The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  Tammo pulled a wry face at the squirrel’s back. ‘What ho, young Russa, point taken. Lead on, but not too fast.’

  Russa shook her head as she skirted a patch of mossy grass, still wet and slippy with morning dew. ‘Rest yore jaws an’ let the paws do the work, Tamm, seasons o’ gabble! I never did so much talkin’ in all me life. Save yore breath fer travellin’, that’s another lesson y’ve got to learn.’

  ‘Right you are, O wise one, the jolly old lips are sealed!’

  ‘Good! Then shut up an’ keep up!’

  ‘To hear is to obey, O sagacious squirrel!’

  ‘You’ve gotta have the last word, haven’t yer?’

  ‘Only because you’re the strong silent type, great leader.’

  ‘I’ll great leader you, y’cheeky-faced rogue!’

  ‘Bad form f’r a Commander to insult the other ranks, y’know. Whoops! Yowch!’

  Not looking where he was going, Tammo trotted into the area of mossy grass and slipped, landing flat on his back. Because of the steep incline he rolled a good way downhill, until he was halted by a boulder.

  Russa went by him looking straight ahead, a smile playing round her lips. ‘Tut tut, I’ve already told ye, matey, y’can’t lie down fer a nap until we make camp!’

  Tammo learned a lot that first morning. By midday they were standing on top of the hill overlooking the spot Russa had chosen for a campsite. Down in the valley a little stream tumbled over a rock ledge, forming a tiny waterfall. There were wild privets and dogwood to one side, making a shady bower.

  Hot and dusty, Tammo wiped a paw across his mouth at the sight of fresh water. He saluted smartly at Russa and said, ‘Permission t’go down an’ chuck m’self in yonder cool water!’

  The canny squirrel shrugged. ‘Suit y’self, matey, if’n that’s what y’feel like doin’.’

  The young hare let out a joyful whoop and sped off downhill.

  Russa backed off and, dropping out of sight, cut off at a tangent, approaching the glade from a different angle.

  Ducking out of his shoulder belt and dirk, Tammo cast both aside and leapt into the water. It was ice cold and crystal clear. The sudden shock robbed him of his breath for a moment, then he gave vent to a yell of sheer delight. It was good to be alive on such a day. Gulping down the sweet fresh water, Tammo stood beneath the cascade with his mouth wide open, falling backward and splashing playfully with all four paws.

  ‘Yerrah! Now dat’s wot I likes ter see, Skulka, a young critter fulla the joys o’ spring!’

  Rubbing both eyes and snorting water from his nostrils, Tammo floundered upright to see who had spoken.

  Two ferrets, big and lean and clad in tattered rags, stood on the bank, one with an arrow half drawn on her bowstring, the other with a spear stuck in the ground as he tried on Tammo’s belt and dirk for size.

  The young hare knew he was in deep trouble. Glancing around to see if he could spot Russa, Tammo pointed at his property. ‘Good day, friends! I say, that’s my belt an’ dirk you’re jolly well tryin’ on, y’know!’

  The female kept her arrow centred on Tammo. Turning to her partner she revealed a row of snaggled, discoloured teeth in a grin. ‘Lah de dah, Gromal, ain’t ’e got nice manners? Didyer know that’s ’is jolly ole dirk’n’ belt yore tryin’ on?’

  Gromal had fastened the belt around his waist, and now he was stroking the dirk handle and admiring the fine blade. ‘Ho, is it now? Well ’ere’s the way I sees it, Skulka. That beast flung ’isself in our water widout so much as a by yer leave. Lookat ’im there, drinkin’ away an’ sportin’ about as if it belonged to ’im!’

  Tammo stood quite still in the stream and managed to force a friendly smile at the evil pair. ‘Accept my apologies, you chaps. Sorry, I didn’t know the stream belonged to you. I’ll just hop right out.’

  Gromal pulled his spear from the ground. ‘Aye, that’s the ticket, me young bucko. You jus’ ’op right up ’ere on the bank so’s we kin search yer. Yore gonna pay fer the use of our water. Keep that shaft aimed at ’im, Skulka. If’n ’e makes one false move, shoot ’im atween the eyes an’ slay ’im!’

  Skulka drew her bowstring tight, sniggering. ‘If ’e don’t ’ave no more val’ables then mebbe we c’n use ’im as a slave fer a few seasons.’

