The Time Pirate (2 page)

At last I came to a spot where could be seen, on a jutting finger of rock, a warm glow of yellow lights in the rainy gloom. The beckoning two-story house on that stony promontory was aglow with promised warmth and food. My steps quickened.

I pushed inside the inn's heavy wooden door and found the old Jack Tar himself, clay-piped and pig-tailed, sitting in silence by the fire. I pulled up a chair and introduced myself. Had I the good fortune of speaking to Mr. Martyn Hornby? I inquired with a smile.

“Aye, I'm Hornby,” he said, removing his pipe. After a long silence in which clouds of geniality seemed to float above the man's head, he spoke.

“Weather slowed you up, I reckon,” he stated, and I could feel his inspection of my person.

He himself was a sturdy, handsome figure who looked to be in his late eighties. He wore faded breeches and a ragged woolen fisherman's sweater, much mended. He had a full head of snow-white hair, and his fine, leathered features were worn
by years of wind and water. But, in the firelight, his twinkling blue eyes still held a sparkling clarity of youth, and I was glad of my perseverance on that final narrow ledge.

“Ye've come a long way, Mr. Tolliver.”

“Indeed, sir, I have.” I nodded. “As a student of history, I've a keen interest in your encounter with the French off this island, Mr. Hornby. I'd appreciate your recollections on that subject, if you'd be so kind.”

“Aye,” Hornby said, and then he fell silent. “I'm the last one . . . so I suppose I should tell it, if it's to be told at all. If my memory's up to it, of course.” He gave a hearty shout for his barman in the next room, ordering food and ale.

The drinks soon arrived, along with a steaming meat pie for me, and we both sipped, staring into the merry blaze, each alone with his thoughts. Mine, at the moment, were solely of my poor tingling feet, more painful in the thawing than the freezing.

Suddenly, without warning, the man began to speak, eyeing me in a curious manner. “I was one of Captain McIver's powder monkeys, y'see, back in those glorious days, and—”

“Powder monkeys?” I interrupted, unfamiliar with the term.

“Boys who would ferry black powder from the holds below up to the gun crews when things got spicy. Listen. I'll tell you how it all started, Mr. Tolliver, if you want to start there at the beginning . . .”

I nodded, smiling encouragement, discreetly whipping my pen and a well-worn leather notebook from my pocket.

“We had a fair wind home to Portsmouth en route from our station in the West Indies where we'd recently captured a Portugee,” Martyn Hornby began. “A spy.”

“A spy.”

“Aye, one much encouraged to speak his mind to avoid the
tar-pot and cat-o'-nine-tails during the crossing. We eventually learned from his lips of a wicked plot, hatched in the evil brain of Billy Blood, the turncoat captain of the French frigate.”

“That would be Captain William Blood?”

“Few alive today have heard the name, sir. But Old Bill was a holy terror in his day. Gave Lord Nelson fits at every turning, he did. His plot was this: our natural enemy, the King of Spain, and the scurrilous French meant to join their naval forces and surprise Nelson en route to Trafalgar, and send the outnumbered British fleet to the bottom. It would have worked, too, had it not been for the heroism of our captain. And a few ship's passengers.”

“Passengers?”

“Hawke was his name, Lord Hawke. A peer of the realm, but an adventurous sort, being descended directly from the pirate Blackhawke. Lord Hawke and a young lad named Nick McIver.”

“Lord Hawke, you say?” I was scribbling furiously now.

“Long dead, now.”

“And the McIver boy. Related to the captain, was he?”

“Mere coincidence they shared the exact same name, I think, though some disagreed with me.”

“How did this Lord Hawke and the boy come to be aboard the
Merlin
, sir?”

“Hawke's daughter, Annabel, and his young son, Alexander, had been kidnapped and held for ransom by the French. It was Bill's way to kidnap children of the aristocracy and extort great sums for their release. Hawke had learned Blood had his children aboard the frigate
Mystère
, and Hawke was of a mind to rescue them.”

“And the McIver boy?”

“There was some mystery surrounding the boy and His
Lordship's sudden presence onboard. Indeed, there were rumors as to how they appeared onboard.”

