by Ted Bell
“This is it, child!” Sookie whispered to Nick. “Captain Blood’s dark kingdom of little lost babies! And, if you ever see a bird like that parrot on this boat, cover your eyes! Billy’s bird, that is, and it can pluck your eyeballs clean from the sockets before you can blink!”
Sookie pulled Nick down into the shadows, to a crouching position away from the door. “Sssshh!” she said, a pretty brown finger to her lips in warning. “You wait here for my signal!”
Sookie rapped on the thick wooden door once, then twice, then once again, and it creaked open to the coded signal. A waft of damp, fetid air rushed out. Behind the door, Nick caught a glimpse of a dark passage between rows of iron bars, a gloomy space lit by guttering candles hung every few feet or so. This was a place that had never known the briefest ray of sunlight.
A large, sullen-looking sailor stuck his ugly head out and Nick ducked down out of the pool of lamplight. He clamped his fingers around Jip’s muzzle to keep him silent because an enormous rat had just scurried out the opened door and right beneath the big dog’s nose.
“Philippe!” Sookie said to the guard. “Le capitaine est mort! On vas fêter, maintenant!”
“Le capitaine Blood, est-il mort?” Philippe cried, and he threw back his grizzled head and laughed, then wrapped his beefy arms around Sookie, lifting her into the air with joy. He put her down and raced past Nick, eager to join the celebration on deck. The captain, Nick thought, was obviously not a very popular figure aboard this vessel.
“Billy’s dead?” Nick whispered, incredulously, rushing to Sookie’s side.
“Course he ain’t,” Sookie whispered to Nick. “I just told him everybody on deck was celebrating the death of Billy Blood. A trick! See him run? Everybody will dance at that vile demon’s wake, child, including Miss Sookie herself, soon as he really is dead! Come along, now, the children are right inside here, Nick!”
“Bonjour, mes enfants!” Sookie cried, entering the gloomy brig. “How is everyone this fine day?”
“Bonjour, Sookie! La Douce! Bonjour! Rain or shine? Rain or shine?”
“Shine today, children, lots of shine up there today!”
“Shine! Shine! Shine! Shine!” the children behind bars cried in sad unison.
The children all began chanting happily in singsong, beating their little tin cups on the iron bars. It was clear to Nick that Sookie was a much-loved fixture of the children’s brig, their only connection with the world of sunshine they’d left behind. On both sides of the shadowy candlelit passage, they stuck their tiny faces through the bars and smiled at her as they went by.
Sookie was marching Nick and Jip straight to the end, past the rows of iron cages with the pale outstretched arms. She stopped only at the very last one on the port side. There was a small candle in a holder on the wall of the cell and it cast its flickering light on two small bodies, huddled together on the straw-covered floor.
“May I present Monsieur and Mademoiselle Hawke!” Sookie announced, and Nick was heartbroken to see the two beautiful children dressed in tattered rags and sleeping on a pile of matted straw. He put his face between two bars and peered into the shadowy light of the tiny cell.
Alexander and Annabel. Looking just like the photograph he’d seen of them in Lord Hawke’s study. Sookie had been telling the truth. Still, something was odd about the way the children looked, and Nick couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They looked exactly as they had in the photograph and yet—yes, that was it! Five years had elapsed and the children had not aged at all! Strange, but wasn’t everything?
Though they had been held in captivity for nearly five years, they both appeared to be about five years old, the age Hobbes had said they were when they’d been kidnapped! They’d been trapped, not only aboard Billy’s red prison ship, but also in time itself! In some way, Nick realized, the clock stopped when you took a trip with the time machine. He could hardly wait to tell Hobbes about it when they got home.
“May I go inside?” Nick whispered to Sookie.
“Don’t see why not,” Sookie said. “I stole the master key from Philippe after he went to sleep last night!” She pulled a large key from somewhere deep in the folds of her apron and inserted it into the rusty iron lock. The creaky door swung open.
Nick dropped to his knees in the musty straw beside the sleeping children. They were so peacefully unaware of the madness raging on deck above them he almost hated to wake them, but he knew he must. He reached out, brushing the straw away from their foreheads, damp with perspiration in the foul closeness of the brig.
