Part 27 (1/2)
Simeon checked the paw of one from reaching for acorn and rhubarb crumble. ”How many more of you do the searats have?”
”Seventeen, I s'pose, or eighteen-aye, eighteen countin' the squirrel.”
Friar Alder turned his eyes upward, nudging young c.o.c.kleburr. ”Dearie me, imagine another eighteen like that at breakfast!”
”Boilin' breadloaves, Friar. They'd eat us out o'
kitchen an' Abbey!”
Clary sat in Gabe Quill's cellar, sampling the latest rosehip squash with Foremole as they nibbled cheese and beechmast bake to counteract the sweetness of the drink.
291.
”Ahurr, you'm say 'ee wants four of us'ns this comin' noight, zurr.”
”Yes indeed, four stout mole chaps-all good diggers, mind you.”
”Hurrhurr, baint no crittur better at diggen than us'n molers. Oi'd say Dan'1, Buxton, Groaby an moiself. Aye, we'n's the ones.”
”Righty-ho, Foremole sir. Meet us at the gatehouse two hours after dark.”
”Doan't 'ee wurry, zurr. Us'll be thurr, boi 'okey us will.”
”Good chap, knew I could count on you. Have some more of this rosehip stuff. Quite nice, but a trifle sweet, wot?”
”No sweeter'n rose'ips orter be, zurr. Fill 'er up iffen 'ee please.”
Gabe Quill filled a jug from a polished cask. He set it on the table, sniffing righteously over the remarks being made about the sweetness of his rosehip squash.
”Try some o' this elderflower an' larkspur cordial iffen you likes a less sweeter drink. But while you're a-doin' that, tell me, Mr. Clary, why did you only free two slaves las' night?”
Clary sipped the new drink, raising his eyebrows appreciatively. ”Well, Mr. Quill, it's quite simple really. More than two at a time would be rather awkward to cope with, seein' as how they've got to be helped every step of the way. After all, they are in chains, y'know; bein' oarslaves, they're still chained in twos, each creature to his galley bench partner. If we can manage more'n two, all well an' good. We'll see how many of the poor blighters we can bag tonight. Now, listen carefully, Foremole me old digger, here's the plan ...”
Graypatch had been all day making the searats' woodland camp secure against intruders. He sat on a log, checking out the new setup with Fishgill.
292.
”Tripwires hidden in the undergrowth all around the edges o' the camp, rope traps in the trees?”
”Aye, Cap'n. Me 'n' Frink an' Kybo rigged the rope traps. Anybeast sneakin' around out there at night'll find themselves suddenly hangin' upsidedown from a tree. The tripwires are all stretched tight an' well-hidden too.”
”Good! Now these oarslaves-we'll hold 'em in the center of the camp, just to one side of the main fire. That way they'll be surrounded by the crew.”
The evening fires had been lit. All around them, searats squatted, cooking whatever they had found during the day. Bigfang roasted dandelion roots and some small hard apples he and Lardgutt had come across, grumbling as he watched Kybo.
”Huh, what use is roots an' sour apples to me 'n' Lardgutt? We're searats; this woodland garbage wouldn't feed a sick maggot. Kybo, matey, how's about sharin' that great fat woodpigeon yer roastin', with a couple of old messmates?”
Kybo kept his eyes on the roasting meat, his claw straying to a long rusty dagger he kept nearby. ”Get yer own rations, Bigfang. Me 'n' Fishgill an' Graypatch snared this one while we was layin' out tripwires an' you was lyin' round snorin' like a hog. You want meat, get out an' hunt it.”
Lardgutt's eyes strayed to the roasting woodpigeon as he absently reached into the embers for a toasted apple, with the result that he scorched his claws. Bad-temperedly he flung the apple from him. ”Yowch! That's it! I'll starve afore I eat that muck!”
Bigfang looked around at other searats who had not been fortunate enough to obtain meat. They were toasting, roasting and charring almost any kind of vegetation they could scavenge. Bigfang spat into the flames.
”Hah! Livin' off the fat o' the land, eh, buckos? Does this look like the berth we was promised? Landlords of Mossflower-look at us! Grubbin' fer roots an' berries, 293.
sc.r.a.pin' about an' fightin' with yer own s.h.i.+pmates fer anythin' growin' outta the soil! Why don't we attack Redwall agin, that's what I want ter know. Sittin' round protectin' some oarslaves like they was precious booty, where's that a-goin' to get us, eh?”
