The Rogue Crew

by Brian Jacques

  Violet blinked, scanning the Western Sea. It was fairly still, and overlaid with thick mist. “And you think this big cart went into the sea?”

  Buff shrugged. “That’s what it jolly well looks like, marm. Who can flippin’ well say? The tracks are plain, an’ what don’t speak don’t blinkin’ well lie, as my pa used t’say.”

  Lady Violet’s paw suddenly shot out, pointing northwest. “What’s that out there, off to the right, Buff? Something green, maybe—it’s not too clear, but it will soon be out of the mist. . . . See? It’s a ship!”

  On the long prow of Greenshroud, Razzid Wearat, flanked by the searat Mowlag and his bosun, the mean-featured weasel called Jiboree, showed themselves in plain view. Razzid pointed his trident at the creatures onshore. “Let them take a good look an’ see who killed their little rabbets!”

  Mowlag sniggered. “I wagers they’re wishin’ we was in arrow range so they could pay us back for wot we did.”

  Razzid wiped at his weepy eye, judging the distance. “We ain’t in their range, but they’re in ours. Let’s give ’em somethin’ else t’think about. Jiboree, get the for ’ard weapon ready!”

  Razzid and Mowlag moved back behind a huge crossbow, which was set up on the prow. Two corsairs carried forward a massive bolt, a long, thick, timber arrow, iron tipped, with stiff canvas flights. The thing was half the length of Greenshroud’s mainmast. Laying it flat on the crossbow, they notched it against a bowstring of greased heaving line and cranked the handle which wound the bowstring taut. Razzid stood behind it, sighting with his good eye and muttering, “That big stripedog’s a prime target!”

  He tripped the lever with his trident pole. With a mighty whoosh, the bolt shot off over the sea. Streaking over the shore, it missed Lady Violet by a pawlength. Whizzing on, it ended its flight buried in a duneside.

  The Wearat spat into the water viciously. “Missed! Ahoy, Mowlag, sail closer in. Put the ship about an’ load the back bow. I’ll get ’er as we sails off!”

  The vessel was brought about so it sailed landward. Now it was stern onto the shore. The few hares who were armed with firing equipment hurled slingstones, javelins and arrows, none of which reached their target.

  Razzid bared his fangs as he tripped the lever. “Yaharr, stripedog, off to Hellgates with ye!”

  Violet had beckoned everybeast back now. She stood boldly on the tideline, facing the stern crossbow. The huge bolt sped out, straight at her. With graceful contempt, she paced a step to her right, watching the lethal projectile rush by. It went right across the sand, smashing to splinters on the rocky fortress base.

  Long Patrol warriors seized the chance, charging forward into the shallows, hurling everything they could at the big green ship. A few arrows got as far as the highgalleried stern. As they stuck into the timbers, Razzid shouted orders.

  “Mowlag, get them oarbeasts workin’. Take ’er out to sea!” Moments later, the Greenshroud had vanished into the thinning curtain of mist.

  Colour Sergeant Miggory rattled out orders at the Long Patrollers who were wading into deeper water to attack the enemy ship. “H’all ranks inna water will retreat! Fall back! Move yoreselves h’afore that ship turns round an’ cuts ye off from the shore!”

  As the hares waded reluctantly back to land, the sergeant turned to Lady Violet and Buff Redspore. He saluted the Badger Ruler. “Well, Milady, you nearly got yoreself slain twice there, h’if’n ye don’t mind me mentionin’ h’it!”

  Violet watched the bright morning sun dispersing the mist over the Western Sea. “Rest easy, friend. I knew what I was doing.”

  Buff Redspore nodded. “Aye, marm, you were tryin’ to bring that confounded ship closer in, so you could inspect her, wot? So, did ye manage to jolly well see what I saw?”

  Violet made a circular motion with one paw. “Indeed I did, Buff. I know how our hares were murdered. It wasn’t a cart. It was a ship with four wheels.”

  Miggory’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “A wot? A ship with bloomin’ wheels, Milady?”

  The tracker confirmed Violet’s words. “Aye, Sergeant. I saw ’em m’self, four iron-rimmed wheels, two for’ard and two aft. I glimpsed them when the vermin ship turned about. The crafty scum—who’d have thought up such an idea, wot?”

  Violet shrugged. “Not all vermin are stupid. It was a fiendish idea, but a good one from their point of view. The beast carrying the trident, who stood out on the prow, was that the Wearat?”

