The Time Pirate (38 page)

Nick leaped backward at the last second, and the blade whispered by his ear. He'd been struck a glancing blow, high on his left arm, but one that caused a red pain, momentarily blinding him. He staggered and stumbled, back-pedaling toward the embankment. Raising his pistol with his right hand, he knew he'd get just one chance at this Indian brave, now gleefully raising his tomahawk for a second blow to finish the job.

The wild-looking man, whose face was painted with fierce stripes of yellow and red, approached him slowly, enjoying the moment. He was grinning evilly as he closed in for the kill. But the brave's eyes widened in fear as Nick aimed the pistol, still backing away as quickly as the treacherous surface would allow. Now. He pulled the hammer back, squeezed the trigger, and fired.

But he'd missed! As the ball left the muzzle, it went mere inches above the attacking warrior's head. Nick, in the act of firing, found himself falling backward into space, plunging over the edge of the embankment. He bounced a few times, rolling and sliding rapidly down the steep slope toward the river, finally slamming painfully against the trunk of a tree. He looked up and saw his sure-footed attacker making his way quickly down the slippery, rocky ground. He was almost out of the woods now, about fifty yards away.

Nick having discharged his weapon and missed, the Indian brave knew he had the advantage now. But he didn't want to give his victim time to reload. The warrior advanced carefully along the muddy bank, sure-footed and smiling.

Nick scrambled to his feet and faced the wild-looking man, his pistol hanging loosely at his side. He braced his left foot against a root of the tree, stabilizing himself in the muck as the savage drew closer. Seeing the boy not running for his life, he grinned once more and raised his tomahawk, which Nick now saw was decorated with beads and feathers matted with dried blood. Even as Nick raised the pistol and took dead aim, the Indian crept closer, that same evil look in his eyes that Nick had seen up on the road. He enjoyed both the hunt and the kill.

The tomahawk started downward.

Nick pulled the trigger and fired his second barrel. At such close range, gunsmoke obscured his attacker. Had Nick missed again? If so, the tomahawk would soon split his—no! The smoke cleared a bit and he saw the wounded Indian stagger, then topple headfirst into the raging river. Nick watched his attacker being swept downstream. When the brave disappeared around a bend in the river, Nick looked down at the pistol in his hand, remembering the young British courier who'd given it to him for protection. When had it turned so cold? he wondered, breathing heavily and shaking badly.

But he' d missed!

Had he just killed a man? He'd never know, and it was just as well he didn't.

Darkness had fallen in the woods.

Nick looked up through the tall trees to the road above. He hadn't the strength to climb up nor the will to walk one step farther in the cold rain. He opened the haversack slung on his back, wrapped the pistol with the oiled cloth and stuck it in his waistband. He spread his thin waterproof cloth on flat ground beside the tree trunk, and lay down, wrapping up as best he could. Gunner had packed a surprise at the bottom of his sack. Food! He ate hungrily, first the flatbread and then the dried meat. It didn't taste like any meat he'd ever eaten, but he wolfed it down, saving only a small portion.

It was as delicious a meal as ever he'd had. His belly filled somewhat, mercifully he slept, oblivious to the tumultuous skies above.

· Mount Vernon ·

S
ometime after dawn next morning, Nick awoke to a beautifully clear day, the skies high above a bright pink and blue; the rising sun sent rose-gold shafts of light streaking through the trees to the forest floor. It was not nearly so cold, and he bestilled himself for a time, eating what little remained of his food. He found his brain turning over the events of the prior day: the kindly courier, the deadly warrior, and the lessons to be learned from both encounters. As the hot sun rose higher, the rain-soaked trunks of the old trees began to smoke with steam, making it seem as if the woods were about to burst into flame.

Time to get moving.

When he stood, though, he felt feverish, lightheaded, and weak. He touched his hand to his forehead, which felt very warm. He was shivering, too, his teeth chattering in his mouth. During the night, he'd bound up the fresh wound to his left arm, using a strip of cloth ripped from his shirt, but the bandage was blood-soaked and useless now. His right shoulder had at least ceased to bother him, thanks to the ministrations of the Baroness de Villiers.

He gathered up his few scant belongings. There included his bone-handled knife, tri cornered hat, the waterproof tube Gunner had made for Blood's charts, the pistol that had saved his life, plus powder, cartridges, and ammunition. He rolled up his poor waterproof and placed it into his haversack along with his other possessions. Slinging the haversack over his shoulder and whistling a cheery tune, he began his climb upward to the road.

Two hours later he caught a glimpse of a great mansion in the near distance. It stood atop a high bluff overlooking the Potomac River. A wide green lawn swept down to the banks of the river. The house itself was gleaming white, with a steep red roof capped by a lovely glass-windowed cupola. He could see there were many outbuildings—he counted at least ten, truly the estate of a most wealthy gentleman.

George Washington's home, Mount Vernon.

Now that he had his destination in sight, his spirits lifted considerably, and he started forward on the final leg of his journey.

He hadn't gone more than half a mile when two blue-coated Continental soldiers stepped from behind trees on either side of the muddy road and leveled their muskets at him.

“Who goes there?” one of them said.