  A hardwood stick came whirling in a blur from the tree cover and struck the arrow, snapping it clean in two pieces. Russa hurtled out like a lightning bolt, shoving Skulka into the water and launching herself at Gromal. She caught him a terrific headbutt to the stomach and he crumpled to the ground, mouth open as he fought for air. Tammo waded swiftly to the shallows and, as Skulka staggered upright, he dealt her a powerful kick with both footpaws. She fell back in the water and he sat upon her, applying all his weight.

  Russa had relieved Gromal of the dirk; now she grabbed her hardwood stick and stood waiting for him to rise. He came up fast, seizing his spear and charging her. Almost casually she stepped to one side, dealing him three quick hard blows to the back of his head as he rushed by her. The ferret dropped like a log.

  Ignoring him, she turned to Tammo and said, ‘Best let that’n up afore ye drown her, mate.’

  Tammo hauled Skulka dripping and spluttering from the stream. He shook water from his eyes, peering indignantly at Russa. ‘I say, y’might’ve told me about these two before you let me flippin’ well dash down here an’ dive in the water, wot?’

  The squirrel kicked Skulka flat, trapping her across the throat with the hardwood stick. Then she shrugged indifferently. ‘I didn’t know they were down there. Besides, you couldn’t wait to dash into the water. I never approach a campsite without checkin’ it out first, mate, and so should you.’

  Tammo heaved a sigh as he took his belt from the fallen ferret. ‘Another jolly old lesson learned, I suppose?’

  Russa patted his back heartily. ‘You jolly well suppose right, me ol’ pal!’

  Whilst the two ferrets sat on the bank recovering from their drubbing, Russa paced around them. She glanced across at Tammo, who was carrying the haversack out of the shrubbery where she had left it. ‘What d’you think we should do with these vermin, Tamm, kill ’em or let ’em go?’

  The young hare was shocked at the suggestion of cold-blooded slaying. ‘Russa Nodrey!’ he cried, his voice almost shrill with outrage. ‘You can’t just kill them! You wouldn’t?’

  The squirrel’s face was impassive. ‘D’you know why I’m alive today? ’Cos my enemies are all dead. Make no mistake about it, Tamm, these two scum would’ve slain you just fer fun if I hadn’t been here.’

  The ferrets began to wail imploringly.

  ‘No no, we was just sportin’ wid yer, young sir!’

  ‘We ain’t killers, we’re pore beasts fallen on ’ard times!’

  Russa curled her lip scornfully. ‘Aye, an’ I’m a bluebird wid a frog for an uncle!’

  Tammo placed himself between Russa and the ferrets. ‘You’re not goin’ to slay them. I’ll stop you, Russa!’

  The squirrel sat down and, unfastening the haversack, began selecting a few of Mem Divinia’s pancakes. ‘Huh! No need t’fall out over a pair of nogoods like them. Please yoreself, mate, do what y’like with ’em.’

  Tammo flung Skulka and Gromal’s weapons into the water, then he drew his dirk and pointed it at the cringing duo. ‘Get up an’ get goin’, you chaps, I never want to see your ugly faces again. Quick now, or I’ll let Russa loose on you!’

  Without a backward glance the pair sped off as if pursued by a flight of eagles. Tammo put up his dirk. ‘There, that’s that settled!’

  Russa filled a beaker with water from the stream. ‘So you say, me ole mate.’

  ‘What d’you mean, so I say?’

  ‘Ah, you’ll learn one day. I thought you were starvin’? Come an’ get some o’ these vittles down yer face.’

  They dined on pancakes spread with honey, beakers of streamwater and a wedge of cold turnip and carrot pie apiece. The sun was unusually hot for early spri
ng, and Tammo felt rather giddy after their adventure. Finding a soft shady spot beneath the hedgerow he was asleep in a trice. Russa sat with her back against a dogwood trunk and napped with one eye open.

  * * *

  8

  WHEN THE SUN was past its zenith Russa woke Tammo. He felt marvellously refreshed and immediately shouldered the haversack, saying, ‘My turn to carry this awhile. Come on, pal, where to now?’

  Still travelling south, the squirrel took him to the top of the next rise and pointed with her stick. ‘Little patch of woodland yonder, we should make it at twilight.’

  The going was much easier for Tammo. He enjoyed the sight of new places and fresh scenery, learning from his experienced travelling companion all the time. Russa seemed to come out of her normally taciturn self and was much more verbose than usual.

