Authors: Alex Milway
“Revenge against Lovelock?” asked Drewshank.
Mousebeard took a short breath.
“Of course. It’s only my will that’s stopped me going mad all these years . . . . Each strike against Lovelock’s empire was like an antidote to this curse. . . . I’m sorry for all the deaths that came about because of this, but I promise you, captain, Isiah would have done more damage to the world. These pirates . . . ”
Mousebeard groaned as the pain increased throughout his body. Drewshank pulled him further onto his shoulder to take more of the weight from his legs.
“If we come through this,” said Drewshank determinedly, “you can explain it better then. Just try to keep breathing for now.”
The road and procession wound on, eventually reaching Old Town and the more recognizable streets lined with towering houses. Mousebeard stared at the townspeople filling the streets — they were there for him, after all. Heckling and cheering rang out from the windows and pavements as they passed.
The pirates were led through denser winding streets, and then eventually arrived at the river and Pirate’s Wharf. Drewshank had never seen so many people in one place before. The cobbled wharf front was rammed; rooftops were crowded, and the finished towers and viewing stands filled to bursting. Only a small square by the river edge was left clear for the prisoners. As they walked along the cobbles with the whole town’s eyes upon them from both sides of the river, the blue horizon opened up into a bright pink sky. Light came flooding down onto the wharf, and if there hadn’t been a scaffold and gibbet awaiting the prisoners, they would have all thought it the most beautiful sight.
“Quite a morning,” murmured Mousebeard.
“Even the sun has come out to watch us die,” said Drewshank morbidly, eyeing the scaffold.
The wooden platform rose up from the wharf and jutted out directly over the river to the other side like a wide, flat bridge. Two thick wooden posts stood upright at its edges, with a long joist running between their highest points. Six rope nooses hung down ready for the condemned.
Drumming drilled out from the assembled soldiers, and the prisoners were made to sit down in clusters on the cobblestones, just meters from the river. An armed guard, five men thick, surrounded them, and the first six prisoners were unceremoniously dragged out and pushed toward the scaffold.
“People of Old Town!” shouted the Town Crier, standing on the gallows platform. He looked at least seven feet tall, with a thin wispy beard. His dark green jacket was buttoned tight around his neck, and its coattails flicked back and forth with his gestures. The crowds started chattering excitedly in anticipation. The Town Crier let out a loud cough to regain everyone’s attention, and his voice rang out to both sides of the river.
“There are two reasons why we’re all here . . . .”
The crowd clung to his every word.
“First . . . to see these little golden beauties!”
The Town Crier pointed to the center of the crowd on Pirate’s Wharf to where a cage containing the Golden Mice was suspended above their heads. The mice twinkled in the morning sun as though they were covered in dew. A band of soldiers and Lovelock’s butler stood uneasily on guard below the cage.
The crowd hushed in awe. Everyone’s eyes turned to the cage. Judging the moment perfectly, the Town Crier started up again, his arms shooting out and waving wildly.
“Two perfectly formed Golden Mice! A rarer sight you won’t see, and if it wasn’t for the brilliance of the Old Town Guard, they would have met a grisly and untimely death . . . .”
The cheers thundered out again.
“And this brings me neatly to the second reason why you’re all here . . . .”
The Town Crier puffed out his chest and strode to the edge of the platform.
“Let me present to you . . . the great . . . the magnificent . . . the soon-to-be-executed . . . ”
The crowd shrieked as he pointed to the huddle of prisoners with his long arm.
“ . . . MOUSEBEARD!”
The whole of Pirate’s Wharf erupted with devilish joy.
Emiline was engulfed by the noise of the crowd as she slid through the back streets, dodging deftly from left to right to avoid the people. She was alert to everything around her, her eyes wide open and on the lookout for Miserley. Nothing would stop her from getting Portly back.
“Get out of the way!” shouted a man as Emiline hurried past. She elbowed him and rushed on, amazed at how many people had come to see the executions. Just past the entrance to the wharf, all the viewing stands loomed high. They were full of rich people dressed in fine clothes — all people that should have known better, she thought.
