The Rogue Crew (7 page)

He turned and found himself facing Razzid.

“Ye were sayin'?”

The ferret backed off nervously. “Never said nothin', Cap'n.”

Like a flash the trident was a hairsbreadth from his neck. The Wearat sounded dangerously calm. “Lie to me an' I'll slay ye here an' now. What did ye say? Tell me.”

The ferret was a seasoned killer and no mean fighter, but he quailed under the Wearat's piercing eye.

“I jus' said those wavedogs wasn't beasts t'be messed wid.” Razzid let the trident barbs drop.

“So, that's what ye think, eh? Anyone else think that?”

The ferret looked nervously at his mates' faces, but nobeast was about to speak out. He smiled weakly and shrugged. “I didn't mean nothin', Cap'n. On me oath, I didn't!”

Razzid stared levelly at him, still calm. “Ah, but I heard you, my friend. What was it? ‘Those wavedogs beat the livin' tar out of us . . .'?” He paused to wipe dampness from his bad eye. As he spoke again, his voice rose to a shout and his face became contorted with rage.

“Beat the living tar out of us? Nobeast has ever done that to Razzid Wearat and lived to tell of it. My wounds came from saving this ship—aye, and all the idiots I called a crew. You were one of them. I saved you all. And you dare to say that some foebeast beat me!”

Before the tattooed ferret could reply, Razzid lunged with his trident. Pierced through the stomach, the ferret shrieked. Like a farmer lifting hay with a pitchfork, the Wearat heaved his victim up bodily on the trident and hurled him overboard.

The crew stood shocked by the swift, vicious act.

Laughing madly, Razzid leaned over the stern gallery, bellowing at the dying corsair, “When ye get to Hellgates, tell 'em it was me that sent ye—me, Razzid Wearat!”

He turned to the crew, wielding his dripping trident. “Avast, who's next, eh? Any of you bold bullies wants to argue with me, come on, speak out!”

The silence was total. Rigging creaked, sails billowed, waves washed the sides of
Greenshroud,
but not a single corsair spoke.

Razzid laughed harshly. “The High North Coast, that's where this ship's bound. But this time we won't be ambushed up to our waists in the sea. Now I know wot my vessel can do, it'll be me dishin' out the surprises. We'll give those wavedogs the same as the rabbets got at the badger mountain.”

Shekra the vixen called out. “Aye, the waves'll run red with the blood of our foebeasts. Our cap'n's name will become a legend o' fear!”

Mowlag and Jiboree took up the cry, until all the crew were bellowing, “Wearat! Wearat! Razzid Wearat!”

Exulting in the moment, Razzid chanted with them.

Suddenly he slashed the air with his trident, silencing the noise. His anger quelled, he spoke normally again. “I am the Wearat. I cannot die—you've all seen this. Fools like that one, and that one, would not heed me.” He gestured overboard to where the ferret was floating facedown in
Greenshroud
's wake, then up to where the head of Braggio Ironhook was spiked atop the foremast. Razzid chuckled. “But believe me, there'll be no mistakes this time. The beast ain't been born who can get the better o' me, or my ship, or my crew. Right, mates?”

This triggered another wave of cheering.

Razzid beckoned to a small, fat stoat. “I remember you. Yore Crumdun, Braggio's little mate.”

Crumdun saluted hastily, several times. “Er, aye, Cap'n, but I'm with yew now. On me oath, I am!” The Wearat winked his good eye at Crumdun.

“Go an' broach a barrel o' grog. Let my crew drink to a winnin' voyage. Make that two barrels.”

As they sailed north, the corsairs drank greedily from both barrels, one of which was named Strong Addersting and the other Olde Lobsterclaw. The vermin swilled grog, grinning foolishly at the slightest thing.

Jiboree rapped Crumdun's tail with the flat of his cutlass. “Ahoy, wasn't you a pal o' Iron'ook?”

Crumdun giggled nervously. “Heehee . . . I was, but I ain't no more.”

Jiboree leered at him, then waved his cutlass blade. “I'eard that none o' Iron'ook's mates could sing. So, if'n yew wasn't a proper mate of 'is, then ye must be a good ole singer. Go on, lardtub, give us a song!”

With Mowlag's dagger point tickling him, the fat stoat was forced to dance a hobjig whilst warbling squeakily.

Night had fallen over the vast seas. The water was relatively calm, though a faint west breeze was drifting
Greenshroud
idly in toward the shore. Both grog barrels had been liberally punished by the vermin crew, most of whom were slumped around the deck. The tillerbeast was snoring, draped over the timber arm. He never stirred as the ship nosed lightly in, to bump softly into the shallows.

Only one crew member was wakened by the gentle collision of vessel and firm ground—the sharp-eyed young ferret lookout. It was his first encounter with the heady grog, so he had fallen asleep in the rigging. Fortunately he was low down and not up at the masthead. The light landing dislodged him from his perch. He fell into the shallows, waking instantly on contact with cold salt water. Shaking with shock, he clambered back aboard, his mind racing. Who would get the blame for allowing the vessel to beach itself? Would he be blamed?

Almost all the crew were in a drunken sleep. The ferret took a swift look overboard; it was low tide. How long would it take for
Greenshroud
to float off on the turn? Off to his right, he saw something. It was a small dwindling fire above the tideline. The lookout saw it as a chance to concoct a feasible excuse should the ship not float off before Razzid Wearat wakened himself. He slipped back ashore and crept stealthily toward the fire.

The young ferret had exceptional eyesight. Long before he reached the fire, he could see what was around it. A tumbledown lean-to, fashioned from an old coracle, with a big, fat, old bewhiskered otter sitting outside. The otter, wrapped in a sailcloth cloak, had his head bowed. He was obviously fast asleep in front of the glowing embers.

