Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  It was by the merest chance they had found it. Truth to tell, the last few hours had been rather anxious ones. Since the outlaws had been capering among the bracken in the dim light of dawn, much had happened. Those high spirits soon evaporated, leaving behind a reaction, almost a depression. This was no doubt due to lack of sleep, for they had been marching all night. But after a nap they awoke hungry and refreshed and having stayed the inner man with two handfuls of porridge oats, eaten raw – not a particularly satisfying or appetizing meal for hungry boys – they had pushed on without delay into the heart of the Chase.

  It was essential to find two things, water and a suitable camping place. Robin had heard the Whiting talk of a pool or pond, called the Blind Pool, which was somewhere in the forest and it was this they hoped to find. But the Chase covered so large an acreage the chances of discovery were small. It was with considerable relief therefore that towards the end of the afternoon, when they were weary with pushing through the bushes and the high bracken, Robin, who was forcing a path in front, came on the stream. They were so thirsty they drank deeply – how horrified Aunt Ellen would have been! – and having quenched their thirst they cast about for some promising place to camp. Robin had a vague idea of making a hut of branches and it was during their hunt for suitable wood for this purpose that they had chanced upon the oak tree in the clearing. It did not take much imagination to see at once that here was a permanent camping place already prepared by nature. In a very short while they had explored the interior of the old tree and found it ideal in every way. It was dry as an oven inside, though they had to clear away a quantity of decayed leaves and rotten wood which had fallen down inside the trunk. In doing so Big John found many beetle wings which puzzled them both. In addition to the wings they found curious oblong pellets, about the size of the worm pills which from time to time they had to administer to Tilly at the Dower House; later they discovered they were owl droppings.

  There was plenty of room inside, room to store their few necessities, their pots and pans, the rifle and the meagre stores. They cut themselves armfuls of green bracken for a bed, the most delicious spring mattress imaginable.

  In a very short while they had put their house in order and now their supper had obligingly arrived right on their very doorstep. So far then, the day had been a lucky one.

  ‘My, but it smells pretty good!’ said Big John, as he removed the lid from the saucepan. He was enveloped in a cloud of fragrant steam which made the inside of his cheeks tickle. ‘I wish we had some potatoes to put in with it.’

  Robin reached for the porridge oats. ‘Here, stir some of these in, they’ll thicken the gravy.’

  So the oats were duly stirred in and after a while Big John – whose turn it was to cook – pronounced that supper was ready. He divided the pigeon into two equal halves – watched by the jealous eye of Robin Hood – and in a remarkably short space of time every trace of the luckless bird had vanished. When this was done they buried the bones under the bracken, washed up the plates and saucepan, and stowed everything away inside the tree. They were still hungry and they had, moreover, the uncomfortable feeling that there was nothing for breakfast but porridge. The somewhat wistful thought of bacon and sausages at the Dower House was courageously pushed aside. Robin slid back the well-oiled bolt of the little rifle and inserted a cartridge. ‘It’s your turn to shoot. We shall have to be quick, ’cos the light’s going.’

  ‘What about the fire?’

  ‘Stamp it out, we mustn’t leave it burning.’

  ‘And we mustn’t go too far away or we might lose the camp.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Robin Hood scornfully, ‘whoever heard of an outlaw being lost? The proper way is to blaze a trail as we go along.’

  Big John took the rifle reverently; it was the first time he had ever had a chance to fire it.

  ‘Don’t blame me if I miss, Robin. I’ll do my best.’

  They stole off into the bushes, looking back once at their camp to see that no spark was burning in the dead ashes of their fire.

  Sombre shadows were beginning to gather, for the sun had set and the whole forest was wrapped in fragrant gloom. Many of the birds had ceased to sing, though here and there a blackbird still warbled and the nightingales were making the dusky bushes resound with their rich full-throated notes. As the boys stole through the hazels and along the little mossy paths they broke a twig here and bent a grass there to mark their passage.

