"Na, not know, not see heem. But ees goot pridge--no von come."

"I'd like to go across, Hazel-rah," said Blackberry.

"Well, Fiver's the rabbit for that," replied Hazel. "He simply loves crossing bridges. You carry on. I'll come behind, with Bigwig and Bluebell here."

The five rabbits hopped slowly along the planks, their great, sensitive ears full of the sound of the falling water. Hazel, who was not sure of his footing, had to stop several times. When at length he reached the further side, he found that Fiver and Blackberry had already gone a little way downstream below the fall and were looking at some large object sticking out from the bank. At first he thought that it must be a fallen tree trunk, but as he came closer he saw that, although it was certainly wooden, it was not round, but flat, or nearly flat, with raised edges--some man thing. He remembered how once, long ago, sniffing over a farm rubbish heap with Fiver, he had come upon a similar object--large, smooth and flat. (That had, in fact, been an old, discarded door.) It had been of no use to them and they had left it alone. His inclination was to leave this alone, too.

One end of the thing was pressed into the bank, but along its length it diverged, sticking out slightly into the stream. There were ripples round it, for under the banks the current was as swift as in midstream, on account of weed-cutting and sound camp-sheeting. As Hazel came nearer, he saw that Blackberry had actually scrambled on the thing. His claws made a faint hollow sound on the wood, so there must be water underneath. Whatever it might be, the thing did not extend downward to the bottom: it was lying on the water.

"What are you after, Blackberry?" he said rather sharply.

"Food," replied Blackberry. "Flayrah. Can't you smell it?"

Kehaar had alighted on the middle of the thing, and was snapping away at something white. Blackberry scuttered along the wood toward him and began to nibble at some kind of greenstuff. After a little while Hazel also ventured out on the wood and sat in the sunshine, watching the flies on the warm, varnished surface and sniffing the strange river smells that came up from the water.

"What is this man thing, Kehaar?" he asked. "Is it dangerous?"

"Na, no dangerous. You not know? Ees poat. At Peeg Vater is many, many poat. Men make dem, go on vater. Ees no harm."

Kehaar went on pecking at the broken pieces of stale bread. Blackberry, who had finished the fragments of lettuce he had found, was sitting up and looking over the very low side, watching a stone-colored, black-spotted trout swim up into the fall. The "boat" was a miniature punt, used for reed-cutting--little more than a raft, with a single thwart amidships. Even when it was unmanned, as now, there were only a few inches of freeboard.

"You know," said Fiver from the bank, "seeing you sitting there reminds me of that other wooden thing you found when the dog was in the wood and you got Pipkin and me over the river. Do you remember?"

"I remember shoving you along," said Bigwig. "It was jolly cold."

"What puzzles me," said Blackberry, "is why this boat thing doesn't go along. Everything in this river goes along, and fast, too--see there." He looked out at a piece of stick floating down on the even two-mile-an-hour current. "So what's stopping this thing from going?"

Kehaar had a short-way-with-landlubbers manner which he sometimes used to those of the rabbits that he did not particularly like. Blackberry was not one of his favorites: he preferred straightforward characters such as Bigwig, Buckthorn and Silver.

"Ees rope. You like bite heem, den you go d.a.m.n queek, all de vay."

"Yes, I see," said Fiver. "The rope goes round that metal thing where Hazel's sitting: and the other end's fixed on the bank here. It's like the stalk of a big leaf. You could gnaw it through and the leaf--the boat--would drop off the bank."

"Well, anyway, let's go back now," said Hazel, rather dejectedly. "I'm afraid we don't seem to be any nearer to finding what we're looking for, Kehaar. Can you possibly wait until tomorrow? I had the idea that we might all move to somewhere a bit drier before tonight--higher up in the wood, away from the river."

"Oh, what a pity!" said Bluebell. "Do you know, I'd quite decided to become a water rabbit."

"A what?" asked Bigwig.

"A water rabbit," repeated Bluebell. "Well, there are water rats and water beetles and Pipkin says that last night he saw a water hawk. So why not a water rabbit? I shall float merrily along--"

"Great golden Frith on a hill!" cried Blackberry suddenly. "Great jumping Rabscuttle! That's it! That's it! Bluebell, you shall shall be a water rabbit!" He began leaping and skipping about on the bank and cuffing Fiver with his front paws. "Don't you see, Fiver? Don't you see? We bite the rope and off we go: and General Woundwort doesn't know!" be a water rabbit!" He began leaping and skipping about on the bank and cuffing Fiver with his front paws. "Don't you see, Fiver? Don't you see? We bite the rope and off we go: and General Woundwort doesn't know!"

