Nick of Time

by Ted Bell

  It was at that moment that the boy saw the first plume of white water jet upward from the sea about twenty yards from the lead jolly boat. Cannonfire! Blood had marked their plan and now his chaser cannon was in range of the escaping Merlin! The four slow-moving jollies would be sitting ducks for the Mystère’s long-range twenty-four-pounders!

  Another jet of white water erupted into the sky, this time only yards in front of the jolly boats rowing desperately for safety. Blood was calibrating their range. Nick knew Blood understood his only hope was to prevent the four boats from rowing Merlin into the protected lee of Gravestone Rock. Once behind that massive tower of black granite, the Merlin would be safe from Billy’s deadly cannonfire. Nick looked back and saw successive white puffs and spurts of flame from the Mystère’s bow. The chaser cannon with a nitro load! A lick of flame again and then he saw it, a heartbreaking sight.

  A jolly boat was hit! Nick saw a ball tear a piece of stern away and saw a man rowing there thrown with the splintering wood into the sea. The boat was badly damaged but still seaworthy and the crew bent to it with a vengeance. The crew in the stern reached for the injured sailor, but he slipped from their hands and beneath the waves.

  Nick blinked, unable to come to grips with what he’d seen. Death in war was going to be far more terrible than anything he’d been preparing himself for. Reading about battle, it’s pain and destruction, was scant preparation for the real thing. He’d just seen a man die!

  Nick now noticed the speed of Merlin increase as the frightened sailors realized Blood had found their range. The safety the great rock promised was only a small distance across the water, perhaps only a thousand or so yards more to go, but who knew how many twists and turns they must execute to get there? However many it would be, faster was better when you faced such merciless cannon fire. So they rowed on with a fierce will. Their faint cries, urging each other onward, floated up to Nick at the masthead. His prayers went out to them.

  “Nick! Press on with it, lad! Where away the next turning?” cried the lieutenant below him, happy to be in the thick of it once more, but mightily concerned at the dreamy expression that inhabited Nick’s face. He’d seen it before on the faces of boys getting their first taste of battle. He knew it was a mixture of fear and rapture. You could easily lose your edge on the thing. And your life shortly thereafter.

  Nick forced himself to push down the image of the sailor slipping beneath the waves and back to the formidable task at hand. Stiles was right. The safety of all of them, every man and boy on board, was in his hands at this moment. He saw the dark blue channel snaking to starboard ahead and confirmed it on his chart. To execute the turn ahead at this faster speed, they’d have to commence it immediately. He’d missed the call. Was it already too late to get the big slow-turning ship around?

  “Hard to starboard on my mark!” Nick cried in desperation. “Mark, now!” He gasped as he saw the severe right-hand turn approaching much too rapidly for the equally slow-turning jolly boats. They could never form up for such a tight turn so quickly.

  He heard the faint voice of Willick pass the word to the bowsprit man and then suddenly his heart lifted as he saw how quickly the four boats’ masters got their crews back-paddling and spinning their boats, pulling mightily for the proper angle of approach. The four crews had become one in heart and mind and muscle, and it was a beautiful thing to behold from the great height of the foremast.

  The Merlin herself slowly came starboard and round behind the jollies, led through the maze like a placid horse through a twisting canyon to water. She would follow, in her fashion, but follow she would. Now, the abrupt turn to the right. She came round at the last instant, but still she came round! The escape was working, if only Blood didn’t sink their very saviors rowing the jollies. Three more difficult maneuvers through the shoals and they’d be inside the lee of Gravestone Rock. Beyond the deadly fire of Mystère’s twenty-four-pounders loaded with nitro, and headed for open sea! And, then, on to England and Nelson!

  They had less than a thousand yards to go. And on came Mystère. Racing to catch them, she was being led right into their trap!

  Nick heard a rapid series of enormous thundering explosions below and saw that Merlin’s own portside cannonades were now spouting jets of fire and smoke and lead. The Merlin had entered the action in earnest now. He felt the powerful aroma of cordite filling his nostrils, could actually make it out on his tongue, his first real taste of battle, wafting up into the rigging, and he saw his best friend Gunner below, running from gun crew to gun crew, urging them onward.

