The Mousehunter (12 page)

Fogs were of particular danger at sea because they blinded the vessel. They could send a ship off course easily, and even lure it to the rocks. And this fog seemed to be gaining on the
Flying Fox.

“That’s no normal bit of weather,” said Fenwick. “With things as they are, we shouldn’t be having no fog.”

He was standing in Drewshank’s cabin, peering out of the windows that looked out over the stern.

“I think we should make every effort to avoid it,” replied the captain grimly, remembering the words of the Weather Teller. Lady Pettifogger’s map was spread out in front of him, with the
Flying Fox
’s current course plotted over it in bright pins. A cluster of black mice was drawn on the map right where they were heading.

“It’s going to be tricky enough finding that pirate as it is without us getting lost in fog as well,” said Drewshank.

“Aye, sir. We don’t need to take any more risks just yet!”

“Quite right,” said Drewshank. “We’ll soon be in Mousebeard territory, so we need to be on full guard. Give the order to get a move on.”

Mr. Fenwick snapped to attention and made his way onto deck, passing Emiline on the way. She was holding a Brown-nosed Gruffler Mouse in her hands, and it was wriggling all over the place. Grufflers were angry mice, with dark gray fur and a tendency to cause mischief.

“Is that a Gruffler?” asked Fenwick before shouting out his orders at the top of his voice. The ship turned a little, and a great whooshing noise filled the air as every sail caught the wind fully, pushing the
Flying Fox
faster through the waves.

“He’s been biting through ropes,” said Emiline with frustration. “I’m going to have to lock him up now, and we just don’t have the space for him.”

“These pets can get a bit out of control,” said Fenwick, his eyes watching the actions of his crew. “Have you seen this fog?”

Emiline looked to the horizon at where the first mate was pointing and saw a mass of gray, obscuring the break between the sea and sky.

“That’s trouble brewing, that is,” he said, his mouse appearing at his shoulder. “I ain’t never seen a fog like it. Looks like it’s comin’ right at us.”

The Gruffler Mouse decided that was the moment it was going to bite Emiline, and with a frustrated wriggle it clamped its sharp teeth around her finger.

“Grrrrouch!” she yelped, and tore the mouse off her hand and held it aloft, its legs dangling helplessly.

“I see you’ve got problems enough of your own,” he said, smiling.

“It’s never-ending, sir,” she replied.

“Aye, that can be the way of sailing sometimes. We’re making good progress now though.”

Scratcher called out from the other end of the deck, and Emiline made her leave with the mouse in tow. He was carrying a small cage, and he opened its door so that Emiline could deposit the Gruffler. It was only just big enough for it, but until they could get a bigger one sorted, it would have to do.

“Have you heard about this fog?” said Scratcher excitedly, bolting the cage door.

“Fenwick says it’s trouble,” replied Emiline.

“All the sailors down below are talking about it like it’s a ghost or demon or something. They all say it’s bad news . . . .”

“It’s just a fog!” said Emiline. “We get them all the time in Old Town.”

“But this one’s coming after us. They think it might be a ghost ship.”

“Sailors are crazy . . . .”

“But I’ve seen one before . . . ,” butted in Scratcher defensively.

“When?”

“A year ago, just off the coast of the Western Isles. It had three masts and tatty sails, but it shot through the water like a rocket!”

Emiline looked to the fog.

“Well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, folding her arms.

For two hours they sailed with the wind behind them, but it all proved to be fruitless: the fog continued to give chase, and was now catching up with them.

“It’s no good,” said Drewshank to his crew who had massed on the top deck; “we can’t outrun it. Whatever it is that pursues us, the only course of action is to batten down the hatches and face it head-on. Tie up the sails, and weigh anchor. We shall sit here, swords drawn.”

“But, cap’n,” asked a sailor with a huge bustle of hair, “what if there’s an ambush waiting in the middle of it? Or a ghost ship out to spook some unsuspecting vessel like ours?”

The huddle of sailors all responded with nervous chatter and mutterings of “Mousebeard.” Superstition ran deep among the crew of the
Flying Fox,
and after the Grak attack, nerves were a little shaky.

“We will get through this!” said Drewshank strongly. “Nothing will get the better of the
Flying Fox,
but I believe we’re best off fighting whatever it is head-on.”