  ‘Skirt round this patch, Tamm, don’t want to disturb that curlew sittin’ on ’er nest, do we?’

  ‘Of course not, jolly thoughtful of you. Leave the poor bird in peace to sit on her eggs, wot?’

  ‘Nothin’ of the sort. If’n we crossed there that’d upset ’er, and she’d fly up kickin’ a racket to warn us off. That’d give our position away to anybeast who was trackin’ us.’

  ‘Oh, right. I say, d’you suppose there is somebeast after us?’

  Russa’s reply was cryptic. ‘I dunno, what d’you think?’

  The squirrel was as good as her word. Long shadows were gone and twilight was shading the skies as they arrived at the woodland patch, which was considerably bigger than it had seemed from afar. Russa allowed Tammo to pick their campsite, and he chose an ancient fallen beech with part of its vast root system poking into the air.

  Russa nodded approval. ‘Hmm, this looks all right. Want a fire?’

  Tammo shrugged off his belt and weapon. ‘If you say so. Spring nights can be jolly cold, and besides, I’d like to have a hot supper, if y’have no objections?’

  Russa shook her head vigorously. ‘None at all, matey. There’s plenty o’ deadwood an’ dry bark about. I’ll see t’the fire, you unpack the vittles.’

  Flint and steel from Russa’s pouch soon had dry tinder alight. Clearing a firespace around it, she added fragrant dead pine twigs, old brown ferns and some stout billets of beech. Tammo found a flagon of elderberry wine in the pack. He warmed pancakes before spreading them with honey and set two moist-looking chunks of plum cake near the flames to heat through. They sat with their backs against the beech, pleasantly tired, eating, drinking and chatting.

  Russa picked up Tammo’s dirk and inspected it closely. ‘This is a rare weapon, mate. Is it your father’s?’

  ‘No, it was my mother’s. She was a Long Patrol fighter, y’know. She said a Badger Lord made it for her in the forge at Salamandastron, the great mountain fortress. Can you tell me anythin’ of the mountain, Russa? I’ve never seen it.’

  Reflectively the squirrel balanced the blade in her paw, then she threw it skilfully. It whizzed across the clearing and thudded point first into a sycamore trunk.

  ‘Sometimes a thrown blade can save your life,’ she said. ‘I’ll teach you how to sling it properly before long.’

  Tammo had to tug hard to pull the dirk from the treetrunk. ‘I’d be rather obliged if y’did. Now what about Salamandastron?’

  Russa took a sip of wine and settled back comfortably. ‘Oh that place, hmm, let me see. Well, a mountain’s a mountain, much like any other, but I can give you the chant I heard the Long Patrol hares sayin’ last time I was over that way.’

  Tammo piled a bit more wood on the fire. ‘You know the Long Patrol hares? Tell me, what do they chant?’

  The squirrel closed her eyes. ‘Far as I can recall it went somethin’ like this.

  O vermin if you dare, come and visit us someday,

  Bring all your friends and weapons with you too.

  You’ll find a good warm welcome, let nobeast living say,

  That cold steel was never good enough for you.

  You won’t find poor helpless beasts all undefended,

  Like the old ones, babes and mothers that you’ve slain,

  And you’ll find that when your pleasant visit’s ended,

  That you’ll never ever leave our shores again.

  All you cowards of the land and you flotsam of the sea,

  Who murder, pillage, loot, whene’er you please,

  There’s a Long Patrol a waitin’, we’ll greet you cheerfully,

  You’ll hear us cry Eulalia on the breeze.

  ’Tis a welcome to the bullies who slay without a care,

  All those good and peaceful creatures who can’t fight,

  But perilous and dangerous the beast they call the hare,

  Who stands for nought but honour and the right.

  Eulalia! Eulalia! Come bring your vermin horde,

  The Long Patrol awaits you, led by a Badger Lord!’

  Tammo shook his head in admiration. ‘By golly, that’s some chant! Are they really that brave and fearless, these Long Patrol hares?’

  Russa threw a burning log end back into the fire. ‘Ruthless, they can be, but they keep the shores defended and the land safe fer peaceful creatures t’live in. C’mon now, mate, y’need yore sleep for tomorrow’s trekkin’. Stow y’self over there in the dark, away from the flames.’

  Tammo pulled a wry face at this suggestion. ‘But I’m nice’n’warm here, why’ve I got to move?’

  The squirrel’s face grew stern. ‘Because I says so, now stop askin’ silly questions an’ shift!’

