The Rogue Crew by Brian Jacques

until he encountered Skor and his creatures. The vixen was a Seer, but she was also a very shrewd thinker. No matter what refinements had been added to his vessel, she knew that corsairs, and searats, would be foolhardy to attack the sea otters on their own territory. Recalling the vermin bodies floating in a bloodstained sea and the blazing ship limping off, savagely beaten, Shekra was certain a second foray would only result in failure. Through listening to the gossip of those who had been aboard on that bumbled raid, it was obvious that they were of a like mind with her. However, it did not do to discuss such things with Razzid as captain. Moreover, Mowlag and Jiboree, the Wearat’s closest aides, were ever on the alert for mutinous talk.
    Shekra knew it was a dangerous situation to which a solution had to be found. Some serious thinking was called for. The answer came one evening, sitting in the galley with other crewbeasts. It was after supper as they were sipping grog when an old corsair stoat began plinking on an unidentifiable stringed instrument and singing. It was a common vermin sea song, full of self-pity induced by swigging quantities of potent grog. Shekra listened to the singer’s hoarse rendition.
    â€œO haul away, mates, haul away, hark ’ow the north
wind wails.
There’s ice upon the ratlines, in the riggin’ an’ the sails!
    Â 
    â€œWhen I were just a liddle snip, me mammy said t’me,
Don’t be a corsair like yore pa, ’tis no good life at sea.
O follow not the searat’s ways, or ye’ll be sure to end
yore days,
beneath the cold an’ wintry waves, ’cos corsairs ’ave no
graves!
    Â 
    â€œO haul away, mates, haul away, hark ’ow the
north wind wails.
There’s ice upon the ratlines, in the riggin’ an’ the sails!
    Â 
    â€œI scorned wot my ole mammy said, now lookit me
t’day,
aboard some vermin vessel, o’er the waves an’ bound
away.
The cook is mean, the cap’n’s rough, I lives on
grog’n’skilly’n’duff
I tell ye, mates, me life is bad, now I’m grown old an’
sad.”
    Shekra passed the singer a beaker of grog. “Aye, ’tis right, mate, but once ye follow the sea, there ain’t no goin’ back. I know ’tis too late now, but tell me, wot would ye have done, if’n you’d stopped ashore? Been a farmer mayhaps?”
    The old stoat chuckled humorlessly. “Wot, me be a farmer? Huh, sounds too much like ’ard work. I would’ve liked t’live the easy life, in some sunny ole place. Aye, with others to cook me vittles, an’ a nice soft bunk t’sleep in. Where yore sheltered from storms an’ cold in the winter, wid a big roarin’ log fire to toast me whiskers by. Ah, that’d be wot I’d ’ave liked!”
    Shekra nodded, her brain working furtively. “It sounds good t’me. Wonder if’n there is such a place.”
    A youngish searat offered a suggestion. “That big stripedog mountain place, where all the rabbets lives, that looked alright t’me.”
    The vixen sounded scornful, knowing which way she was leading the conversation. “No chance of gettin’ anywhere near that mountain. Those rabbets are warriors, just like the wavedogs. Ye’d be slain afore ye knew it. Now, the Red Abbey place, that’d suit me. D’ye know it?”
    The youngish searat shook his head. “Red Abbey place?”
    The cook, a fat greasy weasel, dipped a tankard into the grog barrel. “Aye, I’ve ’eard tell of it. Ain’t it rightly called the Red Abbot place?”
    Shekra nodded slyly. “Right, mate. Wot’ve ye ’eard tell?” The cook finished half his tankard in one swig and belched. “Somewheres in mid-country it is, with a forest growin’ round. My granpa saw it once. Said it was all built o’ red stones. Woodlanders, treemice, ’edgepigs,