The Mouse That Roared: eBook Edition (The Grand Fenwick Series 1)

by Leonard Wibberley

  “Bring in the bottle,” the Duchess commanded.

  He was gone only a minute and returned with a bottle of familiar size, colour, and proportions.

  “Look at the label,” Gloriana said, placing the bottle before them. They looked and read, with growing horror, the words:

  PINOT GRAND FENWICK

  The Wine of Connoisseurs

  There was a picture of the castle of Grand Fenwick and the label was in every way similar to that used on their Own precious wine. But at the bottom, in type so small as to be almost invisible, was the phrase:

  Product of San Rafael, Calif., U.S.A.

  “The dogs,” cried Mountjoy, leaping to his feet and flinging back his chair. “Rich as they are, with abundance on every hand, they still seek to deprive us of our only source of livelihood. For a few dollars more for themselves they would beggar every man, woman, and child in Grand Fenwick. They shall pay heavily for this.”

  The vote, both in the Privy Council and subsequently in the Council of Freemen, to declare war on the United States of America was unanimous.

  CHAPTER IV

  Chet Beston, correspondence clerk for the Central European Division of the United States Department of State, decided that the time had come for him to start taking some exercise again. He was a man in his mid-thirties with an active and not undistinguished career behind him. He had been graduated from Columbia with a major in political science and a minor in journalism just in time to join the army at the outbreak of World War II.

  His professors had advised him to apply for some special position in the armed services, in view of his university background. But a sincere and deep patriotism had convinced Chet that there would be something morally wrong in doing this. It would look like asking for special favours, a place of security and safety for himself, when his country needed every fighting man who could be mustered. So he started as a private in an infantry regiment, went to sergeant, volunteered as a paratrooper and eventually joined the Office of Strategic Services, making several secret parachute drops in the Balkans on special missions.

  The end of the war found him with more than his quota of decorations, a love of exercise and nowhere to go. His background suggested the diplomatic service and resulted in his appointment as clerk in the Central European Division of the Department of State.

  “There is no substitute for learning any business from the ground up, son,” said Senator Griffin, who helped him to the post. “Learn all you can about those foreigners—but especially keep your eye on our own men. It takes three years for an alien, resident in the United States, to become an American citizen; but it takes only six months for a citizen, resident in the State Department, to become an alien. Report anything you find to me.”

  Chet hadn’t found anything except that he didn’t have to work very hard or know too much to keep his job. He found himself developing what he called a State Department jog—a kind of preoccupied, learned, but not unkindly shuffle down the corridors from office to office. He found, too, that this was about the only exercise he got. So today he decided that he would go down to Georgetown, pick up a canoe and paddle it a couple of miles up and down the Potomac to tone him up.

  He was just at the point of leaving his office when a messenger came by and threw a long and impressive envelope on his desk.

  “What’s cooking?” Chet asked by way of being friendly. He felt sorry for the messenger, who had been padding around the State Department for twenty years. Sometimes he thought of him as a sort of captive, a trustee in a huge diplomatic prison.

  “Nothing much,” the messenger replied. “The boys in the Press-room are up to their usual tricks. That’s about all.” He nodded and padded out and Chet picked up the envelope. There were some heavy, old-fashioned seals on it which was unusual and made him think for a moment that this was something special. But when he opened the envelope, he started chuckling.

  At the top was a double-headed eagle crest, the eagle saying, “Yea” from one beak and “Nay” from the other. Below, in Old English lettering, was the title “Duchy of Grand Fenwick.” The message, written in an impressive cursive script, read:

  To the President, Congress, and People of the United States of America—Greetings.

