The Rogue Crew

6

Trug Bawdsley unbuttoned his green uniform tunic as the column marched along a dunetop. “Funny how a chap can get so jolly hot just marchin’, ain’t it, Wilbee?”

Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory, who was flanking the column, flicked Trug’s ear sharply. “Wot’s h’all this, then, laddie buck? H’out on a picnic ramble, are we? Ho, ’ow nice!”

Trug grinned. “Actually, I was just sayin’ how bloomin’ hot it gets when one’s out marchin’—”

The sergeant roared in fine parade-ground manner at the young hare. “Well, h’actually you’ll find yoreself h’on a fizzer if’n ye don’t git that tunic buttoned up proper, young Bawdsley. Now, gerrit fastened, ye lop-tailed, lollop-eared, doodle-eyed h’excuse for a ranker!”

Marching alongside Trug, Lancejack Sage giggled.

Miggory fixed her with a beady eye. “Nah then, missy, would ye like me t’give ye somethin’ to giggle about, eh?”

The pretty young haremaid cast a doe-eyed peep at the sergeant, but she was swiftly corrected for it.

“Git yore eyes front, Sage. I h’aint some wool-’eaded cadet to flicker yore h’eyelashes at!”

Captain Rake Nightfur, striding with Buff Redspore, nodded with satisfaction. “Et’ll do those young uns guid tae have Sergeant Miggory keepin’ ’em up tae scratch, Ah’m thinken.”

The tracker smiled. “Aye, ’twill. I remember old Nubbs from my cadet seasons, though his bark’s worse’n his bite.”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs, a small, trim veteran hare, checked the time by glancing up at the sun. He spoke out the side of his mouth to Lieutenant Scutram. “Midday, sah. Lunchtime, wot?”

Scutram nodded, calling from the rear, “Sarn’t, halt ’em for refreshments, if y’d be so kind!”

Miggory always felt slightly put out by the lieutenant’s well-mannered requests. He liked orders to be orders, so he bellowed resoundingly, “H’on my command the column will ’alt! Wait for it, Wilbee. Wait for it. Column . . . haaaaalt!”

The Long Patrollers kicked up a fine cloud of sand as they halted abruptly, awaiting further orders, which the colour sergeant issued aloud.

“H’attensun! Stan’ easy. Salute smartly t’the right an’ fall out! Lunch detail, attend to vittles!”

It was campaign rations, simple but nourishing. Hardtack scones, cold mint tea, the previous autumn’s apples and a small wedge of cheese apiece. Many of the younger hares, who were unused to long marches, rubbed their footpaws tenderly.

“Whew, wish I’d been jolly well born as a bird!”

Miggory eyed the speaker. “Well, try flappin’ those pretty ears h’of yores, Miz Ferrul. Who knows, ye might jus’ take h’off!”

Some of the younger hares wolfed down their lunch, lay back and closed their eyes to take a short nap. Rake Nightfur immediately upbraided them.

“Ach, whit’n the name o’ seasons are ye up tae? Sergeant Miggory, will ye no’ look at this sorry lot? Och, they’re like a nursery full o’ babbies!”

The sergeant knew what he had to do. “H’up on yore paws, ye dozy creatures. C’mon, let’s be havin’ ye!

Quick’n’sharp now, afore h’I starts kickin’ tails. Drander, if’n ye don’t move yoreself faster, then I’ll move ye myself!”

Drander, who was the biggest, most powerfully built of the younger hares, stood up casually. He towered over the sergeant, dusting off sand in a leisurely manner. “Beggin’ y’pardon, Sarge, but I rather think it’d take somebeast bigger’n you to jolly well move me, wot!”

A crooked grin appeared on Nubbs Miggory’s battered features. His paw moved almost faster than the eye could follow. Drander was suddenly kneeling, grasping his stomach as he tried to catch his breath.

Miggory had reigned as Regimental Champion Boxing Hare since he was no more than a first-season cadet. He winked down at Drander.

