Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

The sergeant sprang up, facing her. “Beggin’ yore pardon, marm, but who might you be?”

Taking a blue spotted kerchief from her beautifully embroidered apron pocket, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Never mind me—this is my land. So who might you be, eh?”

The grizzled veteran saluted courteously. “H’I’m Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory of the Long Patrol, from Salamandastron, marm!”

The hogwife performed a mock curtsy. “Ho, graciousness, that’s fancy talk for a rabbet. Well, I’m Pinny Wiltud, an’ that’s one o’ my clan yore takin’ the hide off in the water. Huh, not that he doesn’t need it, filthy ole rattlespikes!”

Big Drander saw an opportuntity. He smiled winningly at her. “’Scuse me, O lovely one, but d’ye know where there might be a bit o’ food t’be found hereabouts, wot?”

She considered this a moment, then nodded. “I’ve been watchin’ you lot all day. Saw you scare those vermin off downstream, a job well done, I’d say. Now, do ye like proper, thick woodland stew?” She held up a paw before Drander could reply. “I mean real Woodland Stew, made to an ole Wiltud recipe. With every veggible ye could shake a stick at chopped up into it. Aye, an’ full o’ chestnut’n’acorn dumplin’s.”

Overcome by emotion, tears sprang to Drander’s eyes. “Chestnut’n’acorn dumplin’s, marm, it makes me weak just thinkin’ about ’em. Oh, my giddy granddad, where is it, marm?”

She silenced him with a glance. “If ye build a fire an’ lend a paw, I can make it ready for service just afore midnight—oh! Oooooh! Cover him up! Ooooh!”

Her kinbeast Drogbuk Wiltud had emerged from the stream without a single quill on his scrawny frame. They had either fallen or been scrubbed off by the vigorous bathing he had received. Pinny had meanwhile thrown her voluminous flowered apron up over her face.

Drogbuk hobbled about on the bank, not knowing where to hide himself. He was ranting, “See wot ye did? Great clumsy-pawed sea otters, how’m I goin’ to last out the winter like this? Plank-tailed oafs!”

Captain Rake grabbed the cloak which the ferret Viglat had discarded. He tossed it to the naked old hog. “Here, cover yersel’ up, ye auld sack o’ wrinkles. Och, ah’ve seen some sights that’d frit a duck, but never anythin’ like this!”

Skor grinned, shaking his huge, bearded head. “He looks like an ole pink cattypillar that never turned into a butterfly. Hahaha, I hope yore cloak fits him, ferret . . . ferret! Where’s that vermin got to?”

A hasty search revealed that Viglat was missing. Swiffo shrugged. “Must’ve slipped off durin’ all that din ole Drogbuk was makin’. Hope we can still find Redwall.”

Pinny Wiltud scoffed. “Find Redwall? Huh, I know the way to the Abbey like the back o’ my paw. But let’s get ye fed first. Some of ye get a fire goin’, the rest follow me.”

It was dark by the time Pinny’s woodland stew was ready. Everybeast had worked hard to help with it. True to her boast, the hogwife’s recipe worked superbly—it was rich, fragrant and delicious. They sat round the campfire on the streambank, each filling a bowl several times from the sizeable cauldron.

Drogbuk sat apart, wrapped in an old blanket, whilst Pinny busied herself, cutting and sewing the ferret’s cloak into a suitable garb for him. Posy and Uggo sat with her, gratefully downing the stew.

Pinny stared at Posy awhile, then shook her head. “You ain’t a Wiltud, missy. I can tell—yore too pretty. But that un”—she pointed her needle at Uggo—“huh, he’s got Wiltud written all over ’im. Sharp nose, greedy face an’ twinkly eyes. Who was yore mum’n’dad?”

Uggo fished around after a dumpling. “Never knew ’em, marm. I was brought up at Redwall by Dorka Gurdy an’ her brother, Jum. Did ye say that you were at the Abbey? Did ye live there?”

