Free The Mouse That Roared by Leonard Wibberley Page B

silence, as though this were not a real city but only a painting of one, done upon a vast canvas and representing some metropolis, deserted by its inhabitants centuries before.
    “This is New York,” Tully said to Will Tatum, his lieutenant. “But I don’t understand why there is not an enemy in sight. We have the whole river and harbour to ourselves. Usually it is as thick with craft as a flypaper with flies.”
    “They have realized at last that we were in earnest,” said Will glumly, “and have probably set an ambush for us. We must go carefully. Those buildings are the biggest I’ve ever seen and will take a lot of storming. I wonder why the Americans build such big castles. I had not heard that they were often attacked.”
    Will, a man built on the proportions of an ox, was noted rather for his physical than mental strength. He pulled a one hundred and twenty-pound bow, stood six feet three inches and had never been out of Grand Fenwick in his life. A man of more imagination would have been awed by the size of the city that lay before him to be taken. Indeed, the rest of the expeditionary force, lined along the bulwarks of the Endeavour, were looking at the Manhattan skyline in grim and desperate silence. But Will saw in the task merely a job which was to be done, in which blows would be given and taken, but which, none the less, would be successfully completed in the end.
    The expeditionary force, which on the voyage over had worn civilian dress, was now uniformed in all the equipage of war. The twenty bowmen had their pot helmets upon their heads. Their hauberks of chain mail, worn over leather shirts, covered neck, chest, and back. Each had six bowstrings of deer sinew tied around his waist and each a small shield on his left arm, a short sword slung beside it, and a longbow across his back. Tully looked them over, and told himself that they would do well for him and their nation. The three men-at-arms--Will being among them--wore white surcoats over their armour, blazoned with the eagle crest. They carried besides longbows, maces with wicked spiked heads.
    “Pedro”--Tully called to the captain of the brig, who had come to the conclusion since the chartering of his vessel in Marseilles that this was all something connected with the movies and maybe he ought to treble the price--“Pedro, bring me into the Cunard dock at the bottom of Forty-fourth Street. We will make our assault there.”
    “They’ll make the devil of a fuss if I do,” said Pedro. “The first thing you know, there’ll be customs officials, harbourmaster’s men, policemen, and shipping clerks all waving me away and they’ll probably levy a fine more than the brig is worth. I don’t know why nobody has come to give me permission to dock. The health department should have met us off the harbour. Maybe they all had a big week-end and they’re sleeping late. It’s Monday morning.”
    “This,” said Tully, “is war.”
    “Okay. It’s war,” said Pedro, like someone humouring a child. “But I don’t see any cameramen about to take publicity shots. Maybe we ought to hang around a bit until they turn up.”
    “Dock,” roared Tully. “Dock, before I have off your ears.”
    “Aye, Aye,” said Pedro. “Stand by the main braces there.” His crew of five scrambled aft. Pedro put his helm over, the main yards swung round until the sails were backed and the Endeavour slipped prettily under her own way into the Cunard dock, where the crew made her fast fore and aft to bollards.
    “Men of Grand Fenwick,” cried Tully, as soon as the ship was secured. “I have led you to the heart-land of the enemy. Follow to victory.” He threw a rope with a grappling hook at the end of it, on to the dock overhead. Three other ropes followed and the men swarmed up them to form ranks on the quay.
    “Hey,” called Pedro, from down below. “What about me? What do you want me to do?”
    “Stand by to make sail on our return,” said Tully.
    “Do