The Time Pirate

by Ted Bell

His plan was nothing less than to destroy his two sworn enemies, the French and the English, with a series of bold attacks, breathtaking in their audacity and scope. Then he’d loot their undefended coastal towns at will, confiscating what he wanted. And after that, the world was his for the taking.

  “Lay alongside him,” Blood told his companion as they neared the stern of the Pearl. The man did as he was told and shipped his oars, his gunwale bumping up against the port-side hull of the infamous pirate Edward England’s brig.

  Bill stood in his captain’s gig, a little unsteady on his pins, as he’d had a few tots of rum himself, and shouted upward, “Ahoy! Is that dog Edward England aboard?”

  A crewman standing the port watch leaned over the rail. “Who wants to know?”

  “Tell him it’s Blood. Just made anchor. Say I’ll meet him at the Black Crow in one hour.”

  The pirate captain drew one of his two pistols. He didn’t like the man’s tone. And if the man above didn’t mind his manners, Blood planned to put a ball through his tiny brain.

  “Captain William Blood himself, is it?”

  “Aye, that’s who ye’ve the pleasure of addressing in such disrespectful manner, you bleedin’ dog.”

  There was new respect in the crewman’s voice now. Billy Blood was notorious throughout the Caribbean and the Spanish Main as a cutthroat with uncommon devil-like powers. A ghostly figure, he was. It was even rumored he’d appeared in three or four places at the same time, shimmering in and out like some kind of banshee. He’d be spied in Barbados, and a day later someone would see him in Barcelona!

  “Aye, Captain, my sincere apologies. I’ll convey your invitation forthwith,” the crewman said, not taking any chances, and raced up to the poop deck.

  “Away,” Billy said to Snake Eye. “I want to get there first. The dock by the old Black Crow is just over there. Make haste and I’ll finance another jug o’ poison and that jolly wench for you.”

  Snake Eye bent to the oars with a will, and minutes later they’d tied up the gig and were walking through the Black Crow’s door. Bill smiled and drew a sharp breath. He was home. He’d taken over the top two floors of the Black Crow Inn as his temporary headquarters.

  The four-story building wasn’t much to look at, but it was strategically located at the center of the crescent-shaped harbor. From his top-floor veranda, he could look far out to sea for approaching vessels. And with his powerful spyglass, he could watch every move a man made aboard any ship in the Port Royal harbor.

  Of course the Black Crow’s saloon stank of rank sweat, stale beer, and the sour smell of spilt rum. And at this hour of the night, the intoxicated room was near pandemonium. Indeed, the riotous nature of the place Captain Blood now encountered before him reminded him of a painful scene from his youth.

  There was an infamous hospital at Moorfields, just outside London Town, place called Bethlam, or “Bedlam” in the common parlance, where Bill had gone to say his farewells to his poor father when he’d first joined the Royal Navy. Bedlam was where they incarcerated those personages found guilty of incurable “moral insanity.” On any Tuesday, for a penny, anyone at all could go and peer into the cells and see the “lunatics,” laugh at their antics, generally of a violent or unspeakable nature. Visitors were allowed to bring long sticks with which to provoke or enrage the inmates.

  Young William Blood’s final farewell to his father was a famous one. Seeing a peasant repeatedly poking his own father in his one good eye with a long spindly stick, he had approached the man from behind, warned him to drop his stick, and, when he didn’t, had wrapped his left arm around the man’s chest and without further ado grabbed him under the chin with his right hand and ripped the beggar’s head right off his shoulders. Gave it a good kick that sent it soaring over the heads of the laughing peasants.

  There was a trial at the Old Bailey, a lengthy one to the delight of the newspapers, but in the end the justices sided with the aristocratic young William Blood, a man with, according to an admiral’s testimony, a brilliant future with the Royal Navy.

  The two pirates stepped from the street inside the doorway of the Black Crow. At a nod from Blood, Snake Eye pushed and shoved his way through the tumultuous crowd of pirates, privateers, various scalawags, and hangers-on. When he reached the center of the room, Snake Eye leaped atop a trestle table, pulled two flintlock pistols from the bandoliers strapped across his bare chest, and fired them into the ceiling.