As the ferret hurried back to the ship, he saw a furtive figure jump overboard and scurry off eastward. Telling himself it was no business of his, he climbed aboard and gently wakened the searat who was slumped across the tiller. They held a swift whispered conversation, then the searat went off and roused Mowlag.

“I saw a firelight on the shore, mate, so I took the ship in to get a sight of it. The lookout saw there was an otter asleep by it. Big ole beast, 'e was. Wot d'ye think we should do?”

Mowlag tottered upright, still staggering from the grog he had downed. Patting the searat's back, he nodded at the lookout. “A waterdog, eh? Ye did well. I'll go an' tell the cap'n. There's nobeast 'e hates more'n those waterdogs. Yew stay put. Keep an eye on the waterdog in case'e moves.”

Nothing could have pleased the Wearat more than the opportunity to revenge himself on his enemy. He stole silently from the prow of
Greenshroud,
carrying his trident. Mowlag, Jiboree, the lookout and the steersrat flanked him.

“Wot d'ye think the cap'n will do to that beast?” the young ferret lookout whispered to Jiboree.

The weasel grinned wickedly in anticipation. “Yew just watch. Cap'n Razzid don't like waterdogs. I wager 'e slays'im good'n'slow, bit by bit!”

Jum Curdy's uncle Wullow snuffled a little. His head drooped further onto his chest, then he carried on snoring, stirring his whiskers with each breath. The coracle lean-to was sheltering his back, the fire embers were warming his front, and the tatty sailcloth cloak was keeping vagrant breezes at bay. A bundle of dead twigs and dried reed landed on the little fire, causing it to flare up. A spark stung Wullow's nosetip. He woke to find himself facing a strange, brutal-featured beast and four vermin corsairs. The flickering firelight reflected the evil glitter in the Wearat's one good eye.

“We wouldn't want yore fire goin' out on ye, friend. We'll make things nice an' warm for ye—won't we, mates?”

The other four vermin sniggered nastily. Wullow gave a deep sigh of despair as they closed in on him.

Trug Bawdsley unbuttoned his green uniform tunic as the column marched along a dunetop. “Funny how a chap can get so jolly hot just marchin', ain't it, Wilbee?”

Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory, who was flanking the column, flicked Trug's ear sharply. “Wot's h'all this, then, laddie buck? H'out on a picnic ramble, are we? Ho, 'ow nice!”

Trug grinned. “Actually, I was just sayin' how bloomin' hot it gets when one's out marchin'—”

The sergeant roared in fine parade-ground manner at the young hare. “Well, h'actually you'll find yoreself h'on a fizzer if'n ye don't git that tunic buttoned up proper, young Bawdsley. Now, gerrit fastened, ye lop-tailed, lollop-eared, doodle-eyed h'excuse for a ranker!”

Marching alongside Trug, Lancejack Sage giggled.

Miggory fixed her with a beady eye. “Nah then, missy, would ye like me t'give ye somethin' to giggle about, eh?”

The pretty young haremaid cast a doe-eyed peep at the sergeant, but she was swiftly corrected for it.

“Git yore eyes front, Sage. I h'aint some wool-'eaded cadet to flicker yore h'eyelashes at!”

Captain Rake Nightfur, striding with Buff Redspore, nodded with satisfaction. “Et'll do those young uns guid tae have Sergeant Miggory keepin' 'em up tae scratch, Ah'm thinken.”

The tracker smiled. “Aye, 'twill. I remember old Nubbs from my cadet seasons, though his bark's worse'n his bite.”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs, a small, trim veteran hare, checked the time by glancing up at the sun. He spoke out the side of his mouth to Lieutenant Scutram. “Midday, sah. Lunchtime, wot?”

Scutram nodded, calling from the rear, “Sarn't, halt 'em for refreshments, if y'd be so kind!”

Miggory always felt slightly put out by the lieutenant's well-mannered requests. He liked orders to be orders, so he bellowed resoundingly, “H'on my command the column will 'alt! Wait for it, Wilbee. Wait for it. Column . . . haaaaalt!”

The Long Patrollers kicked up a fine cloud of sand as they halted abruptly, awaiting further orders, which the colour sergeant issued aloud.

“H'attensun! Stan' easy. Salute smartly t'the right an' fall out! Lunch detail, attend to vittles!”

It was campaign rations, simple but nourishing. Hardtack scones, cold mint tea, the previous autumn's apples and a small wedge of cheese apiece. Many of the younger hares, who were unused to long marches, rubbed their footpaws tenderly.

“Whew, wish I'd been jolly well born as a bird!”

Miggory eyed the speaker. “Well, try flappin' those pretty ears h'of yores, Miz Ferrul. Who knows, ye might jus' take h'off!”

Some of the younger hares wolfed down their lunch, lay back and closed their eyes to take a short nap. Rake Nightfur immediately upbraided them.

“Ach, whit'n the name o' seasons are ye up tae? Sergeant Miggory, will ye no' look at this sorry lot? Och, they're like a nursery full o' babbies!”

The sergeant knew what he had to do. “H'up on yore paws, ye dozy creatures. C'mon, let's be havin' ye!

Quick'n'sharp now, afore h'I starts kickin' tails. Drander, if'n ye don't move yoreself faster, then I'll move ye myself!”

Drander, who was the biggest, most powerfully built of the younger hares, stood up casually. He towered over the sergeant, dusting off sand in a leisurely manner. “Beggin' y'pardon, Sarge, but I rather think it'd take somebeast bigger'n you to jolly well move me, wot!”

A crooked grin appeared on Nubbs Miggory's battered features. His paw moved almost faster than the eye could follow. Drander was suddenly kneeling, grasping his stomach as he tried to catch his breath.