Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

He tried a wan smile. “Aye, Miss Posybud. Hurts like fury!”

Taking some dried moss from her apron pocket, she soaked it with water. “Lean your head forward, and I’ll bathe it whilst you drink. By the way, you can call me Posy.”

The water was cold and clear; it tasted good. Uggo could feel Posy pressing the wet moss firmly on his head. He relaxed, sighing as she murmured soothingly, “It’s quite a bump you have there, but don’t worry. It’ll go down after a while. How does that feel now?”

Uggo refilled the shell from the pail.

“Ooh, much better, thank ye. I think the headache’s beginning to go. How long have you been with Snaggs?”

She was about to reply when two more young rats and a hulking young ferret came strolling into the tunnel.

Snaggs questioned them. “Anythin’ ’appenin’ out there?”

The ferret sprawled on the floor, chewing on some wild radish he had dug up from somewhere. “Nah, nothin’ much. Saw one o’ those streamdogs goin’ along the riverbank.”

One of the young rats contradicted him. “Dat wasn’t no streamdog—’twas a wavedog.”

The ferret waved a wooden club at him. “Who asked yew, limpetbrain? It was a streamdog. I knows me streamdogs from me wavedogs. Unless ya wants ter step outside an’ argue about it?”

The ferret twirled his club in the air skilfully.

Snaggs caught it, then passed it back. “No need fer dat sorta talk, Wigga me darlin’. Blawd didn’t mean nothin’. So, why didn’t ya catcher the streamdog, eh?”

The ferret, Wigga, scoffed. “Yew never seen the size of ’im. Huh, dat was one big beast, an’ ’e was carryin’ a lance. Why don’t yew track ’im down an’ catcher ’im yerself, Snaggs me darlin’?”

The fox shook his head at the burly young vermin. “Nah. I’m too old fer that kinda thing. That’n is more suited ter me. Guess wot ’is name is. Uggo! Heehee—wot sorta name’s dat fer an ’edgepig? Uggo!”

Blawd, one of the two young rats, took out a thin-bladed knife and tested its edge by licking it. He stared pointedly at Uggo. “Worra ya gonna do wid ’im, Snaggs, gut ’im an’ kill ’im? Dat’s wot I’d do, aye—roast ’im fer supper.”

Snaggs could move quickly for a fox of his long seasons. He tripped Blawd, kicked the knife away and pinned him down with his staff. “Ho, ya would, would ya? Well, yew lissen t’me, slime nose. I’m the chief round ’ere, an’ I sez wot we do. So if’n ya wants ter eat a roasted ’edgepig, go an’ git one o’ yer own. I catchered ’im while ’e was fishin’, so ’e could be useful.” Snaggs turned to Uggo. “Are ya any good at fishin, ’og?”

The young hedgehog was frightened. He nodded several times. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m a good fisher, fished all my life, I have!”

Another two young vermin had wandered in, a stoat and a weasel. Snaggs beckoned Posybud. “Go an’ see wot’s left o’ dat soup an’ serve it out.”

It was a thin broth of seaweed, a few herbs and some cockles and whelks, cooked in a cauldron on a fire outside the tunnel. The hogmaid dished it out to the vermin. There was about half a bowlful over, which she shared with Uggo. Snaggs sucked his broth noisily, chewing the shellfish. Wiping a paw over his mouth, he addressed Uggo.

“Ain’t a bad liddle cook, is she? From now on yew can be fisher. There’s a whole sea fulla fish out der. So, yew catch the fishes, an’ she cooks ’em. If’n yew doesn’t catch no fishes, then we’ll try Blawd’s idea, we’ll slay ya an’ roast ya . . . both!”

Snaggs and his gang settled down then for their nap. Posy continued treating Uggo’s headache with the wet moss, talking quietly with him. “Don’t worry, they’re always threatening evil things, but none of it comes to anything, usually. Is it true—are you a good fisherbeast?”

Uggo shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always done my fishing in Redwall Abbey’s pond. I suppose the fox wants me to fish in the sea, but I’ve never done that before. You’re a good cook, Posy. I know because I thought your broth was delicious.”

The pretty hogmaid smiled at the compliment. “Oh, it ain’t that good, though I like to cook, an’ if I’m given the right ingredients, I could suprise you.”

Uggo dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’ll be plenty o’ time to surprise me after we’ve escaped this fox an’ his bullies.”

Posy pressed down hard on his headbump with the wet moss. “Hush! Don’t even think about it, Uggo. Snaggs and his vermin are wicked beasts. They’d enjoy recapturing us an’ roastin’ us for supper. I know, ’cos they’ve done it before. I’ve heard them jokin’ about it, an’ I’ve seen the bones scattered in the sand. Forget escape, friend. It’s a sure way to get us slain.”

The young hedgehog straightened his head, flexing his neck back and forth. “By the seasons, Posy, y’must have healin’ paws. I feel much better, an’ the headache’s gone. Listen, if’n we stay here, they’ll kill us both sooner or later. We’ve got to escape, but we need a plan. I’m not goin’ to let’em track us down an’ catch us again. Don’t say any more for now, Posy. I need to think.”

The pretty hogmaid saw the determination in his eyes. She nodded. “Right, we’ll both do some thinking and keep our eyes an’ ears alert for any chances.”

Uggo pretended he was dozing, but he watched the activities within the tunnel through half-closed eyes. Several more young vermin returned to Snaggs’s lair, mainly rats, but one or two stoats and ferrets. By the light filtering in from outside, Uggo guessed it was early evening.

Snaggs woke and stumped about with his staff, questioning the gang. “Any of ya see’d the big streamdog wot Wigga’n’Blawd saw this mornin’?”

There had been no further sightings of Jum Gurdy. The fox nudged a young stoat, who was armed with a long sling. “Worrabout yew, Jonder? Catch anythin’?”

The stoat made a throwing gesture with his sling. “Aye, Snaggs, I kil’t a big seagill wid one stone. Caught ’im swoopin’ down an’ slung me best pebble—smacko! Gorrim right in the eye. I left it outside.”

Snaggs waved the staff at Uggo and Posy. “Yew two, gerrout there an’ git the seagill in the pot. Pluck all its fedders off first, though. Jonder, Vilty, go an’ keep an eye on ’em. Make sure they don’t get itchy paws an’ try ta run.”

Yirji, the rat Uggo had butted, pulled out his knife. “I’ll go, Chief. If’n dat ’edgepig tries ta run, I’ll cut ’is paws off!”

Snaggs tripped Yirji as he rose, pinning him down with the staff. “Yew’ll stay where ye are. If’n there’s any paw cuttin’ round ’ere, I’m the one wot’ll be doin it. Startin’ wid yew!”

Vilty was a young ratmaid. She untied Uggo’s paws, roping him by his neck to the line around Posy. Having been marched outside, they were confronted by the body of a black-headed gull lying by the fire next to the cauldron.

Jonder lifted its limp head. “See? Right in the eye—blatt!”

Vilty saw the look of sadness on Posy’s face. She matched it with a similar expression, mockingly. “Ah, dearie me, a pore dead bird, ain’t dat a shame!” She flicked a knotted piece of rope at the hogmaid, her tone hardening. “Move yaself, snoutpig. Get dem feathers pulled off it!”

The distasteful task was difficult. Starting on a wing, they both found the feathers hard to pull out.

Jonder stood twirling his sling, watching them impatiently. “Didn’t ya never pluck fedders off a bird afore? The way youse are shapin’, it’ll be winter season by the time yer finished. Gerrout the way!”

He kicked them both away from the dead gull.

“Vilty, move dat cauldron off the fire. This is the best way ta git the job done!”