Bragoon agreed. “Yore right, Briggy, a bit o’ discipline wouldn’t ’urt ’im. All three o’ them young ’uns’ve been livin’ the soft life at Redwall fer too long. The two maids are much better be’aved than Horty, they’ll lissen t’reason. But Horty’s too wild an’ ’eadstrong. One day he’ll make a fine warrior—after he’s learned a few stern lessons.”
Briggy stroked his beard. “Don’t fret, mate, I’ll knock all the rough edges off’n Horty. My Jigger was the same ’til I showed ’im the ropes. Lookit Jigger now, commandin’ his own logboat. There’s a young shrew anybeast’d be proud t’call son!”
The otter went back astern and sat with Saro. Behind them Horty was weeping buckets as he peeled and chopped the pungent wild onions. He went at it with vim and vigour, though scowling and muttering about the injustices of life aboard a logboat.
“Bit flippin’ thick this lot, wot? A few measly words to old Brigalog an’ he treats a chap like a bloomin’ vermin marauder! I mean, what did I say? The bearded old buffer should count himself jolly well lucky, wot! Oh, yes indeed, when Hortwill Braebuck Esquire starts really chuckin’ insults, he could roast the flamin’ ears off a milky-whiskered shrew. I could’ve called the chap a lot worse! Twiggle-jawed trout! Giddy-nosed toad! Pickled old pollywog! Witless water beetle! Puddle-pawed duck’s bottom! Or even Skinnyforlinkee Wobblechops! Huh, I think I let him off lightly, really. Good job one can hold one’s temper, wot wot!”
Log a Log Briggy came striding down between the polers. “Ahoy there, mates, is that mutineer be’avin’ hisself? I might let ’im get a bite o’ supper tonight, if’n I ’ears an apology.”
Bragoon nudged Horty. “Did ye hear that, matey?”
The young hare turned a face, still running onion tears, to the Guoraf chieftain and declared dramatically, “Y’mean you’d restore my scoffin’ privileges, sah? Merciful Logawotsyaname, I’ll peel every last one of these foul fruits, I swear I will. Good Captain, I’ll be the saltiest young riverbeast you ever clapped eyes on. Listen to this. Shiver me sails an’ rot me timbers, fry me barnacles, scrape me keel, an’ all that nautical jimjam. You, matey sah, are lookin’ at a completely reformed beast!”
Briggy glanced at Saro. “Wot d’ye think, marm, is that a rogue worth feedin’?”
The aging squirrel saw the haunted look in Horty’s eyes and took pity. “Aye, Cap’n, only a moment ago Horty was sayin’ wot a good ole Log a Log ye are. Ain’t that right, Brag?”
With difficulty, the otter kept a straight face. “Right enough, I’d give ’im another chance if ’twas up t’me.”
Briggy stroked his beard a moment, before answering. “Aye, so be it then. Leave those onions now, young ’un, go amidship an’ lend the cook a paw in the galley.”
Horty galloped off, overjoyed at the prospect of working amid food. “Help the cook, I say, what a spiffin’ job! A thousand thanks to you, Captain Briggaboat, an’ you, my two chums. You have a handsome young hare’s undying thanks!”
Bragoon chuckled. “Same modest Horty, eh?”
Aboard Jigger’s logboat, Fenna and Springald were being treated like royalty. Fenna had also gained an admirer, a stout young shrew named Wuddle. Both he and Jigger could not do enough for the pretty Redwall maids. The shrews brought extra cushions, erected an awning to shade them from the sun and served more delicious snacks than both of them could possibly eat. Then the two creatures vanished momentarily, to reappear grinning awkwardly, carrying with them two accordionlike instruments, which they said were called shrewlodeons. Jigger and Waddle twiddled a few keys, then launched into a song. Springald and Fenna were convulsed with laughter at the faces that both shrews pulled while singing. On verses they would be scowling savagely, whilst on the choruses they adopted expressions of peaceful concern. Both had wonderful bass voices and sang in harmony.
