The Rogue Crew

Snaggs ushered them into the tunnel, leaving Uggo’s paws unbound, though he was still attached to Posy’s rope. The fox snuffled distastefully. “I kin still smell burnt fedders in ’ere. Jonder, no more birds fer a while. Yew an’ Wigga take the two ’ogs fishin’ at dawn. Keep an eye on’em—they’ll be gittin’ fish fer brekkist.”

Seated back in their former position, Uggo squeezed Posy’s paw. “Now we’ll get to the sea an’ look out for the log. At least it’s a chance.”

10

Between them, Lieutenant Scutram, Captain Rake and Sergeant Miggory buried the remains of the old sea otter. They worked swiftly, marking the sandy grave with a charred piece of timber, which had served Jum Gurdy’s uncle Wullow as a paddle. The stoat Crumdun was standing nearby, guarded by Corporal Welkin. Captain Rake beckoned him forward.

“Ye say ye seen nought of what happened here?”

The former corsair shook his head vigorously. “Nay, sir, an’ by the look of wot was left o’ that pore creature, I’m glad I didn’t. On me oath, sir!”

The captain looked to Scutram, who nodded. “I’m inclined to believe the rascal, sah, ’pon me word. Though I can’t believe that a livin’ thing, vermin or not, could do such a cruel deed to another, wot!”

Crumdun stared at the grave, still shaking his head. “I’ll tell ye, gentlebeasts. Razzid Wearat enjoyed doin’ things like that. I’ve ’eard stories about that un as’d make yore fur curl. My ole mate, Braggio—d’ye know wot the Wearat did to ’im? Wait’ll I tell ye—”

Captain Rake cut him off sharply. “No, ye won’t, mah friend. Ah don’t want tae hear another word about the murders done by yore Wearat master. An’ mind, Ah forbid ye tae speak o’ it tae any o’ mah young Patrollers, d’ye ken?”

The stoat tugged his snout. “Aye, sir!”

The tall captain saluted the grave. “’Tis a sad end tae anybeast, but rest easy, mah laddie, an’ know that your death’ll be avenged by us. We’ll make yon Wearat weep tears o’ bluid, Ah swear et on these blades!”

Touching his lips to the blades of the twin claymores, which he had drawn to salute the fallen otter, Rake Nightfur sheathed them, turning smartly. “Sarn’t Miggory, get the Patrol underway, if ye please!”

They marched off along the shore into the sunlit spring day, though gossip was rife throughout the ranks about what they had missed seeing.

“I say, why d’you suppose we weren’t allowed one bally peek?”

“Search me. We’ve all seen deadbeasts before, haven’t we?”

“Speak for y’self, Wilbee, I jolly well haven’t!”

“Huh, must’ve been somethin’ pretty dreadful, wot!”

The stern voice of Sergeant Miggory warned the speaker. “Somethin’ pretty dreadful will ’appen t’you h’if ye keep on blatherin’ h’in the ranks, laddie buck. H’an that goes for you, too, Miss Ferrul. Eyes front, now, an’ pick up the pace. Left right, left right!”

Corporal Welkin called out to Miggory, “Only one thing t’keep ’em marchin’ smartlike an’ stop the blighters talkin’, Sarn’t!”

Miggory bellowed back to him. “Ho, an’ wot’s that, Corp?”

Welkin’s reply came back equally loud. “Get ’em singin’ an’ slap anybeast who ain’t singin’ out ’earty enough on a fizzer, wot!”

The colour sergeant performed a maneuver which amazed the young hares. Twirling about, he began marching backward without breaking pace, keeping up with the column and roaring cheerfully at them. “H’I say, wot a spiffin’ h’idea! Right, you ’orrible lot, h’I wants to ’ear you singin’ like flippin’ larks. H’every verse o’ that liddle dittie h’entitled ‘The Barracks Bunfight’! An’ woe betide h’anybeast whose tonsils h’I can’t see wagglin’ like the clappers. Corporal Welkin, will you lead off? The rest of ye, join in smartly now h’in yore best voices!”

The marching ballad Miggory had chosen was one to cheer their spirits and drown any curiosity and speculation about former incidents. Everybeast sang lustily, with even the officers joining in.

“One two three four, tell me, Sergeant, tell me more!

The bloomin’ barracks bunfight’s a sight you ought to

see,

we went along last winter, old Tubby Dobbs an’ me,

with brushed an’ curled moustaches, an’ buttons

polished bright,

the gels were flutterin’ lashes at both of us that night.

“Five six seven eight, on the dot an’ don’t be late!

Stap me flippin’ vitals, the barracks did look bright,

all spiffed up with lanterns, an’ glitt’rin’ candlelight.

Two buffet tables groanin’ ’neath scads o’ lovely stuff,

pudden’n’pie’n’trifle, an’ pots o’ skilly’n’duff.

“One two three four, off we jigged across the floor!

The band was tootlin’ gaily, when Tubby gave a wail,

he’d backed into a candle, which set fire to his tail,

he bumped into the colonel, who was wolfin’ down his

grub,

they both went staggerin’ headlong, into the port wine

tub.

“Five six seven eight, Wiggy cried, ‘Look out, mate!’

The cook was servin’ duff, which went flyin’ off his

spoon,

it splattered an old fiddler, scrapin’ out a tune,

his bow shot like an arrow, an’ hit the major’s niece,

she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, so she gave him a

piece.

“Nine ten eleven, sah, give ’em blood an’ vinegah!