The Time Pirate

by Ted Bell

  But shiny medals did not a hero make.

  Only a lifetime of bravery in the face of danger, and a willingness to sacrifice all in the pursuit of one’s sacred duty to country, would ever give him a chance of becoming a true hero.

  Before a quiet candlelit supper, just the three of them sharing a shepherd’s pie his mum had made, they all joined hands and said a prayer. They prayed for Father, of course, and they prayed for their tiny island’s survival and ultimate victory over her invading enemies. And, finally, they prayed for dear old England, whose very future this night was far from certain.

  “To bed with you children,” his mum said after supper. “I’ll clean up the kitchen. It will give me something to do. School will be starting soon, and I don’t think either of you has even begun your summer reading assignments. Katherine, you haven’t cracked a book since June, have you?”

  “Only Black Beauty.”

  “Doesn’t count. And you, Nick?”

  “I’ve been a bit busy, Mother.”

  “I don’t care about old aeroplanes. I care about the education of the mind. And Nick, if you want to keep up your marks in history this term, I suggest you pull that big blue book down off your shelf. It’s not mere decoration, you know; it’s meant to be read. Without the lessons of history, we’d all be savages. What are you studying this coming term?”

  “Eighteenth-Century English history.”

  “Should be enough excitement there to keep your eyes open. Off now, to bed with the both of you! With any luck, your father will be home tomorrow. I’m going to get up early and fill the house with roses.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Nick said.

  Nick thought there were still plenty of savages around in the Twentieth Century, but he kept that thought to himself as he climbed the stairs to his small bedroom at the top of the tower. He loved the study of history and actually looked forward to cracking the big blue book.

  Mounting the winding steps, however, he realized he was desperately tired. Still, he would climb into his bed and delve into the stories of heroes and villains for as long as he could keep his eyes open.

  An hour later, Nick McIver was still wide awake. He had opened that great door-stopper of a schoolbook, Fitz Hughes’s A History of England, to a random chapter. It was the tale of George Washington’s siege against General Lord Cornwallis’s British Army troops at Yorktown, Virginia. Not quite random, he’d corrected himself. It was the date at the top of the page that had caught his eye. The year 1781, to be exact. Why, Nick had just returned from a brief but exciting holiday in the Caribbean in that very same year. That was why he had stopped at this particular page. And now he began reading the chapter feverishly.

  The British, harried and pursued by Americans under the command of General Lafayette, were well fortified on open ground, good fields of fire in all directions and their backs to the sea. There were 7,200 British soldiers inside the fortifications. On August 19, General Washington with 3,000 soldiers under his command, and his ally the French commander Comte de Rochambeau, with 4,000 troops, began their steady march to Yorktown for a showdown with the British and Cornwallis. Lafayette, with his 4,000 troops, was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Continental Army reinforcements.

  Despite his excitement over the story of the Battle of Yorktown, Nick felt his sleepy eyes longing to close. Then he read the following passage:

  General George Washington hoped to trap Cornwallis at Yorktown and defeat him. A victory now would mean the end of conflict and independence for America. Lafayette, already in place, was blocking Cornwallis’ escape by land. Meanwhile, a French fleet, under the command of Admiral de Grasse, was scheduled to arrive at Chesapeake Bay to prevent Cornwallis from escaping by sea. Cornwallis desperately called for help but none came. The British were surrounded, low on ammunition, and quickly running out of food. On October 19th, 1781, General Cornwallis surrendered. The Battle of Yorktown brought an end to the Revolutionary War. The Americans were victorious. But Washington’s victory was made possible only by the timely arrival of the French fleet under Admiral de Grasse.

  Nick’s eyes opened wide. If Billy Blood’s great pirate armada succeeded in ambushing de Grasse’s fleet en route from the Caribbean to Yorktown, Virginia, the outcome was certain. The Americans would lose the Revolutionary War. There would be no America.

