Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Razzid nodded approvingly. “Aye, you do that, Twangee. Tell yore uncle t’give ye the best o’ grog’n’vittles. Ye did well tonight.”

The Wearat watched the young weasel scuttle off, then leaned over the stern rail.

Mowlag was heading the party, who were rolling the six pine trunks along with them. “Here y’are, Cap’n, six o’ the best from the woodlands.”

Razzid’s keen eye scanned the other crewbeasts, noting that Jiboree was bringing up the rear.

“Move those trunks so they’re bridgin’ that ditch alongside this path, then lash ’em together so they won’t roll apart. Look sharp—I don’t want t’be here after dawn.”

Once the trunks had been bound in place to form a bridge over the ditch, Razzid gave orders for the entire crew to haul his ship over onto the flatlands beyond. The sails were set, and soon, with the gentle night breeze, Greenshroud trundled slowly off westward. The pine-trunk bridge had been dismantled; it went with the vessel, three logs bound to either side of the hull. The Wearat assembled his crew amidships and faced them.

“Good work, mates, now ye can go to the galley. There’s skilly’n’duff, aye, an’ enough grog to keep ye happy!”

The crew were about to move off when a searat called out, “But I thought we was goin’ to conquer that Abbey place, Cap’n.”

Razzid smiled. “So we are, shipmate, so we are. But we does it accordin’ to my plan. Go an’ get yore supper. I’ll come t’the galley an’ tell ye how ’tis t’be done.”

He beckoned Shekra to his side. The vixen came warily, nursing a heavily bandaged paw. “Lord?”

Razzid kept his voice low. “When I go t’the galley, I want ye behind me, watchin’ my back. Arm yoreself with a good dagger. Can I trust ye, fox?”

She answered earnestly. “Aye, Lord, I swear ye can trust me.”

The Wearat left it some time before he went to speak with the crew. Meanwhile, they were crowded into the galley and the adjoining messdeck. On his captain’s orders, Badtooth had done them proud. There was as much grog flowing as anybeast could want. The mood was quite jovial; Badtooth even requested a song when a corsair stoat dug out his melodeon. “Cummon, Jibbo, give us an ole ditty!”

Jiboree the bosun went straight into a popular ditty.

“Ho, the Scabby Frog ’s a floatin’ shame,

we’ve had no grub for weeks,

there ain’t a veggible in sight,

but the ship is full o’ leaks!

“I’ve said it once an’ said it twice,

an’ I’ll say a third time yet,

the weevils in the biscuits, mates,

is all the meat you’ll get!

“Last night the cook baked up a pie,

he said it tasted great,

we’ve searched the ship from stem t’stern,

an’ still ain’t found the mate!

“There’s mutiny on the Scabby Frog,

I knew that this would happen,

the crew have planned a master feast,

we’re goin’ to roast the cap’n!”

Jiboree faltered on the final line of the song as Razzid entered the galley. The melodeon squawked to a finish, and an awkward silence fell over the crew.

Razzid gave his bad eye a long, slow wipe, his good one darting back and forth. “Wot sort o’ song d’ye call that? Mutiny aboard a ship, endin’ up with the crew roastin’ the cap’n—makes ye think, don’t it, mates, eh?”

Jiboree lowered his eyes, murmuring, “’Twas only a joke song, Cap’n, a bit o’ fun.” His footpaws trembled as the Wearat edged closer to him.

Razzid’s voice took on a lighter tone. “Not a very good line, though, is it? ‘We’re goin’ to roast the cap’n.’ You ain’t a cap’n, are ye?”

The weasel shook his head, relaxing slightly. “No, Cap’n, I’m a bosun.”

Razzid kept advancing, forcing the bosun to step backward until he was almost against the galley stove, with the big cauldron of skilly’n’duff bubbling on it. Razzid smiled.

“Let me give ye a better line. How about ‘we’re goin’ to boil the bosun’? That sounds better, don’t it?”

Jiboree nodded several times. “Aye, it does, Cap’n!”

Some of the cauldron contents bubbled over, landing on the weasel’s tail. He yelped, but Razzid did not move away to release him from his position. The Wearat winked broadly at Mowlag the mate, remarking almost casually, “Like Jiboree said, just a bit o’ fun, eh? A bosun couldn’t roast a cap’n, but a cap’n could boil a bosun, or even a mate, ain’t that right?”

Mowlag tugged his ear in salute, “Aye, right, Cap’n!”

Razzid seemed to lose interest in the confrontation with the pair. He moved to one side, freeing Jiboree. Turning, he addressed the crew. “Hearken now—this is the plan. We’re movin’ westward across these flatlands until we’re out o’ sight. I ain’t standin’ by, near to that Redwall place, to watch me ship catch flame from their big fire. Right, mates, ’ere’s wot we do. Let ’em think we’ve run away to try our luck somewhere else. They’ll get fed up o’ burnin’ all the wood an’ let the fires die away. So, we waits out yonder, for a night, mebbe even two or three nights. But when the winds blows strong at our stern an’ ’tis dark, then the Greenshroud strikes! Gatherin’ speed, with all sails set, we flies o’er the flatlands like an arrow out of a bow, straight for the big front Abbey gates. Those woodlanders’ll be tucked up an’ snorin’. They won’t know wot’s hit ’em. We’ll knock those gates flat with a single blow an’ be inside afore they’re awake. So, ain’t that a good plan, eh?”

Young Twangee piped up. “But we gotta get back over that ditch, Cap’n. How’ll we manage that, without stoppin’ to build the pine trunks across it?”

Razzid chuckled. “Yore a smart young un, but ye ain’t as clever as Razzid Wearat. I’ve already thought o’ that. We’re carryin’ the logs with us, so afore we sets off, we lashes ’em back into position an’ stands ’em on the bows. At the right moment, we lets ’em flat, right across the ditch without losin’ speed. Then it’s over the ditch an’ bang! Greenshroud ’ll knock only once on those doors, an’ they’ll fall flat.”

He turned to Shekra. “An’ ye know wot happens then?” Without waiting for a reply, he raised his voice into a harsh shout, waving the trident on high. “Then we conquers Redwall Abbey, shipmates! Slaves to wait on us, loot to share, soft berths an’ the best o’ vittles. Now, ’ow does that sound to ye?”

A roar went up from the assembled corsairs and searats. “Razzid! Razzid! Razzid Wearaaaaaaat!”

Captain Rake had been sleeping peacefully on the streambank, wrapped in his cloak but with his two claymores lying close to paw. It was not any woodland sound that wakened him, but a scent. A tantalising aroma of hot mint tea and fresh-baked coltsfoot and rosehip scones. It was still dark as he made his way to the glowing embers of the previous night’s campfire. Pinny Wiltud was already awake, readying breakfast.

Rake made an elegant leg. “Guid mornin’ tae ye, marm. Up an’ aboot early, eh!”

Busy with her work, the hogwife hardly gave him a glance. “I was wonderin’ when somebeast would sniff my breakfast. Sit ye down, Cap’n. You can be first served.”

She ladled out a beaker of the tea from her cauldron and placed four scones on a dockleaf.

“Careful now, the tea an’ scones are still hot.”

Rake sampled a nibble of scone and a sip of tea. He nodded admiringly at Pinny. “Marm, you’re a real treasure! Ah havenae tasted scones like these since mah auld granny used tae bake ’em. Rosehip an’ coltsfoot, right? Wi’ just a wee touch o’ dandelion bud. Och, a real taste o’ mah young seasons!”