Drander kept his eyes front, muttering out the side of his mouth, “Tell that to Cap’n Rake. He wrote it.”
Kite Slayer, the tough ottermaid, scowled darkly. “Ain’t the sort of marchin’ song I’d be caught singin’. Would ye like to hear a Rogue Crew song? One Skor wrote?”
Trug Bawdsley nodded affably. “Jolly nice of ye, missy. Carry on an’ warble away.”
Without further ado, Kite launched into the sea otter tune.
“O there’s blood on the axe,
an’ there’s blood on the shield,
an’ blood on the swordblade, too.
An’ if yore a foe of our Rogue Crew,
there’ll be blood all over you!
Blood blood! Blood blood—”
Corporal Welkin interrupted before Kite could sing another verse. “Oh, well done, miss. What a jolly little ditty, a right pretty paw tapper, wot!”
A nearby sea otter nodded. “Aye, it’s brought a tear to many an eye, I can tell ye.”
Young Flutchers chuckled. “Indeed, old chap. I’d wager it’s brought more’n a bloomin’ tear to some. Wot!”
Lancejack Sage, who was up in the vanguard, called out, “Scouts returnin’ ahead!” Accompanied by Gil and Dreel the ottermaids, Buff Redspore loped up, saluting Rake and Skor.
“See that long ridge ahead, sah, sort of hillscape? The vermin ship has been there, anchored in the cove. But we’re afraid she’s gone now.”
Skor scratched at his bushy beard. “Gone, which way?”
Buff answered respectfully, “Wouldn’t like to make a guess, Lord. Mayhaps you’d like to judge for yourself? It ain’t far.”
From the ridgetop, Dreel pointed to the clear waters of the calm bay below. “It’s not deep. See the mudpatch on that clean sand beneath the water? That’s where they’ve been careenin’ marsh dirt off’n their hull.”
Her sister Gil explained, “That mud won’t move for a day or two. Ain’t much tide, water’s almost still.”
It was late noon when they explored the cove. Being an expert tracker, Buff Redspore ventured her opinion. “No wheelmarks in the sand, so Greenshroud never left the water. Only one beast came ashore—fox, prob’ly a vixen by the prints. But see here, there was already another over by the base of the hill. Looks like an old hedgehog.”
Skor stared at the tracker. “How d’ye know that?”
Buff produced a few greyish spines. “Old enough t’be losin’ these. The vixen took the old un back aboard the ship with her.”
Rake studied the twin tracks. “Tae get information out o’ the beastie, Ah think. So, where does that leave us?”
Buff shrugged. “She hasn’t gone inland, an’ she’s already been up north, so she must be sailin’ south.”
Ruggan Axehound mused, “If’n ye say the vermin wouldn’t attack yore mountain again, then wot do they want down south?”
Jum Gurdy, who had stayed in the background thus far, now came forward. The big Cellardog looked worried. “D’ye think they’re plannin’ on havin’ a go at Redwall?”
Captain Rake Nightfur stamped his paw down hard. “Och, aye! Ah’m a fool for no’ thinkin’ o’ that mahself. But why has the Wearat no’ gone inland tae do it? He has a vessel on wheels.”
Jum Gurdy told him why. “Further south, twixt here an’ yore mountain, there’s a river runs o’er the shore, Cap’n—’tis called the River Moss. Runs through the woodlands an’ dunes, over the beach, into the sea.”
Sergeant Miggory nodded. “We crossed o’er h’it on the fourth day h’outward bound, sah. I remembers it well, ’cos the water was sweet to drink, an’ fresh.”
Skor looked ready to march onward. He boomed impatiently, “Well, we’re losin’ time standin’ here chinwaggin’ about it. We should be marchin’ south t’find this River Moss!”
Jum Gurdy interrupted. “Could I make a suggestion?”
Rake forestalled Skor by saying, “Aye, please do.”
Quickly, Jum scratched out a rough map in the sand. “This is the coastline goin’ south. River Moss should be somewheres about ’ere. It flows out o’ the east. Where the path to Redwall Abbey is, there’s a ford o’er the water. So, if the vermin are goin’ to the Abbey, this is my plan, friends. Instead o’ followin’ the coastline south, we should cut inland now, on a southeasterly course. That way we’ll save time an’ we might even spot ’em.”
With a brief nod of thanks, Skor Axehound turned and began marching off, away from the sea, commenting gruffly, “Well, wot are we waitin’ for? We’re losin’ time!”
