Nick of Time

by Ted Bell

  “I’m glad you’re back, Hobbesie. I was beginning to be a tiny bit scared. It’s getting a little spooky out here, isn’t it?”

  Hobbes climbed back into his seat, nodded in the darkness, and stared out into the swirling fog. It was getting thicker by the minute.

  Not precisely the word he would have chosen, he thought, tugging his collar up round his neck, but she was exactly right.

  It was getting a little spooky out here.

  CHAPTER XXII

  In the Pigsty

  · 3 October 1805 ·

  H. M. S. MERLIN, AT SEA

  Lord Hawke shoved a squealing pig out of his corner with a gentle nudge of his boot and smiled at his two comrades and fellow time travelers.

  “Not quite the hero’s welcome you’d expected, is it Nick?” he said, casting his eye about the small ship’s hold full of pigs. “Hardly a stateroom worthy of Mr. Cunard, I must admit. Still, the Merlin’s yet afloat and one really must admire the machine’s pinpoint accuracy. There’s a lot of ocean just beyond that planking! We could just as easily have arrived out there, I suppose, if we hadn’t entered the location correctly. Hobbes is a genius, I must say! Are you a swimmer, Gunner?”

  “I float a little, your lordship,” Gunner said, settling down in the straw beside Lord Hawke. He’d pulled his blunderbuss from its hiding place under the straw and was now using his handkerchief to polish the barrel. “And I might have preferred the briny to this accommodation. It ain’t swine that bothers me so much as that infernal goat. If they keep us locked up in here with that wee beastie all night, I’ll likely wring his neck just to keep him silent.”

  In addition to the dozen or so squealing pigs in the hold, there was one goat on board, much prized for her milk. She apparently bunked with the pigs, which was unfortunate for the three new arrivals. She’d been bleating loudly ever since the peglegged sailor named Ben had locked them in with her and gone off to tell the captain about the stowaways.

  Despite Gunner’s repeated attempts to soothe the loudly bleating beast, it would not be still.

  “No need to strangle the poor thing, old chap,” Hawke said. “I imagine the good captain will come running, once he learns a lad’s suddenly appeared on board, claiming to have the name of McIver. Meanwhile, just give our noisy friend this.” He pulled a large Cuban cigar from the crocodile case he carried in his coat and handed it to Gunner. Gunner stared blankly at the cigar in his hand, dumbfounded.

  “All due respect, m’lord, I own I’ve never seen a nanny-goat as could smoke cigarillos.”

  Hawke smiled. “Not for smoking, dear fellow, for eating. Unwrap the wrapper leaf and offer her a bit of loose tobacco in your open hand. She’ll be most obliged and probably a trifle more relaxed, I daresay.”

  Gunner held out his hand with a little pile of tobacco and the goat munched it greedily, nudging Gunner’s hand for more. In a matter of moments, the animal had dined to its delightful sufficiency, consumed the entire cigar, and retired to the far corner of the stall, mercifully quiet for the first time.

  “Ha!” Gunner said, delighted. “I never! A nanny goat as likes a good cigar!”

  “She probably smelled them in my coat,” Hawke said. “And quite a good nose for a young goat, too. This is good Caribbean leaf I brought along for the voyage. All goats love tobacco, you know, but this one’s an aficionado!”

  It seemed to Nick that Hawke and Gunner were awfully lighthearted at the moment, considering the terrible disappointment Nick had suffered at the Old North Wharf.

  They’d arrived exactly at five-fifty, about twenty feet from the shanty. A little bewildered at first, they’d pinched themselves and stamped their feet and shouted to see if they’d actually made the time journey intact and unharmed. Then, bursting into laughter with sheer delight at what had happened, the three of them had embraced each other. Lord Hawke and Nick had actually jumped for joy at their safe and painless arrival.

  “Give you both joy, by Jove, we’ve done it, lads!” he cried. “Lord, we’ve done it, haven’t we! The machine works perfectly!”

  Nick felt for the machine, sewn now into a pocket inside his jacket. Still there, a comfortable round presence, still warm from recent use. Nick had almost come to think of the machine as a perfect little work of art. Something made by man so perfectly that it had somehow become part of nature. Something in such complete harmony with the natural world that it was not bound to any one space or time. It simply had the ability to flow like a timeless river or sands across a vast desert. And those who touched it had that ability, too.

