The Time Pirate

by Ted Bell

  This was their finest hour. And they were waiting patiently for this final moment of triumph to commence.

  Ordinary country people, from every nook and cranny and bog, sensing history in the making, came from miles around, their numbers swelling beyond count as the day wore on. Even now, the torn and blackened battlefield behind the triple lines of soldiers bulged with wildly cheering citizens.

  Boys dangled precariously from every treetop; farmers stood teetering atop fence posts, all hoping for a glimpse of the proud man who had so reviled and disparaged the Continental army over the course of this long and bloody struggle. They’d all come out to see the haughty Lieutenant General Charles Cornwallis, in all his frippery and finery, get his long overdue comeuppance.

  It was Nick McIver’s great good fortune that his horse was standing directly adjacent to that of his superior officer, the Marquis de Lafayette. Nick felt badly for his fellow aides-de-camp, now standing on tiptoe, but he knew his vaunted position alongside the officers was due only to Lafayette’s unspoken acknowledgment of certain secret services he had performed in the course of this battle. Nick inhaled deeply, taking it all in.

  The French troops, tall, handsome, and well washed, as was their wont, were splendidly turned out, their pristine white uniforms, various colored lapels, designating their regiments, brilliant in the sun. The colors of France, a pure white banner, fluttered above the heads of each regiment.

  Facing them from across the dusty road stood their comrades in arms, the men of the United States Army. They, too, stood proudly at attention, eyes front. But they wore shabby blue uniforms, ragged and soiled. Many stood barefoot but unashamed. The American militiamen among their ranks wore a motley assortment of soiled and irregular uniforms. Some were clothed in the leather hunting shirts and breeches associated with backwoodsmen along the frontier. These were the men of the mountains, the men with the long barrels, the scourge of Cornwallis.

  Many of these brave soldiers had endured six long years of punishing and bloody warfare. Among those standing in these lines under the blazing Virginia sun were survivors of the earliest fights at Concord and Bunker Hill. Nick assumed it was these soldiers who took in this moment with more pain and satisfaction than any other soldier present on this final field.

  They had suffered every hardship imaginable. Despite hunger, tedium, and no pay, they had managed to survive the killing winters at Valley Forge and Morristown, many of them without blankets or even shoes. Still, few if any of these brave souls now present had any idea of the magnitude of what they had so gloriously accomplished.

  They had not only secured the independence of the American colonies but, eventually, changed the history of the world.

  Battle-torn American regimental standards, some in tattered ribbons, waved over the Continental lines, while from across the road the stirring music of the French military band, the only such band in America, helped soldiers pass the time until the British appeared.

  At two o’clock, it was possible to hear the distant sounds of British fifes and drums coming from Yorktown. It was a signal that the defeated army was assembling behind the garrison walls. The waiting allied armies, the men who had finally shattered the all-powerful British force, went suddenly silent.

  At three o’clock, legions of the vanquished army finally appeared, the mounted officers riding through a large hole blasted in their now-demolished fortifications. The officers were followed by the conquered troops in a slow and solemn step. They came with shouldered arms and their colors cased, as Washington had insisted. This was his final retaliation for the many times victorious British generals had refused surrendering Americans the “honors of war.”

  As the scarlet coats drew nearer, Nick could see the mortification and unfeigned sorrow on the faces of the defeated soldiers. Some cursed, some had tears coursing down their cheeks, and some hid their eyes beneath the great round hats they wore. All the spirit and courage that normally animated the soldiers had slipped from them.

  Nick felt a twinge of guilt at the sight of them. But overpowering such feelings was the true belief that he had done what was best for his country. Yes, he had done his duty.

  As the group of mounted officers at the forefront of the British Army crested a hill, Nick whispered to Lafayatte, “Which one is Cornwallis?”

  “It seems our dear Cornwallis much prefers to lead his army in victory rather than defeat. He pleads illness keeps him confined to his quarters. That redheaded officer riding in the lead is his second in command, General O’Hara. It is he who shall present the sword of surrender to General Washington.”

  “Isn’t that a grave insult to his own troops, for Cornwallis not to lead them at their surrender?” Nick asked. He didn’t know much about the finer points of military courtesy, but he knew right from wrong.

