Back on Marchmouse Island, events were developing at quite a pace.
The Rats had roasted a frog for their dinner, and they were full of rich food and high spirits. As the night drew in, they began rampaging across the island, slashing the heads off dandelions.
Tumtum and Nutmeg lay trembling in the bracken, buried deep under a pile of ferns. They were well hidden, but they were frightened the Rats would sniff them out. Nutmeg wished she had applied less perfume that morning.
The Rats came closer and closer, until they were so near the Nutmouses could hear the leaves rustling under their feet. When they were but an inch or so from where the mice were hiding, the Rats stopped a moment, wondering which way to go. Then they gave another cheer and rampaged on.
The Nutmouses waited until the wood had gone quiet again. Then they poked their noses out of the ferns and took a deep breath.
“That was close,” Tumtum commented.
“They sounded the most awful savages,” Nutmeg said. “I do hope the General doesn’t do anything too silly. If he goes taking potshots at them from his villa they’ll tear him to shreds.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Tumtum said confidently. “He’ll be feeling much less brave now that we’ve left him on his own. I’ll bet the last hair on my tail that he’s gone into hiding, too.”
If only he had. For then the Nutmouses’ ordeal might have ended rather sooner. But the General was not hiding. Far from it. At this particular moment, he was standing outside Villa Vanilla, stoking his campfire and roasting a snail for his supper.
And he was thinking the same defiant old thoughts—such as, “I’ll show the Rats who owns this island!” and “Hah! They won’t get rid of me!”
But trouble arrived sooner than he might have expected. For by now the Rats had emerged from the bracken and were clambering up the bank behind the starlit cove. When they reached the top, they sat down a moment to admire the view. They were very still, with the dragonfly perched motionless on the Captain’s shoulder.
Then they saw the General’s campfire flickering on the beach.
They suddenly jumped to their feet, enraged and astonished. Until then, they had believed they had the whole island to themselves.
“Who the devil’s down there?” snarled the Captain, whose name was Captain Pong. He grabbed his telescope and glared down the bank. His dragonfly clung to his shoulder, giving an angry flap of its wings. It was a brilliant night, and the Captain could see Villa Vanilla gleaming a soft pink in the moonlight. Then he saw the General, illuminated by the campfire.
“Well, look at that! It’s a mouse!” he said.
“A mouse?” the others cried. “How dare there be a mouse! This is our island. It’s Rat Island. Let’s see him off!”
“Hang on a minute,” Captain Pong snapped, twizzling his lens to get a better look. “I’ve seen that mouse before. It’s General Marchmouse!”
“General Marchmouse? It can’t be!” the others said. The Captain gave them each a turn with the telescope so they could see for themselves. And then there could be no doubting it.
None of the Rats had met General Marchmouse before. But they recognized him at once, for he was very famous. They had seen his picture time and again in the Mouse Times, and there had been posters of him on some of the boats they had robbed. Not so long ago, he had even had his face on a stamp.
The General was a legend of his time. And now here he was, cooking his supper on their beach!
They all sucked in their breath. The Rats were jealous of the General because he was the only rodent with a reputation as big as theirs.
“Ha! Who does he think he is?” the black Rat snarled.
“Stupid little squirt,” snorted the Rat with half a tail.
And going through all their minds was the same nasty thought: Here is the chance to bring the General down a peg or two.
“Let’s tie him up and paint him purple!” said one.
“Let’s make him walk the gangplank!” said another.
“Let’s make him ride a frog!” said a third—and so they went on, suggesting more and more horrible things they might do.
“Shhh!” the Captain hissed, fearing the General might hear them. “Come on—we’ll take him unawares.”
The crew stopped squeaking and slithered silently down the bank. When they reached the cove, they hid behind a clump of nettles, watching as the General turned his supper on the spit. Then they crept up to Villa Vanilla and crouched in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
The General was taking his time, for he liked his meat well cooked. Eventually, when the snail was brown all over, he took it from the fire and made back toward the villa. His mind was wandering, recalling all the battles he had won, and he did not hear the Rats sniggering. But as he put out his hand to open the door he felt a cold paw on his neck.
“Gotcha!” the Captain said.