  Buff Redspore answered. “That was him, marm. I’ve seen the blighter twice in bygone seasons. Once when I was scoutin’ far down the south coast and again when that ship was in these waters. That time he sailed right by our mountain, though he didn’t dare jolly well try an’ land. Like most of his flippin’ kind, a born coward when it comes to meetin’ real warriors.”

  Lieutenant Scutram joined the conversation. “Be that as it may, that Wearat can do as he likes with a craft like that. Either by land or sea. Did ye see the size of the two crossbows she was carryin’? ’Pon my word, they could do some damage, I’ll tell ye!”

  The speculation was interrupted by young Trug Bawdsley. He marched up to Lady Violet with tears streaming down his sturdy face, then saluted her.

  “Permission to form a burial detail, marm. For our fallen cadets. I don’t want t’see my poor young sister Trey lyin’ out on the sands like that, marm!”

  His head drooped as he began weeping inconsolably. As Lady Violet pulled him gently to her, Trug buried his face in her robe, sobbing pitifully. Violet patted his back.

  “You have my permission, Trug. We’ll turn the regiment out at sunset and give them full honours.” She nodded to the tracker and any officers present. “Make your way back to my forge chamber. We’ve got important business to discuss, which can’t wait.”

  Inside Salamandastron, a late breakfast was served in the forge chamber. All senior Long Patrol officers listened intently to Lady Violet as she spoke of the day’s tragic events.

  “I, and no doubt you, too, friends, are deeply grieved at what took place before dawn today. You’ve heard Buff Redspore’s report on the corsair vessel, and you are aware of the danger it threatens.”

  She paused to acknowledge a very old, overweight hare. “Yes, Colonel Bletgore?”

  Colonel Blenkinsop Wilford Bletgore was the oldest hare on the mountain. His tunic, which could hardly be seen for medals and ribbons, was weathered from scarlet to faint pink. Huffing and puffing, he was hauled upright from his chair by two younger hares. Bletgore’s profuse silver whiskers jumped up and down in time with his wobbling chins as he grunted.

  “Stap me swagger stick, vermin ships attackin’ this mountain fortress—stuff’n’nonsense, marm, fiddlesticks an’ hobbledehoy! Wot, wot, wot! Stand as much chance as a gnat chargin’ a bloomin’ oak tree!”

  Lady Violet remained patient until the ancient colonel had run out of humphing and blathering. Picking up a slim rapier, she pointed to the relief map graven on the stone wall, showing all the coast, from north to south on the west side.

  Politely, she explained, “Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate what you say, but it isn’t just us. The entire coastline, and this part of it in Mossflower, is our responsibility. We must protect all good creatures, not just ourselves. So, my friends, I’m open to any helpful suggestions.”

  Old Colonel Bletgore spoke out to nobeast in particular. “Blood’n’vinegar, wot—that’s all vermin understand! Shout Eulalia, charge an’ leave none o’ the villains alive. That’s what we did in my younger seasons, eh, wot!”

  Major Felton Fforbes sniffed. “Trouble is, we’ve never had a navy. No disrespect to you, marm, but vermin ships can commit murder, then sail off, free as flippin’ larks. There ain’t a bally thing us hares can do about it, wot?”

  Sergeant Miggory summed up further. “Now they’ve got h’a ship that can sail the land, too. We’re in double trouble, so wot’s the h’answer? Do we get h’our own navy, marm?”

  Lady Violet toyed with the ra
pier hilt. “There’s no vermin force that could stand against our Long Patrol warriors, even in land-borne ships. Major Fforbes is right. If they can slip back into the sea, we can’t pursue them. Hares have never been seabeasts, it’s no good talking about us having a navy. We know little of mariners’ ways. We need allies who are skilled in the ways of sailoring.”

  Lieutenant Scutram had a suggestion.

  “What about otters, marm? I don’t mean river an’ stream types who dwell inland, but sea otters.”

  Buff Redspore spoke out in agreement. “Aye, sea otters who are fighters. I know there’s a lot of ’em up on the High North Coast. They like nothin’ better than a good skirmish. I’ll wager they’d be willin’ to jolly well help us!”

  Colonel Bletgore, who had been dropping off into a doze, immediately began a diatribe at the idea. “Hah, sea otters? Confounded rogues, ye mean! Not a scrap o’ manners among that flamin’ lot. Skor Wotjamicallim . . . Hatchet Dog, or some other dreadful outlandish name. Hah, pish an’ tosh, marm. Never!”

  Lady Violet looked around the assembly. “I think I’ve heard him spoken of as Skor Axehound. Has anyone further knowledge of him or his tribe?”