Murmurs of agreement arose around the camp. Graypatch strode over, carrying a heavy limb of dead oak. He threw it onto the fire, causing a shower of sparks. Bigfang and Lardgutt were forced to jump back, beating off the fiery splinters which landed on them, their apples and roots completely squashed and ruined beneath the wood Graypatch had thrown on the fire. The searat Captain prodded Bigfang viciously in the ribs with his curved sword.
”Always the thickhead an' the rabble-rouser, eh, Bigfang. I don't know why I keep yer alive. It's not for your brains, I can tell ye. Anybeast with half a grain o' sense would tell yer what I'm about. Last night taught me a lesson: if those Redwallers want to free the slaves, they've got to come an' try, see? Look at it this ways, they're goin' to no end o' trouble to rescue slaves who they don't even know. I've seen their type afore. Now, imagine how they'd feel if we captured some of their own? Haharr, that'd be somethin' now, wouldn't it! Us havin' Redwallers as hostages. It'd be like ownin' a ticket fer free entrance to their Abbey.”
Bigfang rubbed his ribs where the sword had sc.r.a.ped his hide. ”How do we know they're goin' to come back?”
Graypatch shook his head as if despairing. ”Short on brains an' long on mouth, that's you, matey. Of course they'll come back. They're n.o.ble creatures, they couldn't leave poor slaves in the claws of us cruel sea-rats! But this time we've laid the traps, this time we'll catch them, an' I'll parade 'em in chains outside their Abbey. You mark my words, those Redwallers won't be so high 'n' mighty then. They'll be ready to listen to old Graypatch's terms, mates. Aye, short on brains, 294.
Bigfang, just like I said. You stick with me, matey. Let me do the thinkin', and one day we could be rulers of a whole slave army of Redwallers, hahah! Imagine that, they could be mercenaries, spearfodder-with an army that size we could build ourselves another fleet an' conquer Terramort for ourselves, kill Gabool an' seize his island. Then we'd be rulers of Redwall an' Terramort, mates!”
Hon Rosie lay on her back a short distance from the camp. She tw.a.n.ged upon a tripwire as she listened to Graypatch lecturing his crew. Clary and Thyme sat with the moles, holding a whispered conference.
”Super plan, y'know-tripwires, springropes an' hostages. I'd give the scurvy blaggard an 'A' for alertness, wot?”
Foremole extended his powerful digging claws. ”Oi knows wot oi'd loik t' give 'im, pesky searatter!”
Clary was busy undoing a tripwire. ”Good effort, all the same. Come on, hares, let's undo this little lot an' set it up in a new location. Thyme, can you manage those rope traps?”
”Certainly, Clary old chap. I say, these searats are rather good at tying knots and whatnot, must be with all that messin' about in boats.”
”I 'spect so. How're you mole chaps feelin', fancy a spot of diggin'?”
”Hohurr zurr, we'm frisky as frogs an' fitter'n fleas. Whurr do 'ee want us a-start, gaffer?”
Foremole trundled about muttering calculations, glancing from certain spots on the ground toward the rat camp.
”Gurr'm, let oi see naow. Root crossens thurr, thurr an' yon. Stoans a-layen yurr an' thurr. Reckernin' fer a swift 'n' easy deep tunn'l, oi sez us'n's be hadvised to start diggen roight yurr!” He scratched a large X on the woodland floor with his digging claws.
Dan'1, Groaby and Buxton went to it with a will.
295.
Sentries were posted all around the fringes of the camp. Graypatch settled down close to the fire, his one good eye searching the woodland edge for signs of movement. Bigfang and Lardgutt fought briefly over possession of a ragged blanket before ripping it in half, then each lay down, trying to cover himself with the skimpy remnant. Gradually the searats' encampment quietened down for the night, the silence broken only by an odd crackle of burning branches on the fires. Sentries blinked their eyes to stay awake, heads drooping as they leaned heavily on pike and spear.
Brigadier Thyme watched the scene from the low boughs of a sycamore some distance away. Finally satisfied that everything was ready, he climbed down and reported back to Clary.
”Operation Oarslave now feasible to commence.
Sah!”
”Good scout, Thyme. Right, troops. Forward, the Buffs. Oh, and Rosie, try to remember, will you, one whoop an' we're in the soup!”
”Oh, I say, Clary, jolly poetic-one whoop an' we're in the soup. Not to worry, I've given up whoopin' for the moment.”