The Rogue Crew

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, Uggo 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.

A muscular, tattooed ferret, who had barely escaped with his life at the first incident, was heard to mutter to the rat he was working alongside, “Huh, those wavedogs beat the livin’ tar out of us. They ain’t beasts t’be messed about wid.”

He turned and found himself facing Razzid.

“Ye were sayin’?”

The ferret backed off nervously. “Never said nothin’, Cap’n.”

Like a flash the trident was a hairsbreadth from his neck. The Wearat sounded dangerously calm. “Lie to me an’ I’ll slay ye here an’ now. What did ye say? Tell me.”

The ferret was a seasoned killer and no mean fighter, but he quailed under the Wearat’s piercing eye.

“I jus’ said those wavedogs wasn’t beasts t’be messed wid.” Razzid let the trident barbs drop.

“So, that’s what ye think, eh? Anyone else think that?”

The ferret looked nervously at his mates’ faces, but nobeast was about to speak out. He smiled weakly and shrugged. “I didn’t mean nothin’, Cap’n. On me oath, I didn’t!”

Razzid stared levelly at him, still calm. “Ah, but I heard you, my friend. What was it? ‘Those wavedogs beat the livin’ tar out of us . . .’?” He paused to wipe dampness from his bad eye. As he spoke again, his voice rose to a shout and his face became contorted with rage.

“Beat the living tar out of us? Nobeast has ever done that to Razzid Wearat and lived to tell of it. My wounds came from saving this ship—aye, and all the idiots I called a crew. You were one of them. I saved you all. And you dare to say that some foebeast beat me!”

Before the tattooed ferret could reply, Razzid lunged with his trident. Pierced through the stomach, the ferret shrieked. Like a farmer lifting hay with a pitchfork, the Wearat heaved his victim up bodily on the trident and hurled him overboard.

The crew stood shocked by the swift, vicious act.

Laughing madly, Razzid leaned over the stern gallery, bellowing at the dying corsair, “When ye get to Hellgates, tell ’em it was me that sent ye—me, Razzid Wearat!”

He turned to the crew, wielding his dripping trident. “Avast, who’s next, eh? Any of you bold bullies wants to argue with me, come on, speak out!”

The silence was total. Rigging creaked, sails billowed, waves washed the sides of Greenshroud, but not a single corsair spoke.

Razzid laughed harshly. “The High North Coast, that’s where this ship’s bound. But this time we won’t be ambushed up to our waists in the sea. Now I know wot my vessel can do, it’ll be me dishin’ out the surprises. We’ll give those wavedogs the same as the rabbets got at the badger mountain.”

Shekra the vixen called out. “Aye, the waves’ll run red with the blood of our foebeasts. Our cap’n’s name will become a legend o’ fear!”

Mowlag and Jiboree took up the cry, until all the crew were bellowing, “Wearat! Wearat! Razzid Wearat!”

Exulting in the moment, Razzid chanted with them.

Suddenly he slashed the air with his trident, silencing the noise. His anger quelled, he spoke normally again. “I am the Wearat. I cannot die—you’ve all seen this. Fools like that one, and that one, would not heed me.” He gestured overboard to where the ferret was floating facedown in Greenshroud’s wake, then up to where the head of Braggio Ironhook was spiked atop the foremast. Razzid chuckled. “But believe me, there’ll be no mistakes this time. The beast ain’t been born who can get the better o’ me, or my ship, or my crew. Right, mates?”

This triggered another wave of cheering.

Razzid beckoned to a small, fat stoat. “I remember you. Yore Crumdun, Braggio’s little mate.”

Crumdun saluted hastily, several times. “Er, aye, Cap’n, but I’m with yew now. On me oath, I am!” The Wearat winked his good eye at Crumdun.

“Go an’ broach a barrel o’ grog. Let my crew drink to a winnin’ voyage. Make that two barrels.”

As they sailed north, the corsairs drank greedily from both barrels, one of which was named Strong Addersting and the other Olde Lobsterclaw. The vermin swilled grog, grinning foolishly at the slightest thing.

Jiboree rapped Crumdun’s tail with the flat of his cutlass. “Ahoy, wasn’t you a pal o’ Iron’ook?”

Crumdun giggled nervously. “Heehee . . . I was, but I ain’t no more.”

Jiboree leered at him, then waved his cutlass blade. “I’eard that none o’ Iron’ook’s mates could sing. So, if’n yew wasn’t a proper mate of ’is, then ye must be a good ole singer. Go on, lardtub, give us a song!”