“Wake up,Alexander,” Nick said quietly. “Wake up,Annabel!” Their eyes opened slowly and they looked up at him, yawning and rubbing their fists in their sleepy eyes.
“Are you quite awake now, children? Then listen carefully, will you? I’m a friend of your father’s,” Nick said, gently. “We’ve come to take you home to Greybeard Island.”
“Home?” Annabel said. Their eyes widened and glistened in the flickering candlelight. “To our home? Hawke Castle?” They looked at each other in openmouthed wonder and it was plain they could hardly believe it.
“Our father?” Alexander said, in a small, disbelieving voice. “You know our father?”
“Very well, and he misses you both so terribly,” Nick said, picking bits of straw from their hair and smiling. “If I tell you something, will you promise to do exactly as I say?” They nodded yes, their big round eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
“Listen carefully, now. Your father is aboard this very ship,” Nick said, and both children’s hands flew to their mouths and they regarded him in wide-eyed wonder.
“He’s here? Our papa?” they cried in unison, and their eyes filled with tears of hope and longing.
“Yes, he’s come to rescue you from this terrible place,” Nick said. “But you and all the other children must remain here in the brig until he has dealt with Billy Blood. It’s very dangerous up on deck now where your father is. I must hurry and see if I can help him—”
“Oh! We must see our daddy, Sookie! We must!” Annabel cried, clinging to Sookie’s long skirts. “Why, Alexander and I—”
“Please listen, Annabel!” Nick said. “You’ll see him soon! But only when it’s safe. Sookie, will you help me? I want you to unlock all the cells and gather all the children in the passageway. But you mustn’t let a single one leave the brig until you hear from me! As soon as Billy has surrendered Mystère to Lord Hawke, you shall have my signal!”
“What will the signal be, child?” Sookie asked. Nick frowned. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I’ll send Jip!” Nick turned to Jip, pointed at Sookie, and asked the dog, “Where’s Sookie, boy, where’s Sookie?” Jip jumped up and licked the brown woman’s face and Nick knew the dog would be able to find her anywhere.
“You be careful now, Nicholas, and don’t you let ol’ Billy or his devilish parrot get hold of you,” Sookie said, hugging Nick. “These poor babies been sufferin’ down here a long time, a very long time! I’ve waited years for the day they’s set free!”
“Today’s that day, Sookie, you have my word on it!” Nick cried, and calling Jip after him, he ran out of the cell and disappeared down the gloomy corridor.
“We’ll keep belowdecks all the way aft, boy,” he said to Jip. “It’s a little too hot for the likes of us up on deck right now!”
CHAPTER XXXV
Merlin Victorious
· 4 October 1805 ·
H. M. S. MYSTÈRE, AT SEA
But all was strangely quiet on deck when Nick and Jip emerged from the aft companionway, Nick blinking his eyes in the bright sunlight. He looked around the big French ship’s aftmost deck and saw that the deck was almost deserted, save the dead and wounded. The cannons on both vessels had ceased their roar and forward he could see a press of sailors from the two warships gathered on the quarterdeck below, with an occasional cheer in French or English rising from their midst.
He heard, too, the vicious soun
d of two cutlasses ringing against each other with a determined fury. A brutal sword-fight, from the sound of it. He looked aloft and saw the battle-torn French flag still fluttering at the top of the mizzen. So Billy had not surrendered!
In the typical manner of most French first-raters, there was a small pilothouse here on the poop deck, and it gave Nick an inspiration. From its roof, Nick realized, he might be able to look down on the entire quarterdeck unobserved. He quickly rolled a nearby barrel up against the back of the small house, clambered atop it, and then pulled himself up onto the roof, Jip right behind him. He inched forward on his elbows until he could lift his head just enough to peek down at the frenzied scene on the quarterdeck below. The crews of both vessels were pressing aft from all over the ship, trying for a glimpse of the action taking place at the helm. Nick, lying atop the pilothouse roof, was perfectly positioned to observe the battle taking place not ten feet below him.