  “Unforgivable,” Lafayette said, “but not surprising. Since Cornwallis has always maintained such an exalted opinion of his own military prowess and viewed the Americans as contemptible, undisciplined rabble, he now finds himself humiliated beyond measure. General Washington is disgusted at this behavior, I will tell you.”

  “What was his reaction when he learned of this?”

  “Washington said a great commander should be above such pettiness and not shrink from the inevitable misfortunes of war. Cornwallis, after all, has often appeared in triumph at the head of his army, and so ought he to participate manfully in their misfortunes as well, no matter how humiliating.”

  The two watched as General O’Hara rode over to General Washington, explained that Cornwallis was still unfortunately “indisposed,” and offered the American leader his sword. This ancient symbolic act acknowledged defeat.

  Washington looked at it a moment and waved it away, indicating to O’Hara that he should present the sword to General Benjamin Lincoln, Washington’s own second in command. A hush fell over the battlefield as Lincoln took the sword, held it aloft for all to see. Lincoln then pointed the defeated General to the cleared field where he and his army were to “ground arms,” or lay down their muskets.

  Victory.

  Nick could find no words to describe the mighty cry that arose from the victorious soldiers and the vast assembly at the sight of that British sword raised high by the American General. It was the concentrated expression of surprise, joy, pride, and relief that the long and bloody struggle was over. Then the storm burst forth at the highest intensity: a storm of yelling, shouting, stamping the earth, and waving flags, muskets, and swords in the air. The entire battlefield shook with the reverberations of these celebrations.

  Once the British had sullenly and angrily grounded all their arms in the designated field, the defeated army turned and retraced their steps, back to a Yorktown now wholly occupied by American and French soldiers. When the last of them had disappeared over the rolling landscape of the battlefield, Nick was surprised to see General Washington put his spurs to Blueskin and head directly toward Lafayette.

  He reined in his great war horse and smiled with sheer delight at Nick and Lafayette.

  “My dear comrade,” he said to the Marquis, “the Continental Congress has ordered a special medal be struck in recognition of bravery, gallantry, and great achievement. It is my very great honor and privilege to bestow the very first one struck upon you, my dear friend, Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.”

  Nick smiled at the use of Lafayette’s full name, but his eyes were on his new friend. No one deserved this more than the gallant Frenchman who had risked all for a country not his own.

  As Washington pinned the shining medal on the Marquis’s uniform, the sun caught it and the glint lit up Lafayette’s eyes. They were brimming with tears. He reached toward Washington and after a quick embrace, the American general, perhaps the greatest leader of men the world had ever seen, galloped away at full tilt, his great cause now finally secure.

  Lafayette watched in silence as his friend and hero rode off to join in the chaos of celebrati
on already forming in front of Washington’s marquee and wherever men gathered on the battlefield. After a few moments he turned to Nick.

  “Have you the golden orb on your person, Nicholas?” he asked.

  “Always, sir,” Nick said, patting the pouch slung under his left arm.

  “Follow me, then, lad!” he cried and galloped away.

  Nick put spurs to Chief and tried valiantly to catch up. Within a few minutes, he knew exactly where Lafayette was headed.

  The General was waiting for him when he arrived at the clearing atop the hill overlooking the battlefield. It seemed like months since they’d first seen this vista together, and it was much altered from that first time. Thousands had died on this pockmarked and hallowed ground. Only the camp-fires sending their smoke skyward remained unchanged. Something was missing and Nick realized it was the thunder of guns. The mortars were muzzled and the heads of the cannon hung low. The battlefield was as still as death.

  “Time for you to go home, I suppose,” Lafayette said. “I suppose so, sir.”

  “My heart is so full of things I wish to tell you that I cannot summon a single one. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart, Nicholas McIver.”

  “I am deeply grateful for your trust, sir. And—so much more. So terribly much that I don’t know how to—”

  “Say no more, Nicholas. But, listen, I want you to have this. It rightly belongs to you, and I would have given my right arm to tell General Washington so. But of course I could not. Without your help and bravery in coming here to America, we should have lost this battle and, with it, this war. It’s a pity Washington will never know.”