  Somehow Nick seemed to feel, he had to warn Washington of Blood’s lurking armada, lying in wait for de Grasse off the coast of Nassau.

  He yawned and turned out his light. He was going to need all the rest he could get if he was going to set out for Virginia in the year 1781.

  As Nick drifted toward slumber that night, Churchill’s dire warning kept repeating and reverberating in his mind. “If the American’s don’t come to England’s aid, we cannot defeat the Nazis.”

  Realization struck like lightning.

  In order for there to be an America to come to England’s aid in 1940, it meant there had to be an America! The Americans had to win at Yorktown. Of course!

  And it meant that Nicholas McIver, a boy who loved England above all else, would have to do all in his power to help ensure his own country’s most humiliating defeat.

  There was a name for what he was about to do.

  “Treason,” he whispered in the dark.

  And with that terrible word dying on his lips, the boy rolled over and slept fitfully until dawn.

  33

  “IF THEY SEE YOU, THEY’LL SHOOT YOU!”

  General George Washington!” Gunner exclaimed. “But he’s the bloody enemy!”

  Gunner and Nick were upstairs in the Armoury at the Greybeard Inn. They had Kate’s notes and all the charts stolen from inside Blood’s desk in Port Royal spread out upon the round table. De Grasse, with twenty-eight warships and five thousand French troops, would most surely sail southwest once he’d reached Jamaica, set a course between Mexico and Cuba, and then veer northwest through the straits of Florida. The seven-mile-an-hour northerly current of the Gulf Stream would help his heavily laden ships make good time.

  But lying in wait for him, just off the northeast coast of Nassau Town, would be Captain William Blood’s pirate armada, numbering some one hundred ships! The gravely outnumbered French fleet would be lambs to the slaughter. Burned after the treasure had been offloaded, sunk without a trace.

  Nick looked at Gunner, thinking about how to reply to the outrage at his plan. “Washington may have been England’s enemy then,” Nick replied, tracing de Grasse’s route north on the chart with his finger, “but his America is England’s only hope now.”

  “Which means?”

  “I heard it from Prime Minister Churchill himself, Gunner. Unless America comes into this war on England’s side, we’ve no chance at all of defeating Hitler and the Nazis.”

  “He told you that, did he?” Gunner said, expelling a blue cloud of pipe smoke into the air.

  “He did indeed, sir.”

  “And there will only be an America if they win their Revolution against our Crown.”

  “Correct.”

  “We couldn’t have beat the Germans without the Yanks’ help in the First World War, I’ll grant you that,” Gunner said, musing upon the situation.

  “And we can’t do it in this one, either, Gunner, believe me! That’s all there is to it. Unless I act, and now, England will be defeated. Hitler will crush us beneath his hobnail boots.”

  “You propose to warn General Washington about Blood’s armada?”

  “It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, Gunner. I’m sacrificing everything I believe in, except duty, of course.”

  “And you think it’s your duty to warn our enemy. Give them information which will ensure our own country’s defeat?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s treason, Nick. Plain and simple.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll hang for it, lad, if yer caught, and die a traitor.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t car
e.”

  “I do not.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Sometimes the ends justify the means. Will you help me, Gunner?”

  “Of course I’ll help ye, boy, God save me. When have I not? What’s yer plan?”

  “According to Kate’s notes, Blood sails for New Providence Island on this date logged here. It will take him approximately one week, by my calculations, to reach Nassau Town’s harbor.”

  “And just how do you plan to stop an entire armada of those murderous dogs?”

  “I’ll need help, that’s for sure. First, I must use the orb, travel to Virginia, arriving near Washington’s home, Mount Vernon, in early September 1781. Just as de Grasse sails from Saint Domingue. The Americans have our troops under siege at Yorktown. But there’s a lot of fighting going on in the countryside still, skirmishes between our Redcoats and Layfayette’s Continentals, trying to rally the Virginia militia. And Indians, too, tribes fighting for both sides. I’ll need some kind of believable disguise. I was thinking of a regimental drummer boy.”

