The Rogue Crew

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.”

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.”