The Rogue Crew

by Brian Jacques

  Uggo could not resist giggling. “There was in the one I ate!”

  Pinny patted his head fondly. “Wiltud by name an’ Wiltud by nature. I ’ope ye wolfed every crumb of it. Here, Drogbuk, try this on for size.”

  She tossed the finished garment to the ancient hog, who vanished into the bushes with it. A moment later, he strutted out wearing what was in effect a one-piece smock.

  “Well, wot d’ye think? Kin I join yore Long Patrol as a rabbet?”

  Sergeant Miggory donated an old sword belt. “H’I should say not, sah. Try this belt round yore waist. It’ll make ye look h’a liddle better’n a sack o’ firewood.”

  Kite Slayer nodded in mock admiration. “Oh, ain’t you the smart beast!”

  Drogbuk topped up his stew bowl. “I ain’t talkin’ to you ever agin. Yore the savage who scrubbed all me pore spines off!”

  Pinny put aside her sewing kit. “Pore ole Redwall Abbey, sez I. They’re about to have three Wiltuds to visit.”

  Skor’s battleaxe thudded into the ground near to her. “There’ll be no vittle thieves whilst we’re at the Abbey. Just let me hear o’ one crust goin’ missin’, an’ the next pot o’ woodland stew’ll have you in it as dumplin’s!”

  Pinny glared fiercely at the sea otter Chieftain. “Yew wouldn’t!”

  Kite Slayer tapped the hogwife’s paw. “Oh, yes, he would, marm—ye can take it from me!”

  Lieutenant Scutram wiped his bowl clean, saluting Pinny Wiltud. “Excellent supper, marm, thankee kindly. Right, chaps, finish messin’ an’ turn in. Big day tomorrow, wot. We’re goin’ to the jolly old Abbey o’ Redwall!”

  30

  With its sails furled, Greenshroud looked like a bird of ill omen resting on the path north of the Abbey. It was a clear night, with a silver white moon presiding over a starscattered sky. Razzid Wearat stood alone on the afterdeck, leaning on the tiller, staring at Redwall. Still burning bright on the northwest walltop corner, the bonfire silhouetted creatures guarding the battlements.

  Razzid gritted his fangs. So near, yet so far from his dream of conquest. Now, having seen the magnificent Abbey, he was consumed with the desire to make it his own. However, mere yearning would accomplish nothing. It was planning and swift action which would win the day for him, and Razzid’s fertile brain had provided the solution. He knew what he must do. Treachery by Mowlag and Jiboree could wait until later. Once he was inside, ruling Redwall, he would mete out punishments to the pair, which would make his name feared amongst searats and corsairs.

  A sound disturbed his train of thought. He turned and saw a scrawny young weasel climbing over the stern gallery. Immediately the Wearat’s trident was a whisker away from the intruder’s face. The weasel held out his paws to show he was unarmed.

  “Cap’n, I’m Twangee. Me uncle Badtooth’s the cook—told yer about me, didn’t ’e?”

  Razzid lowered the trident. “Aye, he did. Well, wot’s to report? Have ye been watchin’ Mowlag an’ Jiboree?”

  Twangee winked slyly. “I kep’ me eyes on ’em, Cap’n, an’ I been a-lissenin’, too. Yore safe fer now. They don’t plan on makin’ no moves ’til we take the Abbey. They’ve carried out yore orders, they chopped down six trees, all pines, good’n’straight. Lissen, I can ’ear’ em comin’ along the path now. I’ll git outta the way, lest they sees me talkin’ to yer, Cap’n.”

  Razzid nodded approvingly. “Aye, you do that, Twangee. Tell yore uncle t’give ye the best o’ grog’n’vittles. Ye did well tonight.”

  The Wearat watched the young weasel scuttle off, then leaned over the stern rail.

  Mowlag was heading the party, who were rolling the six pine trunks along with them. “Here y’are, Cap’n, six o’ the best from the woodlands.”

  Razzid’s keen eye scanned the other crewbeasts, noting that Jiboree was bringing up the rear.

  “Move those trunks so they’re bridgin’ that ditch alongside this path, then lash ’em together so they won’t roll apart. Look sharp—I don’t want t’be here after dawn.”

  Once the trunks had been bound in place to form a bridge over the ditch, Razzid gave orders for the entire crew to haul his ship over onto the flatlands beyond. The sails were set, and soon, with the gentle night breeze, Greenshroud trundled slowly off westward. The pine-trunk bridge had been dismantled; it went with the vessel, three logs bound to either side of the hull. The Wearat assembled his crew amidships and faced them.