The General kicked and nipped and squealed, but he was no match for five Rats. After only the briefest of struggles, he was knocked out cold. Then he was slung over the brown Rat’s shoulder and carried back across the island to the ship.
It was perhaps just as well the General was unconscious, for it was a long hike, up hill and down dale, and through a swamp and a thistle forest.
Had the General been awake, the Rats would have made him walk. And he would have hated every step. But as it was he was carried along like a sack of Smarties. He was still unconscious when the Rats heaved him onto the ship and locked him in a cabin below deck.
When the General finally came around he felt very stiff. He sat up painfully, trying to work out what had happened to him. He was on a bare wooden floor in a small room furnished with a stool and a bookcase full of silver plates and candlesticks. On the wall above him was a porthole, letting in a pale dawn light.
In a rush of shame, he remembered being ambushed outside Villa Vanilla and realized the Rats must have imprisoned him on their ship. It was a glum awakening.
He stood up and rattled the door shouting, “Let me out!”— but no one came. He shouted until he was worn out, then he collapsed on the floor and sat with his head in his paws, brooding miserably.
Finally, he heard a key in the lock. As he jumped to his feet, the door was flung open and the black Rat and the white Rat walked in.
The black Rat had a ring through his nose, and the white Rat had only one fang. They both had scars on their faces that made them look even more ferocious.
“Sit on the stool,” the black Rat said. And the General did, because the Rat was much bigger than him. Then both Rats stood in front of him, looking at him very hard and asking lots of questions. This was called an interrogation, and it was not at all pleasant.
“How did you get here?” the black Rat snarled, leaning over the General so close their noses were almost touching.
“I arrived on Bluebottle,” the General said, trembling.
“Where is she now?”
“She has sunk. She collided with a milk bottle and sprang a leak.”
“Who else was with you?”
“No one,” the General lied.
“Were there any valuables on board?” the white Rat asked, drooling.
The General was so nervous he started to babble. “Valuables? Gracious, no. Bluebottle was rather basic, you know. The only thing of any possible value was Mr. Nutmouse’s silver picnicking crockery—it was rather fancy, you know, blue and white, with impressions of bumblebees.…Anyway, he and Mrs. Nutmouse took that with them when they went off to hide in the—”
The General suddenly realized what he had done and clapped a paw to his mouth. “Oops,” he said.
But it was too late. At the mention of Tumtum’s name the Rats’ ears had gone as stiff as cardboard. For the Nutmouses were rumored to be fabulously rich, with a huge mansion full of expensive furniture. They should surely demand a king’s ransom if they kidnapped Tumtum and Nutmeg, of Nutmouse Hall!
“Where are they?” the Rats growled.
“I don’t know,” the General gulped.
“Yes, you do! Now tell us where they went to hide!”
“I tell you, I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do!”
“No, I don’t!”
“Yes, you do!”
“No, I don’t!”
There was no danger of the General giving in, of course, because a General would never betray a friend. But nonetheless, his voice had started to waver.
Then the door opened again, and the other Rats appeared.
“What’s going on?” Captain Pong asked, giving the General a menacing glare.
“He sailed here with Mr. Nutmouse—you know, that stinking rich fellow who lives at Nutmouse Hall,” the white Rat explained. “Their ship was sunk, and now Nutmouse and his wife are hiding somewhere on the island.” The Rat paused and pointed at the General accusingly. “He knows where they are. But he won’t tell us!”
“Then throw him overboard,” Captain Pong said.
“Throw him overboard!” the others cried, delighted with this plan.
The General leaped from his seat, punching and squealing, but he was overpowered in no time. They tied his paws behind his back, marched him up to the deck, and then hoisted him onto the gangplank.
It was a thin, springy gangplank, and it struck the General that it went on a very long way. He could feel the tip flapping.
“Go on!” the Rats sneered, prodding him in the back with a candlestick. “Walk!”
The General looked down at the dark water and thought he could see the shadow of an enormous fish. He felt his legs wobble. He could hear the Rats chanting—“Walk! Walk! Walk!”—but their voices had become faint and echoey, as if coming from a cavern far away. The General had never known fear like this.
He could not go on.
“Oh, please, sirs!” he quaked, his face reddening with shame. “The Nutmouses are in the bracken wood!”
