The Rogue Crew by Brian Jacques
Snaggs tugged on a long rope, which Uggo had not noticed before. Anchored to a stake driven deep in the clay floor, it ran outside the tunnel. The fox called out, “Posybud, bring some water fer the pris’ner ta drink!”
Uggo was surprised to see a very pretty young hedgehog carrying a pail and a scallop shell dipper shuffling toward him. Then he noticed that she was attached to the rope, a captive like himself.
Yirji stood on the rope, stopping her progress. “Gizz summa dat water. Me mouth’s been ’urted!”
Snaggs poked him from the rope with his staff. “I ’opes yer mouth’s been ’urted good. Might stop ya screechin’ an’ wailin’ alla time.” He pointed the staff at his newest captive. “Yew—wot’s ya name?”
Uggo answered promptly. “Uggo Wiltud!”
Snaggs shook his head, chuckling. “Buggo Muggo Wuggo—heehee, der names some o’ these young uns ’as now’days. Posybud, give Uggo a drink, there’s a good liddle maid!”
Sitting alongside Uggo, the young hogmaid dipped the shell into her pail, offering it to him. “Does your head hurt very much, Uggo?”
He tried a wan smile. “Aye, Miss Posybud. Hurts like fury!”
Taking some dried moss from her apron pocket, she soaked it with water. “Lean your head forward, and I’ll bathe it whilst you drink. By the way, you can call me Posy.”
The water was cold and clear; it tasted good. Uggo could feel Posy pressing the wet moss firmly on his head. He relaxed, sighing as she murmured soothingly, “It’s quite a bump you have there, but don’t worry. It’ll go down after a while. How does that feel now?”
Uggo refilled the shell from the pail.
“Ooh, much better, thank ye. I think the headache’s beginning to go. How long have you been with Snaggs?”
She was about to reply when two more young rats and a hulking young ferret came strolling into the tunnel.
Snaggs questioned them. “Anythin’ ’appenin’ out there?”
The ferret sprawled on the floor, chewing on some wild radish he had dug up from somewhere. “Nah, nothin’ much. Saw one o’ those streamdogs goin’ along the riverbank.”
One of the young rats contradicted him. “Dat wasn’t no streamdog—’twas a wavedog.”
The ferret waved a wooden club at him. “Who asked yew, limpetbrain? It was a streamdog. I knows me streamdogs from me wavedogs. Unless ya wants ter step outside an’ argue about it?”
The ferret twirled his club in the air skilfully.
Snaggs caught it, then passed it back. “No need fer dat sorta talk, Wigga me darlin’. Blawd didn’t mean nothin’. So, why didn’t ya catcher the streamdog, eh?”
The ferret, Wigga, scoffed. “Yew never seen the size of ’im. Huh, dat was one big beast, an’ ’e was carryin’ a lance. Why don’t yew track ’im down an’ catcher ’im yerself, Snaggs me darlin’?”
The fox shook his head at the burly young vermin. “Nah. I’m too old fer that kinda thing. That’n is more suited ter me. Guess wot ’is name is. Uggo! Heehee—wot sorta name’s dat fer an ’edgepig? Uggo!”
Blawd, one of the two young rats, took out a thin-bladed knife and tested its edge by licking it. He stared pointedly at Uggo. “Worra ya gonna do wid ’im, Snaggs, gut ’im an’ kill ’im? Dat’s wot I’d do, aye—roast ’im fer supper.”
Snaggs could move quickly for a fox of his long seasons. He tripped Blawd, kicked the knife away and pinned him down with his staff. “Ho, ya would, would ya? Well, yew lissen t’me, slime nose. I’m the chief round ’ere, an’ I sez wot we do. So if’n ya wants ter eat a roasted ’edgepig, go an’ git one o’ yer own. I catchered ’im while ’e was fishin’, so ’e could be useful.” Snaggs turned to Uggo. “Are ya any good at fishin, ’og?”
The young hedgehog was frightened. He nodded several times. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m a good fisher, fished all my life, I have!”
Another two young vermin had wandered in, a stoat and a weasel. Snaggs beckoned Posybud. “Go an’ see wot’s left o’ dat soup an’ serve it out.”
It was a thin broth of seaweed, a few herbs and some cockles and whelks, cooked in a cauldron on a fire outside the tunnel. The hogmaid dished it out to the vermin. There was about half a bowlful over, which she shared with Uggo. Snaggs sucked his broth noisily, chewing the shellfish. Wiping a paw over his mouth, he addressed Uggo.