  “Drummer boy, eh? On whose side?”

  “Ours. If the Redcoats see me, I’ve no problems.”

  “What about the Continentals? If they see you, they’ll shoot you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’ve a book up there on the shelf. Military Uniforms of the British Empire. We could use that for yer outfit. And I’m pretty handy with a needle and thread; y’ know.”

  “That was my thinking, Gunner.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, here’s my thought, sir, and if you’ve got a better one, please don’t be shy.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I know from my history book that General Washington makes a stop at his home, Mount Vernon, en route to Yorktown, to see his wife, Martha. His first visit home in six years.”

  “I’m listnin’.”

  “I want to arrive at Mount Vernon first. I want to be there when Washington arrives home. It’s the only sure way I can guarantee our paths will cross.”

  “You know from yer books the exact date on which he arrives?”

  “I do. September 9, 1781. Having ridden sixty miles from Baltimore in a single day.”

  “And, for the orb, we can get the longitude and latitude coordinates for that part of Virginia from a modern chart.”

  “We can, sir. The general’s great white house sits high on a hilltop overlooking the Potomac River. Not far from Williamsburg, Virginia. And Yorktown.”

  Gunner tipped his chair back and interlaced his fingers behind his snow-white head. His little gold spectacles were so low on his nose, Nick thought they might drop off. “There’s one little matter we need to discuss, boy, afore I help you.”

  “Anything.”

  “You’ll remember when we first used the golden orb to go back in time and help your ancestor Captain McIver defeat Billy Blood in 1805?”

  “I’ll never forget it. Admiral Lord Nelson made sure of that.”

  “And do you remember a solemn oath we all swore to, at Lord Hawke’s insistence? Before we used the machine? A sworn promise to, as he called it, ‘protect the flow of history’?”

  “To not intercede in major historical events in a way that might have dangerous unintended consequences in the future. Yes, I remember.”

  “You’re aiming to break that vow.”

  “Gunner, I appreciate what you’re saying. But in order to save our country in the future, I’ve decided I’ve no choice but to betray her in the past. It’s been a frightful decision to make, and it may yet have disastrous consequences. But I’m afraid I shall have to betray England and Lord Hawke, as well. I have no other choice.”

  “You’ll brook no argument, I can see it, then. You are bound for America, no matter what good sense I offer.”

  “As Admiral Lord Nelson said, ‘If a man consults whether he is to fight, when he has the power in his own hands, it is certain that his opinion is against fighting.’ ”

  “Nelson said that?”

  “Of course those are Nelson’s words, Gunner. He’s the only one who sees me through these treacherous times. Duty first, last, and always.”

  “You’ve thought it all through, seems like.”

  “As well as I’m able. I love reading history, but I am no scholar. Meanwhile, my own dear father is still held in hospital by the Nazis for attacking a soldier beating my mother. I have vowed to do everything in my power to help Mr. Churchill defeat this evil madman Hitler. I will lie, betray, cheat, and steal, Gunner, anything, if I have the remotest chance to help save England.”

  “Despite everything I’ve said, you’ll risk life and limb to betray your own country?”

  “It’s simply my duty. As I see it, anyway.”

  Gunner looked deep into Nick’s eyes, sighed, and looked away. It was hopeless. “I’ll retrieve the orb from the gun safe. Meantimes, you can start entering yer calculations. Then I’ll start sewing you a fine drummer boy’s uniform, copy it from the book down to the last button, I will.”

  “Thank you, Gunner.”

  “Ain’t nothing any friend wouldn’t do for another. But I’m thinking, despite my objections, I should be going with you, lad.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, a boy all on his own in uncivilized territory with a war going on. All that blood and thunder. Indians, too, as I recall. Boy like that could use a former military man like meself handy with weaponry, like that blunderbuss Old Thunder up there on the wall.”

