Greybeard

The second man who jumped in was less successful. He could not reach either bank. The current caught him, sweeping him through the bridge, across its submerged remains, over the weir. His thin cry rose. An arm was flung up amid spray, then there was only the roar of green and white water.

This incident damped the struggles at the boat, so that Mole and Trouter were able to question the crew. The two of them, standing by the cruiser’s rail, saw that Gipsy Joan had not been bluffing when she spoke of carrying wounded. Down in what was once the saloon were huddled nine men and women, some of them nonagenarians by their parched and sunken-eyed aspect. Their poor clothes were torn, their faces and hands bloody. One woman with half her face missing seemed on the point of death, while all maintained a stunned silence more terrible than screaming.

“What’s happened to them?” Mole asked uneasily. “Stoats,” said Gipsy Joan. She and her companions were keen enough to tell their tale. The facts were simple enough. Her group was a small one, but they lived fairly well on a supply of fish from a flooded area next to Grafton Lock. They never kept guard, and had almost no defences. At sunset on the previous day, they had been attacked by a pack — or some said several packs — of stoats. In their fright, the community had taken to their boats and come away as quickly as possible. They predicted that unless deflected by some chance, the stoats would soon sweep into Sparcot.

“Why should they do that?” Trouter asked. “Because they’re hungry, man, why else?” Gipsy Joan said. “They’re multiplying like rabbits and sweeping the country looking for food. Eat anything, them devils will, fish or flesh or carrion. You lot would do well to move out of here.”

Mole looked round uneasily and said, “Don’t start spreading rumours here, woman. We can look after ourselves. We’re not a rabble, we’re properly organized. Get a move on. We’ll let you go through unharmed, seeing that you’ve got trouble on your hands. Get off our territory as fast as you can.”

Joan looked prepared to argue the toss, but two of her leaders, fearful, pulled at her arm and urged that they move at once.

“We’ve another boat coming on behind,” one of these men said. “It’s full of our older unwounded people. We’d be obliged if you’d let them through without holding them up.”

Mole and Trouter stepped back, waving their arms. The mention of stoats had turned them into anxious men.

“On your way!” they shouted, waving their arms, and to their own men, “Pull back the pole and let them get on their way.”

The pole came back. Joan and her crew pushed off from the bank, their ancient cruiser wobbling dangerously. But the contagion of their news had already been caught by those ashore. The word “stoats” passed rapidly from mouth to mouth, and people began to run back to their houses, or towards the village boathouse.

Unlike their enemies the rats, stoats had not declined in numbers. During the last decade, they had greatly increased, both in numbers and daring. Earlier in the year, old Reggy Foster had been attacked by one in the pasture and had had his throat bitten out. The stoats had extended an old occasional habit of theirs and now often hunted in packs, as they did at Grafton. At such times they showed no fear of human beings.

Knowing this, the villagers began to trample about the bank, pushing each other and shouting incoherently.

Jim Mole drew a revolver and levelled it at one of the fleeing backs. “You can’t do that!” Greybeard exclaimed, stepping forward with raised hand. Mole brought the revolver down and pointed it at Greybeard. “You can’t shoot your own people,” Greybeard said firmly. “Can’t I?” Mole asked. His eyes were like blisters on his antique skin. Trouter said something, and he lifted his revolver again and fired it into the air. The villagers looked round in startlement; then most of them began running again. Mole laughed.

“Let ‘em go,” he said. “They’ll only kill ‘emselves.”

“Use reason with them,” Greybeard said, coming closer. “They’re frightened. Firing on them’s no use.

Speak to them.”

“Reason! Get out of my way, Greybeard. They’re mad! They’ll die. We’re all going to die.”

“Are you going to let them go, Jim?” Trouter asked. “You know the trouble with stoats as well as I do,” Mole said. “If they attack in force, we’ve not got enough ammunition to spare to shoot them. We haven’t got good enough bowmen to stop them with arrows. So the sensible thing is to get across the river in our boat and stay there till the little vermin have gone.”

“They can swim, you know,” Trouter said. “I know they can swim. But why should they? They’re after food, not fighting. We’ll be safe on the other side of the river.” He was shivering. “Can you imagine what a stoat attack must be like? You saw those people in that boat. Do you want that to happen to you?”