25
Martin crouched with Clecky and Viola behind a small outcrop of rocks on the shoreline. It was the hour before dawn, still and calm. All activity aboard Waveworm seemed to have ceased; she rode smoothly at anchor, too far out to be reached by bowshot.
Clecky’s keen eyes picked up movement further along the beach at the water’s edge. “I say, there’s our otter chum, pullin’ an’ haulin’ on her boat. It looks in jolly bad shape if y’ask me, wot!”
Martin turned to Viola, who was shivering fitfully after her ordeal in the sea. “Stay here, little one. Clecky and I are going to help the otter to beach her boat. If any danger threatens while we’re away, leave these rocks and hide in the woodlands, d’you understand?”
The volemaid’s teeth were chattering so hard she could only nod.
Stooping low, Martin and Clecky hurried along the tideline, all the time keeping a weather eye on Waveworm. Grath Longfletch was glad of their help, and among them the three creatures hauled the longboat across the shore, back to the rock cover.
Grath surveyed the damage ruefully, saying, “She’s stoved in bad amidships, and there’s not a lot I can do without the proper materials to fix her up. I’ve even lost my provisions in the sea.”
Clecky slumped down mournfully next to Viola. “Starvin’, wet, cold, tired, wot! I’ve been in worse places, but I’m blowed if I can remember where they were!”
Martin held up his paw for silence. “Listen!”
Grath had heard the sounds too. She grabbed for her bow and arrows, which had mercifully survived the encounter with Waveworm. “Somebeasts comin’ downstream, get your heads down, mates!” Stealthily the otter peered landward, over the rocks into the breaking dawn.
Then she laughed aloud with relief. “Haharr, it’s Log a Log an’ the Guosim!”
Swift as arrows six logboats were skimming downstream from the woodlands to the shore. When they caught sight of Grath, the shrews whooped gruffly, flinging themselves into the stream shallows and wading ashore with open paws.
Log a Log was first to pound his otter friend’s back.
“Grath Longfletch, you ole waterdog!”
“Log a Log, you liddle streamwalloper!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve wrecked that barnacle-crusted cockleshell again, Grath! Good job we happened along. Hi, Martin! Martin of Redwall!”
The Warriormouse chuckled joyfully as Guosim shrews crowded round, shaking his paws. “Log a Log, old friend. Dabby, Curlo, Dimple, what a pleasure it is to see your faces again!”
Clecky pointed to himself and Viola. “Pay no heed to us, chaps, we’re only a couple o’ butterflies hangin’ about waitin’ for summer, aren’t we, m’dear!”
A fire was built on the sand behind the rocks, and Guosim cooks busied themselves, while shrewmaids outfitted Viola bankvole in one of their smocks. Curlo and Dabby got a repair gang together and began straightaway fixing Grath’s longboat.
Log a Log sat by the fire with Martin and Clecky, discussing their position. When he heard about the ambush in the ditch, the shrew Chieftain looked thoughtful. “We found a searat wandering lost upstream,” he said. “My mates have got him under guard over there. I wonder if he can tell us where they’re planning to take your Abbot? Ahoy, mates, bring that vermin over t’me!”
Bound and gagged, a dispirited searat was hauled up in front of the shrew Chieftain.
Martin recognized him instantly. “That’s the villain who escaped after ambushing us. We slew the rest of them, but this one got away.”
Grath Longfletch strode up. Borrowing a knife from one of the cooks, she cut the searat’s gag and the rope that bound his paws. Then, notching a green-feathered shaft to her great bow, Grath nodded meaningly at the terrified searat.
“Get running!” she snarled.
The searat took one look at the grim-faced otter and her lethal weapon and fell down on all fours, pleading and sobbing. “Yer gonna kill me, I know y’are. Mercy, I beg yer!”
Grath seized the creature roughly, hauling him upright. “I’m givin’ you a chance, scum, that’s more’n you did for my family when you murdered ’em! I’m Grath Longfletch, last of the Holt of Lutra; remember it. Now run!”
Martin placed himself between Grath and the searat, saying, “You can’t kill him, friend, we need him to give us information. He’s valuable to us.”
Grath’s voice trembled as she replied, “I like you, Martin of Redwall, you’re a warrior born, but this searat is a coward and a murderer. I’m sworn to avenge my family, so step aside, Martin, I don’t want to hurt you!”
“Then you’ll ’ave to ’urt us both, matey!” Log a Log stood up alongside Martin and spoke gently to the otter. “Grath, yore lettin’ revenge rob you of yore senses. Put aside the bow an’ shaft now, there’s a goodbeast. Martin’s right an’ you know it, friend.”
Slowly Grath lowered her bow and shot the arrow into the sand between her footpaws. The searat gave a moan of relief. Grath smiled regretfully at the two creatures facing her. “I’m sorry, Martin, you’re right. Log a Log, you sound more like my father than any creature I’ve ever known. Forgive me.”
