King of the Vagabonds

by Colin Dann

  Her words had the required effect. ‘We’ll see if we can do better than that,’ hissed the ginger cat. Then, instead of launching himself at Sammy, he snatched up the dead rabbit and made off with it. Sammy was so astonished at the move that he failed to react at once.

  ‘Where’s your speed now?’ Pinkie urged him.

  Sunny had not got far, hampered by the weight of the animal. Sammy ran after him and seized the other end of the carcass where it dangled from the ginger’s jaws. Each cat tugged with all his strength, trying to wrest it away from the other. Pinkie trotted up to see the outcome. Sunny tried to twist the rabbit away; then he shook it vigorously. But Sammy held fast. Now their stamina was put to the test as each cat determined to outlast his foe, using his shoulder, neck and foreleg muscles in the struggle. After a bit, it became apparent that Sunny was weakening. Sammy’s prior claim to the prey gave him an added incentive in the battle and, in any case, he was naturally fitter. He sensed he had the advantage, exerted a final ounce of strength, and jerked his quarry free from his adversary.

  Sunny stood panting. ‘You’ll – regret – this,’ he gasped.

  ‘Will I?’ Sammy replied easily. ‘Don’t count on it.’ He felt brimful of confidence. With a swagger he picked up the rabbit again and walked off without a backward glance. He knew perfectly well the ginger cat could do nothing now. Pinkie followed gleefully in his wake.

  Sammy started to look for a secluded spot to eat in.

  ‘I have just the place for us,’ Pinkie offered.

  Sammy was intrigued by the ‘us’.

  ‘In my hut.’ She took the lead.

  When they reached it Sammy deposited his burden inside on the broken floor. ‘You’re quite sure Brute won’t return?’ he asked. ‘He’d see me as an intruder.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll see him for a time, though with Brute you can never be sure,’ Pinkie said. ‘But why should you worry? You’re a hunter and a fighter.’

  ‘I’m not a match for Brute,’ Sammy answered honestly, yet even as he said it he knew there would come a day soon when he would have to be, or accept the consequences.

  Pinkie looked at him strangely. ‘Do you still wonder about your father?’ she asked.

  ‘My—’ Sammy began, then realized he had not thought about him for a long time.

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten him,’ Pinkie concluded. ‘So I’ll say nothing for the moment. But I may have something to tell you at another time, if you wish.’

  Sammy regarded her pensively.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s eat.’

  13

  Beau

  Soon Sammy felt that life in and around Quartermile Field suited him. Pinkie was his constant companion. The other cats noticed this and saw the newcomer in a different light. He had become an animal to be reckoned with. Sammy’s attitude to them had changed too. The friendliness in him which had been developed while he was still a pet had been replaced by something more akin to a simple tolerance of those that shared the same territory. He did not go out of his way to attract their company, not even Brindle’s, though he did have a warmer feeling for him than the rest. Sammy was very much in command of his own life now. He had developed a strategy of his own when hunting rabbits which usually proved successful. But he was always aware that he was competing with the other vagabonds for food and made sure he played fair. He was quite simply the swiftest and strongest of all of them – that is, as long as Brute was not around. As for Sunny, he had not dared to approach Sammy again. He knew he had no hope of defeating him unless he could catch him in a moment of weakness or when he was at some other disadvantage.

  Sammy had begun to explore farther. He roamed the open countryside where it bordered the bomb site and one day Brindle took him to a shallow stream. Here sometimes little fish swam too close to the bank and could be hooked out, if a cat used his paw quickly enough. Sammy practised his fishing technique. The fish were too small to make much of a meal, but he enjoyed the sport of using eye, paw and speed in what could be a very satisfying combination. He shared whatever he managed to catch – rabbit, mouse, vole or fish – with Pinkie. In return he had the benefit of a dry, warm shelter when he needed it, and this was very useful now autumn had begun, bringing with it colder, wetter weather.

  But he had to be aware that this arrangement was only a temporary one. Brute would return and Sammy would give ground or fight. Pinkie knew this too and relished the prospect. She wanted Sammy to fight for her. Whatever happened she knew she would still be the favourite of either champion, be it Brute or Sammy. And she wanted nothing less than the King Cat for her consort, though she could not have admitted to any preference because as yet she did not herself realize that she had one.