  Tammo retreated into the surrounding bushes, muttering, ‘Nice warm fire an’ I’ve got t’sleep back here, a chap could catch his death o’ cold on a night like this, ’taint fair!’

  Sometime during the night Tammo was awakened by a blood-curdling scream. He leapt up, grabbing for his dirk, which he had left within paw reach. It was not there.

  He stood in the firelight and looked around. His friend was missing too. Cupping paws around his mouth, the young hare yelled into the night-darkened woodlands, ‘Russa, where are you?’

  With a bound the squirrel cleared the fallen beech trunk and was at his side, wiping the dirk blade on the grass. ‘I’m here. Keep y’voice down an’ get back under cover!’

  Together they crouched in the bushes. Tammo was bursting to question Russa, but he held his silence, watching the squirrel’s eyes flick back and forth as she craned her head forward, listening.

  From somewhere in the midst of the trees there came a shriek of rage. Russa stood erect and shouted in the direction whence it had come, ‘Yore mate’s dead, ferret! Take warnin’ an’ clear off, ’cos I’m comin’ after you next an’ I don’t take prisoners!’

  Skulka’s answering call came back, thick with rage: ‘It ain’t over, old one, we’ll get you an’ yer liddle pal! Jus’ wait’n’ see!’

  This was followed by the sound of Skulka crashing off through the ferns. Then there was silence. Russa gave Tammo back his dirk, saying, ‘It was those two ferrets we tangled with earlier today, mate. I knew they’d be back, ’specially after they saw you take our ’avvysack o’ vittles out o’ the bushes back there.’

  Tammo felt weak with shock. ‘Russa, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t let them see the haversack they would’ve gone off none the wiser.’

  The wily squirrel shook her head. ‘Wrong, matey, they would’ve tried to get us whether or not. I knew they was followin’ us all day. ’Twas logical they’d make their move tonight when they thought we’d be asleep. So I took off into the trees wid yore blade an’ bumped straight into the one called Gromal, armed wid a long sharpened stake if y’please. So I had to finish it then an’ there, ’twas him or me. But I’m a bit worried, Tamm.’

  Tammo was puzzled by this statement. ‘What’s worryin’ you, Russa?’

  ‘Well, did y’hear the other ferret shoutin’, she said we’ll get you. We. It’s like I thought, there must be a band of ’em somewheres about. I had a feeling I knowed them two from long ago, the
y always run with a robber band.’

  Tammo gripped his blade resolutely. ‘Right, mate, what’s t’be done?’

  Russa ruffled his ears, rather fondly. ‘Sleep’s to be done. Shouldn’t think they’ll be back tonight, but we’ll take turns standin’ guard. More likely they’ll try an’ ambush us out in the open tomorrow, so get y’sleep – you’ll need it.’

  Night closed in on the little camp. The fire dimmed from burning flame to glowing embers, trees murmured and rustled, their foliage stirred by a westering wind. Tammo dreamed of his home, Camp Tussock. He saw the faces of his family, and Osmunda and Roolee, together with the young creatures with whom he had played. Elusive aromas of Mem Divinia’s cooking, mingled with songs and music around the fire of a winter’s night, assailed his senses. A great sadness weighed upon him, as though he might never see or feel it all again.

  Russa climbed into a tree and slept the way she had for many seasons, with one eye open.

  * * *

  9

  EXTRACT FROM THE writings of Craklyn squirrel, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country.

  ‘Great Seasons! Now I know I am old. A beautiful spring afternoon, the sun smiling warmly over Mossflower Wood and our Abbey, and almost everybeast, from the smallest Dibbun baby to the Mother Abbess herself, is out in the grounds at play. Whilst here am I, sitting by the kitchen ovens, a cloak about me, scratching away with this confounded quill pen. Ah well, somebeast has to do it I suppose. Though I never thought that one day I would be old, but that is the way of the world, the young never do.

  Let me see now, out of the Redwallers of my early seasons there are only a few left. Abbess Tansy, my dear friend, the first hedgehog ever to be Mother of Redwall, Viola Bankvole, our fussy Infirmary Sister, and who else? Oh yes, Foremole Diggum, and Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper, two of the most loyal moles ever to inhabit Redwall Abbey. Counting the squirrel Arven and myself, that is everybeast accounted for. Arven is our Abbey Warrior. Who would have thought that such a mischievous little rip would grow up to be so big and reliable, respected throughout Mossflower.