  “Good work, mates, now ye can go to the galley. There’s skilly’n’duff, aye, an’ enough grog to keep ye happy!”

  The crew were about to move off when a searat called out, “But I thought we was goin’ to conquer that Abbey place, Cap’n.”

  Razzid smiled. “So we are, shipmate, so we are. But we does it accordin’ to my plan. Go an’ get yore supper. I’ll come t’the galley an’ tell ye how ’tis t’be done.”

  He beckoned Shekra to his side. The vixen came warily, nursing a heavily bandaged paw. “Lord?”

  Razzid kept his voice low. “When I go t’the galley, I want ye behind me, watchin’ my back. Arm yoreself with a good dagger. Can I trust ye, fox?”

  She answered earnestly. “Aye, Lord, I swear ye can trust me.”

  The Wearat left it some time before he went to speak with the crew. Meanwhile, they were crowded into the galley and the adjoining messdeck. On his captain’s orders, Badtooth had done them proud. There was as much grog flowing as anybeast could want. The mood was quite jovial; Badtooth even requested a song when a corsair stoat dug out his melodeon. “Cummon, Jibbo, give us an ole ditty!”

  Jiboree the bosun went straight into a popular ditty.

  “Ho, the Scabby Frog’s a floatin’ shame,

  we’ve had no grub for weeks,

  there ain’t a veggible in sight,

  but the ship is full o’ leaks!

  “I’ve said it once an’ said it twice,

  an’ I’ll say a third time yet,

  the weevils in the biscuits, mates,

  is all the meat you’ll get!

  “Last night the cook baked up a pie,

  he said it tasted great,

  we’ve searched the ship from stem t’stern,

  an’ still ain’t found the mate!

  “There’s mutiny on the Scabby Frog,

  I knew that this would happen,

  the crew have planned a master feast,

  we’re goin’ to roast the cap’n!”

  Jiboree faltered on the final line of the song as Razzid entered the galley. The melodeon squawked to a finish, and an awkward silence fell over the crew.

  Razzid gave his bad eye a long, slow wipe, his good one darting back and forth. “Wot sort o’ song d’ye call that? Mutiny aboard a ship, endin’ up with the crew roastin’ the cap’n—makes ye think, don’t it, mates, eh?”

  Jiboree lowered his eyes, murmuring, “’Twas only a joke song, Cap’n, a bit o’ fun.” His footpaws trembled as the Wearat edged closer to him.

  Razzid’s voice took on a lighter tone. “Not a very good line, though, is it? ‘We’re goin’ to roast the cap’n.’ You ain’t a cap’n, are ye?”

  The weasel shook his head, relaxing slightly. “No, Cap’n, I’m a bosun.”

  Razzid kept advancing, forcing the bosun to step backward until he was almost against the galley stove, with the big cauldron of skilly’n’duff bubbling on it. Razzid smiled.

  “Let me give ye a better line. How about ‘we’re goin’ to boil the bosun’? That sounds better, don’t it?”

  Jiboree nodded several times. “Aye, it does, Cap’n!”

  Some of the cauldron contents bubbled over, landing on the weasel’s tail. He yelped, but Razzid did not move away to release him from his position. The Wearat winked broadly at Mowlag the mate, remarking almost casually, “Like Jiboree said, just a bit o’ fun, eh? A bosun couldn’t roast a cap’n, but a cap’n could boil a bosun, or even a mate, ain’t that right?”

  Mowlag tugged his ear in salute, “Aye, right, Cap’
n!”

  Razzid seemed to lose interest in the confrontation with the pair. He moved to one side, freeing Jiboree. Turning, he addressed the crew. “Hearken now—this is the plan. We’re movin’ westward across these flatlands until we’re out o’ sight. I ain’t standin’ by, near to that Redwall place, to watch me ship catch flame from their big fire. Right, mates, ’ere’s wot we do. Let ’em think we’ve run away to try our luck somewhere else. They’ll get fed up o’ burnin’ all the wood an’ let the fires die away. So, we waits out yonder, for a night, mebbe even two or three nights. But when the winds blows strong at our stern an’ ’tis dark, then the Greenshroud strikes! Gatherin’ speed, with all sails set, we flies o’er the flatlands like an arrow out of a bow, straight for the big front Abbey gates. Those woodlanders’ll be tucked up an’ snorin’. They won’t know wot’s hit ’em. We’ll knock those gates flat with a single blow an’ be inside afore they’re awake. So, ain’t that a good plan, eh?”

