The Rogue Crew

by Brian Jacques

  Greenshroud had made a speedy descent out of the dunes, and a lively breeze was astern. Corsairs and searats crowded her for’ard deck, leaning over the sides and shouting at their quarry, which was looming up in clear view.

  “Hoho, supper’s ahead, mates—we’ll ’ave ’em soon!”

  “I wants first go at those fat, ’airy mouses!”

  “Makes no diff’rence t’me. They’ll all taste the same once they’re roasted!”

  “Ahoy there, friends, don’t run, it’ll only tire ye out. Come up ’ere an’ ride with us, we’ll take care o’ ye!”

  Mowlag began distributing boat hooks and pikes. “Git up on the prow an’ ’ook them aboard once they’re within reach. Look sharpish!”

  Jiboree’s face was one huge smirk. “Shall I tell that greasy ole cook to stoke up ’is galley fires, Cap’n?”

  Razzid frowned. To him this all seemed a bit too easy; he was beginning to feel suspicious.

  “Slack off sail, Mowlag. I think there’s somethin’ we don’t know about this place that those beasts do—”

  Greenshroud suddenly lurched head down as its weight burst the marsh crust. Two corsairs standing out on the bowsprit with pikes at the ready were hurled from the ship. Razzid’s intuition had worked, but too late.

  Fiddy and Frudd, who were bringing up the rear, heard the noise and turned to look back. Both hairy voles began leaping jubilantly.

  “It worked, it worked! Look at the fools!”

  “Haharr, that’s wot ye get for chasin’ Fortunate Freepaws!” Swiffo shouted at them. “Their ship’s stuck, but they can still track an’ hunt us. Come on, we ain’t got time t’waste. Once nightfall comes, even I could git lost in this marsh!”

  Back at Greenshroud, it was a scene of chaos, and incredible stench. The big vessel was almost bow deep in the dark soup, with its front two wheels buried up to their rims. Razzid Wearat laid about at everybeast with his trident haft, bawling furiously, “Get aft, all paws aft! Mowlag, we need ropes, hawsers, lines, anything. Lash ’em to the stern an’ back wheels. Get off the ship—see if’n ye can find trees or rocks an’ tie up to them. We’ve got t’stop ’er sinkin’ further!”

  Pushing, kicking and shoving crewbeasts, Mowlag and Jiboree ran about in a frenzy, bellowing, “Yew ’eard the cap’n, empty the rope locker! Shekra, git a shore party an’ scout out rocks or trees. Move!”

  A slimy paw reached out of the mess, clutching at the bowsprit, where it clung for a moment before slipping back into the gurgling marsh. That was all there was to be seen of the two crewbeasts who had fallen in.

  Razzid came gingerly from the stern onto the gently heaving marsh crust. Swiftly making his way to safer ground, he encountered the fat, greasy cook. “You, get a fire goin’ here, an’ don’t go pokin’ that peg leg of yores through the floor.”

  The cook, a peg-legged weasel named Badtooth, saluted. “Aye, Cap’n, a fire might drive the smell away, eh?” As he spoke, his wooden peg punctured the crust, sending up a jet of odorous liquid.

  Razzid was about to hurl his trident at the unlucky Badtooth when the searat Dirgo came creeping carefully up to make a report.

  “Cap’n, the vixenfox says to tell ye she’s found a big ole tree. ’Tis close enough to haul yore ship out.”

  The Wearat almost thrust his trident into the quaking ground, but thinking better of it, he waved it at Dirgo. “Show me this tree. I’d best take charge o’ gettin’ the ship free, rather’n trust yew idiots!”

  As the runaways forged onward, shades of evening began to fall. Posy looked fearfully at Uggo. “Hope we don’t get lost here once it goes dark. It’s a vile, stinky place!”

  Rekaby silenced her with an upraised paw. “Hush, listen!”

  From somewhere not too far off, a harsh, challenging cry rang out. The old squirrel smiled.

  “We’ll be alright now. Sircolo’s here. Wait, I’ll call him.” Rekaby shouted in an equally aggressive manner, “Ahoy, old raggedy tail, if’n you eat me, I’ll poison ye, just for spite!”

  There was a whistling noise, and Rekaby was almost knocked flat by Sircolo’s huge wings as the big bird came out of nowhere to land in their midst.

  Uggo and Posy ran back several paces, awestruck at the appearance of the visitor. Sircolo was a fully grown male marsh harrier, with slate grey back and tail, cream and white underwing plumage and reddish feathered legs. The harrier had the curved beak common to hunting hawks and eyes that were frightening to look at. Sircolo held forth a lethal yellow-scaled talon, which Rekaby shook cordially.

