The Rogue Crew

Skor explained briefly as he followed Rekaby amongst the wounded Guosim. The old squirrel listened as he inspected the injured creatures before turning his attention to Scutram. “Have ye seen to them all yet?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Haven’t had much time, sah. Huh, ain’t got much to jolly well work with either, wot!”

Rekaby nodded. “Not bad work, friend, but ye can leave this to us now. Fiddy, Frudd, Keltu, Laka, get my herbal bag an’ see wot ye can do about some dressin’s. Search about. I need dockleaves, woodruff, pepperwort, angelica—oh, an’ some fumitory for binding an’ stitching.”

Rekaby addressed Captain Rake. “Have ye any more wounded?”

The tall, dark hare shook his head. “Jist what ye see here, guid sir.”

The old squirrel took a quick estimate of the shrews. “It must’ve been a terrible slaughter. There’s only just over half of the Guosim that I met with not long back. No sign of their Log a Log, Dandy Clogs, nor of the two young hogs I left in their care—”

Jum Gurdy interrupted anxiously. “Two young ’ogs, ye say? Was one of ’em called Uggo?”

Rekaby nodded. “Aye, an’ his little friend, Posy. I left them with the Guosim—they were goin’ to take them to Redwall. Swiffo went of his own accord.”

Skor strode forward. “Swiffo, that’s the name my youngest son give ’imself. Ye mean he went with the Guosim?”

Dobble, the Guosim scout, sat up, nursing a shoulder wound. “Aye, sire, Swiffo was with us, an’ both liddle ’ogs, but I don’t see ’em anywheres round ’ere now.”

Skor’s hefty, gnarled paw tightened around his battleaxe. “If anythin’s happened to my young un—”

Before he finished the sentence, his elder son, Ruggan, rushed into the river, brandishing his blade. “Yaylaho, Rogue Crew, let’s get after those vermin!”

Hurrying to join them, Skor called to Rake, “Got to go, Nightfur—they might have my young son!”

For a moment Rake looked undecided. There were still many Guosim lying on the bankside in need of help. Rekaby motioned for him to go.

“Nothin’ ye can do here, friend. My Fortunate Freepaws can deal with these shrews. Take two logboats an’ pursue those evil ones. Good fortune attend ye!”

The old squirrel took Jum Gurdy’s paw. “Ye’d best stay here, friend, in case yore two liddle hogs turn up. They could’ve escaped the attack, y’know.”

Jum cast a glance at the sea otter warriors, swimming upriver swiftly, despite the weapons they carried. He saw the Long Patrol, fit young hares, battle ready, launching the two logboats. Suddenly the big Cellardog felt heavy and burdened with long seasons. He sighed. “Aye, mate, yore right. Besides, I couldn’t show my face round Redwall without liddle Uggo, or at least some news of him. I’ll lend a paw here.”

The young squirrel, Laka, presented Jum with the mischievous babe, Wiggles, saying, “I’ll start makin’ dockleaf poultices. You ’ang on to this un, seein’ as yore partial to’edg’ogs.”

Jum smiled at the infant, chucking her under the chin. “Well, ain’t you a cute little thing!”

The babe glared up at Jum. “Ain’t a cute liddle fing. I’m a Wiggles, y’ole fatty!” She bit Jum’s paw, leapt down and sped off along the bank.

Laka nudged Jum. “Well, don’t jus’ stan’ there. Git after’er—an’ be careful, or Wiggles’ll bite ye agin!”

The big otter lumbered off along the bank, fervently wishing that he had gone with Skor and Rake. Wiggles shot up a sycamore trunk. She perched on a branch, just out of Jum’s reach, swinging her footpaws and giggling. “Heeheehee! Can’t get Wiggles, big ole fatty bottom, yore a lardy belly, that’s wot yew are. Heeheehee!”

Jum Gurdy began searching for a long stick to dislodge the imp with, muttering to himself, “I’ve certainly got me work cut out this day!”

22

It was toward evening when the breeze died away. Mowlag glanced at the limp green sails, stating the obvious to his captain. “Wind’s gone, Cap’n. We’re startin’ to drift astern with the current.”

Razzid leaned on his trident, replying with mock surprise, “Really? Is that a fact. Wot d’ye suggest we do, bucko?”

The searat took a backward pace, answering lamely, “Break out the paddles an’ get the crew t’work?”

Not dignifying the suggestion with a comment, the Wearat turned away. Brushing away a midge that was crawling close to his good eye, he stumped off wordlessly to his cabin. Mowlag sighed with relief, then began yelling out orders.

“Furl all sails an’ lower ’em! Break out the oars an’ git pullin’ ’er upriver! Can’t ye see we’re drifting back’ards? C’mon, shift yore idle carcasses!”

From the mast, the keen-eyed stoat on lookout yelled down, “Ahoy, do I stop up ’ere, or do I start furlin’ sail?”

Mowlag glared up at the stoat. “Git down’ere, right now!”

With no prior warning, the stoat came down to the deck, plunging from the masthead with an arrow through his throat.

“Yaaaah!” Jiboree yelled in horror as he left the tiller, rushing to Mowlag, who stood with the dead lookout lying next to his footpaws. “Yaaaah! All paws on deck—we’re under attack! All paws on deck!”