The Time Pirate Read online

  Then Nick turned on his heel and ran out into the night, racing down the new-mown field under the jubilant stars.

  7

  THE LONGEST SERMON EVER

  Nick yawned, loudly. And just loudly enough so that Mrs. Harmsworth Pettigrew, her broad person and feathered hat occupying a good portion of the pew right in front of McIver family, turned completely around and gave him a decidedly frosty look.

  Which caused Nick’s mother to give him an even frostier look and a slight poke in the ribs with her sharp elbow. He looked at his sister, who sat primly with her white gloved hands folded in her lap. Suppressing a smile at Nick’s rude behavior, she sat staring up at the rotund orator in the pulpit as if he were the most awe-inspiring man in the world, hanging on to his every soporific word.

  It was all an act, of course, but then Katie was an exceptionally good actress. Why, just last summer, she’d been able to convince the captain and entire crew of an experimental Nazi U-boat that Nick’s Royal Navy friend, Commander Hobbes, was her very own father, the two of them saving their lives and capturing the sub in the process!

  “And stop swinging your legs back and forth,” Emily McIver whispered sharply into his ear, “it’s a distraction to everyone around you! Can’t you ever be still for one single solitary second?”

  It wasn’t that Nick found church especially boring, although that was certainly part of it. No, it was that the melodic sound of Reverend Joshua Witherspoon’s deep sing-song voice had a strangely powerful, sleep-inducing effect upon him. He’d seen people hypnotized by swinging pocket watches at fairs and such, and he imagined this was what hypnotism would be like. You don’t want to go under, but you can’t help it.

  Stifling another yawn with the back of his hand, Nick looked around at the faces of the other boys in the congregation. Were they equally affected, too? Or was there something wrong with Nick? Some part of his brain that didn’t function like a normal boy’s when it came to churchgoing?

  Church, in the main, was mostly a mystery to him. There were certainly parts he liked about it. He liked the idea of God and his angels up in heaven, the star of Bethlehem, and the flowers and candles on the altar, and, of course, singing three or four hymns every Sunday. At least when a hymn came along, you got to stand up and gaze out the open windows.

  “All rise, as we now join in singing Hymn Number 322.”

  Sometimes, when the singing started, a stray cow would stick her head inside an opened window and have a good look round at the congregation, noisily chewing her cud. A swarm of angry bees might buzz in on a good day, wreaking havoc before some acolyte shooed them out another window.

  Nick, to his everlasting shame, found himself praying for things like that: bees, stray cows appearing; sudden thunderstorms where the doors blew open with a bang and soaked everyone in the rear pews; a mouse scampering up the center aisle toward the choir. All such things rather than heavenly hosts on high, forgiveness of sins, the things he knew he was supposed to be praying for. He much preferred seeing the shortest acolyte standing on his tiptoes, reaching up, always unable to light the highest candle on the altar but trying every Sunday nonetheless.

  Some Sundays were more difficult than others. If the sermon was about something Nick was actually interested in, say, sailing men lost at sea, or the coming war with Germany, or a great plague of locusts descended upon the land, well, he could get through that, just to see how it came out at the end. But today’s sermon was about raising money for a new rectory, and Nick just knew there’d be no surprise ending this morning:

  The plate would come around.

  Nick picked up his hymnal just so he could sneak a look at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Fifteen more minutes and he’d be free! Gunner would be going over every inch of the Camel, polishing the aluminum cowling until it shone like silver, using furniture wax to make the wooden propeller and wing struts gleam. Ah, if his father only knew what he had in store for him this morning.

  Gunner had told Nick the previous evening that he had a little ceremony planned for his father at the barn but would spill no more details no matter how hard Nick pressed him. All Nick knew was that this was going to be the best day of his father’s life, and he loved his father more than anything. A true hero. Not just during the war but all his life, every single day.

  Suddenly the congregation was singing the recessional, and then everyone was paying their respects to Father Witherspoon at the door, shaking his hand, some of them pausing to chat no matter how many people were backed up in the aisle behind them. Nick bolted for the side aisle of the church and ran for the rear door, ducking between two rather large maiden aunts who were focused on charming the unmarried minister.