She avoided any soldiers on the way, ducking low and using her short height as an advantage to avoid prying eyes. When she first caught a glimpse of the completed scaffold through a gap in the crowd, she was overwhelmed. The Town Crier held everyone’s attention as he paced back and forth, working his audience. When she spotted the cage of the Golden Mice she headed straight for them, squeezing into the tiniest gaps so that she could get closer.
The crowd suddenly erupted around her and started shouting “Mousebeard” over and over in a deafening chant. She carried on, finding it easier to move now that people had their arms raised and their attention focused on something. Eventually she saw Spires, looking awkward amongst the mob of people and soldiers, and she moved closer. Luckily no soldier knew who she was, so when she approached, they thought she was out to watch the executions like everyone else.
“Mr. Spires,” she said cautiously, tugging at his jacket sleeve. “Any sign?”
Spires looked down and shook his head. He was trying to maintain an air of authority, and was partially succeeding.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said, his eyes fixed firmly on the crowd and not Emiline. “But Battersby isn’t here yet. His seat is empty, and it’s not like him to miss his moment of glory.”
Emiline’s attention was taken by the Town Crier, who had succeeded in dampening the noise of the crowd a little. She struggled to see over the crowd.
“And so we come to the purpose of this morning. Let me introduce the first of our condemned prisoners from the
Silver Shark
!”
The crowd roared again, and the six pirates were herded up through the crowds onto the wooden platform. The executioner was dressed in loose black garb, with a hood pulled down over his head. Through small eyeholes his beady eyes surveyed the prisoners as they walked past. Mr. Droob stood quietly next to him and made notes in his little book.
Emiline struggled to see the men walking onto the platform, and stretched up to try and see if it was Drewshank.
“Don’t worry yet,” said Spires, who had a much better view. “You won’t miss Mousebeard or Drewshank. They’ll be executed last. I’ll make sure you get a good look.”
Emiline realized that he was letting her know the situation without giving any secrets away to the soldiers next to him. It didn’t do anything to stop her from worrying though.
“Any news on Scratcher?” she asked desperately as the drums got louder and more ferocious. Each pirate was being taken to a position above a trapdoor.
“Nothing . . . .”
Suddenly the drums stopped dead. Emiline looked to Spires as the trapdoors clunked down and the crowd roared. The deafening noise made the moment even more horrific.
Emiline grew steadily more scared as time passed with still no sight of Miserley. Group by group, the pirates took their turns on the scaffold. The crowd’s cheering grew ever louder as the morning progressed, everyone awaiting the main event: the execution of Mousebeard.
“Come on, boy!” shouted Battersby as he dragged Scratcher through the crowds toward Pirate’s Wharf. An armed guard cleared the path ahead.
“There are more of them — they must be here,” said Miserley, who was walking behind. Her eyes surveyed every face she passed.
“You’re lucky you aren’t going to hang too,” said Battersby.
“I’m too useful,” said the girl knowingly.
“For now, at least,” he added. “I’ve been waiting for this day for years, and I’m sure not going to miss it because of those scum. I’ll have my soldiers informed of your worries. No one will rescue Mousebeard . . . .”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I told you, I’ll find them myself,” she said.
“I don’t care!” he shouted back, pulling Scratcher against his will. “The Old Town Guard will do a better job!”
The crowd started to react to this odd stumbling group. A ripple of acknowledgment spread through the people. When they realized it was Lord Battersby, his name was soon echoing around the wharf.
The Town Crier raised his hand to stop the executioner, and left six pirates standing helplessly over the trapdoors.
“And what is this surprise?” he shouted joyfully. “None other than Lord Battersby! What an entrance!”
Battersby basked in the adulation before reaching the base of the scaffold. Miserley stood close by.
“I’ve got another pirate to hang,” he said proudly, and with these words the crowd cheered even louder.
Scratcher was thoroughly worn out and finished. His eyes were bruised and his face bloodied. It looked as though he’d been beaten and received no rest since his capture. He slouched behind Battersby, his arms tied.
“One more criminal for the gallows!” bellowed the Town Crier.
Emiline’s face paled. She’d heard the chanting of Battersby’s name, but she had no idea what had been going on. The crowd roared.
Spires gripped his hands and scratched his palms.
