The Rogue Crew (43 page)

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!”

Uggo could not resist giggling. “There was in the one I ate!”

Pinny patted his head fondly. “Wiltud by name an' Wiltud by nature. I 'ope ye wolfed every crumb of it. Here, Drogbuk, try this on for size.”

She tossed the finished garment to the ancient hog, who vanished into the bushes with it. A moment later, he strutted out wearing what was in effect a one-piece smock.

“Well, wot d'ye think? Kin I join yore Long Patrol as a rabbet?”

Sergeant Miggory donated an old sword belt. “H'I should say not, sah. Try this belt round yore waist. It'll make ye look h'a liddle better'n a sack o' firewood.”

Kite Slayer nodded in mock admiration. “Oh, ain't you the smart beast!”

Drogbuk topped up his stew bowl. “I ain't talkin' to you ever agin. Yore the savage who scrubbed all me pore spines off!”

Pinny put aside her sewing kit. “Pore ole Redwall Abbey, sez I. They're about to have three Wiltuds to visit.”

Skor's battleaxe thudded into the ground near to her. “There'll be no vittle thieves whilst we're at the Abbey. Just let me hear o' one crust goin' missin', an' the next pot o' woodland stew'll have you in it as dumplin's!”

Pinny glared fiercely at the sea otter Chieftain. “Yew wouldn't!”

Kite Slayer tapped the hogwife's paw. “Oh, yes, he would, marm—ye can take it from me!”

Lieutenant Scutram wiped his bowl clean, saluting Pinny Wiltud. “Excellent supper, marm, thankee kindly. Right, chaps, finish messin' an' turn in. Big day tomorrow, wot. We're goin' to the jolly old Abbey o' Redwall!”

With its sails furled,
Greenshroud
looked like a bird of ill omen resting on the path north of the Abbey. It was a clear night, with a silver white moon presiding over a starscattered sky. Razzid Wearat stood alone on the afterdeck, leaning on the tiller, staring at Redwall. Still burning bright on the northwest walltop corner, the bonfire silhouetted creatures guarding the battlements.

Razzid gritted his fangs. So near, yet so far from his dream of conquest. Now, having seen the magnificent Abbey, he was consumed with the desire to make it his own. However, mere yearning would accomplish nothing. It was planning and swift action which would win the day for him, and Razzid's fertile brain had provided the solution. He knew what he must do. Treachery by Mowlag and Jiboree could wait until later. Once he was inside, ruling Redwall, he would mete out punishments to the pair, which would make his name feared amongst searats and corsairs.

A sound disturbed his train of thought. He turned and saw a scrawny young weasel climbing over the stern gallery. Immediately the Wearat's trident was a whisker away from the intruder's face. The weasel held out his paws to show he was unarmed.

“Cap'n, I'm Twangee. Me uncle Badtooth's the cook—told yer about me, didn't 'e?”

Razzid lowered the trident. “Aye, he did. Well, wot's to report? Have ye been watchin' Mowlag an' Jiboree?”

Twangee winked slyly. “I kep' me eyes on 'em, Cap'n, an' I been a-lissenin', too. Yore safe fer now. They don't plan on makin' no moves 'til we take the Abbey. They've carried out yore orders, they chopped down six trees, all pines, good'n'straight. Lissen, I can 'ear' em comin' along the path now. I'll git outta the way, lest they sees me talkin' to yer, Cap'n.”

Razzid nodded approvingly. “Aye, you do that, Twangee. Tell yore uncle t'give ye the best o' grog'n'vittles. Ye did well tonight.”

The Wearat watched the young weasel scuttle off, then leaned over the stern rail.

Mowlag was heading the party, who were rolling the six pine trunks along with them. “Here y'are, Cap'n, six o' the best from the woodlands.”

Razzid's keen eye scanned the other crewbeasts, noting that Jiboree was bringing up the rear.

“Move those trunks so they're bridgin' that ditch alongside this path, then lash 'em together so they won't roll apart. Look sharp—I don't want t'be here after dawn.”

Once the trunks had been bound in place to form a bridge over the ditch, Razzid gave orders for the entire crew to haul his ship over onto the flatlands beyond. The sails were set, and soon, with the gentle night breeze,
Greenshroud
trundled slowly off westward. The pine-trunk bridge had been dismantled; it went with the vessel, three logs bound to either side of the hull. The Wearat assembled his crew amidships and faced them.

“Good work, mates, now ye can go to the galley. There's skilly'n'duff, aye, an' enough grog to keep ye happy!”

The crew were about to move off when a searat called out, “But I thought we was goin' to conquer that Abbey place, Cap'n.”

Razzid smiled. “So we are, shipmate, so we are. But we does it accordin' to my plan. Go an' get yore supper. I'll come t'the galley an' tell ye how 'tis t'be done.”

He beckoned Shekra to his side. The vixen came warily, nursing a heavily bandaged paw. “Lord?”

Razzid kept his voice low. “When I go t'the galley, I want ye behind me, watchin' my back. Arm yoreself with a good dagger. Can I trust ye, fox?”

