The Time Pirate (25 page)

· Guernsey ·

N
ick knew he was in serious trouble. Exhausted by the long swim in cold water and racing uphill through the dense forest, he felt as if he might collapse to the ground at any moment. One trip over an exposed root or a fallen tree and he'd never find the strength to make it to his feet again.

Hot on his heels were at least a dozen of Hitler's Nazi storm troopers and their vicious Dobermans. He could hear the fierce snarls of the beasts getting ever closer. He was running now by sheer willpower and adrenaline. But there was not enough left of either to keep him on his feet for much longer.

But he knew that if he stopped, he would die a horrible death, ripped to shreds by vicious dogs. And so he staggered forward, using his arms for help by grabbing low-hanging tree limbs and hauling himself up that way. His left arm was a help. His right screamed with pain when he used it. His legs felt like rubber, and he could no longer count on them. He had to pause, even if only for a few precious seconds, to catch his breath. He stopped and leaned against a large oak, sucking down huge lungfuls of air. And still the howling dogs came.

But he heard something else now, in that brief moment that the blood wasn't pounding so noisily in his ears. And for the first time he felt a glimmer of hope. He heard the sound of rapidly moving water. There was a river, sizable by the sound of it, maybe less than a hundred yards ahead of him. That river might mean salvation, and he sprinted up toward the sound of running water with the newfound energy of hope.

He came upon the grassy bank seconds later. It was a wide river, too wide to swim across in his condition and not get caught. But there was a small wooden bridge arching over the river, and the sight of it caused something to stir deep in his memory.

What was it?
A scene from one of his most favorite books,
Robin Hood
. That was it! Robin and Little John are on foot, running headlong through the forest, trying to escape from King John's men mounted on horseback. Robin spies a small pond surrounded by tall reeds and coaxes Little John into the water. He uses his knife to cut two lengths of reed, and the two men submerge, breathing through the reeds as King John's henchmen race past the pond and on into the heart of Sherwood Forest.

There were large clumps of reeds sprouting from the water along the banks on both sides of the river. Nick slid down the slippery bank on his bottom and crawled under the bridge. The dogs still had his scent, and they were quickly gaining ground. Nick whipped out his pocketknife, grabbed a thick green reed, and sliced off a three-foot section. He could hear the loud shouting of the Nazi SS troopers, urging the dogs onward, as he slid down the muddy bank and into the water, one end of the reed already in his mouth.

The trick may be an old one, but it worked well enough. It was surprisingly easy to breathe through the tube. He was
only a foot or so underwater, in the middle of the thick stand of reeds, so he could hear the wild yips and howls of the Dobermans as they raced toward the bridge. Suddenly the dogs stopped, just shy of the bridge, and he could hear the soldiers urging them on. Obviously, they'd lost his scent. He heard a loud, angry voice shouting in German. So where was he, this English pilot who had caused such destruction? Have we lost him?

From below the surface, he saw at least a dozen powerful electric torchlights scanning the roiling river. He heard more voices rising in mounting frustration. And then a dog and a soldier came under the bridge, barely two feet from where Nick was hiding. The beam of light flashed on the reeds directly above him, as the Doberman poked his nose in among the reeds, even pushing Nick's own reed aside. Then, mercifully, the dog retreated, and the German aimed his beam at the reeds on the far side of the river.

“
Nicht hier!
“ the lone soldier called up to his superior officer, and soon man and dog disappeared.

After an unbearably long period, in which the dogs were searching frantically for their prey in the nearby woods, he heard a shouted command from an officer. He dared to raise his head a fraction, only his eyes above the surface.

Immediately, he heard the yelping, frustrated dogs race across the wooden bridge and into the woods on the steep hillside above. Right behind them, the clomping of dozens of heavy boots on the run. Had he done it? Had he really fooled them?

He was mightily tempted to surface and climb out of this frigid water. Cold was seeping into his bones. But they were clever, these Nazis were, he'd learned that as a junior Bird-watcher, and he would not be surprised if they hadn't left a
lone officer at the bridge armed with a machine gun. Just in case they'd somehow missed the fleeing pilot who had done such horrible damage at the aerodrome.

So he stayed down, hidden in the reeds, until he felt as if the soldier above would surely have run out of patience at his lonely post in the chill night air. By now, surely he would have rushed up to join his comrades still in full pursuit, wouldn't he? Nick dared not take the chance. His teeth were chattering now, but he stayed put.

It felt like hours, but it was probably only half an hour or so. He heard the man grunt and saw the glowing coal of a cigarette flicked from above land in the river. Then the last German was gone. Nick's whole body was shaking violently as he heaved himself up onto the bank and collapsed, lying on his back, staring at the underside of the bridge. He was glad to spit the now mushy end of the reed out of his mouth and take gulps of cool air. He was cold and wet, muddy and exhausted, but he was still alive. He lay there on the muddy bank, considering all of his options, one by one. By the time he'd gotten to the third, he'd fallen fast asleep.

He awoke with the rising sun glinting off the river, sharp daggers of light in his sleepy eyes. He sat up, rubbing his face vigorously, remembering how he'd come to be under this little wooden bridge. His clothes had dried a bit during the night, but he felt a shiver as he scrambled up the bank to look around. No dogs. No Nazis.