  Nick glanced up at the gun. Gunner could kill a gnat at one hundred paces with that antique. “Gunner, from what I’ve read, aside from their disloyalty to King George, these Americans are quite civilized. Most of them, anyway.”

  “Civility only goes so far in wartime, Nick. You’ll be wearing a red coat, sure enough, if I can scrape up some broad-cloth the proper shade of scarlet. And that is as good a target as any other for those country farmer American sharpshooters, I’d reckon.”

  “Yet you, too, would betray king and country for this cause, Gunner?”

  “For you, yes, I would, boy. I guess I’ve always loved you like a son, had I ever been lucky enough so as to have one of my own.”

  His friend turned away and went to his gun safe, hidden behind a hinged false bookcase in the Armoury. A moment later, he was back. “Here’s your magnificent Tempus Machina, lad,” Gunner said, his eyes shining with tears. “Only because yer so bound and determined to go to war, in God’s holy name. But, Good Lord, I do hate to see you go alone.”

  Nick smiled and put his hand on Gunner’s shoulder. “I think I might be better off all by myself, with all respect, Gunner. I’ll need to be able to move with the situation pretty quickly, I think, if I’m to get within spitting distance of General Washington.”

  “You’ll be wearing a red coat, not a blue one. You get within spitting distance of the general, he might just shoot you himself.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “You always do. I pray it’s a good one, Nick.”

  “I’ve been praying so all night.”

  “Then, Godspeed, Nicholas McIver. Go do yer duty. As you see it, at any rate.”

  “Thank you, Gunner. I will.”

  BOOK TWO

  INDEPENDENCE

  34

  A HEAVY HEART EN ROUTE TO MOUNT VERNON

  · Colony of Virginia—September 1781 ·

  Nick McIver arrived in the American colony of Virginia on a chilly, rainy afternoon in mid-September. He was alone, in a deep, dense wood, with heavy undergrowth carpeting the forest floor. The leaves of the trees towering above were dripping on his head, and he realized he’d have to find somewhere dry and warm to sleep tonight. The scarlet coat Gunner had made for him looked authentic enough but provided little in the way of protection from the elements.

  He had deliberately chosen this heavily forested spot because it was only s
ome ten miles from his destination, General Washington’s home at Mount Vernon. It was uninhabited woodland for miles in any direction, so he’d been fairly certain his arrival would not have any witnesses save the creatures of the forest. He had pored over Mr. Fitz Hughes’s chronicles of the weeks leading up to the Battle of Yorktown and had seen no reference to any major battles or even minor skirmishes being fought in this neck of the Virginia woods.

  Nick sat down at the base of a huge tree, the leaves so thick above that the ground was relatively dry. He wanted to collect himself and get his bearings before setting off. From his haversack, he withdrew his hand-drawn map of Virginia and his compass. Since he knew his exact destination and location, it was fairly obvious in which direction he had to travel—due east. Because the wood here was thick, he wouldn’t be able to move quickly, but he was determined to cover some ground now and, if he was lucky, find shelter for the night before sundown.

  He stood, brushed the seat of his britches off, and moved around the trunk of the tree. He heard the arrow’s whistle first, then its thunk as it sank deeply into the tree’s bark perhaps six inches from his head, still vibrating at the impact, some grey feathers from its fletchings spinning to the ground.

  “Get bloody down!” a voice behind him cried. He felt himself being yanked to the ground and dragged by the feet behind the tree. He craned his head around and saw a young English cavalry soldier, his red coat much soiled and his long blond hair matted with blood from a wound on his forehead.

  The soldier had a musket primed to fire, and he got to his knees, moved out beyond the tree trunk, aimed, fired, and ducked behind the tree. Reloading, he barely looked at Nick, speaking out of the side of his mouth and saying, “What’s your name, drummer boy?”

  “Nicholas McIver, sir. I never ever saw you. Where did you come from?”

  “See that branch above your head?”

  “You were up in this tree?”