The Rogue Crew (24 page)

The harrier held up a taloned foot. “Enough! Just follow me. I'll put ye off at the start of the woodlands. Ye can rest safely there. By the way, just how many vermin are there?”

The hairy vole, Fiddy, spread his paws wide. “Lots'n'lots o' the scum. Far too many for you to scoff.”

Sircolo stared down his beak at Fiddy, then sniffed. “Don't fret, little furbag. I'll give it a good try!”

Back at
Greenshroud,
Razzid supervised the rescue of his vessel from the marsh. The tree, which had been found, was an old grey alder, which had long since seen its best seasons. Razzid gave the trunk a whack with his trident; it emitted a hollow sound.

Shekra kept well out of his reach. “There's not much else around here, Mighty One. It's the best of a poor lot.”

The Wearat rudely interrupted her. “'Twill have to do. You lot, smear that grease around the trunk. Jiboree, set that tackle up. Come on, the longer ye hang about, the deeper she'll drop. Shake a paw!”

Between them, Jiboree and Mowlag reeved several stout ropes around the trunk, which was thickly greased. The ropes were attached at one end to the ship's stern. The other ends were tied to long oars, six of them. Four crewbeasts were yoked to each oar. The rest of the vermin, armed with pikes and pieces of wood, stood almost waist deep in the marsh, ready to push at the hull as the haulers pulled on the ropes.

Razzid paced up and down. Checking that all was ready, he roared, “Right, now. When I gives the orders, ye heave an' haul! Ahoy, you, wot are ye jumpin' about for?”

The weasel corsair in question stopped jumping but continued slapping at his neck and back. “I'm bein' bitten, Cap'n, by gnats, I think. Yowch!”

Razzid wielded his trident. “Pay attention to my orders, or ye'll get bitten by this. Now . . . heave . . . haul!” The entire crew went at it, straining and shoving. The hauling ropes moved slightly around the alder trunk, but the vermin in the swamp slipped, slid and fell as they tried to get a purchase with their implements.
Greenshroud
moved out of the marsh a fraction, then settled back to her former position.

Razzid stabbed his trident angrily into the ground. Corded sinews stood out on his neck as he bellowed at the unhappy vermin. “Idiots! Oafs! The ship was movin' an' ye stopped! Why? Has the stink gone to yore brains? Are ye so stupid that ye can't obey my orders? Mowlag! Shekra! Jiboree! Get heavin' on those oars with me. We'll show these wooden'eads how to do it!”

Pushing his way into position on an oarshaft, Razzid waited until Shekra, Mowlag and Jiboree joined crewbeasts on the other shafts. He glared at them all, snarling harshly, “If'n the ship don't start movin', here's wot I'll do. I'll choose one who ain't pullin' his weight, an' I'll sink 'im in that swamp, with rocks tied round 'is neck. Then if'n she still ain't movin', I'll pick another idle beast an' do it agin! Are ye ready? Right . . . heave!”

The knowledge that Razzid would carry out his threat was enough. Searats and corsairs hauled with an energy fuelled by fear.
Greenshroud
emerged to the accompaniment of the sucking gurgle of marsh slime.

No sooner were the stern wheels showing than an enterprising weasel, who had been pushing from the after end, waded from the mud. Grabbing a pike, he leapt in behind a wheel, yelling, “Leave 'er stern end, mates. Git pikes'n'paddles under 'er wheels—we'll lever 'er out!”

Others joined him, calling out in triumph, “Haharr, 'ere she comes, mateys. Keep 'er goin'!”

With the combined hauling and leverage,
Greenshroud
rolled out, back onto solid ground.

Razzid left off hauling to bellow orders. “Don't stop for anythin'. Keep 'er movin'! Pull! Shove! Pull! Shove! Don't stop fer nothin'!”

Mowlag protested, “But Cap'n, she'll hit the tree!”

Razzid bawled frantically, “Never mind the tree, it's an old un. It won't stand in the way of my big ship!”

