With a brief nod of thanks, Skor Axehound turned and began marching off, away from the sea, commenting gruffly, “Well, wot are we waitin’ for? We’re losin’ time!”
Following his example, everybeast fell in behind him. Within a short time, they had crossed some hills and were out of sight of the cove.
In their haste, they had forgotten one of their number, Crumdun. The fat little stoat had seized his opportunity to slink away during the discussion. He squeezed in beneath some rocks at the base of the hill, pulling an old wet sack he had found over himself. He waited until there was complete silence within the cove before venturing out. Crumdun heaved a great sigh of relief. He quite liked the hares, who had fed him, treating him decently. However, he lived in mortal fear of the sea otters, convinced that with their hatred of vermin, he would be slain by them sooner or later. His new sense of freedom filled him with happiness. No more captivity or serving as a ragmop on corsair ships. Opening the sack, Crumdun found a variety of shellfish and molluscs. Later that evening he sat by a small fire roasting his supper whilst reflecting aloud.
“This ain’t a bad life. I can suit meself wot I does. Funny, I allus wanted to be like me ole mate, Braggio Ironhook. But that ain’t such a good idea, or I’d ’ave ended up wid me ’ead stuck atop o’ Greenshroud’s foremast. No, I’m best off just bein’ meself, liddle fat Crumdun!”
Which was indeed a fact, because not many vermin ended up being as lucky as him.
20
A stiff wind blowing easterly from across the sea buffeted Greenshroud’s starboard side as she ploughed southward through rising waves. From atop the mainmast, a keen-eyed searat who was lookout that day bawled out a sighting.
“I kin see a river runnin’ across the shore!”
Jiboree, who was fighting to keep the tiller steady, called back, “A river, eh? Where away?”
“Mebbe a point or so to port,” came the reply.
Gratefully, the weasel eased off his pressure on the long timber arm, allowing the tiller to drift Greenshroud landward at a southerly angle. He stopped a passing crewbeast. “Go an’ tell the cap’n a river’s been spotted.”
Razzid Wearat wiped at his injured eye, staring at the approaching river. “Hmm, could be this River Moss. Shekra, go an’ get that ’ole spikehog. He’ll know.”
Drogbuk Wiltud was in no fit state to walk. He staggered on deck, supported by Shekra and Mowlag. The drunken old hedgehog’s head was lolling on his chest; his eyes were shut.
Grabbing him by the headspikes, Razzid yanked his head up. “Ahoy, I wants to talk with ye. Liven yoreself up, ole fool!”
Shekra cut in helpfully. “Here, Lord, let me try.” She patted Drogbuk’s limp, scrawny paw. “Wake up, friend, we need yore advice.”
The wretched creature managed to open one eye blearily. “Eh, what . . . ? Where’s grog? I need more!”
Knocking Shekra aside, the Wearat began beating Drogbuk round his head, snarling with each blow. “Ya dribblin’ ole grog stopper, lookit yon river an’ tell me, is that the River Moss ye told us about?”
Drogbuk made a swift recovery, trying to cringe from the vicious blunt-clawed paws. He babbled pitifully, “Aye, that’d be the Moss. But you said ye was my friend. Wot are ye hittin’ me for?”
Razzid smiled wickedly as he twisted his victim’s snout. “I’ll hit ye if’n ye don’t shape up an’ tell me wot I want. Now, wot’s our next move, ye drunken idjit? Talk!”
Drogbuk pointed at the stretch of clear water gushing over the beach into the sea. “Ye follows it, that’s all. Just follow it east.”
Loosened by age, the old hedgehog’s body quills rattled to the deck as Razzid shook him violently.
“We goes east along the river. Wot then? Where’s Redwall?”
Drogbuk sank to the deck whimpering. “I needs more o’ that grog, I needs it bad, sir!”
Mowlag kicked him. “Then tell the cap’n the way first.”
Stammering and weeping, Drogbuk explained, “O’er the shore, through the dunes an’ hills, then into the woodlands. Stay wid the river ’til ye comes to a ford. There’s a path either side of it. Redwall Abbey lies to the south along that path. But ye’ll have ter leave yore ship at the ford an’ march the rest o’ the way.”
Jiboree sniggered. “Hah, that’s wot yew think, eh, Cap’n?”
Razzid ignored him, hauling his captive upright roughly. “Swear to me now, is that all I needs to know?”
More quills rattled to the deck as Drogbuk nodded hastily. “I’ve told ye true, on me oath I ’ave, Cap’n. Now can I get a taste o’ yore grog, sir? Me pore ’ead’s achin’ somethin’ awful. Just a drop o’ grog to wet me sufferin’ lips.”
Razzid turned to watch the oncoming river. “Kill ’im!”
Shekra leaned close, murmuring, “Is that wise, Lord? Who knows wot lies ahead. We may need him yet.”
The Wearat shrugged. “Then let’s keep ’im awhile. But no more grog fer that un. Bind ’im t’the mast.”
With the wind at her stern, Greenshroud entered the Moss shallows, half sailing, half rolling as the wheels were driven under full sail. It was an odd sight, the big green-sailed vessel gliding smoothly over the beach.
Jiboree managed the tiller easily, cautioning Drogbuk, whose moans were beginning to pall on him. “Quit yore whingin’, y’ole grogbucket, or I’ll give ye a taste—but it won’t be grog, it’ll be a rope’s end!”
High-sided dunes formed a canyon either side of the river. The wind dropped after Greenshroud navigated several meandering turns, leaving the ship becalmed twixt the steep sandy slopes. All through the noontide, crewbeasts sweated as they poled away with long oars to keep the ship going.
Mowlag spat on his paw. Holding it up, he announced, “Keep goin’, mates. We might catch the wind again by nightfall, mebbe once we make the woodlands.”
An exhausted searat leaned on his paddle. “Huh, that’s alright fer Mowlag t’say. All I’m catchin’ is a pair o’ sore paws from shovin’ this oar.”
His companion, a thin-faced weasel, complained, “It ain’t right. Ships shouldn’t be sailin’ through places like this. The sea’s the place fer a ship.”
Mowlag’s stern voice silenced any further complaints. “Save yore breath an’ keep goin’. I’m the ship’s mate, an’ I’m only carryin’ out Cap’n’s orders. So unless ye wants me t’take the rope’s end to yore backs . . .” He left the threat unfinished, knowing it would have the desired result.
Further north, the going was also arduous for Log a Log Dandy and his Guosim crew, travelling along the streams toward the River Moss. Taking only a brief rest for sleep in a side inlet turned out to be an uncomfortable mistake. They were wakened by clouds of midges. Uggo, Posy and Swiffo were forced to leap ashore, besieged by myriads of the tiny insects. The inlet, as it turned out, was a cul-de-sac choked with weeds, mud and stagnant water. Log a Log Dandy and the other shrews were not slow in following their passengers’ example—they too jumped ashore and ran. The midges did not stay with them but went back to their creek, the habitat they lived in.
The entire party spent time beating out midges, which had clung to fur, spikes and clothing.
Swiffo spat out a midge. “Phwaw—that wasn’t much of a place to catch a nap, was it?”
Dandy merely shrugged. “It happens now an’ agin, not t’worry. When we anchored there, we weren’t to know. Anyhow, ’tis a fine, bright day an’ no real harm done, eh!” He ordered a fire to be lit and materials to be gathered.
Uggo, like the rest, found himself holding a bundle of dead twigs, wet grass and some greenery bound together with bur marigold stems.