Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

“Five six seven eight, on the dot an’ don’t be late!

Stap me flippin’ vitals, the barracks did look bright,

all spiffed up with lanterns, an’ glitt’rin’ candlelight.

Two buffet tables groanin’ ’neath scads o’ lovely stuff,

pudden’n’pie’n’trifle, an’ pots o’ skilly’n’duff.

“One two three four, off we jigged across the floor!

The band was tootlin’ gaily, when Tubby gave a wail,

he’d backed into a candle, which set fire to his tail,

he bumped into the colonel, who was wolfin’ down his

grub,

they both went staggerin’ headlong, into the port wine

tub.

“Five six seven eight, Wiggy cried, ‘Look out, mate!’

The cook was servin’ duff, which went flyin’ off his

spoon,

it splattered an old fiddler, scrapin’ out a tune,

his bow shot like an arrow, an’ hit the major’s niece,

she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, so she gave him a

piece.

“Nine ten eleven, sah, give ’em blood an’ vinegah!

Hurrah for barracks bunfight, I leapt into the fray,

I meant to hit the fiddler, but his pal got in the way,

a regimental bandbeast, a hefty chap, by gum,

this ain’t a hat I’m wearin’, it’s . . . a euphonium!”

Captain Nightfur chuckled, stepping out jauntily. “Och, that’s the stuff tae give ’em, Sergeant. Can ye no’ sing ‘Hares o’ the Highlands’? That’s a braw ditty—an’ ‘Long Patrol Laddies,’ too. There’s nought like a wee spot o’ singin’ tae keep the spirit up, the noo!”

They made good progress throughout the morning. Lunchtime found the column halted in the lee of some dunes. Last autumn’s russet apples, cheese, oat bannocks and pennycloud cordial was the fare. There was no more talk of the early morning’s events.

Lieutenant Scutram winked at the sergeant. “They seem jolly cheerful now, wot!”

Miggory brushed crumbs from his tunic. “Aye, that’s as’ow h’it should be. Look out, ’ere comes the for ’ard tracker, back from scoutin’ ahead.”

Buff Redspore came loping in, throwing a hasty salute. She ignored the food which was passed to her and went straight to the captain. “Wish to report, sah. Spears ahead,’bout half a league.”

Rake Nightfur gave a quizzical glance at her. “Ah think ye’d best explain. What spears?”

The tracker clarified her report. “Further north, sah, from the tideline t’the dunes, line o’ spears, about twoscore. Stickin’ up in the sand, with skulls an’ tails decoratin’’em. Looks like some kind o’ warnin’, sah. Couldn’t see anybeast about but felt I was bein’ watched. So I did a jolly quick about-paws an’ came straight back to inform you, sah!”

The tall, dark hare snapped out orders. “Sergeant Miggory, Scutram, Lancejack Sage, come with me. We’ll stick tae the dunes until we see how the land lies. Corporal Welkin, whilst we’re awa’ get them tae clean an’ ready their weapons, an’ stay on the alert.”

With Buff Redspore leading them as pathfinder, the four hares set off at a lope through the dunes. The rest of the column relaxed, seeing as the officers were not there. Corporal Welkin berated them in real parade-ground manner. “Nah, then, you idle lot, you heard the offisah. Get them blades clean an’ sharp, no slackin’ now, an’ that means you, young Drander!”

The hulking Drander spat on his sabre blade, rubbing it moodily with sand. “Not much flamin’ point sharpenin’ weapons if a chap doesn’t get the chance to use the bally things, is there, wot!”

Corporal Welkin treated him to a stern glare. “Yore here t’do as you’re jolly well ordered, Master Drander, not what ye bloomin’ well please!”

Ferrul pouted as she tugged a knot from her sling. “T’ain’t blinkin’ fair though, is it, Corp? Why don’t we ever get to join in the fun?”

Welkin roared at her. “Stannup, miss. Attention! Chin in, shoulders square, straighten that back!”

He paced around her in a tight circle. “Join in the fun, did I hear ye say, m’gel? Go chargin’ into a row o’ spears full o’ skulls’n’tails an’ get slain by a band of savage vermin? Stop talkin’ tosh an’ look to your weapons! Aye, an’ be grateful that there’s gallant offisahs goin’ out to face up to the foe just for your benefit. Now get t’work, the whole idle, shiftless, scroungin’ lot of ye!”

Buff Redspore crouched in the reeds on a dunetop, nodding at the shore below. “Looks scary, don’t it, Cap’n, wot?”

Captain Rake took in the line of spears at a glance. “Och, weel, Ah dinnae think those things were placed there tae welcome travellers, lassie. Ye were right, though. Ah feel as though we’re bein’ watched!”

Boom boom boom!

“Yikaaaheeeee!”

The sound of drums and bloodcurdling cries rent the noontide air. Scutram drew his sword.

“Can’t see ’em, sah, but it sounds as if there’s a horde o’ the blighters, wot?”

Rake Nightfur drew both his claymores, setting off at a leisurely pace. “Fine braw warriors we’d be if we let noises frighten us awa’. Let’s gang doon an’ take a closer look. Mayhap they’ll show themselves.”

They followed the captain’s easy advance. Sergeant Miggory, guarding their rear, noticed that Lancejack Sage, the youngest of the party, could hardly hold her javelin for shaking. The drumming and screeching rang out louder. Sage half turned to run, but the craggy-featured sergeant placed a firm paw on her back, murmuring softly, “Nah, then, missy, put h’a bold face on things an’ don’t be afeared. Vermin are only vermin, no matter ’ow they paints their mugs an’ yells!”

Sage took a deep breath, smiling nervously. “I know, Sarge. It’s not bein’ able to see the blighters that worries me. Where in the name o’ sufferin’ seasons are they?”

A hollow booming voice rang out. “Death awaits all those who venture into the Bloodrippers’ territory! Yaaaaah!”

Lieutenant Scutram chuckled grimly. “Well, at least they’re speakin’ to us, wot!”

“Waaaah, look!” The cry came from Buff Redspore, who was pointing to a low hillock.

A skull, probably that of some vermin, ferret or weasel, was moving over the crest of the low rise. It halted, gave a despairing screech and tumbled down onto the shore not far from them. It lay there, bleached white, grinning through socketless eyes at them. The drums pounded out, increasing their intensity.

Early eventide saw the galley Greenshroud in sight of the High North Coast. She drifted far offshore on Razzid Wearat’s orders. He no longer desired to avenge himself on sea otters, knowing they were too warlike and on the alert for battle. Redwall Abbey was Razzid’s current desire—his crew were not relishing any coming conflict with Skor Axehound’s warriors. Neither, for that matter, was Razzid, but he could not afford to lose face in front of his vermin. In the light of this, he had planned craftily to gain his aims. Knowing that even from this distance, his ship had been sighted by the sea otters, he acted. Pacing the deck with trident in paw, he scowled landward, calling up to the lookout, “Ahoy, what goes on ashore, Splitears?”

The lookout, a weasel with both ears torn from tip to base, called back from the masthead, “Lights on the point nor’east, Cap’n. Looks like alarm beacons t’me!”

Razzid nodded to Mowlag. “Muster my crew—all paws on deck!”

Searats and vermin corsairs trooped onto the welldeck, glancing up at their captain, who stared down at them from the stern gallery rail. He pointed slightly south. “See yonder lights—look hard or ye’ll miss them. Well, do ye see?”

Shekra, who stood with the crew, replied dutifully, “Aye, Cap’n, I see the lights. They glint now an’ then. Ha, there’s one, just flashed.”