The jailer sneezed but in his sleep. Courageous Bernard plunged ever on, now as through a greasy jungle. He attained the jailer’s very scalp, and thence with a supreme effort launched himself at the dangling keys above. Twice and thrice he swung his full weight from them; then out they came from the lock, and he and key ring together cascaded jangling down!
“Over to you, Nils!” gasped Bernard.
Nils instantly ran on. (There was no time, now, for praise or congratulations.) Bernard and Miss Bianca followed, dragging the keys between them. Beyond the comatose jailer stretched the dungeon corridor itself; with, set in its floor, at intervals of two or three yards, the gratings over the dungeons. Nils ran swiftly from one to the next, calling through each a word of Norwegian. The suspense was almost unbearable, for suppose the jailer should really wake? An age seemed to pass before at the very last Nils halted. Had someone answered? Evidently yes! “The keys!” cried Nils. Between them they pushed the keys through the bars, easing them side by side on the ring, then eased the ring through too, and heard it fall below. “Norway forever!” cried Nils — and unhesitatingly launched himself after.
So did Bernard. Miss Bianca, peering down, in a matter of seconds saw his handkerchief stretched to receive her. Fortunately it was a very large handkerchief, more like a young tablecloth, but even so she had to shut her eyes before she could nerve herself to follow. Indeed, only a joint cry of “Be brave, Miss Bianca!” gave her the necessary impetus. But it did. She shut her eyes, and jumped.
A moment later, they were all three together in the Norwegian prisoner-poet’s dungeon. The first stage of the unachievable had been achieved.
3.
But poor prisoner, poor poet!
It was difficult at first to tell whether he was old or young, he looked so thin and ill and shaggy. The hair that streamed in elflocks over the rags of a prison-uniform — was it fair, or white? Were those eyelids red with age, or with weeping? Huddled on the edge of his bunk, he might have been twenty years old, or a hundred. Only something in the way he huddled — elbows on knees, chin on fists — reminded Miss Bianca of the way the Boy used to huddle, if ever the Boy was terribly, terribly unhappy . . .
“Oh, he’s young!” she whispered. “Poor, poor prisoner!”
What spoke most eloquently of his despair was that the bunch of keys lay still where it fell, on the ground beside his bed; he hadn’t even stretched out a hand to see what it was. Or perhaps things had been thrown down at him before, in jailerish sport, just as Mamelouk sportively jumped down to spit at him . . .
For a moment the mice could only gaze in pity, while the eyes of Miss Bianca at least filled with tears. Then Nils again said something in Norwegian.
“Be still, my poor brain!” muttered the prisoner. “Is not one such delusion enough?”
In fact Nils had to repeat himself, shouting, about four times, before the prisoner looked wonderingly up. — First up, then around. Nils was almost hoarse before the prisoner looked down. As soon as they had his attention the three mice lined up, and Nils and Bernard took two steps back, then one forward, and politely pulled their whiskers. (There is nothing like sticking to manners, in any unusual situation.) Miss Bianca, in the middle, bowed.
After only the slightest pause, to get his legs properly under him, the prisoner rose and bowed back.
It must be remembered that he was a poet. It is the gift of all poets to find the commonplace astonishing, and the astonishing quite natural. The sight of Bernard and Nils and Miss Bianca — Nils in his sea boots, Bernard carrying a valise, and Miss Bianca wearing a silver chain — therefore didn’t disconcert him in the least, and when Nils again addressed him in Norwegian, he was far more delighted than surprised.
— Yet how feeble his own poor voice, after the long silence of solitary confinement, as he courteously bade them welcome! Miss Bianca again felt her eyes prick with tears.
“Tell him we are come to save him!” she prompted.
“That’s what I’m trying to,” said Nils, rather impatiently. “But here goes again!”
He launched into quite a long speech, interrupted from time to time by questions from the prisoner.
“He just wants to ask after his relations!” translated Nils, more impatiently than ever.
“Tell him there’ll be opportunities for that later,” urged Bernard. “Tell him that just now we’ve got to hurry!”