The Warriormouse patted Grath’s paw. “There’s nothing to forgive, friend, I’d have done the same in your place. Now, how about some breakfast by the fire while we question this wave vermin and make our plans for the day?”
Viola and Clecky sat with the boat repair crew around their fire, watching a pot of pine resin bubbling. The volemaid sipped steaming vegetable and seafood soup from a scallop shell bowl and devoured hot shrewbread in a manner far removed from her former prissy self.
Curlo winked at her. “Tastes good, don’t it?” she said.
Viola nodded gratefully as the shrew refilled the shell for her. “Almost as good as the taste of freedom. Oh! Poor Abbot Durral, I hope they haven’t harmed him. He risked his life to help me escape from that horrible ship and those awful lizards. Do you think there’s a chance that we can rescue him?”
Clecky bent his long ears toward the other fire, munching delicious shrewbread as he spoke. “Never give up hope, m’gel, Martin an’ ole Log a thing are prob’ly cookin’ up a plan right now with that tough-lookin’ otter.”
Day broke cloudy and gray with a calm sea and little or no breeze. Romsca placed a bowl of some doubtful steaming mess in front of the Abbot.
“Get that skilly down yer, Durral, no sense in starvin’ t’death!”
The old mouse peered up at the corsair from where he sat tethered to the mast. The loss of his glasses affected his poor eyesight. “Thank you, my child, and thank you also for the kindness you showed to the little volemaid.”
Romsca shook her head and laughed. “I ain’t yore child, ole mouse, an’ you can’t get around me. You shovel those vittles down an’ pray t’the fates that yore mates come up with the Emperor’s six pearls!”
Further discussion was cut short as Lask Frildur came hurrying out on deck. The ship had drifted sideways, allowing the Monitor General a disturbing view of the shore.
“Have you no eyez in your head, idiot?” he snarled nastily at Romsca. “Look landwardz!”
Romsca was about to argue, but a quick glance to the shore gave the corsair great cause for concern. Small warlike creatures in considerable numbers, all wearing bright headbands and sashes with rapiers, stood boldly in plain view on the beach. Pulled up onto the sandy banks of the stream that flowed to the sea were six dugout treetrunk boats, equipped with paddles and single sails. Nearby on a clump of rocks were three more creatures, a strong-looking mouse with a great sword strapped to his back, a big otter and a lanky hare, both armed with bows and arrows. They were watching a group of the small creatures repairing a ship’s longboat by the glow of several small fires.
Romsca shook her head in disbelief at the scene. “Stripe me! Where’d that lot come from?”
Lask Frildur paced the deck, tail swishing and teeth bared. “Who knowz? There are enough of them to take thiz vezzel, and they have boatz. We are no longer zafe anchored here!”
Kicking the bowl of food from the Abbot’s paws, the lizard pulled him as close to the rail as the rope tether would allow. “Who are thoze beaztz, mouze? Tell me!”
Durral squinted at the distant shore. “Without my glasses it is difficult to say, though by the bright colors they wear I would guess they are Guosim shrews.”
Lask brought his face close to the old mouse. “Warriorz?”
Tucking both paws into his long sleeves, the Abbot turned sideways to avoid the Monitor General’s foul breath. “Yes, my son, the Guosim are renowned both on land and water as fierce warriors. Their fighting spirit knows no bounds.”
Lask pulled the Abbot roughly to him. “Old fool, I am your enemy, not your zon!”
Gazing calmly into the glittering reptilian eyes, Durral said, “I am an Abbot; nobeast is my enemy. Why do you not let me go free and sail from here in peace?”
Lask shook the frail mouse savagely. “I cannot leave without my Emperor’z pearlz. When I have them then you can go free!”
Romsca interrupted impatiently. “Lissen t’me, mouse, an’ save yerself a lot o’ grief. The only way yore leavin’ this ship is in exchange fer those six pearls. Now who’s got em?”
The Father Abbot of Redwall shook his head slowly. “Pearls? Pearls? I know nothing of any pearls.”
Romsca faced Lask Frildur. “Well, you ’eard ’im. He knows nothing. What are y’goin’ to do? Take my word, Lask, wotever it is, you’d best do it quick. Look at that crowd on shore, they’re gettin’ ready to come out ’ere, an’ I’ll wager it’s not to present us with six pearls. Make yer mind up, lizard: do we stan’ an’ fight, or cut an’ run?”
The shrew Trimp put aside a length of caulking rope and patted the side of Grath’s longboat. “That’s the best I can do for ye! She’s seaworthy agin, but for ’ow long I don’t know. Yore pretty rough on boats, matey!”
The otter braced the headrope across her shoulders and began pulling her craft down to the stream. “My thanks to you, Guosim, I hope I can pay you back someday.”
