The Mousehunter (15 page)

Drewshank walked to the edge of the deck, and stepped upon a gangplank. He could see onto the
Silver Shark,
but the deck appeared empty. He made a move to progress further, when an incredibly loud voice boomed out.

“Why do you insist upon chasing us to your death!”

Drewshank jumped slightly. He hadn’t expected this sort of a greeting, but he stood firm, thought awhile, and then replied in the most confident voice he could muster.

“We’ve come for Captain Mousebeard on the order of Isiah Lovelock,” he said boldly.

“And who might you be?” replied the voice.

Drewshank looked briefly to his crew, who were spread out behind him.

“Captain Drewshank of the
Flying Fox,
of course!”

“Aha,” said the voice, “So then, Captain Drewshank, of the, well, shall we say
Sinking Fox.
Would you mind if we came aboard?”

With those words, a horde of armed pirates dressed in a uniform of stiff jackets and breeches charged out of the ship and ran down the gangplanks, their long swords slicing the air.

“Let’s have ’em!” bellowed Fenwick, pulling his captain behind him and a wall of sailors. Sword and steel clanged and chimed as the first wave hit. Shouts and screams filled the air.

Scratcher and Emiline watched on from behind the defenders. The crew were all around them awaiting their chance to fight, but as a continual stream of pirates charged out onto the
Flying Fox,
it was clear that the battle had left them horribly outnumbered.

“They just keep coming,” said Emiline. “What can we do?”

“We’d not stand a chance against them, Emiline,” replied Scratcher, watching pirates and sailors fight each other to the death. He could see Mr. Fenwick standing tall above the crowd and defending Drewshank heroically.

“Our time will come,” he said assuredly. Small puffs of smoke continued to drift out around their legs from the open trapdoor nearby, and the mice in cages at their feet were squeaking in terror.

“Hold them back!” shouted Drewshank, now standing on a crate and getting a view of the fight as it continued. He rallied his crew, who were fighting valiantly.

Another wave of pirates ran down the gangplanks and hurtled into the crowd. Scratcher saw them charge, and he grabbed Emiline’s arm: one of the attackers had broken through and was running at them. The man was skinny and roughly shaven, and he was swinging a rusty, jagged cutlass over his head. In two seconds he’d be upon them.

Emiline froze — she didn’t know what to do. Scratcher thought fast and jumped out to swing at him with his sword. The pirate pushed aside the boy’s attack easily and bundled him to the floor. He stopped and looked frighteningly at Emiline.

“What’s in there?” he sneered, glancing to the ground where the cages of mice lay. “You have mice? Ha! Mousebeard will be pleased.” He grabbed at Emiline, his hands clawing for her neck, but a spark fired her from the inside, and she darted under his arm, striking him with her dagger.

The man howled in pain, and made an even more determined effort to grab her. Once more he lunged, but this time Scratcher pushed his sword up from where he lay on the floor, and it was over as quickly as it had begun.

Emiline watched as the man’s body slumped to the floor. For a split second, the world around her fell completely silent as she realized what they’d done.

“Is he dead?” asked Scratcher tentatively.

She nudged the body with her foot.

“I think so,” she said, her legs and arms trembling. The pirate didn’t move. “We’ve killed him . . . .”

She suddenly felt like being sick.

“Come on,” said Scratcher, “we can’t hang around.”

“Of course,” she said dully as a roar went up from the attackers — Drewshank had been cornered.

“Lower your weapons!” he shouted to his crew, his hand and sword raised in the air. A stocky pirate whose sword and body was twice the size of his own had trapped him. The few surviving crew members, including Fenwick, whose shirt was in bloody tatters, ceased fighting immediately. Their shoulders slumped.

“Drewshank!” whispered Emiline, under her breath.

Mousebeard’s pirates rounded on everyone and tied their wrists together before shoving them to the ground in a huddle. Emiline and Scratcher stayed close, and as the attackers took away their weapons and possessions, they tried to resist, but it was futile; their arms were bound and they too dropped to the floor.

The noise died down, leaving the groans of the injured sailors among the smoke. Only Drewshank remained on his feet. A deep laugh filled the air and everyone turned to look at the
Silver Shark.
Against the light smoke drifting up from the
Flying Fox
stood the demonic figure of Mousebeard, who was laughing from his ship’s deck. As more smoke cleared, Emiline saw his immense beard was writhing at the sides of his face and below his tricorn hat. In all the noise and pandemonium, no one had realized that Mousebeard himself had been watching the fight.

“Lovelock’s a fool,” Mousebeard boomed. His face was shadowed by the cold sun, but the sight of his huge form — at least the width of two normal men — sent daggers of fear into the hearts of his prisoners. His chest was firmly pushed out to the width of his bulging belly, secured in place within a woollen gray jacket by metal mouse-skull clasps. A wide leather strap crossed his chest diagonally down to his waist, with three pistols attached to its front, and after taking two long steps down the gangplank, he unfurled his wide spade-like hands and gripped the majestic silver cutlasses that hung at his side.

“Imagine sending out a mere paddleboat to capture me!” he boomed again, withdrawing the cutlasses and thrusting them into the air.

Drewshank reeled.

“You’re a coward, standing up there!” he shouted back angrily. A pirate kicked him in the guts as a reply. He put up no resistance, as his heart was sinking further and further with each second, and he felt broken. He slumped to the floor wearily.