“They’ve got a boy they plan to execute, Emiline,” he said plainly, trying not to let the worry show in his voice. “He looks about your age . . . .”
Emiline felt her hope vanish.
“But there’s also a girl with Battersby. They’re talking . . . .”
“Long dark hair?” asked Emiline.
“And a mousebox . . . ”
“It’s Miserley!” said Emiline.
“It would seem so,” replied the butler.
Emiline took a deep breath.
“Don’t worry, Emiline. I’ll see what I can do.”
Spires said a few words to the soldiers guarding the Golden Mice and then pushed through the crowd, leaving Emiline alone.
As the trapdoors dropped for the penultimate time, Scratcher was taken to the last huddle of prisoners. He was pushed to the floor next to his captain and Mousebeard.
“Scratcher!” said Drewshank.
“Hello,” he replied sadly. “We tried to help. I don’t know what happened to Emiline, but Battersby’s men got me.”
“I hate him,” muttered Drewshank.
“His time will come soon,” said Mousebeard, the color returning slightly to his white face. The fresh salty air that drifted out from the sea-bound river had revived his spirits a little. “Be strong, boy. This won’t be your last morning . . . .”
Scratcher looked beyond the line of guards that surrounded them and was suddenly awed by the sight of rows of people seated high up in the stands. It was as if he were center stage in some nightmarish drama, and he felt indescribably scared and exposed. The scaffold was only meters away, and he trembled beneath its shadow. The crowd cheered again as the Town Crier returned to the execution platform.
“And now, the final part of the show — it’s what you’ve all been waiting for!” he shouted.
Scratcher felt his leg being kicked, and a soldier arrived at his side.
“Your turn!” said the man gruffly, and prodded Mousebeard and Drewshank with his pike.
“Remember,” whispered Mousebeard as Drewshank helped him find a footing on the stones, “you have friends, and in this world that’s the most important thing. When you have friends, there’s always hope. Don’t give up yet.”
Scragneck and two other pirates were also told to get up and pushed toward the scaffold. As the first of the pirates reached the platform, the crowd fell silent in wait for the great Mousebeard. Scragneck stepped up, looking out for any onlooker who dared to make eye contact. Drewshank followed them up the wooden steps, nerves shaking every muscle in his body. Nothing could have prepared him for such a feeling. The crowd let out a gasp as Mousebeard appeared on the steps, and a cheer burst out that almost lifted the roofs from their buildings.
As soon as Mousebeard stepped off land and onto the platform over the river, his breathing loosened, his eyes cleared, and he felt strength seeping back into his legs. The water coursing below his feet gave him power and the strength to stand on his own — if a little shakily. No matter how much he hated being tied to the sea, the feeling of being back on water filled his soul with determination, and a vengeful light appeared in his eyes. The executioner hurried him along to a noose and stood him alongside Drewshank, and the crowds roared their loudest.
Scratcher felt disoriented as he walked the length of the platform to the final empty noose. The noise and sights muddied his thoughts. He spied the crowd, but as hard as he tried he couldn’t see Emiline. He was confident she’d tried everything she could to save them, but what could she do now? As he reached his position, the executioner draped the rough rope noose over his head. Mr. Droob shouted out angrily, and he rushed along the platform, his hands waving in the air with frustration. “Nobody mentioned that a child would be up here!” he said. He tugged Scratcher’s rope and started measuring it.
“Oh, but it’s not going to be right!” he cursed, looking around for his assistant. Mr. Droob had to get everything right.
The executioner glowered at him.
“I didn’t plan for this,” he muttered. “You’ll have to wait!”
“Lord Battersby, sir,” said Spires, catching up with the man on his way to join Lady Pettifogger and the Mayor in the grandest box on the tallest of the viewing stands. Miserley was walking alongside with a member of the Old Town Guard. She noted the butler’s arrival with a look of disdain.
“Ah, Spires,” said Battersby, “it’s all going well, eh?”
“Absolutely, sir. Have you seen Mr. Lovelock at all?”
Lord Battersby smiled. “He’s due to make his entrance any moment now.”
“Good, good,” said the butler.
Battersby reached the base of the stand, where two soldiers stood guarding the stairs to the seating.