“Rumors?”

“Shipboard rumors. Stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Something about some kind of ancient time machine the McIver boy was said to possess. How he come to be aboard, in fact.”

“Time machine, you say?” My confidence in the old salt's mental state was beginning to waver.

“The Tempus Machina, it was called. Supposedly invented by Leonardo da Vinci himself. Allowed a bloke to travel back and forth in time just easy as you please. A brilliant golden orb, word had it, that glowed with an otherworldly light. Contained a mechanism filled with jewels and such.”

“Foolishness. Tommyrot.”

“I agree most heartily. Absolute rubbish. But many of the crew swore Hawke and the boy had appeared out of thin air. Those that claimed to have witnessed it said they seemed to shimmer into place like fiery ghosts before becoming humanlike.”

“So, you were actually seeking out this frigate,
Mystère
, for more than military reasons? A kidnap rescue as well?”

Hornby nodded. “We'd extracted from that blasted Portugee where Blood's ship might lie. And more. We knew he had geographical details of his scheme etched on a golden spyglass, and—”

“I'm sorry—etched on a spyglass you say?”

“Aye. And not just any glass, mind you, but one Bill stole from Admiral Lord Nelson himself the night of the mutiny! According to that damnable Portugee, the location of the intended naval ambush was so secret that Bill had scratched the longitude and latitudinal coordinates right into the metal
barrel of his glass. Now, since Bonaparte himself had a hand in the planning of the thing, it was likely a cunning trap. We had to get our hands on that glass before Nelson and the whole British fleet sailed from Portsmouth . . . and, by God, we did!”

“But how?”

He laughed heartily. “Therein lies the tale, don't it, Mr. Tolliver?”

I took a quick sip of my drink and said, “This Lord Hawke—it was he who saved the day?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but it was the boy Nick who carried the day. A scrappy one, this young Nick McIver, only one year older than myself at that time,” the old fellow said, tilting his chair suddenly backward at a precipitous angle against the wall. “Nick and me became fast friends soon enough, our ages being so similar. I was ten; he was twelve, I believe, when he got his first taste of battle.”

“When we laid alongside that enemy frigate after a vicious exchange of rippling broadsides, young Nick and myself secretly boarded the
Mystère
and found ourselves in the thick of things, grapeshot and all. Never saw the like of such bloody struggle in all my years before the mast.”

Somewhere in the inn, a ship's bell struck. The wee hours drew nigh. A fresh blow had rushed up to haunt the eaves, and the fire had died down somewhat, lending a discernible chill to the room.

“Please continue, Mr. Hornby,” I said, getting to my feet and throwing another log or two onto the embers.

“Well, it was strangely quiet when Nick McIver and me emerged from the aft companionway. The cannons on both
vessels had ceased their thunder and for'ard we could see a press of sailors from both vessels gathered on her quarterdeck, with an occasional cheer in French or English rising from their midst. We heard, too, the vicious sound of two cutlasses clanging against each other. A brutal swordfight from the sound of it.

“Anyway, I looked aloft and saw the battle-torn French flag was still flapping at the top of the enemy mizzen, so I knew Old Bill had not surrendered. This despite the volume of lead and grapeshot we'd poured into him. Nick and I each took a cutlass off dead sailors, and we crept for'ard and climbed atop the pilot house so as to look down on the quarterdeck unobserved. We inched ourselves along on our elbows until we could just peek down and see the action not ten feet below. The crews of both vessels were pressing aft, trying to get a glimpse of the fight taking place at the helm and—”

“The main fighting had stopped?”

“Aye. A great sea battle had come down to a two-man war. Captain William Blood and Lord Hawke were locked in a death struggle. What a sight! Old Bill was a spectacle, wearing what must 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. He had Nelson's spyglass, all right, jammed inside his wide belt. Hawke had a terrible gash down his right cheek, and his shirtfront was soaked with his own blood. Still, he had his left hand rigidly behind his back, fighting Blood in classic dueling fashion but with more fury in his eyes than I ever thought possible—another drink, sir?”

“Yes, of course! Please press on, though . . .”

