The Rogue Crew

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 age, 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 gawpin’ 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!

“So tramp tramp tramp, onward to camp,

we’ll both find somewheres t’stay,

o’er woodland an’ hill keep marchin’ until,

’tis the end of a long, dusty day . . . hey hey,

the end of a long, dusty day!”

Although it was a lively tune, Dandy had a dreadful voice. He sang off-key in a croaky tone.

Swiffo smiled politely. “Well, that was a lively ole song, an’ no mistake!”

One of the Guosim, Rawkin, murmured out the side of his mouth, so that Dandy would not hear. “Aye, there was nothin’ wrong with the song, mate—’twas the singer. Our Log a Log’s a champion dancer, an’ a great leader, but when he opens his mouth t’sing, it sounds like a score o’ frogs bein’ pelted with rocks!”

His companion, Banktail, agreed fervently. “I was goin’ to say that meself, but I didn’t want to ’urt the feelin’s of any nearby frogs, mate!”

It was twilight when they reached the navigable section of the stream. Dandy relented, allowing them to cook a meal on the bankside.

“Get a fire goin’ there, you cooks. See if’n ye can come up with some good vittles. We’ll eat here, then take the stream into the River Moss an’ lay up there for the night. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to the ford by dawn.”

Even Uggo, who had spent his life eating Redwall fare, had to admit that Guosim cooks could serve up marvellous food. Hungry after the long day’s labours, they dined on mushroom and fennel soup and flatbreads baked with cheese and flavoured with wild parsley, followed by a chestnut and acorn roll stuffed with dried plums and apple. There was pennycloud cordial to drink, or some fine pale cider.

Dobble sighed, patting his stomach. “Aaaah, that’s the stuff t’feed the tribe!”

One of Dandy’s clogs nudged him lightly.

“Now, don’t ye think of takin’ no after-vittle naps. Douse those fires, mates. All aboard the boats, quick as y’like. I wants t’be on the Moss afore midnight!” As Log a Log, Dandy Clogs brooked no arguments. Shortly thereafter, the logboats were on their way along the stream as twilight turned to dusk.

Posy dozed in the stern of the back boat, but she was aware of the little flotilla entering the main river. The boats eddied in the swirl of changing currents and gurgling waters. Downstream changed to upriver. The paddlers dug deep, though the river was not running at any great speed. They had been travelling awhile when Dandy called out orders.

“String ’em together across the river. Rawkin, Swiffo, moor the lead an’ rear craft to those elms. Finished with paddles, mates. Make the most of yore shut-eye—there’s another hard day t’come in the morn!”

Roped together and secured to an elm trunk on either bank, the logboats bobbed gently on the darkened river. Within moments, all that could be heard above the waterflow ripple was the snuffling and snoring of exhausted creatures. Everybeast was so wearied that they gave no thought to guards or sentries. After all, what need of keeping watch in mid-river? They slept deeply, every last creature.

Greenshroud came out of the night like a giant predator. The river was wide enough for Razzid to order full sail; she caught the wind from the sea that she had enjoyed earlier that day. The current was gentle. Mowlag was taking a turn around the deck when he discerned the glimmer of a single lantern on the water. As the big vessel closed in over the darkened river, it became clear that several small boats were moored, stem to stern, across the water. It was but the work of a moment for Mowlag to rouse his captain and the vermin crew.

The Wearat felt a shudder of evil joy run through him. This was too good an opportunity to miss, defenceless sleeping creatures with no knowledge of what was about to happen.

Greenshroud struck the rope at its centre, the force ripping both ends from the elm trunks. This left the Guosim logboats trailing both sides of the big ship, being towed upriver. Bleary-eyed shrews, still half asleep, sat up in bewilderment as Razzid Wearat gave his signal for the slaughter to begin.