The Rogue Crew

With her jagged cream muzzlestripe and clouded violet eyes, she looked every inch the noble Badger Lady. Violet smiled. “Happy times, those young seasons. But what of the present, Sergeant—anything to report?”

The tough old veteran paused, as if loath to speak. Then he pointed down to a patch of fireglow on the south shore. “Er . . . beggin’ y’pardon, marm, but those four young uns on Seawatch—they should be carryin’ out their duties from h’up ’ere, h’inside the fortress, h’instead o’ sittin’ round a fire down there, toastin’ chestnuts h’an singin’. Who gave’em permission t’do that, I asks meself?”

A note of concern crept into Violet’s voice. “It was me, Sergeant. Forgive me—did I do something wrong?”

The colour sergeant took a sip of his mulled ale. “Well, now, h’if ’twas yore order, Milady, then that’s that. Beggin’ yore pardon, there h’ain’t n’more t’be said.”

Violet had always held Miggory in the highest regard. Disconcerted, she placed a paw on his shoulder. “My thanks to you for pointing out my error, friend. There are so many rules and traditions for me to learn.”

The kindly sergeant patted the paw on his shoulder. “Ho, t’aint nothin’, really, Milady. You’ll soon learn. Them four rascals sittin’ down there took advantage of ye. They’re only second-season cadets. Salamandastron standin’ h’orders states they’ve got t’serve four seasons afore they’re qualified for nighttime Seawatch h’outdoors.”

Violet nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. Rest assured I’ll consult you on all such matters in future.”

The old hare shrugged. “No ’arm done, marm. Mebbe’twill teach those young buckoes h’a lesson. Mark my words, by the time their relief watch arrives at dawn light, those cadets will be sittin’ round h’a pile of ashes, chilled t’the scuts an’ snifflin’ away t’beat the band. That’ll teach ’em not to trick ye h’into lettin’ ’em disobey h’orders!”

Lady Violet chuckled. “Right you are, Sergeant. Well, I’m off to my nice, warm bed in the forge chamber. What about you?”

Miggory swilled down the last of his mulled nettle ale. “Barrack room dorm for me, marm. Long Patrol snores don’t bother me on cold nights like these. Thankee for the ale, an’ good night to ye, Milady.”

Down on the shores, the four cadets—two bucks and two maids—drew closer to the fire. Trying to ignore the keen, cold breeze on their backs, they put a bold face on things by singing raucously.

“With the stars for me roof an’ the shore for me floor,

good chums an’ a roarin’ hot fire,

down by the seacoast, fine ole chestnuts we’ll roast,

ah, what more could us warriors desire!

With no bossy sergeant to come marchin’ by,

a-bellowin’ orders galore,

whilst keepin’ close watch with his cold, beady eye—

Attention, left right, two three four!

We’ll sleep all the day whilst the chaps drill away.

Aye, we’ll snore just like hogs down a hole,

firm comrades let’s stay until our dyin’ day,

in the ranks of the great Long Patrol!”

Contending with the boom and hiss of breaking waves, the four young hares sang out lustily, full of the joys of life as only young ones can be. Unaware that they were being watched by evil murderous eyes.

Most creatures agree that whenever it is a cold, rainswept day, the best place to be is indoors. One of the Redwallers’ favourite retreats is the Abbey cellars, where Jum Gurdy is Head Cellardog. The big, jovial otter never fails to make everybeast welcome. His forge constantly glows, radiating warmth from a fire of old barrel staves and charcoal lumps. Jum’s two companions, Roogo Foremole and the Redwall Bellmaster, a squirrel known as Ding Toller, usually preside over the food and fun for all. An old iron battle shield is placed on the fire whilst chestnuts are piled on it to roast. Young and old are given sharpened sticks to retrieve the nuts when they are ready. Once peeled, they are dipped in a basin of cornflower honey. Jum has a fine collection of large clamshells, sent to him by his sea otter cousins. He sits by a barrel of Baggaloob, dispensing shells brimming with the delicious brew (made from a recipe known only to Jum himself).

Many a pleasant day is passed in Jum Gurdy’s cellars by the Abbey community playing instruments, singing songs, solving riddles and listening to poems and stories whilst feasting on delicacies and drinking the good Baggaloob. The Foremole plays his melodeon whilst Ding Toller sings out his challenge, to begin the proceedings, thus . . .

“’Tis cold an’ wet outdoors this day,

but we be snug an’ dry.

So now I’ll name a name to ye,

of some goodbeast who’ll try,

to entertain us with a song,

a joke, a poem or dance.

Now, pay attention, one an’ all,

an’ give our friend a chance. . . .”

There was a hushed silence (apart from a few giggles) as Ding’s paw circled the audience, suddenly stopping to point at his choice as he called out the name.

“Friar Wopple!”

The furry watervole, who was Redwall’s Chief Cook, stood up amidst resounding applause, shuffling her footpaws shyly. “Dearie me, I ain’t much of a singer at all, friends.”