Fiver paused. "Yes, I do do see," he replied at length. "You mean on the boat. I must say, Blackberry, you're a clever fellow. I remember now that after we'd crossed that other river you said that that floating trick might come in handy again sometime." see," he replied at length. "You mean on the boat. I must say, Blackberry, you're a clever fellow. I remember now that after we'd crossed that other river you said that that floating trick might come in handy again sometime."

"Here, wait a moment," said Hazel. "We're just simple rabbits, Bigwig and I. Do you mind explaining?"

Then and there, while the black gnats settled on their ears, by the plank bridge and the pouring waterfall, Blackberry and Fiver explained.

"Could you just go and try the rope, Hazel-rah?" added Blackberry, when he had finished. "It may be too thick."

They went back to the punt.

"No, it's not," said Hazel, "and it's stretched tight, of course, which makes it much easier to gnaw. I can gnaw that, all right."

"Ya, ees goot," said Kehaar. "You go fine. But you do heem queek, ya? Maybe somet'ing change. Man come, take poat--you know?"

"There's nothing more to wait for," said Hazel. "Go on, Bigwig, straightaway, and may El-ahrairah go with you. And remember, you're the leader now. Send word by Kehaar what you want us to do; we shall all be here, ready to back you up."

Afterward, they all remembered how Bigwig had taken his orders. No one could say that he did not practice what he preached. He hesitated a few moments and then looked squarely at Hazel.

"It's sudden," he said. "I wasn't expecting it tonight. But that's all to the good--I hated waiting. See you later."

He touched his nose to Hazel's, turned and hopped away into the undergrowth. A few minutes later, guided by Kehaar, he was running up the open pasture north of the river, straight for the brick arch in the overgrown railway embankment and the fields that lay beyond.

34. General Woundwort

Like an obelisk towards which the princ.i.p.al streets of a town converge, the strong will of a proud spirit stands prominent and commanding in the middle of the art of war.

Clausewitz, On War On War Dusk was falling on Efrafa. In the failing light, General Woundwort was watching the Near Hind Mark at silflay along the edge of the great pasture field that lay between the warren and the iron road. Most of the rabbits were feeding near the Mark holes, which were close beside the field, concealed among the trees and undergrowth bordering a lonely bridle path. A few, however, had ventured out into the field, to browse and play in the last of the sun. Further out still were the sentries of the Owsla, on the alert for the approach of men or elil and also for any rabbit who might stray too far to be able to get underground quickly if there should be an alarm.

Captain Chervil, one of the two officers of the Mark, had just returned from a round of his sentries and was talking to some of the does near the center of the Mark ground when he saw the General approaching. He looked quickly about to see whether anything was at fault. Since all seemed to be well, he began nibbling at a patch of sweet vernal with the best air of indifference that he could manage.

General Woundwort was a singular rabbit. Some three years before, he had been born--the strongest of a litter of five--in a burrow outside a cottage garden near Cole Henley. His father, a happy-go-lucky and reckless buck, had thought nothing of living close to human beings except that he would be able to forage in their garden in the early morning. He had paid dearly for his rashness. After two or three weeks of spoiled lettuces and nibbled cabbage plants, the cottager had lain in wait and shot him as he came through the potato patch at dawn. The same morning the man set to work to dig out the doe and her growing litter. Woundwort's mother escaped, racing across the kale field toward the downs, her kittens doing their best to follow her. None but Woundwort succeeded. His mother, bleeding from a shotgun pellet, made her way along the hedges in broad daylight, with Woundwort limping beside her.

It was not long before a weasel picked up the scent of the blood and followed it. The little rabbit cowered in the gra.s.s while his mother was killed before his eyes. He made no attempt to run, but the weasel, its hunger satisfied, left him alone and made off through the bushes. Several hours later a kind old schoolmaster from Overton, walking through the fields, came upon Woundwort nuzzling the cold, still body and crying. He carried him home to his own kitchen and saved his life, feeding him with milk from a nasal dropper until he was old enough to eat bran and greenstuff. But Woundwort grew up very wild and, like Cowper's hare, would bite when he could. In a month he was big and strong and had become savage. He nearly killed the schoolmaster's cat, which had found him at liberty in the kitchen and tried to torment him. One night, a week later, he tore the wire from the front of his hutch and escaped to the open country.