“Ho, t’aint so ’ard, young sir—h’I’ve moved bigger buckoes than you. H’up y’come now.”

Ignoring the sergeant’s helping paw, the hulking young hare stood upright, his eyes hot with anger. “Caught me by surprise there, Sarge. Don’t suppose you’d like t’have a second blinkin’ try, now that I’m bloomin’ well ready for ye, wot?”

Miggory shook his head. “Don’t suppose h’I would, big feller like yoreself. Ye prob’ly carry a good wallop, Drander. Tell ye wot, though. ’Ow’d ye like to take h’a punch at me? C’mon, h’I won’t raise h’a paw to ye.”

The other young hares were all for it.

“Go on, Drander old lad, knock his blinkin’ block off!”

“Aye, take a flippin’ good whack at him, Drander!”

The big young hare shook his head. “Against regulations t’strike an officer. I’d most likely get a ten-season fizzer if I struck the sarge.”

Captain Rake intervened. “Och, nae sich thing, laddie. Ah’ll jist declare it as a sportin’ contest. Have at him!”

Drander clenched both his huge paws, grinning confidently. “Good enough, sah. Right, are you ready, Sergeant?”

Miggory held up a paw. “No, wait!”

He scratched a short line in the sand and stood on it.

“Ready now, Private Drander. Take as many tries h’as ye like, h’I won’t move h’off this ’ere line h’or strike back.” Drander looked as if he could not believe his good fortune. The young hares were yelling encouragement as he judged, then sent a thunderous right haymaker at Miggory. The sergeant swayed easily, allowing the punch to whistle harmlessly past his nose.

“Nice try, young feller. ’Ow about h’a left ’ook?”

Drander swung a speedy left, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. Miggory ducked. Carried by the force of his own effort, Drander fell flat on his face. He leapt up without warning, lashing out with both clenched paws. Miggory never moved from the line, his fluid, almost careless movements causing every blow to go wide of the mark. The younger hares watched, awestruck, as Drander tried another foray, which missed. He was beginning to puff and blow.

Lieutenant Scutram spoke to Drander’s hushed supporters. “’Pon me word, he’ll have t’do better’n that, wot? Good job the colour sarn’t ain’t hittin’ back, or he’d have boxed Drander’s bloomin’ ears off. Hawhawhaw!”

After several more fruitless attempts, Drander collapsed on all fours, gasping for breath. Sergeant Miggory moved off his line then, offering Drander his paw. This time the hulking young Patroller accepted, allowing himself to be hauled upright. Miggory shook his paw cheerily.

“No ’ard feelin’s, mate?”

Drander managed a shamefaced grin, returning the pawshake. “None at all, Sarge. I’ve learned my flamin’ lesson!”

The colour sergeant nodded modestly. “You’ve got the makin’s of h’a good ’eavyweight, bucko. By the time this march is over, with h’a spot o’ my trainin’, there won’t be many who’ll fancy standin’ agin’ ye!”

When Miggory gave the order to form up and march, the younger hares obeyed with alacrity. Admiration and a new respect for the grizzled veteran shone in all their eyes.

Buff Redspore joined Captain Rake. “Patrol’s marchin’ well, sah. I don’t think there’ll be any more complaints after the sergeant’s little exhibition, wot?”

The captain agreed with her. “Aye, a lesson learned is a wee bit o’ knowledge gained, Ah ken!”

Behind them, Trug Bawdsley and Wilbee started a marching song.

“These are the days, mates, these are the days, obey the sergeant’s orders, do what the officer says, your paws’ll grow much tougher, march another mile, a stroll with the Long Patrol . . . Salamandastron style!

“One two, left right, tunics buttoned tight,

O Sergeant, dear, please lend an ear. . . . What’s for supper tonight?

“There’s sand between me paws, mates, an’ blowin’ up me nose, covered in dust’n’sweat, I ain’t smellin’ like a rose, totin’ a blinkin’ backpack that weighs down all the while, true blue, forward the buffs . . . Salamandastron style!