“So stand firm at your posts,” said Mr. Fenwick. “We’ll take more measures once the fog’s upon us.”

“Aye, sir!” shouted the sailors.

“See!” said Scratcher to Emiline. “I’m not the only one who believes in ghost ships!”

“You’re all mad!” she returned, then headed off below deck.

By dusk the fog was so close that the sea behind them was completely hidden. Emiline and Scratcher had fed all the mice onboard and were collecting the Watcher Mice from the bowsprit. Apart from a host of armed sailors standing on guard, most people were now below deck.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Scratcher, placing a mouse into a wooden box full of straw. “It’s as though it’s bewitched.”

“I agree that there are odd things at sea,” replied Emiline, “but I certainly don’t believe in bewitched fogs. How can a fog be bewitched?”

Emiline let loose three Night-light Mice from a mousebox, their eyes beaming like torches, and then she leaned over the edge of the ship. The fog was creeping closer, and she watched the wisps of gray claw their way across the water. It would only be minutes before the ship was completely enshrouded in darkness.

Fenwick shouted out: “Everyone inside or below deck if you’re not on guard!”

It had been decided that patrols would take it in turns to keep watch on deck, but for safety, everyone else had to remain below in their quarters.

Scratcher made his way to the trapdoor, and stopped for Emiline.

“Come on, what are you doing?” he said.

Emiline was itching to see what the fog was like close up. She wanted to touch it and feel what it was made of.

“You go on, I’ll follow,” she replied confidently. Scratcher didn’t bother to speak. He simply raised his hand in annoyance and left Emiline to her own devices.

The fog inched closer and finally touched the side of the ship. Within minutes it had spread over the top deck. Emiline stood by the open trapdoor and let the fog swirl around her. It was cold and damp, but it had a strangely sweet smell, like that of fragrant burning wood. Fogs don’t normally smell sweet, she thought.

“In you come,” ordered Fenwick, and Emiline felt a hand take hold of her ankle and tug it gently.

“All right!” she replied, pulling the wooden trapdoor over her head.

A loud banging on the door woke Algernon from his dreams of machines and mice.

“Who is it?” he shouted sleepily. Swinging himself out of bed, Algernon opened the window onto the chilly night. He slipped his glasses over his nose and finally saw who was making the racket. A band of soldiers were huddled around his door, swords and rifles held at the ready.

“Algernon Mountjack,” ordered a soldier, “on the orders of the Mayor of Hamlyn, open your door. You are under arrest for conspiring against the state. As of now, your premises are under the control of the Hamlyn Guard.”

Algernon jumped back from the window and composed himself. He ticked all the mental notes off one at a time in his brain: he liked to prepare for instances such as these, but they would always surprise you no matter how ready you were. He slipped on his shoes and overcoat, picked up his goggles and leather hat, and bundled down the stairs at breakneck speed.

Once more the soldiers rapped on the door.

“Right, break it in!”

Algernon sped through to the bar, avoiding the two sleeping Elephant Mice not far from the doorway. He patted his pockets with his palms, and found them empty.

“Gah! Keys . . . ,” he muttered to himself. “Keys . . . where are you?”

He kicked a load of crates out of the way and pushed aside some empty beer glasses. His keys were nowhere to be seen.

“Come on, I need you!” he growled.

The front door banged as the soldiers made their first hit. It shuddered and cracked, but nothing gave. Inn doors, particularly in Hamlyn, were always sturdily built for fear of rowdy pirates breaking in.

Algernon scampered around, scouring one surface after another, and then his thoughts turned a corner and he remembered exactly where he’d put them. He jumped up onto the bar and grabbed the key chain from a peg high up on the wall.

“Aha!” he cried as the front door was rammed again; this time its top twisted inward and the hinges buckled and snapped. Algernon jumped to the floor and budged a rusty old beer pump on the bar with his elbow. Sweat was dripping from his forehead and stinging his eyes. As the front door finally smashed open with a third and final bang, a trapdoor dropped down right before Algernon’s feet, revealing a twisting staircase.