The great sea battle had come down to a two-man war. Captain William Blood and Lord Richard Hawke were locked in a death struggle.
Blood was a spectacle, wearing what must once have been magnificent finery, white silk breeches and a great flaring white satin captain’s coat, but now all this flummery was torn and soiled with black powder and red blood. Hawke had a terrible gash down his right cheek and his shirtfront was soaked with his own blood. Still, he had his cigar clenched in his teeth and he held his left hand rigidly behind his back, fighting Blood in a classic dueling fashion, but with more fury in his face than Nick would have thought possible.
He parried Blood’s wicked blows each and all and thrust his cutlass again and again at the darting pirate. Despite Hawke’s genius-like finesse with a sword, it was immediately clear that this was the fight of his life, as Blood brutally laid on three resounding blows in quick succession.
“It’s finished, Hawke, surrender!” Billy cried, advancing. “There’s not a swordsman alive who can best Billy Blood! I’ll cut yer bleedin’ heart out and eat it for me supper!”
“I think you shall go hungry, then, sir!” Hawke cried, slashing forward. “No, no! It’s the brave kidnapper of women and small children who’s finished, Blood!” Hawke said, deflecting a tremendous cut which would have surely split him to the chine had he not intercepted it with his sword in time.
“Look! Even your own crew has little stomach left for you, Billy Blood! See how they stand idle, waiting to see their captain’s blood run in the scuppers!”
Hawke, in a brilliant dancing parry and lunge, laid on a powerful blow and a great clang of iron rang out across the deck. It was true. The men had all fallen silent, weapons at their feet, watching the battle with rapt attention. McIver, having dispatched the last pockets of resistance on deck, had now ordered a few Royal Marines to keep their muskets leveled at the few Frenchmen who’d not yet thrown down their arms. This, in case they had any rash notion of coming to Billy’s aid.
“Lying dog!” Billy screamed, his face flushing bright red with furious blood. He charged at Hawke like a wounded rhino, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Hawke raised his cutlass to defend the ferocious blow, but Billy stopped short at the last instant and spun on his heel, whirling his body completely around and striking with huge force at Hawke’s upraised cutlass. The sword was brutally ripped from Hawke’s hand and went clattering across the deck.
A cold hand gripped Nick’s heart as he saw Hawke retreating, completely defenseless against the murderous Billy, and stumbling backward, tripping over the wounded men lying about the deck, arms and legs akimbo.
A Marine leveled his musket at Billy, but Captain McIver pushed the barrel aside, shaking his head. It was Lord Hawke’s fight, win or lose. Honor dictated that he finish it, an affair of honor, after all.
“Captain Bonnard!” Billy said, pausing to shout at his captain of French Marines. “Why have your men ceased fighting? To watch this pitiful coward die? I order you to attack! Kill these English dogs, starting with this pathetic mongrel!” He started for the weaponless Hawke. But then Bonnard suddenly blocked his path to the defenseless Englishman.
“I will take no more orders from you, Captain Blood,” Bonnard said, stepping forward and drawing his own blade, and a cheer went up from his tattered crew. “We’ve hardly a soul left with a will to fight, a fire rages near our powder magazine, and we are grievously holed below the waterline. Any fit captain at all could have seen this mighty ship to victory today, sir, but you have precious little fitness in that regard. We had no chance. We have suffered you long and long enough, sir! Enough! You are unfit to command this vessel, and I intend to negotiate her surrender on behalf of my crew. Throw down your sword, Blood, you are under the arrest of the Imperial French Navy! Bosun, strike our colors, we are surrendering the Mystère to—”
“Mutiny, is it then?” Billy threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll slit all your mutinous French throats afore I’m done, but I’ll begin with this English swine!” He swung his hateful gaze and his sword on Hawke, then lunged forward, his blade aimed at Hawke’s heart.