  Truly, the beauty of the machine was its incredible simplicity. Still, Nick thought, it was strange how they had come to think of their travel as “departing” and “arriving.” It really wasn’t like that. Rather, it was like the sensation of watching a motion picture. In a dark theater, you see a character in one room and then in the blink of an eye you see the same character standing on a cliff overlooking the sea. And it seems perfectly normal.

  That’s the way it was with the machine. You blinked your eye in one place and opened it in another. There was of course the warm tingling sensation, but it was actually quite pleasant. It was as if you were standing on the steel deck of a great ship directly above the giant engine. The vibration simply took over your body. In a way, the thrumming sensation made you feel intensely alive. And the sound of the shimmering bells when both hemispheres were joined was quite the loveliest sound Nick had ever heard from a man-made object. As pretty, almost, as the patter of lightly falling rain on Petrel’s rooftop.

  Suddenly, Nick had found himself outside the shanty. Lord Hawke had drawn his saber, Gunner had primed his blunderbuss, and Nick had kicked open the old wooden door which hung from one hinge. He had little hope of finding Jip on the other side because if Jip were inside, he’d be barking loudly by now. Inside the shanty there was only deathly silence. They entered the door in single file, their eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the dank gloom.

  Nick took a deep breath. Would Billy suddenly leap down from the rafters and try to murder them all? Was Jip lying in a dark musty corner of the shanty, hurt and unable to alert him? Was it all nothing but an evil trap, using Jip to lure Nick and his friends into Billy’s clutches?

  Hello, Nick—squawk—Where’s Jip?—squawk—Mystery. Mystery. Hello, Nick.

  Blood’s red parrot, Bones. Somewhere up in the dark reaches of the shanty roof, squawking in his evil-sounding speech. Gunner raised his blunderbuss and swung it around in the dim light. “Where is he?” Gunner cried, unable to see anything, wheeling about. “I’ll have no more of this insolent magpie!”

  “Hold on!” Lord Hawke said in a firm voice. “Here’s a lamp.” He lit an old oil lantern hanging by the door. It threw a weak yellowish light that pierced some few yards into the murky shadows. It was enough light to see that the shanty was empty. No Jipper, just as he’d feared. Nick saw Gunner’s eyes, wide and searching for the supernaturalistic bird. There! On a rafter, some fifteen feet above them, they could make out the shadowy red figure of the parrot.

  “Don’t shoot him, Gunner,” Hawke said. “I think he’s trying to tell us something. Blood left him here for a reason, perhaps. He may be a messenger.” Lord Hawke stood under the bird and shouted up to it.

  “Where’s your master, parrot?” Hawke said. “Where’s Blood?”

  Squawk—Mystery. Mystery—squawk—Hello, Hawke. Hello, Hawke.

  “Good bird. Where’s Jip? Where’s the dog?”

  Squawk—Mystery—squawk.

  Gunner raised the blunderbuss to his shoulder.

  “The only mystery here is why I’ve allowed the foul creature to live this long! Say your prayers, parrot!” Gunner shouted, and pulled the big bronze trigger. The ancient weapon exploded, spewing orange flame and hot lead, brilliant in the gloom. The noise was deafening in the small shanty and white smoke filled the air. When it cleared, they saw the parrot sitting just to the left of where Gunner had fired. It seemed to be pi
cking something from its wing with its beak. Lead shot, perhaps. Had it somehow moved just outside the pattern of the blast in the instant of firing? Impossible!

  “I missed him at this range?” Gunner cried, incredulous, reloading his weapon. “Not on your life, I’ll warrant! I could give a sparrow a haircut at fifty yards! I’ll get you this time, buzzard!” And he raised Old Thunder once more.

  “No!” Hawke cried. “Leave him be, Gunner. The bird may be telling us the whereabouts of Jip and Blood. Let me talk to him, please!”

  “Parrot! Listen to me!” Hawke said, as if talking to an unruly child. The bird looked down, fixing its bright eyes on Hawke.

  Hawke. Hawke—squawk.

  “Parrot parley français? Parrot speak French?” Hawke said.

  Whee—squawk—Speak Frenchy, whee—squawk—Whee.