  The harrier blinked at him. “Yirrrk! Who would eat you, old gristlebag!”

  Rekaby chuckled. “Well, there’s a crew of vermin on our tails who ain’t too particular what they eat.”

  Swiffo boldly came up and rubbed his back under Sircolo’s neck. The harrier obviously liked this and made a hoarse chuckling sound.

  Swiffo spoke soothingly. “Just think of it, mate. Fat, juicy searats, plump stoats, nice easy pickings, eh!”

  Sircolo eyed the present company so hungrily that Posy wondered if the savage bird was really joking.

  “Vermin make good eating, much better than you scrawny lot. I suppose you want me to get ye back to firm ground before nightfall?”

  Swiffo stroked under the harrier’s beak. “Aye, if’n ye’ll be so good. The vermin can wait ’til later. They won’t be goin’ far—their ship’s bogged down.”

  Sircolo seemed to ponder things for a moment, then he rapped his beak lightly on the young otter’s head.

  “Well, alright, but this is the last time I help you cumbersome beasts. Next time I’ll eat ye all. Agreed?”

  Uggo noticed that Sircolo’s eyes were twinkling; so were Rekaby’s as he twitched his tail in agreement. “Cumbersome, eh? That’s a good new word. What’s it mean?”

  The harrier snapped his savage beak close to Rekaby’s nose. “It means you’re a nuisance, but better than nothing to a hungry bird!”

  The ancient squirrel wrinkled his snout at Sircolo. “Fair enough. This is the last time we’ll bother ye, friend. Next time we do, we won’t do it again. Right?”

  The harrier held up a taloned foot. “Enough! Just follow me. I’ll put ye off at the start of the woodlands. Ye can rest safely there. By the way, just how many vermin are there?”

  The hairy vole, Fiddy, spread his paws wide. “Lots’n’lots o’ the scum. Far too many for you to scoff.”

  Sircolo stared down his beak at Fiddy, then sniffed. “Don’t fret, little furbag. I’ll give it a good try!”

  Back at Greenshroud, Razzid supervised the rescue of his vessel from the marsh. The tree, which had been found, was an old grey alder, which had long since seen its best seasons. Razzid gave the trunk a whack with his trident; it emitted a hollow sound.

  Shekra kept well out of his reach. “There’s not much else around here, Mighty One. It’s the best of a poor lot.”

  The Wearat rudely interrupted her. “’Twill have to do. You lot, smear that grease around the trunk. Jiboree, set that tackle up. Come on, the longer ye hang about, the deeper she’ll drop. Shake a paw!”

  Between them, Jiboree and Mowlag reeved several stout ropes around the trunk, which was thickly greased. The ropes were attached at one end to the ship’s stern. The other ends were tied to long oars, six of them. Four crewbeasts were yoked to each oar. The rest of the vermin, armed with pikes and pieces of wood, stood almost waist deep in the marsh, ready to push at the hull as the haulers pulled on the ropes.

  Razzid paced up and down. Checking that all was ready, he roared, “Right, now. When I gives the orders, ye heave an’ haul! Ahoy, you, wot are ye jumpin’ about for?”

  The weasel corsair in question stopped jumping but continued slapping at his neck and back. “I’m bein’ bitten, Cap’n, by gnats, I think. Yowch!”

  Razzid wielded his trident. “Pay attention to my orders, or ye’ll get bitten by this. Now . . . heave . . . haul!” The entire crew went at it, straining and shoving
. The hauling ropes moved slightly around the alder trunk, but the vermin in the swamp slipped, slid and fell as they tried to get a purchase with their implements. Greenshroud moved out of the marsh a fraction, then settled back to her former position.

  Razzid stabbed his trident angrily into the ground. Corded sinews stood out on his neck as he bellowed at the unhappy vermin. “Idiots! Oafs! The ship was movin’ an’ ye stopped! Why? Has the stink gone to yore brains? Are ye so stupid that ye can’t obey my orders? Mowlag! Shekra! Jiboree! Get heavin’ on those oars with me. We’ll show these wooden’eads how to do it!”

  Pushing his way into position on an oarshaft, Razzid waited until Shekra, Mowlag and Jiboree joined crewbeasts on the other shafts. He glared at them all, snarling harshly, “If’n the ship don’t start movin’, here’s wot I’ll do. I’ll choose one who ain’t pullin’ his weight, an’ I’ll sink ’im in that swamp, with rocks tied round ’is neck. Then if’n she still ain’t movin’, I’ll pick another idle beast an’ do it agin! Are ye ready? Right . . . heave!”

