The Rogue Crew

by Brian Jacques

  Skor slammed his rudder down hard. “Them young uns are my responsibility. Take yore brother, Swiffo, an’ get after ’em afore they come to some harm!”

  Ruggan and Swiffo sped off along the tunnel.

  After a while, the rest followed at a steady pace, following the upward sloping passage. Young Ferrul was the first to smell anything, even before they reached the junction where the tunnels split. She twiddled her ears with anticipation.

  “Oh, I say, chaps, can ye sniff it? Fresh air, it’s better’n a fresh strawberry’n’plum fruit salad. Mmmmm!”

  At the junction, one tunnel began to slope downward but the other continued to rise. From the latter, there was a summer breeze wafting in.

  Sergeant Miggory breathed deeply. “Seasons h’of flowers’n’ferns, sah, h’aint it nice!”

  Captain Rake sniffed appreciatively. “Och, ’tis like a wee butterfly kissin’ mah nose!” He was almost bowled over by the return of Ruggan and Swiffo, who hurtled down on him, waving their paws for silence.

  Skor Axehound scowled at the pair. “Well, did ye find Gil’n’Dreel?”

  Keeping his voice low, Ruggan appeared to be stifling laughter. “Aye, sir, they been captured by vermin!”

  The sea otter Chieftain waved his battleaxe. “They’ve what? Been captured by vermin, an’ ye think ’tis funny?”

  Swiffo stood in his father’s path, hastening to explain. “Steady on, Pa. There’s only about a score of ’em, runty stoats an’ rats. We followed ’em to their camp. It ain’t far off, an’ guess wot? They’re havin’ a feast!”

  Skor glanced from one to the other. “Ye weren’t seen by the vermin, were ye?”

  Ruggan smiled cannily. “Of course not, sir. A feast!”

  His father caught the irony of the situation. He grinned slyly and licked his axeblade. “I’ll wager they’ll welcome guests to their feast, eh? Are ye ready, Rake an’ Dandy? Come on, let’s eat!”

  There were actually about thirty vermin, mostly stoats and rats, with a few ferrets. Their camp was on the bank of a stream; both Gil and Dreel were bound to a willow trunk. The young otters did not seem unduly put out, as they had seen Ruggan and Swiffo spying on their captors. A cauldron was bubbling over a fire whilst the brigand vermin prepared food. Some were grilling trout on green twigs; others placed flatbreads on hot stones, whilst some broached a keg of nettle beer. Their leader, a patch-eyed overweight ferret, was discussing his prisoners with an old rat.

  “Theez muz be der ones Lord Ketral was chasin’ after, ya!”

  The old rat bared toothless gums. “Ayarr, but uz catchered dem, so worra we do, Viglat? Give dem ter Ketral, or roast ’em inta vikkles? I ain’t never et riverdog, ’ave yew?”

  Viglat the patch-eyed ferret grinned. “Ketral won’t mizz two liddle uns like dem, wotja t’ink?”

  The old rat sniggered. “Riverdogs fer brekkist tamorrer!”

  “Ahem!”

  The sound got the pair’s attention. They turned to see Sergeant Miggory leaning against a beech tree. He was unarmed and smiling rather simply.

  “H’excuse me, friends, but could h’either of ye tell me the way to Redwall Abbey? I’m lost, y’see.”

  A quick nod from Viglat brought the closest six vermin to surround Miggory. The patch-eyed ferret drew a rusty dirk from his waist sash, swaggering around the sergeant. “Lookit ’ere, mates. We got uz a rabbet!”

  The old rat nodded eagerly. “I et rabbet once—’twas nize!”

  To their surprise, Miggory showed no fear, but joined in amicably. “H’I don’t think ye’d like me, though. H’I’m a hare, not a rabbit. We’re tough, y’see.”

  A nearby stoat poked him in the back. “Tough, eh? ’Ow tough?”

  Rounding on the stoat, the sergeant knocked him out cold with a thunderous straight left. “H’is that tough h’enough for ye, scumnose?”

  Viglat was about to thrust his dirk into the hare’s back when a commanding shout rang out. “Drop that frogsticker or yer a deadbeast!”

  Sea otters, Long Patrol hares and Guosim shrews emerged from the trees on the streambank. Now that the position was reversed, Viglat found that he and his crew were surrounded.

  As Skor Axehound was releasing Gil and Dreel with a few slashes of his axeblade, he consulted Lieutenant Scutram. “Have ye got a head count o’ these rascals?”

  Scutram confirmed his total. “Aye, sah—thirty-two, all told.”

  Skor nodded. “Right. Read ’em the rules, Lieutenant.”