  Whereas, The Duchy of Grand Fenwick has been a sovereign and independent nation since its founding in 1370 A.D.; and

  Whereas, It is thus in a position to treat on equal terms with other sovereign and independent nations, this right having been recognized among civilized communities for over five centuries; and

  Whereas, The principal support of the people of the Duchy of Grand Fenwick has been during all these years, the production of the excellent and unique wine known to the world as Pinot Grand Fenwick, which is pressed from the grapes of ancient vineyards on the southern slopes of the northern mountains of the duchy; and

  Whereas, An ignoble imitation of this superior wine, under the name of Pinot Grand Fenwick, is being produced in quantity and sold at a fifth of the cost by certain wineries in the city of San Rafael in the State of California, which is part of the geographical and political territory of the United States of America; and

  Whereas, The sale of this spurious product threatens the livelihood of the independent Duchy of Grand Fenwick; and

  Whereas, Repeated representations demanding that this injustice be remedied have been ignored by the ministries and Government of the United States: therefore be it

  Resolved, That the Duchy of Grand Fenwick holds the sale of this wine an unwarranted and unjust and persistent and planned action of aggression against the Duchy; therefore be it

  Resolved, The Duchy of Grand Fenwick, having taken all steps it can to remedy the matter peaceably, does here and now, and by these present, declare that a state of war exists between itself and the United States of America.

  Signed:

  Gloriana XII

  Duchess of Grand Fenwick

  D. Benter

  Leader, Dilutionist Party

  Mountjoy

  Leader, Anti-Dilutionist Party

  Chet read the document through twice, chuckling now and then. “Those reporters go to a lot of trouble to have a little fun,” he said. “Bunch of characters.” He put the missive in his jacket pocket and set out for his canoeing. He was a little out of practice and the canoe overturned, and the document got thoroughly wet. When he got home, he put it down behind the radiator in his apartment to dry, and forgot about it.

  The outfitting of the Grand Fenwick expeditionary force for the attack on the United States proved a far more complicated matter than the Duchess or either of her party leaders had anticipated. Count Mountjoy had hoped that no expeditionary force would be necessary. A declaration of war, he thought secretly, would be sufficient. It could be followed immediately by an appeal to the world, then a quick surrender, and then the wonderful rehabilitation by the United States would commence.

  But the declaration of war had been followed by four weeks of ominous silence from the United States. Any reply would have been welcome. None at all was intolerable. He did not mention his fears to the Duchess, but he got into a habit of watching the sky under the growing conviction that an atom bomb was to be expected at any moment, without even the chance of surrendering first. There was no United States representative in Grand Fenwick whom he could consult, and in the end he had obtained the permission of the Duchess to visit the nearest American consulate in France to inquire for an answer.

  He had been met with smiles and chuckles. Everybody there seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. It was mortifying to have to report to Gloriana that the United States reaction to Grand Fenwick’s solemn declaration of war had been a guffaw of laughter from the consul, a clap upon the back and an inquiry as to whether he had heard the one about the man who had bet a hundred dollars he could solve any charade presented him.

  It was only at this point that it was decided to get together an expeditionary force and start the war in earnest. Tully Bascomb was ap
pointed high constable of the Fenwick Army for the duration of hostilities and told to raise the men needed for an attack upon the United States.

  He entered the project with vigour, deciding that a force of three men-at-arms, besides himself and twenty longbowmen, would be sufficient. An ancient law of the duchy, demanding that in case of war all able-bodied men present themselves at the castle armed and equipped according to their degree, was invoked. On the day appointed, seven hundred turned up with bows, quivers of arrows, small round shields, short swords, maces, spears, leather jerkins and some with hauberks, or garments of chain mail, covering head, neck, and shoulders.

  The war indeed was popular in Grand Fenwick, for the whole nation was outraged at the action of the California vintner who threatened their market and the reputation of their wine by producing a cheap imitation. All wanted to join the army and avenge the insult to their product, to their own skill and that of their forefathers. “Preserve our Pinot” became the popular cry and “Freedom from Fraud” the high ideal for which the war was to be fought to a victorious conclusion. Children as well as adults caught the war spirit and toddled in martial bands down the roads of the duchy, small bows in their hands and pots upon their heads to take the place of helmets.