  Captain Rake Nightfur, a tall, dangerous-looking black hare, with a deep scar running from ear to chin, stepped forward, pawing the hilts of two claymores he wore across his shoulders. “Afore Ah came tae Salamandastron, Ah lived on the High North Coast. When Ah was younger, Ah fought alangside the braw Skor an’ his warriors. Ye’ll no’ find bonnier an’ no mair fearsome beasties than the Chieftain Skor—aye, an’ his Rogues.”

  Captain Rake paused, staring around the forge chamber. “Hark tae me. Ah’ll no’ tolerate a slight or ill word against Skor Axehound or his crew. D’ye ken?”

  Lady Violet smiled at the captain. “Oh, I think we all got the message, Cap’n Rake. This High North Coast you speak of, I take it the territory is some fair distance from here. Would you be willing to visit there as an ambassador from me?”

  Rake bowed gallantly, then drew his swords, placing them in front of Violet. “Mah fealty, mah blades, mah heart an’ paws are yours tae command, fair lady!”

  The Badger Ruler’s violet-hu ed eyes twinkled momentarily. “I never doubted that for an instant, Rake, thank you! Now, I wish you to start as soon as possible on this mission. Take with you a score of Long Patrollers of your own choosing, and may fortune be with you.”

  5

  As dawn’s rosy paws stole over the Abbey walls, Jum Gurdy was getting ready to leave for the coast, intent on questioning his old uncle Wullow. The sturdy otter chuckled as he watched Friar Wopple packing rations into his haversack.

  “Go easy, marm. I ain’t plannin’ on bein’ gone for ten seasons. That’s enough vittles t’keep a regiment o’ Salamandastron hares goin’.”

  The kind watervole waved a package of candied chestnuts at the Cellardog. “Be off with ye, Jum Gurdy. I’ll not see any Redwaller starve on a journey. Besides, y’might like to give some o’ these vittles to yore ole uncle Wullow.”

  Jum smiled as he slipped a flask in with the food. “Aye, thankee. Ole Wullow’d like that, marm. I’m takin’ ’im some o’ my best beetroot port as a gift.”

  Young Uggo Wiltud, who had got over his ill stomach and was now sentenced to three days’ pot washing, looked over from his greasy chore. The gluttonous hedgehog was always interested in the subject of food or drink.

  “I’ve never tasted beetroot port, Mister Gurdy. Wot’s it like?”

  Jum shouldered his loaded haversack, commenting, “Never mind ’ow it tastes, young Wiltud. You just get on with yore pot scourin’!”

  Scowling, Friar Wopple picked up one of the pots. “The whole Abbey’d be down with tummy trouble if they had to eat vittles cooked in this—it’s filthy! Do it again, Uggo, an’ make sure ye scrub under the rim!” She turned to Jum with a long-suffering sigh. “I’ve never seen a young ’og so dozy in all my seasons!”

  Uggo’s voice echoed hollowly as he poked his head into the pot. “I can’t ’elp it if’n I ain’t a champeen pot washer!”

  The Friar waved a short wooden oven paddle at him. “Any more of those smart remarks an’ I’ll make yore tail smart with this paddle. Stealin’ hefty fruitcake is about all yore good at, ye young rip!”

  Still with his head in the pot, Uggo began weeping. “I said I was sorry an’ wouldn’t steal no more cakes. But nobeast’s got a good word for me. I’m doin’ me best, marm, but I just ain’t a pot washer.”

  Jum Gurdy suddenly felt sorry for Uggo. There he was, clad in an overlong apron, standing atop a stool at the sink, with grease and supper remains sticking to his spines. The big Cellardog lifted him easily to the floor. “Smack me rudder, matey. Yore a sorry sight, an’ that’s for sure. Stop that blubberin’, now. You ain’t been a Dibbun, not for three seasons now. So, tell me, wot are ye good at, an’ don’t say eatin’ cake!”

  Uggo, managing to stem his tears, stood staring at the floorstones, as if seeking inspiration there.

  “Dunno wot I’m good at, Mister Gurdy.”

  Jum hitched up the haversack, winking at Friar Wopple. “I think I know wot we should do to this scallywag, marm.”

  The Friar leaned on her oven paddle, winking back. “Oh, an’ wot d’ye think you’d like t’do to Master Wiltud? Fling him in the pond, maybe?”