“Ain’t a bad liddle cook, is she? From now on yew can be fisher. There’s a whole sea fulla fish out der. So, yew catch the fishes, an’ she cooks ’em. If’n yew doesn’t catch no fishes, then we’ll try Blawd’s idea, we’ll slay ya an’ roast ya . . . both!”
Snaggs and his gang settled down then for their nap. Posy continued treating Uggo’s headache with the wet moss, talking quietly with him. “Don’t worry, they’re always threatening evil things, but none of it comes to anything, usually. Is it true—are you a good fisherbeast?”
Uggo shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always done my fishing in Redwall Abbey’s pond. I suppose the fox wants me to fish in the sea, but I’ve never done that before. You’re a good cook, Posy. I know because I thought your broth was delicious.”
The pretty hogmaid smiled at the compliment. “Oh, it ain’t that good, though I like to cook, an’ if I’m given the right ingredients, I could suprise you.”
Uggo dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’ll be plenty o’ time to surprise me after we’ve escaped this fox an’ his bullies.”
Posy pressed down hard on his headbump with the wet moss. “Hush! Don’t even think about it, Uggo. Snaggs and his vermin are wicked beasts. They’d enjoy recapturing us an’ roastin’ us for supper. I know, ’cos they’ve done it before. I’ve heard them jokin’ about it, an’ I’ve seen the bones scattered in the sand. Forget escape, friend. It’s a sure way to get us slain.”
The young hedgehog straightened his head, flexing his neck back and forth. “By the seasons, Posy, y’must have healin’ paws. I feel much better, an’ the headache’s gone. Listen, if’n we stay here, they’ll kill us both sooner or later. We’ve got to escape, but we need a plan. I’m not goin’ to let’em track us down an’ catch us again. Don’t say any more for now, Posy. I need to think.”
The pretty hogmaid saw the determination in his eyes. She nodded. “Right, we’ll both do some thinking and keep our eyes an’ ears alert for any chances.”
Uggo pretended he was dozing, but he watched the activities within the tunnel through half-closed eyes. Several more young vermin returned to Snaggs’s lair, mainly rats, but one or two stoats and ferrets. By the light filtering in from outside, Uggo guessed it was early evening.
Snaggs woke and stumped about with his staff, questioning the gang. “Any of ya see’d the big streamdog wot Wigga’n’Blawd saw this mornin’?”
There had been no further sightings of Jum Gurdy. The fox nudged a young stoat, who was armed with a long sling. “Worrabout yew, Jonder? Catch anythin’?”
The stoat made a throwing gesture with his sling. “Aye, Snaggs, I kil’t a big seagill wid one stone. Caught ’im swoopin’ down an’ slung me best pebble—smacko! Gorrim right in the eye. I left it outside.”
Snaggs waved the staff at Uggo and Posy. “Yew two, gerrout there an’ git the seagill in the pot. Pluck all its fedders off first, though. Jonder, Vilty, go an’ keep an eye on ’em. Make sure they don’t get itchy paws an’ try ta run.”
Yirji, the rat Uggo had butted, pulled out his knife. “I’ll go, Chief. If’n dat ’edgepig tries ta run, I’ll cut ’is paws off!”
Snaggs tripped Yirji as he rose, pinning him down with the staff. “Yew’ll stay where ye are. If’n there’s any paw cuttin’ round ’ere, I’m the one wot’ll be doin it. Startin’ wid yew!”
Vilty was a young ratmaid. She untied Uggo’s paws, roping him by his neck to the line around Posy. Having been marched outside, they were confronted by the body of a black-headed gull lying by the fire next to the cauldron.
Jonder lifted its limp head. “See? Right in the eye—blatt!”
The distasteful task was difficult. Starting on a wing, they both found the feathers hard to pull out.
Jonder stood twirling his sling, watching them impatiently. “Didn’t ya never pluck fedders off a bird afore? The way youse are shapin’, it’ll be winter season by the time yer finished. Gerrout the way!”
He kicked them both away from the dead gull.
“Vilty, move dat cauldron off the fire. This is the best way ta git the job done!”
Grunting and shoving, Jonder managed to get the gull halfway into the flames. He dusted off his paws. “Dat’s der best way to git fedders off’n a bird!”
