Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Shekra congratulated him. “Oh, well done, Lord. ’Twas a brave thing to do—no otherbeast would have dared it!”

Razzid was still laughing as he shook water from himself. “Aye, but t’do somethin’ like that, ye need good bait. Ole Dirgo came in useful, didn’t ’e?”

There was a shocked silence when the vermin crew realised that Razzid had deliberately sent Dirgo to his death.

Donning his cloak, the Wearat continued callously, “Nobeast but me could’ve done that. Mowlag, send some o’ these layabouts down t’get my trident back, aye, an’ tell’em to deliver my pikefish t’the cook. I never tasted pikefish afore. ’Ave Badtooth bring it t’my cabin when it’s roasted. Oh, an’ get that wheel freed so we can get underway agin!”

He retired to his cabin, from where everybeast could hear him laughing and imitating Dirgo. “Ships wid wheels ain’t no use at all—hahahaaarrr! Wheels or not, Dirgo, no ship’s any use to ye now, mate! Hahahaaarrr! Looks like I won the keg o’ grog!”

None of the crew shared the joke. They hung about on deck, casting sullen glances at the captain’s cabin.

Wigsul, a corsair weasel, gnawed at a dirty pawnail. “Nobeast deserves t’die like pore Dirgo did.”

Jiboree drew him to one side, whispering a caution. “Careful that Mowlag or Shekra don’t ’ear ye say that, mate.”

A nearby searat’s lips scarcely moved as he interrupted. “Wigsul’s right, though, ain’t ’e? Sendin’ a crewmate t’be slayed like that, just so Razzid could eat roast fish fer dinner—it ain’t right, I tell ye!”

Growls of agreement came from several others who had heard the searat.

Jiboree nodded, then turned back to his tiller. “Stow it.’Ere comes Mowlag.”

The mate joined Jiboree at the tiller, remarking, “Ole Cooky’s galley’s scarce big enough to roast that fish. The wheel’s free now. C’mon, buckoes, back t’yer paddles—there’s still a bit o’ daylight left.”

Jiboree leaned close to Mowlag, lowering his voice. “Some o’ the crew reckon ’twas a wrong thing the cap’n did to Dirgo—”

Mowlag enquired sharply, “Who were they? Wot’s their names?”

Jiboree spat expertly over the rail into the river. “Couldn’t tell, really. Just a general sort o’ mutter.”

Mowlag drew a dagger, pointing it directly at Jiboree. “Lissen t’me, bucko. We both serves Razzid Wearat, see? So if’n ye catch any o’ this crew mutterin’ agin ’im, then let me know sharpish, an’ they’ll be dealt wid as mutineers, an’ ye know wot that means?”

Frowning seriously, Jiboree patted Mowlag’s paw. “Don’t fret, matey. I’ll tell ye if’n any o’ this lot even looks like they’re thinkin’ o’ mutterin’. Leave it t’me, I’ll sort ’em out!”

Mowlag stalked off, glaring about at all and sundry.

Once he was out of earshot, Jiboree nodded to Wigsul. “See wot I mean? We’ll have t’watch that un!”

“Aye, if’n ye don’t, you’ll all end up as fishbait!”

Startled, they turned to see who had spoken. It was Shekra, who had been eavesdropping. The vixen winked knowingly at them. “Easy, mates. I won’t give ye away, I don’t like the cap’n any more than you do.”

Wigsul breathed a sigh of relief. “Does that mean yore wid us?”

Shekra shook her head. “Don’t include me in any o’ yore plans. I ain’t part o’ no mutiny, but I ain’t agin it, neither—leave me out of it. I got a few plans of my own.”

Jiboree was curious. “Like wot? Tell us, Shekra.”

But the Seer would not be drawn out, commenting casually, “Oh, you’ll see when the time comes. Now, mind yore own schemes an’ keep yore traps shut when Mowlag’s around.”

Slowly, ponderously, the big green-sailed vessel forged its way upriver in an atmosphere of high tension.