Hornby called out for another round and continued.
“Hawke parried Blood's wicked blows each and all and thrust his cutlass again and again at the darting pirate. But despite Hawke's geniuslike finesse with the sword, it was immediately clear to us boys that this was the fight of his life, as Blood brutally laid on three massive 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 replied, slashing forward. ‘No, it's the brave kidnapper of small children who's finished, Blood,' Hawke said, deflecting with his own sword a tremendous cut, which would surely have split him to the chine had he not intercepted it in the nick of time.

“Hawke, in a dancing parry and lunge, laid on a powerful blow, and a great clang of iron rang out over the decks. Billy screamed, his face flushed furious red. He charged Hawke then, like a wounded rhinoceros, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“Hawke raised his cutlass to defend the ferocious blow, but Billy struck with huge force at Hawke's upraised blade. The sword was brutally ripped from His Lordship's hand and went clattering across the deck.

“A cold hand gripped our two young hearts as we watched Lord Hawke retreating, completely defenseless against that murderous scalawag, and stumbling backward, tripping over wounded men lying about the decks awash with blood. He crashed to the deck and Bill was upon him.

“ ‘Lord Hawke! Up here!' Nick McIver shouted, and everyone turned to see that boy standing atop the pilot house. He pulled the cutlass he'd borrowed from his belt and threw it down to the empty-handed Hawke. Hawke grinned as he
reached up to snatch it, but Nick's toss was short and the sword fell to the deck at Hawke's feet. I saw my aristocratic new hero bend to retrieve it, but Bill was using the moment's distraction to circle in toward Hawke, his sword poised for a murderous blow.

“Hawke and his blade were coming up as Blood's blade was coming down. The flat of Billy's sword caught Hawke hard across the shoulder blades, driving him back down to the deck. His head thudded hard, and I could see he was stunned. The sword Nick had thrown flew from his hands and landed a good fifteen feet away. Nick looked at me, and I could see in his eyes what he had in mind.

“ ‘Now!' ”

“It was only about ten feet from our perch down to the quarterdeck, and Nick timed that jump perfectly. He came down squarely on the shoulders of Captain Blood, straddling his head and clamping both hands over the enraged pirate's eyes. Blinded and snorting, Bill whirled about, staggering over the bodies of the dead like some wild animal. He clawed and shook that tenacious boy clinging to him, tormenting him, but our Nick held on.

“Nick saw me then, peering down from the rooftop, and cried out, ‘Down to the brig with you, Martyn Hornby! See if you can find Lord Hawke's children! His Lordship and I have this well in hand.' Nick had somehow snatched the prized spyglass from Bill's waist . . . and then I saw Nick flying through the air as Billy had finally ripped him from his shoulders and flung him like a ragdoll hard upon the deck.

“
Well in hand
? I thought, disbelieving. But I did as Nick said and slid backward down off the roof, much as it pained me to leave that grave drama and then—

“ ‘I'll have that glass back!' ” Blood roared, planting one of
his gleaming Hessian boots squarely in the middle of Nick's chest. Bill poked the tip of his razor-sharp blade at him, prodding Nick's jacket. Then he slashed the boy's thin blue coat right through, and the gleaming spyglass spilled out onto the deck, rolling away as Nick tried desperately to grab for it. In a flash, Blood's hand shot out like some inhuman claw and clutched it, raising it aloft where it shone in the sun.

“ ‘No,' Nick shouted, ‘that's Nelson's glass!' He was clawing at Blood's leg, trying to rise from the deck. But Billy still had him pinned with his boot pressed painfully in the boy's stomach, and Nick could only twist frantically like a spider impaled. Then Nick reached inside his jacket for a bone-handled dagger. He plunged that blade deep into the fleshy part of Old Bill's calf. Roaring in pain, Blood didn't see Hawke approach from behind.

“ ‘The boy said the glass belongs to Nelson,' Hawke said, the point of his cutlass in Billy's back. ‘I'll thank you to return it to him. Now.'

“ ‘Your tongue has wagged its last,' Bill said, whirling to face Lord Hawke. They eyed each other. Bill 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, a sound one would never forget, the sound of steel on flesh and bone. The sound of steel
through
flesh and bone!