By this time the prisoner, partly through weakness, partly to see his visitors better, had sunk down to his knees. Nils jumped onto his hand, and ran up his arm, and began to shout directly in his ear. (“I’m having to tell him all about the Prisoners’ Aid Society!” Nils called down irritably.) Again an age seemed to pass before the prisoner’s expression turned from dreamy pleasure to as much as ordinary attention. But at last he began to understand, and his eyes grew brighter and brighter. He picked up the keys, and cradled them lovingly in his palm — bending on Bernard such a look of admiration that modest Bernard blushed; and at last, with a few brief words, rose shakily to his feet.
“What does he say now?” asked Bernard. “Will he come with us?”
“He says,” translated Nils soberly, “that he puts his life in our hands.”
The three mice looked at each other. They looked at the prisoner’s gaunt, feeble frame, and Nils and Bernard thought of the slippery steps down to the water gate, and of the angry River beyond. What a responsibility! But their courage was high, and so, it seemed, was the prisoner’s. (He was a poet. He didn’t think he was dreaming, as a prisoner who wasn’t a poet might have done — and so missed his chance of escape.) Shakily but resolutely — his fingers trembling but his spirit firm — he tried one key after the other in the lock of his door . . .
At the third, it opened.
There is no more wonderful moment in life than when a prison door opens. It was not through weakness that the prisoner, for a moment, again sank to his knees. Then up he rose; only once shuddered, as the cold damp air whistled through his rags; followed the mice along the passage, and with a smile set his foot on the topmost of the water gate steps.
4.
The River had lapped back; yet even as they descended, the roar of water sounded louder and louder in their ears. The River was angry still! But there was no help for it, they had to go on. Each step seemed a separate precipice, slippery with washed-up mud; the mice skidded and slipped, the prisoner had to brace himself for support against the wet, rough, rocky wall. In fear and trembling, yet all resolute, they descended. In fear and trembling they reached the bottom —
And there, wonder of wonders, beheld a raft hugging the bank for shelter, tied to the old iron ring in the old, newly revealed water gate wall!
“The luck of the mice!” cried Bernard. “The luck of the mice at last! — Nils, tell the prisoner to get on board! You, Miss Bianca, run along the rope, and Nils and I will follow!”
Nils said something in Norwegian. The prisoner nodded. He was at the very last step; only a yard separated him from the raft. Then that foot slipped, in he fell, a powerful undertow sucked him down, and the faithless River carried him away!
13.
The Raft
WITHOUT an instant’s hesitation, Nils and Bernard jumped in after. “Keep his chin up!” spluttered Bernard. “We must keep his chin up!”
“But where’s he got to?” spluttered Nils.
At that moment, the poet rose to the surface; they struck out desperately towards him.
“Kick off your sea boots, you idiot!” choked Bernard to Nils; Nils kicked them off, and made better progress. But they couldn’t help. The dead weight of the prisoner’s head was too much for them.
“Swim! Swim for dear life!” shouted Nils in Norwegian. It was no use. The poet was too weak from his long imprisonment to manage more than half a stroke, and indeed by this time Nils and Bernard needed all their strength to keep going themselves. With a faint smile of gratitude — even in his extremity! — down the prisoner went for the sec
ond time . . .
Where was Miss Bianca, during these dreadful happenings?
She had done what everyone should do in an emergency; she had obeyed orders. She ran straight along the mooring rope and onto the raft. A woman came out of the reed house, but Miss Bianca didn’t even notice her. She ran up onto an empty hencoop where she could see what was going on — and seeing, shrieked in dismay!
So did the woman shriek. The raft-woman took one look at Miss Bianca, and instantly kicked the hencoop overboard, right into the Norwegian poet’s arms as he rose for the last time.
After that, for some moments, all was noise and confusion. The raft-wife shrieked again; out from the reed house rolled a couple of men, and between them they hauled the prisoner aboard — Nils and Bernard clinging to his clothes, and Miss Bianca clinging to the hencoop. All four were so full of water, the prisoner had to be life-saved by the raft-men, while the mice lifesaved each other; but everyone was safe aboard!