  “He says oui. He says yes!” Hawke exclaimed. “Now, listen carefully lads. Parrot! Say ‘mystery’ en français! Mystery en français! ”

  Squawk—Meestair. Meestair—squawk—Mystery—squawk.

  “You were right! Blood’s got Jip on his flagship, the Mystère!” Nick cried. “The French parrot is simply translating Mystère to ‘mystery’ because we’re English! You were right, Lord Hawke. We’ve got to get to the Merlin!”

  And so in the flickering yellow light of the old oil lamp, and with Billy’s French-speaking parrot watching from above, they’d opened the machine once more and inserted the correct Locus and Tempus for Merlin that Captain McIver had given them in his letter. Then, in a glimmer of fireflies and a shimmer of bells, they’d disappeared. …

  And arrived in this pigsty in October, 1805.

  Now the door swung open and the sailor with the pegleg and the polished silver tooth jumped into the room.

  “You say you’re Nicholas McIver, boy?” the sailor said, a smirk on his face.

  “That’s me, all right!” Nick said, getting to his feet and brushing the straw and hay from his breeches. They were all dressed in simple cotton garments, trousers, shirts, and coats. Still, the visitors from the future must have looked a bit odd to the one-legged sailor.

  “Unusual, ain’t it, boy, you havin’ the same name as our captain?” Pegleg said, eyeing Nick from stem to stern. “Bit unusual, I’d wager. And just who might these two fine gentlemen be?” he asked, raising one bushy white eyebrow, and putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case.

  “Hawke is my name,” said Lord Hawke, brushing the hay from his knees and rising as well. “And this is Mr. Archibald Steele. Did you offer our compliments to your captain, my good fellow?”

  “Aye, that’s why I’m here, ain’t it? To escort you three stowaways directly to the captain’s cabin,” said Ben, clearing a path through the squealing pigs with his boot. “Normally, we just throws stowaways overboard, but captain’s orders is to bring you to ’im without yer feet going up on deck and without so much as a whisper to a living soul. Step lively, too, we’ve a couple of holes in our bottom with an enemy vessel bearing down on us. The air’ll be filled with enough hot lead to singe yer eyebrows presently! Most of our cannons was knocked out in a little skirmish with the Frenchies this morning! Mind yer heads, mind yer heads now. What’s wrong with that goat? He looks a bit greenish around the eyeballs, don’t he?”

  “Oh, he’s all right,” Gunner said. “Maybe he ain’t used to such fine Cuban cigars is all.”

  Ben just looked at him and shook his head. Tabaccy-smoking goats? Just what was this old barky coming to?

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A Skirmish in the Dark

  · 6 June 1939 ·

  ABOARD THOR, AT SEA

  Clang. Clang-clang. Clang.

  Somewhere out in the fog, not too distant, Old Number Seven chimed its mournful toll. Hobbes listened carefully, glancing down at his chart. Yes, it was the ancient bell-buoy that marked the outer approach to Portsmouth Harbor. Despite his blindness inside the soupy fog, his vessel’s damaged bow, and his running at greatly reduced speed, they’d likely make their offshore meeting with John Cory’s trawler shortly after midnight. At worst, perhaps an hour late or so, Hobbes saw, by the glow of his wristwatch in the darkened pilothouse.

  Passing Old Number Seven to port, Kate said he’d better come outside and see this.

  “See what, Kate?” Hobbes asked through the opened window. “Your old friend the moon?”

  Kate, who’d gone to a berth below to sleep for most of the journey, had awoken feeling slightly queasy and Hobbes had sent her out on deck to get some air. The fog had lifted somewhat, and Hobbes already had the powerful searchlight illuminated so Cory would see them coming. Katie, her red curls blowing in the cool breeze, stood at the starboard rail feeling much improved and happy to see a bit of the moon back on the water.

  “Racing with the moon again, are we Kate?” Hobbes asked cheerfully. Happy to be safely across, he intended to spend the night moored in Portsmouth Harbor. A sunny morning’s crossing back to Greybeard Island would be great fun for Kate. Off by eight, he’d have them home for luncheon at Hawke Castle by noon. Kate’s face appeared at the open window.

  “No-o, not the moon exactly. Something’s happening out here, Hobbesie.”