  Young Twangee piped up. “But we gotta get back over that ditch, Cap’n. How’ll we manage that, without stoppin’ to build the pine trunks across it?”

  Razzid chuckled. “Yore a smart young un, but ye ain’t as clever as Razzid Wearat. I’ve already thought o’ that. We’re carryin’ the logs with us, so afore we sets off, we lashes ’em back into position an’ stands ’em on the bows. At the right moment, we lets ’em flat, right across the ditch without losin’ speed. Then it’s over the ditch an’ bang! Greenshroud’ll knock only once on those doors, an’ they’ll fall flat.”

  He turned to Shekra. “An’ ye know wot happens then?” Without waiting for a reply, he raised his voice into a harsh shout, waving the trident on high. “Then we conquers Redwall Abbey, shipmates! Slaves to wait on us, loot to share, soft berths an’ the best o’ vittles. Now, ’ow does that sound to ye?”

  A roar went up from the assembled corsairs and searats. “Razzid! Razzid! Razzid Wearaaaaaaat!”

  Captain Rake had been sleeping peacefully on the streambank, wrapped in his cloak but with his two claymores lying close to paw. It was not any woodland sound that wakened him, but a scent. A tantalising aroma of hot mint tea and fresh-baked coltsfoot and rosehip scones. It was still dark as he made his way to the glowing embers of the previous night’s campfire. Pinny Wiltud was already awake, readying breakfast.

  Rake made an elegant leg. “Guid mornin’ tae ye, marm. Up an’ aboot early, eh!”

  Busy with her work, the hogwife hardly gave him a glance. “I was wonderin’ when somebeast would sniff my breakfast. Sit ye down, Cap’n. You can be first served.”

  She ladled out a beaker of the tea from her cauldron and placed four scones on a dockleaf.

  “Careful now, the tea an’ scones are still hot.”

  Rake sampled a nibble of scone and a sip of tea. He nodded admiringly at Pinny. “Marm, you’re a real treasure! Ah havenae tasted scones like these since mah auld granny used tae bake ’em. Rosehip an’ coltsfoot, right? Wi’ just a wee touch o’ dandelion bud. Och, a real taste o’ mah young seasons!”

  Just then several voices echoed from the bank.

  “Ahah! Brekkist, just lead me to it, mates!”

  “Huh, lead your flippin’ self, planktail. I’m so jolly hungry I could scoff the bloomin’ bark off a dead tree!”

  “Aye, well go an’ find yoreself h’a dead tree, young sah. I’m h’all for some proper vittles. Move over, Drander!”

  “I say, Sarge, watch who yore jolly well shovin, wot!”

  Pinny Wiltud was no shy young blossom. She got order with paw raps from her stout beechwood ladle. “Back off, ye famine-gobbed beasts! There’s enough to go round, so form a line! Here, young Posy wotsyername, come t’the front.”

  Trug Bawdsley protested. “I say, marm, I was here before her!”

  Skor Axehound lifted Trug bodily and placed him to the back. “You ’eard Miz Wiltud. Now behave yoreself. I’m next after liddle Posy. Ahoy, Feyblade, stop pushin’ or ye’ll feel my footpaw round yore stern!”

  Order was restored, and everybeast was served in turn.

  Uggo picked scone crumbs from his pawspikes. “Much further to Redwall, is it, marm?”

  Pinny wrapped a spare scone in a dockleaf, slipping it to Posy, who was rapidly becoming her favourite. “If we sets a good pace, we should make it after evenin’! Make the most o’ these vittles, ’cos I ain’t stoppin’ t’cook anymore today. Now, who’s the best climber amongst ye?”

  Log a Log Dandy stepped smartly forward. “That’ll be me, darlin’. Where d’ye want me to climb?”

  She pointed out a stately elm. “Try that un. Get as high as y’can, then shout down wot ye see to the east an’ a bit south’ard.”

  The Guosim Chieftain was a nimble-pawed shrew. He shot up the elm trunk and was soon lost amidst the leafy canopy. There was a moment’s silence, then he yelled down, “Hah, ’tis a three-topped oak. A real ole giant!”

  Captain Rake strapped on his twin blades. “So, away we go, eh, Sergeant?”

  The grizzled veteran bellowed out in good parade-ground style, “Fall h’in, ye lollop-eared, bang-tailed, spiky-’eaded rabble! H’on the double, now, look smart, look smart! Chins in, chests out, shoulders back, paws swingin’, h’eyes front! Quick—wait for it, Miss Ferrul—quick march!”