  The knowledge that Razzid would carry out his threat was enough. Searats and corsairs hauled with an energy fuelled by fear. Greenshroud emerged to the accompaniment of the sucking gurgle of marsh slime.

  No sooner were the stern wheels showing than an enterprising weasel, who had been pushing from the after end, waded from the mud. Grabbing a pike, he leapt in behind a wheel, yelling, “Leave ’er stern end, mates. Git pikes’n’paddles under ’er wheels—we’ll lever ’er out!”

  Others joined him, calling out in triumph, “Haharr, ’ere she comes, mateys. Keep ’er goin’!”

  With the combined hauling and leverage, Greenshroud rolled out, back onto solid ground.

  Razzid left off hauling to bellow orders. “Don’t stop for anythin’. Keep ’er movin’! Pull! Shove! Pull! Shove! Don’t stop fer nothin’!”

  Mowlag protested, “But Cap’n, she’ll hit the tree!”

  Razzid bawled frantically, “Never mind the tree, it’s an old un. It won’t stand in the way of my big ship!”

  He was right. The old grey alder snapped at its base as the prow struck it head-on. Greenshroud rolled over the stump as the trunk fell to one side.

  The weasel who had come up with the idea of levering the wheels slid in the mud, falling flat. As the for’ard wheels rolled over him, snapping his spine, he screamed, wailing to the Wearat, “Aaaargh! Cap’n, ’elp me!”

  Razzid, however, had problems of his own, which beset both himself and the crew. A colony of mosquitoes, formerly housed in the fork of the tree, had been dislodged. They fell upon the vermin in an angry horde. Greenshroud rolled on alone, ropes, mud, marshweed and paddles trailing alongside.

  Cavorting and leaping about like madbeasts, the vermin crew waved their limbs about wildly, trying to fend off the vengeful insects as they wailed aloud.

  “Yaaah, I’m bein’ et alive!”

  “Gerremoff, I ’ates skeeters!”

  “Yirkk! One’s gone down me ear!”

  “Owchyowch! There’s millions o’ the liddle ’orrors!”

  Spitting out a mosquito and pawing one from his bad eye, Razzid picked up his trident and took off after the runaway vessel. “Come on, move yoreselves! All paws aboard—’tis the only way we’ll git away from these things!”

  Hastily they followed their captain’s command. It resembled some sort of crazy travelling dance. Still beating at themselves, the crew hopskipped alongside the moving vessel. Clumsily seizing the trailing ropes, they stumbled aboard.

  A grizzled searat pointed back to the marsh, addressing Razzid. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, but wot about Buppler?”

  The Wearat smeared a mosquito underpaw. “Buppler? Who’s ’e?”

  The searat sniffed. “Buppler’s me matey, Cap’n. ’E was the one who fell under the wheels. Must’ve been bad injured, pore Buppler—’e was still alive an’ callin’ for ’elp when you ordered us outta there.”

  Razzid cast a jaundiced eye over the searat. “Anybeast stupid enough t’get hisself run over like that deserves wot’e gets. Don’t bother me, I got a ship to run. If’n yore mate’s’urt bad, then he’ll die, an’ that’s all there is to it.”

  Jiboree slapped an insect flat upon his cheek. “Wot’s yer orders, Cap’n?”

  Razzid tested the breeze on a damp claw. “Make all sail. Let’s get back t’sea. We needs to careen the muck off’n this ship o’ mine an’ clean it up. Good salt water’ll rid us of any mosquitoes still with us. Now, I needs two good trackers t’do me a service.”

  Jiboree volunteered a pair. Ricker, a shifty-eyed searat, and Voogal, a lanky ferret, did not seem overpleased to be selected, but they could not refuse Razzid’s wishes.

  He explained what he wanted. “Those beasts we were after, I want ye to trail ’em. Wot I needs is the two liddle’ogs, Posy an’ Uggo. Catch ’em an’ bring ’em back t’me if’n ye can. Take a couple o’ lanterns an’ tell the cook t’give ye enough vittles an’ grog to last ye. We’ll be somewheres south along the coast, prob’ly lyin’ at anchor ’til she’s shipshape agin. Any questions?”

  Ricker saluted. “Wot about the other lot, those ’airy mouses an’ some squirrels? D’ye want them, Cap’n?”

  Razzid waved his trident dismissively. “Slay ’em, roast’em, do wot ye want, just fetch me the ’ogs.”

  It sounded like a task very suitable to the pair. They saluted eagerly. “Aye aye, Cap’n. Leave it to us!”

