CHAPTER 22
Doing Business With Pirates
Merchanty Swift hurried himself directly to The Silver Claw. He found a door that had been forced open and went inside. The place was dark but he could hear voices. As he was making his way carefully across the pub's main room, dodging tables and chairs in the darkness as he went, he was startled by a voice somewhere behind him. "Stop where ye be, laddie," the voice said in a low and threatening tone. Merchanty Swift stood quite still. And then, very loud, the voice cried out, "In here, mates!"
Into the room then, through two or three different doors, came ship rats and lemmings, several of them carrying lanterns. Last of all came a vole holding on to Farnaby.
"Well, who'll this be, then?" said Scratcher Doheeny. He let go of Farnaby Pockets and drew his cutlass. "State your business, stranger."
"I'm not armed," Swift said. "I've come for the boy."
"Have you, then? You hear that, lads? He's come for the boy, he has. And why should we take any notice of what the likes of you has come for, mouse?"
"Because you're after treasure, I think," Swift said, cool as you please, "And there's none here. Am I right?"
"Could be. So?"
"The boy can't help you with that. I can."
"And who might you be then, that you can show us where the scoundrel hid our treasure."
"Not that treasure. That treasure doesn't exist any more. Pickerel spent it all on those ridiculous clothes."
"And how would you know that, then?"
"I sold him most of them."
The vole thought about this for a moment. He looked at Swift, doubtfully, "And where did you get clothes like that?"
"It's my business," Swift said. He looked at the vole steadily. "Creatures want something. I get it for them." The vole squinted at him, suspiciously, as if he thought he was being outsmarted or tricked, and he didn't like it. "What kind of treasure do you want?" Swift asked straightforwardly, doing business.
"Eh? What kind of question is that, then? Gold, of course!" The other animals grunted their approval and nodded to one another. "Gems," the vole said. "Ready wealth. You try my patience, mouse. What do you know?"
"I know a lot, friend. But let the boy go first."
It got very quiet. Scratcher Doheeny looked at Merchanty Swift for a long minute. He looked around at his crew. He looked at the ceiling. He chewed his lip. He looked back at Swift. "All right. You for him, then. But if you lie, mouse, you pays for it with your own blood."
There was a general agreement about this. The crew growled, "That's it then," and "He's got it right, he does," and "Your own blood, vermin!" and things like that. And some of them drew knives and touched the blades of them.
Swift called Farnaby to him, knelt down and spoke quietly, "Go to your mother. Tell her to go and join the others. And Farnaby, listen to me: tell your mother not to send anyone here to try to help me. They won't be able to help me and they'll die for trying. That's very important. Do you understand?"
Farnaby nodded vigorously.
"There's a good lad," Swift said and winked at him. He leaned and whispered into his ear, "I think we'll see each other again. Now go."
And Farnaby went right out of The Silver Claw and into the night. Then he ran and ran.
So it was that The Brambles door opened yet again that night, bursting open this time, to let in Farnaby—much out of breath but returned to his mother as safe and sound as ever she could have wished but with no thanks whatever to Mr. Scratcher Doheeny.
"My dear!" said Mrs. Pockets, running to her boy. She went to him and kissed him and held him to herself as tightly as it was safe to do, quite overtaken with all the relief and happiness that a little mouse's mother could hold at a moment like that.
"What has happened?" she asked, with tears flowing from relief and happiness and from anxiety, as well. "What of Mr. Swift?"
"He traded himself for me, Mother!" Farnaby exclaimed, his eyes very wide.
"Dear Mr. Swift!" Mrs. Pockets said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
"The bad creatures were very angry with me, Mother."
"But why, darling? You hadn't done anything."
"They thought there would be treasure there. In Mr. Pickerel's rooms. But there wasn't any treasure. There was only the clothing. Lots and lots of clothing! They tore it all to pieces, looking for blasted doubloons. What are blasted doubloons, Mother?"
"It's a kind of money, my love."
"They didn't find any blasted doubloons, Mother. Not a single one. And they were so angry about that. They all looked at me."
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Pockets said and pulled Farnaby close against her.