After a short while, the acrid stench of burning plumage filled the air. A breeze coming in from the sea blew the fumes into the tunnel. Hawking and coughing, Snaggs came staggering out, followed by the others. He yelled angrily at the hedgehogs. “Wot’n blazin’ are ya doin’? We’re gettin’ choked in there by that stink!”
He raised the staff to hit Uggo, but Posy placed herself between them, shouting, “It wasn’t us—it was Jonder, he did it!”
A heated argument broke out between Snaggs and Jonder. The other vermin began taking sides and were soon involved. Blows were struck as they yelled at one another.
For a moment, Uggo and Posy were forgotten. They found themselves backed up by the side of a dune.
Uggo murmured to his friend, “Wish I had a blade. If’n there was somethin’ to cut this rope with, we could make a run for it!”
“Don’t try anythin’, young Wiltud. If ye run they’ll catch ye. Stay where ye are for now.”
Posy stared at Uggo. “What was that you said?”
Uggo was mystified. “I never said anythin’.”
The voice, which seemed to come from the grassy dunetop, continued. “I said, don’t try to run. Try to get t’the sea tomorrow. Look out for a log!”
Yirji, who had been hopping about on the edge of the fray, came running toward them, waving his rusty knife.
“Worra yew two yappin’ about? Tryin’ ter escape, eh? I been waitin’ fer sumthin’ like this!”
Before he ever got to them with the knife, Snaggs felled him with a hard blow from his staff. The fox stood over Yirji, breathing heavily. “I warned ya t’stay away from my pris’ners!”
The affray had ceased. Now everybeast was watching Snaggs. Sensing he was back in command, the fox bawled out orders. “Git that bird offa the fire afore we’re all suffercated! No more fightin’, or I’ll give yez wot I gave ’im.” He tapped Yirji with the staff but saw that he had knocked him out cold with the first blow.
“Jonder, Wigga, carry this idjit back inter the den. Vilty, Blawd, cover that bird wid sand—it’ll keep the smell down! The rest of ya, back inside. Cummon, yew two.” He gave the rope a sharp tug, muttering as he hauled the captives along. “Blood’n’guts, dat’s brekkist tomorrer spoiled. I couldn’t eat gull after sniffin’ those fedders!”
The idea came to Uggo in a flash. “I’ll get fish for ye, Chief—me’n’Posy, early in the mornin’. Round about dawn’s the best time for fish.”
Snaggs eyed Uggo suspiciously. “Wot do ya wanna gerrup earlier an’ go fishin’ for, eh?”
Uggo smiled hopefully. “’Cos if me’n’Posy catches enough fish, there might be some for us, too.”
Posy nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, sir. I’ll spit the fish on fresh reeds an’ roast them nice for ye!”
The fox smiled. “Aye, I likes roasted fish fer me brekkist. Wot’ll ye need?”
Uggo scratched his headspikes. “Er, two rods, some line, few stones for weights an’ a few hooks.”
Snaggs ushered them into the tunnel, leaving Uggo’s paws unbound, though he was still attached to Posy’s rope. The fox snuffled distastefully. “I kin still smell burnt fedders in ’ere. Jonder, no more birds fer a while. Yew an’ Wigga take the two ’ogs fishin’ at dawn. Keep an eye on’em—they’ll be gittin’ fish fer brekkist.”
Seated back in their former position, Uggo squeezed Posy’s paw. “Now we’ll get to the sea an’ look out for the log. At least it’s a chance.”
10
Between them, Lieutenant Scutram, Captain Rake and Sergeant Miggory buried the remains of the old sea otter. They worked swiftly, marking the sandy grave with a charred piece of timber, which had served Jum Gurdy’s uncle Wullow as a paddle. The stoat Crumdun was standing nearby, guarded by Corporal Welkin. Captain Rake beckoned him forward.
“Ye say ye seen nought of what happened here?”
The former corsair shook his head vigorously. “Nay, sir, an’ by the look of wot was left o’ that pore creature, I’m glad I didn’t. On me oath, sir!”
The captain looked to Scutram, who nodded. “I’m inclined to believe the rascal, sah, ’pon me word. Though I can’t believe that a livin’ thing, vermin or not, could do such a cruel deed to another, wot!”
