Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

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.

6

Trug Bawdsley unbuttoned his green uniform tunic as the column marched along a dunetop. “Funny how a chap can get so jolly hot just marchin’, ain’t it, Wilbee?”

Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory, who was flanking the column, flicked Trug’s ear sharply. “Wot’s h’all this, then, laddie buck? H’out on a picnic ramble, are we? Ho, ’ow nice!”

Trug grinned. “Actually, I was just sayin’ how bloomin’ hot it gets when one’s out marchin’—”

The sergeant roared in fine parade-ground manner at the young hare. “Well, h’actually you’ll find yoreself h’on a fizzer if’n ye don’t git that tunic buttoned up proper, young Bawdsley. Now, gerrit fastened, ye lop-tailed, lollop-eared, doodle-eyed h’excuse for a ranker!”

Marching alongside Trug, Lancejack Sage giggled.

Miggory fixed her with a beady eye. “Nah then, missy, would ye like me t’give ye somethin’ to giggle about, eh?”

The pretty young haremaid cast a doe-eyed peep at the sergeant, but she was swiftly corrected for it.

“Git yore eyes front, Sage. I h’aint some wool-’eaded cadet to flicker yore h’eyelashes at!”

Captain Rake Nightfur, striding with Buff Redspore, nodded with satisfaction. “Et’ll do those young uns guid tae have Sergeant Miggory keepin’ ’em up tae scratch, Ah’m thinken.”

The tracker smiled. “Aye, ’twill. I remember old Nubbs from my cadet seasons, though his bark’s worse’n his bite.”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs, a small, trim veteran hare, checked the time by glancing up at the sun. He spoke out the side of his mouth to Lieutenant Scutram. “Midday, sah. Lunchtime, wot?”

Scutram nodded, calling from the rear, “Sarn’t, halt ’em for refreshments, if y’d be so kind!”

Miggory always felt slightly put out by the lieutenant’s well-mannered requests. He liked orders to be orders, so he bellowed resoundingly, “H’on my command the column will ’alt! Wait for it, Wilbee. Wait for it. Column . . . haaaaalt!”

The Long Patrollers kicked up a fine cloud of sand as they halted abruptly, awaiting further orders, which the colour sergeant issued aloud.

“H’attensun! Stan’ easy. Salute smartly t’the right an’ fall out! Lunch detail, attend to vittles!”

It was campaign rations, simple but nourishing. Hardtack scones, cold mint tea, the previous autumn’s apples and a small wedge of cheese apiece. Many of the younger hares, who were unused to long marches, rubbed their footpaws tenderly.