The Cockatrice Boys (12 page)

Then Dakin's eyes opened wide for, beyond Tom Flint, in the shadows, he noticed for the first time a great beast, the largest dog he had ever seen in his whole life.

“Is that a Gridelin hound?” he asked Fred Coldarm, who sat on the floor beside him wearily chewing on a toasted carrot.

“Reckon so. Couldn't be owt else, could it? He's a big feller, ain't he? Pity there's only one of 'em left—after we come all this way, and took all this trouble.”

“Mind you,” put in Private Wintless, who sat beyond him, “if there'd a been thirty of those Gridelin hounds—like there was supposed to be—dear knows where we could find space for them on the old
Belle.
Ask me, it's just as well there's only one left.”

“But what went wrong? I thought these dogs were supposed to be hot stuff against monsters?”

“That feller there, Tom Flint, he said it was summat to do with the customs inspector at Boston. A man called Coaltar. Listen: he's telling how it was that chap's fault.”

Dakin went over to squat by the fire and listen as he munched his roasted parsnip.

“There was fifteen Hanoverian dog-handlers with the troop,” explained the doleful Tom Flint. “And they'd had instructions to come all the way on the canal boat and see the dog-pack handed over to your lot, and give proper directions for feeding and exercise and words of command and all that. But that Coaltar, the harbourmaster at Boston, he wouldn't let the Hanoverians come ashore off their submarine. Very toploftical, he was. Said they'd got the wrong papers, or summat, and he couldn't authorize 'em to go no further … One o' those jumped-up nobs in office he is, acts as if his hair is hung with diamonds. So the poor German dog-handlers was real upset, for they said nobody would know how to give the dogs their orders, and the beasts wouldn't understand owt that was told 'em in English. (And nor they could, as it turned out.) But that didn't cut any ice with His Nibs Mr. Coaltar at Boston. All he would do was send for me and my six mates at the Boston Canine Rescue Mission and tell us we were to accompany the dogs in the canal boat. So the Hanoverians—real furious-mad, they were, I've never seen coves so upset—they give us some written notes on a bit o' paper, diet rules and all that, words of command—and then back they had to go, back on their submarine.”

“What happened to your six mates from the mission?” asked Bellswinger, who had come down the stairs at this moment, having been relieved by Ensign Priddy.

The bellringing up above was slowing down and becoming more fragmented.

Tom Flint gave a wretched glance towards the door.

“Out there. All of 'em bought it,” he said simply. “I saw Ern munched up by a Bandersnatch. And Sam Todd was cut in half by a Hammerhead … And the poor dogs was just outnumbered and demolished and
done for
—without anybody to give 'em the proper orders—it was a right shambles, I can tell you. And some chaps from the village turned out to help us, but they was all cut down too—”

He took a gulp of parsnip wine, which somebody had passed him, and coughed miserably.

“So now there's just one of the dogs left?” said Bellswinger. “What's his name?”

“How would I know?” grumbled Tom Flint. “We never got introduced.”

Dakin began to feel rather impatient with Tom Flint. Certainly it was a sad and shocking tale he had to tell. Dakin thought how much he would like to see Mr. Coaltar the Boston Harbourmaster compelled to jump off a high tower or swallowed up by a Bandersnatch. But just the same he felt that Tom Flint might have made a bit more effort to look after the hounds left in his care, and get to know them. After all, the trip on the canal boat must have taken at least a day.

“What were the words of command on the bit of paper the handlers gave you?” Dakin asked Flint.

“Bless me, boy, I've forgot what they said, after all that ruckus out there. And that scrap of paper's halfway down some Wyvern's gullet by now.”

“Why don't
you
have a go at the poor beast,” Bellswinger suggested to Dakin. “See if you can get in touch, perk him up a bit? He looks mighty sorry for himself.”

“Not surprising, seeing all his friends have been killed off,” said Wintless.

“And he's cut about a bit himself, poor old feller,” said Dakin.