Most rabbits in his situation, lacking almost all experience of wild life, would have fallen victim at once to the elil: but not Woundwort. After a few days' wandering, he came upon a small warren and, snarling and clawing, forced them to accept him. Soon he had become Chief Rabbit, having killed both the previous Chief and a rival named Fiorin. In combat he was terrifying, fighting entirely to kill, indifferent to any wounds he received himself and closing with his adversaries until his weight overbore and exhausted them. Those who had no heart to oppose him were not long in feeling that here was a leader indeed.

Woundwort was ready to fight anything except a fox. One evening he attacked and drove off a foraging Aberdeen puppy. He was impervious to the fascination of the mustelidae, and hoped someday to kill a weasel, if not a stoat. When he had explored the limits of his own strength, he set to work to satisfy his longing for still more power in the only possible way--by increasing the power of the rabbits about him. He needed a bigger kingdom. Men were the great danger, but this could be circ.u.mvented by cunning and discipline. He left the small warren, taking his followers with him, and set out to look for a place suited to his purpose, where the very existence of rabbits could be concealed and extermination made very difficult.

Efrafa grew up round the crossing point of two green bridle paths, one of which (the east-to-west) was tunnel-like, bordered on both sides by a thick growth of trees and bushes. The immigrants, under Woundwort's direction, dug their holes between the roots of the trees, in the undergrowth and along the ditches. From the first the warren prospered. Woundwort watched over them with a tireless zeal that won their loyalty even while they feared him. When the does stopped digging, Woundwort himself went on with their work while they slept. If a man was coming, Woundwort spotted him half a mile away. He fought rats, magpies, gray squirrels and, once, a crow. When litters were kindled, he kept an eye on their growth, picked out the strongest youngsters for the Owsla and trained them himself. He would allow no rabbit to leave the warren. Quite early on, three who tried to do so were hunted down and forced to return.

As the warren grew, so Woundwort developed his system to keep it under control. Crowds of rabbits feeding at morning and evening were likely to attract attention. He devised the Marks, each controlled by its own officers and sentries, with feeding times changed regularly to give all a share of early morning and sunset--the favorite hours for silflay. All signs of rabbit life were concealed as closely as possible. The Owsla had privileges in regard to feeding, mating and freedom of movement. Any failure of duty on their part was liable to be punished by demotion and loss of privileges. For ordinary rabbits, the punishments were more severe.

When it was no longer possible for Woundwort to be everywhere, the Council was set up. Some of the members came from the Owsla, but others were selected solely for their loyalty or their cunning as advisers. Old Snowdrop was growing deaf, but no one knew more than he about organizing a warren for safety. On his advice, the runs and burrows of the various Marks were not connected underground, so that disease or poison, if they came, would spread less readily. Conspiracy would also spread less readily. To visit the burrows of another Mark was not allowed without an officer's permission. It was on Snowdrop's advice, too, that Woundwort at length ordered that the warren was not to extend further, on account of the risk of detection and the weakening of central control. He was persuaded only with difficulty, for the new policy frustrated his restless desire of power after power. This now needed another outlet, and soon after the warren had been stopped from growing he introduced the Wide Patrols.

The Wide Patrols began as mere forays or raids, led by Woundwort, into the surrounding country. He would simply pick four or five of the Owsla and take them out to look for trouble. On the first occasion they were lucky enough to find and kill a sick owl that had eaten a mouse that had eaten poison-dressed seed corn. On the next, they came upon two hlessil whom they compelled to return with them to join the warren. Woundwort was no mere bully. He knew how to encourage other rabbits and to fill them with a spirit of emulation. It was not long before his officers were asking to be allowed to lead patrols. Woundwort would give them tasks--to search for hlessil in a certain direction or to find out whether a particular ditch or barn contained rats which could later be attacked in force and driven out. Only from farms and gardens were they ordered to keep clear. One of these patrols, led by a certain Captain Orchis, discovered a small warren two miles to the east, beyond the Kingsclere-Overton road, on the outskirts of Nutley Copse. The General led an expedition against it and broke it up, the prisoners being brought back to Efrafa, where a few of them later rose to be Owsla members themselves.