  Something’s happening? Not liking the sound of that one bit, he pulled back on the twin throttles and brought the big boat to a standstill. Throwing the engines into neutral, Hobbes pulled on his old officer’s pea jacket and stepped out of the pilothouse into the cool night air. “What is it?” he asked, joining her at the rail. He’d brought his electric torch and he flicked it on.

  “The sea. I think it’s exploding,” Kate said. “Look!”

  Hobbes swung the beam of light out over the blackness and was amazed to see a huge mound of boiling white water growing from the surface of the sea, not fifty feet away!

  “Whatever could it be, Hobbes?” Kate asked, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s not some kind of sea monster, is it?”

  It was something monstrous, all right. First, that heaving mound of foaming white water that kept getting bigger and higher, a rising shape that always reminded Hobbes of the sea’s surface when a massive depth charge had detonated deep. The mushroom shape rose now, and expanded until it looked like it would indeed explode, and the water all around them was afroth and alive like some giant sea creature was about to make its appearance. Then the roiling sea did explode and a massive ugly black snout of steel surged majestically into the foam-blown sky at a forty-five-degree angle, water pouring off her sleek dark sides in sheets, her diving planes flashing in the moonlight.

  Why, she’s enormous! Hobbes thought. He’d heard rumors, of course, but this was simply beyond belief. What had they built? An underwater battleship?

  “Oh, my,” Kate said, “a giant submarine! Oh, my goodness, Hobbes!”

  “Goodness doesn’t have anything to do with these fellows, my dear,” he said. “Our friends the Germans, you know.”

  “Nazis, Hobbes?” Kate asked, leaning forward over the rail to peer at the monster. “Real live Nazis?”

  “I’m afraid so, Kate, I’m afraid so,” Hobbes said, raising the binoculars that hung from a strap round his neck.

  The conning tower broke through the surface, the whole of the stunning machine still rising at that impossible angle, so unlike anything a boat should be able to do, and Hobbes saw the red swastika and the U-33 legend and knew he was finally face-to-face with the pride of the Kriegsmarine, an Alpha-Class submarine!

  He devoured her with his binoculars, hardly able to believe the extraordinary size of the thing. Elated, Britain’s most celebrated naval designer and clandestine espionage agent suddenly realized he had just been handed an early Christmas present. The only unfortunate part, he thought, putting his arm round Kate’s shoulders, was that he was currently employed as a nanny. Nannies and Nazis weren’t likely to be a healthy combination.

  The broad bow came crashing down into the still-boiling sea. Instantly, three or four dark figures appeared up in the brilliantly ill
uminated conning tower, staring across the water at Thor with binoculars of their own.

  “I wonder what they could possibly want,” Hobbes said, and then he was blinded by a powerful searchlight beam coming from somewhere on the forward deck of the U-boat.

  “It hurts my eyes, Hobbes, I can’t see!” Kate cried. Hobbes bent down and put both hands on the little girl’s shoulders.

  “Listen, my child,” he said. “I’d dearly love it if you’d go below to the galley now. Put the kettle on for me, please, and get out those lovely sandwiches we made at Hawke Castle. I’m famished. Take Horatio with you, and give him a nice bowl of milk. Hobbes will be down in a bit. After I find out what these rascals are up to. Run along now, darling, won’t you?”

  Kate nodded her head and turned from the rail after giving one last look at the huge black submarine. Nazis, she thought, and far from her mother’s strawberry patch, too. “Horatio!” she called. “Come along, you naughty cat, we’re going to make a nice midnight supper for Uncle Hobbes!”

  She wasn’t afraid of Nazis. Why, her own mother didn’t even believe in them!

  “Turn that bloody light off, why don’t you?” Hobbes shouted across the water as soon as the child was gone. “You’re blinding me!” There was no answer, but in a moment the light was extinguished, which meant at least one person on the sub spoke English. A few smaller spotlights along the base of the sub’s tower were illuminated and trained on Thor.

  “Ahoy there, vessel Thor !” said a heavily accented voice in English floating over the water. “German vessel Wolf, here! Do you require assistance?”

  Assistance? What kind of assistance could he possibly require from a German U-boat? “No, I do not,” he shouted across the water. “Do you?”

  There was some hesitation on the conning tower bridge as they sorted that one out, and then one of them said, “We are following you all night! We are making sure your hull is intact after our collision!”