  With such enthusiasm, it was hard for Tully to select the twenty-three men, other than himself, needed for the expeditionary force. He decided on an elimination contest and picked twenty husky bowmen who proved that they could split a hazel wand with an arrow at five hundred paces. The three men-at-arms were easier to choose, for there were but twenty in the duchy who had the right to carry spears and maces, and these agreed to lots being cast.

  Then came a period of severe training for the army of Grand Fenwick. All were made to climb mountains in equipment, to cross and recross and cross again the icy river, to loose their arrows singly, by volley, and in exact rotation, and, divided into two bands, to seek each other in the dark and wage battle. But in the end all was ready, and Tully reported the expeditionary force at peak training and prepared for the invasion of the American continent.

  Nobody, however, and least of all the Duchess, had considered how they were to get there. Gloriana had left it up to the political leaders of the government to make the arrangements, and they had left it up to Tully as high constable. So when he presented himself to report that he was ready to start the active war, there was considerable embarrassment in the Privy Council.

  “Surely,” said Count Mountjoy, who was getting uneasier about atomic bombs with the passing of each day, and sincerely hoped that the declaration of war would not annoy the United States—“surely it is not necessary for us to go to the expense of sending our forces across the Atlantic Ocean to attack the Americans. We must remember that we are fighting this war to get money, not to spend it. An attack on the American consulate in Lyons would be sufficient. There is a bus there every day which would be cheaper than sending the men by rail.”

  Tully gave him a look of such contempt that it might have been compared to a blow across the face with a glove of mail.

  “You are ready for any man to lay down his life for his country, provided it doesn’t cost more than two shillings a head,” he said. “You would attack a defenseless United States consulate and pretend you have attacked an armed nation. Do you think that the army of Grand Fenwick is the equivalent of a mob of students protesting the firing of a popular professor? We have declared war; we have declared war in an honourable cause. And we must, with honour, bring that war home to the enemy.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Benter, who himself was worried about the expense, “it would be possible to raise enough money through a special tax to send our forces to America on a tourist liner. They could travel third class and we could select a ship of a neutral nation.”

  “And how do you suppose the army of Grand Fenwick is going to get through customs and immigration when it arrives?” retorted Tully, with fine irony. “You do not propose that we be carted off to Ellis Island, lock, stock, and barrel, without striking a blow, do you? Or perhaps you think the United States is generous enough to issue us all visas for the purpose of landing legally and attacking the nation?”

  “I was only trying to be helpful,” replied Benter, subdued. “We are in this war, as you say, and I will see it through to the end. If you have any reasonable suggestion to make, you may be sure of my support.”

  “There is only one way to get to America since we lack ships of our own and that is to charter one,” Tully replied. “We could hire a small merchant vessel to take the expeditionary force over and bring it back again. As a matter of honour, it would have to display the colours of Grand Fenwick. We can’t sail under another flag. The captain must be completely subject to my authority as to where the force is to be landed.”

  “Do you know of any such ship?” Gloriana asked.

  “Yes,” replied Tully. “The last time I went to America it was as a seaman on board a brig sailing from Marseilles and bound for Nova Scotia. Her name was Endeavour, a highly suitable name for our mission. And I believe she may be had at a reasonable sum. The alternative is to tell the people of the duchy that we are calling the war off because we cannot get to the United States. I do not think that such a course of action would be well received.”

  Nobody had any other suggestion to offer and it was agreed to charter the Endeavour. A special tax of a penny on each glass of wine drunk in the duchy would pay the cost. Indeed, so popular was the cause, that the consumption of wine in Grand Fenwick during the next two weeks set a record for any time in the history of the duchy.