He was right. The old grey alder snapped at its base as the prow struck it head-on.
Greenshroud
rolled over the stump as the trunk fell to one side.

The weasel who had come up with the idea of levering the wheels slid in the mud, falling flat. As the for'ard wheels rolled over him, snapping his spine, he screamed, wailing to the Wearat, “Aaaargh! Cap'n, 'elp me!”

Razzid, however, had problems of his own, which beset both himself and the crew. A colony of mosquitoes, formerly housed in the fork of the tree, had been dislodged. They fell upon the vermin in an angry horde.
Greenshroud
rolled on alone, ropes, mud, marshweed and paddles trailing alongside.

Cavorting and leaping about like madbeasts, the vermin crew waved their limbs about wildly, trying to fend off the vengeful insects as they wailed aloud.

“Yaaah, I'm bein' et alive!”

“Gerremoff, I 'ates skeeters!”

“Yirkk! One's gone down me ear!”

“Owchyowch! There's millions o' the liddle 'orrors!”

Spitting out a mosquito and pawing one from his bad eye, Razzid picked up his trident and took off after the runaway vessel. “Come on, move yoreselves! All paws aboard—'tis the only way we'll git away from these things!”

Hastily they followed their captain's command. It resembled some sort of crazy travelling dance. Still beating at themselves, the crew hopskipped alongside the moving vessel. Clumsily seizing the trailing ropes, they stumbled aboard.

A grizzled searat pointed back to the marsh, addressing Razzid. “Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n, but wot about Buppler?”

The Wearat smeared a mosquito underpaw. “Buppler? Who's 'e?”

The searat sniffed. “Buppler's me matey, Cap'n. 'E was the one who fell under the wheels. Must've been bad injured, pore Buppler—'e was still alive an' callin' for 'elp when you ordered us outta there.”

Razzid cast a jaundiced eye over the searat. “Anybeast stupid enough t'get hisself run over like that deserves wot'e gets. Don't bother me, I got a ship to run. If'n yore mate's'urt bad, then he'll die, an' that's all there is to it.”

Jiboree slapped an insect flat upon his cheek. “Wot's yer orders, Cap'n?”

Razzid tested the breeze on a damp claw. “Make all sail. Let's get back t'sea. We needs to careen the muck off'n this ship o' mine an' clean it up. Good salt water'll rid us of any mosquitoes still with us. Now, I needs two good trackers t'do me a service.”

Jiboree volunteered a pair. Ricker, a shifty-eyed searat, and Voogal, a lanky ferret, did not seem overpleased to be selected, but they could not refuse Razzid's wishes.

He explained what he wanted. “Those beasts we were after, I want ye to trail 'em. Wot I needs is the two liddle'ogs, Posy an' Uggo. Catch 'em an' bring 'em back t'me if'n ye can. Take a couple o' lanterns an' tell the cook t'give ye enough vittles an' grog to last ye. We'll be somewheres south along the coast, prob'ly lyin' at anchor 'til she's shipshape agin. Any questions?”

Ricker saluted. “Wot about the other lot, those 'airy mouses an' some squirrels? D'ye want them, Cap'n?”

Razzid waved his trident dismissively. “Slay 'em, roast'em, do wot ye want, just fetch me the 'ogs.”

It sounded like a task very suitable to the pair. They saluted eagerly. “Aye aye, Cap'n. Leave it to us!”

When they had departed, Razzid called Shekra to him. “The 'og called Uggo knows where Redwall is, I'm sure of it. If'n 'e won't talk I'll make his liddle friend weep a few tears—that'll loosen 'is tongue. I ain't givin' up on findin' that place, an' you mark my words, vixen, it better be as good as ye say 'tis. I don't like my Seer disappointin' me. Unnerstood?”

Shekra nodded vigorously. “Trust me, Mighty One, 'twill be all ye desire an' more. The omens never lie!”

It had turned midnight when Sircolo led them out of the marsh. A short stretch of heathland stood between the Fortunate Freepaws and the woodland fringe. The marsh harrier seemed anxious to be off.