2.
All who use waterways, be it by sea, river or canal, speak essentially the same language. If each separate word isn’t understood, at least the general drift is. The raft-people soon learned all they needed to — and besides were the very reverse of inquisitive. For instance, no one said anything about the Black Castle, though it loomed so directly above them; in the same discreet, almost off-hand way they supplied their guest with dry and anonymous clothing, and when he had changed made his old prison rags into a bundle, and weighted it with a flatiron, and sank it in the River. (The raft-wife also cut his hair for him.) And the moment the River had a little calmed, they unloosed the mooring rope and cast off.
“What splendid, kind people!” exclaimed Miss Bianca.
“Aye; proper seafarers,” said Nils.
The mice made this last journey in the poet’s pockets. He somehow explained to the raft-wife, when she wanted to chase them off, that they were friends of his. “Mind they don’t run about loose, then!” warned the raft-wife grudgingly. (She had sacrificed her flatiron, but she couldn’t abide mice.) So the poet put them one in eacl pocket — Bernard in the left, Miss Bianca in the right, and Nils over his heart.
From this snugness and security, each day, again, as on the wagon ride, they looked out upon a changing landscape. But now it was the reverse of the wagon ride: first they floated between cliffs on one side and The Barrens on the other, then through a country of bare heath and crooked firs, then through fat farmland, all tucked up for the winter but still very friendly and comfortable-looking. Here they sometimes passed wagons quite close to the bank, and then the three mice all leaned out and waved. (Miss Bianca once thought she saw Albert, but it may have been just a likeness.) The River, as though sorry for having nearly drowned them, behaved beautifully: it flowed with a strong, even current, just powerful enough to keep the raft floating steadily, but without sending so much as a ripple on deck. The raft-people told each other they had never known such fair weather! — and it made them all the kinder to the poet (though they would have been kind to him anyway), because they believed he was bringing them luck.
The poet grew stronger every day. Each day he ate three enormous meals of pork, fried potatoes, and apple jam. Some might have found this diet monotonous, but not the poet, after years of nothing but bread and treacle. — He always kept back three little portions for the mice, which they ate behind the hencoop, under his strict supervision on account of the raft-wife’s prejudices. Then they had a short scamper and got back into his pockets.
Sometimes at night, because the moon was so beautiful, he let them run out again, just for a few minutes; and Miss Bianca was so inspired she wrote two new poems.
POEM BY MISS BIANCA, WRITTEN ON A RAFT
How beautiful the night!
What silver ripples swim behind our wake!
All nature hushed, winds stilled, the waters calm,
’Tis as we sailed upon an argent lake!
How beautiful the dawn!
Aurora’s fingers part the fading mist,
Sweet birds strike up their morning roundelays—
’Tis as we sailed on seas of amethyst!
M. B.
The other was perhaps not quite so poetic, but even more heartfelt.
RAFT-SONG, BY MISS BIANCA
Day and night, between faraway banks,
Smoothly glided a beautiful raft.
Sun and moon and the stars of the sky
Look in blessing on cargo and craft!
Three brave Rafters with hearts of gold —
Four poor Mariners saved from the foam —
Look down in blessing, sun, moon and stars,
Carry them safely, swiftly home!
M. B.
This one had a rather appropriate, watery rhythm; the three mice used to sing it each night, from pocket to pocket, while the poet slept.
Safely indeed, if not very swiftly, the raft bore them on. How glorious it was, to be headed for freedom at last! For their cargo was due at the Capital, and once there, said Nils confidently, the prisoner-poet, his strength now quite recruited, would be able to make his own way home.
“And I shall go with him,” said Nils yearningly. “Ah, it’ll be good to see Norway again, and take a glass of beer with the lads!”
Bernard looked at Miss Bianca. He was going home too; but where, oh where, was Miss Bianca’s home? Would she disappear again into the world of high society — into her Porcelain Pagoda?
Miss Bianca was asking herself the same question.
14.
The End
THE return of Bernard and Nils and Miss Bianca, their mission successfully accomplished, has been so often described in mouse history that only a brief account of it is now required.