  Meanwhile Brute was discovering he had something to contend with that he had not expected. He had made a slow circuit of the area with which he was familiar. He ranged farther than any of the vagabonds. He was the leader and he really felt that this wide stretch of country was his domain. He never went close to human habitations but, at the end of his circuit, he brought himself once more to the meadow of Belinda the goat. Belinda recognized him and he recognized her, but they held no conversation.

  Brute pushed himself through the dying grasses towards the hedgerow. Occasionally he called in his harsh voice, as he had done periodically throughout his wanderings. This was his personal signal, his statement to any creature who might be listening that he, Brute, was on his rounds. The vegetation was wet and glistened in the evening light. Brute’s fur was soaked but he cared nothing for that. At the end of Belinda’s field he found Stella waiting for him.

  ‘Hello, Beau,’ she greeted him in her usual admiring way.

  ‘Stella,’ he answered fondly, and in a far warmer tone than any of the vagabonds had ever heard, Pinkie included.

  ‘I heard you calling a long way back. I knew I would meet you here.’

  Brute appreciated her loyalty and affection. Stella was different. He liked her refined manner and her general air of contentment. To her and other female cats under his spell he was no brute. He was a rakish and handsome specimen and they had a different name for him because they saw him differently. But if Brute had a special favourite, it was probably Stella.

  ‘Have you travelled far?’ she murmured as she looked at him with her steady, confident gaze.

  ‘Far and wide,’ he answered. ‘And how pleasing to find you at the end.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ she said. ‘Of course, you always have.’

  ‘You’re a cat to be flattered,’ Brute returned gallantly. ‘Is your life as comfortable as ever?’

  ‘It doesn’t change,’ Stella replied, ‘except we all grow older. I no longer have kittens. I have a mature daughter who is my friend and an inquisitive son who has left me to make his own life in another part.’

  Brute was interested. ‘Has he?’ he mused. ‘How does he manage on his own? Does he beg from humans?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stella answered. ‘He has his own ideas of what a male cat should be and do. He was very eager to meet his father, though I held him back as long as I could.’

  ‘Meet me?’ Brute asked in astonishment. ‘Why, no, I – I – have no part to play with those I’ve fathered.’

  ‘He’s very like you in some ways,’ Stella said.

  ‘Is he?’ Brute was intrigued despite himself. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, your wandering spirit and some of your dash,’ he was told. ‘There’s no doubt which of his parents he favours most. And he’s a tabby too.’

  ‘Well. And what do you call him?’

  ‘Sammy.’

  ‘Sammy!’ Brute cried in a startled way. ‘So that’s it,’ he muttered. ‘Yes – I can see it now.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I know him, Stella. I know Sammy. But I didn’t know him for my son.’

  ‘But – but – what do you mean, Beau?’

  ‘It’s all quite simple,’ he replied. ‘He’s taken
up residence around Quartermile Field with the other roamers who pay court to me. They know me as Brute so, naturally, he hasn’t discovered who I am.’

  ‘In all this while?’ Stella asked incredulously. ‘Do none of them call you Beau?’

  ‘There is – er – just one, yes,’ Brute admitted. ‘But she only does so if we’re alone.’

  Stella said, ‘Sammy wasn’t born to your way of life, although I guessed one day he would be tempted to try to emulate you. Please, Beau, do what you can to make him come back to his proper home, before he suffers too much.’

  ‘He’s not suffering, Stella,’ said Brute. ‘In fact, he seems to be doing quite well.’ Surprisingly, there was a note of pride in his voice. ‘But I’ll do what I can for you. It may be he’s not cut out to tackle winter conditions like we vagabonds have to.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ said Stella. ‘He doesn’t know what a winter is.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think our son will take kindly to your idea,’ Brute went on. ‘So there will be only one way open to me and that’ll be to drive him out by some means.’