“Chin up, eyes front, shoulders good’n’square, show us a scurvy vermin, we’ll knock him flat right there!

“Take me out o’ barracks, march me out o’ doors, o’er hills an’ mountains, across the dunes an’ shores, forget your mothers’ weepin’, smile, me bucko, smile, don’t look sick, that’s the trick . . . Salamandastron style!”

The column made good time that day. Late spring weather held fair; larks wheeled and soared on the cool air. Without breaking ranks, some of the haremaids managed to pick scarlet pimpernel and crane’s-bill blossoms on the march. Neither the sergeant nor Lieutenant Scutram objected to seeing them wear the dainty flowers as buttonholes. To the west, the vast sea shimmered in the noonday sun, lapping the flat golden shore sands. Small early grasshoppers chirruped, leaping to either side as the Patrol marched by. Evening fell in a blaze of carmine glory as the sun sank below the western horizon. Buff Redspore chose a sheltered campsite in a hollow between three dunes, where campfires would be hardly visible by night.

The tracker was an excellent cook, as was Lancejack Sage. Between them, they produced a fine spring vegetable stew. Flatbread was baked on slates fixed over the fire. With a beaker of dandelion cordial, it made a very appetizing supper. At one point, young Ferrul gulped, holding her throat and coughing. Corporal Welkin glanced up from his stew.

“Oh, dear, too hot for you, miss?”

Ferrul pulled a wry face. “No, Corporal. I think I’ve swallowed one of those small grasshopper thingies!”

Welkin held up a cautionary paw. “Hush, now, or they’ll all want one, you lucky gel!”

After supper the hares dug out cloaks from their packs and lay down. There was much shoving to see who could get closest to the fire, until Captain Rake was heard to whisper loudly to Miggory, “Sergeant, tell those beasties sleepin’ nearest the fire et’s their duty tae keep it burnin’ through the nicht. They can form a rota tae gather firewood when ’tis needed.”

There followed a deal of scuffling. Suddenly there was ample room for anybeast to sleep near the flames. Miggory tapped the footpaws of two hares whom he had chosen for the task.

“Bawdsley, Wilbee, yore h’on firewood duty t’night. Lie easy, there ain’t much needed for h’a while.”

It was an hour or two past midnight when Wilbee nudged Trug Bawdsley.

“Er, I say, Trug old scout, d’you fancy goin’ out t’get some flamin’ firewood? That blaze is startin’ t’get low.”

Trug poked his head out of a fold in his cloak. “Go an’ boil your bloomin’ head, Wilb. You go—unless you’re scared o’ the dark.”

Wilbee jumped up indignantly. “Scared? Who said I’m blinkin’ well scared, wot! I’ll go an’ get wood, lots o’ the bally stuff. You just lie there an’ snooze your big head off, fatbrain!”

Wrapping the cloak about his shoulders, he swaggered off over the dunetops, muttering to himself. “Scared—what’s t’be jolly well scared of, wot? I’ll show that Trug that I’m the least scaredest of the entire bloomin’ Patrol. Huh, scared, the very idea!”

It was then that a hasty sequence of events occurred. Young Wilbee tripped over a reedy tussock, falling ears over scut into a shallow depression. He knocked over a dark shape of a creature who was trying to sneak up on a nesting corn-crake, which was sitting on a clutch of eggs in the hollow. The bird screeched harshly as both beasts fell in on it. The creature yelled out in surprise, and Wilbee squeaked in dismay as the corn-crake’s wing buffeted him in the eye and the shadowy creature kicked out at him. All three fled in a panic, the bird flapping awkwardly into the night, the strange creature kicking sand in Wilbee’s eyes as it scurried off amidst the dunes. Wilbee sat in the hollow, rubbing sand from his eyes and wailing aloud as he tried gingerly to climb from the mess, with a broken bird’s egg clinging to his scut.