  Chunks of plaster fell all around him, one piece sufficiently heavy to knock an already insensible pirate unconscious.

  “Mes amis, silence, if you please,” Snake Eye said. “My esteemed commander, famous throughout the world for his bravery and the size of his treasury, has summoned you here tonight because he would like a word. His name is familiar, mais certainement! Monsieur le capitaine William Blood!”

  A drunken roar went up from the crowd at the sound of that name, for Billy was much esteemed in this part of the world. As he made his way to the table where Snake Eye stood, the crowd parted magically, and many an old crewman stepped forward to pay his respects.

  A chant started with a single sailor screaming, “Blood! Blood! Blood!” and soon every voice joined in the cacophony, three hundred dastardly pirates, shouting Old Bill’s name to the very rafters.

  Bill leaped up onto the table, drew his sword from the scabbard, and raised it into the air, the silver skulls braided into his full beard tinkling like tiny bells.

  “This be an historic night by any measure,” he began, turning as he spoke so all could have a good look at him. “For when the history books of the future are scribbled down, they will tell of the greatest pirate armada ever assembled. And it will be you men here tonight, you brave and hearty souls, that history itself will be telling about. And those words will be written in blood!”

  He paused to let that thought sink in.

  “Are ye with me, then?” he screamed and was quickly gratified to hear another thunderous roar.

  “My thanks to you all for being first of the brethren to heed the call. But this is just the beginning, lads. By the time we’re ready to strike at our enemies, our number will have increased a hundredfold! And then we shall see which empire truly rules the seas! And I tell you now, it will be the empire of Blood!”

  The chant of “Blood!” began again, and despite Bill’s efforts to silence them, it continued unabated. He nodded at Snake Eye who raised both pistols and fired once more into the ceiling.

  “Captains, I address you specifically now. I want you and your crews to sail on the morning tide. You are my messengers, and you will go forth and call all of our brethren to gather here at Port Royal a fortnight hence from this exact day. Describe to them in great detail the formation of this mighty pirate armada and its historic mission. And tell them of the endless riches in store for them that signs on!

  “For no ship, city, or town will be spared our wrath as we wreak havoc and plunder on the French, the English, the Dutch coasts, and any ship under any flag foolhardy enough to place themselves in our path! Hard, bloodthirsty work there will be, and plenty, but it’ll be well paid for. Double wages I said at the start—double wages and a bonus—and what I said, I stand by. I say again, are ye with me? Signify by sayin’ Aye!”

  “His name is Captain William Blood.”

  The resounding roar was deafening. Old Bill looked closely at Snake Eye and let the Frenchman catch just a trace of the smile on his thin lips as he savored this long-awaited moment. The Caribbean pirates’ battle for absolute control of the Seven Seas had finally begun.

  10

  THE BARONESS AND THE BOMBERS

  · Guernsey, Channel Islands, 1940 ·

  The Baroness Fleur de Villiers’s blue eyes popped wide open. She stared goggle-eyed up at her dog Poppet, standing above her. The little terrier, whose shaggy coat was the same snow-white shade as her own hair, had leaped up onto her bed and now stood atop her silk duvet coverlet. The big four-poster was awfully high off the
floor. Never before had Poppet attempted such a death-defying leap. The dog’s big brown eyes were gazing meaningfully into her mistress’s face. Was there disapproval in that soulful, questioning gaze? Fleur wondered for a moment before the truth struck her.

  “Poppet! What on earth?” Fleur de Villiers said, casting a glance at the antique French clock that stood on the carved marble mantel above her bedroom fireplace. A strong shaft of sunlight pierced a crack in the dark green velvet draperies and lit up the face and the golden ormolu of her favorite clock, a gift from her late husband, Osgood. Good heavens, the sun was up—and not recently, either!

  “Nine o’clock! What a frightful layabout you must think me, Poppet!” she said, gathering him into her arms and slipping from her bed. “Small wonder, then. You must be ravenous, you poor dear, Poppet. An hour past your breakfast. I must have overslept, mustn’t I have? Good Lord, poor Poppet. I never oversleep, you know that.”

