Uggo’s lip began to tremble as he looked from one to the other. “Marchin’ all day, sleepin’ out in the open, gettin’ wet’n’cold in the wind an’ rain. Wot, me, Mister Gurdy?”
Jum shrugged. “As y’please, mate. There’s always more pots t’wash an’ floors to scrub, I shouldn’t wonder, eh, marm?”
Friar Wopple narrowed her eyes, glaring at Uggo. “Oh, yes—an’ ovens to clean out, veggibles to peel an’ scrape, the storeroom to sweep out . . .”
Jum Gurdy began trudging from the kitchens, calling back, “Ah, well, I’ll leave ye to it, Uggo mate. ’Ave fun!”
The young hedgehog scrambled after him, pleading, “No, no, I’ll go with ye, Mister Gurdy. Take me along, please!”
Hiding an amused grin, Friar Wopple waved a dismissive paw. “Take him away, Jum. The rascal’s neither use nor ornament around here. Go on, young Wiltud—away with ye!”
She followed them to the kitchen door as Jum strode off, commenting blithely, “Well, come on then, young sir, but ye’d best keep up, or I’ll ’ave to tie ye to a tree an’ pick ye up on the way back. Come on, bucko. Move lively, now!”
Uggo scurried in the big otter’s wake. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can, Mister Gurdy. You wouldn’t leave me tied to a tree, really, would you . . . would you?”
Abbot Thibb saw the pair walking across Great Hall as he entered the kitchens. He picked up a fresh-baked scone, spread it with honey and took a bite.
“Good morning, Friar. What’s going on with those two?”
The Friar poured cups of hot mint tea for them both. “Oh nothin’, really. I suspect that Jum’s givin’ young Uggo a lesson in growing up usefully. A trek to the seacoast with our Cellardog behind him may do that hog a power o’ good, Father.”
Thibb blew on his tea and sipped it carefully. “Right, marm. I think Jum Gurdy’s just the beast to teach that scamp a lesson or two.”
In the belltower, Matthias and Methusaleh, Redwall’s twin bells, boomed out into the clear spring morn, signalling breakfast at the Abbey.
Outside on the path, Uggo called out hopefully, “May’aps we’d best go back for our brekkist, Mister Gurdy?”
Jum Gurdy shook his head, pointing the way. “Already’ad brekkist whilst you was still snoozin’. Keep goin’, young un. ’Tis quite a way ’til lunch!”
By midday, Greenshroud was well out to sea. Razzid Wearat took a leisurely meal of grilled seabird, washed down with a beaker of seaweed grog. He watched a wobbly-legged old searat clearing the remains away, then rose from the table. He snapped out a single word.
“Cloak!”
The rat dropped what he was doing to get the green cloak, holding it as Razzid shrugged his shoulders into it.
“Trident!”
The serving rat placed the trident in his waiting paw. Without another word, the Wearat waited on his minion to open the cabin door, then strode out on deck. A corsair searat was at the tiller.
Razzid wiped moisture from his weepy eye. “What’s the course?”
The corsair replied smartly, “As ye ordered, Cap’n, due east!”
Vermin were loitering near, coiling ropes and doing other needless tasks, listening alertly for the Wearat’s command as to where they would be sailing.
He did not keep them waiting, calling out loud and clear, “Take ’er in closer to shore! Lookout, keep watch for anythin’ interesting onshore!”
A sharp-eyed young ferret tugged his ear in acknowledgement. “Aye aye, Cap’n!” He began climbing into the rigging.
Razzid’s next words came at the crew like a thunderbolt.
“Stay close to the shore, but set a course for the High North Coast!”
The word had been given. Razzid Wearat was bent on a return battle with the sea otters. An ominous silence fell over the crew. Those who had lived through the last disastrous foray knew the strength and bloodlust of Skor Axehound’s warriors. None of the vermin had thought that Razzid would be foolhardy enough to try a second attack. However, none of the corsairs was so rash as to dispute their captain’s decision. They returned to their tasks in sullen silence—all but one.
A muscular, tattooed ferret, who had barely escaped with his life at the first incident, was heard to mutter to the rat he was working alongside, “Huh, those wavedogs beat the livin’ tar out of us. They ain’t beasts t’be messed about wid.”
He turned and found himself facing Razzid.
“Ye were sayin’?”
The ferret backed off nervously. “Never said nothin’, Cap’n.”
Like a flash the trident was a hairsbreadth from his neck. The Wearat sounded dangerously calm. “Lie to me an’ I’ll slay ye here an’ now. What did ye say? Tell me.”
The ferret was a seasoned killer and no mean fighter, but he quailed under the Wearat’s piercing eye.
“I jus’ said those wavedogs wasn’t beasts t’be messed wid.” Razzid let the trident barbs drop.
“So, that’s what ye think, eh? Anyone else think that?”
The ferret looked nervously at his mates’ faces, but nobeast was about to speak out. He smiled weakly and shrugged. “I didn’t mean nothin’, Cap’n. On me oath, I didn’t!”
Razzid stared levelly at him, still calm. “Ah, but I heard you, my friend. What was it? ‘Those wavedogs beat the livin’ tar out of us . . .’?” He paused to wipe dampness from his bad eye. As he spoke again, his voice rose to a shout and his face became contorted with rage.
“Beat the living tar out of us? Nobeast has ever done that to Razzid Wearat and lived to tell of it. My wounds came from saving this ship—aye, and all the idiots I called a crew. You were one of them. I saved you all. And you dare to say that some foebeast beat me!”
Before the tattooed ferret could reply, Razzid lunged with his trident. Pierced through the stomach, the ferret shrieked. Like a farmer lifting hay with a pitchfork, the Wearat heaved his victim up bodily on the trident and hurled him overboard.
The crew stood shocked by the swift, vicious act.
Laughing madly, Razzid leaned over the stern gallery, bellowing at the dying corsair, “When ye get to Hellgates, tell ’em it was me that sent ye—me, Razzid Wearat!”
He turned to the crew, wielding his dripping trident. “Avast, who’s next, eh? Any of you bold bullies wants to argue with me, come on, speak out!”
The silence was total. Rigging creaked, sails billowed, waves washed the sides of Greenshroud, but not a single corsair spoke.
Razzid laughed harshly. “The High North Coast, that’s where this ship’s bound. But this time we won’t be ambushed up to our waists in the sea. Now I know wot my vessel can do, it’ll be me dishin’ out the surprises. We’ll give those wavedogs the same as the rabbets got at the badger mountain.”
Shekra the vixen called out. “Aye, the waves’ll run red with the blood of our foebeasts. Our cap’n’s name will become a legend o’ fear!”
Mowlag and Jiboree took up the cry, until all the crew were bellowing, “Wearat! Wearat! Razzid Wearat!”
Exulting in the moment, Razzid chanted with them.
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.”