Alerted by the noise, Buff Redspore, Sergeant Miggory, Lieutenant Scutram and Corporal Welkin Dabbs came running, with weapons at the ready.

Young Wilbee staggered up to them, jabbering, “I’m wounded! There was two o’ the blighters, one with big claws, the other was some kind o’ blinkin’ phantom. Scrabbled with ’em, of course, but they jolly well scooted off. After woundin’ me, that is.”

Scutram peered at the young hare. “Wounded, laddie? Where?”

Wilbee turned around, so they could see his injury.

“Er, in the confounded tail area, I think.”

Miggory took a quick look, dabbed it with his paw and sniffed. “Where did h’all this ’appen?”

Wilbee pointed over to the small depression. “There, Sarge!”

Corporal Dabbs crouched over the scene, sweeping something up in his paw. “Eggshell. It’s a blinkin’ bird’s nest.”

Scutram inspected the nest before questioning Wilbee. “There were two of ’em, y’say—one with big claws, eh? Was that the one that flew away?”

Wilbee was confused. “Flew away, sah? Er, I didn’t notice.”

The lieutenant was not in the best of tempers, having been awakened and hurried off over the dunes. “So, ye didn’t notice, young puddenhead. It was a bird, Wilbee, a corn-crake. Can ye not see it hoverin’ over yonder? As for your wound, ’twas nothin’ more’n a broken egg ye sat on. Shove some sand on the stuff. It’ll brush off once it’s dry. Bloomin’ buffoon!”

Buff Redspore interrupted. “Beg pardon, sah, but what about the otherbeast—the dark phantom thing?”

Corporal Dabbs chuckled. “Phantom beast, hah, piffle!” The tracker pointed to blurred trailmarks in the sand. She shook her head. “I think not, Corp. Hard t’say, but I’d guess that’s a vermin track, too blurred t’see what sort. Went that way, north through the dunes.”

Scutram peered in the direction indicated. “Hmm. Any chance of catchin’ the blaggard, marm?”

Buff was expert at such things; she suggested a plan. “I’ll take a good runner with me, cut down t’the shore where the sand’s firm an’ the goin’ quicker. The rest of you give us a moment, then come across the dunetops. Make a bit o’ noise—that’ll get our villain lookin’ back over his shoulder. He won’t notice us gettin’ ahead of him. That way we should cut him off. Are ye game, Sergeant?”

Despite his seasons, the sergeant was still a great sprinter. “Aye, c’mon, Buff, we’ll make the pace for each other.”

The fugitive vermin was none other than Crumdun, the fat stoat who had deserted from Greenshroud. It was he whom the lookout had spotted and ignored. Panicked by his encounter with the hare and the corn-crake, he fled willy-nilly through the dunes. The realisation that he was heading north, instead of south as he had intended, kept him away from the shore. Crumdun did not want to be spotted by any of the Wearat’s crew. It was awkward going in the dunes, all hills, hollows and long ryegrass, but it was safer than travelling in the open. His pace began to slow; he stumbled, blowing sand from his lips. Hauling himself wearily to a dunetop, he stopped to pull a thistle from his footpad. Then he heard the shouts.

“Eulaliiiiaaaa! Blood’n’vinegar!”

Looking back, he saw three figures topping a hill not far away. Crumdun took to his paws then, panting, with the sound of his own heart hammering in his chest.

“Yeeeeharrr! Forward the buffs! Eulaliiiiaaaa!”

The fat stoat could not understand any of the shouts, but he knew they were coming after him. He skidded and stumbled onward, staring over his shoulder at the pursuing trio.

With jarring suddeness, he was halted by a hard punch to the stomach.

“Nah, then, scruffy ’ead, where d’ye think yore h’off to!” The hare who had struck him looked a real tough beast. Another taller female stood beside him.

Sucking in air, the fat stoat began to babble pleadingly. “I never killed no rabbets, yer ’onours, on me oath, I never—it was Razzid an’ Mowlag an’ that weasel Jiboree. Them was the ones wot did it, I swears it!”