  Uggo flinched as Jum took off the long apron. The otter walked around him, looking him up and down critically. “Hmm, he don’t look like a very fit beast t’me, Friar. Bit pale an’ pudgy, prob’ly never takes any exercise, eats too much an’ sleeps most o’ the day. I think a good long walk, say a journey to the sea. That might knock ’im back into shape. Wot d’ye think, Friar marm?” Wopple agreed promptly. “Aye, it might do our Uggo the world o’ good, sleepin’ outdoors, marchin’ hard all day, puttin’ up with the bad weather an’ not eating too much. I think y’might have somethin’ there, Jum!”

  Uggo’s lip began to tremble as he looked from one to the other. “Marchin’ all day, sleepin’ out in the open, gettin’ wet’n’cold in the wind an’ rain. Wot, me, Mister Gurdy?”

  Jum shrugged. “As y’please, mate. There’s always more pots t’wash an’ floors to scrub, I shouldn’t wonder, eh, marm?”

  Friar Wopple narrowed her eyes, glaring at Uggo. “Oh, yes—an’ ovens to clean out, veggibles to peel an’ scrape, the storeroom to sweep out . . .”

  Jum Gurdy began trudging from the kitchens, calling back, “Ah, well, I’ll leave ye to it, Uggo mate. ’Ave fun!”

  The young hedgehog scrambled after him, pleading, “No, no, I’ll go with ye, Mister Gurdy. Take me along, please!”

  Hiding an amused grin, Friar Wopple waved a dismissive paw. “Take him away, Jum. The rascal’s neither use nor ornament around here. Go on, young Wiltud—away with ye!”

  She followed them to the kitchen door as Jum strode off, commenting blithely, “Well, come on then, young sir, but ye’d best keep up, or I’ll ’ave to tie ye to a tree an’ pick ye up on the way back. Come on, bucko. Move lively, now!”

  Uggo scurried in the big otter’s wake. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can, Mister Gurdy. You wouldn’t leave me tied to a tree, really, would you . . . would you?”

  Abbot Thibb saw the pair walking across Great Hall as he entered the kitchens. He picked up a fresh-baked scone, spread it with honey and took a bite.

  “Good morning, Friar. What’s going on with those two?”

  The Friar poured cups of hot mint tea for them both. “Oh nothin’, really. I suspect that Jum’s givin’ young Uggo a lesson in growing up usefully. A trek to the seacoast with our Cellardog behind him may do that hog a power o’ good, Father.”

  Thibb blew on his tea and sipped it carefully. “Right, marm. I think Jum Gurdy’s just the beast to teach that scamp a lesson or two.”

  In the belltower, Matthias and Methusaleh, Redwall’s twin bells, boomed out into the clear spring morn, signalling breakfast at the Abbey.

  Outside on the path, U
ggo called out hopefully, “May’aps we’d best go back for our brekkist, Mister Gurdy?”

  Jum Gurdy shook his head, pointing the way. “Already’ad brekkist whilst you was still snoozin’. Keep goin’, young un. ’Tis quite a way ’til lunch!”

  By midday, Greenshroud was well out to sea. Razzid Wearat took a leisurely meal of grilled seabird, washed down with a beaker of seaweed grog. He watched a wobbly-legged old searat clearing the remains away, then rose from the table. He snapped out a single word.

  “Cloak!”

  The rat dropped what he was doing to get the green cloak, holding it as Razzid shrugged his shoulders into it.

  “Trident!”

  The serving rat placed the trident in his waiting paw. Without another word, the Wearat waited on his minion to open the cabin door, then strode out on deck. A corsair searat was at the tiller.

  Razzid wiped moisture from his weepy eye. “What’s the course?”

  The corsair replied smartly, “As ye ordered, Cap’n, due east!”

  Vermin were loitering near, coiling ropes and doing other needless tasks, listening alertly for the Wearat’s command as to where they would be sailing.

  He did not keep them waiting, calling out loud and clear, “Take ’er in closer to shore! Lookout, keep watch for anythin’ interesting onshore!”

  A sharp-eyed young ferret tugged his ear in acknowledgement. “Aye aye, Cap’n!” He began climbing into the rigging.

  Razzid’s next words came at the crew like a thunderbolt.

  “Stay close to the shore, but set a course for the High North Coast!”

  The word had been given. Razzid Wearat was bent on a return battle with the sea otters. An ominous silence fell over the crew. Those who had lived through the last disastrous foray knew the strength and bloodlust of Skor Axehound’s warriors. None of the vermin had thought that Razzid would be foolhardy enough to try a second attack. However, none of the corsairs was so rash as to dispute their captain’s decision. They returned to their tasks in sullen silence—all but one.