  Another series of thunderous booms almost immediately from the Merlin and a huge cheer went up from her crew as fire licked from the muzzles of Merlin’s guns, and giant plumes of white water nearer and nearer Blood’s flagship marked the accuracy of their efforts. Gunner had whipped the crews into shape in short order it seemed, and his skill and knowledge were clearly paying off.

  Another turning in the reef ahead! He’d almost missed it, distracted as he was observing the now raging battle from his post in the sky! Stay sharp! he told himself, and said out loud, “Hard a’port on my mark now!” Truly it was loud enough to be heard by the jollyboat crews without Stiles or Willick! “Steady, steady, on the mark, hard to starboard, NOW!” he roared, and the crews responded with a will.

  The number of plumes around them had increased, and one more ball had struck the hull of a jolly boat causing terrible damage but no injury that he could see. The jolly boats now were nearing the shelter of the rock and every second counted.

  Nick set his jaw in fierce determination and concentration. This last five hundred yards of serpentine blue water was the most dangerous of all! He knew only too well the jagged outcroppings of reef and shoal that lined the passage and, indeed, they were circled in red on his chart. One there now to port! “Starboard five degrees on my mark!” he cried. “Mark, ho!” and Stiles shouted out the command below, “Mark, and mind the shoal!”

  It was then that Nick felt the air around him rent by a terrible WHOOMPH! He knew that Blood had figured out the two men aloft must be directing Merlin’s route through the reefs. Now he had turned his guns on Nick and Stiles in desperation. The jollies were entering the lee of the rock and Bill’s only hope was to blind or extinguish the eyes that guided them. He was gaining rapidly now, and Nick hoped it was only a matter of moments before Billy ran afoul of the reefs. If not, well—

  Another ball tore the air inches above his head, carrying away a mass of sail and rigging and heavy tackle. The noise and violence of it was terrifying. Nick forced himself to ignore it and call the next turning at the top of his lungs, “All ahead fifty now, and then port ten degrees on the mark. And, mark!” He looked down at Stiles and saw the man smiling up at him.

  They were comrades under fire, his smile seemed to say, and this young stowaway was certainly proving his mettle! “Ahead fifty, port ten, and mark!” Stiles shouted below. And that’s when the nitro-powered cannonball struck the mast mere inches below Nick’s sling and his world turned upside down.

  The horrible cracking sound of hot lead smashing through the heart of stout timber, splintering it instantly to pieces, was in Nick’s ear as he found himself jolted in the sling, hurled upward for a terrifying instant, and then falling only to be jerked up sharply as the sling wrapped itself round his right ankle and held him there like an upside-down puppet dangling from a string. Would the sling hold? If it didn’t he’d surely plummet headfirst to the deck below!

  He could feel the blood rushing to his head. Would he pass out? Could he reach the mast and haul himself up to the remaining crosstree? No, he was hung too far out to reach it. If he could swing his body, maybe he could reach that shroud! He looked down. Maybe Stiles could pull him close enough to—but Stiles was gone!

  The lieutenant had been clinging there to the upper mast, standing in the ratlines just inches below Nick’s sling. The ball must have hit him directly when it tore the masthead away! Nick let a sob
escape from deep in his heart, and then whirled himself in fury so he could see Blood’s Mystère.

  She was bearing down on them in earnest now and he could clearly see her crimson topsides and golden quarter-boards, and the Jolly Roger snapping from the top of her top foremast. And below the skull and crossbones, Blood was flying the English Union Jack upside down! It was a clear and deliberate insult to the Merlin’s captain and crew. A crew that now included Nick McIver and his new friend, just injured or killed by Blood’s murderous fire.

  Stiles dead? It wasn’t possible! They’d only just become fast friends and besides, the young lieutenant was much too great a hero to die here, merely helping a boy tow an old boat off a reef. The tragic loss tore at the wildly pumping heart that leapt in Nick’s chest, but there was scant time for grief, he knew. He had to finish what he’d set out to do and there’d be time enough for mourning later.

  Nick snarled in anger and hurt at the loss of his friend and whirled himself back to regard the jolly boats. Although he was hanging upside down, he found he could still see the proper channel. He was cheered to see the lads had properly rowed on, probably even unaware of what had just happened at the masthead.