Dawn broke over the Long Patrol camp as breakfast was being prepared over the replenished fire. Captain Rake stared down at the stoat lying tightly bound on the ground.

Crumdun blinked nervously at the black hare’s paws, resting on the twin claymore hilts. He swallowed hard, then started to sob. “On me ole mother’s life, yer lordship, I’ve told ye all I knows, every thin’! Like I said, I jumped ship back there, deserted. ’Twas no place fer a simple creature like meself. They was beatin’ an’ bullyin’ me, sir. Makin’ me dance, an’ sing, an’ fetch an’ carry for ’em. Merderers, ruffians, that’s all Greenshroud’s crew are.

“An’ I’ll tell ye somethin’ else, yer majesty. That Razzid Wearat, rot ’is tripes’n’eyes, ’e slew my best ole matey. Aye, pore Braggio. They’ve got ’is ’ead stickin’ atop o’ the ship’s mainmast—’ow about that, eh?”

Rake eyed him scornfully. “Ach, shut yer mouth, ye fat whingin’ slawb! Ah’m no’ worried aboot yer scurvy matey, nor how they had ye dancin’ an’ singin’. What Ah wish tae know is where ye left yon ship—why did she pull intae shore, an’ where’s she headed?”

Crumdun whined, “I’ll tell yer wot I knows, sir, but first could ye spare a pore beast some vittles, an’ a drop to drink? I aint had nothin’ for a’most two days.”

Rake Nightfur drew his twin blades with alarming speed. His tone became harsh, merciless. “Have ye ever tasted yer ain blood? Well, ye will if ye dinnae answer mah questions, vermin. Now, speak!”

The fat stoat cringed away from the steel points. “I can take ye t’the spot where the ship made land an’ I ’opped off. But why she berthed there I don’t know. Nobeast aboard ever tole me nothin’, sir. I didn’t even know where we was sailin’ to. On me oath, I never!”

After breaking camp, the sergeant unbound Crumdun but kept him on a rope halter. The column marched down out of the dunes onto the shore.

The stoat pointed. “That ways, straight north.”

Trug Bawdsley, paw on swordhilt, kept trying to edge within blade distance of the prisoner. Lieutenant Scutram clasped his paw tightly over Trug’s, stopping him from drawing his blade.

“What the deuce are ye playin’ at, Bawdsley?”

Trug gritted his teeth with rage. “My sister Trey, she was slain by that vermin an’ his crew. Allow me to draw my sword, sah. I mean to kill him!”

Scutram released the young hare’s paw, shaking his head. “Carry on, by all means, Bawdsley. I’ll write it up in my report as an act of bravery. ‘Private Trug Bawdsley slays a foe in an heroic battle. The vermin, a half-starved stoat, was unarmed and held under guard on a rope halter. Bawdsley showed great courage by attacking him with a sword. The prisoner did not—beg pardon, could not—defend himself.’ There, young Trug, how does that jolly well sound, wot?”

Shamefaced, the young hare did not attempt to draw steel.

“Blinkin’ awful, sah. ’Twould make me sound like a coward.”

The lieutenant winked broadly as he patted Trug’s back. “You’re no coward, young un, anybeast could tell that. Wait, watch an’ learn, Bawdsley, an’ one day you’ll make us all proud o’ ye, eh!”

Trug squared his shoulders, saluting. “Aye, sah!”

Captain Rake Nightfur gave a tug on the prisoner’s halter. “We’ve been marchin’ the best part o’ the morn, ye rascal. Where are ye takin’ us tae?”

Before Crumdun could answer, Buff Redspore, who had climbed back into the dunes to scout the land, called out. “North an’ a point west along the shore, sah—can’t make out what it is. Shall I scout ahead an’ see?”

Captain Rake waved a paw. “Aye, do that, lassie. Sarn’t Miggory, go with her in case o’ bother.”

