The Rogue Crew

Greenshroud had made a speedy descent out of the dunes, and a lively breeze was astern. Corsairs and searats crowded her for’ard deck, leaning over the sides and shouting at their quarry, which was looming up in clear view.

“Hoho, supper’s ahead, mates—we’ll ’ave ’em soon!”

“I wants first go at those fat, ’airy mouses!”

“Makes no diff’rence t’me. They’ll all taste the same once they’re roasted!”

“Ahoy there, friends, don’t run, it’ll only tire ye out. Come up ’ere an’ ride with us, we’ll take care o’ ye!”

Mowlag began distributing boat hooks and pikes. “Git up on the prow an’ ’ook them aboard once they’re within reach. Look sharpish!”

Jiboree’s face was one huge smirk. “Shall I tell that greasy ole cook to stoke up ’is galley fires, Cap’n?”

Razzid frowned. To him this all seemed a bit too easy; he was beginning to feel suspicious.

“Slack off sail, Mowlag. I think there’s somethin’ we don’t know about this place that those beasts do—”

Greenshroud suddenly lurched head down as its weight burst the marsh crust. Two corsairs standing out on the bowsprit with pikes at the ready were hurled from the ship. Razzid’s intuition had worked, but too late.

Fiddy and Frudd, who were bringing up the rear, heard the noise and turned to look back. Both hairy voles began leaping jubilantly.

“It worked, it worked! Look at the fools!”

“Haharr, that’s wot ye get for chasin’ Fortunate Freepaws!” Swiffo shouted at them. “Their ship’s stuck, but they can still track an’ hunt us. Come on, we ain’t got time t’waste. Once nightfall comes, even I could git lost in this marsh!”

Back at Greenshroud, it was a scene of chaos, and incredible stench. The big vessel was almost bow deep in the dark soup, with its front two wheels buried up to their rims. Razzid Wearat laid about at everybeast with his trident haft, bawling furiously, “Get aft, all paws aft! Mowlag, we need ropes, hawsers, lines, anything. Lash ’em to the stern an’ back wheels. Get off the ship—see if’n ye can find trees or rocks an’ tie up to them. We’ve got t’stop ’er sinkin’ further!”

Pushing, kicking and shoving crewbeasts, Mowlag and Jiboree ran about in a frenzy, bellowing, “Yew ’eard the cap’n, empty the rope locker! Shekra, git a shore party an’ scout out rocks or trees. Move!”

A slimy paw reached out of the mess, clutching at the bowsprit, where it clung for a moment before slipping back into the gurgling marsh. That was all there was to be seen of the two crewbeasts who had fallen in.

Razzid came gingerly from the stern onto the gently heaving marsh crust. Swiftly making his way to safer ground, he encountered the fat, greasy cook. “You, get a fire goin’ here, an’ don’t go pokin’ that peg leg of yores through the floor.”

The cook, a peg-legged weasel named Badtooth, saluted. “Aye, Cap’n, a fire might drive the smell away, eh?” As he spoke, his wooden peg punctured the crust, sending up a jet of odorous liquid.

Razzid was about to hurl his trident at the unlucky Badtooth when the searat Dirgo came creeping carefully up to make a report.

“Cap’n, the vixenfox says to tell ye she’s found a big ole tree. ’Tis close enough to haul yore ship out.”

The Wearat almost thrust his trident into the quaking ground, but thinking better of it, he waved it at Dirgo. “Show me this tree. I’d best take charge o’ gettin’ the ship free, rather’n trust yew idiots!”

As the runaways forged onward, shades of evening began to fall. Posy looked fearfully at Uggo. “Hope we don’t get lost here once it goes dark. It’s a vile, stinky place!”

Rekaby silenced her with an upraised paw. “Hush, listen!”

From somewhere not too far off, a harsh, challenging cry rang out. The old squirrel smiled.

“We’ll be alright now. Sircolo’s here. Wait, I’ll call him.” Rekaby shouted in an equally aggressive manner, “Ahoy, old raggedy tail, if’n you eat me, I’ll poison ye, just for spite!”

There was a whistling noise, and Rekaby was almost knocked flat by Sircolo’s huge wings as the big bird came out of nowhere to land in their midst.

Uggo and Posy ran back several paces, awestruck at the appearance of the visitor. Sircolo was a fully grown male marsh harrier, with slate grey back and tail, cream and white underwing plumage and reddish feathered legs. The harrier had the curved beak common to hunting hawks and eyes that were frightening to look at. Sircolo held forth a lethal yellow-scaled talon, which Rekaby shook cordially.

The harrier blinked at him. “Yirrrk! Who would eat you, old gristlebag!”

Rekaby chuckled. “Well, there’s a crew of vermin on our tails who ain’t too particular what they eat.”

Swiffo boldly came up and rubbed his back under Sircolo’s neck. The harrier obviously liked this and made a hoarse chuckling sound.

Swiffo spoke soothingly. “Just think of it, mate. Fat, juicy searats, plump stoats, nice easy pickings, eh!”

Sircolo eyed the present company so hungrily that Posy wondered if the savage bird was really joking.