“Yonder's the trees, that way is south, t'other way north. So then, old silvertail, have ye got yore bearin's now? I don't want to eat any of ye, but I've got a hunger, so I must hunt for meat.”

Rekaby pointed back to the marsh. “Then don't let me stop ye, y'ole savage. There's vermin aplenty back there. I bid ye good night an' good huntin'!”

As Sircolo swooped off, he called to Rekaby, “Find the stream. There's Guosim camped there.”

Uggo watched the big bird vanish into the night. “Wot a good friend—an' helpful, too, eh!”

Swiffo chuckled. “Aye, an' 'twas a good thing we were with ye when he appeared. If'n he'd caught ye both alone . . .”

Posy shuddered. “Don't even mention it. Sircolo looks capable of anything. Let's find the stream and those shrews. I've heard them called Guosim before. Funny name, ain't it?”

Swiffo replied, “Nothin' funny about it. Guosim—the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. First letter of each word. They live in logboats on streams an' rivers.”

Uggo aired his knowledge proudly. “Oh, I knew that. They visit Redwall Abbey sometimes. Their leader's called Log a Log.”

The shrews were not difficult to find. After a short walk amidst the trees, they saw the glow of fires and heard a deep, gruff voice singing to the beat of two drums, a flute and a fiddle.

The source of the sound was a dancing, singing shrew. In the light of the campfires on a streambank where six logboats were moored, a quartet of musicians was playing, whilst an entire tribe of Guosim shrews were clapping and paw tapping. A handsome, athletic shrew was singing and dancing with breathtaking skill.

This was Dandy Clogs, the tribe leader; he was a sight to behold. From beneath a blue cap, decked with green lapwing feathers, he beamed a constantly twinkling smile through neatly waxed and curled moustachios. He wore a scarlet tunic and kilt belted with a broad brass buckle, which glinted in the firelight. However, it was his clogs which really caught the eye. Fashioned from highly polished golden bark, they were set with patterns of shiny steel sprig nails.

On spotting the visitors to his camp, he executed a dizzying whirl, ending in a display of sparks as he ground to a halt on a rocky slab. Seizing Rekaby's paw, he pumped it vigorously.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome, on a fine spring night! Are ye friend or foe or just plain slow? Don't answer that question. Ye ain't too slow, an' ye must be friend, 'cos if ye were foe, we'd have slain ye long ago!”

The old squirrel managed to free his paw, interrupting. “I beg yore pardon, but could I get a word in here edgeways?”

The garrulous shrew waved them to seats by one of the fires. “Of course you can, O weary but wise one. Here, bring vittles an' drink for our guests. And now, good sir, kindly put in yore word—edgeways, I think you said!”

Rekaby was looking tired after the trek through the marshes, so Posy replied for him. “Sir . . .”

The shrew pointed at himself. “I'm not sir, O maiden fair. I'm Log a Log Dandy Clogs. Pray speak on, pretty one!”

Posy could not help but smile at his courtly poetic manner. She matched him with a pretty curtsy before continuing. “My friend Uggo and I escaped from a vermin ship. These good creatures helped us to escape; Sircolo guided us through the marsh and directed us to you.”

Rekaby added, “We are of the Fortunate Freepaws tribe.”

The Log a Log laughed. “Oh, that lot. We've seen you from time to time. Aren't you the bunch who don't believe in fightin' an' don't bear arms?”

Swiffo defended his tribe stoutly. “Aye, that's us, an' how we choose t'live is our own business. Besides, I don't see you carryin' any weapons.”

A nearby shrew murmured in the young otter's ear, “Our Log a Log don't need swords or such. He could slay ye with a single kick o' those Dandy Clogs, believe me.”

The shrew Chieftain clicked his deadly clogs together sharply. “Enough talk o' slayin'. Try some of our shrewbeer an' fried fruit flapjacks. Yore safe here with us. Oh, by the way, I don't go in for longfalutin' titles, so just call me Dandy, an' that'll be fine an' handy!”