The Mousehunter (14 page)

The temperature had dropped even further, and thin icicles were now forming from every overhang on deck. Emiline tried desperately not to shiver, but the biting winds permeated even the densest of vests. As for Portly, he’d had enough of the cold. Taking Chervil’s lead he’d made a nice bed for himself, along with Trumper and a number of other mice, in Drewshank’s cabin. The unlikely group huddled together happily, and despite the captain’s initial protestations about his quarters being overrun, they were left alone.

For two hours, the
Flying Fox
negotiated all the twists and turns of the Vale. The farther it sailed, the higher the land grew, until they were completely surrounded by breathtaking mountains on every side, with black clouds scudding across their peaks. Eventually the ship reached a sharp turn, with a noticeable drop in the river. The current suddenly slowed, and gradually changed directions. Uncertain of what was to come, Drewshank called the crew to assume battle positions.

The
Flying Fox
followed a more gradual bend, and the seemingly endless horizon appeared as the mountains grew smaller and the land sloped off into the water. In the far distance was a peculiarly tall island that rocketed into the sky out of the sea, with clifflike rocky sides forming an impenetrable defense. A strange mist rested at its top, shivering the sky above it like a heat haze.

“Well, well . . . ,” said Drewshank. He’d heard many rumors as to what Mousebeard’s hideout looked like, but now, he realized, he was actually witnessing it. But he didn’t have time to marvel for long.

“Captain!” shouted Fenwick, from the bow. “Look!” Drewshank’s eyes lowered to sea level. He swallowed a long, heavy gulp. Sailing at full pelt toward them was the
Silver Shark.
Never before had he seen such a sight. It was made of sparkling metal and glowed like a shooting star coursing across the waves. Taut puffed-out sails were driving it hard toward the
Flying Fox,
and painted prominently on its bow was a frightening shark’s head with gleaming silver teeth that shot forward and cut the water into slices. To make matters worse, four immense cannons were aimed directly at them from its bow. Drewshank had expected an ambush, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He quickly calculated how much time they had. Though traveling at terrific speed, the
Silver Shark
was still too far off to unleash its cannons.

“Hard to port!” shouted Drewshank, racing to his post at the helm. Shouts and orders broke out across the
Flying Fox,
and sailors rushed back and forth frantically. The
Flying Fox
turned sharply in the water and revealed its starboard arsenal.

“Ready the broadside!” shouted Drewshank, and the sailors on the gun deck jumped into action.

Scratcher heard the orders, and suddenly found himself on the front line in the gun deck. His heart was racing as he rushed to the ship’s magazine to distribute gunpowder. Barrels were piled up to the ceiling, and a small shaft of light shone through from an adjacent cabin. He unlatched the mouse cage and waited a moment as a line of very well-behaved Powder Mice queued up in front of him. He picked one up and filled its leather backpack with gunpowder.

“Emiline!” he shouted.

She appeared in an instant and threw off her thick coat.

“It’s Mousebeard!” she cried excitedly.

“I know. And I need your help,” he said with unusual force. “I need you to help me fill up all the Powder Mice’s holders. They’ll do the rest . . . .”

Emiline was surprised at Scratcher’s tone of voice. She saw that he’d been in battle before; he knew what it was like. There was no time for niceties.

Scratcher used an odd-shaped jug to fill up the mouse’s gunpowder holder and then, after tying the holder’s top to stop any spillage, he placed it gently on the floor.

“Be careful with the mice as you put them down — it’s dodgy stuff, gunpowder.”

Emiline watched the mouse run away to the cannons. She quickly picked one up and copied Scratcher. Before long all the mice were filled up and rushing away to the gunners to be of assistance.

“What now?” she asked.

“Return to the top deck, you’ll be safer up there for the moment. I’ll call you again if I need any more help.”

Emiline agreed, and ran off. As she reached the stairs, the ship shook with the sound of a huge explosion. The
Silver Shark
had let rip its guns, and had hit its target. A cannonball shot through the lower deck sending sharp splinters of wood everywhere. The gunners cried out and scattered.

Plumes of smoke filled the air in front of the
Silver Shark
but within seconds it had burst through and was visible again.