  They crossed the stream and in a little while found themselves on the edge of quite a wide riding. Big John drew back with a little gasp. ‘My gracious, look at that!’

  Robin, who was close on his heels, stopped dead.

  ‘What’s the matter, have you seen somebody?’

  ‘No, rabbits, millions of ’em!’

  As far as the eye could see rabbits were dotted everywhere; on the riding edge, among the bushes, on the short green grass of the ride itself. Some were busy feeding, others sat up washing themselves like cats, or chased each other in circles. The boys had never seen so many before.

  Not thirty yards distant a half-grown one was sitting up in the grass, eyeing them.

  ‘Take your time,’ whispered Robin, as the rifle muzzle edged up.

  Crack! Even though the weapon was fitted with a silencer the explosion sounded dreadfully loud in the quiet forest – this was because the trees threw back an echo. Many of the nearer rabbits bolted for cover and those farther away all sat up like little question marks.

  Big John’s bullet sped true. A long apprenticeship with an airgun in the loft at Cherry Walden had stood him in good stead. The rabbit leapt skywards and fell back stretched out in the fern.

  ‘Don’t move,’ whispered Robin, laying a restraining arm on his brother outlaw who, elated at his success, was about to leap out and retrieve his prey. ‘Give me the rifle.’

  The other rabbits, forty or so yards away, were still sitting up, listening. They had heard the crack of the rifle but did not know where the sound had come from; indeed as Robin raised the rifle, one or two dropped their heads again and began to feed.

  He picked out a fat one which sat on the riding edge some forty yards distant. In the bad light he could only see his target as a dim blur in the ’scope and much of the sighting would have to be guesswork. He aligned the cross threads of the ’scope on where he judged the rabbit’s shoulder to be and, holding his breath, squeezed the trigger. The crack of the report was followed immediately by the indescribable thud of the bullet going home.

  The boys made a very triumphant return to camp with two fat rabbits for the larder and in the failing light the way was not easy to find even though they had blazed a trail. At last they pushed through the bushes into the little clearing and saw the old tree.

  As Robin harled the rabbits – that is, threaded one back leg through the sinew of the other – and hung them up on a bough, there was a faint rustle in the oak tree top and a huge owl passed over their heads. A second later they heard its melancholy ‘hoo horoo!’ floating through the darkening forest.

  They lit the fire and by its light prepared the rabbits for breakfast. Rabbit liver and hearts are exceedingly good, much better than sausages and bacon!

  When these necessary jobs were done and the skins and refuse buried under the bushes they hung the flayed rabbits up again. The hearts and livers were put on a plate, after they had been washed thoroughly, and were stowed away inside the tree in case some marauding animal found them in the night.

  Darkness came swiftly. Overhead stars shone out, quietly luminous, and from the inky black trees owls hooted near and far. Their dismal wailings put Robin in mind of a book he had lately been reading, Thoreau’s Life in the Woods. He had learnt some of its more beautiful passages by heart. What was it? … ‘I love to hear their wailing, their doleful responses … They are the spirits, the low spirits and melancholy forebodings of fallen souls that once in human shape nightly walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness … O-o-o-o-h that I never
had been bor-r-r-rnn! sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with the restlessness of despair to some new perch on the grey oaks then – that I had never been bor-r-r-r-n echoes another on the farther side with tremulous sincerity, and – bor-r-r-r-n! comes faintly far in the Lincoln Woods …’ Walden Pond! Yes, perhaps the Blind Pool was just such another Walden Pond, a clear deep dish of translucent water set down in the heart of this English forest …

  The fire had sunk to a dull red glow, no flame flickered or smoke rose up, and overhead the leaves were magical in the dim illumination. The boys lay stretched out on their backs with their heads close to the dying fire, watching the still, dark leaves of the oak against the stars.

  ‘Wonder what Aunt Ellen’s doing now,’ murmured Big John sleepily.

  ‘I’ll bet the village is in a stew.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t all out lookin’ for us with lanterns.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they won’t ever find us here. We’ll stay in the woods forever I guess, or until our cartridges run out.’