The monster pike was roasted to perfection. Badtooth, the fat weasel cook, had garnished the fish with fennel and wild parsley. Assisted by two crewbeasts, he bore it on a tray made from an old shield to the captain’s cabin.

Razzid sniffed it appreciatively. Pouring himself a goblet of his best grog, he cut off a sizeable portion of the fish, waving the remainder away. “Take it out an’ place it on the forepeak. There’s plenty there for everybeast!”

Razzid appeared in high good humour. Accompanying the bearers to the forepeak, he called out to the crew, “Eat’earty, buckoes. I’ll wager there’s a taste of ole Dirgo on this pikefish. Hahahaaarrrr!”

He swaggered off back to his cabin as the crew gathered around the pike. It smelled delicious until Badtooth told them, “Huh, there’s more’n a taste o’ Dirgo in there. I saw it meself when I ’ad t’roast the thing.”

Wigsul touched the pike with a footpaw. “Well, I ain’t eatin’ none. It wouldn’t be right!”

Several agreed in low voices.

“Nor me, I wouldn’t be able to swaller it!”

“Aye, Dirgo was a good shipmate—not that it matters to that Wearat. ’E don’t care for nobeast but hisself.”

So the roasted pike remained untouched. Late that day, Mowlag passed the thing. It was buzzing with flies.

Razzid had his footpaws up on the cabin table as he sipped grog and picked his teeth with a pikebone. He looked up as Shekra, Jiboree and Mowlag entered. As captain he had ordered them to attend him. He stared from one to the other.

“Well?”

He allowed the awkward silence to linger awhile before continuing. “Any news o’ this ford we’re supposed t’come across?”

Mowlag spread his paws wide. “Cap’n, I’m the same as yoreself. I’ve never been in these parts, so ’ow should I know?”

This was not an answer which pleased the Wearat. He jumped upright, then kicked aside the chair, snarling at Jiboree, “An’ I suppose you’ve got the same excuse, eh?”

Giving the weasel no chance to answer, he turned on Shekra. “Wot’ve you got t’say fer yoreself—the great mumbo-jumbo Seer yore supposed t’be. Well, wot do the omens tell ye?”

The vixen bowed respectfully. “Do ye wish me to consult my omens, Lord?”

Razzid wiped his leaky eye. “Well, if’n you an’ these two mudbrains can’t tell me wot I wants t’know, I suppose you’d better see wot the omens have t’say.”

Shekra’s fertile brain was racing as she replied, “I can do it, sire, but ’tis only twixt thee an’ me. The omens are not for all beasts to hear.”

Razzid waved a dismissive paw at Mowlag and Jiboree. “Begone, the pair of ye!”

As they went, he added menacingly, “Go sit in the bows. I don’t want yore ears pressed agin’ this cabin door. Unnerstand?”

They nodded mutely and left.

Razzid would not sit. He paced the cabin impatiently. “Out with it, Seer, an’ speak true if’n ye wish to live. When do we reach the ford?”

The vixen replied, using all her guile. “There is no need of casting spells to say what I know, O Great One. The ford lies ahead, how far I cannot say. Listen now, there is a far more urgent message I must deliver to ye!”

Shekra’s dramatic tone caused Razzid to pause. His good eye bored into the Seer. “Speak, then!”

The vixen returned his stare, dropping her voice. “There is talk. The crew no longer want you as their captain. They say you deliberately sent Dirgo to his death and now you joke about it. They say any captain who treats his crew thus does not deserve their loyalty, sire.”

There was a brief silence, then Razzid exploded. “Loyalty? I don’t need loyalty from a bunch o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s. I’m the Wearat! I rule because they fear me. Who is it that speaks out agin’ me, eh?”

Shekra shrugged. “All of them, Lord, except me an’ two others.”

Razzid sneered. “I ain’t worried about you or two other fools. Every snake has a head until it is slain. Now, who is the leader?”