Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Big Drander answered mournfully, “’Tis this flippin’ stomach o’ mine, it won’t stop grumblin’.”

A loud gurgling groan confirmed this. Drander smiled wanly. “See, I told ye. The jolly old tum’s got a mind of its own!”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs glared at the culprit. “Keep that up, bucko, an’ I’ll put your stomach on a charge!”

Drander raised his voice over his protesting abdomen. “I say, steady on, Corp. That ain’t fair!”

Captain Rake stifled a chuckle. “If ye can sing a bonny tune, I’ll drop all charges on ye, Drander.”

The big hare promptly broke into song.

“Here I’m sittin’ in the guardhouse,

wot a sad old sight to see,

so take warnin’ by my story, chaps,

an’ lissen carefully. . . .

Oh, don’t let your stomach rule your life,

don’t let your gut decide your fate,

you’ll regret it in the end, so hearken to me, friend,

a glutton doesn’t have a single mate. . . .

Oh, noooooooo!

Drander had long been voted the worst singer in the Long Patrol. There was general laughter as Captain Rake called out to him, “Och, that’s enough, bonny lad. Ah’ve changed mah mind—Ah’ll put ye on a charge if ye continue singin’!”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs chuckled. “I say, Drander old lad, why not let your jolly old tum give us a verse or two, wot? It’d sound a lot better’n that voice o’ yours!”

The tunnel ceiling became gradually lower. All the taller beasts had to duck their heads or bend. Skor Axehound’s grunts echoed around the gloomy passageway.

“Flamin’ hard t’catch breath down here, an’ my back’s startin’ to bother me. Shall we take a rest, eh?”

Captain Rake was in agreement with the sea otter Chieftain. “Aye, a wee rest’ll nae harm us. Buff, take yon two wee otterscouts an’ see what lies ahead.”

Everybeast sat down gratefully, backs to the tunnel wall. Posy cupped a paw around one ear, listening. “Hark, I can hear noises from behind us, a bit faint yet.”

Lieutenant Scutram’s long ears stood up. “Aye, I hear it too, missy. Sounds like those bats returnin’. Keep y’voices down, chaps, we can do without a visit from them.”

Uggo murmured unhappily, “I don’t like it down here. We could be goin’ anywhere or nowhere, could even be lost forever!”

Young Wilbee was equally miserable. “I say, imagine never seein’ flippin’ daylight again, wot. Dyin’ of hunger’n’thirst miles underground!”

Sergeant Miggory raised his voice sternly. “H’attention, now, ye can stow that kind h’o’ talk. We’ll get h’out of ’ere sooner or later, right, sah?”

Rake nodded. “Right, Sarn’t. Och, here’s the scouts returnin’. They’ve no’ been gone long. What’s tae report, Buff?”

The haremaid saluted. “Not very good news, I’m afraid, sah. Just round the next bend there’s a whoppin’ great hole in the tunnel floor blockin’ the flippin’ path. There ain’t no way around it. Come an’ take a look, sah!”

Rake, Skor and a small party went to investigate. Buff Redspore led the way, holding forth her torch as they came to the spot.

The floor fell sharply away, leaving them on the edge of a gaping abyss, which threw up a pale green light.

Ruggan edged to the rim, peered down, then stepped back. “Blood’n’bones, it makes ye dizzy just lookin’ at it!”

Sergeant Miggory chanced a peep. “Aye, ’tis h’a long way down. There must be water at the bottom—that’s wot’s makin’ the green light.”

Rake stared across to the other side of the huge hole. “Och, only a bird could cross that!”

Taking a lighted torch, he swung it to gain momentum, then flung it. The torch twirled in a blazing arc, landing on the far side in a shower of sparks.

Skor shook his grizzled head. “Ye can see the tunnel continues over there. Steel an’ hellfire, how do we get across that distance?”

Buff Redspore answered, “We can’t, sah. Without ropes or planks, it looks like we’re blinkin’ stuck here!”

They faced the disappointing fact in silence.

Then trouble piled upon trouble when the remainder of the company came running. Behind them the whirr and squeak of bats rose to a deafening crescendo as Uggo yelled, “The bats are comin’, thousands of ’em!”

Then the dark horde broke over them like a tidal wave.

Protecting Greenshroud from the menace of fire, Razzid Wearat ordered his ship to retreat from the bonfire on Redwall’s northwest walltop. Amidst the cheers of Redwallers, Abbot Thibb maintained his stance on the battlements, holding high the flaming sword of Martin the Warrior.

Foremole Roogo stared at him in admiration. “Boi ’okey, zurr, you’m looken gurtly brave oop thurr. Oi thought et wurr Marthen ee Wurrier cummed back to save us’ns frum they vurrmints!”

Not returning the trusty mole’s glance, Thibb spoke out of the side of his mouth as he held his pose. “I’m hoping that’s what the vermin think also, Roogo. D’you think I’ll have to stay up here for long? My paw is tired from holding up the sword, and I don’t want the burning oil to drip down on me.”

Fottlink, the mouse Recorder, nodded toward the enemy ship. “I think you and our bonfire warned them off, Father. Come on down and tell us, what gave you the idea of dressing up?”

Ding Toller and the Foremole helped Thibb down onto the parapet. He put aside the flaming sword gratefully. “Whew, I could feel the heat from that blade!”

Friar Wopple removed Thibb’s helmet, chuckling. “My copper trifle mould suited you well, Father.”

Accepting a beaker of cold pear cordial, the Abbot removed the rest of his disguise. “Thank you, Friar, the trifle mould was indeed yours, just as the sword belonged to Martin. As for the rest, this red cloak is my bedcover, the gauntlets are a pair of oven mitts which one of your kitchen helpers loaned to me. The idea must belong to Martin the Warrior. I stood in front of his tapestry long enough, wonderin’ what to do. Then I sat down on the floor—I must have dropped off for a while. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I must do, so I took his sword, disguised myself as him and came straight up here. Just in time, too, so we’ve got our Abbey Warrior to thank.”

Dorka Gurdy spoke, dampening the victorious mood slightly. “No matter what we do, I think those rascals are goin’ to attack sooner or later.”

Aboard the Greenshroud, Razzid had been putting his mind to the problem. He had not come this far to see himself turned away from his aim. Having reached a decision, he called the crew together.

“Well, buckoes, one thing’s for sure, they ain’t goin’ to attack us. Those woodlanders’ll sit tight behind their big stone walls. So, we’re safe enough here, eh?”

“So wot d’ye say, Cap’n, are we goin’ to take that place, or ’ang about ’ere ’til we grows old?”

The voice, which came from a group amidships, was that of Jiboree.

Giving no clue that he knew this, Razzid answered, “Dig the dirt outta yore lugs an’ I’ll tell ye. I wants a good gang of ye to go into that forest. Yore to chop down about six good-sized trees—pines or firs should do, good straight ones. When ye’ve done that, bring ’em back ’ere, an’ I’ll tell ye the rest o’ my plan.”

The crew stood in silence, as if unsure of the next move.

Razzid wiped moisture from his bad eye. “Mowlag, Jiboree, yore in charge o’ the tree-choppin’ gang. Pick twoscore crewbeasts an’ get to it. Vixen, I wants a word with ye. Come t’my cabin!”

As the searat and the corsair weasel chose their party, Razzid jabbed his trident toward the cabin. “You go first, fox.”