He went and knelt in front of the enormous dog, who gazed back at him mournfully. The animal was covered in thick, rough, grey fur, and had a long, curved tail. His ears were upstanding and lined with white whiskers. His eyes, under tufted brows, were hazel-brown, and the tip of his nose was black. His front legs were about the length and thickness of Dakin's arms. He was somewhat clawed and battered, and there was a smear of blood down his chest. But none of the wounds seemed to be too serious. It was grief and shock that had done the worst damage.

“Would you like something to eat, you poor old boy?” Dakin asked him in German.

The dog slowly wagged his tail. His eyes brightened just a little.

“Anybody got a spare mushroom roll? No? Oh well, you may as well have mine. Here—”

The mushroom roll vanished in a snap of enormous jaws and a lengthy pink tongue.

“Stand up,
aufstehen Sie,
and let's have a look at you,” Dakin suggested, still in German.

Obediently, the great dog rose to his feet. All the men were now watching in interested silence.

“Looks like Dakin's got on his wavelength all right,” somebody murmured.

“That's all very fine—but what's the use of
one
hound?” said Coldarm.

“Better than none!” snapped Bellswinger. “Can you make him sit down again, boy?”

“Sit,” Dakin told the dog in German. And he sat.

“Clever old fellow!” Dakin rubbed the dog's bushy eyebrows and bony skull. “You're a real brainy one, aren't you? And I'm sorry as can be about all your friends …
Wie heissen Sie?
Hey! There's a bald patch in behind his eyebrow. No it isn't, it's been shaved. And there's something tattooed there; marks. Can you hold the light closer this way, Fred?”

When Fred Coldarm held the light near the dog's head, it could be seen that the marks tattooed on his skin were letters. Dakin traced them over with a careful finger.

“U-L-I. Uli. Is that your name, Uli?” he asked the dog.

Gravely the great creature stood up again, lifted an enormous right paw, and laid it in Dakin's hand.

A spontaneous round of clapping broke out among the men.

“I reckon you got yourself a friend, Dakin,” said Coldarm. “Hey, listen—the bellringing's stopped upstairs. D'you think they've all dropped dead of heart failure up there?”

“I wouldn't mind taking another turn,” said Dakin, and ran up the stairs, followed by Bellswinger and several others. But when they reached the belfry they saw that the ringers had their faces pressed eagerly against the slit windows.

“Daylight's come at last—or almost!” said Forby joyfully. “And there ain't near as many monsters about. Sergeant, don't you think it's time we made a break for it?”

“You ain't so daft as you look, Forby,” the sergeant told him, peering out. “And it's snowing like blazes again, that cuts down visibility. Let's go … Hey, see who's followed us up!”

The great dog Uli had climbed the stairs behind Dakin, and now came to stand with his head pressed against Dakin's knee.

“I doubt we're going to have trouble getting him down again, though,” said Bellswinger …

*   *   *

The trip back from Willoughby-on-the-Wolds to Nether Broughton took less time than the outward journey, since it was undertaken in daylight. But it was no pleasure. The wind was against them, and a slashing snowstorm beat in their faces all the way. Several members of the party, blinded by snow and sleet, fell into the canal and had to be rescued by the dog Uli, who proved a valuable asset.

“Uli! Fetch that man out of the water!” was Dakin's continual shout.

“Worth his weight in ruby rings, that dog's going to be,” commented Sergeant Bellswinger.

“Who wants ruby rings? Worth his weight in mushroom rolls, more like,” said Dakin, who was hollow with hunger as he had given his rations to the dog.

Tom Flint, from the Canine Rescue Mission, accompanied them, since all his companions were dead and he could not manage the canal boat single-handed. Nothing could be done about the inhabitants of Willoughby-on-the-Wolds, who had come to the aid of the men and dogs and had been killed by monsters. Such as had not been devoured overnight now lay under several feet of snow.

“We can't do owt for 'em, poor devils,” said Bellswinger. “Colonel's going to be in a black rage over this job o' work. Let alone we lost ten good men, and only come back with one dog out o' thirty, we wasted valuable time turning south, when we might have been on our way to the Kingdom of Fife. And then—I dunno—the whole thing seems to me like a put-up job. Almost an insult, you might say.”