Farnaby felt very safe there snuggled against his mother. He said, "Mr. Pickerel had very strange clothes, Mother."
"I know," she said quietly.
Farnaby pulled away a little so that he could look up at his mother's face. She saw that he was troubled. "Some of Mr. Pickerel's clothes were made from the skin of some poor animal, Mother. From its fur!"
"Yes, I know," she said, pulling his face back against her. She stroked him gently. "Try not to think about it, love," she said.
"I thought they were going to do something to me," Farnaby said, his voice muffled against his mother's apron. "They were so angry." He pulled his face away again. "But then Mr. Swift came! And he traded himself for me, Mother. He said we were to go and join the others. And he said it was very important that we not send anyone to try to help him. He said they wouldn't be able to help him and they would die. And then I ran all the way home."
Farnaby and his mother looked at one another. Then Farnaby said, in a whisper, as if he were afraid to say it out loud, "What will happen to him, Mother?"
"I don't know, darling," she said, speaking barely above a whisper herself. "Mr. Swift is very clever. I think we must do as he says." And she pulled Farnaby to her again.
"I ran all the way," Farnaby said. She stroked his head and they held each other close for a little while saying nothing at all.
After that, they collected Miss Middlechippers and hurried off to join the others.
CHAPTER 23
The Hesitation at Lawn's End
The Cottage was located in, as we say, the country. And when the mice came to the actual end of the Cottage's lawn they experienced what I think we shall have to call a hesitation.
It is here, therefore, that we must pause to consider how these particular mice had lived for some time from the largesse of The Cottage and from such of its comforts as The Bird Feeder, The Vegetable Garden, The Compost Heap and lately, unhappily, of course, The Dish. So when the leaders of the little migration stopped at the lawn's end to consider what it was they were to do and where it was they were to go, we must try not to be harsh. We cannot deny, of course, that the entire company had become somewhat soft and, yes, even complacent in their easy life of convenient foraging in the environs of The Cottage. I myself would not actually argue against the conclusion that they had become, as we moderns say, spoilt. But the charge, as some have made, that they were hardly field mice at all by then—well, I think that goes a deal too far. But they were soft. Yes. I give you soft.
However that may be, it was exactly here in the order of things that Sir Rotherham stepped forward to give remarks.
While not wishing to...and so forth and so on, I would beg your indulgence for a very few moments, and so on. (Breath) Being in some difficulty, here, and so forth, we find ourselves called upon...ah...to rise and so forth to great, umm, ah...to rise to great...umm...things and so forth. Yes. Thank you very much. Umm. (Breath. Warm applause.)
Whether "heartened" may perhaps be too strong a word for the effect upon the company of Sir Rotherham's speech, I leave for others to report. What I can tell you is how relieved they all were that the old mouse remained upright—which thing, in all honesty, probably accounted for the applause more than anything he said. It was always so distressing to them when he fell down from not breathing properly
during a speech.
After the address, it fell to General Random Chewings, thereupon, to summon a meeting of the Prudence Committee. And, as I can assure you, if any mouse had been under illusions about the severity of their situation he would have been brought to his senses by nothing more than the convening of this body. Field mice simply don't do this sort of thing without the most serious provocation. They are not bureaucratic. It's one of their most likable qualities.
There gathered then, under a clear moon and in the shelter of a lovely little border of sweet alyssum, five good field mice: General Chewings himself, Peebles Carryforth The Mayor, Mr. Glendowner Fieldpea, Opportune Baggs The Inventor and, of course, Sir Rotherham. Thus assembled, The Committee—as was their habit—considered the business before them with gravity and dispatch. They began with tea.
While Sir Rotherham poured, The General summarized their position as perhaps only a military mouse might have done. "We are faced," he said "with what appears to be a tolerably steep decline beginning at the edge of the lawn and tending somewhat downward. Thank you, Sir Rotherham... just the sugar please. Oh. And one of those. And as said decline could possibly be bounded on it's nether edge by a blockage of some sort—some impediment to convenient passage, shall we say—the question before this committee is, I believe, should we make to travel—with all our sundries and baggage—right down this difficult and sloping terrain, straightaway, from whence it might be most arduous to recover, or, alternatively, should we send out a scouting party to appraise the prospects. I'll have just one more of those cheeses if it wouldn't be inconvenient, Sir Rotherham."
