Drawing both his claymores, the dark-furred captain crept like a night shadow toward the queen and her companions.
12
Earlier that day, whilst Captain Rake and his column were inside the Pygmy shrew dwelling being entertained, the storm broke out over the sea. Heralded by dull thunder and some forked lightning flashes, the purple-grey cloudbanks released a veritable deluge of rainwater. With winds prevailing westerly, the face of the deep became a scene of chaos. Foam-crested waves were lashed into a fury of mountains and troughs, battered by the incessant downpour.
Without sail, rudder or any means of propulsion other than branches broken from the pine trunk, the escapers were in real trouble.
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.
She was leaning over the stern gallery, staring into the dark waters, when something hit the starboard side close to the stern. It was not a great impact, merely a gentle thud. Unhooking a lantern, Shekra moved around to locate the object.
There it was, rocking against the hull—a battered pine trunk, with two senseless little hedgehogs draped over it. Shekra quickly got a boathook, a long, pikelike implement. Using the point and the hook, she maneuvered the log easily along, until it was amidships.
The searat she had spoken to previously lurched out onto the deck. “Still a touch wobbly on the ole paws, are ye, fox?’Ere, take a swig o’ this grog, that’ll set ye right!”
Shekra declined the offer. “Put that stuff aside and help me to get these two creatures aboard.”
Razzid Wearat sat at his cabin table, staring at the two bedraggled young ones. They lay on the decking in a pool of water, still senseless. He touched Posy with his footpaw.
“Ye say ye found them adrift on a log? Now I wonder what two liddle ’edgepigs would be doin’ out at sea alone. They’re still breathin’—see to them, Shekra. If they come around, maybe they’ve got a tale to tell.”
The vixen had Uggo and Posy carried to the galley, where it was warm. She laid them on a worn rope fender in a corner. The cook cackled as he honed his skinning knife. “Brought ’em for the pot, ’ave ye, fox? I never peeled one o’ those spikybeasts afore. Still there’s always a first time, eh. Wot say ye, shipmates?”
The crewbeasts guffawed coarsely, commenting, “’Tis a while since we ’ad some fresh meat!”
“Huh, they’ll make skinny pickin’s, I’ll wager!” Shekra stood over her charges, snarling, “Git back, ye seascum. These two ain’t t’be touched or hurt—cap’n’s orders, so stay yore distance!” She whipped out a thin, keenedged blade, menacing them.
A slobbering weasel gave her a look of mock alarm. “Ho, deary me, ye’ve got us all frightened, marm!”
The vixen jabbed her blade, making him stagger back. “Better t’be frightened than dead, grogsnout. Then cooky would have t’cook you. Anybeast fancy weasel stew?”