Following his example, everybeast fell in behind him. Within a short time, they had crossed some hills and were out of sight of the cove.
In their haste, they had forgotten one of their number, Crumdun. The fat little stoat had seized his opportunity to slink away during the discussion. He squeezed in beneath some rocks at the base of the hill, pulling an old wet sack he had found over himself. He waited until there was complete silence within the cove before venturing out. Crumdun heaved a great sigh of relief. He quite liked the hares, who had fed him, treating him decently. However, he lived in mortal fear of the sea otters, convinced that with their hatred of vermin, he would be slain by them sooner or later. His new sense of freedom filled him with happiness. No more captivity or serving as a ragmop on corsair ships. Opening the sack, Crumdun found a variety of shellfish and molluscs. Later that evening he sat by a small fire roasting his supper whilst reflecting aloud.
“This ain’t a bad life. I can suit meself wot I does. Funny, I allus wanted to be like me ole mate, Braggio Ironhook. But that ain’t such a good idea, or I’d ’ave ended up wid me ’ead stuck atop o’ Greenshroud’s foremast. No, I’m best off just bein’ meself, liddle fat Crumdun!”
Which was indeed a fact, because not many vermin ended up being as lucky as him.
20
A stiff wind blowing easterly from across the sea buffeted Greenshroud’s starboard side as she ploughed southward through rising waves. From atop the mainmast, a keen-eyed searat who was lookout that day bawled out a sighting.
“I kin see a river runnin’ across the shore!”
Jiboree, who was fighting to keep the tiller steady, called back, “A river, eh? Where away?”
“Mebbe a point or so to port,” came the reply.
Gratefully, the weasel eased off his pressure on the long timber arm, allowing the tiller to drift Greenshroud landward at a southerly angle. He stopped a passing crewbeast. “Go an’ tell the cap’n a river’s been spotted.”
Razzid Wearat wiped at his injured eye, staring at the approaching river. “Hmm, could be this River Moss. Shekra, go an’ get that ’ole spikehog. He’ll know.”
Drogbuk Wiltud was in no fit state to walk. He staggered on deck, supported by Shekra and Mowlag. The drunken old hedgehog’s head was lolling on his chest; his eyes were shut.
Grabbing him by the headspikes, Razzid yanked his head up. “Ahoy, I wants to talk with ye. Liven yoreself up, ole fool!”
Shekra cut in helpfully. “Here, Lord, let me try.” She patted Drogbuk’s limp, scrawny paw. “Wake up, friend, we need yore advice.”
The wretched creature managed to open one eye blearily. “Eh, what . . . ? Where’s grog? I need more!”
Knocking Shekra aside, the Wearat began beating Drogbuk round his head, snarling with each blow. “Ya dribblin’ ole grog stopper, lookit yon river an’ tell me, is that the River Moss ye told us about?”
Drogbuk made a swift recovery, trying to cringe from the vicious blunt-clawed paws. He babbled pitifully, “Aye, that’d be the Moss. But you said ye was my friend. Wot are ye hittin’ me for?”
Razzid smiled wickedly as he twisted his victim’s snout. “I’ll hit ye if’n ye don’t shape up an’ tell me wot I want. Now, wot’s our next move, ye drunken idjit? Talk!”
Drogbuk pointed at the stretch of clear water gushing over the beach into the sea. “Ye follows it, that’s all. Just follow it east.”
Loosened by ag
e, the old hedgehog’s body quills rattled to the deck as Razzid shook him violently.
“We goes east along the river. Wot then? Where’s Redwall?”
Drogbuk sank to the deck whimpering. “I needs more o’ that grog, I needs it bad, sir!”
Mowlag kicked him. “Then tell the cap’n the way first.”
Stammering and weeping, Drogbuk explained, “O’er the shore, through the dunes an’ hills, then into the woodlands. Stay wid the river ’til ye comes to a ford. There’s a path either side of it. Redwall Abbey lies to the south along that path. But ye’ll have ter leave yore ship at the ford an’ march the rest o’ the way.”
Jiboree sniggered. “Hah, that’s wot yew think, eh, Cap’n?”
Razzid ignored him, hauling his captive upright roughly. “Swear to me now, is that all I needs to know?”
