Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

No more missiles came out of the darkened greenery. There was a mere rustle of foliage, then silence fell.

Shekra held on to the rope, smirking at Mowlag. “Hah, that did the trick, eh?”

Badtooth, the greasy weasel cook, ventured out of his galley. “Aye, it worked well enough, fox. But keep heavin’ on yonder rope an’ ye’ll finish that ole ’og off. Then where’ll we be?”

Razzid took advantage of the cease-fire, coming out on deck. “Smart thinkin’, Shekra. Ye did well, but Badtooth’s right, ye’d best loosen the rope afore that drunken ole fool dies.”

Drogbuk wheezed a gurgling sigh as his footpaws fell flat upon the deck, then he seemed to collapse in a heap.

Shekra called the cook, “Badtooth, keep an eye on this un.”

The greasy weasel sat down with his back against the mast. “Huh, ’e ain’t goin’ noplace. Looks arf dead t’me!”

The words had scarce left his lips when Drogbuk sprang nimbly up, ducked out of the noose, and jumped overboard. He went under and never surfaced. The archers shot a volley of arrows into the river, with no results.

Rizzad snarled at them, “Don’t waste shafts. The drunken ole sot’s prob’ly pike food by now. Stow those weapons an’ get on the oars with yore mates. When we’re clear of the area, ye can rest. Shekra, Mowlag, stay alert. If’n ye spy anythin’ that looks like a ford, report t’me.”

Probing the broken tooth with a blunt claw, the Wearat sought his cabin.

Greenshroud moved on upriver. Spitting water and trying to shake river mud from his rattly old spikes, Drogbuk staggered upright, shielded by reeds. He shook a clenched paw as the ship vanished round a bend.

“Gurrrraaah, ye murderin’ blaggards! Ye lard-gutted, stinky-bottomed, scabby-tailed, wall-eyed, dirty-lugged, misbegotten sons o’ hags—”

A sturdy young paw pulled him out onto the bank. “Yore frightenin’ the fishes wid language like that, Granpa. Give yore ole tongue a rest!”

Drogbuk gave Swiffo a curious stare. “Wot’s a wavedog doin’ round ’ere? Who are ye, eh?”

A Guosim maid passed him a pawful of dry moss to wipe his eyes clean. “We could ask you the same question, oldspikes. Wot were you doin’ aboard a vermin ship?”

Drogbuk began to explain. “I was tricked aboard. They said they was friends goin’ t’visit Redwall. . . .”

He broke off to gaze around the half score of beasts surrounding him before continuing stubbornly, “But that’s my bizness, not your’n. Er, ye haven’t got a drop of grog about ye? Me throat’s hurtin’ from that rope, an’ I needs grog to ease it off!”

Log a Log Dandy Clogs snorted scornfully. “Huh, I’ll wager ye do, but we ain’t on a picnic, so we’re not carryin’ grog. That ship’s wot we’re after, aye, an’ every scurvy vermin aboard of it. Once the ship’s sunk an’ everybeast of its crew knockin’ on the doors o’ Hellgates, then ye can drink grog ’til ye don’t know if’n ’tis summer or sumplace. Posy, Uggo, will ye watch out for this ole swillbelly?”

It lacked about three hours to dawn when Razzid gave the order to stow oars. At this point the River Moss flowed through a wide watermeadow. The Wearat took a good look about.

“Aye, this’ll do, Shekra. No tree cover, so we can see any attack comin’. Mowlag, set two lookouts at the masthead, two on the prow, an’ another two astern. Relieve ’em every hour. The rest can sleep awhile. Drop anchor!”

Jiboree sat sleeping, seated on a keg, with his head resting on the tiller. The watermeadow was a silent, fragrant area, dotted with waterlilies, bulrushes, sundew and pink flowering comfrey. Now and then the splash of a roach, or rudd, could be heard as fish flopped momentarily to the surface. Predawn birdsong trilled faintly on the still air. Jiboree snuffled, moving his head against the tiller, to seek a cosier position. The tiller arm yawled wide, leaving him sprawled on the deck. The weasel rose grumpily as the tiller came back the other way, knocking him flat once more. He grabbed the long wooden arm, expecting to steady it, but it swung loosely. Too loosely.