“Fire!” shouted Drewshank as the target appeared.

The
Flying Fox
rocked back in the water as its cannons fired. Acrid smoke engulfed it. Cannonballs smashed straight into the oncoming warship, ripping holes through its sails. Its metal body provided an impenetrable defense though, and as the
Flying Fox
continued to fire, any shots that hit the hull merely left round, bulging dents.

Emiline appeared on deck in time to see the smoke lifting and the
Silver Shark
turning in the water only two hundred meters away to reveal its mighty broadside above them. It was clearly the equal of the
Flying Fox,
and because of its high sides, no sailors could be seen on the deck. It was a mighty vessel, thought Emiline, suddenly realizing the fearful position they were in.

A torrent of explosions rocketed out from the
Silver Shark
once more, and smoke filled the air. This time they hit the target even harder. With a deafening explosion, the starboard side of the
Flying Fox
burst into flames, and screams of terror rang out from the gun deck.

Emiline was thrown to the floor. Horrible thoughts filled her head.

“Scratcher!” she shouted. She ran back to the stairs and jumped down. There was scalding smoke flowing everywhere and it made her eyes sting. It was hot; so terribly hot, and she felt very scared, but she had to find Scratcher. Amongst the noise and blackness she heard orders shouted. Her eyes caught glimpses of action, broken up by the swirling smoke; she could make out sailors grabbing buckets and struggling to dampen the fire that threatened to take hold. There was panic all around, but nowhere could she see her friend.

She called out Scratcher’s name, pushing past a bloodied sailor crouching on the floor. Powder Mice were still running back and forth, always strong and sure. Suddenly a thought came to her: the mousery.

Back on the top deck, smoke was billowing from the trapdoors. Mr. Fenwick ordered the helm to turn the ship for another attack. The
Flying Fox
lurched in the water — taking such a tight turn was always a risk — but it soon righted and rallied for a second offensive.

Drewshank tried to take stock of the situation. He peered around the ship from the poop deck, the smoke now so thick and heavy that it made seeing very difficult. He could tell his sails were still intact, but the fire burning below was lapping over the starboard side.

“How are our cannons?” he shouted out, catching sight of the
Silver Shark
through the smoke. It was turning as well, readying itself for another attack.

“We’re running low on gunners,” called out a sailor, “but we’re good for another round!”

“Excellent!” shouted Drewshank. He raced to the side of the ship and looked out to where he thought the
Silver Shark
would be. He heard shouts from below deck; it was unbearable not knowing how his crew were managing, but he could only hope they were keeping on top of the fire. He had to bide his time, wait for the right moment, then strike.

Emiline shifted through the blackened corridors, dodging bodies at every step until she reached the mousery.

“Scratcher!” she called out in desperation. Some mice had been freed, but there were full cages remaining. And there was still no sign of her friend.

Emiline picked up all the mice she could hold and charged back down the passageways. It was hopeless looking for anything in the smoke-filled darkness. After reaching the stairs, she pelted up into the light and heard Drewshank call out an order.

“Aim for the sails and masts, men!” he shouted heartily. “Fire!”

The
Flying Fox
jolted once more and Emiline’s footing gave way. She dropped the mice cages awkwardly and the doors snapped open. She tried to steady herself as the scared mice rushed for cover.

The
Silver Shark
took direct hits on its main sail, and the mast creaked and toppled with a great crash. Drewshank was covered with gun smoke once more, but he felt the
Silver Shark
must still be within reach. He called out for his cannons to fire yet again.

As if in response to his words, the guns on the
Silver Shark
boomed out and tore into the hull of the
Flying Fox.

Emiline heard cannonballs whizz overhead and scorch straight through the sails and masts. She dropped to the deck for cover as bits of wood and material rained to the floor.

“Emiline? Is that you?” said a voice from the trapdoor.

Emiline looked up, and there, emerging from the smoke, was Scratcher, running up the stairs.

“Scratcher!” she cried happily.

The boy’s face and body were blackened with soot and his arms fit to burst with mice cages. Emiline got to her feet and reached out to help him bring them to the deck.