  Stella began to rub herself against Brute’s chest and legs, brushing his face with her whiskers as she nuzzled him. If he needed any persuasion to do as she wished she was not slow to provide it. The two fond friends, from such different worlds, purred contentedly together. Stella’s was a low, quiet purr and Brute’s a harsh, noisy purr which almost carried to the ears of Belinda; yet both noises signified the same thing – their great pleasure in each other.

  When Brute left Sammy’s mother his head was full of the problem facing him – how to drive Sammy back to her. He stalked back to Quartermile Field, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing; lost in his thoughts. He did not want to fight his own son, and he could not decide whether to reveal his identity to Sammy or not. He did not know how Sammy would react. In the end it seemed best to Brute not to do so for the present. His mind started working on the notion of setting Sammy some sort of test. The passing of this test would be almost an impossibility, but Sammy would be told that it must be passed before he could be accepted fully into the community of the vagabond cats.

  Brindle was the first to see Brute approaching. It was early morning. He hastened to the broken-down hut to alert Sammy. However, Pinkie forestalled him. She guessed the reason for Brindle’s appearance and was determined that the long-desired confrontation should take place.

  ‘Sammy’s sleeping,’ she told his friend, halting him outside.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Brindle said quickly. ‘We must wake him. Brute’s back.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Pinkie mewed silkily. ‘He may not be coming here straight away. Why should Sammy be disturbed?’

  Brindle was no fool and could see that Pinkie meant to delay him. ‘I know what you’re after,’ he said. ‘Why provoke trouble between them?’ He ran past her into the shelter.

  ‘It’ll come anyway,’ Pinkie called after him. ‘You can’t stop it.’

  Sammy was already wakened by the noise. He looked up at Brindle.

  ‘Quickly – out,’ said Brindle but, even as he turned, Brute’s face appeared at the entrance. Behind him, Pinkie peered in, trembling with excitement.

  Sammy jumped up guiltily, then cursed himself inwardly for this instinctive reaction.

  Despite the new position he now found himself in with respect to the young tabby, Brute was angry and even jealous at what he saw. He knew at once Sammy and Pinkie had been consorting in his absence.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you in your comfortable surroundings,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘I – I’m going at once,’ Sammy replied. Brindle had already vanished.

  ‘Oh, but why?’ Brute continued in the same tone. ‘You seem so at home here.’

  Sammy was quite prepared to give way and was about to slink past the King Cat, but this was not what Pinkie wanted. She intervened.

  ‘I invited Sammy here,’ she said coolly. ‘I wanted him to share our shelter.’ She knew she was exacerbating the situation and indeed meant to do so. Brute glowered at her, then turned to his son.

  ‘Well, Sammy,’ he said evenly, ‘so you’ve made yourself a contender for the small advantages enjoyed by a King Cat?’

  ‘No, no,’ Sammy denied this. ‘That wasn’t my intention. You see, I—’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ rasped Brute, drowning him out, ‘that’s what you’ve done. Very well; there’s something you should understand. These advantages have to be won, not taken for granted. I had to exert myself to reach the position of eminence around here. I’m not aware that you’ve done anything so far to merit it.’

  ‘Sammy’s become a great hunter,’ Pinkie informed him, ‘and a fighter too.’

  ‘Has he indeed?’ Brute returned. ‘Well, he’ll certainly need all his hunting and fighting skills from now on. And how interesting that he should have such a loyal supporter. You see, Sammy –’ he turned again to his son and rival ‘– you can’t expect to survive here without proving to me, and all of the vagabonds, that you’ll be able to cope with the harsh conditions of winter. To my mind, you haven’t yet shed completely the cloak of domesticity. Now, it would hardly be fair, would it, for you to become a burden on us all at the moment we, too, are finding life that much more of a struggle? So I’ll tell you what’s got to be, because I think it’s safe to say I still call the tune around here until I’m shown otherwise.’

  Brute paused. Sammy awaited his fate. And Pinkie suddenly realized, beyond any question, where her heart lay.