  The great rock was so near! There were two more difficult turns and then the barky would be safe behind the mountain of granite. He could feel the weight of the Tempus Machina, sewn inside his shirt, pulling the shirt down around his neck. If only he could keep it from falling down over his head and blinding him! He had a job to do, and the crew was counting on him. He looked for the next turning, holding the shirt out of his eyes to see.

  Nick cupped one hand to shout and looked downward at Willick, and saw that the bosun was starting up the ratlines to rescue him. “No! Stay there! Only two more turnings!” he shouted to Willick, who paused and nodded his head in understanding. He had to be there to relay Nick’s commands to the bowsprit.

  Nick tried to focus on the spinning reef. For a second he was motionless, and he saw again the dangerous tentacle of rock that snaked out from the base of Gravestone. It had almost snared the Stormy Petrel and it would now surely rip the bottom out of his ancestor’s ship.

  It was invisible to the crews in the jollies. They were stroking right over it now in the shallow draft boats, with the barky just behind. In two seconds it would be too late!

  “Hard to starboard now lads, five degrees on the mark! And, mark!” Nick cried downward to the bosun with the roar of blood filling his skull. He saw the crews turning the barky, pulling hard, maybe enough to avert disaster. Just then, another cannonball tore through the canvas of the fore topsail, just inches below Nick’s wildly swinging head.

  He felt its breeze, as they said in the service, and he was still smiling. French cannon shot was pounding the English barky now. All those balls splashing in the water around her had roiled the sea, causing Merlin to roll and pitch wildly.

  Nick was sure someone onboard the viciously roaring Mystère had him in the sight of his spyglass and was directing cannon fire at the dangling boy navigator swinging wildly by his heels high in the rigging! Oh, it was terrifying enough now for a boy born to peaceful times on a small English island, that place where nothing ever happened, and where all the fights had been trifling scuffles in the schoolyard.

  You could stare down a mean boy who hurt your sister, and you could even break his nose if you cared to. But you could not stare down a French cannonball fired in anger, nor break its nose. A cannonball was a cold, fearless item, and he’d seen how they could kill a man in the blink of an eye.

  Nick summoned the phrase that always gave him courage when he recited it. And if ever he needed to pull himself up, it was now, when his life was truly hanging by a thread.

  Nelson the Strong, Nelson the Brave, Nelson the Lord of the Sea!

  Another ball cracked the air nearby.

  He laughed and twisted his body around so that he was once more facing the reef. Even viewed upside down, the dark blue pathway was clearly evident. Still, he shuddered when he heard the balls whistling through the shrouds. He was far more afraid of the heavy rigging falling from above, raining down all around him, than a little French cannonball. No one in the French Navy could hit a small boy swinging by his heels at a thousand yards. Not even Gunner was that good, and he was the best shot in all of England!

  If they got him, it would merely be a lucky ball. Or a piece of jagged timber hurtling down from above. He was only a boy, a small target after all. You’d have to be awfully lucky to hit so small a boy, he guessed.

  He laughed at the notion of a lucky ball. Luck was everything in war, he guessed. Luck, and fate, too, maybe. Nothing more.

  How the thought cheered him, and still Nick fought hard to keep his concentration, though it was a desperate effort. Every time he managed to get the reef channel in focus, another ball would tear past his head or slam into the hull, and he would swing around, losing his fix on the next maneuver. He fought the motion, twisting his body this way and that until he was facing the reef, again.

  And there, hanging by his heels among the shattered rigging and tattered canvas, with the acrid smell of cordite stinging his nostrils, the oddest recollection popped unbidden into his upside-down head. A memory from a childhood book: the match-boy who lost his arm to a French cannonball. But still he’d bent down to pick up his still-burning match from the deck with his one remaining arm, touched it to the gun’s powder hole, and then laughed at the thunderous roar his cannon made. Laughed!

  Hanging in the rigging, his comrade dead and the cannonballs flying, Nick had no idea what fate had in store for him, or even if he would live another minute, much less long enough to see the sun set this day. But moments before, in the heat of the battle’s most dangerous hour, he knew he, Nick McIver, had done one quite amazing thing in this life.

