The Rogue Crew

It was an idea that was foreign to the Wearat’s nature, but seeing the possibilities, he agreed. “Right. You go an’ fetch him, an’ I’ll have vittles laid out for him. But I warn ye, fox—yore scheme had better work, or ’twill be the worse for ye.”

The crew had been told about Drogbuk Wiltud. They avoided talking to him as he came aboard with Shekra. Entering the captain’s cabin, he ignored everything else, making straight for the meal of grilled fish and gull’s eggs. The ragged hog set about the food with all the appetite of a true Wiltud.

Shekra poured him a beaker of Strong Addersting grog, enquiring, “Is the food to your liking, my friend?”

Drogbuk spat out a herring bone and slopped down some grog. He sniffed. “I’ve tasted worse. Who’s that un?”

Razzid remained silent as the vixen answered, “That’s our captain.”

Drogbuk refilled his tankard with the fiery grog. Draining it, he smacked his lips, giggling. “Heeheehee, uglylookin’ ole toad, ain’t ’e?”

Shekra held her breath in horror as Razzid stayed the ragged guest’s paw from reaching for more grog.

“I’m told ye know the way to Redwall. Tell me.”

Drogbuk stared into the leaky eye as if he did not care. “Ain’t sayin nought ’til I’ve ’ad me fill!”

Razzid was fuming inwardly, but he allowed the meal to continue. Drogbuk wolfed down fish and eggs, and drained the tankard three times. Then he sat back, picking with a fishbone at his stained teeth. Staring at Razzid’s good eye this time, he belched aloud.

“Good drop o’ grog, that. Ain’t ’ad no grog fer a season. Pour us a drop more there, Cap’n.”

Nodding toward a keg in the corner, Razzid spoke, trying not to grit his teeth as his ire rose. “Not so fast, friend. You can drink as much as you like from that little barrel once you tell us how to get to the Redwall place.”

Owing to the amount he had already supped, the old Wiltud hog’s speech was becoming slurred.

“S’awright, Cap’n. I knows ’sactly where ’tis. Jusht sail south downa coast ’til ye comes to a river wot runsh over the shore. S’called der River Moss, y’cant mish it. Ye goes up there t’the easht!”

Drogbuk’s chin dropped onto his chest, grog dribbling out of his lips. He hiccuped, belched, then began snoring.

Jiboree curled his mouth in disgust as he drew his knife. “Slobberin’ ole sot. ’Ere, Cap’n, lemme tickle ’im up a bit wid me blade. I’ll make ’im sing like a finch at a feast!”

A kick from Razzid sent the weasel sprawling.

Razzid’s voice was heavy with authority. “Anybeast puts a paw near this ’og will drown in ’is own blood. We’ll do this my way. Leave the drunken fool to sleep it off. He’ll do anythin’ for a noggin o’ grog. When I needs more information, I’ll just let ’im take a liddle sip—that’ll loosen ’is tongue. Right, Shekra?”

The Seer saluted. “Aye, Cap’n, a good plan!”

The Wearat dismissed Jiboree and Mowlag. “Git all paws onboard an’ hoist sail. Take ’er south along the coast an’ keep an eye out for this River Moss.” Mowlag reminded him of the trackers he had sent out over the marshes on Posy and Uggo’s trail.

“Ain’t we waitin’ fer Ricker’n’Voogal, Cap’n?”

Razzid sneered. “No we ain’t. I’ve got wot we need, a beast who knows the way to Redwall. Those two idiots might be drowned in that swamp, an’ if’n they ain’t, well, they should’ve been back aboard long since, wid the two liddle ’ogs. Now, get my ship underway, quick!”

He lifted Drogbuk’s head and let it drop again. The old hedgehog snuffled briefly, then resumed snoring.

Razzid took up his trident, giving orders to Shekra. “Lock this cabin after me. Let nobeast in ’ere. Watch’im an’ let me know when’e comes round.”

The vixen settled down with a small beaker of grog when Razzid had departed. She felt quite pleased with the way things were working out. Redwall Abbey, in sunny countryside, peace and plenty. What more could a fox want?

19

It was a moonless night out on the marsh. The two trackers, Ricker the searat, and Voogal the ferret, had not gone far. The supply of food and grog they had taken from Greenshroud’s galley interested them more than what seemed like a pointless task. Finding a relatively safe spot, they made camp and lit a small fire. Sitting with their backs against a fallen alder trunk, they broke out the rations.

Ricker sampled a stodgy mess, then, pulling a wry face, spat it out. “Yurk! Wot’s this supposed ter be?”

Voogal sampled the lumpy mass, seeming to like it. “Skilly’n’duff, wot’d dried up inna pan. It’s good stuff, mate. Yore too fussy, that’s yore trouble!”

Ricker uncorked a large earthenware flask. He drank from it, then put it aside, making the same pained expression. “This is Strong Addersting grog. Why didn’t ye take some o’ the good stuff, like Blistery Barnacle?”

Voogal took a swig, nodding approval. “Nothin’ wrong wid Strong Addersting, it’s me favourite. Now, is there anythin’ else to complain about, fussbucket?”

The searat scowled. “Less o’ the fussbucket, ye great slopbin. Yew’d shove anythin’ down yore face!”