“A defector, sir, a friend of America.”

“Pulaski,” the other soldier said, challenging him.

“Poland,” Nick replied, remembering the password and the proper response Washington had ordered. Thank goodness for old Fitz's history book. Without it, he might have been shot.

“Defecting, are you, boy?”

“I am indeed.”

“What is your rank and unit?”

“Drummer, sir. Second Light Infantry, 82nd Regiment, under the command of Major Thomas Armstrong,” Nick said.

“You've come from Yorktown, then.”

“Aye, I have done.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir. A pistol and a knife. In my sack.”

“Open the sack and throw down the weapons.”

Nick did so and the two soldiers approached from either side.

“You're wounded. Badly it would seem. How did that happen?” the older of the two Americans said.

“Tomahawk. I was attacked by an Indian.”

“And the Indian?”

“Dead or wounded, sir.”

“You must be pretty handy with this pistol, I'd reckon, for a mere drummer boy.”

The older soldier looked hard at Nick and said, “The way you're shaking, I might take you for a liar. Saying you're a drummer don't make you a drummer. Neither does saying you're a defector.”

“He knows the password, Sam,” the younger one said, “Let's at least let him speak before we shoot him.”

“I am both a drummer and a defector, sir, and have never been a liar. And I possess knowledge of the fortifications at Yorktown and the plans of General Cornwallis that I wish to provide to General Washington.”

Both men laughed. The young soldier picked up Nick's knife and gun. “Strange-looking weapon,” he said.

“My father is the finest gunsmith in Ayershire, sir. He made it for me when he learned my regiment was sailing for the colonies. He said, ‘Two shots are better than one,' and he proved to be right.”

“Meaning what?”

“I got the Indian with the second shot.”

Both soldiers laughed again. “What's your name, drummer boy?”

“Nicholas McIver, sir.”

“Well, get a move on. We'll escort you up to the mansion and have someone stitch up that arm afore you bleed to death. Then we'll figure out what to do with you.”

“I'm most grateful to you, then.”

“You first,” the young soldier said. “We'll be right behind you with our muskets on the chance you may change your mind about defecting.”

“Or in the more likely case that you're some clever young British spy, sent by General Cornwallis,” the older soldier said. “It wouldn't be the first time. We don't look kindly upon spies here at Mount Vernon, boy. We generally shoot them.”

“I'm sure the information I'll give General Washington will prove the truth of my statements.”

“He thinks he's going to meet General Washington!” the older man said, and the two soldiers burst out laughing once more.

The guards took Nick, not to the main house of course, but to a small outbuilding connected to the mansion by a covered walkway.

“What's this?” Nick asked the guards as they approached the door.

“The kitchen house. We don't have a proper surgery here, so we leave any stitching needs to be done to Mum Bitt.”

“Mum Bitt?” Nick said as the guard pulled the door open for him.

“Mum's the General and Mrs. Washington's cook. Nobody in Virginia can stitch up a stuffed turkey better'n Mum. Hey,
Mum, we got a young gobbler here needs your ministrations of needle and thread!”

A large black woman turned from the great kettle she was stirring and looked at Nick. There was a lot of hubbub in the busy two-roomed kitchen, much chattering and laughter from all the Negro slave women working at various tasks. No one paid much attention to the arrival of two guards and someone with a bloody wound. It must have been something that happened all the time.

“What's wrong wid dat po' chile?” Mum Bitt said.

Nick smiled at her and held up his bloody left arm.

“Lawsy me, chile, you 'bout to bleed to death,” Mum said, going over to him, “look at you, shakin' like a leaf on a tree! You got the fever?”

“Yes, ma'am, I believe I do.”

“Sit y'self right down here at the table and let me take a look at that arm. You two soldier boys get your noses out of my pots and on back to your posts now before Miz Washington comes in here and finds you malingerin' in my kitchen stead of standin' sentry out there where you belong.”

“Yes'm,” the young guard said and headed for the door. “He gives you any trouble, Mum, just holler.”

“He ain't gone give me no trouble. Look at him. This poor boy's burnin' up with the fever and bleedin' like a stuck pig. Now, git, both of you.”

After the door banged shut behind the two sentries, the cook bustled over to a chest and retrieved a black leather case from one of the drawers. Nick, who was in a slight state of shock, noticed for the first time that the kitchen was chock full of people preparing all kinds of food. Game, fowl, a roast pig, cakes and pies of every description.

“What's your name, sweet honey chile?”

“Nicholas McIver, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said, extending his hand and shaking hers.

He'd seen many African men and women working in the wheat fields on his approach to Mount Vernon. But Mum Bitt was the first African woman Nick had ever met. He knew from his history books that there'd once been thousands of African slaves working as personal servants in England. But the practice had been banned in 1772.

Nick felt it was cruel and morally wrong for one man to own another. He knew America, too, would one day abolish the abhorrent practice of chattel slavery. But it would be a century in coming. And it would come at a cost that would tear the young country apart, brother fighting brother, countless dead on countless battlefields, their blood soaking half a continent.

Mum Bitt carefully pulled the blanket from around Nick's shoulders and then removed his scarlet British Army jacket and bloody shirt.