Sir Rotherham, brandishing the silver teapot with a certain flair, said that since time was of the essence and since there was duty to be lived up to, after all, and since glory was never to be cheaply won and since one must be prepared for the worst while keeping a keen eye out for opportunities, of course—what ho! After this small speech, then, he gave The General his cheese.
As was sometimes true of Sir Rotherham's speeches, they all thought this one brave, to be sure, spirited, certainly, inspiring in its own way, yes, but, in the end, as a call to action, it was, if one thought about it, vague.
Peebles Carryforth The Mayor said that Merchanty Swift would certainly know what was at the bottom of that slope. They all agreed with this and sent someone off to find him. But Merchanty Swift was not to be found. Not just then, anyway. Indeed, he was very busy elsewhere. Dangerously busy.
Merchanty Swift was in fact at that very moment taking the pirates on a tour of his warehouses. Although there were no doubloons there, he told them—and very little gold of any kind actually—there were lots of other things they might have a look at. They frowned about there not being any doubloons or much gold of any kind and grumped and growled and were very displeased. Their mood became increasingly dangerous as Swift steered the tour in certain directions, showing them all kinds of things he was quite sure they wouldn't be interested in until finally—to his great relief—one of them said, "What's in them crates in the corner there?"
"Oh, let's not bother with those," Merchanty Swift said.
"Eh?"
"But over here now is a wonderful assortment of Spanish lace you might want to see. Very nice workmanship in my opinion."
"Hang the lace, vermin! What's in them crates?"
"Never mind that," Swift said. "Here! Do you like plaid?"
Within moments of course, the crates in the corner were well torn apart, the bottles opened and the wine being lavishly guzzled with all manner of shocking greediness. Merchanty Swift said, "I hope you realize how difficult it is to get good scuppernong these days. Don't drink all of it, please." As no one paid him any mind, whatsoever, he said it again—louder. And since it became perfectly obvious then that none of these pirates cared a fig how difficult it was to get good scuppernong these days—or about anything else at the moment—Merchanty Swift slipped into the night and away, leaving the pirates to the fearful heats of their own avarice and excess.
While the Prudence Committee waited for Merchanty Swift to be found, Opportune Baggs The Inventor wished to bring up one or two technical matters. By a slight rearrangement of components which he and his family had brought with them, he said, he believed an instrument could be constructed which would enable a scouting party to signal the main body without making any unwholesome squeaks—or noises of any kind for that matter. He was well into a rather complex description of the signaling instrument and, at the actual moment of interruption, had digressed only briefly to explain why an earlier version of the device had failed. It seems that (in the earlier version) he had forgot one of the basic laws of mousephysics. He should have known better, he said in his usual self-effacing manner, but as he was self-taught in these things he confessed to a certain lack of discipline. In fact, he thought this might be a characteristic distinction between inventors, say, and true scientists.
It was just here that Kneebuckle Tweeks skittered directly through the midst of the convened Prudence Committee at work.
The committeemice stared after Master Tweeks for a moment, dumbfounded at such shocking manners and, I don't doubt, considering whether to comment upon the pass to which things had come with young mice these days. But before any of them could decide to say anything about anything, Clickety Wheatstraw came right behind him—only faster. She in turn was followed by Hazeltine Smarts and Lookety Twoflutes practically tumbling over one another in their haste.
