a bear,’ Whisker remarked, staring at the shape.
‘It’s not a bear!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Why does everyone think it’s a bear? Can’t you see it’s a cat?’
‘It’s a really fat cat,’ Whisker laughed.
‘If it wasn’t this fat,’ Horace huffed, ‘most of the crew would never hit it.’ He pointed the cannon at the fat cat. ‘There are two important things to remember when shooting close range pies. Always turn away when you’re firing, to protect your eyes, and, most importantly, handle the pies gently. If you break one, the stink is on you. Treat each pie like a beautiful rat. Hold her delicately, tenderly and slowly dance with her towards the cannon …’
Whisker watched in amusement as Horace picked up the top pie and held it in a lover’s embrace. Like a performer in a pantomime, he spun the pie in a circle and gently placed it in the cannon.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, bowing to the pie.
Ruby laughed from one of the masts. Not only did Horace look ridiculous with his new lover, but the pie he’d picked up was the one he’d poked a hole in earlier, and left a disgusting line of sludge down his shirt.
‘BLAST!’ Horace yelled, looking down at his soiled clothing.
Smudge struck a match and moved to the fuse.
‘Wait, wait,’ Horace cried, pushing the match away. ‘I said blast, not fire.’
Ignoring Ruby’s laughter, Horace checked that everything was in order and ducked behind the cannon.
‘Now, Smudge. FIRE!’
The pie exploded in a wave of sticky grey muck, showering the target. It was a horrible sight and even Horace winced at the stench.
‘No second date then?’ Ruby hollered down to him.
Horace brushed the comment aside with a wave of his hook and turned to Whisker. ‘Come on. It’s your turn to dance.’
Whisker cleaned out the cannon, poured in the gunpowder and selected his pie. He double checked to make sure there were no cracks or holes and carefully placed the slippery object in the cannon. He glanced up to see Ruby and Pete watching him, but caught no sight of the Captain. Brushing the green mould from his paws, he hurriedly prepared the fuse.
Let’s get this over with, he said to himself. His nose ached, his tail twitched nervously and there was an annoying ring in his ears from all the blasts. He half-glanced over his shoulder towards the target and, seeing the black shape in the corner of his eye, placed his paws over his ears and turned to Smudge.
‘FIRE!’
Smudge held the burning match in his arms but did nothing.
‘FIRE!’ Whisker yelled again.
Smudge still didn’t move.
‘FIRE! BLAST! THREE TWO ONE GO! JUST GET ON WITH IT!’
Still no response.
Running out of patience, Whisker grabbed the match and lit the fuse himself. As he blew out the match, he glanced up to see a horrified look on Ruby’s face. Puzzled, he turned around – and froze. The black shape he had seen was not the target. It was the Captain wandering across the deck with a telescope to his eye.
Whisker tried to scream but the cannon beat him to it. It roared into action with a mighty KABOOM, throwing the Captain backwards in a torrent of sticky grey sludge. His body tumbled over the bulwark and with a startled cry, he plunged into the ocean. There was a splash. And then there was silence.
‘RAT OVERBOARD,’ Pete yelled. ‘MAKE HASTE!’
Horace grabbed a rope and ran to the edge of the deck. Whisker followed after him in shock and fear.
‘There he is,’ Horace cried, as the Captain’s body bobbed up in a cocktail of slime and seawater.
‘THROW ME THE ROPE, YOU FOOL,’ the Captain spluttered.
Whisker was relieved the Captain was alive, but his relief was soon overcome by a terrifying feeling of dread – this was entirely his fault.
Horace threw the Captain the rope and, with Whisker and Pete’s assistance, dragged him onto the deck.
Ruby clambered down from the mast and rushed over to give her uncle a hug. She stopped in her tracks before she reached him and uttered, ‘Eeeyeeew!’
Whisker could see why. The Captain looked like he had been dragged from a sewer. His velvet coat and vest were smeared with a greasy grey residue. His fur was speckled with chunks of mouldy pie crust. His soggy hat drooped over his face. But the worst part was the terrible smell.
‘We should have left him in the water a bit longer,’ Horace whispered. ‘He’d be much calmer and less smelly.’
The Captain looked down at his ruined clothes and scraped a chunk of garlic from his vest.
‘What in the name of Ratbeard’s breakfast is this repulsive muck?’ he exclaimed.
Whisker looked at Horace and Horace pointed to the lumbering figure of Fred emerging from the stairs.
‘Look, here comes Fred to explain everything,’ Horace babbled. ‘We’ll be over here if you need us …’
‘YOU TWO AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!’ the Captain roared, grabbing Horace and Whisker by their collars.
Whisker turned his head and tried not to breathe in the putrid vapours.
‘Oh dear, oh double dear,’ Fred said, joining the group. ‘What a nasty accident.’
‘It’s more like a catastrophe,’ Ruby snapped. ‘The boy forgot to look before he fired.’
‘Is this true?’ the Captain asked angrily.
Whisker felt like saying it was partly the Captain’s fault for wandering around in a daze during cannon training, but simply squeaked, ‘Yes.’
‘And who was supervising?’ the Captain barked.
‘That would be me,’ Horace gulped.
The Captain took a deep breath and turned to Pete. ‘What is the mandatory punishment for shooting one’s Captain?’
Pete looked grave. ‘I’m afraid to say … the punishment is death.’
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