There followed a deal of scuffling. Suddenly there was ample room for anybeast to sleep near the flames. Miggory tapped the footpaws of two hares whom he had chosen for the task.
“Bawdsley, Wilbee, yore h’on firewood duty t’night. Lie easy, there ain’t much needed for h’a while.”
It was an hour or two past midnight when Wilbee nudged Trug Bawdsley.
“Er, I say, Trug old scout, d’you fancy goin’ out t’get some flamin’ firewood? That blaze is startin’ t’get low.”
Trug poked his head out of a fold in his cloak. “Go an’ boil your bloomin’ head, Wilb. You go—unless you’re scared o’ the dark.”
Wilbee jumped up indignantly. “Scared? Who said I’m blinkin’ well scared, wot! I’ll go an’ get wood, lots o’ the bally stuff. You just lie there an’ snooze your big head off, fatbrain!”
Wrapping the cloak about his shoulders, he swaggered off over the dunetops, muttering to himself. “Scared—what’s t’be jolly well scared of, wot? I’ll show that Trug that I’m the least scaredest of the entire bloomin’ Patrol. Huh, scared, the very idea!”
It was then that a hasty sequence of events occurred. Young Wilbee tripped over a reedy tussock, falling ears over scut into a shallow depression. He knocked over a dark shape of a creature who was trying to sneak up on a nesting corn-crake, which was sitting on a clutch of eggs in the hollow. The bird screeched harshly as both beasts fell in on it. The creature yelled out in surprise, and Wilbee squeaked in dismay as the corn-crake’s wing buffeted him in the eye and the shadowy creature kicked out at him. All three fled in a panic, the bird flapping awkwardly into the night, the strange creature kicking sand in Wilbee’s eyes as it scurried off amidst the dunes. Wilbee sat in the hollow, rubbing sand from his eyes and wailing aloud as he tried gingerly to climb from the mess, with a broken bird’s egg clinging to his scut.
Alerted by the noise, Buff Redspore, Sergeant Miggory, Lieutenant Scutram and Corporal Welkin Dabbs came running, with weapons at the ready.
Young Wilbee staggered up to them, jabbering, “I’m wounded! There was two o’ the blighters, one with big claws, the other was some kind o’ blinkin’ phantom. Scrabbled with ’em, of course, but they jolly well scooted off. After woundin’ me, that is.”
Scutram peered at the young hare. “Wounded, laddie? Where?”
Wilbee turned around, so they could see his injury.
“Er, in the confounded tail area, I think.”
Miggory took a quick look, dabbed it with his paw and sniffed. “Where did h’all this ’appen?”
Wilbee pointed over to the small depression. “There, Sarge!”
Corporal Dabbs crouched over the scene, sweeping something up in his paw. “Eggshell. It’s a blinkin’ bird’s nest.”
Scutram inspected the nest before questioning Wilbee. “There were two of ’em, y’say—one with big claws, eh? Was that the one that flew away?”
Wilbee was confused. “Flew away, sah? Er, I didn’t notice.”
The lieutenant was not in the best of tempers, having been awakened and hurried off over the dunes. “So, ye didn’t notice, young puddenhead. It was a bird, Wilbee, a corn-crake. Can ye not see it hoverin’ over yonder? As for your wound, ’twas nothin’ more’n a broken egg ye sat on. Shove some sand on the stuff. It’ll brush off once it’s dry. Bloomin’ buffoon!”
Buff Redspore interrupted. “Beg pardon, sah, but what about the otherbeast—the dark phantom thing?”
Corporal Dabbs chuckled. “Phantom beast, hah, piffle!” The tracker pointed to blurred trailmarks in the sand. She shook her head. “I think not, Corp. Hard t’say, but I’d guess that’s a vermin track, too blurred t’see what sort. Went that way, north through the dunes.”
Scutram peered in the direction indicated. “Hmm. Any chance of catchin’ the blaggard, marm?”
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.