted by a . . . mere child. How old are you, Nick?”

  “Twelve years old, ma’am.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “Where is your aeroplane, now, Nick?”

  “On the bottom of the sea, I’m afraid.”

  “You had to ditch her?”

  “I did. She was on fire.”

  “What happened?”

  “As I was leaving the field there was a lot of flak and heavy machine-gun fire. I think it was the flak finally got her. A hunk of shrapnel must have hit her fuel line. The engine caught fire, and there was no chance to make it home.”

  “You’re lucky just to be alive, child, ditching a burning aeroplane out there in the dark.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, what can I do for you? What do you need?”

  “I’d like to go home to Greybeard Island, ma’am. Tell my parents and Gunner that I’m still alive. Then I’d like to go see our family doctor in town, Dr. Symonds. My shoulder hurts pretty badly.”

  “I’ll get you home, Nick. I’ve got an old launch I could ferry you across in. Barely seaworthy, but Eammon keeps the steam engine running somehow. Meanwhile, I’ll have a look at that shoulder. No blood, so a bad bruise, I imagine. A poultice should do the trick.”

  “I’d certainly appreciate that, ma’am. Can we call the lighthouse and tell my parents I’m all right?”

  “I wish we could, but the Germans have cut the inter-island lines. Now, listen carefully, Nick. I’ll have Bronwyn take you upstairs, where you can have a nice hot bath and a good rest. I’ve a nephew about your size, and she can find you some clean clothes. As soon as it’s dark, I’ll take you down to where my boat Toot is docked. No moon tonight, and I’ve been watching the German patrol boats day and night from atop my tower. I know their exact schedule. Silly Germans, you might think they’d understand that random patrols would be more effective! We can slip through tonight. Sound good?”

  “Thanks ever so much, ma’am, I don’t—”

  At that moment Eammon burst through the double doors, his face white as a ghost. “Germans coming, ma’am! A lot of them. They’re headed this way, up our lane!”

  “What?”

  “I was on my way down when I saw them winding up through the woods below. A big Mercedes staff car with two officers in the back, and following that, a half-track full of soldiers!”

  “Did they see you?” the Baroness asked.

  “I don’t think so. I put the Ghost in reverse and backed all the way back up the hill. Tricky, that.”

  “How long have we got?”

  “Ten minutes, ma’am. Maybe less. They were going pretty fast for that curvy little lane.”

  “Do they know what you look like, Nick?” she asked. “There was one soldier on the beach with a dog. He may have seen me swim ashore. And then when I climbed along the jetties he might have gotten a look at me. I can’t say for sure.”

  “We have to hide you,” she said, her mind obviously racing. “But where? The cellar?”

  Eammon said, “They’ll search every inch of it, ma’am. But we could put him in the garage attic. It’s a wee space and very hard to reach without a very shaky ladder.”

  “They always search attics and cellars,” the Baroness said, looking hard at Nick, as if staring at him might give her an idea. She jumped to her feet, “I’ve got it!”

  “Where to, ma’am?” Darby said.

  “The chapel, of course.”

  “Wherever could he hide in the chapel?”

  “In the priest-hole, naturally!”

  Eammon nodded, and being a good Irish Catholic, he knew all about priest-holes. He just didn’t happen to know there was one at Fordwych Manor. And he’d been in service here over thirty years!

  “The priest-hole?” Nick asked, having never heard of such a thing.

  “Hasn’t been used for aeons, mind you. It’s not quite the Ritz. Quick, follow me. Nick, bring your blankets. It’s very cold in there, and you might have to hide for quite some time. Depending on the persistence of these wretched Huns in searching my house.”

  As they reached the main hall, they heard the two German vehicles roaring up the drive.

  “Eammon! Go to the front door and stall them there as long as you can. I’ll take care of the boy.”

  “What shall I say, ma’am?”

  “Heavens, Eammon, I don’t know. There’s a black livery jacket hanging in the hall coat closet. Fling that on and pretend you’re a butler. A butler who’s very hard of hearing and a bit off his nut, you understand? Not altogether there. Now, go!”

  Fleur de Villiers and Nick raced down a long hallway full of large portraits and suits of armor. At the end was a stone arch and beyond that, an arched door.

  The chapel was much larger than Nick would have imagined one family needed. It had beautiful stained-glass windows, and the altar beneath the crucifix was massive and lacquered with gold. And two great golden candelabras stood atop it, a burst of fresh lilies set in a vase between them.

  The baroness had her arm around Nick and hurried him u
p the aisle to the altar.

  “I don’t see a place to hide in here,” Nick said, his eyes darting everywhere.

  “Behind the altar,” she whispered.

  “Behind that?” Nick asked, wondering how on earth a boy and an elderly lady could possibly move such a huge object even an inch. “How could we ever—”

  “It’s hinged to the wall. And it’s on wheels. When Catholicism was forbidden, the penalty for priests was beheading. All these old houses have priest-holes. Now, help me. We’ll both work from this end . . . you push and I’ll pull it out from the wall.”

  Nick started pushing with all his might, but he was hampered by his bad shoulder. The altar didn’t move an inch.

  “Nick, I know that bruised shoulder must hurt terribly. But now you have to ignore the pain. You must push and push with everything that’s in you. Or else . . .”

  Nick took a deep breath and said, “On three, then. One . . . two . . . three!”

  He pushed and the pain almost brought him to his knees. But the heavy altar had swung away from the ancient wall, and there gaped his salvation: a simple hole in a stone wall about four feet thick. The hole was round, about three feet in diameter, roughly a foot off the floor.

  “Dive in. I think I hear them coming! There are candles and matches in there. Don’t worry about the light. No one can see anything once the altar’s back in place.”

  Nick dove through the hole, then turned and looked back at the Baroness. “Can you possibly close it by yourself?”

  She smiled and said, “Do you think this is the first time in my life I’ve had to do something all by myself? Besides, there’s this rope connected to the back of the altar. Here, take this end and start pulling for all you’re worth, Mr. Nicholas McIver.”