by Alex Milway
“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. H
e 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.
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 noi
se 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.”