  Then she saw the book splayed on her bedcovers and remembered. She’d been up half the night, dying to finish the latest of her beloved whodunits. This one by her new favorite author, Dorothy L. Sayers, was called Murder Must Advertise, and it featured a charming and rather romantic figure by the name of Lord Peter Wimsey. Fleur fancied she had rather a schoolgirl crush on Lord Peter by this point and hoped that Miss Sayers planned to write many more of his dashing adventures.

  She picked up the book, inserted her needlepoint bookmark between its pages, and placed the book on her bedside table. Then she slipped into her dressing gown and carried Poppet down one flight of worn wooden stairs to the warmth of the sun-filled kitchen.

  Fleur de Villiers had been a voracious reader of mystery novels for most of her eighty years. She practically knew the works of Agatha Christie and Mary Roberts Rinehart by heart. And nothing was more thrilling than to discover veins of new literary gold to mine. A cracking good mystery was her heart’s delight, and she found mystery lurking everywhere. And not just in the pages of the countless hundreds of books lining the sagging shelves in every room of her rambling cottage.

  But at Fordwych Manor, not all the books were mysteries. There were a few of dear old Osgood’s military volumes. And some scientific works, mostly in Latin. On a Chippendale desk in the large bay window of her library stood a stack of memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies. But these books were strictly for instructional purposes, not enjoyment.

  Unbeknownst to anyone on the island of Guernsey, the Baroness de Villiers herself had become an aspiring author. She was writing, in fits and starts, her memoirs. The title? The Mystery of Life.

  She knew her title wasn’t quite right, not yet. Still, it was only a working title, as they called it. It was just “off” a wee bit, and she worried that it might sound too pretentious and all-knowing. She feared some readers might even mistake it for some obtuse philosophical treatise on the meaning of it all or eternity, or some such silly nonsense.

  But her book was about the mysteries of life, wasn’t it?

  Yes, the big and the small, the solvable and the insoluble, she loved them all. As her dear friend Sybil Hathaway, the Dame of Sark, had once remarked of life, “The whole thing’s one big mystery, and then the curtain falls, and we all have to sail out of the theater before seeing how it all comes out!”

  Life was one big mystery, wasn’t it?

  Cook having given her her standard breakfast, a single boiled egg in a Minton cup, a pot of tea, and a solitary scone, unbuttered, Fleur returned upstairs to dress. She peered outside her opened dressing-room window to the gardens below. It was a blustery spring day, sun peeking in and out, with a scent of rain on the wind. Best take the mac, she thought; she had a good two-hour ride ahead of her.

  Her bicycle, an ancient Raleigh with a large wicker basket mounted over the front fender, had been in service for many years. She also owned a car, of course, a venerable Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, circa 1920, but she seldom used the old Ghost unless the weather was prohibitive. Or if she was attending some dinner party or some gay soirée where tippling might be involved.

  On those occasions, her chauffeur, who lived in apartments above the garage, would be called upon. His name was Eammon Darby. He was a funny little Irish bachelor, a smiling leprechaun of a fellow who was nearly seventy himself. Over the decades, they’d become fast friends. He was of good cheer, good at his job, and he took his responsibilities extraordinarily seriously, a trait Fleur admired in anyone in any trade.

  Eammon kept the twenty-year-old Rolls looking as shiny and new as the day it had rolled off the Guernsey ferry from the mainland, Osgood having driven the vehicle down to the docks at Portsmouth from Mr. Jack Barclay’s automotive emporium in Berkeley Square, London.

  “Good morning, young Eammon,” she said, entering the garage to retrieve her bicycle. Darby was already hard at it this morning, of course, polishing the great long silver bonnet, perched perilously atop a wobbly stepladder. The Ghost was immense, and Eammon, a former jockey who’d once rode Celsius to victory in the Grand National, was barely five feet tall in his stocking feet.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said, pausing ever so briefly to lift his woolen cap.

  “Anything interesting to be found on Auntie Beeb last night, Mr. Darby?”