He was talking to Ensign Quickstep, but Dakin, who was jogging beside them through the gale, with Uli close at his heels, heard what he said and asked, “Do you think it was an ambush, Sergeant?”

“Ah, boy, I do. There ain't been such a concentration of monsters seen since we ran in to Manchester—no one's a-going to tell me they come there by accident. That was a planned incident.”

“You don't think the people who sent the dogs planned it?” Dakin said in horror.

“No, no, lad, I ain't saying that. But somebody got wind of where we was going, and
somebody
sent the monsters there to lay in wait. And what I'd like to know is, where is that somebody, and how did they hear tell of secret command post orders? That's what I'd like to know. Those Basilisks weren't there by chance. Basilisks ain't so common—not in such numbers as that. There's summat fishy about it.”

Somebody has to be a traitor, thought Dakin. But who? What a horrible thought.

He trotted on very soberly through the wintry weather.

*   *   *

A faint exhausted cheer rose up from the expeditionary force when they finally rounded a windswept corner of beech coppice and beheld the
Cockatrice Belle
ahead of them, couched snugly in a deep railway cutting. The tinsel and the red and green glass bells which adorned the train when they first set out from London had long since been smashed or stripped away in battle, but the train was still a gallant sight with its bronze armour-plating and gold stripes, and Lieutenant Upfold had kept the men who remained on board hard at work polishing the windows and cleaning out the wind-vanes in case their returning comrades should be pursued by hostile forces and a speedy departure was required.

An answering cheer came from the garrison on the train as they saw their mates come over the hill, but this died away uncertainly when it became plain that no large pack of Gridelin hounds accompanied the returning force.

Colonel Clipspeak was out on the observation platform with the Archbishop beside him and a guard of sharpshooters with Snark guns.

Bellswinger saluted smartly as soon as he came within earshot, but his tone was sad, flat, and apologetic as he reported. “Have to announce the death of ten men, sir. And the dogs was all killed by monsters before we ever arrived at the rendezvous point. Only this single hound left, what you see, sir.”

Clipspeak turned very pale, but remained calm. He said, “You'd best come to my office, Sergeant, and give me the whole story. Let the remaining men of your party be well fed and rested. And the dog had better be taken along to their mess. Who is that civilian?”

“He's a chap from the Canine Rescue Mission at Boston, sir. I'll tell you about him when I make my report. I daresay Mrs. Churt can make him comfortable in the galley till you want to interview him.”

“Very well. I don't approve of taking civilians on board, but in the circumstances—and as we have room—” The colonel sighed.

Later, in the office, Bellswinger gave a full account of the disastrous expedition, and the colonel listened with knitted brows.

“You don't think the whole thing was a put-up job? That it was organized from Hanover?” he said.

“No. No, I don't, sir. What for would anyone send thirty Gridelin hounds just to be ate up by monsters? No, what I think was, somebody, somehow, got word of the rendezvous and sent a force of monsters to put a spoke in our wheel.”

“Humph,” said the colonel, and sat silent for a long time pressing his knobbly fingers together.

“Do you think it can have anything to do with the child Sauna?” he asked at length. “Could she be giving away secrets? And—if so—to
whom?
”

“Well, sir, that's a hard one.” Bellswinger frowned. His long red face was very thoughtful. “I don't believe she'd give away our secrets on purpose, sir; that I don't. She's a good girl, and hardworking—Mrs. Churt thinks the world of her, and so does young Dakin and lots of the men—and, besides that, she's as keen as mustard. Keen on our Cause, sir, as you might say. She's learning to handle a Snark gun; she can better some of the men's rounds, six times out of ten, and besides that she's right handy at giving warning of assaults in advance—up to as much as half an hour ahead, sometimes, she can warn us when there's summat nasty coming along. I'd have been glad of her on our trip to Willoughby, and that's a fact. Now I ask you, sir, is it likely that the Other Side would plant somebody as useful as that on us? (If there is an Other Side, as such, which I sometimes take leave to doubt, sir?)”

“You think this invasion of monsters is just a random piece of bad luck, do you, Bellswinger? But what about that memo from headquarters, saying that it's all being
directed
from somewhere up by the Kingdom of Fife?”