  The Blindrush

  ‘It’ud be grand fun in the winter too,’ said Big John. ‘Think of these woods under snow and all the leaves off the trees; bet we’d be as snug as badgers in the old oak!’

  ‘We’d trap for pelts too, and have proper trap lines.’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘I vote we never go back,’ said Robin. ‘We’ll live here all our lives, like that Thoreau chap.’

  ‘He didn’t stick it more than two years though, did he?’

  ‘Don’t think he did … he lived alone though; it ’ud be a bit creepy in the woods all alone, with no one to talk to, not even a dog.’

  ‘Pity we didn’t bring Tilly with us,’ said Big John. ‘She’d have loved it – all those rabbits …’

  ‘Oh, I dunno, she might have been a nuisance. She’d want to run home or something, or she’d get lost.’

  Hoo Hoo Horoo! A big black shape swept overhead. It was the owl.

  ‘I believe she’s got a nest up in the oak,’ said Robin, raising himself on his elbows. ‘We’ll have a look and see tomorrow. We might get a young one and tame it. Heigh ho! I’m for bed.’

  ‘And so am I,’ returned Big John.

  They stamped out the last glowing embers and crawled into the tree. As they lay down on their couches of bracken, which smelt so sweetly, they saw the forest without, ghostly and dim.

  ‘Goodnight, Robin Hood!’

  ‘Go’night, Big John, sleep well. Don’t forget it’s my turn to cook the breakfast!’

  4. The Hunt is Up

  The outlaws were snug in their forest retreat, with the stars shining down benignly upon the spreading oak; the little green clearing in the bracken with the dark patch of the camp fire was now wet with the night dew.

  Back at the Dower House, with every tick of the clock THE POLICE bulked inexorably nearer. After dinner Aunt Ellen could bear the suspense no longer; she went again to the vicarage.

  The long-suffering Whiting met her in the hall with raised eyebrows and, ‘Any news of the young rascals?’

  ‘No, none whatever, and I have come to you again for advice. I feel like Job, Vicar; all my troubles have come upon me!’

  She flopped down into a chair and heaved a desperate sigh. ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘there’s no knowing where they are or what they are doing. Supposing they develop measles? … Well, I mean to say, it’s likely, isn’t it? They’ve been with Harold right up to the time he went to bed and neither of them have had it.’

  ‘Ah well, don’t let us cross stiles until we reach them, dear lady. The thing is, we must find where they are hiding.’

  ‘Yes, but how? Where can they be?’ burst out Aunt Ellen. ‘How will they manage to live? They have no money with them. I’ve at least been able to find that out; all their pocket money is untouched. They can’t live on air.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing for it but to notify the police,’ said the vicar, wagging his moonlike face woefully. ‘We can’t go out looking for them. After all it is a job for the police, you know; they should be able to track them down in no time.’

  ‘Oh dear, must we really call in the police? It will all be in the papers, the whole village will know.’

  ‘As to that, they know already,’ replied the vicar, with a faint smile, ‘everybody knows. They asked my maid when she went to the post whether the boys had been found. And if the village knows the sergeant must know. I’m afraid we shall have to call in the assistance of the Law.’

  Sergeant Bunting was a pink mountain of a man with three double chins. His waxed moustache stuck out like two sharp needles on either side of his face. He removed his helmet and placed it gently on the hall table.

  ‘Come in, Sergeant, come in,’ Aunt Ellen fluttered at the library door.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  He stood fingering a notebook and pencil.

  ‘I expect you have heard about my two nephews, Sergeant?’

  ‘Well, I did ’ear something.’ The sergeant had a very deep voice which rumbled like an organ, a voice which was all in keeping with his majestic bearing.

  ‘The position is this, Sergeant Bunting. My two nephews have run away. They left a note to say that they would be gone for some time because they were afraid of catching the measles from my other nephew, Harold, who is now in bed upstairs. A flagrant excuse, I know.’