  Finally the morning arrived for the expeditionary force to leave. They were mustered in the courtyard of the castle. At their head stood Tully, splendid in a suit of mail which gleamed in the sunlight. By his side hung a broadsword, and from a staff in his hand fluttered the twin-headed eagle banner of Grand Fenwick. Behind him stood his three men-at-arms, each in mail and each with a sword. It was decided to dispense with lances as they would be somewhat cumbersome.

  Behind them in five ranks of four men were the longbow-men, uniformly clad in mail shirts worn over leather jerkins, and buff trunk hose, their six-foot bows slung across their backs, their bucklers on their bare arms, and their quivers bristling with arrows.

  Gloriana reviewed the men before they left, and reminded them that though the odds were great, their forefathers had met and defeated odds of a hundred to one. “You will not fight alone,” she said, “for gathered around your banner will be the spirits of all those countless legions who before you struck a blow for their native land. They amount to a mighty host which will make each of you the equivalent of a thousand. If you should die, it will be but to join the bravest company of men—those who died in a similar cause before you. If you live, it will be to attain such honour as will make you the envy of your fellows, remembered in their toasts and held with warmth and reverence in their hearts. Strike hard then for your country, remembering that each shaft loosed ensures the freedom of your land.” She glanced at Tully and caught again, as he saluted her with his sword, the same resemblance to Sir Roger Fenwick which had surprised her before. For a second the sun seemed more splendid upon him, and he the manliest of all men.

  There was the beat of a kettle drum and the blowing of a trumpet and the group followed Tully out of the courtyard down the hill and over the bridge to the border of the duchy. Little children lined the roads and applauded. Old men and young women marched alongside. They sang the ancient war song of Grand Fenwick, “The Crooked Stick and the Grey Goose Wing.” Some cried and some cheered and all felt very brave.

  Outside the border of the duchy the little army changed into civilian clothing and caught the bus to Marseilles, and the people went back to their homes.

  CHAPTER V

  The President of the United States sat down heavily at his desk in the Oval Room of the White House and passed a freckled hand over his sparse hair. It was nine in the morning and he was tired. Also he had a he
adache which he knew better than to report to the White House physician because it might mean one of those long medical examinations during which his blood pressure would be taken and an electro-cardiogram run and a whole lot of other rigmarole gone through.

  What he needed was a couple of aspirins and three or four hours’ sleep. He had gone short of sleep during the night because at two in the morning, Kokintz had called.

  All Kokintz had said was, “I have completed the project, Mr. President, and it is entirely successful.” He wasn’t conscious of what he had replied. Something like, “Good,” or maybe, “Swell. See you in the morning.” Then he had put down the receiver and tried to go to sleep again. But he had been awakened by dreams of great sheets of white heat in the middle of which were men and women who got smaller and smaller, like icicles in the sun, until they dwindled to little dots and then to nothing at all.

  The President picked up the telephone and said to the operator, “Get hold of the Secretary of Defense and Senator Griffin of the Atomic Energy Commission, and ask them to come over as soon as they can without creating a stir. And call Dr. Kokintz as well. I want to see him, too.” Then he went over to the window, put his hands behind his back and looked over the lawn, waiting.

  The Secretary of Defense and Senator Griffin reported within ten minutes. The President said, “Good morning,” cheerfully, and waved them to chairs on each side of the desk. He was used to appearing cheerful, even when he felt far from it.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said, with a grin. “A real hot one.” Then, noticing the look of concern on Senator Griffin’s face, added, “Nothing political, Grif.”

  The Senator smiled deprecatingly, but the assurance relaxed him. He was a small, white-haired, red-faced man; chunky as a bulldog. He always wore a grey flannel suit, decorated with a tiny red rosebud in the lapel of his coat. He came from one of the Western States and had a slow and soothing drawl, which was at surprising odds with his appearance. For Senator Griffin looked habitually as though he was about to explode at any moment into a fury of denunciation at some outrage or another. He was really a mild man, rarely roused, but his choleric appearance was politically useful, for it had quelled many an unfriendly election audience.