The Mousehunter (7 page)

The Flying Fox

O
LD TOWN LOOKED VERY SMALL TO EMILINE AS THE
Flying Fox
left the calm harbor and sailed onto the open sea. She peered over the ship’s side and reveled in the fine spray that passed over her face. The jagged rooftops of the mansions on Grandview were becoming a distant blur, and as the sails filled, they sped away at an even greater rate of knots.

Portly sat on her shoulder, breathing in the unusually fresh air in spadefuls. It seemed the trend was to have pet mice onboard ship. Emiline had always thought parrots to be the pets of sailors, but times were obviously changing, and the mouse had taken over. She was pleased Portly would at least be able to make a few new friends on ship, and they could maybe teach him a trick or two.

The ship was alive with sailors and mice, all harmoniously busy with one job or another. Rigger Mice were running up and down the masts tending to the ropes and sails, and every half hour, at the sound of a whistle, a sailor would cast a Knot Mouse overboard to judge the speed of the ship. It was very different from the quiet and subdued nature of Lovelock’s mansion.

“Emiline!” called Scratcher, breaking into her thoughts. “The captain wants a word with you.”

Scratcher seemed a little flustered. The ship’s cook had been moaning at him because an angry Messenger Mouse had broken loose and was causing havoc in the mess.

“Have I done anything wrong?” asked Emiline, feeling a little nervous.

“No, I doubt it,” said the boy grudgingly; “he loves you at the moment.”

Scratcher directed her to Drewshank’s quarters and ran off again, apologizing for being in a rush. Standing silently in front of the cabin door, Emiline bit her lip and knocked tentatively. She heard a few footsteps, then the door swung wide.

“Ah! The expert mousekeeper,” announced Drewshank. “How are you?”

“Very well,” she replied, suddenly feeling a little uncertain about addressing the captain. She looked around at the ornate and slightly overdecorated cabin. The painting of Drewshank almost took her breath away.

“Excellent . . . So then, your role aboard ship!” said the captain. “Being your first voyage on the
Flying Fox,
there are certain things you must get to grips with, and a day in the crow’s nest is one of them. I take it you’re not afraid of heights?”

“No! Of course not! But won’t I be helping your other mousekeeper, sir?”

“Oh, at some point I’m sure, but being onboard ship requires a lot more than just dealing with mice. You must be a sailor too!”

Emiline had never considered herself sailor material, but in life you had to give everything a chance. As long as she didn’t have to sing any shanties, she thought she’d be able to cope.

Drewshank passed her a small silver telescope.

“This will be your eyes for the day, Emiline. We’ve heard that there’s some bad weather in the vicinity, and that could be the end for all of us. Keep a good watch today, and tomorrow you can learn how to swab the decks.”

Emiline’s heart sank.

“Swab the decks? Sir . . . ”

“And then maybe we’ll get you to do an inventory of every sailor’s mouse on board. These pets are getting out of control!”

Drewshank stepped closer and lowered himself to talk to Emiline eye to eye.

“I’ll let you into a little secret here . . . I saw a Four-bellied Mouse hanging from the rum storage rafters yesterday — and you know what a thirst they can have. We’d be out of grog in days. I admit, it’s a good mouse for a sailor to be seen with, but they must be kept in check.”

“Aye, sir,” said Emiline, unwittingly falling into sailor-speak.

“Excellent. Well then, I suggest you go and find my first mate Fenwick. He’ll show you how to get settled in the crow’s nest.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied once more, and trudged slowly to the door, telescope in hand.

“That’s a very fine mouse on your shoulder, by the way,” added Drewshank. “I once had a Grey myself. Scruples was its name — was always stealing cheese.”

“Thank you, captain,” said Emiline, leaving the cabin. Portly squeaked
thank you
too, in his own little way.

“Are you Mr. Fenwick?” asked Emiline. A sweat-soaked stocky man with a well-tanned face and shaved head stared back at her. He was wearing a dirty white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and his long cotton trousers sat bulging over a pair of enormous boots that had seen better days.

“Aye. That’s me,” he said in a thick country accent while wiping the sweat from his never-ending brow. An equally beefy Brown Mouse looked questioningly at Emiline from his shoulder.

“Captain Drewshank told me to find you.”

“Ah! Now I understand why you look like a girl! You’re that Sharpclaw catcher!” he said excitedly.

