The Time Pirate (37 page)

“Thank you, Gunner. I will.”

· Colony of Virginia—September 1781 ·

N
ick McIver arrived in the American colony of Virginia on a chilly, rainy afternoon in mid-September. He was alone, in a deep, dense wood, with heavy undergrowth carpeting the forest floor. The leaves of the trees towering above were dripping on his head, and he realized he'd have to find somewhere dry and warm to sleep tonight. The scarlet coat Gunner had made for him looked authentic enough but provided little in the way of protection from the elements.

He had deliberately chosen this heavily forested spot because it was only some ten miles from his destination, General Washington's home at Mount Vernon. It was uninhabited woodland for miles in any direction, so he'd been fairly certain his arrival would not have any witnesses save the creatures of the forest. He had pored over Mr. Fitz Hughes's chronicles of the weeks leading up to the Battle of Yorktown and had seen no reference to any major battles or even minor skirmishes being fought in this neck of the Virginia woods.

Nick sat down at the base of a huge tree, the leaves so thick
above that the ground was relatively dry. He wanted to collect himself and get his bearings before setting off. From his haversack, he withdrew his hand-drawn map of Virginia and his compass. Since he knew his exact destination and location, it was fairly obvious in which direction he had to travel—due east. Because the wood here was thick, he wouldn't be able to move quickly, but he was determined to cover some ground now and, if he was lucky, find shelter for the night before sundown.

He stood, brushed the seat of his britches off, and moved around the trunk of the tree. He heard the arrow's whistle first, then its
thunk
as it sank deeply into the tree's bark perhaps six inches from his head, still vibrating at the impact, some grey feathers from its fletchings spinning to the ground.

“Get bloody down!” a voice behind him cried. He felt himself being yanked to the ground and dragged by the feet behind the tree. He craned his head around and saw a young English cavalry soldier, his red coat much soiled and his long blond hair matted with blood from a wound on his forehead.

The soldier had a musket primed to fire, and he got to his knees, moved out beyond the tree trunk, aimed, fired, and ducked behind the tree. Reloading, he barely looked at Nick, speaking out of the side of his mouth and saying, “What's your name, drummer boy?”

“Nicholas McIver, sir. I never ever saw you. Where did you come from?”

“See that branch above your head?”

“You were up in this tree?”

“General idea when you're trying to ambush someone, isn't it? It was working, too, until you came along.”

“An Indian, is he?”

“Of course, an Indian boy. These rebels aren't keen on
bows and arrows. This fellow's a Creek scout, one of three who ambushed me earlier.”

“Where are the other two?”

“Dead. They shot my horse out from under me. I managed to shoot one, put a knife in the other. But Chief Powatan over there has been playing hidey seek with me all afternoon. Excuse me a moment, will you? I have to deal with this savage.”

He stood up, moved to his right, braced his musket against the trunk, and waited. A moment later, Nick felt and heard the broad blade of another arrow bury itself deep in the tree.

He heard the musket boom, followed immediately by a howl of pain from the woods beyond the clearing.

“Got him at last, I did,” the soldier said, collapsing beside Nick. “Now, who the devil are you, Nick McIver, and what are you doing stumbling around these woods all alone?”

“I got separated from my regiment in a skirmish with the Yanks, sir. Near Mount Vernon on the Potomac.”

“Which regiment?”

“Second Light Infantry, 82nd Regiment, under the command of Major Thomas Armstrong,” Nick said, glad he'd memorized most of the British units at Yorktown noted in the big blue book. And their commanding officers.

“You couldn't make it back to our lines?”

“I was in the process of doing so, sir, but I was captured by the Americans and taken to Fredricksburg. I escaped three days ago.”

“Escaped without your drum?”

“I was relieved of it, sir. A Yank officer's trophy now.”

“Well,” the soldier said, getting to his feet, “I'd best be on my way, steal the first sturdy horse I see. We'll rout these dogs at Yorktown, you'll see.”

“Are you headed for Yorktown?”

“No, I'm a courier, Scots Guards. I'm carrying a dispatch from General O'Hara, second-in-command under General Cornwallis. I'm bound for New York, and I'm a bit behind schedule, so I'll bid you good luck and safe passage, Nicholas McIver.”

“And you as well, sir. I've been looking for a back road to Mount Vernon in hopes of finding my unit. Any idea where one might lie?”

“Yes. Head due east through this wood for two miles. You'll come to it. Not much traveled. Mind yourself, though. General Washington's home is near there, and it's well guarded by his Home Guard. Not to mention forests full of Creeks and Cherokees on the Yanks' payroll. Are you armed?”

“No, sir.”

“Here, take this,” he said, pulling an odd-looking flintlock pistol from beneath his coat.

Nick noticed it was double-barreled, side by side, with twin hammers and triggers. “Quite extraordinary looking. What is it?”

“A Light Dragoon flintlock, twin barrels. My father is the finest gunsmith in Ayershire. He made this gun especially for me when he learned my regiment was bound for the colonies. Two shots are better than one, being his theory. Can't argue that.”

“I cannot possibly take it.”

