Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Jum Gurdy interrupted anxiously. “Two young ’ogs, ye say? Was one of ’em called Uggo?”

Rekaby nodded. “Aye, an’ his little friend, Posy. I left them with the Guosim—they were goin’ to take them to Redwall. Swiffo went of his own accord.”

Skor strode forward. “Swiffo, that’s the name my youngest son give ’imself. Ye mean he went with the Guosim?”

Dobble, the Guosim scout, sat up, nursing a shoulder wound. “Aye, sire, Swiffo was with us, an’ both liddle ’ogs, but I don’t see ’em anywheres round ’ere now.”

Skor’s hefty, gnarled paw tightened around his battleaxe. “If anythin’s happened to my young un—”

Before he finished the sentence, his elder son, Ruggan, rushed into the river, brandishing his blade. “Yaylaho, Rogue Crew, let’s get after those vermin!”

Hurrying to join them, Skor called to Rake, “Got to go, Nightfur—they might have my young son!”

For a moment Rake looked undecided. There were still many Guosim lying on the bankside in need of help. Rekaby motioned for him to go.

“Nothin’ ye can do here, friend. My Fortunate Freepaws can deal with these shrews. Take two logboats an’ pursue those evil ones. Good fortune attend ye!”

The old squirrel took Jum Gurdy’s paw. “Ye’d best stay here, friend, in case yore two liddle hogs turn up. They could’ve escaped the attack, y’know.”

Jum cast a glance at the sea otter warriors, swimming upriver swiftly, despite the weapons they carried. He saw the Long Patrol, fit young hares, battle ready, launching the two logboats. Suddenly the big Cellardog felt heavy and burdened with long seasons. He sighed. “Aye, mate, yore right. Besides, I couldn’t show my face round Redwall without liddle Uggo, or at least some news of him. I’ll lend a paw here.”

The young squirrel, Laka, presented Jum with the mischievous babe, Wiggles, saying, “I’ll start makin’ dockleaf poultices. You ’ang on to this un, seein’ as yore partial to’edg’ogs.”

Jum smiled at the infant, chucking her under the chin. “Well, ain’t you a cute little thing!”

The babe glared up at Jum. “Ain’t a cute liddle fing. I’m a Wiggles, y’ole fatty!” She bit Jum’s paw, leapt down and sped off along the bank.

Laka nudged Jum. “Well, don’t jus’ stan’ there. Git after’er—an’ be careful, or Wiggles’ll bite ye agin!”

The big otter lumbered off along the bank, fervently wishing that he had gone with Skor and Rake. Wiggles shot up a sycamore trunk. She perched on a branch, just out of Jum’s reach, swinging her footpaws and giggling. “Heeheehee! Can’t get Wiggles, big ole fatty bottom, yore a lardy belly, that’s wot yew are. Heeheehee!”

Jum Gurdy began searching for a long stick to dislodge the imp with, muttering to himself, “I’ve certainly got me work cut out this day!”

22

It was toward evening when the breeze died away. Mowlag glanced at the limp green sails, stating the obvious to his captain. “Wind’s gone, Cap’n. We’re startin’ to drift astern with the current.”

Razzid leaned on his trident, replying with mock surprise, “Really? Is that a fact. Wot d’ye suggest we do, bucko?”

The searat took a backward pace, answering lamely, “Break out the paddles an’ get the crew t’work?”

Not dignifying the suggestion with a comment, the Wearat turned away. Brushing away a midge that was crawling close to his good eye, he stumped off wordlessly to his cabin. Mowlag sighed with relief, then began yelling out orders.

“Furl all sails an’ lower ’em! Break out the oars an’ git pullin’ ’er upriver! Can’t ye see we’re drifting back’ards? C’mon, shift yore idle carcasses!”

From the mast, the keen-eyed stoat on lookout yelled down, “Ahoy, do I stop up ’ere, or do I start furlin’ sail?”

Mowlag glared up at the stoat. “Git down’ere, right now!”

With no prior warning, the stoat came down to the deck, plunging from the masthead with an arrow through his throat.

“Yaaaah!” Jiboree yelled in horror as he left the tiller, rushing to Mowlag, who stood with the dead lookout lying next to his footpaws. “Yaaaah! All paws on deck—we’re under attack! All paws on deck!”

There was a confusion of vermin running about carrying long oars whilst others dropped from the half-furled sails.

Razzid Wearat stumped out on deck, brandishing his trident. “Wot’n the name o’ blood’n’Hellgates is goin’ on’ere?” He turned, his face almost colliding with Jiboree as the weasel continued bawling.

“Yaaaah, did ya see that? We’re bein’ attacked. Lookit that! ’E’s dead!”

Razzid blenched from the weasel’s foul breath as he pushed him aside. “Attacked? Attacked by whom?”

He grabbed Shekra, who was looking stunned. She stammered, “I dunno, but somebeast just killed the lookout, Cap’n.”

Roughly shoving the vixen from him, Razzid grabbed the unattended tiller, roaring out to both banks, “Come an’ show yoreself if’n ye wants a battle!”

Thunk! A slingstone whacked him on the side of his jaw. Clapping a paw to his face, he hastened back to his cabin, dribbling blood as he spat out a broken fang. “Jiboree, git yoreself back at the tiller! Mowlag, find who’s attackin’ us an’ rip ’em apart, d’ye hear me?”

Doing his best to look efficient, the searat tugged his ear in salute. “I’ll take a party ashore, Cap’n’.”

Whirling around in his cabin doorway, Razzid snarled, “Stay aboard, fool. Don’t leave my ship unguarded!”

A searat named Dirgo answered, “But wot’ll we do, Cap’n? Yaaaaargh!”

An arrow zipped out of the twilight, pinning Dirgo’s left footpaw to the deck. The crew began milling about willy-nilly.

Razzid bellowed furiously, “Stand fast, all of ye! Mowlag, post six crew with bows’n’arrers to port an’ starboard. Shoot at anythin’ that moves! The rest of ye, pick up those oars an’ get us outta here! Those are my orders—now jump to ’em!”

The archers stood ready speedily, shafts nocked to bowstrings, but they were handicapped by two things, the onset of darkness and the lack of anything to direct arrows at. As the rowers began punting Greenshroud upriver with their long oars, a hail of slingstones rattled at them from the surrounding woodlands. A searat screamed as he was struck in the eye, another was knocked cold by a random head shot.

Mowlag grabbed a bow and arrow from a weasel corsair. “Right, where are they? Just let ’em show their faces an’ I’ll put a stop to ’em! Come out an’ face me, if’n ye dare!”

A chunk of wet wood, a broken sycamore branch, came boomeranging out of the dusk, cracking him across the shoulders. Mowlag’s bow accidentally discharged its shaft; it pierced the ear of the weasal corsair he had taken it from.

Shekra yelled at the archers, “Shoot! Loose those arrows, don’t just stand there with yore bows bent!”

As the archers fired, each in a different direction, the vixen was suddenly taken with an idea.

Drogbuk Wiltud was still sitting tied to the base of the mainmast. Shekra untied him. Forming the rope into a noose, she tightened it about his neck. Throwing the other end over a jib, she hauled tight, shouting at the same time to the invisible assailants, “You out there, we’ve got one o’ yores, a woodlander! One more arrow, slingstone or stick from ye, an’ I’ll hang this ’edgepig. D’ye hear?”

Drogbuk was squealing and sobbing as he teetered on tippaws, held there by the noose. “Mercy! Don’t attack or they’ll ’ang me—guuuuurgh!”