  Lafayette began to unfasten the medal from his breast.

  “No, sir! It belongs to you! General Washington awarded it to you! You have fought at his side for six long years.”

  Lafayette smiled. “I’m still a young man, Nick, a military man to the bone. There will be plenty of battles and more medals perhaps. This one is most deservedly yours.”

  “But—”

  “But me no buts! Come closer so I can pin this where it rightfully belongs.”

  Nick looked down at the medal gleaming on his chest. Emotion threatened to overtake him. He knew it was time to say good-bye to this great man who had befriended him.

  “If you don’t mind,” Lafayette said, “I’d be more than interested to watch your departure with the orb.”

  “Not at all,” Nick said, dismounting and giving Chief a farewell hug. Pulling the gleaming machine from his pouch and twisting the two halves apart, he inserted the coordinates for the Greybeard Inn, Greybeard Island, on the afternoon of the day he’d left his home. He’d be home for supper, he thought, with Katie and his dear mother and, he hoped, perhaps his father.

  “Sir,” Nick said, about to rejoin the two halves, “it occurred to me that there was a certain sadness in General Washington’s eyes when he saw us at the surrender. Is everything all right?”

  “Not really, Nicholas. His last child, the boy, Jacky, whom you met, died in his arms last night. He was taken by the fever.”

  A lump formed in Nick’s throat as he thought of General Washington telling his wife Martha the terrible news. She’d “had a bad feeling” about her son going to Yorktown. And she had begged Nick not to go.

  “Will you do me a great favor, sir?” Nick asked. “It’s most important to me.”

  “Anything on this earth.”

  “Would you kindly inform Mrs. Washington that Nicholas McIver sends her his deepest sympathies and condolences for her loss and that . . . and that someday he shall return to Mount Vernon under happier circumstances and spend long summer days with her, walking in her beautiful gardens.”

  “I will do it as soon as I see her, Nicholas.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  “Good-bye, Nicholas. I hope we meet again.”

  “All things are possible,” Nick said and, rejoining the two halves of the Tempus Machina, he disappeared in a tinkling of a thousand bells and the flickering countless golden fireflies.

  EPILOGUE

  HOME AT LAST!

  · Greybeard Island, 1940 ·

  Nick reluctantly closed the wonderful book he was reading, Treasure Island, and laid his head back against his pillow. His mind was so flooded with vivid memories of his own latest adventure he could scarcely keep up with the doings of young Jim Hawkins and the evil pirate Long John Silver.

  It had been, naturally enough, a happy homecoming. His parents, thanks to the Baroness de Villiers, were safely home. Neither his sister nor his parents had the slightest idea that he’d ever been away. However, during dinner, he’d felt enormous guilt over not telling his father about the loss of the Sopwith Camel and had told his father of ditching her in the sea. He’d left out the part about the aeroplane being on fire in order to save his poor mother undue concern.

  They were all so grateful that he was safe and alive that the loss of the Camel was soon forgotten in the latest news about the Nazis and the plight of the islanders in the face of the ongoing occupation. As long as we stay together as a family, his father had said at dinner, and take good care of each other, we’ll surely survive to see better days.

  Nick sighed, wondering what new schemes he and Gunner could concoct to make the Germans sorry they’d picked these particular English islands, and reached up to turn off the light above his bed.

  A soft tapping at his door was followed by his father’s face appearing in the flickering light. “All tucked in?” he asked.

  “Yes, father.”

  “I’ve good news that should make you sleep better tonight.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your mum and I were just listening to the BBC from London. Prime Minister Churchill has just announced that the Yanks are coming to our aid after all. They are going to give us battleships, tankers, and destroyers in something called the Lend-Lease Program. It’s the beginning of the end for Hitler and his Nazis, the Prime Minister says. Isn’t it wonderful, Nick? Isn’t that great news? The Yanks are coming after all!”

  “Wonderful news, Father,” Nick said, smiling as Angus McIver softly closed the door.

  Nick pulled Lafayette’s medal from beneath his pillow and pinned it to his pajama-top pocket.

  Then he reached up, switched off his light, rolled over, and, with a most contented smile on his face, fell fast asleep.

  He had done his duty.