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.”
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.
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.”