  Eammon Darby’s idea of an evening’s entertainment was pulling an armchair up to the old wireless after his supper, sipping his tea and Irish whiskey, and listening to the BBC all evening.

  “There’s talk all of our British soldiers are pulling out, ma’am, leaving the islands. Troop transports on the way, they say.”

  “What?” she said, putting a hand to the wall to steady herself.

  “Yes, ma’am. Whitehall says our Channel Islands are of ‘no strategic importance’ in the coming war.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “I only wish I was. We’ll be left defenseless against those Jerries, and no doubt about it. I’m worried for your safety, ma’am.”

  “Defenseless? I hardly think so, Mr. Darby!” the baroness said, composing herself and climbing aboard the Raleigh. She pushed off and was soon turning into the lane that led down to the coast road. It was Saturday, and today was the day she did her weekly coastal surveillance along the south shore.

  She let the phrase linger on the tongue of her mind: coastal surveillance. Observation. Detailed maps of possible invasion sites. This is what filled her watercolor sketchbook. Not to mention U-boat sightings and the locations of various Luftwaffe bomber and fighter squadrons conducting sorties off the coast of France.

  Baroness Fleur de Villiers, as it happened, had, at her rather advanced age, found herself . . . well, there was no other word for it . . . a spy.

  And one not at all like those pretend, arriviste ladies auxiliary groups, up on their rooftops every night with their opera glasses, sipping champagne and looking for Heinkel bombers. No, she was the real thing all right. Spying on one’s enemies, like any trade, was something to be taken very seriously.

  Fleur knew there were only six miles of open water across the channel to France. And that’s where the Germans were now, having bypassed the much-vaunted Maginot Line and attacked France with masses of Panzer tanks through the Ardennes forest.

  They had France by the throat now, the Nazis did. The Huns held Paris, and everyone knew that England was next on Herr Hitler’s shopping list. It was only a matter of time before the red, black, and white swastika flags were planted on English soil. His obvious first stop would be her own Channel Islands.

  Fleur de Villiers was a charter member of a very secret espionage society called the Birdwatchers. It had been formed the summer before on the little island of Greybeard by the estimable Lord Richard Hawke and a lighthouse keeper named Angus McIver. They were a formidable group of spies now, numbering nearly one hundred, and they included cells on each of the tiny Channel Islands.

  All of these Birdwatchers, in one way or another, reported directly to Winston Churchill himself. The baroness had been elected to lead the little b
and here on Guernsey, and in addition to her daily surveys of activity on the island, it was also her role to collect all the information gathered by the Guernsey Birdwatchers on German activities each week.

  Then, every Wednesday, she would make her way to a deserted beach in the middle of the night. In her bicycle basket was the waterproof packet containing that week’s intelligence, to be ferried over to Lord Hawke on Greybeard Island. A fisherman from Greybeard, a chap named Derry Moore, would anchor his fishing boat just offshore. He’d then row his dinghy to a small cove hidden from the road, and there the Baroness de Villiers, hiding in the shadows of the cove, would pass him her precious packet. It was thrilling, every bit of it.

  It was then up to Lord Hawke, whose ancient family had been friends of the de Villiers for years, to somehow manage to get the entire week’s intelligence reports across the channel to the mainland and ultimately to Churchill himself. And do it under the very noses of the horrid Nazis, whose U-boats were everywhere these days!

  She found the whole thing all rather exciting, to be honest. After all, for a woman who loved mystery, what on earth could possibly be more full of mystery and excitement than the life of a real live spy?

  She was thinking just that, peddling merrily along the coast, when she heard the roar of countless German bombers passing directly over her head. She stopped, climbed off her bicycle, and looked up the underside of the heavy bombers: the red, white, and black swastikas painted on the wings; the bomb bay doors clearly visible in the bellies of the beasts.

  It struck her then, like lightning, just how vulnerable her little islands truly were. She could almost see those German bomb bay doors opening slowly, see the silvery bombs come tumbling out, raining death and destruction wherever they fell.

  Perhaps Eammon was right, she thought with a shiver. After all, they had no militia. No Home Guard, to speak of.

  Perhaps, after all this, they actually were defenseless.