“Of course you can. I've a pair of them, the other's in my satchel. And I've got my musket. You're obliged to thank a gentleman who offers you a gift, Nicholas. Here's a pouch of cartridges, powder, and balls.”

“Sir, I hardly know what to say.”

“Thank you will suffice.”

“Well, I thank you, then, with all my heart. What's your name, sir?”

“Lieutenant Robert Burns, same as the poet's, Scotland's favorite son, though no relation to the bard, I'm sorry to say.”

“I bid you farewell, then, Lieutenant Burns,” Nick said, “I've enjoyed your company. And I will never forget your generosity.”

“Nicholas, before we part, a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Just before you arrived at my hiding place, did you see some kind of strange, dazzling light at the base of that yonder tree? It was very odd indeed.”

“A sharp ray of sunlight, sir, streaking down through a break in the clouds.”

“Ah, that explains it. Well, I'm off, then. Godspeed and God save the King, His Royal Majesty King George III.”

“Godspeed. May He bless you and keep you, sir.”

Nick watched the young Scotsman until he could no longer see him, heard him whistling a cheery tune as he went off through the woods in search of a horse to steal.

A sudden wave of sadness swept over Nick as he turned and made his way east through the wood in search of a road. He had very much liked the handsome young Scot and hoped no harm came to him. And yet, that was precisely why he was in these colonies, to bring harm to Lieutenant Burns and thousands of young English soldiers just like him.

He was a traitor, he knew, but a traitor with a keen and relentless conscience. Right and wrong were as plain to Nick as black and white.

And he well knew now, that whether he succeeded or
failed in his mission to alter the outcome of this great war, his conscience would never again rest easy. With a heavy heart, he set out to do what must be done and soon found himself on the winding, deeply rutted dirt road that led to Mount Vernon.

A
rushing river flowed to Nick's left, some distance below the road. The sharp embankment on his left extended down to the banks, and through the trees Nick could occasionally catch glimpses of white water and rocky rapids. This was surely not the Potomac River, which he knew from his studies meandered wide and placid.

Due to the rain, which seemed to be steadily increasing, the road was sodden and muddy. His progress was slow and the sun would soon be down. He had little hope of finding shelter, even an old barn, for the thick green woods to his right were clearly uninhabited.

Uninhabited, that is, except for Indians most likely. And if they were indeed up there in the heavy wood to his right, they would surely see him long before he saw them.

“Nelson the brave, Nelson the bold, Nelson the Lord of the Sea,” he whispered, an all-too-familiar prayer recently.

He was shivering with the cold but took some small comfort from the pistol he'd stuck in his waistband. Still, he knew that with each step he took, an arrow to the heart was a very real possibility. He didn't want to die on this road. Although his beating heart was torn apart by the moral dilemma Gunner
had presented, an arrow in it now would be of no use to anybody. And so he slogged on as the rain continued to pour down, turning the road into a soupy brown stream, one which sucked at his boots and made every step he took an effort.

But each step closer to Mount Vernon brought more determination. In his mind, he saw his hero Winston Churchill, heard his frightening warnings about England's certain fate without the Americans. As terrible as what he was about to do might be, he had to hold fast to one thought: duty. The greater good of his country, that much was clear. And that thought kept him strong, kept him trudging the terrible road even as darkness fell and the booming thunderstorms bellowed loudly above.

He squinted, trying to see the road ahead. In this downpour, little was visible.

He held his hand up in front of his face. Why, he could barely see it for the drenching rain. Thunder rumbled heavily overhead, and nearby lightning strikes lit up the ancient trees on either side. He kept his eyes on his boots, trying to stay within the borders of the road. Should he stray and slip off the edge of the embankment, it was one long, treacherous fall to the raging river.

Just as he entered a long bend in the road following the snaking river, a sharp bolt of lightning struck, frying the very air he breathed. A huge oak, on a hillside just ahead, had been split in half all the way to the ground. The great tree, rent asunder, sent smoke curling aloft.

In that brief and terrible flash, Nick had seen something else, too. A figure had leaped from the ruined tree down to the road a second before the bolt had struck. Having jumped six feet and somehow landed without falling, that shadowy figure was now walking steadily toward him through the
blinding rain. Without the lightning's instant of brilliant illumination, Nick would not even have seen this stranger until he collided with him.

Something in him caused his hand to embrace the curve of the pistol's stock, his finger to cock the hammer and then find its way inside the trigger guard and curl around that lethal crescent. He squinted his eyes, using his hand to shield them from the rain, trying to see who was coming toward him.

As the stranger approached through a dense grey curtain of rain, Nick saw long dark hair falling about the shoulders. A woman? He relaxed for a moment, his finger slipping off the trigger.

“Devilish weather, is it not, ma'am?” Nick said.

No answer. This rather tall and large woman was closer now, no more than six feet separating them as Nick plodded forward, his boots making loud sucking sounds in the muck.

“Sorry, I said, it's devilish—”

And then with a most horrible howl, the figure lunged toward him. No woman at all but a long-haired Indian brave, his terrifying face slathered with war paint, his eyes blazing through the rain, his powerful right arm raised above his head, a tomahawk clenched in his hand, the razor-sharp blade descending directly toward Nick's startled face.