The Rogue Crew

Nothing could have pleased the Wearat more than the opportunity to revenge himself on his enemy. He stole silently from the prow of Greenshroud, carrying his trident. Mowlag, Jiboree, the lookout and the steersrat flanked him.

“Wot d’ye think the cap’n will do to that beast?” the young ferret lookout whispered to Jiboree.

The weasel grinned wickedly in anticipation. “Yew just watch. Cap’n Razzid don’t like waterdogs. I wager ’e slays’im good’n’slow, bit by bit!”

Jum Curdy’s uncle Wullow snuffled a little. His head drooped further onto his chest, then he carried on snoring, stirring his whiskers with each breath. The coracle lean-to was sheltering his back, the fire embers were warming his front, and the tatty sailcloth cloak was keeping vagrant breezes at bay. A bundle of dead twigs and dried reed landed on the little fire, causing it to flare up. A spark stung Wullow’s nosetip. He woke to find himself facing a strange, brutal-featured beast and four vermin corsairs. The flickering firelight reflected the evil glitter in the Wearat’s one good eye.

“We wouldn’t want yore fire goin’ out on ye, friend. We’ll make things nice an’ warm for ye—won’t we, mates?”

The other four vermin sniggered nastily. Wullow gave a deep sigh of despair as they closed in on him.

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.”