Mowlag growled irately as Jiboree shook him awake. “Wot is it now? Can’t a beast git no rest on this ship?”

The weasel kept his voice low. “There’s summat amiss wid the tiller, mate. Come an’ take a look!”

Mowlag pushed the unresisting tiller back and forth, noting that the vessel did not respond. He passed it back to Jiboree.

“Keep wigglin’ it back’n’forth while I takes a look.” Leaning out over the stern rail, Mowlag’s shouts roused the ship. “Blood’n’thunder, we ain’t got a bloomin’ rudder!”

Jiboree looked blankly at the mate. “Wotjer mean, we ain’t got a rudder?”

Mowlag roared in Jiboree’s face, covering him in spittle. “Wotjer think I mean, knot’ead? The rudder’s gone, we ain’t got a rudder! Ye’d better go an’ tell the cap’n!”

The weasel wiped his face with a grimy paw, then laughed drily. “Not me. Yore the ship’s mate—you go an’ tell ’im!”

“Tell him wot?”

They both turned to see Razzid bearing down on them. Mowlag gulped nervously, stumbling over his words. “Grudder’s on, I mean the rudder’s gone . . . sir.”

The Wearat tested the tiller before peering over the stern. “Gone? ’Ow could a rudder just go—where is it now, eh?”

“There ’tis, just off the port bow, Cap’n!” A searat called Dirgo stood on the midship rail, pointing. “Somebeast’s pushin’ it away—a riverdog, I think ’tis!”

As if to absolve himself, Mowlag jumped up alongside Dirgo, shielding his eyes with a paw as he sighted the rudder being pushed away through the watermeadow by Swiffo. “That ain’t no waterdog, it’s a wavedog!”

Razzid thundered amidships, dealing Mowlag a smack with the haft of his trident, which sent him overboard. “I don’t care wot sorta beast it is—stop it makin’ off with my rudder. Go on!”

He turned on the crew. “Get some bows’n’arrers. See if’n ye can’t get ’im afore Mowlag does. Look sharp now!”

Swiffo was forced to abandon the rudder as arrows began raining down on the watermeadow. He dived, swimming sleekly off underwater. Having no aquatic skills whatsoever, Mowlag was forced into an awkward dog paddle.

Shekra threw him one end of a long heaving line. “Tie this to the rudder so as we can pull it aboard. Grip it in yore mouth. Go on, you can do it!”

Mowlag spluttered, spitting out water and pondweed as he gasped, “I don’t know if I kin make it!”

Razzid called out a callous reply. “Either get that rudder or drown, ’cos ye ain’t comin’ back t’the ship without it!”

Swiffo surfaced, wading through the shallows to where his friends were waiting. Dandy and Posy helped him to the bank.

Swiffo shrugged ruefully. “I nearly made it. Still, it’ll take’em some time to get their rudder back in place. The ship’s too far off for us to do anythin’ at the moment.”

Log a Log Dandy clenched his paws, growling, “If only I had just one good logboat an’ a Guosim crew, I’d soon do somethin’ about it, on me oath I would!”

Tibbro climbed up into the low branches of a grey willow. “I think they’ve got a rope around the rudder. I can see ’em pullin’ it back to their ship. How long d’ye think it’ll take’em to fix it, Swiffo?”

The young sea otter shook his head. “Not long, matey. The rudder only slots through an iron pin. I took that out an’ flung it away. Soon as they get another they’ll be on their way back to the river.”

Uggo gnawed on some wild ramsons that he had dug up. “No sense in us makin’ a move ’til they do, I suppose.”

One of the shrews, a tough-looking beast called Frabb, fanned a paw across his nose to avoid the rancid odour of wild garlic coming from Uggo’s mouth. “Phwaw! If’n yew don’t stop chewin’ that stuff, I’ll chuck ye in the water, mate!”