Fenwick seemed truly overjoyed at her arrival. She forced a smile and decided to return any pleasantries that might come her way.

“Right,” said Fenwick, “I’ll be lookin’ after you while onboard. Any problems, turn to me. Scratcher will be a great help as well, I’ll bet. But don’t you be bothering the captain unless he asks for it!”

Emiline agreed and waited patiently for Fenwick to tell her what to do next.

“Right,” he said finally, scratching his chest, his mind seemingly taken by a hundred and one other tasks. “What d’you think of Trumper?”

He picked up his Brown Mouse and held it in front of Emiline. The mouse smiled and twitched its whiskers while letting out a small fart. A pungent eggy smell filled the area, causing Fenwick to blush.

“He does that quite a lot,” said Fenwick apologetically.

“That’s nothing; I’ve known a lot worse from the Stinky Blowhorn Mice we had at home,” offered Emiline. She thought Trumper was rather overweight in truth, but it looked like a friendly enough animal — and besides, Portly himself could be said to have a little pot belly, but Emiline was quite oblivious to it. At the sight of the mouse, Portly scuttled down her arm and came to a rest in her hand, forcing Emiline to introduce him too.

“And this is Portly . . . .”

Fenwick looked impressed.

“Look at him! He’s very fine indeed.”

Emiline started to worry that Portly’s head would grow too large if he received any more praise this morning.

“Greys and Browns get on well, so I’ve heard,” said Fenwick, allowing Trumper and Portly to sniff each other’s nose. Emiline tickled Trumper, then returned Portly to her shoulder.

“I’m supposed to be on watch from the crow’s nest,” said Emiline, pushing things along.

“Ah, right! Of course. This way, then!”

Fenwick led Emiline to the base of the main mast and rigging. He leaned back, looking up to the crow’s nest, and his mouse did the same.

“Just climb up and you’ll get there,” he explained. “And if you need any help, just shout. Your watch will last until midnight, but you’ll get some grub halfway through your shift. Scratcher will bring it up for you.”

“That sounds fabulous,” said Emiline, and she started to climb slowly.

“Keep an eye out for Chervil!” he shouted. “We haven’t seen him in days, but I’m sure he’s just been hidin’ while at port!”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said, not knowing who he was talking about. A twelve-hour shift would seem like forever, she thought, but at least she had Portly to keep her company.

Fenwick waited for Emiline to reach the crow’s nest safely and then returned to his duties. As Drewshank’s first mate he did a lot more than he probably ought — it wasn’t that the captain was particularly lazy or useless, more that he needed the occasional extra bit of help. But Fenwick was more than happy with the way things were: it was Devlin Drewshank after all, and who wouldn’t have wanted to be his right-hand man?

Emiline found it hard climbing the rigging, and was exhausted by the time she’d reached the crow’s nest. She pulled herself over the wooden side and dropped to its floor. Seated on a ledge just in front of her was an enormous golden-brown cat. He sat like a king: upright and commanding, and his eyes bored right into Emiline’s.

“Meeooww,” he said languidly.

Portly quickly shuffled into Emiline’s hair, and peeked out nervously.

“Hello,” replied Emiline softly, and stretched out to stroke the cat’s long curly fur. The cat accepted the fuss and blinked slowly in appreciation.

“Must be Chervil,” said Emiline to Portly, trying to calm him. “I couldn’t think of a better place to hide than up here.”

The cat blinked slowly and turned to look out to sea. From where he was sitting, he could see over the side of the crow’s nest and had a terrific view of all the gulls swooping into the ship’s wake.

“I see,” said Emiline, “not only a good hiding place but a wonderful vantage point too! But he doesn’t seem at all bothered with you, Portly, so I shouldn’t worry.”

The mouse crept out from her hair and leaped onto the wooden side. The view was spectacular, and Emiline lifted her telescope and peered through. She was, after all, supposed to be on watch.

Hours drifted by so slowly that Emiline struggled to keep her eyes open. Ever since Old Town had vanished from the horizon, all that she’d seen was sea; mile after mile of open water to the horizon. The wind had kept up strong, and they were making good progress, but it was so boring.

Chervil had long since fallen asleep at Emiline’s side, and Portly had even found him quite agreeable to lie against, sleeping among his dense, warm fur. The two of them were breathing deeply in unison, and it made it even harder for Emiline to keep her eyes open.