More quills rattled to the deck as Drogbuk nodded hastily. “I’ve told ye true, on me oath I ’ave, Cap’n. Now can I get a taste o’ yore grog, sir? Me pore ’ead’s achin’ somethin’ awful. Just a drop o’ grog to wet me sufferin’ lips.”
Razzid turned to watch the oncoming river. “Kill ’im!”
Shekra leaned close, murmuring, “Is that wise, Lord? Who knows wot lies ahead. We may need him yet.”
The Wearat shrugged. “Then let’s keep ’im awhile. But no more grog fer that un. Bind ’im t’the mast.”
With the wind at her stern, Greenshroud entered the Moss shallows, half sailing, half rolling as the wheels were driven under full sail. It was an odd sight, the big green-sailed vessel gliding smoothly over the beach.
Jiboree managed the tiller easily, cautioning Drogbuk, whose moans were beginning to pall on him. “Quit yore whingin’, y’ole grogbucket, or I’ll give ye a taste—but it won’t be grog, it’ll be a rope’s end!”
High-sided dunes formed a canyon either side of the river. The wind dropped after Greenshroud navigated several meandering turns, leaving the ship becalmed twixt the steep sandy slopes. All through the noontide, crewbeasts sweated as they poled away with long oars to keep the ship going.
Mowlag spat on his paw. Holding it up, he announced, “Keep goin’, mates. We might catch the wind again by nightfall, mebbe once we make the woodlands.”
An exhausted searat leaned on his paddle. “Huh, that’s alright fer Mowlag t’say. All I’m catchin’ is a pair o’ sore paws from shovin’ this oar.”
His companion, a thin-faced weasel, complained, “It ain’t right. Ships shouldn’t be sailin’ through places like this. The sea’s the place fer a ship.”
Mowlag’s stern voice silenced any further complaints. “Save yore breath an’ keep goin’. I’m the ship’s mate, an’ I’m only carryin’ out Cap’n’s orders. So unless ye wants me t’take the rope’s end to yore backs . . .” He left the threat unfinished, knowing it would have the desired result.
Further north, the going was also arduous for Log a Log Dandy and his Guosim crew, travelling along the streams toward the River Moss. Taking only a brief rest for sleep in a side inlet turned out to be an uncomfortable mistake. They were wakened by clouds of midges. Uggo, Posy and Swiffo were forced to leap ashore, besieged by myriads of the tiny insects. The inlet, as it turned out, was a cul-de-sac choked with weeds, mud and stagnant water. Log a Log Dandy and the other shrews were not slow in following their passengers’ example—they too jumped ashore and ran. The midges did not stay with them but went back to their creek, the habitat they lived in.
The entire party spent time beating out midges, which had clung to fur, spikes and clothing.
Swiffo spat out a midge. “Phwaw—that wasn’t much of a place to catch a nap, was it?”
Dandy merely shrugged. “It happens now an’ agin, not t’worry. When we anchored there, we weren’t to know. Anyhow, ’tis a fine, bright day an’ no real harm done, eh!” He ordered a fire to be lit and materials to be gathered.
Uggo, like the rest, found himself holding a bundle of dead twigs, wet grass and some greenery bound together with bur marigold stems.
Swiffo explained, “This’ll drive the midges off so’s we can get the logboats back out into clear runnin’ water. Cover yore mouth, then light that torch in the fire.”
Once the torches had taken light, the Guosim set off back to the brackish inlet in a fog of smoke. Even though Posy had her mouth covered, she soon found herself coughing and pawing at streaming eyes. However, the scheme worked well. Thick smoke soon dispersed the insect hordes, allowing Guosim paddlers to hasten the logboats out into the midstream, and fresh air. Torches sizzled as they were flung into the water.
Uggo splashed fresh water onto his face. “Ugh, I can’t stand liddle crawly things!”
Around midday, the stream broadened. On the surface it looked calm, but the boats began moving faster. Little eddies appeared close to the banks.
Posy sat back and relaxed. Dappling sunlight poured through the high foliage of cedar, grey willow and wych elm, flooding the stream with patterns of light and shade. She sighed dreamily. “It’s all so peaceful and pretty, isn’t it?”
A Guosim paddler, who overheard her, remarked, “Won’t be fer long, missy. Sit up straight an’ hold on to the boatsides. . . .”
From the lead vessel, Dandy’s shout confirmed what he had said. “Belay oars an’ wait on my word—rapids comin’!”
