Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

“O there’s blood on the axe,

an’ there’s blood on the shield,

an’ blood on the swordblade, too.

An’ if yore a foe of our Rogue Crew,

there’ll be blood all over you!

Blood blood! Blood blood—”

Corporal Welkin interrupted before Kite could sing another verse. “Oh, well done, miss. What a jolly little ditty, a right pretty paw tapper, wot!”

A nearby sea otter nodded. “Aye, it’s brought a tear to many an eye, I can tell ye.”

Young Flutchers chuckled. “Indeed, old chap. I’d wager it’s brought more’n a bloomin’ tear to some. Wot!”

Lancejack Sage, who was up in the vanguard, called out, “Scouts returnin’ ahead!” Accompanied by Gil and Dreel the ottermaids, Buff Redspore loped up, saluting Rake and Skor.

“See that long ridge ahead, sah, sort of hillscape? The vermin ship has been there, anchored in the cove. But we’re afraid she’s gone now.”

Skor scratched at his bushy beard. “Gone, which way?”

Buff answered respectfully, “Wouldn’t like to make a guess, Lord. Mayhaps you’d like to judge for yourself? It ain’t far.”

From the ridgetop, Dreel pointed to the clear waters of the calm bay below. “It’s not deep. See the mudpatch on that clean sand beneath the water? That’s where they’ve been careenin’ marsh dirt off’n their hull.”

Her sister Gil explained, “That mud won’t move for a day or two. Ain’t much tide, water’s almost still.”

It was late noon when they explored the cove. Being an expert tracker, Buff Redspore ventured her opinion. “No wheelmarks in the sand, so Greenshroud never left the water. Only one beast came ashore—fox, prob’ly a vixen by the prints. But see here, there was already another over by the base of the hill. Looks like an old hedgehog.”

Skor stared at the tracker. “How d’ye know that?”

Buff produced a few greyish spines. “Old enough t’be losin’ these. The vixen took the old un back aboard the ship with her.”

Rake studied the twin tracks. “Tae get information out o’ the beastie, Ah think. So, where does that leave us?”

Buff shrugged. “She hasn’t gone inland, an’ she’s already been up north, so she must be sailin’ south.”

Ruggan Axehound mused, “If’n ye say the vermin wouldn’t attack yore mountain again, then wot do they want down south?”

Jum Gurdy, who had stayed in the background thus far, now came forward. The big Cellardog looked worried. “D’ye think they’re plannin’ on havin’ a go at Redwall?”

Captain Rake Nightfur stamped his paw down hard. “Och, aye! Ah’m a fool for no’ thinkin’ o’ that mahself. But why has the Wearat no’ gone inland tae do it? He has a vessel on wheels.”

Jum Gurdy told him why. “Further south, twixt here an’ yore mountain, there’s a river runs o’er the shore, Cap’n—’tis called the River Moss. Runs through the woodlands an’ dunes, over the beach, into the sea.”

Sergeant Miggory nodded. “We crossed o’er h’it on the fourth day h’outward bound, sah. I remembers it well, ’cos the water was sweet to drink, an’ fresh.”

Skor looked ready to march onward. He boomed impatiently, “Well, we’re losin’ time standin’ here chinwaggin’ about it. We should be marchin’ south t’find this River Moss!”

Jum Gurdy interrupted. “Could I make a suggestion?”

Rake forestalled Skor by saying, “Aye, please do.”

Quickly, Jum scratched out a rough map in the sand. “This is the coastline goin’ south. River Moss should be somewheres about ’ere. It flows out o’ the east. Where the path to Redwall Abbey is, there’s a ford o’er the water. So, if the vermin are goin’ to the Abbey, this is my plan, friends. Instead o’ followin’ the coastline south, we should cut inland now, on a southeasterly course. That way we’ll save time an’ we might even spot ’em.”

With a brief nod of thanks, Skor Axehound turned and began marching off, away from the sea, commenting gruffly, “Well, wot are we waitin’ for? We’re losin’ time!”

Following his example, everybeast fell in behind him. Within a short time, they had crossed some hills and were out of sight of the cove.

In their haste, they had forgotten one of their number, Crumdun. The fat little stoat had seized his opportunity to slink away during the discussion. He squeezed in beneath some rocks at the base of the hill, pulling an old wet sack he had found over himself. He waited until there was complete silence within the cove before venturing out. Crumdun heaved a great sigh of relief. He quite liked the hares, who had fed him, treating him decently. However, he lived in mortal fear of the sea otters, convinced that with their hatred of vermin, he would be slain by them sooner or later. His new sense of freedom filled him with happiness. No more captivity or serving as a ragmop on corsair ships. Opening the sack, Crumdun found a variety of shellfish and molluscs. Later that evening he sat by a small fire roasting his supper whilst reflecting aloud.

“This ain’t a bad life. I can suit meself wot I does. Funny, I allus wanted to be like me ole mate, Braggio Ironhook. But that ain’t such a good idea, or I’d ’ave ended up wid me ’ead stuck atop o’ Greenshroud ’s foremast. No, I’m best off just bein’ meself, liddle fat Crumdun!”

Which was indeed a fact, because not many vermin ended up being as lucky as him.

20

A stiff wind blowing easterly from across the sea buffeted Greenshroud ’s starboard side as she ploughed southward through rising waves. From atop the mainmast, a keen-eyed searat who was lookout that day bawled out a sighting.

“I kin see a river runnin’ across the shore!”

Jiboree, who was fighting to keep the tiller steady, called back, “A river, eh? Where away?”

“Mebbe a point or so to port,” came the reply.

Gratefully, the weasel eased off his pressure on the long timber arm, allowing the tiller to drift Greenshroud landward at a southerly angle. He stopped a passing crewbeast. “Go an’ tell the cap’n a river’s been spotted.”

Razzid Wearat wiped at his injured eye, staring at the approaching river. “Hmm, could be this River Moss. Shekra, go an’ get that ’ole spikehog. He’ll know.”

Drogbuk Wiltud was in no fit state to walk. He staggered on deck, supported by Shekra and Mowlag. The drunken old hedgehog’s head was lolling on his chest; his eyes were shut.

Grabbing him by the headspikes, Razzid yanked his head up. “Ahoy, I wants to talk with ye. Liven yoreself up, ole fool!”

Shekra cut in helpfully. “Here, Lord, let me try.” She patted Drogbuk’s limp, scrawny paw. “Wake up, friend, we need yore advice.”

The wretched creature managed to open one eye blearily. “Eh, what . . . ? Where’s grog? I need more!”

Knocking Shekra aside, the Wearat began beating Drogbuk round his head, snarling with each blow. “Ya dribblin’ ole grog stopper, lookit yon river an’ tell me, is that the River Moss ye told us about?”

Drogbuk made a swift recovery, trying to cringe from the vicious blunt-clawed paws. He babbled pitifully, “Aye, that’d be the Moss. But you said ye was my friend. Wot are ye hittin’ me for?”

Razzid smiled wickedly as he twisted his victim’s snout. “I’ll hit ye if’n ye don’t shape up an’ tell me wot I want. Now, wot’s our next move, ye drunken idjit? Talk!”

Drogbuk pointed at the stretch of clear water gushing over the beach into the sea. “Ye follows it, that’s all. Just follow it east.”