  There were a number of mule-and horse-drawn buggies and carts every Sunday, and Nick ran straight for the McIver’s rig. He wanted to be up in the driver’s seat when his family came out. Their old mule, Glory, was calmly munching grass, and Nick took the reins in his left hand and gave the old hollow-backed mule a twitch to get her attention. His father sometimes let him drive the family home, but this morning he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Soon enough his family emerged into the sun, made their obeisance to the hypnotic shepherd of the flock, and then wended their way toward their cart.

  “You driving, Nick?” Angus McIver said, climbing up onto the front seat beside his son. Katie and his mother climbed into the rear seat, Kate telling her mother she thought today’s sermon was one of Witherspoon’s best.

  “I loved the part about humility and unselfishness,” Kate said brightly. “I think those are two of my most prominent traits, don’t you agree, Mother?”

  Nick flicked the reins, biting his tongue.

  “May I, Dad? Drive today?”

  “Of course, but you seemed in an awful hurry to get out here.”

  “I’ve a surprise for you, Father. I thought we might stop for a moment on the way home.”

  “Another surprise? I hope it’s not like the last one. That soldier in the tree.”

  “Glory, get a move on!” Nick said, twitching the reins again. Then he turned, smiling toward his father.

  “Oh, no. Nothing at all like that one, I promise you.”

  “And where might we find this great surprise?”

  “You know that long meadow they sometimes use as a landing strip at Hawke Castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Near there.”

  Angus turned around to speak to his wife. “It seems Nicholas has a surprise for us this Sunday, Emily, so we won’t be going directly home. Is that all right with you?”

  “A surprise? Wonderful. I love surprises. Don’t you, Kate?”

  Nick instantly looked over his shoulder at his sister with a look that was unmistakable. One word and she was dead. And she knew it.

  “I suppose so,” Kate said. “Of course, there are good surprises and bad surprises. The last surprise Nick found was a very bad one. I hope this one will be a wee bit better.”

  Nick sighed his relief. Not great, but it would do.

  Saint Peter’s was across the road from the cemetery, at the south end of the little town, and Nick turned the cart around and headed south for a bit, then turned east on the little path that bordered his old swimming hole, Dutch’s Pond, named for a Dutch Decoy Spaniel who’d ruled the McIver family roost for many years. From there it was only a half mile or so uphill to the turning that led directly onto Lord Hawke’s landing strip.

  “Nick, where are you taking us?” his father said a few moments later.

  “Right here,” Nick said, reining Glory in.

  “Here?” his father said, looking at the woods to either side. It took a few minutes for him to pick out the greenery-covered barn standing just inside the edge of the wood.

  “All right, then,” Nick said, “If everyone will climb out of the cart and wait here, I’ll go see if everything is ready.”

  “Every what is ready?” his mother said, climbing down from the cart and looki
ng at Kate. Kate shrugged her shoulders and smiled at her brother. She was sharing his excitement now and knew that her father would be terribly exicited by what he was about to see.

  Nick had been right. He knew in his heart that waiting inside that barn was the very best secret ever.

  8

  CAPTAIN MCIVER’S AEROPLANE

  Nick walked quickly toward the thickly vine-cloaked barn doors, his heart pounding with excitement. He rapped twice on small area of wood exposed by the door latch

  “Ahoy!” he cried. “Squadron assembled and awaiting further instruction!” He and Gunner had worked out the password the night before.

  “Standby, Squadron Leader!” he heard Gunner cry from inside.

  Nick stood back as the two barn doors were suddenly flung outward from the inside. Nick took a quick step back, astonished to see a small brass band come marching out of the barn in tight formation. The band consisted of six of the island’s oldest British Army veterans, former members of the Territorial Yeomanry.

  They were playing a rousing rendition of “God Save the King,” their battered brass instruments polished to a fare-thee-well, the men resplendent in their somewhat tight-fitting uniforms. Bringing up the rear, a drummer boy, beating a loud tattoo on a magnificent battle drum from the Boer War.