General Random Chewings stood up. "Here, here!" he said. But it was ineffective. Thistles Whitefoot actually bumped into him as he was saying it, dislodging a plume from The General's bicorn. While young Whitefoot, much to his credit, was on tiptoe in a strenuous attempt to restore the plume to its rightful place on a very impressive hat, old Teeters McGnaw, with a firkin of oatmeal stout on his shoulder, plowed into them both and before any plumes could be replaced or uniforms straightened or teacups put away, Peterson Crinkles and Pendleton Needleteeth, not to mention the oatmeal stout, were all over them in a heap. On top of all of them then, in an instant, were Wickersham Pickers, Weaverly Pleats, three more of the Twoflutes and at least two of the Threepurples. There were mice absolutely everywhere! Hungerford Pinks and Predicate Quoty, Nibbles Entoo, and on top of them at one point, Holcomb Peepers! (If I do not mistake, Mr. E. E. Asquith-Berryseed III, himself, actually turned up somewhere in this group. He was, as I remember, immediately helping the others and not at all attending to his own dignity. One could have imagined a lot worse from a mouse carrying the burden of a name like that.)
But there were many more: Warburton Nines Who Once Lifted A Cat; Twitterton Scoops; Old Miss Middlechippers; Farnaby Pockets and his mother who, between them, inadvertently knocked over The Mayor who, while he was being stood up and brushed off, noticed Proserpine Pockets in a NEW WAY and was thereafter unable easily to recall why he had wanted to be a bachelor in the first place; young Crinoline Fluflax who, in the kerfuffle, had somehow misplaced all four of the cucumber sandwiches her mother had packed for her—which she had so looked forward to eating!—and was just thinking to herself that she had not been this disappointed since Whistles Morehouse aimed to kiss her during spelling and missed; Wrinkles Freestone carrying that old canary yellow slat back rocker which had been whittled from the dry root of a blown-down Lombardy poplar by his great-uncle Hammersmith Pins during some cold and dreary January days long ago and painted early that February by his great-aunt Honeysuckle Pins who had always thought a couple coats of canary yellow would cheer up just about anything no matter what month of the year it was.
And they kept coming: Umpteen Weeks Who Was Pretty Old And Knew Things; the Lickerbees; the Chewlingfords; Quicklesmith Peets, who would make you some bang-up cherry pickles if you brought him the cherry; Teegarten Nutbutters and his mice. I simply couldn't tell you who all came through there: several of the Whiskersons, I know that; the Shredder girls; Lintsaver Creeples. They were all running and bumping and falling down and getting back up an
d saying desperate things such as "I beg your pardon," and "Oops!" and "Sorry about your biscuit." It was awful! Not AT ALL what one wanted.
CHAPTER 24
At the Bottom of the Steep Decline
Be that as it may, and whether one wanted it or not, The Hesitation At Lawn's End was now essentially complete. All that remained was for the Prudence Committee to wake Sir Rotherham—as gently as possible under the circumstances—gather up tea cups and run for their lives. They joined the rest of the company in an expeditious, if disorganized, trip down the steep decline toward the unknown and away from the known—the known being the shape of A Large Yellowish And Stripy Cat silhouetted against the moon.
The steep decline was a problem. It became steeper, you see—quite a lot steeper—until near the bottom it was more like what one might call a cliff. And, too, you must picture that the descenders down it were lugging great bits of impedimenta—all sorts of it: grips and pouches and bags and pokes and packs and sacks and cartons and crates, to say nothing of trunks and valises and hampers and scuttles and boxes and lockers and portmanteaus. And I should tell you, incidentally, that most of these items never reached the bottom at all. In terror of their lives, the mice simply let go their loads and covered their eyes as they disappeared over the cliff—some of them at amazing speeds! But, wonderfully, at the very bottom of all this was a considerable amount of water. So it was just ploop ploop plop ploop for the longest time.
And things being as they are—again, wonderfully—field mice are apparently instinctive little swimmers or thrashers or flailers or whatever you might call the thing which they did in the water. Never having done it before, they somehow did it now and, albeit shaken and somewhat surprised, they all eventually found themselves on the little beach at the base of the cliff where there was the awfullest amount of coughing and sneezing and nose blowing followed by nearly as much wringing of wet fur and squibbing about in one's ears and padding about on the soft mud trying to find one's relatives. The children thought it enormous fun and nobody got any sleep of any kind, of course, but in the end these mice just shook themselves as dry as possible and hugged one other and counted themselves happy to be uneaten and each of them more or less in one piece.
The Linnet's Tale (A Mouse Story for Grownups) (The Tottensea Series) Page 12