Their welcome at the Moot-house was naturally tumultuous. The ceiling rang to shouts of “Three cheers for Miss Bianca!”, “Three cheers for Bernard!”, also “Up the Norwegians!” (led by Nils). Madam Chairwoman was actually observed to kiss the Secretary. The Secretary kissed Miss Bianca. All Bernard’s relations kissed Bernard. Nils was presented with both the Jean Fromage Medal and the Tybalt Star — he’d in fact had one of these already, but swapped it for a mouth organ — and also, what he appreciated far more, with a replacement for every single possession lost with his sea boots.
Bernard and Miss Bianca made the list together, and they remembered everything: half a pair of socks, a box of Elastoplast, a double six of dominoes, a ball of twine and a folding corkscrew. When Nils saw them all neatly laid out on a silver tray, he showed emotion for the second time. As to the sea boots themselves, cobblers were working night and day on a new pair to his special measure.
It was more difficult to know how to reward the raft-people — until Miss Bianca recalled how the raft-wife had shrieked at the sight of her, and had made the poet carry them all in his pockets. Then a solemn declaration was drawn up, and signed and witnessed by Madam Chairwoman and the Secretary on behalf of all members, to the effect that no mouse should ever in any circumstances set foot on the raft in question; and Bernard undertook to point it out, where it lay alongside the woodyard, to parties of not more than twenty at a time.
Miss Bianca’s famous chart was richly framed and hung up beside the Aesop’s fable picture over the speakers’ platform. Below, a glass case enshrined her fan, Bernard’s spotted handkerchief, and Nils’s autograph, for the inspiration of future generations.
The Nils and Miss Bianca Medal, struck in pure silver, was awarded to Nils, Miss Bianca and Bernard. (Bernard himself quite agreed that “and Bernard” would have made it sound awkward. He had the most generous nature possible.) On one side was depicted the Black Castle, on the reverse a broken fetter. Particulars of this new award were at once distributed to every regional branch of the Prisoners’ Aid Society, also to Societies overseas, with the request that it should rank above both the Jean Fromage Medal and the Tybalt Star.
“And we mustn’t forget your mother’s galoshes!” said Miss Bianca to Nils.
“
You’re right there,” said Nils. “Ma promised she’d fair skin me, if I didn’t bring ’em back!”
“Or would she prefer a new pair?” suggested Miss Bianca.
“Not Ma,” said Nils positively. “Ma gets so attached to her old galoshes, you wouldn’t believe.”
So they went together to find them in the speedboat. There it still lay, just as they had left it, gently a-rock on the Embassy boating water; and there were the galoshes too. Leaving Nils to look round, Miss Bianca took them into the cabin and filled each quite full of coffee sugar, and also wrote a grateful note of thanks on ship’s writing paper.
When she came out again, Nils was still looking round. He was looking and looking, as though he couldn’t bear to tear himself away.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” said Miss Bianca.
Nils sighed.
“The neatest craft I ever saw!”
“So I think too,” said Miss Bianca.
“AI at Lloyd’s!” sighed Nils. “I dare say the Owner,” he added casually, “would have no use for a Nils and Miss Bianca Medal?”
“Now, really — !” began Miss Bianca. She was about to scold him quite severely, for she’d suspected all along that he took that splendid honor far too lightly. The wist-fulness in his eyes, however, made her pause.
“As a swap,” suggested Nils.
“In the first place,” began Miss Bianca again, “decorations are never to be ‘swapped’ —” and again she broke off. If ever anyone wanted anything, badly, Nils wanted that speedboat. His hand, caressing a lever, quite shook with yearning! “And why not?” Miss Bianca asked herself. “I’m sure the Boy, if he knew all Nils’s care of me on the voyage from Norway, would give it to him gladly!”
Aloud, she said impulsively, “Would you like the speedboat for your own, Nils?”
Nils was speechless with joy. He just pulled every lever in sight — turned on the headlights, rammed the quay, nearly swamped Miss Bianca, and reversed.
The Rescuers Page 8