  The astonished Viglat was about to protest when Captain Rake kicked his rear end sharply. “Hauld yer wheesht an’ dinnae speak ’til you’re told. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

  Scutram laid out the rules of engagement to the vermin. “Listen up now, you scabby bunch! This is a contest—we’ll match you beast for beast, wot. Now, all into the stream, quick as y’like. Come on, move y’selves, you idle vermin!”

  Viglat and his followers were ushered roughly into the water by some sea otters as Scutram continued, “It’s t’be a jolly old scrap, a fight, actually. Thirty-two of our chaps’ll face ye in the water. Winner takes the feast. No rules, really—winnin’s the thing, eh, wot!”

  Viglat finally spoke, in indignant protest. “Dem’s our vikkles—diz ain’t right!”

  Captain Rake waved a dismissive paw. “Och, away with ye an’ quit whinin’. Ah’ll tell ye what. If ye defeat us, we’ll surrender to ye. That’s fair, ain’t it? Och, Ah’m fed up arguin’ with ye. Go to it, braw beasties!”

  The thirty-two consisted of fourteen sea otters, an equal number of hares and four Guosim shrews, who were in the minority. Without further ado, they charged the vermin, roaring their war cries.

  “Yaaaylahooo!”

  “Eulaliiiiiaaaa!”

  “Logalogaloooooog!”

  Startled by the fury of the onslaught, most of the vermin scrambled deeper into the water and swam off downstream. The rest threw away their weapons, flinging up their paws in surrender. Sitting on the bank, Skor lifted up the keg of nettle beer and took a deep draught. He shook his great bearded head in disgust.

  “Ah, ’tis a sad ole life, Rake, after havin’ to run away from vermin, we finally get the chance to fight ’em. Hah, an’ wot d’they do? Turn tail an’ run away! It ain’t fair!”

  The hare captain sipped glumly at a beaker of nettle beer. “Aye, just so mah friend. Hoho, what’s this Ah see?”

  It was Gil and Dreel lugging the patch-eyed ferret between them. He was groaning as they kicked his tail.

  Skor chuckled. “Wot d’ye want with that worthless bag o’ fat, young uns?”

  The answers came alternately from the young scouts. “We never caught him, Lord. The sergeant did.”

  “But he gave this rascal to us—we’re allowed to punish him.”

  “Aye, ’cos he was goin’ to roast us for brekkist tomorrow.”

  Shaking water from himself, Miggory came out of the stream. “That un’s their chief, sah. I think ’e might know the way to Redwall, seein’ h’as ole Drogbuk don’t.”

  The vermin feast was less than adequate for hungry creatures. The fish were golloped down by Skor’s Rogue Crew, whilst hares and shrews shared the flatbreads. Uggo sampled a sip of the bubbling liquid from the cauldron. “Hmm, tastes like vegetable soup with some watershrimps thrown in.”

  “Watershrimp, y’say!” Skor was swiftly at the cauldron. Rummaging in his belt pouch, he found a packet of reddish powder. This he tipped into the mixture. “Ahoy, Crew, anybeast for watershrimp’n’hotroot soup?”

  The Rogue Crew descended on the cauldron eagerly. Shrimp’n’hotroot soup is a great favourite amongst otters, particularly sea otters from the High North Coast, who are partial to a fiendish blend of hotroot pepper.

  “Wo hoa, buckoes, this is the stuff t’serve the Crew!”

  “Hahaarr, I can feel it curlin’ me rudder!”

  Trug Bawdsley tried a spoonful; the result sent him dashing to the stream for huge mouthfuls of water. With eyes st
reaming and burning lips, he exclaimed, “Great flippin’ flames, I thought somebeast had lit a bloomin’ fire in me mouth, wot!”

  The Rogue Crew otters roared with laughter at his discomfort. Sergeant Miggory had an idea, which he whispered to Skor.

  The sea otter Chieftain listened, then replied, “Let’s give it a try, though I think ’tis a shameful waste o’ good vittles. Right, bring the villain to me.”

  Viglat the patch-eyed vermin leader was hauled forward by Gil and Dreel. Sergeant Miggory put the question to him. “Ye might recall me h’askin’ you before, could ye tell me the way to Redwall h’Abbey?”

  Viglat answered sullenly, “Dunno no Redwall Abbeyz, never ’eard of it in me life.”

  Young Dreel kicked his tail. “Don’t lie t’the sergeant!”

  Skor smiled at the patch-eyed ferret in a kindly way. “Oh, leave the pore beast alone. Maybe he’s just forgotten the way to Redwall. Sergeant, d’ye think a nice drop o’ soup will cure him, jog his memory a bit, eh?”

  Viglat was seized by two brawny otters. He watched Miggory filling a bowl with soup from the cauldron.

  The ferret grinned impudently. “Zoop, eh? Viglat likes zoop!”