“Be careful up here,” he said, as he vanished below to bring some more cages.

“I will!” she shouted out.

Mr. Fenwick rushed to Drewshank’s side.

“Cap’n, our gun deck’s in tatters,” he said ominously. “The fire is under control, but we’re good for nothing now . . . . We should get out of here or stand and fight with our swords.”

Drewshank looked out to sea through the clouds of dark gray smoke.

“I can’t see a way out of this,” he said. “They’ll know we’re in trouble and will want to finish us. How are the crew?”

“They’re all right, sir. We’ve got heavy casualties, but everyone who’s left’s ready for the battle.”

Drewshank paced back and forth.

“Well, there’s no going back now. We’ve come this far . . . . Line the deck with sailors, get them armed and ready,” he said rousingly. “We’ll not go down without a fight!”

Drewshank steeled himself and withdrew the sword from its sheath. Setting an example, he stood tall before the oncoming menace.

Scratcher appeared once more with cages and dropped them to the deck in exhaustion. He closed his eyes and let out a stifled cough.

“You okay?” asked Emiline.

“Mmmm,” he groaned. “It’s horrible down there.”

“You know,” said Emiline, “you were quite impressive earlier. You really were . . . .”

The smoke was lifting slowly, and Scratcher sat up and smiled. For a moment he forgot about the horrors of the gun deck and felt almost happy.

“Arm yourselves!” shouted Fenwick as he rushed across the deck. He passed Emiline and Scratcher and stopped for a second.

“Everything all right?” he asked, patting Scratcher on the shoulder. “We ain’t out of it yet, so find yourself a weapon and be ready.”

With that he upped and left, and Scratcher sighed, unclasping the sword from his belt.

“I’d like a rest,” he said, gripping the sword tight.

“And me,” replied Emiline, removing the dagger from her belt. As soon as she saw it again she remembered the words of the butler and felt her energy stirring.

“Face to face with Mousebeard . . . ,” she said bravely. “This could be it . . . .”

“Maybe,” he replied, pulling himself to his feet. “The pirate’s supposed to take kindly to mousers, though.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Emiline, lifting herself up too.

The mousekeepers stood side by side. The sound of cannons had ceased, and all that could be heard was the cracking of warping wood and snarling fire.

Drewshank stood waiting for sight of the
Silver Shark.
He’d walked to a group of battle-weary sailors and stood amongst them — each and every one looking out feverishly onto the smoke-filled sea. Drewshank could feel the ship drifting and being buffeted by the water’s push and pull. The
Silver Shark
was approaching.

“Ready, men!” he ordered as a flash of silver flickered through the smoke. The
Silver Shark
was only meters away. The hulls collided, scraping forcefully together with a deafening screech.

“Brace yourselves!” shouted Drewshank.

The
Flying Fox
shook violently, creaking and growling as if in pain as the
Silver Shark
muscled its way alongside. Everyone could see Mousebeard’s ship in all its glory: with tall sides rising at least two meters over the
Flying Fox
’s deck, and seemingly bulletproof metal plating running along its length, it showed little sign of the battle it had just encountered.

“It looks so unreal,” said Emiline. Scratcher gaped as he looked the craft up and down. The ship was so well protected by its metal shield that he couldn’t see inside, and moreover there was no sign of any pirate.

“It’s incredible,” he muttered. Both ships were eerily silent. Drewshank walked back and forth in front of his crew, his eyes never leaving the
Silver Shark.
Still they waited.

“Show yourself !” barked Drewshank, finally breaking the silence, his hair shaking with the words. There was no reply.

Fenwick joined him at the ship’s side.

“They’re playing games with us,” he grumbled.

Suddenly, a series of short blasts burst out from the
Silver Shark,
and spear-tipped grappling hooks pierced the hull of Drewshank’s ship and pulled it closer until the two hulls were only meters apart. Emiline felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She lifted her weapon in response, and watched as the rest of the crew did the same.

“Here they come,” said Scratcher.

With a clunk and clatter, the part of the
Silver Shark
’s side immediately above them collapsed down into a series of long iron-lined gangplanks, landing with a bang onto the
Flying Fox.