Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Razzid was about to hurl his trident at the unlucky Badtooth when the searat Dirgo came creeping carefully up to make a report.

“Cap’n, the vixenfox says to tell ye she’s found a big ole tree. ’Tis close enough to haul yore ship out.”

The Wearat almost thrust his trident into the quaking ground, but thinking better of it, he waved it at Dirgo. “Show me this tree. I’d best take charge o’ gettin’ the ship free, rather’n trust yew idiots!”

As the runaways forged onward, shades of evening began to fall. Posy looked fearfully at Uggo. “Hope we don’t get lost here once it goes dark. It’s a vile, stinky place!”

Rekaby silenced her with an upraised paw. “Hush, listen!”

From somewhere not too far off, a harsh, challenging cry rang out. The old squirrel smiled.

“We’ll be alright now. Sircolo’s here. Wait, I’ll call him.” Rekaby shouted in an equally aggressive manner, “Ahoy, old raggedy tail, if’n you eat me, I’ll poison ye, just for spite!”

There was a whistling noise, and Rekaby was almost knocked flat by Sircolo’s huge wings as the big bird came out of nowhere to land in their midst.

Uggo and Posy ran back several paces, awestruck at the appearance of the visitor. Sircolo was a fully grown male marsh harrier, with slate grey back and tail, cream and white underwing plumage and reddish feathered legs. The harrier had the curved beak common to hunting hawks and eyes that were frightening to look at. Sircolo held forth a lethal yellow-scaled talon, which Rekaby shook cordially.

The harrier blinked at him. “Yirrrk! Who would eat you, old gristlebag!”

Rekaby chuckled. “Well, there’s a crew of vermin on our tails who ain’t too particular what they eat.”

Swiffo boldly came up and rubbed his back under Sircolo’s neck. The harrier obviously liked this and made a hoarse chuckling sound.

Swiffo spoke soothingly. “Just think of it, mate. Fat, juicy searats, plump stoats, nice easy pickings, eh!”

Sircolo eyed the present company so hungrily that Posy wondered if the savage bird was really joking.

“Vermin make good eating, much better than you scrawny lot. I suppose you want me to get ye back to firm ground before nightfall?”

Swiffo stroked under the harrier’s beak. “Aye, if’n ye’ll be so good. The vermin can wait ’til later. They won’t be goin’ far—their ship’s bogged down.”

Sircolo seemed to ponder things for a moment, then he rapped his beak lightly on the young otter’s head.

“Well, alright, but this is the last time I help you cumbersome beasts. Next time I’ll eat ye all. Agreed?”

Uggo noticed that Sircolo’s eyes were twinkling; so were Rekaby’s as he twitched his tail in agreement. “Cumbersome, eh? That’s a good new word. What’s it mean?”

The harrier snapped his savage beak close to Rekaby’s nose. “It means you’re a nuisance, but better than nothing to a hungry bird!”

The ancient squirrel wrinkled his snout at Sircolo. “Fair enough. This is the last time we’ll bother ye, friend. Next time we do, we won’t do it again. Right?”

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.