Crumdun stared at the grave, still shaking his head. “I’ll tell ye, gentlebeasts. Razzid Wearat enjoyed doin’ things like that. I’ve ’eard stories about that un as’d make yore fur curl. My ole mate, Braggio—d’ye know wot the Wearat did to ’im? Wait’ll I tell ye—”
Captain Rake cut him off sharply. “No, ye won’t, mah friend. Ah don’t want tae hear another word about the murders done by yore Wearat master. An’ mind, Ah forbid ye tae speak o’ it tae any o’ mah young Patrollers, d’ye ken?”
The stoat tugged his snout. “Aye, sir!”
The tall captain saluted the grave. “’Tis a sad end tae anybeast, but rest easy, mah laddie, an’ know that your death’ll be avenged by us. We’ll make yon Wearat weep tears o’ bluid, Ah swear et on these blades!”
Touching his lips to the blades of the twin claymores, which he had drawn to salute the fallen otter, Rake Nightfur sheathed them, turning smartly. “Sarn’t Miggory, get the Patrol underway, if ye please!”
They marched off along the shore into the sunlit spring day, though gossip was rife throughout the ranks about what they had missed seeing.
“I say, why d’you suppose we weren’t allowed one bally peek?”
“Search me. We’ve all seen deadbeasts before, haven’t we?”
“Speak for y’self, Wilbee, I jolly well haven’t!”
“Huh, must’ve been somethin’ pretty dreadful, wot!”
The stern voice of Sergeant Miggory warned the speaker. “Somethin’ pretty dreadful will ’appen t’you h’if ye keep on blatherin’ h’in the ranks, laddie buck. H’an that goes for you, too, Miss Ferrul. Eyes front, now, an’ pick up the pace. Left right, left right!”
Corporal Welkin called out to Miggory, “Only one thing t’keep ’em marchin’ smartlike an’ stop the blighters talkin’, Sarn’t!”
Miggory bellowed back to him. “Ho, an’ wot’s that, Corp?”
Welkin’s reply came back equally loud. “Get ’em singin’ an’ slap anybeast who ain’t singin’ out ’earty enough on a fizzer, wot!”
The colour sergeant performed a maneuver which amazed the young hares. Twirling about, he began marching backward without breaking pace, keeping up with the column and roaring cheerfully at them. “H’I say, wot a spiffin’ h’idea! Right, you ’orrible lot, h’I wants to ’ear you singin’ like flippin’ larks. H’every verse o’ that liddle dittie h’entitled ‘The Barracks Bunfight’! An’ woe betide h’anybeast whose tonsils h’I can’t see wagglin’ like the clappers. Corporal Welkin, will you lead off? The rest of ye, join in smartly now h’in yore best voices!”
The marching ballad Miggory had chosen was one to cheer their spirits and drown any curiosity and speculation about former incidents. Everybeast sang lustily, with even the officers joining in.
“One two three four, tell me, Sergeant, tell me more!
see,
we went along last winter, old Tubby Dobbs an’ me,
with brushed an’ curled moustaches, an’ buttons
polished bright,
the gels were flutterin’ lashes at both of us that night.
“Five six seven eight, on the dot an’ don’t be late!
Stap me flippin’ vitals, the barracks did look bright,
all spiffed up with lanterns, an’ glitt’rin’ candlelight.
Two buffet tables groanin’ ’neath scads o’ lovely stuff,
pudden’n’pie’n’trifle, an’ pots o’ skilly’n’duff.
“One two three four, off we jigged across the floor!
The band was tootlin’ gaily, when Tubby gave a wail,
he’d backed into a candle, which set fire to his tail,
he bumped into the colonel, who was wolfin’ down his
grub,
they both went staggerin’ headlong, into the port wine
tub.
“Five six seven eight, Wiggy cried, ‘Look out, mate!’
The cook was servin’ duff, which went flyin’ off his
spoon,
it splattered an old fiddler, scrapin’ out a tune,
his bow shot like an arrow, an’ hit the major’s niece,
she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, so she gave him a
piece.
“Nine ten eleven, sah, give ’em blood an’ vinegah!
Hurrah for barracks bunfight, I leapt into the fray,
I meant to hit the fiddler, but his pal got in the way,
a regimental bandbeast, a hefty chap, by gum,
this ain’t a hat I’m wearin’, it’s . . . a euphonium!”
Captain Nightfur chuckled, stepping out jauntily. “Och, that’s the stuff tae give ’em, Sergeant. Can ye no’ sing ‘Hares o’ the Highlands’? That’s a braw ditty—an’ ‘Long Patrol Laddies,’ too. There’s nought like a wee spot o’ singin’ tae keep the spirit up, the noo!”