The Rogue Crew (8 page)

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.

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!”