He was pretty sure they'd given up on the search sometime during the night. The dogs had lost his scent, and the soldiers must have been at least as tired as he was. The evening had
turned much colder while he slept. The SS men were probably even now snoring peacefully in their warm barracks.

He stood up, climbed the banks, took off his sodden jacket, and spread it across some bushes in the warm sun. He took stock of himself. Apart from his painful right shoulder, where a section of the Camel had caught him on her way to the bottom, he seemed in reasonably good shape. And just the fact that he'd managed to outsmart those bloodthirsty dogs filled him with enough confidence to face whatever came next.

Surely some German soldiers might well still be out there looking for him. But he doubted they would still be searching these woods, the dogs having been unable to find him.

Rejuvenated by this newfound optimism, he put on his still-damp jacket and headed across the old wooden bridge. He would make his way to the hilltop, in hopes that he might find sanctuary there.

He had seen Fordwych Manor, which stood atop Saint George's cliff overlooking the Gulf of Saint Malo, from the air. The day when he'd made his first aerial surveillance flight over Guernsey. He knew it belonged to one of Lord Hawke's oldest friends, an elderly Baroness named Fleur de Villiers, one of the original founders of the Birdwatchers secret society along with Lord Hawke.

He had never met the Baroness, but as he made his way slowly up the narrow lane that led to her home, he was fairly sure she would recognize his family name when he presented himself. The McIver clan had enjoyed a brief moment of celebrity when his sister, Kate, and Commander Hobbes had captured an experimental Nazi U-boat. They'd then managed
to keep the submarine penned up inside Hawke Lagoon until Winston Churchill and a team of Royal Navy engineers had flown in from London and inspected her from stem to stern. Kate McIver, only seven years old, had been the talk of every pub and shop on both Guernsey and Greybeard islands for weeks. She was actually—though no one in her family would ever dare tell her so—famous.

The imposing manor house stood at the very summit of the cliff, surrounded by acres of green parkland. It was rather grand, even by Guernsey standards, but Nick would not describe it as a castle or a fort, though it had many of the features of both. There was a great, high stone wall surrounding the place, with massive iron gates. And there were tall turrets with battlements atop them and a great tower, covered in ivy, that looked as if it might once have been home to a massive cannon pointed seaward.

The lane had eventually turned to gravel, and Nick marched up to the iron-gated entrance. It was open, not much but enough for him to slip through. At the entrance to the house, a little man was busily washing an amazingly large automobile, singing “The Rose of Tralee” in a lovely Irish tenor.

Almost as big as a locomotive, the auto appeared to be made completely of sterling silver or some kind of highly polished metal. Why, the bonnet alone was nearly the length of Nick's small sailing sloop,
Stormy Petrel
.

“Good morning, sir!” Nick shouted as he approached, not wanting to startle the man. He stood up, turned round, and smiled at the approaching boy.

“And top of the mornin' to you, sir,” the little fellow replied, in an Irish voice so beautiful and light it was almost like singing. He had to be at least seventy, yet his bright blue eyes, red cheeks, and white smile made him seem almost elf-like.

“I am Nicholas McIver, sir,” Nick said, extending his hand.

“Are you indeed, Mr. McIver? And I am Eammon Darby, formerly of Galway Bay. And where are ye from, young Mr. McIver. You dinna look like a Guernseyman.”

“Greybeard Island, sir, and I'm trying to get back there as quickly as possible so I can—”

“McIver from Greybeard, eh? Surely not related to that little girl who—”

“She's my sister.”

“Sister, is she? Must be a right scrappy little colleen, then?”

“Scrappy doesn't even begin to describe her, sir.”

“Want to get home, do you? I could drive you over,” Eammon said, patting the gleaming bonnet of his car and laughing, as if it was the best joke ever.

Nick said, “I've never seen an automobile like that. What is it?”

“She's called the Silver Ghost, sir. Made by the Rolls-Royce company back in the year 1922. I'm taking her into town this morning for her weekly exercise. Otherwise her muscles get stiff. Say, Nick, yer lookin' a bit grey about the gills, lad.”

“I—I'm afraid I require assistance, Mr. Darby.”

Darby stepped back and appraised him from head to toe. “You do look like you've been through a bit of heavy sledding, lad. A rough patch. Are ye all right? Yer right arm hurting you, is it, now?”

“I did injure my right shoulder, but that's about it. I'm mostly cold. Cold and very, very hungry, Mr. Darby.”

“What have ye been about then, to bring yourself to such a state.”

“Hiding from Germans, sir.”

“I see. On the run, are you? Well, we can help with that. So you could use some food, I imagine?”

“Ever so grateful.”

“Well, yer in luck. Food, now that's something we can provide here at Fordwych Manor. We've a fine kitchen garden and a right good cook, though temperamental at times she is. Bronwyn makes a good stew. Not a fine Irish stew, mind you—she's Welsh. But her lamb stew will make yer heart sing!”

“I wonder, sir. Is the Baroness herself at home?”

“She is indeed. See that blue and white flag flying atop the battlements? That means she's in residence.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with her, sir?”

“Does she know you, laddie?”

“No, sir. But I believe she would know my father. And, of course, my famous sister.”

“Well, nothing to it, then. She's in her library, paying the monthly bills. She hates spending money, she does, and I'll wager she'll be happy for the distraction. Just follow me, I'll take care of you, young McIver, never you worry. Come along now, we'll get you some nice hot tea and cakes for starters!”