The Rogue Crew

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.”