With Mowlag’s dagger point tickling him, the fat stoat was forced to dance a hobjig whilst warbling squeakily.

“Ho, wot a drunken ship this is,

’tis called the Tipsy Dog,

an’ the bosun’s wife is pickled for life,

in a bucket o’ seaweed grog!

“Sing rum-toodle-oo, rum-toodle-’ey,

an’ splice the mainbrace, matey,

roll out the grog, ye greedy hog,

’cos I ain’t had none lately.

“Our cap’n was a rare ole cove,

’is name was Dandy Kipper.

He went to sea, so he told me,

in a leaky bedroom slipper!

“Sing rum-toodle-oo, rum-toodle-’ey,

this drink is awful stuff,

me stummick’s off, an’ I can’t scoff,

this bowl o’ skilly’n’duff!

“The wind came fast an’ broke the mast,

an’ the crew for no good reason,

dived straight into a barrel o’ grog,

an’ stayed there ’til next season!”

Night had fallen over the vast seas. The water was relatively calm, though a faint west breeze was drifting Greenshroud idly in toward the shore. Both grog barrels had been liberally punished by the vermin crew, most of whom were slumped around the deck. The tillerbeast was snoring, draped over the timber arm. He never stirred as the ship nosed lightly in, to bump softly into the shallows.

Only one crew member was wakened by the gentle collision of vessel and firm ground—the sharp-eyed young ferret lookout. It was his first encounter with the heady grog, so he had fallen asleep in the rigging. Fortunately he was low down and not up at the masthead. The light landing dislodged him from his perch. He fell into the shallows, waking instantly on contact with cold salt water. Shaking with shock, he clambered back aboard, his mind racing. Who would get the blame for allowing the vessel to beach itself? Would he be blamed?

Almost all the crew were in a drunken sleep. The ferret took a swift look overboard; it was low tide. How long would it take for Greenshroud to float off on the turn? Off to his right, he saw something. It was a small dwindling fire above the tideline. The lookout saw it as a chance to concoct a feasible excuse should the ship not float off before Razzid Wearat wakened himself. He slipped back ashore and crept stealthily toward the fire.

The young ferret had exceptional eyesight. Long before he reached the fire, he could see what was around it. A tumbledown lean-to, fashioned from an old coracle, with a big, fat, old bewhiskered otter sitting outside. The otter, wrapped in a sailcloth cloak, had his head bowed. He was obviously fast asleep in front of the glowing embers.

As the ferret hurried back to the ship, he saw a furtive figure jump overboard and scurry off eastward. Telling himself it was no business of his, he climbed aboard and gently wakened the searat who was slumped across the tiller. They held a swift whispered conversation, then the searat went off and roused Mowlag.

“I saw a firelight on the shore, mate, so I took the ship in to get a sight of it. The lookout saw there was an otter asleep by it. Big ole beast, ’e was. Wot d’ye think we should do?”

Mowlag tottered upright, still staggering from the grog he had downed. Patting the searat’s back, he nodded at the lookout. “A waterdog, eh? Ye did well. I’ll go an’ tell the cap’n. There’s nobeast ’e hates more’n those waterdogs. Yew stay put. Keep an eye on the waterdog in case’e moves.”

Nothing could have pleased the Wearat more than the opportunity to revenge himself on his enemy. He stole silently from the prow of Greenshroud, carrying his trident. Mowlag, Jiboree, the lookout and the steersrat flanked him.

“Wot d’ye think the cap’n will do to that beast?” the young ferret lookout whispered to Jiboree.

The weasel grinned wickedly in anticipation. “Yew just watch. Cap’n Razzid don’t like waterdogs. I wager ’e slays’im good’n’slow, bit by bit!”

Jum Curdy’s uncle Wullow snuffled a little. His head drooped further onto his chest, then he carried on snoring, stirring his whiskers with each breath. The coracle lean-to was sheltering his back, the fire embers were warming his front, and the tatty sailcloth cloak was keeping vagrant breezes at bay. A bundle of dead twigs and dried reed landed on the little fire, causing it to flare up. A spark stung Wullow’s nosetip. He woke to find himself facing a strange, brutal-featured beast and four vermin corsairs. The flickering firelight reflected the evil glitter in the Wearat’s one good eye.

“We wouldn’t want yore fire goin’ out on ye, friend. We’ll make things nice an’ warm for ye—won’t we, mates?”

The other four vermin sniggered nastily. Wullow gave a deep sigh of despair as they closed in on him.