The bright morning had faded into an overcast afternoon, with gray clouds speckling the otherwise white sky. The weather seemed to be turning for the worse, and as dusk approached, Emiline heard her name called from below. It was Scratcher, and he was making his way precariously up the rigging with a steaming tin of food in one hand.

“Time for some grub!” he shouted. He finally emerged over the top of the nest and dropped down next to Emiline. A wonderful smell of warm beef broth arrived with him.

“It seems like I’ve been here for days,” said Emiline.

Scratcher stared at Emiline for a while before replying. It was unusual to have someone close to his own age onboard, and a girl at that.

“You’re halfway through now,” he said, regaining his voice. “It’s dull at first, but you get used to it. And you’ve found Chervil! That’ll please everyone.”

Emiline took the food graciously and scooped the broth into her mouth with a large clump of bread that Scratcher brought out from his pocket. It was delicious, and tore Emiline’s thoughts from the monotony of being lookout.

“So did you always want to be a mousekeeper?”

“Of course,” she replied, lingering over another mouthful of food, “but I’ll soon be a mousehunter!”

“You — a mousehunter?”

“I’ll be the youngest the world’s ever seen,” she replied with the utmost sincerity. “I’ll pass the tests, catch the mice . . . become the most famous mousehunter there is.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” laughed Scratcher.

“Don’t you want to be a mousehunter?” asked Emiline, somewhat bewildered by the boy’s attitude. Portly had stirred from his sleep, and was sniffing the air, wondering what smelled so nice.

“I’m a good mousekeeper, but my skills leave me when it comes to catching the darn things. I know my limits.”

“That’s the wimpiest thing I’ve ever heard! You can be whatever you want. Look at Portly here; he’s just a Grey, but he’s as clever as any Bojimbo Conjuring Mouse!”

“Well, maybe,” stuttered Scratcher. He took hold of the rigging and nervously kicked his ankles. “I think I should be getting back now,” he said. “I have the Messenger Mice cages to clean.”

“Suit yourself,” muttered Emiline, and she returned to her food. Despite him being slightly underwhelming, she couldn’t help liking Scratcher, and his brief company had been a relief.

Chervil had woken with the commotion, and had also started taking an interest in Emiline’s dinner. With the two animals now craving something to eat, Emiline distributed her leftovers between them. Food was the best thing to lift spirits after all, and they sat contentedly as the sky faded into darkness.

The gloomy conditions turned even gloomier when Emiline felt a faint drizzle start to fall, and she tightened her coat to stop the chill from creeping in. Unlike normal cats, Chervil seemed to revel in the dim light and damp conditions, and sat upright again to keep watch.

While peering through the telescope into near darkness, Emiline heard movements on deck, and leaned over the nest to see small lamps being lit. The sailors were readying the ship for the long dark night ahead; the day-shift mice were put to rest while the Night-light Mice were brought out to illuminate the deck. Emiline watched a young sailor place some Listener Mice at the bow.

“Ingenious,” murmured Emiline, realizing they were there to warn of oncoming ships: there really was no mouse put to waste onboard ship.

Emiline felt a soft prodding on her arm, and saw Chervil was trying to get her attention. On the horizon she saw a quick burst of lightning connect the sky and sea. It lit up huge brooding clouds rising up into the heavens. A low grumble of thunder traveled over the waves, and immediately a bell rang out from the deck.

“Drop the sails, storm front ahead!” shouted Fenwick. Drewshank appeared on deck and started to pace up and down, his striking form lit up by the lamplight, even from such a distance.

“Hold tight, men!” he shouted. “We’ll keep sure and let this one pass!” Hearty calls of “yessir” rang out all over the ship.

Emiline watched the lightning draw nearer while the thunder grew louder. It was a strange sensation, being able to see the storm approach. The waves were growing with each minute, lifting the ship up and down like a slowed-down rollercoaster. The sky above darkened further with the massive spread of clouds chasing toward them. The air crackled.

“It’s almost upon us,” called out Drewshank. “Only those sailors needed remain on deck. The storm will be quite a ride!”

Fenwick came to his side and shoved a rope into his hand. Other sailors had already strung out lifelines across the deck, but the first mate always looked after his captain.