Uggo felt the boat jump slightly as an underwater rock ledge scraped its keel. The little flotilla of logboats began picking up speed rapidly, some of them starting to turn sideways. Now Dandy began roaring commands.
“Port now! Back water! Keep ’em head-on to the flow!”
Rocks poked up into view, with white water foaming around them. The banksides rose steeply; ominous sounds of rushing water echoed all round. Shocked by the sudden change, Uggo and Posy clung grimly to the logboat’s sides.
Swiffo, however, stood erect, balancing with the aid of his rudder. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. “Don’t worry, mates. Makes no difference—sea, river or stream—no two stretches o’ water’s ever the bloomin’ same!”
Log a Log Dandy had to bellow to be heard now. “All paws stroke deep to starboard! Make for the cove ahead. We’ll have to beach an’ portage!”
Uggo could tell by the urgency of Dandy’s voice that they were in trouble. Some of the port shrews joined those on the other side of the boats, adding their paddle power to move across the headlong flow.
Dandy yelled, “Heavin’ lines sharp, now—make a chain!”
Sinewy ropes snaked out as prowbeasts and sternbeasts skilfully caught them and tied up, forming the boats into a connected line. Posy saw the cove looming up ahead. It was an arch, scooped out by constant pushing currents. The surface was thick with floating debris—at some point a dead and broken poplar had been swept in there; its branches and shorn trunk poked out of the water.
Dandy slung a heaving line, snagging the trunk. He and two other shrews pulled hard on it, drawing the front logboat into the cove. Some of the other boats were almost swept by, but willing paws hauled on the lines, bringing them to the safety of the cove, where the water was milling in a slow circle, away from the main rushing currents.
Swiffo tied a line around his waist, joined by Uggo, Posy and four Guosim. They scaled the steep, rugged bankside. Once on top, the line was secured around the sturdy trunk of a pine. Half of the Guosim crew climbed up to the summit.
Dobble, the shrew scout, took a few paces to one side. Peering down, he pointed. “Good job we found haven there, mates. Lookit wot we would’ve run into. Dollrags, that’s wot we woulda been ripped into!”
They stared in horror at the scene far below. Cascades of thundering water, mist and a rainbow wreathed around forbidding rocks surrounding a mighty waterfall.
Swiffo chuckled nervously. “Fancy sittin’ in a boat an’ shootin’ down into that lot. Ye’d have no chance!”
Further speculation on what their fate would have been was interrupted by the Guosim Chieftain. “Ahoy! Are ye goin’ to stand g
awpin’ down there all day, or are ye goin’ to lend a paw t’get these logboats up?”
It was backbreaking work, hauling six logboats and provisions up to the summit. With aching limbs and paws raw from heaving on ropes, they slumped down to rest after the final boat was up.
Dandy sparked his clogs against a rock, berating them. “Wot’s this, floppin’ down on yore tails to take a nap? This ain’t no pickernick—we got boats to portage. Up on yore hunkers, mates, look lively, now!”
Each crew lifted their logboat, upside down, over their heads. Portaging was no easy chore. With Swiffo and Dobble leading the way down the steep, wooded slope, everybeast followed, scrabbling and scrambling to carry their burden whilst keeping upright. Posy and Uggo brought up the rear, along with some older shrews, all carrying rations and paddles.
The afternoon was far advanced when they reached the bottom. Skirting the falls, they continued, with Dandy jollying them along.
“Come on, me beauties, not far now. No mutterin’ from under those boats, d’ye hear!”
Dobble, who had been scouting ahead, returned with heartening news. “Stream’s runnin’ calm again up ahead, Chief. There’s a nice shady bank where we can sit an’ take a bite of vittles, aye an’ may’aps a swig of shrewbeer, eh?”
Dandy shook his head. “We’ll take t’the water if ’tis calm enough. Should be on the River Moss by evenin’—then ye can rest an’ feed yore faces all night. So come on, mates, make an effort. Don’t be showin’ our guests how lazy ye are!” He broke into a song, urging them onward.
“There’s always a camp at the end o’ the day,
at least that’s wot my ole pa used t’say.
Someplace to rest those tired-out paws,
there’s noplace like the great outdoors.
Then sling off yore load when we gits there,
throw yore weary bones down any ole where,
plant yoreself there, mate, an’ I’ll sit ’ere,
an’ we’ll swig off a tankard o’ nice cold beer!
The Rogue Crew Page 21