  Nick ran back to stand by his father.

  “Nick,” he said, “what is all this . . . what have you been up to these last few weeks?”

  “You’ve not seen anything yet, Papa!”

  From inside the barn there suddenly came the explosive sound of the big Bentley motor catching and roaring to life. Then, to the absolute amazement of former RFC Captain Angus McIver, an old Sopwith Camel came rolling out of the barn and onto the landing strip. It was, could it possibly be, his own aircraft, looking like the day she’d been delivered to his 106th Squadron in France!

  Marching alongside the gleaming Sopwith were Commander Hobbes and Lord Hawke, two old friends of the McIver family who had organized the morning’s festivities. And bringing up the rear were his lordship’s two children, Annabel and Alexander Hawke, ages five and six.

  “Morning!” Hawke said, taking a few steps forward and embracing Nick’s bewildered father, who seemed to be in a state of shock and incapable of speech.

  “Ah, Angus,” Commander Hobbes said, “lovely day for a Camel ride, is it not?”

  “It simply cannot be,” his father said, staring in disbelief at his old aeroplane, now gleaming like a newborn babe in the brilliant sunshine. And, look, there was old Gunner in the cockpit, smiling broadly at all assembled as the Camel, her engine running in loud fits and starts, rolled out onto the sun-dappled grass of the landing strip.

  Gunner hit the blip and shut the big engine down—otherwise nobody could hear a bloody thing, even the tuba.

  Even Nick was stunned by the Camel’s appearance. Not only had Gunner painted the entire aeroplane beautiful shades of olive, buff, and tan, but he’d also added the colorful red, white, and blue British roulon insignias aft of the wings, toward the rear of the fuselage. He’d painted the bull’s-eye-like roulons on the upper and lower wings of the biplane and added the distinctive markings of the Black Aces, his father’s old squadron.

  “It simply cannot be,” McIver said, his eyes brimming. “Surely this isn’t my . . . why, I—I never thought I’d lay eyes upon her again.”

  “Your Sopwith, Dad. The one you flew home after the war. Isn’t she a beaut?”

  “But . . . how? How did this happen? She must have been a heap of skin and bones after all these years in that moldy old barn.”

  “Gunner and I have spruced her up a bit, Gunner mostly, to be honest. Along with Commander Hobbes, of course, him being an expert aeronautical engineer and all that. He’s officially certified her airworthy, Dad. You can fly her again, right now, if you’d like. Your leather flying jacket, helmet, and goggles are in a sack under the rear seat of the cart.”

  “Why, I—I hardly know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything, sir,” Gunner said, climbing out of the cockpit and down the set of rolling steps Nick had wheeled up next to the cockpit. “There’s a lot of blue sky up there waiting for you, Cap’n McIver. Been waiting a long time, too, I’ll wager!”

  Kate had fetched her father’s flying gear from the cart and now handed it to him. “I helped Nicky find it, Papa!”

  He kissed the top of her head, “Thank you, darling girl. It’s wonderful.”

  “We topped off the tank, Dad,” Nick said, “She’s ready to fly, if you wish.”

  Angus McIver handed Gunner his walking stick and mounted the steps, staring down in wonder inside the cockpit.

  “A new seat!” he exclaimed, laughing now. “What I wouldn’t have given for that back in winter of ’17!”

  “And a length of strong hemp to tie you in, sir.”

  “Now how on earth would an old salt like you know anything about that?” McIver said.

  Gunner smiled. “Pretty much a new everything, sir,” he said, handing up McIver’s flying gear. Angus slipped into his well-worn flight jacket, pulled on his leather helmet, and then slid his goggles up on his forehead. Then he dropped easily down into the cockpit, running his hands over everything, including the ominous-looking black Vickers machine guns, now oiled and polished to a fare-thee-well.

  “If I may add my own small gift,” Hobbes said, mounting the steps. He then presented Angus McIver with the Royal Flying Corps’ traditional long white scarf.

  “Why, thank you very much indeed, Hobbes! A most essential part of the wardrobe!” McIver said, beaming as he wound the silk scarf around his neck.