“When I meets a beast wot ain’t polite to laydeez,
I grabs ’im round the throat ’til he turns blue,
I holds him tight in check as I squeezes on his neck,
then I boots his tail three times around the deck!
’Cos be they sisters mothers aunts or daughters,
all laydeez must be treated tenderly,
they’re dainty an’ they’re neat, an’ they don’t have much to eat,
an’ they rouses gentle feelins within me.
When I’m around an’ you insults a laydee,
I’ll jump on yore stummick very forcibly,
then I’ll punch you in the snout an’ I’ll prob’ly knock you out,
an’ black both of yore eyes so you can’t see!
’Cos be they sisters mothers aunts or daughters,
all laydeez must be treated tenderly,
they’re dainty an’ they’re neat, an’ they don’t have much to eat,
an’ they rouses gentle feelins within me.
So mind yore manners an’ be very careful,
when in the company of laydeez sweet,
or I’ll shove you in a sack, after fracturin’ yore back,
an’ I’ll stamp upon yore paws if you gets free!”
After the final chorus, they escorted both maids on a pleasant promenade of the deck, snarling fiercely at any of the poling shrews who dared to look sideways at Fenna or Springald.
Supper on a mossy bank, overhung by weeping willows, was a total success. It was all due to Horty’s onion soup. The Guorafs congratulated him on his cooking skills. He lapped up any compliments with a complete lack of modesty.
“Tut tut, nothin’ to it, dear chaps—a pinch o’ this, a smidgeon o’ that an’ a sprinklin’ of the other. Plus, of course, blinkin’ loads of those confounded onions. I tell you, I shed many salt tears into the recipe, wot! Wild onions? Hah, I wasn’t too blinkin’ pleased, havin’ to tame ’em down for you lot. I’d sooner be skinned me bloomin’ self than have to skin another wild onion!”
Log a Log Briggy watched the young ones cavorting, singing and playing, then lay back and stretched. “Beats me where they find the energy! Ah well, let ’em be merry while they can, ’specially those three young ’uns o’ yores. I reckon we’ll make our voyage end by midmorn tomorrer. That’s when all the fun’n’games will finish for Horty an’ the maids. I’m glad I don’t have t’make the slog over desert an’ gorge to Loamhedge with ye. That’s country I was never fond of.”
Bragoon flicked a twig into the fire. “They’ll do alright, with me’n my mate to look after ’em.”
Saro smiled. “Aye, but by the creakin’ o’ my ole bones, ’tis them who’ll be lookin’ after us by the time this liddle jaunt is finished!”
Next morning, they arrived on time at the spot, just as Briggy had predicted. It was indeed hard, arid country. They had been sailing upriver since the crack of dawn. Nobeast could fail to notice the difference in the terrain. Trees, bushes and grass thinned out along the banks, whilst a hot breeze wafted in dust from the wastelands.
Briggy smiled at the young creatures’ downcast faces. “Cheer up, mates, it ain’t good-bye just yet. We’ll be moored alongside this bank when ye come back wid a cure for Horty’s sister. Get goin’ now, an’ good fortune go with ye!”
“Thanks for everythin’, ole friend!”
“Aye, we’d a-been in a right pickle widout you an’ yore crews, matey.”
“See ye in six days, eh!”
Loaded with shrew hardtack biscuits and two canteens of water apiece, the travellers set off into the unknown.
Briggy called out as the logboats pulled away. “Keep the sun on yore right cheek, ye’ll see the Bell an’ Badger Rocks afore dark. But y’won’t be able to reach ’em until ye figure out ’ow to cross the great gorge!”
Silence reigned over the searing, dusty flatness at high noon. Bragoon led the party, with Saro bringing up the rear.
It was not long before Horty began complaining. “Phew, my ears are roasted, my tongue’s parched an’ my bally feet are fryin’. My word, it’s even too hot to sweat! Walkin’ walkin’, always flamin’ well walkin’. It’s the story of m’life, chaps. First I was walkin’ up’n’down on a blinkin’ logboat, pushin’ an oarpole. Now I’m walkin’ again through this food’n’drink-forsaken place!”