She answered earnestly. “Aye, Lord, I swear ye can trust me.”

The Wearat left it some time before he went to speak with the crew. Meanwhile, they were crowded into the galley and the adjoining messdeck. On his captain's orders, Badtooth had done them proud. There was as much grog flowing as anybeast could want. The mood was quite jovial; Badtooth even requested a song when a corsair stoat dug out his melodeon. “Cummon, Jibbo, give us an ole ditty!”

Jiboree the bosun went straight into a popular ditty.

Jiboree faltered on the final line of the song as Razzid entered the galley. The melodeon squawked to a finish, and an awkward silence fell over the crew.

Razzid gave his bad eye a long, slow wipe, his good one darting back and forth. “Wot sort o' song d'ye call that? Mutiny aboard a ship, endin' up with the crew roastin' the cap'n—makes ye think, don't it, mates, eh?”

Jiboree lowered his eyes, murmuring, “'Twas only a joke song, Cap'n, a bit o' fun.” His footpaws trembled as the Wearat edged closer to him.

Razzid's voice took on a lighter tone. “Not a very good line, though, is it? ‘We're goin' to roast the cap'n.' You ain't a cap'n, are ye?”

The weasel shook his head, relaxing slightly. “No, Cap'n, I'm a bosun.”

Razzid kept advancing, forcing the bosun to step backward until he was almost against the galley stove, with the big cauldron of skilly'n'duff bubbling on it. Razzid smiled.

“Let me give ye a better line. How about ‘we're goin' to boil the bosun'? That sounds better, don't it?”

Jiboree nodded several times. “Aye, it does, Cap'n!”

Some of the cauldron contents bubbled over, landing on the weasel's tail. He yelped, but Razzid did not move away to release him from his position. The Wearat winked broadly at Mowlag the mate, remarking almost casually, “Like Jiboree said, just a bit o' fun, eh? A bosun couldn't roast a cap'n, but a cap'n could boil a bosun, or even a mate, ain't that right?”

Mowlag tugged his ear in salute, “Aye, right, Cap'n!”

Razzid seemed to lose interest in the confrontation with the pair. He moved to one side, freeing Jiboree. Turning, he addressed the crew. “Hearken now—this is the plan. We're movin' westward across these flatlands until we're out o' sight. I ain't standin' by, near to that Redwall place, to watch me ship catch flame from their big fire. Right, mates, 'ere's wot we do. Let 'em think we've run away to try our luck somewhere else. They'll get fed up o' burnin' all the wood an' let the fires die away. So, we waits out yonder, for a night, mebbe even two or three nights. But when the winds blows strong at our stern an' 'tis dark, then the
Greenshroud
strikes! Gatherin' speed, with all sails set, we flies o'er the flatlands like an arrow out of a bow, straight for the big front Abbey gates. Those woodlanders'll be tucked up an' snorin'. They won't know wot's hit 'em. We'll knock those gates flat with a single blow an' be inside afore they're awake. So, ain't that a good plan, eh?”

Young Twangee piped up. “But we gotta get back over that ditch, Cap'n. How'll we manage that, without stoppin' to build the pine trunks across it?”

Razzid chuckled. “Yore a smart young un, but ye ain't as clever as Razzid Wearat. I've already thought o' that. We're carryin' the logs with us, so afore we sets off, we lashes 'em back into position an' stands 'em on the bows. At the right moment, we lets 'em flat, right across the ditch without losin' speed. Then it's over the ditch an' bang!
Greenshroud
'll knock only once on those doors, an' they'll fall flat.”

He turned to Shekra. “An' ye know wot happens then?” Without waiting for a reply, he raised his voice into a harsh shout, waving the trident on high. “Then we conquers Redwall Abbey, shipmates! Slaves to wait on us, loot to share, soft berths an' the best o' vittles. Now, 'ow does that sound to ye?”

A roar went up from the assembled corsairs and searats. “Razzid! Razzid! Razzid Wearaaaaaaat!”

 

Captain Rake had been sleeping peacefully on the streambank, wrapped in his cloak but with his two claymores lying close to paw. It was not any woodland sound that wakened him, but a scent. A tantalising aroma of hot mint tea and fresh-baked coltsfoot and rosehip scones. It was still dark as he made his way to the glowing embers of the previous night's campfire. Pinny Wiltud was already awake, readying breakfast.

Rake made an elegant leg. “Guid mornin' tae ye, marm. Up an' aboot early, eh!”

Busy with her work, the hogwife hardly gave him a glance. “I was wonderin' when somebeast would sniff my breakfast. Sit ye down, Cap'n. You can be first served.”

She ladled out a beaker of the tea from her cauldron and placed four scones on a dockleaf.

“Careful now, the tea an' scones are still hot.”

Rake sampled a nibble of scone and a sip of tea. He nodded admiringly at Pinny. “Marm, you're a real treasure! Ah havenae tasted scones like these since mah auld granny used tae bake 'em. Rosehip an' coltsfoot, right? Wi' just a wee touch o' dandelion bud. Och, a real taste o' mah young seasons!”