  ‘Have you the note, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, here it is.’ Aunt Ellen drew the now grubby scrap of paper from her handbag and passed it to him with trembling fingers. Sergeant Bunting read it slowly, half aloud, the ends of his moustaches moving slightly like the feelers of an insect.

  ‘Dear Aunt,’ he rumbled to himself, ‘John and I ’ave decided that we would be better outer the way while ’Arold is ill we might catch it we will be back sometime but don’t worry about us we shall be all right please explain to the vicar.’

  ‘They mean by that,’ interrupted Aunt Ellen eagerly, ‘they wanted me to tell the vicar not to expect them for lessons. I had arranged with him to tutor them.’

  ‘Ah, schoolin’ eh?’ said the sergeant, looking up.

  ‘Yes, er – schooling.’

  ‘I see, ma’am. Don’t try to find us,’ he went on, ‘because you never will signed Robin (Hood) John (Big). Playin’ at outlaws eh?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said outlaws, m’am, looks as ef they were playing at outlaws, Robin ’ood sort of idea.’

  ‘Yes, yes, some rubbish … You see, Sergeant, I’m responsible for the boys, all three of them. They must be found. They may get ill; anything; I’m responsible.’

  ‘I understand, ma’am,’ rumbled the sergeant, ‘you’re their legal guardian like. Well, we’ll see what can be done. They took a rifle so I’m told, a rook rifle, belongin’ to your gardener?’ Sergeant Bunting seemed well acquainted with the facts of the case.

  ‘Yes, I believe so, at least the rifle’s missing and we conclude the boys took it,’ replied Aunt Ellen with a sniff.

  ‘But you’ve no proof they did take it?’

  Aunt Ellen began to get flustered. It was almost as if the sergeant was accusing her of taking the rifle.

  ‘I think you’d better see Rumbold yourself, Sergeant Bunting. I’ll have him fetched for you.’

  ‘Sorry to give you the trouble, ma’am, but we’ve got to get all the facts.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Aunt Ellen touched the bell.

  When at last Rumbold appeared, very red in the face and with beads of perspiration on his forehead, he wore a rather guilty defiant look. The reason for this was that the unhappy man had no gun licence. But Sergeant Bunting was a broadminded man.

  ‘You know you oughter ’ave a gun licence to use that there rifle, Mr Rumbold,’ he said in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant, I know I should, but I kep’ it locked up in me shed and didn’t often use it.’

  ‘That don’t m
atter, it’s agin the law to shoot wi’ a rifle o’ that sort wi’out a gun licence. Point two two, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can’t we go into that some other time, Sergeant Bunting? After all, it’s the other matter which is most important,’ said Aunt Ellen impatiently.

  ‘Very good, ma’am, but ’e’ll ’ave to get a licence to shoot wi’ un all the same,’ he added doggedly. ‘Now, Mr Rumbold, wot makes you think the bo– the young gents – took your rifle?’

  ‘Well, all I knows is that when I went to me cupboard this mornin’ it ’ad gorn, clean gorn.’

  ‘Was there any ammunition to it?’

  ‘Ay, a bit in a box.’

  ‘’Ow many rounds would you say?’ the sergeant was making notes in his book.

  ‘Don’t know exactly, ’undred maybe.’

  ‘’Undred rounds point two two,’ rumbled the sergeant, writing laboriously. ‘Took the lot eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, Mr Rumbold, I think that’s all I want from you.’

  The discomfited gardener looked relieved and departed.

  ‘I suppose you’ve no idea where they could ’ave gone to, m’am? Master ’Arold don’t know nothin?’

  ‘No idea whatever, absolutely no idea, and the boy upstairs is too ill to talk.’

  ‘Mm … Well, m’am, I’ll do all I can. An’ don’t you worry. From what I know of the young gents they’ll look arter theirselves all right.’

  ‘And you’ll let me know if you have any news, Sergeant Bunting?’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am, at once, ma’am.’

  The sergeant made his heavy way to the hall and collected his helmet which stood on the table. He adjusted his chin strap under his first chin. ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’