In contemporary Britain, a police investigation is underway as a hunt is mounted for the two boys who seemed to have vanished without a trace from the dockyard. Not until Cromarty finds his way back, leaving Craig behind to experience the Battle of Trafalgar, and he tells his uncle the story of their disappearance, does the truth become clear to Jim Biggs. On Cromarty’s insistence, they must return to the 21^st October 1805 and rescue the powder monkey who died saving the life of Lord Nelson by taking the bullet that was meant for the iconic admiral. Only then, will history be restored.

Excerpt
Above, in the open air, Cromarty and Craig had noticed the sudden change in atmosphere below decks. They were stood on the quarterdeck and on their right, at the bow of the ship, another guide and a group of tourists were walking around the forecastle. To their left, half a dozen other unsupervised tourists were congregated around a plaque on the deck indicating where, nearly two hundred years before, Lord Nelson had been mortally wounded. Beyond them, underneath the poop deck, and behind the steering wheels and the binnacle, where the ship’s compasses were housed, were a number of doors leading to the various cabins.
“We can hide through there,” said Cromarty, pointing to the cabin door to their right.
“Okay, let’s go!” agreed Craig as the sounds of a search began to emanate from below. Rushing past the sightseers, the boys were at the door in a flash. Craig tried the handle. “It’s locked!” he cried.
“Quick let me try,” said Cromarty, throwing down his school bag. He pushed and pulled, but the door remained firmly closed.
“We’re goners, Crom!” said Craig despairingly, as he threw his school bag onto the wooden deck and sat down on it.
“Wait, Craig. There’s got to be a way,” said Cromarty, his face screwed up as he pondered the problem. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed after a moment, pulling the Swiss Army knife out of his trouser pocket.
“Well I don’t get it,” said Craig. “How’s that tatty old thing going to help us?”
“The key!” said Cromarty triumphantly, pulling the key out of the knife’s handle. “Let’s try this.”
He put the key into the keyhole and turned it. There was an audible click as the key turned the tumblers and the lock moved to the open position. Across the deck, the tourists, who until now had been silently watching the boys’ antics, were startled as Mr. Fitzgerald appeared at the hatchway, a crackling walky-talky in hand. He was listening to the forecastle guide who seemed quite animated and appeared to be pointing along the ship straight at the two friends. Craig had noticed this, too.
“Don’t dawdle, Crom,” he said pushing his friend through the now open doorway. Once through, they slammed the door shut behind them and flopped to the floor.
“He knows we’re here, Cromarty!”
Through the door, they could hear Mr. Fitzgerald talking to the tourists. As the conversation ended, his heavy footsteps could be heard thumping across the deck towards the cabin they were now in.
“Use the key again,” urged Craig. “Lock it!” he shouted, pushing Cromarty to his feet.
Mr. Fitzgerald’s footfalls were louder and closer as, fumbling slightly through nerves, Cromarty managed to reinsert the key and turn the tumblers again. The lock clicked shut just as the guide tried to open the door. The handle rattled once more before Mr. Fitzgerald would concede the point that the door was locked.
“Come on out now and we’ll say no more about it,” he called congenially.
The boys, breathing slowly, remained silent.
“I’ll count to ten and then you can come out and we’ll have a good laugh,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, a little frustration sounding in his tone.
The boys said nothing as they gazed up at the guide’s shadowy outline on the pane of glass in the door. Being chased by the guide had made them both hot and bothered, and they took off their coats and sweatshirts, casting them to one side to cool down a little.
“Right you little eejits!” he shouted having lost all patience with the two friends. “I’m not allowed to break this door down, but there’s a locksmith on site and he’ll be able to open the door for me. “ His outburst was met with a stony silence. “Fine!” he shouted through the door. “You can’t go anywhere, you know!” and with that, he stomped off, his loud mutterings audible through the door. Soon, all the boys could hear was their own breathing.
“Shall we give him five minutes and then scarper, Cromarty?” asked Craig.
Looking around the gloomy cabin, Cromarty was not really sure what to do next.
“Perhaps two,” he suggested. He was holding the Swiss Army knife tightly and the pressure on the palm of his hand caused him to relax his grip. He took a moment to examine the key attached to the penknife. It looked innocuous, dirty and somewhat rusty, with a slight kink in the end attached to the main body of the penknife. It must be a skeleton key, he thought.
“Time to go, Cromarty,” said Craig tapping him on the shoulder and pointing at the door. “We’d better go and try to get off this ship before that bloke comes back for us.”
“Okay,” replied Cromarty.
Standing up, Cromarty inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The door seemed to shimmer briefly, like the heat-haze on the horizon on a hot summer’s day. “What was that, Craig?” he asked.
“What was what?”
“Didn’t you see it?” asked a startled Cromarty.
“I didn’t see anything,” replied Craig, who was clearly not in the mood for any fun and games whilst they were stuck in their current predicament. “Let’s go!”
Taking hold of the handle, Craig slowly opened the door. As he did so, the deck seemed to rock slightly under their feet and the ship’s timbers creaked.
“That was weird,” commented Cromarty as they tumbled through the doorway. “Craig, I said that was weird!”
Craig did not reply. Craig could not reply. He was rooted to the spot, transfixed by the sight that had met them. Cromarty had taken an instant longer to appreciate the vista before them, his friend’s head and torso obscuring the view, but there was no doubting what they were witnessing; HMS Victory was in full sail and men dressed in historic clothes were scrambling around the rigging and yards like spiders in their webs. Immediately in front of them, two other men manned the wheels and a more important-looking sailor was stood behind them. On hearing the commotion, he turned around to face the source of the noise. He was dressed like the other men, but his clothes were cut from a more expensive cloth, and he seemed to Cromarty to be about the same age as his grandad.
“Who are you?” he asked the man.
“I am John King, Quartermaster,” replied the sailor. “More importantly, who are you two boys and what are you doing on my quarterdeck?”