The Rogue Crew

Suddenly he slashed the air with his trident, silencing the noise. His anger quelled, he spoke normally again. “I am the Wearat. I cannot die—you’ve all seen this. Fools like that one, and that one, would not heed me.” He gestured overboard to where the ferret was floating facedown in Greenshroud’s wake, then up to where the head of Braggio Ironhook was spiked atop the foremast. Razzid chuckled. “But believe me, there’ll be no mistakes this time. The beast ain’t been born who can get the better o’ me, or my ship, or my crew. Right, mates?”

This triggered another wave of cheering.

Razzid beckoned to a small, fat stoat. “I remember you. Yore Crumdun, Braggio’s little mate.”

Crumdun saluted hastily, several times. “Er, aye, Cap’n, but I’m with yew now. On me oath, I am!” The Wearat winked his good eye at Crumdun.

“Go an’ broach a barrel o’ grog. Let my crew drink to a winnin’ voyage. Make that two barrels.”

As they sailed north, the corsairs drank greedily from both barrels, one of which was named Strong Addersting and the other Olde Lobsterclaw. The vermin swilled grog, grinning foolishly at the slightest thing.

Jiboree rapped Crumdun’s tail with the flat of his cutlass. “Ahoy, wasn’t you a pal o’ Iron’ook?”

Crumdun giggled nervously. “Heehee . . . I was, but I ain’t no more.”

Jiboree leered at him, then waved his cutlass blade. “I’eard that none o’ Iron’ook’s mates could sing. So, if’n yew wasn’t a proper mate of ’is, then ye must be a good ole singer. Go on, lardtub, give us a song!”

With Mowlag’s dagger point tickling him, the fat stoat was forced to dance a hobjig whilst warbling squeakily.

“Ho, wot a drunken ship this is,

’tis called the Tipsy Dog,

an’ the bosun’s wife is pickled for life,

in a bucket o’ seaweed grog!

“Sing rum-toodle-oo, rum-toodle-’ey,

an’ splice the mainbrace, matey,

roll out the grog, ye greedy hog,

’cos I ain’t had none lately.

“Our cap’n was a rare ole cove,

’is name was Dandy Kipper.

He went to sea, so he told me,

in a leaky bedroom slipper!

“Sing rum-toodle-oo, rum-toodle-’ey,

this drink is awful stuff,

me stummick’s off, an’ I can’t scoff,

this bowl o’ skilly’n’duff!

“The wind came fast an’ broke the mast,

an’ the crew for no good reason,

dived straight into a barrel o’ grog,

an’ stayed there ’til next season!”

Night had fallen over the vast seas. The water was relatively calm, though a faint west breeze was drifting Greenshroud idly in toward the shore. Both grog barrels had been liberally punished by the vermin crew, most of whom were slumped around the deck. The tillerbeast was snoring, draped over the timber arm. He never stirred as the ship nosed lightly in, to bump softly into the shallows.

Only one crew member was wakened by the gentle collision of vessel and firm ground—the sharp-eyed young ferret lookout. It was his first encounter with the heady grog, so he had fallen asleep in the rigging. Fortunately he was low down and not up at the masthead. The light landing dislodged him from his perch. He fell into the shallows, waking instantly on contact with cold salt water. Shaking with shock, he clambered back aboard, his mind racing. Who would get the blame for allowing the vessel to beach itself? Would he be blamed?

Almost all the crew were in a drunken sleep. The ferret took a swift look overboard; it was low tide. How long would it take for Greenshroud to float off on the turn? Off to his right, he saw something. It was a small dwindling fire above the tideline. The lookout saw it as a chance to concoct a feasible excuse should the ship not float off before Razzid Wearat wakened himself. He slipped back ashore and crept stealthily toward the fire.

The young ferret had exceptional eyesight. Long before he reached the fire, he could see what was around it. A tumbledown lean-to, fashioned from an old coracle, with a big, fat, old bewhiskered otter sitting outside. The otter, wrapped in a sailcloth cloak, had his head bowed. He was obviously fast asleep in front of the glowing embers.

As the ferret hurried back to the ship, he saw a furtive figure jump overboard and scurry off eastward. Telling himself it was no business of his, he climbed aboard and gently wakened the searat who was slumped across the tiller. They held a swift whispered conversation, then the searat went off and roused Mowlag.

“I saw a firelight on the shore, mate, so I took the ship in to get a sight of it. The lookout saw there was an otter asleep by it. Big ole beast, ’e was. Wot d’ye think we should do?”

Mowlag tottered upright, still staggering from the grog he had downed. Patting the searat’s back, he nodded at the lookout. “A waterdog, eh? Ye did well. I’ll go an’ tell the cap’n. There’s nobeast ’e hates more’n those waterdogs. Yew stay put. Keep an eye on the waterdog in case’e moves.”