As the months went on, the Wide Patrols became systematic; during summer and early autumn there were usually two or three out at a time. There came to be no other rabbits for a long way round Efrafa and any who might wander into the neighborhood by chance were quickly picked up. Casualties in the Wide Patrols were high, for the elil got to know that they went out. Often it would take all a leader's courage and skill to complete his task and bring his rabbits--or some of his rabbits--back to the warren. But the Owsla were proud of the risks they ran: and, besides, Woundwort was in the habit of going out himself to see how they were getting on. A patrol leader, more than a mile from Efrafa, limping up a hedgerow in the rain, would come upon the General squatting like a hare under a tussock of darnel, and find himself required then and there to report what he had been doing or why he was off his route. The patrols were the training grounds of cunning trackers, swift runners and fierce fighters, and the casualties--although there might be as many as five or six in a bad month--suited Woundwort's purpose, for numbers needed keeping down and there were always fresh vacancies in the Owsla, which the younger bucks did their best to be good enough to fill. To feel that rabbits were competing to risk their lives at his orders gratified Woundwort, although he believed--and so did his Council and his Owsla--that he was giving the warren peace and security at a price which was modest enough.

Nevertheless, this evening, as he came out from among the ash trees to talk to Captain Chervil, the General was feeling seriously concerned about several things. It was less and less easy to keep the size of the warren under control. Overcrowding was becoming a grave problem, and this despite the fact that many of the does were re-absorbing their litters before birth. While their doing so was all to the good in itself, some of them were growing restive and hard to manage. Not long ago a group of does had come before the Council and asked to leave the warren. They had been peaceable at first, offering to go as far away as the Council wished: but when it had become plain that their request was not going to be granted on any terms, they had become first petulant and then aggressive and the Council had had to take strong measures. There was still a good deal of bad feeling over the business. Then, in the third place, the Owsla had lately lost a certain amount of respect among the rank and file.

Four wandering rabbits--giving themselves out to be some kind of emba.s.sy from another warren--had been held and impressed into the Right Flank Mark. He had intended, later, to find out where they had come from. But they had succeeded in playing a very simple trick, bamboozling the Mark commander, attacking his sentries and escaping by night. Captain Bugloss, the officer responsible, had, of course, been demoted and expelled from the Owsla, but his disgrace, though very proper, only added to the General's difficulties. The truth was that Efrafa had become, for the moment, short of good officers. Ordinary Owsla--sentries--were not too hard to find, but officers were another matter and he had lost three in less than a month. Bugloss was as good as a casualty: he would never hold rank again. But, worse, Captain Charlock--a brave and resourceful rabbit--while leading the pursuit of the fugitives, had been run down on the iron road by a train: a further proof, if any were needed, of the wicked malice of men. Worst of all, only two nights ago a patrol which had been out to the north had returned with the shocking news that its leader, Captain Mallow, an officer of exceptional prestige and experience, had been killed by a fox. It was an odd business. The patrol had picked up the scent of a fairly large party of rabbits evidently coming toward Efrafa from the north. They had been following it but had not yet sighted their quarry when suddenly a strange rabbit had burst in upon them as they were nearing the edge of some woodland. They had, of course, tried to stop him and at that moment the fox, which had apparently been following him closely, had come from the open combe beyond and killed poor Mallow in an instant. All things considered, the patrol had come away in good order and Groundsel, the second in command, had done well. But nothing more had been seen of the strange rabbit; and the loss of Mallow, with nothing to show for it, had upset and demoralized the Owsla a good deal.

Other patrols had been sent out at once, but all that they had established was that the rabbits from the north had crossed the iron road and disappeared southward. It was intolerable that they should have pa.s.sed so close to Efrafa and gone their way without being apprehended. Even now they might possibly be caught, if only there were a really enterprising officer to put in charge of the search. It would certainly need an enterprising officer--Captain Campion perhaps--for patrols seldom crossed the iron road, and the wet country beyond--the country near the river--was only partly known. He would have gone himself, but with the recent disciplinary troubles in the warren he could not take the risk; and Campion could hardly be spared just now. No--infuriating as it was, the strangers were best forgotten for the moment. The first thing was to replace the Owsla losses--and preferably with rabbits who knew how to deal ruthlessly with any further signs of dissension. They would simply have to promote the best they had got, draw their horns in for a time and concentrate on training until things got back to normal.

Woundwort greeted Captain Chervil rather abstractedly and went on turning the problem over in his mind.

"What are your sentries like, Chervil?" he asked at length. "Do I know any of them?"

"They're a good lot, sir," replied Chervil. "You know Marjoram: he's been on patrol with you as a runner. And I think you know Moneywort."

"Yes, I know them," said Woundwort, "but they wouldn't make officers. We need to replace Charlock and Mallow: that's what I'm getting at."

