The Rogue Crew

Little Brinky was sobbing with fright. Jum came from behind the barrels and swept her up in his paws. “There now, liddle un. There’s nought to fret about.” Raising his voice, he silenced the panicked cries. “Calm ye down now, goodbeasts. There ain’t no Wearat at all, so stop all this noise or ye’ll disturb my barrels of October Ale. Nothin’ worse than unseemly shoutin’ for October Ale!”

Abbot Thibb confronted the Cellardog. “Then perhaps you’d best keep your voice down, sir. Mayhaps you might explain this upset to me.”

Dorka curtsied respectfully to Thibb. “’Twas my fault, Father Abbot, but I didn’t know the Dibbun maid was lissenin’. I was tellin’ Jum that after you left my gate’ouse, Uggo was talkin’ in his sleep again, describin’ the marks on the sail of the green ship ’e saw in ’is dreams. ’Twas the sign o’ the Wearat, weren’t it, Jum?”

The big Cellardog caught the warning look in Thibb’s eye, so he chose his words carefully.

“Well, that’s wot Uggo said it was, but who can tell wot an overstuffed liddle ’og sees in a bad dream, eh?”

Dorka’s observation slipped out before she could think. “But ’e did describe the sign right, I’m sure of it!”

Jum saw the look of dismay on his sister’s face. Making light of the situation, he smiled, patting her back. “Now you lissen t’me, ole gel—an’ you Redwallers, too. There ain’t no Wearat within twenny sea leagues of ’ere, nor is there likely t’be. There was only one such beast I ever ’eard of. Razzid Wearat, the corsair cap’n. I know wot ’appened to that un, ’cos when I went t’the coast I saw my ole uncle Wullow, the sea otter. ’Twas Wullow that gave me a gift o’ those fine clamshells wot yore usin’ t’drink from. Any’ow, some seasons ago, Wullow got news from ’is kinbeast, Skor Axehound, chieftain o’ the High North Coast. It seems that Razzid Wearat an’ ’is corsair crew came a-raidin’.” Jum paused to give a wry chuckle.

“Sorriest day o’ that Wearat’s life, ’twas. Skor an’ them wild sea otters loves battle more’n Uggo loves stolen cakes. They gave those vermin a mighty whackin’. Aye, slew most o’ the corsairs an’ set their cap’n back out t’sea, with decks awash in gore an’ the ship in tatters an’ flames. So ye can take my ole uncle Wullow’s word, as give to ’im by the Axehound hisself. If there ever was a Wearat, well, ’e’s lyin’ on the seabed now, burnt to a soggy crisp!”

An audible sigh of relief rang through the cellars. Abbot Thibb stowed both paws in his wide sleeves, acknowledging Jum with a slight bow.

“Thank you, Mister Gurdy. Now, who was next to sing us a song—a good jolly one I think, eh?”

Foremole tootled a lively ripple on his melodeon, nodding to a pair of little moles, who immediately began singing and dancing.

“Ho round an’ round an’ round ee floor,

shutten ee window, close ee door,

moi likkle beauty take ee charnce,

join Oi en ee molebabe darnce!

“Clappen ee paws a-wun, two, three,

twiggle ee tail roight murrily,

moi ole granma carn’t do thiz,

a-’cos she’m got ee roomatiz!

“Jump ee h’up naow gurtly ’igh,

watch thy ’ead, doan’t bump ee sky,

jumpen ’igher than ee trees,

hurr, wot ’arpy childs uz bee’s!

“Jumpen ’igh as trees you’m arsk,

Ho, by urr, a drefful tarsk,

you’m a h’orful silly lump,

doan’t you’m know ee trees carn’t jump!”

They sang it again and again. Dibbuns joined in the dance, showing off much tail wagging and jumping. Amidst the merriment, mention of Wearats was soon forgotten.

Jum Gurdy edged close to the Abbot, murmuring a message. “Father, can ye tell Foremole Roogo t’keep an eye on my cellars for a few days? I’m off t’the seacoast. That ole uncle Wullow o’ mine, he’s a rare ole tale teller. I think he makes a lot of ’is stories up, so I’m just goin’ t’see if’n wot’e said about that Wearat was for true.”

4

Dawn had scarcely shown its pale light over the western coast when pandemonium broke loose at Salamandastron. A bugle blasting out its brassy alarm set every hare on the mountain dashing to the call. Lady Violet Wildstripe hurried from her forge chamber, joining Colour Sergeant Miggory and Lieutenant Scutram as they rushed downstairs. From dormitory, mess hall, kitchens and barrack room, Long Patrol members charged to the main gate. They parted to make way for the Badger Lady and her officers.

A bewhiskered and monocled Major Felton Fforbes was waving his swagger stick, rapping out orders. “All ranks back off now, quick as y’like, wot! Come on, chaps, give ’em room t’jolly well breathe, if y’please!”

Two young hare cadets, Lancejack Sage and Trug Bawdsley, who formed half of the Seawatch dawn relief, were sitting slumped against a gatepost. Both were obviously in shock, shivering and moaning incoherently.

The colour sergeant twitched his ears enquiringly. “Nah, then, wot’s goin’ h’on ’ere, buckoes?”