  Sergeant Miggory blew steam from the bowl, holding it to the vermin’s mouth. “Well, h’I’m sure yore goin’ to love this. C’mon now, bucko, sup up hearty!”

  The first sip was enough. Feeling the ferocious heat of the hotroot ingredient, Viglat spluttered, trying to spit it out. “Bulagggh! Itza burn me mouf off!”

  Skor registered mock surprise. “Don’t talk rubbish. We brings our babes up on that—’tis good for ye. Give him some more, Sarge, lots more!”

  Viglat began blubbering as he was fed another mouthful. “Wahaaah! No more, no more—wanna drinka water!”

  Miggory continued pouring mercilessly. “Sup up. There’s more’n arf a cauldron t’go yet. You’ll get water when ye tell h’us about Redwall. Where is h’it?”

  Slopping liquid down his ragged shirt, the ferret wailed, “I tell ya, I tell ya. Wahaaah! No more zoop . . . please!”

  The sergeant kept pouring as he consulted Rake. “Wot d’ye think, sah?”

  The captain looked up from cleaning his pawnails on the tip of one of his claymores. “Och, he looks a truthful wee sort. Let him speak his piece.”

  The brawny sea otters held Viglat, keeping him from scrambling to the stream for water. He was making unmentionable noises, trying to cover his mouth, massage his throat and rub his stomach all at the same time.

  Miggory filled the soup bowl, holding it forth threateningly. “H’if’n h’I was you h’I’d speak.”

  In a hoarse strangled rasp, the ferret talked. “Foller dis stream ’til it bendz east, den look out fer da t’ree-topped oak, it’z due south o’ there!”

  Drogbuk hiccuped loudly. “I could’ve told ye that!” With that, he fell flat on his back, drunk.

  Young Wilbee giggled. “I say, sah, the old sot’s been at that nettle beer. He’s stinko!”

  Grabbing Viglat by the scruff of his neck, Skor marched him into the stream, ducking his head. “Drink up, scumface, so ye can lead the way. Aye, an’ ye’ll be carryin’ Drogbuk on yore back. Ruggan, fix up a rope harness an’ tie that ole fool to the vermin’s back!”

  Rake chuckled. “Ah’d let yon ferret come up for air afore ye drown him, Skor!”

  They marched east along the streambank as evening shades fell gently over the land. The haremaid Ferrul picked a yellow iris and set it behind her ear as she waxed lyrical about a summer eve.

  “Ain’t it pretty, the end of a summer day, wot? Have you noticed how a calm settles over the woodlands? The stream quietly murmurin’, birdsong in the distance, hardly a blinkin’ breeze to stir the weary oak leaves. . . .”

  Viglat’s stomach bubbled aloud; he groaned pitifully. Drogbuk swayed on his back, hiccupping and belching.

  Corporal Welkin Dabbs sniffed the iris, murmuring in Ferrul’s ear, “Ain’t it all jolly pretty, miss?”

  She glared frostily at him. “Yah, go an’ boil your bloomin’ head. You’ve got no finer flamin’ feelin’s!”

  As darkness fell over the woodlands, Log a Log Dandy caught up with Viglat. “Ahoy, mudguts, how far is this three-topped oak?”

  The ferret muttered, “Gudd way yet, I t’ink.”

  Skor, who had overheard, sat down on a felled spruce trunk. “Well, I ain’t trailin’ round behind a vermin all night. I vote we camp here ’til daylight.”

  Waving a paw to halt the column, Rake joined him. “Ah’ll say aye tae that. Och, there’s always the morrow.”

  Viglat turned, letting them see Drogbuk. “Izzent nobeast gunna ged this stinky ’og offen me back?”

  Lieutenant Scutram wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Good grief, old lad. Fancy you callin’ anybeast stinky. The pair of ye smell like a blinkin’ mess midden on a flippin’ midsummer midday, wot!”

  Skor nodded. “Aye, they’re a ripe ole pair, sure enough. Here, Endar Feyblade, Kite Slayer, take those two into the stream an’ see they get a good scrubbin’. I want t’see them come out smellin’ like daisies!”

  The cold streamwater swiftly wakened Drogbuk from his drunken slumber. Both he and Viglat began screeching unmercifully as the two powerful sea otters went to work on them with vim and gusto.

  “Owowyeek! Stoppit, ye’ll have all me spikes off!”

  “Ohhouchaaargh! I’m bein’ murdered t’death!”

  Endar had the ferret firmly by his ears. She scrubbed away remorselessly. “Oh, shuttup, ye great baby. A rubdown with dockleaves an’ banksand never killed anybeast!”

  Amidst hoots of merriment from the bankside, big Drander rubbed his stomach. “One cob o’ flatbread an’ a drop o’ soup that near burnt the ears off me, that’s all I’ve eaten today, mates. Flamin’ rotten, ain’t it?”