  ‘You must undergo a test of endurance,’ Brute went on, ‘if you wish to stay in this part of the world. If you emerge from the test successfully we shall then all know that you’re able to look after yourself in any straits or circumstances, without having to come cadging for assistance. Now, as a pet animal, you will be hard put to it to meet this challenge. If you do, all well and good, and you will emerge with credit. Then you and I will have to take our chances as they come. I think you understand me?’ The older cat’s eyes narrowed. Sammy was left in no doubt what he was hinting at. But now he was on his mettle.

  ‘What is this test?’ he asked boldly. Pinkie glowed.

  ‘Firstly,’ pronounced Brute, who was obliged to invent the requirements as he went on, ‘you must go without food for a considerable period, except for any carrion or scraps you can find. Catching live prey will not be allowed because the purpose is to accustom you to the prevailing conditions of a normal winter. Then when your strength is at its lowest ebb, you will have to turn hunter again, catch an adult rabbit, kill it and fight one of the other cats (whom I shall nominate) for its possession. If you are the victor you will still have to see off any other rivals for your catch. So you must take it to a place where none of them can reach you. That will be very difficult. But all this will certainly simulate the usual events in the life of a vagabond cat during the hardest part of the year.’

  Sammy was stunned, unable to make any reply, let alone protest. His pet’s background made him innocent of the truth: that Brute was the sole author of this test imposed on him, and that it was nothing to do with the coming of winter. Pinkie, of course, knew better, but she kept silent. She savoured the prospect of Sammy’s triumph, and she had no doubt that Brute’s cunning would rebound on him. For she had no knowledge of Brute’s real motive: to frighten Sammy right away from the area by setting him an impossible task, driving him back to the old easy life under human care.

  At last Sammy found his voice. ‘You ask a lot of me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brute. ‘We need to.’

  ‘When am I expected to start?’

  ‘Best to get it over with. You could use the rest of the day to prepare yourself.’

  Sammy looked at Pinkie, then back at Brute. He wanted Pinkie for his mate. So did Brute. Sammy knew he had not a chance of keeping her if he should let this test defeat him. Pinkie’s eyes were telling him so. He had to win her. He turned away, wanting to be alone. Brindle was waiting nearby, but Samm
y ignored him.

  ‘That’s the last we shall see of Sammy,’ Brute muttered to Pinkie. He was confident he had done what Stella had asked of him.

  ‘He won’t give up so easily’, Pinkie replied. ‘You’re overlooking something. Like father, like son. Isn’t that right, Beau?’

  14

  Sammy’s Choice

  Sammy found some growths of weed where the foliage was still thick and hid himself away. He thought long and hard about what he had to do. A voice inside his head seemed to urge him to abandon his new life with all its difficulties and hardship; he was not made for it. But he fought down this impulse. He had thrown in his lot with the vagabond cats and must abide by the commitment. His newly won reputation was at stake. The most important thing to do now, he decided, was to eat well, before his ordeal commenced. This would give him a flying start. He went first in search of mice.

  Since this was his last opportunity to hunt for some time, he exercised all his considerable patience and new-found skill. Eventually he had collected together four bank voles and a fieldmouse. He ate the fieldmouse and removed the voles to the place where he had done his thinking. He carefully hid these from sight. Then he turned fishing-cat.

  On his way to the stream he saw Brownie and Mottle. They knew where he was going but did not attempt to accompany him. At the waterside Sammy was less lucky. It began to rain and the disturbed water made it impossible for him to see the fish. However, he did manage to hook one out early on. It was a minnow and he ate it immediately. As the rain fell more heavily he gave up the fishing expedition and took up shelter under the nearby trees. Quite unexpectedly, his luck turned good again.

  A wood-pigeon came to sip from a puddle at the edge of the tree-line, only a short distance from where Sammy sheltered. The cat was half-sitting, half-lying, his back pressed against the trunk of a holly tree. The pigeon had its back to him; its head bent to the puddle. It was a large, plump bird. Sammy had never tried to catch one before, but this was easy. He dashed out on his silent paws and pounced on the bird, killing it before it had time to struggle. Muddy water splashed all over Sammy but he took no notice. The pigeon did not make a sound, but many others of its kind went clattering through the branches in alarm, sending smaller birds darting amongst the tree-tops.