“Lord Hawke! Up here!” Nick shouted, and everyone turned to see a small boy standing atop the pilothouse with a large black dog. He pulled the cutlass Stiles had given him from his waistband and threw it to the empty-handed Hawke. Hawke laughed as he reached up to catch it, but Nick’s toss
“It’s finished, Hawke, surrender!”
was short and the sword clattered to the deck at Hawke’s feet. Nick saw Hawke bend to retrieve it and Billy use the moment’s distraction to circle in toward Hawke, his sword poised for a murderous blow. Hawke was coming up with Nick’s sword as Blood’s blade was coming down, and the flat of Billy’s sword caught Lord Hawke hard across the shoulder blades, driving him down to the deck. The sword flew from Lord Hawke’s hand, landing a good ten feet away. Nick drew a sharp breath.
Now!
It was only about ten feet from the roof down to the quarterdeck and he timed his jump perfectly. Nick landed squarely on the shoulders of Captain Blood, straddling his head as he’d done with Lieutenant Stiles. Nick clamped both hands over the enraged pirate’s eyes and hung on for dear life. Blinded and snorting, Blood whirled about, staggering over the bodies of the dead and wounded on the deck. He clawed and shook the tenacious boy who was clinging to him, tormenting him, but Nick held on.
He saw Jip still up on the roof, barking loudly at the scene below. “Find Sookie, boy!” he cried. “Find Sookie!” and then he felt himself flying through the air and crashing to the deck as Billy finally ripped him from his shoulders and flung him like a rag doll to the blood-washed decks.
“Found your mange-ridden dog, have you boy?” Billy sneered, striding over and planting one of his gleaming Hessian boots squarely in the middle of the boy’s chest. “Then you must give me Leonardo’s little gold ball, mustn’t you? That was our bargain, wee swabbie!” Blood poked the tip of his razor-sharp blade at him, prodding Nick’s jacket. “It’s on your person, ain’t it, boy? That’s what me bird Bones tells me—”
He slashed Nick’s thin blue coat right through the pocket and the golden ball spilled out upon the deck, rolling away as Nick tried desperately to grab for it, and in a flash Blood’s hand darted out like an inhuman claw and clutched it. Billy uttered a howl of delight, raising the brilliant object up into the sun.
“At last I’ve the both of them! The twin orbs of eternal power,” Billy shouted gleefully, staring at his gleaming prizes. “Which of the Seven Seas does William Blood not now singly command? Come, you mutineers, come all and witness a force of nature no man can conquer! We’ll yet throw these pathetic Englishmen into the sea! We shall rule the world!”
“No!” Nick cried. “The machine is mine!” Nick was clawing at Blood’s leg, trying to rise from the deck, but Billy had pinned him with his boot, painfully pressed now in the middle of Nick’s stomach. Nick could only twist frantically like a spider impaled.
Nick reached inside his jacket for the bone-handled dagger Billy had stuck in his front
door. Perhaps I can return it to him in person, Nick remembered thinking. He plunged the dagger deep into the fleshy part of Billy’s calf. Roaring in pain, Billy didn’t see Hawke coming up behind him.
“He said the orb belongs to him, Blood,” Lord Hawke said, the point of his cutlass in Billy’s back. “Return it to him now.”
“Your tongue has wagged its last, Hawke,” the pirate said and whirled to face Lord Hawke. Billy lunged first, his blade going for Hawke’s exposed gut, but this time it was Hawke who spun on his heel in lightning fashion, whirling his body with his flashing cutlass outstretched, and then an awful sound Nick would never forget, the awful sound of steel on flesh and bone, of steel through flesh and bone.
There was an enormous howl of pain and Billy held up a bloody stump of an arm.
On the deck, Blood’s still-twitching hand, bloody fingers clenched around the shining golden ball. Hawke knelt and pried the Tempus Machina free. Then he handed it back to Nick.
There came a look then in William Blood’s eyes when the smoldering fires of hell, always within, seemed to lick out of his very eyeballs, to singe the air, even the beard of Lord Hawke. Billy swore that foul oath at Lord Hawke then, the one that would be whispered among sailing men for years, and dashed up the steps to the afterdeck. He was running for his life from the angry press of sailors, English and French mutineers both, who now charged after him. Nick saw Billy bolt into the stairwell aft of the pilothouse. It was the same stairwell Nick himself had used upon leaving Nelson’s niece.