  Sergeant Miggory was about to reply when a sturdy hogwife emerged from the shrubbery close by. She was laughing so hard, the tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Whoohoohahaha! Oh, good grief, I’ll wager that’s the first decent bath Drogbuk Wiltud’s ever had. Oh, dearie me, haha!”

  The sergeant sprang up, facing her. “Beggin’ yore pardon, marm, but who might you be?”

  Taking a blue spotted kerchief from her beautifully embroidered apron pocket, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Never mind me—this is my land. So who might you be, eh?”

  The grizzled veteran saluted courteously. “H’I’m Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory of the Long Patrol, from Salamandastron, marm!”

  The hogwife performed a mock curtsy. “Ho, graciousness, that’s fancy talk for a rabbet. Well, I’m Pinny Wiltud, an’ that’s one o’ my clan yore takin’ the hide off in the water. Huh, not that he doesn’t need it, filthy ole rattlespikes!”

  Big Drander saw an opportuntity. He smiled winningly at her. “’Scuse me, O lovely one, but d’ye know where there might be a bit o’ food t’be found hereabouts, wot?”

  She considered this a moment, then nodded. “I’ve been watchin’ you lot all day. Saw you scare those vermin off downstream, a job well done, I’d say. Now, do ye like proper, thick woodland stew?” She held up a paw before Drander could reply. “I mean real Woodland Stew, made to an ole Wiltud recipe. With every veggible ye could shake a stick at chopped up into it. Aye, an’ full o’ chestnut’n’acorn dumplin’s.”

  Overcome by emotion, tears sprang to Drander’s eyes. “Chestnut’n’acorn dumplin’s, marm, it makes me weak just thinkin’ about ’em. Oh, my giddy granddad, where is it, marm?”

  She silenced him with a glance. “If ye build a fire an’ lend a paw, I can make it ready for service just afore midnight—oh! Oooooh! Cover him up! Ooooh!”

  Her kinbeast Drogbuk Wiltud had emerged from the stream without a single quill on his scrawny frame. They had either fallen or been scrubbed off by the vigorous bathing he had received. Pinny had meanwhile thrown her voluminous flowered apron up over her face.

  Drogbuk hobbled about on the bank, not knowing
where to hide himself. He was ranting, “See wot ye did? Great clumsy-pawed sea otters, how’m I goin’ to last out the winter like this? Plank-tailed oafs!”

  Captain Rake grabbed the cloak which the ferret Viglat had discarded. He tossed it to the naked old hog. “Here, cover yersel’ up, ye auld sack o’ wrinkles. Och, ah’ve seen some sights that’d frit a duck, but never anythin’ like this!”

  Skor grinned, shaking his huge, bearded head. “He looks like an ole pink cattypillar that never turned into a butterfly. Hahaha, I hope yore cloak fits him, ferret . . . ferret! Where’s that vermin got to?”

  A hasty search revealed that Viglat was missing. Swiffo shrugged. “Must’ve slipped off durin’ all that din ole Drogbuk was makin’. Hope we can still find Redwall.”

  Pinny Wiltud scoffed. “Find Redwall? Huh, I know the way to the Abbey like the back o’ my paw. But let’s get ye fed first. Some of ye get a fire goin’, the rest follow me.”

  It was dark by the time Pinny’s woodland stew was ready. Everybeast had worked hard to help with it. True to her boast, the hogwife’s recipe worked superbly—it was rich, fragrant and delicious. They sat round the campfire on the streambank, each filling a bowl several times from the sizeable cauldron.

  Drogbuk sat apart, wrapped in an old blanket, whilst Pinny busied herself, cutting and sewing the ferret’s cloak into a suitable garb for him. Posy and Uggo sat with her, gratefully downing the stew.

  Pinny stared at Posy awhile, then shook her head. “You ain’t a Wiltud, missy. I can tell—yore too pretty. But that un”—she pointed her needle at Uggo—“huh, he’s got Wiltud written all over ’im. Sharp nose, greedy face an’ twinkly eyes. Who was yore mum’n’dad?”

  Uggo fished around after a dumpling. “Never knew ’em, marm. I was brought up at Redwall by Dorka Gurdy an’ her brother, Jum. Did ye say that you were at the Abbey? Did ye live there?”

  Pinny looked up from her tailoring. “Aye, I did for a while when I was younger, but I left.”

  Posy asked, “Why did you leave, marm?”

  Pinny seemed suddenly out of temper as she snapped, “I wasn’t stayin’ anywhere that they accused me o’ bein’ a vittle robber. Hah, I never scoffed their hefty fruitcake. The nerve o’ that lot—anyway there wasn’t many plums in it!”