The Rogue Crew

Jum Gurdy was half in, half out of the water, trying to stop the log rolling over. Spitting seawater, he shouted above the din of the gale. “Throw those branches away, young uns. Try to stay in the middle of this thing, an’ ’old on for dear life!”

Uggo and Posy were terror-stricken. They clutched each other and the pine bark, sobbing with fear. Never in their wildest imaginings had they ever witnessed the awesome force of a storm on the high seas. There was no controlling the log as it was swept further out from sight of land. Drenched and sodden to the spikes, the two young hedgehogs were sickened to their stomachs by the seesaw motion—first up on the high crest of a wave, then dropping swiftly down into a deep watery vale. Sometimes they would glance up from the trough to find themselves facing a wall of translucent blue-green water. Next moment would find them riding a foam-lathered wavecrest with nothing above them save an angry, purple-bruised sky.

It was at the top of such a wave that the log began to topple from end to end. Uggo and Posy screamed as they hung in midair for a brief moment, grabbing at the underside of the rolling pine. Trying to hold one end of the log from an underwater position, Jum saw them both slip into the sea. He struck out toward them with the dull, boiling boom of breaking waves above him.

Uggo and Posy had gone under, still hanging on to one another. The big old otter grabbed them both, hurling them back onto the log, which was just descending from another wavetop. They scrabbled onto the pine trunk, but Jum Gurdy was not so lucky. He was struck over the head by the log end.

The pine trunk careered wildly off to the northwest, skidding between the serried lines of rollers. Uggo and Posy clung to the branches, half crouching, half standing as they yelled, “Jum! Jum Gurdy! Juuuuuuummmmm!”

Though they shouted until they were hoarse, there was no sign of their otter friend anywhere amidst the wild world of trackless heaving sea.

Aboard the Greenshroud Razzid Wearat and Mowlag fought to master the swivelling tiller arm to hold the vessel on some kind of course. Rigging sang, and drenched sails ballooned out tightly as the corsair galley flew through the storm-wrenched seas like a great green-plumed bird.

Blowing spume from his muzzle, Razzid snarled orders at his crew. “Set up those pawlines runnin’ fore to aft—make fast every sheet an’ sprit. We’ll keep her out to sea an’ ride this storm out, ’tis the only way!” Shielding his good eye, he peered up to the mainmast head. “Ahoy, what d’ye see up there? Is there any break ahead?”

Jiboree had lashed himself into the crow’s nest. Dashing spray from his eyes, he peered about, then his paw shot out. “Ahoy, the tiller, south an’ east! I can spy the edge o’ the gale. See, there!”

Razzid passed his hold on the tiller to a searat. Making his way for’ard, he limped out onto the long prow. Clinging to the rigging, he stood upright, staring southeast. There it was, the end of the cloudbanks. Long rays of early evening sunlight shafted down, like golden slides from sky to sea.

He laughed triumphantly. “Take ’er on a tack, port an’ ahead as she goes!”

Shekra the vixen looked distinctly wan; she was no lover of storms. A grizzled searat clapped her on the back.

“Haharr, we’ll be outta this by nightfall, fox. There ain’t a ship on the seas like ole Greenshroud, aye an’ not another master to ’andle ’er so well as Cap’n Razzid!”

Shekra leaned over the starboard rail gloomily. “Aye, an’ nobeast has any idea where Redwall Abbey is. I’ve a feeling we’d be better off taking to the land.”

The ship dipped suddenly into a trough. Shekra floundered halfway over the rail before she was yanked back by the grinning Searat. “Haharr, the only land ye’ll find down there’ll be the seabed. Ain’t no Abbey down there!”

The vixen smiled weakly. “You’re right. I’d better stay amidships.”

The seas calmed as night fell. True to the searat’s prediction, Greenshroud had weathered the storm. Razzid and his crew were so fatigued from fighting the elements that they did nothing further that day. A sounding line was lowered, and the water was found to be of a suitable depth for a kedge-anchor. This was an anchor on a long hawser, which stopped the vessel drifting too far in any direction.

It was past midnight when Shekra, still feeling queasy, could no longer abide the muggy surroundings of the galley. Leaving the grog fumes, the smell of cooking fish and stodgy skilly’n’duff, she wandered out on deck. Being Razzid’s Seer, the vixen did not want to go to the captain’s cabin. It would only mean a further round of questions as to the location of the fabled Redwall. Razzid would want her to start casting spells and reading omens, a dangerous thing to do if they did not agree with his ideas.