Martin and Clecky helped her to launch the longboat at the head of the shrew flotilla. Log a Log put both paws to his mouth and gave a long ululating call, the battlecry of Guosim shrews.
Grath hoisted her sail, while Martin and Clecky used the oars to propel the longboat, their three different warshouts joining the shrews paddling behind.
“Redwaaaaaall!”
“Eulaliaaaaaa!”
“Holt Lutraaaaaa!”
The little warfleet sped from the stream estuary into the waves. Each shrew, armed with slingshots and rapier, bent its back to the oars, spreading into a half-circle, with the longboat at its center. Lashing the tiller dead ahead Grath made her way to the prow, notching a shaft to her bow.
She roared out across the sea to the figures on the deck of Waveworm, “Release your prisoner or die!”
Lask Frildur cast a meaningful glance at Romsca. “Sail!” he hissed.
Speed was of the essence. The corsair captain slashed at the anchor line with her sword, bellowing orders to her crew.
“Bring ’er about course west! Make sail, full sail!”
Waveworm turned on the swell as her steersrat brought the tiller hard round. Wetting a paw, Romsca held it aloft, frowning. “We need the breeze, they’re comin’ up on us fast!”
Lask and his Monitors stood astern, long boathooks and pikes ready should the attackers try to board. The Monitor General looked nervously from the oncoming boats to Romsca. “Where iz the wind, we need wind in the zailz!”
Grath Longfletch knew she was within range now. Drawing her bowstring tight, she aimed at Lask and let loose a shaft. Fortunately for the Monitor General the arrow arrived at the very moment Waveworm hit a stretch of choppy water. It struck the lizard standing to his left; the reptile gurgled, tugged at the shaft sticking from his chest and toppled overboard.
Romsca balanced in the prow, feeling the ship begin to rise and fall. “Haharr,” she cried. “The breeze is freshenin’, we’ll outsail em!”
Martin glanced up from his oar at Grath. “They’ve got the wind with them now!”
Grath tried another arrow, but it was whipped sideways in flight. “Aye, but so have we, Martin!” she said. Then she dashed amidships and went to work, tightening the lines in their cleats until the single square sail billowed tautly.
Log a Log was yelling and ranting above the howling gusts, “Come on, Guosim, bend yer backs, pull! Pull those oars, buckoes!”
The shrews strove bravely, battling with their heavy logboats and small sails to keep up with Grath’s craft. Waves crashed over the sides of the shrewboats, sending water cascading into them as the windforce built the seas high.
Chopping the Abbot’s tether rope clear of Waveworm’s mast, Lask Frildur dragged the old mouse up to the stern gallery. Securing the rope end to the rail, the lizard pushed his prisoner over, leaving him dangling at the aft end above the waves.
“Let them fire arrowz now if they dare!” he rasped.
Grath Longfletch threw down her bow in disgust. Then she suddenly flung herself flat in the prow as she heard an ominous noise, calling, “Belay, the mast is gone!”
Craaaaack!
The longboat’s mast snapped like a twig, unable to withstand further strain from the gale-tightened sail. Martin found himself enveloped in canvas, being dragged along the boat’s bottom as the wind began blowing the loose sail. Clecky was laid flat by the broken mast spar. The Warriormouse struggled madly. Tearing himself free, he whipped out his sword and severed the mast ropes with a few swift slashes. Broken mast, sail and cross spar went swishing out across the sea like a runaway beast.
Grath cradled the unconscious hare’s head in her paws, a look of despair on her face as she watched Waveworm pull away with the Abbot dangling high astern.
“They’ve beaten us, Martin. We’ll never catch them now!”
The Warriormouse brushed seawater from his eyes as he watched the corsair vessel recede into the watery wastes. “No, they haven’t beaten me! Not yet they haven’t!”
Log a Log gave orders. Lashed together prow to prow and stern to stern the small flotilla turned and headed for land.
Night had fallen; a beacon fire burned bright on the beach. Viola and four other shrews who had been left to guard the searat saw the crews come in to shore. Heads down, panting and gasping for breath, Log a Log and his Guosim shrews staggered up to the fire, followed by Martin and Grath carrying Clecky between them. Saturated by seawater and exhausted from their battle to reach dry land, everybeast flopped wearily around the fire area. Viola and the four shrews hurried about, serving hot vegetable broth and oatcakes as they went.
Late into the night Martin sat at the fire with Log a Log and Grath. The shrew Chieftain fed fresh wood to the flames, and glanced across to where the hare was now sleeping peacefully, wrapped up in old sailcloth.
“That one’ll live to eat another day; I never knew a hare that couldn’t rise to the sound o’ a ladle in a cookpot. So, Martin, yore bound an’ determined to follow the corsair ship?”
The Warriormouse watched the flames crackling around a pine log. “That’s right, Log a Log. If I have to follow them over the world’s edge and it takes me all my life, I’ll bring our Abbot back to Redwall Abbey. I swear it on my sword!”