  When they had departed, Razzid called Shekra to him. “The ’og called Uggo knows where Redwall is, I’m sure of it. If’n ’e won’t talk I’ll make his liddle friend weep a few tears—that’ll loosen ’is tongue. I ain’t givin’ up on findin’ that place, an’ you mark my words, vixen, it better be as good as ye say ’tis. I don’t like my Seer disappointin’ me. Unnerstood?”

  Shekra nodded vigorously. “Trust me, Mighty One, ’twill be all ye desire an’ more. The omens never lie!”

  17

  It had turned midnight when Sircolo led them out of the marsh. A short stretch of heathland stood between the Fortunate Freepaws and the woodland fringe. The marsh harrier seemed anxious to be off.

  “Yonder’s the trees, that way is south, t’other way north. So then, old silvertail, have ye got yore bearin’s now? I don’t want to eat any of ye, but I’ve got a hunger, so I must hunt for meat.”

  Rekaby pointed back to the marsh. “Then don’t let me stop ye, y’ole savage. There’s vermin aplenty back there. I bid ye good night an’ good huntin’!”

  As Sircolo swooped off, he called to Rekaby, “Find the stream. There’s Guosim camped there.”

  Uggo watched the big bird vanish into the night. “Wot a good friend—an’ helpful, too, eh!”

  Swiffo chuckled. “Aye, an’ ’twas a good thing we were with ye when he appeared. If’n he’d caught ye both alone . . .”

  Posy shuddered. “Don’t even mention it. Sircolo looks capable of anything. Let’s find the stream and those shrews. I’ve heard them called Guosim before. Funny name, ain’t it?”

  Swiffo replied, “Nothin’ funny about it. Guosim—the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. First letter of each word. They live in logboats on streams an’ rivers.”

  Uggo aired his knowledge proudly. “Oh, I knew that. They visit Redwall Abbey sometimes. Their leader’s called Log a Log.”

  The shrews were not difficult to find. After a short walk amidst the trees, they saw the glow of fires and heard a deep, gruff voice singing to the beat of two drums, a flute and a fiddle.

  “Ho, rum-tum-toodle-oh, pardon me sayin’ so, but I’ll dance anywhere.

  Round a boat from fore to aft, even all around a raft, well, I can cause a stir.

  I could dance on floatin’ logs, in my good ole dandy clogs, they’re the best uns ever made.

  Call me an’ I’ll answer, I’m a champion ole dancer, bright’n’sharp as any blade.

  I always gets top marks, when I kick up lots of sparks I’m the Log a Log who
se name is Dandy Clogs, the Guosim Chieftain that good ole Log a Log called Dandy Clogs!”

  The source of the sound was a dancing, singing shrew. In the light of the campfires on a streambank where six logboats were moored, a quartet of musicians was playing, whilst an entire tribe of Guosim shrews were clapping and paw tapping. A handsome, athletic shrew was singing and dancing with breathtaking skill.

  This was Dandy Clogs, the tribe leader; he was a sight to behold. From beneath a blue cap, decked with green lapwing feathers, he beamed a constantly twinkling smile through neatly waxed and curled moustachios. He wore a scarlet tunic and kilt belted with a broad brass buckle, which glinted in the firelight. However, it was his clogs which really caught the eye. Fashioned from highly polished golden bark, they were set with patterns of shiny steel sprig nails.

  On spotting the visitors to his camp, he executed a dizzying whirl, ending in a display of sparks as he ground to a halt on a rocky slab. Seizing Rekaby’s paw, he pumped it vigorously.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome, on a fine spring night! Are ye friend or foe or just plain slow? Don’t answer that question. Ye ain’t too slow, an’ ye must be friend, ’cos if ye were foe, we’d have slain ye long ago!”

  The old squirrel managed to free his paw, interrupting. “I beg yore pardon, but could I get a word in here edgeways?”

  The garrulous shrew waved them to seats by one of the fires. “Of course you can, O weary but wise one. Here, bring vittles an’ drink for our guests. And now, good sir, kindly put in yore word—edgeways, I think you said!”

  Rekaby was looking tired after the trek through the marshes, so Posy replied for him. “Sir . . .”

  The shrew pointed at himself. “I’m not sir, O maiden fair. I’m Log a Log Dandy Clogs. Pray speak on, pretty one!”

  Posy could not help but smile at his courtly poetic manner. She matched him with a pretty curtsy before continuing. “My friend Uggo and I escaped from a vermin ship. These good creatures helped us to escape; Sircolo guided us through the marsh and directed us to you.”