Pinny looked up from her tailoring. “Aye, I did for a while when I was younger, but I left.”

Posy asked, “Why did you leave, marm?”

Pinny seemed suddenly out of temper as she snapped, “I wasn’t stayin’ anywhere that they accused me o’ bein’ a vittle robber. Hah, I never scoffed their hefty fruitcake. The nerve o’ that lot—anyway there wasn’t many plums in it!”

Uggo could not resist giggling. “There was in the one I ate!”

Pinny patted his head fondly. “Wiltud by name an’ Wiltud by nature. I ’ope ye wolfed every crumb of it. Here, Drogbuk, try this on for size.”

She tossed the finished garment to the ancient hog, who vanished into the bushes with it. A moment later, he strutted out wearing what was in effect a one-piece smock.

“Well, wot d’ye think? Kin I join yore Long Patrol as a rabbet?”

Sergeant Miggory donated an old sword belt. “H’I should say not, sah. Try this belt round yore waist. It’ll make ye look h’a liddle better’n a sack o’ firewood.”

Kite Slayer nodded in mock admiration. “Oh, ain’t you the smart beast!”

Drogbuk topped up his stew bowl. “I ain’t talkin’ to you ever agin. Yore the savage who scrubbed all me pore spines off!”

Pinny put aside her sewing kit. “Pore ole Redwall Abbey, sez I. They’re about to have three Wiltuds to visit.”

Skor’s battleaxe thudded into the ground near to her. “There’ll be no vittle thieves whilst we’re at the Abbey. Just let me hear o’ one crust goin’ missin’, an’ the next pot o’ woodland stew’ll have you in it as dumplin’s!”

Pinny glared fiercely at the sea otter Chieftain. “Yew wouldn’t!”

Kite Slayer tapped the hogwife’s paw. “Oh, yes, he would, marm—ye can take it from me!”

Lieutenant Scutram wiped his bowl clean, saluting Pinny Wiltud. “Excellent supper, marm, thankee kindly. Right, chaps, finish messin’ an’ turn in. Big day tomorrow, wot. We’re goin’ to the jolly old Abbey o’ Redwall!”

30

With its sails furled, Greenshroud looked like a bird of ill omen resting on the path north of the Abbey. It was a clear night, with a silver white moon presiding over a starscattered sky. Razzid Wearat stood alone on the afterdeck, leaning on the tiller, staring at Redwall. Still burning bright on the northwest walltop corner, the bonfire silhouetted creatures guarding the battlements.

Razzid gritted his fangs. So near, yet so far from his dream of conquest. Now, having seen the magnificent Abbey, he was consumed with the desire to make it his own. However, mere yearning would accomplish nothing. It was planning and swift action which would win the day for him, and Razzid’s fertile brain had provided the solution. He knew what he must do. Treachery by Mowlag and Jiboree could wait until later. Once he was inside, ruling Redwall, he would mete out punishments to the pair, which would make his name feared amongst searats and corsairs.

A sound disturbed his train of thought. He turned and saw a scrawny young weasel climbing over the stern gallery. Immediately the Wearat’s trident was a whisker away from the intruder’s face. The weasel held out his paws to show he was unarmed.

“Cap’n, I’m Twangee. Me uncle Badtooth’s the cook—told yer about me, didn’t ’e?”

Razzid lowered the trident. “Aye, he did. Well, wot’s to report? Have ye been watchin’ Mowlag an’ Jiboree?”

Twangee winked slyly. “I kep’ me eyes on ’em, Cap’n, an’ I been a-lissenin’, too. Yore safe fer now. They don’t plan on makin’ no moves ’til we take the Abbey. They’ve carried out yore orders, they chopped down six trees, all pines, good’n’straight. Lissen, I can ’ear’ em comin’ along the path now. I’ll git outta the way, lest they sees me talkin’ to yer, Cap’n.”