“Coward?” spat Mousebeard, his beard twisting and snapping as he spoke. “You don’t have a clue, captain.”

He turned and made his way back up the gangplank to his ship. Halting on the edge of the deck, he turned to his men on the
Flying Fox.

“Collect up their mice, weapons, and any booty you can find before we sink this hulk,” he added in his grizzly voice, “then bring them aboard. They should all fit snugly in the brig.”

Then he disappeared from view. Pirates shifted on deck, pushing bodies around as they searched for any rich pickings. With tears in his eyes, Drewshank watched them move like scavengers among his fallen crew.

“How has this happened?” he murmured. “Devlin Drewshank, the great Devlin Drewshank. Captured by a pirate . . . ”

He sat wondering, sifting things through his mind. This was the famous Mousebeard he’d come after. Not even all the powerful navies in the world had so far been able to catch him, and yet his foolish arrogance and the temptation of riches had fooled him into believing he was good enough — what
had
he been thinking?

His arm was tugged by a pirate, and he rose to his feet to have his arms bound.

“Lovelock . . . ,” he cursed. Lovelock was a shrewd man, he thought. He would have known Mousebeard was out of a privateer’s reach, even if it was someone as famous and dashing as himself. What had he achieved other than simply holding up the pirate’s passage?

Drewshank instinctively looked out toward Mousebeard’s island hideout and beyond. Something strange was spreading out along the horizon behind the island. A faint, broken line stretched across the sea, approaching stealthily. He resisted a pirate’s pull on his arms to look longer. And then it hit him.

Drewshank laughed; quietly at first, just a few chuckles — and then a full belly laugh. His remaining crew couldn’t understand what had gotten into him.

“Mousebeard!” shouted Drewshank.

The pirate appeared once more on deck.

“What is it?” he hammered back.

Drewshank tried to direct the pirate’s attention with a nod of his head.

“It would appear that we’ve both been fooled, and you’ve fallen into a very big trap,” replied Drewshank.

Mousebeard looked out over the water. It soon became clear that the line consisted of sailing ships — their white, full sails now visible above the gray, choppy sea. The pirate hurriedly pulled out a short black telescope from his pocket and, looking through, saw an armada of at least forty warships of all shapes and sizes approaching with speed. Mousebeard quickly turned to look at Winter Vale past the
Flying Fox,
and saw even more ships emerge. There was only one navy that could muster such a force, and that was the Old Town Guard, led by Lord Battersby. The final piece of the trap had fallen into place.

“May the Spirit Mice rain fire on you, Lovelock,” growled Mousebeard.

“The
Flying Fox
was just the lure,” said Drewshank bitterly. “Mere bait for your
Silver Shark.
”

“Get the prisoners onboard and scuttle their ship,” shouted Mousebeard, angrily. “We have little time. Crank up the mist generator and get us out of here.”

The Powder Mouse

ORIGINALLY KNOWN AS THE RUNNER MOUSE OF CRESTFALL ISLAND, THIS
mouse has for years been specially trained by the navy to carry gunpowder between cannons aboard warships. It is a particularly steady runner, capable of sprinting without wavering or tripping. The Powder Mouse has played key roles in many of the great sea battles, and Captain John Blouseworthy of the battleship
Intrepid
claimed that without them he would have lost the battle of Cape Crank during the Third War of Midena.

Because most of its life is spent in close proximity to cannons, the Powder Mouse is unfortunately susceptible to deafness at an early age. It is a sad affair, but at the age of two, all Powder Mice are retired and sent to Mouser Retirement Homes for ex-service mice, where they are cared for into their old age.

MOUSING NOTES

It can be kept very happily in a collection, as long as it has plenty of space to run around in. The Powder Mouse can also be employed in the home, where it’s very useful for passing salt and pepper between guests at dinner parties.

Mousebeard

A
THIN MIST WAS LILTING UPWARD ROUND THE SIDES OF
the
Silver Shark,
and Mousebeard ground his teeth frustratedly. His main mast had fallen and the Old Town Navy was closing in. His eyes flickered with bitter thoughts, mulling over his predicament, while he clenched his hairy, muscular hands behind his back.

“Miserley?” he barked, his eyebrows dipping while he scratched his black beard, deftly avoiding the small mice that lived within its mess.

“Come on, where are you?” he shouted once more, his temper fraying.

Eventually a girl with long dark-brown hair appeared, her eyes sparkling mischievously. On her shoulder sat a peculiar mouse with brown fur and dark rings under its eyes. It had two earrings in one of its tufted ears, and its black eyes twinkled.

“About time too,” said the pirate, staring at his wayward mousekeeper. “Send a mouse to Ogruk; we’ll be needing his services.”

Miserley remained relaxed.

“I already have done so,” she said, clutching the daggers that hung from her belt.

“Of course you have,” grumbled Mousebeard, who was getting tired of her cleverness. “You’d better go and make yourself useful somewhere else, then.”

Miserley rolled her eyes, let out a very loud huff, and marched off, leaving the pirate alone on the bridge. Through the gathering mist the burning
Flying Fox
was creaking and lurching in its death throes. Mousebeard watched as his pirates grabbed their last haul of booty, returned to the
Silver Shark,
and raised the gangplanks. Small explosions went off within the condemned vessel, blasting its hull to smithereens and sending it straight to the ocean floor.

“What are you waiting for!” he shouted. His men rushed to their posts and climbed the rigging. “Head to the island! We’ll seek safety in its shadow.”