Miggory joined the tracker as she descended out of the dunes. Together they set off at a brisk run along the tideline.

As the column followed up at normal march pace, the haremaid Ferrul looked at Wilbee, who was trudging alongside her.

“Beg pardon, did you say somethin’?”

Wilbee pointed to himself. “Who, me? No, ’twas Drander.”

Drander explained mournfully, “I never said a word. It’s this bloomin’ belly o’ mine, growlin’ an’ beggin’ for scoff.”

Flutchers, another young ranker, grinned foolishly. “Y’don’t say? My tummy is, too. Listen, can ye hear it?”

He began making a noise out the side of his mouth, like a growling stomach speaking actual words. “Gwaaaa w w w , I want lunch! Kwuuuurrr! Gimme some grub!”

This caused general merriment amongst the young hares, who began imitating Flutchers.

“Bwuuurrr! Foooooood, I wan’ foooood!”

“Kwuuurrrrk! Scoffff, I need scooooofffff!”

Corporal Welkin Dabbs was down on them sternly. “Silence in the ranks, ye bellowin’ beasts! Don’t think ye can start playactin’ ’cos Sarn’t Miggory ain’t here. The next growlin’ gut I hear’ll be on half rations an’ double guard duty tonight! D’ye hear me, wot!”

Ferrul fluttered her eyelashes prettily. “We hear you, Corporal!”

Dabbs pulled a ferocious face at her. “Then pay attention, me beauty. I may only be a corporal, but I’m an ’orrible, fearsome corporal who’ll have your ears for breakfast, your scuts for snacks an’ your guts for garters! Wot’ll I have, Miss Ferrul?”

The pretty haremaid fluttered her eyelids again, replying in a soothing tone, “You’ll have the most frightful headache if you continue bellowing like that, Corporal dear.”

Welkin Dabbs glared at her, his ears a-twitch with wrath. “Watch that dressin’! Pick up your pace at the back there! Hup two, left right! Shoulders back, Wilbee. Eyes to the front, Miss Ferrul! Now march, you sloppy, straw-pawed,’orrible, misbegotten lot!”

From the ranks, an unidentified young hare sobbed mockingly, “Oh, dear. I wish our lovely old sergeant would come and rescue us from this cruel corporal!”

The object Buff Redspore had espied from the dunetop appeared as no more than a dark smudge above the tideline. Miggory’s paws drummed time with the tracker’s as they drew closer to their goal. The sergeant put on a spurt. Drawing ahead of Buff, he held up a paw, calling out a warning.

“Hold ’ard, marm. Let me take a peep first!”

Buff knew Miggory never acted without purpose. She halted but could not help querying his motive. “I say, Sarge, why do I have to stay here?”

Miggory’s reply was terse. “Just smelled somethin’ I don’t like. Stay put, if ye please, marm.”

It was a large mound of ash, black, white and grey, from a sizeable fire long gone cold. The grizzled colour sergeant stirred the debris with a swift paw. He crouched down, eyes roving over the area, shaking his head.

The tracker took a few tentative paces forward. “What is it, sah . . . ?”

Miggory whirled in her direction, his voice loud and strained. “Wot did I tell ye, Redspore? Stay back! Take yoreself off now, back t’the column. Tell Corporal Dabbs t’keep the young uns away. Send Cap’n Rake an’ Lieutenant Scutram t’me, quick h’as ye like!”

Buff hesitated. “But, Sergeant, what is it?”

Miggory’s bellowing sent her scurrying to obey.

“Don’t argue with me—just do as yore h’ordered!”

The column stood well off downshore as Captain Rake and Scutram crouched amidst the ashes with Miggory. Rake Nightfur’s eyes were blank with shock as he picked an object from the ruins.

“What manner o’ monster could do sich a thing tae another creature? Ah’ve never seen ought like et!”

Scutram surveyed the awful scene, leaning on a lance. “Aye, this has got t’be the work of a Wearat, sah.”