  Away they went, hares, otters, shrews and hedgehogs, with Lancejack Sage, who had a sweet strong voice, singing out.

  “If I had no fine boat to sail,

  then I’d walk all the way,

  an’ if nobeast would carry me,

  I’d march the livelong day,

  hey, up the hill an’ down the grade,

  with comrades true each one.

  Ten! Twenty! Thirty leagues!

  From Sala manda stron!

  Go t’your left, left right, it’s a long way ’til tonight!

  “So keep the vittles warm for me,

  an’ serve me more not less,

  an’ shed a tear, O Sergeant dear,

  for Cooky in the mess,

  he’s dishin’ double helpin’s

  to all who haven’t gone.

  Ten! Twenty! Thirty leagues!

  From Sala manda stron!

  Go t’your left, left right, it’s a long way ’til tonight!”

  Tramping alongside Ferrul, the ottermaid Kite Slayer felt her feelings warming to Long Patrol hares. She mentioned this blithely to the haremaid. “I’m gettin to like this, y’know? All walkin’ along t’gether, singin’ songs an’ such. Aye, it’ll do me fine!”

  Sergeant Miggory, who was nearby, on the left flank, had a word or two to say on the subject and let her know in no uncertain terms (as regimental colour sergeants invariably do). “Likes it, do ye, missy? Well, h’I am pleased for ye. Aye, h’an I’d like h’it, too, if’n ye could march properly. Wot h’is it about h’otters—’ave ye h’all got two left footpaws, h’an a tail wot keeps gettin’ h’in the way?”

  Ferrul fluttered her eyelashes at Miggory. “Oh, I say, Sarge, don’t be too hard on Kite. She’s tryin’ jolly hard to keep step, ain’t ye, Kite?”

  The tough sea ottermaid scowled. “I’m in perfect step.’Tis all the rest who aren’t!”

  Miggory raised his eyes imploringly skyward and fell silent.

  It was just past high noon when they reached the ancient three-topped oak, a massive woodland giant with a treble crown of foliage. They rested in its shade whilst Drogbuk questioned Pinny.

  “Which way now, ole miz fussy apron?”

  She treated him to a glare that would have wilted daisies. “Listen, you scrawny-peeled Wiltud. Anybeast that looks like you shouldn’t dare to try and make fun of others!”

  Captain Rake interrupted. “Mah sentiments exactly, marm, but could ye ignore that auld misery an’ tell us the route tae the Abbey, please?”

  The hogwife pointed south, across the stream. “Certainly, Captain. It’s that way. The next tall tree we come across, our Guosim Chief should be able to view Redwall’s belltower roof in the d
istance.”

  Rake saluted. “Thankee, marm. Right, rest up awhile. Those who are thirsty can take a drink at the stream.”

  Posy enquired, “Can we cool our footpaws in the water?”

  Skor Axehound huffed. “Aye, miss, as long as ye do it downstream from where I’m drinkin’.”

  Droghuk grumbled, “I’m too old an’ tired t’go further.”

  Lieutenant Scutram, who knew that Drogbuk was only hoping for volunteers to carry him, answered, “Why, to be sure, old lad, if you’re too jolly tired to march with us, then you can flippin’ well stay here an’ catch up with us when you’re recovered an’ fit t’walk, wot!”

  The ancient fraud groaned pitifully. “S’pose I’d better cool me footpaws in the stream if yore forcin’ a beast o’ my seasons t’march!”

  Kite Slayer advanced on him, smiling maliciously. “Pore ole creature, d’ye think another good hard scrub would help ye? I’m willin’ t’do it!”

  Drogbuk fled down the bank. “Yew keep away from me, ye young murderer!”

  When they set off again, Captain Rake noticed Buff Redspore looking back over her shoulder, sometimes stopping and listening. Keeping his voice down, he walked alongside her. “Is anythin’ wrong, bonny miss?”

  She shot a swift glance at the surrounding woodland. “Actually, I’m not sure, sah, but now an’ again I feel we’re being followed. Not too certain, though.”

  Rake persisted. “How many d’ye think there is—one or a group?”

  She shook her head. “No more’n one, sah, but whoever it jolly well is knows somethin’ about shadowin’.”

  Rake nodded. “Ah’ll take the other side o’ the column an’ keep mah eyes’n’ears peeled.”

  Noon shades were lengthening when Pinny Wiltud pointed out a very tall, slender ash tree, which towered over its neighbours.

  “Now, if’n ye was to climb that un an’ look south, the top o’ the Abbey buildin’s can be seen clear from there.”