"That's difficult, sir," said Chervil. "That sort of rabbit doesn't hop out of the gra.s.s."

"Well, they've got to hop from somewhere," said Woundwort. "You'd better think about it and tell me any ideas that occur to you. Anyway, I want to go round your sentries now. Come with me, will you?"

They were about to set off when a third rabbit approached--none other than Captain Campion himself. It was Campion's princ.i.p.al duty to search the outskirts of Efrafa at morning and evening and to report anything new--the tire marks of a tractor in mud, the droppings of a sparrow hawk or the spreading of fertilizer on a field. An expert tracker, he missed little or nothing and was one of the very few rabbits for whom Woundwort felt a genuine respect.

"Do you want me?" said Woundwort, pausing.

"Well, I think so, sir," replied Campion. "We've picked up a hlessi and brought him in."

"Where was he?"

"Down by the arch, sir. Just this side of it."

"What was he doing?"

"Well, sir, he says he's come a long way on purpose to join Efrafa. That's why I thought you might like to see him."

"Wants to join Efrafa?" asked Woundwort, puzzled. to join Efrafa?" asked Woundwort, puzzled.

"That's what he says, sir."

"Why can't the Council see him tomorrow?"

"Just as you like, sir, of course. But he strikes me as being a bit out of the ordinary. I'd say, a distinctly useful rabbit."

"H'm," said Woundwort, considering. "Well, all right. I haven't got long, though. Where is he now?"

"At the Crixa, sir." Campion meant the crossing point of the two bridle paths, which was about fifty yards away, among the trees. "Two of my patrol are with him."

Woundwort made his way back to the Crixa. Chervil, being on duty with his Mark, remained where he was. Campion accompanied the General.

At this hour the Crixa was all green shade, with red gleams of sun that winked through the moving leaves. The damp gra.s.s along the edges of the paths was dotted with spikes of mauve bugle, and the sanicles and yellow archangels flowered thickly. Under an elder bush, on the far side of the track, two Owslafa, or Council police, were waiting; and with them was the stranger.

Woundwort saw at once what Campion had meant. The stranger was a big rabbit, heavy but alert, with a rugged, seasoned appearance and the look of a fighter. He had a curious thick growth of fur--a kind of topknot--on the crown of his head. He stared at Woundwort with a detached, appraising air which the General had not encountered for a very long time.

"Who are you?" said Woundwort.

"My name is Thlayli," replied the Stranger.

"Thlayli, sir sir," prompted Campion.

The stranger said nothing.

"The patrol brought you in, I'm told. What were you doing?"

"I've come to join Efrafa."

"Why?"

"I'm surprised you ask. It's your warren, isn't it? Is there anything odd about someone wanting to join?"

Woundwort was nonplused. He was no fool and it was, he could not help feeling, extremely odd that any right-minded rabbit should choose to walk into Efrafa of his own accord. But he could hardly say so.

"What can you do?"

"I can run and fight and spoil a story telling it. I've been an officer in an Owsla."

"Fight, can you? Could you fight him?" said Woundwort, looking at Campion.

"Certainly, if you wish." The stranger reared up and aimed a heavy cuff at Campion, who leaped back just in time.

"Don't be a fool," said Woundwort. "Sit down. Where were you in an Owsla?"

"Far off. The warren was destroyed by men, but I escaped. I've been wandering some time. It won't surprise you that I heard of Efrafa. I've come a long way to join it. I thought you might have some use for me."

"Are you alone?"

"I am now."

Woundwort considered again. It was likely enough that this rabbit had been an officer in an Owsla. Any Owsla would want him. If he was speaking the truth, he had had wits enough to escape the destruction of his warren and survive a long journey through open country. It must have been a very long journey, for there was no warren within the normal range of the Efrafan patrols.

"Well," he said at length, "I dare say we might be able to find some use for you, as you put it. Campion here will look after you tonight, and tomorrow morning you'll come before the Council. Meanwhile, don't start fighting, do you see? We can give you plenty to do without that."

"Very well."

The following morning, after the Council had discussed the predicament of the warren due to the recent losses, General Woundwort proposed that, for a start, they might do worse than try the big newcomer as an officer in the Near Hind Mark, under the instruction of Captain Chervil. The Council, having seen him, agreed. By ni-Frith Thlayli, still bleeding from the Mark gash inflicted in his left haunch, had taken up his duties.

35. Groping

This world, where much is to be done, and little known...