The Rogue Crew

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.