  He had laughed in the very face of danger!

  It was the last thing Nick remembered before the upper third of the foretopmast, smashed by a thirty-two-pound ball, and wrapped in fouled lines and heavy tackle, came hurtling down from above and struck his head a horrible blow.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Spies for Sale

  · 8 June 1939 ·

  U-BOAT 33, AT SEA

  Hobbes was on an operating table. Wide awake. Couldn’t move a muscle. And something was wrong with his nose. He couldn’t seem to get air through it properly. A doctor leaned directly over him, his crazed eyes gleaming above the sweat-soaked surgical mask. He could hear the surgeon’s muffled voice. The tongue, the surgeon said, the tongue is next! Then Hobbes had seen the gleaming scalpel flash, dripping with his own bright red blood. And, above the surgeon’s mask, the mad, glittering eyes of Dr. Moeller! A scream was building in his throat, and then he woke up.

  Fully awake now, drenched in sweat, Hobbes couldn’t even dream of going back to sleep. He’d remained fully clothed in case of an emergency.

  He lay rigid on the hard metal upper bunk of the U-boat’s tiny cabin, the thin mattress providing scant comfort, staring at the cold steel bulkhead above. In truth, he’d missed a horrible appointment with the mad doctor by a mere whisker. If little Kate hadn’t remembered the letter in his pocket proving his story, well, he shuddered to think about it. The quick-witted child had saved him from Dr. Moeller’s wicked scalpel, and no doubt about it.

  In the bunk below, Kate’s soft breathing reassured him that, after her splendid performance in the wardroom, she was finally getting a good night’s sleep. If only he could sleep himself, he thought, putting his hands behind his head, staring at a small panel in the bulkhead above his head. It was coated with moisture and seemed to be vibrating.

  Odd, he thought, and placed the palm of his hand on the steel plate. It was ice cold. He pulled out his slim pocketknife and removed the screws that held it in place. The plate came away easily.

  He lit his Zippo, held it up into the opened space, and peered at the submarine’s normal tangled mass of wiring and conduits inside. But there was something else, somethin
g that caught his expert eye.

  Two gleaming stainless steel tubes, one on top of the other, each about four inches in diameter. The top tube had started to smoke when he removed the plate and now he touched it. It burned his hand, not hot but cold. Supercold. He touched the bottom one more carefully. Room temperature. And it was thrumming with vibration. Fluid, perhaps seawater, was being pumped through it at extreme pressure. And they were superchilling it for some reason.

  Then he saw the small metal sign above the valve atop the pipe coated with frost. He quickly scanned the German words printed above it in red. When he saw the word Hydroschiffsschraube he knew he’d hit the jackpot.

  Hydroschiffsschraube.

  Waterpropeller.

  The much rumored hydropropulsion system! So that’s what they called it, “waterpropeller!” Somehow, they were probably pumping seawater aboard at the bow, superchilling it, velocitizing it, and expelling it aft. No wonder U-33 had been able to keep pace with Thor all the way across the Channel! He was aboard the fastest submarine in the world! And he was about to find out what made it tick! He saw another valve just beyond the—

  There was a muffled rap at his cabin door.

  Quickly, he replaced the small plate, screwing the four screws back into place. “Yes?” he said with sleep in his voice. “Yes?” He feigned a loud yawn, and heard a voice say,“Guten morgen, Herr McIver.”

  A key turned in the lock and the door swung inward. It was a young seaman he hadn’t seen before. The guard smiled down at the sleeping child and then up at Hobbes who turned and looked down from his bunk, rubbing imaginary sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink all night, but then he’d never needed much sleep.

  “Kapitän von Krieg would like to see you, urgently,” the guard whispered in English. Hobbes jumped down, pulled Kate’s blanket up around her shoulders, and then followed the crewman the length of the sub. A lot of activity this morning, Hobbes noticed. Something was clearly afoot. The guard opened the door to the same wardroom where he’d been interrogated the night before. The British commander stepped inside and saw Kapitän von Krieg drinking hot coffee at the big green table and Little Willy strutting around puffing on one of his yellow cigarettes.