“Get him!” ordered an officer in the doorway as five of his men ran past him into the Giant’s Reach. The Elephant Mice didn’t take kindly to noisy strangers and shook themselves frustratedly from their sleep. They made angry low-pitched squeaks and charged toward the oncoming soldiers, hitting two men squarely and painfully in the kneecaps.

Algernon rushed down the steps and reached a round wooden door. He took out the key chain and selected a little bronze key, placed it in the lock, and twisted it. His arm jolted as it failed to open.

“Damn things!” he cursed, removing it and checking that it was the right one. It was, he was certain of it, and he tried again. He heard a gunshot, a loud wail, and a thud on the floor above. His heart seized — the soldiers had killed one of his Elephant Mice. He hit the door with his hand in anger.

“There he is!” shouted a soldier, appearing through the trapdoor. The man fired a reckless shot downward, and Algernon ducked as it flashed off the wall to his side. He twisted the key again.

“Don’t kill him just yet!” shouted another soldier. “We want him for questioning!”

The key clunked as it spun around. Algernon sighed with relief. He pulled open the door just as another bullet bounced off the wall above him.

“Stop right there!” ordered a soldier, running down the stairs.

Algernon jumped through the door and locked it shut. He stopped to catch his breath in the darkness, hearing gunshots cracking into the door behind. Placing his hand to his right, he yanked a metal lever and three lamps fizzled into life nearby. As their glow grew stronger, a wonderful sight greeted him. A narrow underground river surged through the cave on its way out to sea, with the sparkling water reflecting off the twisted stalactites. Resting on the water, calmly bobbing up and down, was his favorite invention. It was his splendid small copper submarine — a more rounded and perfectly designed craft you couldn’t find.

Algernon rushed over to his pride and joy, and grabbed hold of the metallic ladder that was attached to the sub’s side. He cranked the wheel that unlocked the entry hatch and waited a few moments before it popped and swung upward. A bright light beamed out.

With a huge bang the door to the cave exploded and smoke rose into the air. Algernon jumped frantically into the submarine.

“Fire at will, men! Don’t let him escape!” shouted the officer.

Algernon’s heart leaped as he settled down into the cockpit; it was so exciting to be heading out to sea. He secured the hatch above him and flicked the power switch. Lights lit up all over the dashboard, and the engine kicked in with a mild grumbling splutter.

The submarine started to sink, and despite the constant sound of bullets chiming on the body of the submarine, Algernon settled himself comfortably into the pilot’s seat. At his call, three of his highly trained Boffin Mice appeared from a pipe near his head, and made themselves comfortable on his shoulder.

Through the small glass window, Algernon watched the water rise up and over the vessel. He tightened his hat, lowered his goggles, and with a push of the gear stick, his submarine rocketed off into the deep.

On the
Flying Fox,
sailors sat huddled on the lower decks with their weapons in hand. The fog continued to surround the vessel, and it completely obscured any view from the portholes.

Emiline waited with Scratcher in their quarters, mouse cages filling every conceivable space, and candles dimly lighting the interior. She was trying to make Portly jump over a makeshift hurdle, but he was showing no interest in obliging. He’d been acting oddly since the fog had appeared, and Emiline was concerned.

“He doesn’t seem himself,” said Scratcher, clearing condensation from a steamed-up porthole.

“I think he might be a bit seasick,” replied Emiline, tempting her mouse with a slice of nutty cheese.

“I noticed some of the Messengers were under the weather too,” added Scratcher, “but I reckon it’s this fog that’s got them down.”

Emiline changed the subject. “I never asked you why you were called Scratcher. It seems a funny name.”

“Ah . . . ,” he replied reluctantly, “I knew you’d ask that at some point.”

“Well?”

“Well, on my first voyage with Drewshank we were transporting a cargo of Scruffy Mice . . . .”

“You caught lice!” interrupted Emiline, and Scratcher was immediately embarrassed.

“I was scratching for weeks . . . .”

Emiline laughed out loud, causing her friend to blush terribly.

“You learn from your mistakes,” he added quietly.

Portly suddenly looked to the porthole, then lay down and covered his ears.

“What was that?” asked Emiline, gently stroking the mouse. Scratcher placed his ear to the window.

“I can hear something,” he said.

Emiline looked confused.

“Listen!” he said.