  It was essential, too, Nick thought, remembering all the research he and Gunner had done on the Camel. That big rotary engine went through a lot of oil, most of it hitting the pilot. The long white scarves were used to wipe oil from the goggles. And in freezing weather, when a combat pilot was constantly craning his head around looking for enemy aircraft, it saved his neck from chafing on the leather jacket.

  “Ready, Captain McIver?” Gunner said, stepping to the front of the aircraft.

  “More than ready, Gunner!” Angus McIver shouted, reaching over to switch on the magnetos. He leaned out of the cockpit and gave Gunner a thumbs-up. “Give her a yank and let’s have a go!”

  Gunner, who was stronger than any other six men Nick knew, reached up for the prop with his huge hands and gave her such a powerful spin that the propeller actually did a complete rotation. The Bentley caught instantly, roared out her war cry, flame and smoke spouting from her exhaust manifolds.

  Angus gave everyone a brief wave, lowered his goggles, then powered up and slowly taxied out onto the long meadow. At the far end stood Castle Hawke. And beyond that, the sparkling blue sea. He let her idle for a minute or so, warming up her oil and refamiliarizing himself with his controls, checking his rudder, ailerons, and elevators.

  Lord Hawke, a very distinguished man in his late thirties, tall and handsome as a West End stage star with his sharply chisled features, walked over to Nick and placed a hand on his shoulder. The band was playing again, an old Flying Corps wartime favorite called “The Dambusters,” which lent a festive air to the impending takeoff.

  “It’s nothing short of a miracle, what you’ve done, Nicholas. You and Gunner. I believe this to be the happiest day of your father’s life,” Hawke said.

  “And mine, sir. It’s my gift to him. But I’m going to learn how to fly that machine.”

  “Are you indeed?”

  “I intend to ask my father to teach me.”

  “Splendid idea!” Hawke said, watching the Sopwith Camel begin to roll forward. “Flying’s a skill more boys should learn.”

  Nick looked up into Hawke’s eyes and said, “Indeed, your lordship, especially with a war coming.”

  “England is going to need lots of young aviators in the coming months, that’s for sure.”

  “They’re coming here, and soon, aren’t they, sir? The Germans
, I mean. Coming to the Channel Islands?”

  Hawke, along with Commander Hobbes and Nick’s own father, commanded a group of spies called the Birdwatchers. The spy network had expanded in recent months and now included many members on each of the Channel Islands. Each week they provided much-needed information on German naval and aviation activity to Churchill as he tried desperately to warn his countrymen of Hitler’s intentions.

  And now that the Germans were in France, only six miles away, military activity had increased dramatically.

  “I’m afraid so, Nick. This Hitler may be mad, but he’s no fool. He knows you can’t launch an invasion against the English mainland without a toehold here in these islands. Napoleon learned that lesson the hard way.”

  “We’ll be ready for them, won’t we, sir? When the Nazis come?”

  Hawke’s attention was diverted by the great roar of the Camel’s engine as Angus McIver began his takeoff roll.

  “Watch his takeoff carefully, Nick,” Hawke said, “We lost many boys who flew these things early on in France. The Camels were beastly brutes to fly until you had a few hours in them. All that weight forward, you see. Engine, pilot, fuel, ammunition. Unlike the Sopwith Pup, which came before, these you had to fly every second, hand steady on the joystick, or they’d dip their fat noses and go into a spin. But Camels were pugnacious little fighters, by God. The German Luftwaffe learned that hard lesson the hard way.”

  Nick had his eyes on his father as he roared off down the airstrip. There was a strong crosswind, and he was having a bit of trouble keeping her straight. And then, just when Nick thought his father about to run out of runway, the Sopwith Camel lifted her proud nose and climbed magnificently up into the blue English sky. Nick held his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He didn’t want to miss a single thing.

  The Camel kept her heading, straight for Castle Hawke’s great tower, flying about a hundred feet off the ground. When it looked as if Angus was just going to crash straight into the high castle tower, he banked sharply right, then left, making a perfect loop around the massive structure before going into a slight climb.