The Major perched gracefully on the fallen beech trunk. ‘Complete March Hare, ol’ Rubbadub, took too many headwounds in battle doncha know. Never speaks, but the chap makes better drum noises than a real drum, or four real drums f’that matter. Brave as a badger and fearless as a fried frog though, a perilous creature t’have on your side in a pinch.’
Tammo remembered the term perilous hare, so he gave the polite rejoinder, ‘As you say, sah, a perilous creature, an’ what more could one ask of a hare?’
Perigord nodded his head and winked broadly at the younger beast. ‘Rather! ‘Tis easy t’see you’re the Colonel’s offspring, though I think that fortunately you favour your mother more.’
Tammo touched his aching head and leaned back against the beech.
Major Perigord was immediately apologetic. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, what a beauty of a lump they gave you on the old beezer – you too, Russa. Forgive me, chattin’ away here like a seagull at suppertime. We must get y’some medical attention. At ease in the ranks there, sit down an’ rest until Pasque gets back. She’s our healer – have y’right as rain in two ticks, wot! You’re with the Long Patrol now y’know, no expense spared!’
Despite his headache, Tammo managed a bright smile. ‘Did you hear that, Russa? We’re with the Long Patrol!’
* * *
13
TO TAMMO’S UTTER amazement, when all the hares returned to camp, he counted only eleven, including Perigord and Rubbadub. The Major was amused by the look on his new friend’s face.
‘I can see what you’re thinkin’, laddie buck, well let me tell you, the Long Patrol counts quality high above quantity, wot! Here, let me introduce y’to our happy band. This is our galloper Riffle, fleet of paw and faster’n the wind. Sergeant Torgoch, a walkin’ armoury, collects weapons, ’specially blades. These two’re Tare’n’Turry the terrible twins, can’t tell ’em apart eh, never mind, neither c’n I. Lieutenant Morio our quartermaster, can steal a nut from a squirrel’s mouth an’ make him think he’s jolly well eaten it. My sister Captain Twayblade, charming singer, but rather perilous with that long rapier she carries. The delightful Pasque Valerian, best young medico t’come off the mountain, I’ve seen her fix a butterfly’s wing. That chap there’s Midge Manycoats. He’s our spy, master o’ disguise an’ deadly with a noose. Then there’s Rockjaw Grang, Giant o’ the North, bet y’ve never seen a hare that size in a season’s march. That leaves m’self, whom y’ve met, an’ Corporal Rubbadub the droll drummer.’
Rubbadub smiled widely, clapping his ears together twice and issuing a drum sound so that it looked as if the ears, and not his mouth, had made the noise.
‘Boomboom!’
Russa nudged Tammo and, nodding towards Torgoch, murmured, ‘That ’un’s carryin’ yore blade, mate!’
Amid the array of daggers, swords and knives bristling from Torgoch’s belt, the young hare identified his own weapon, its shoulder belt wound round the blade.
Tammo braced himself and faced the hare. ‘Beg pardon, old lad, but I rather think that’s my dirk you’ve got.’
The Sergeant took Tammo’s weapon from his belt. Balancing it deftly on his paw he smiled ruefully. ‘I’oped it wouldn’t be, young sir, ’tis a luvverly blade. I took it orf a vermin oo didn’t look as if ’e’d be usin’ it agin. You’d best ’ave it back, y’don’t see knives like this’n a lyin’ about every day. A proper officer’s weapon ’tis, I’d say a Badger Lord could’ve made it.’
Tammo was about to put on the belt when he suddenly sat down hard on the ground and began shivering. The ache in his head had become overwhelming. The tall saturnine Lieutenant Morio nodded gloomily at Pasque Valerian, and said, ‘I’ll light a fire an’ heat some water. You’d best see to that young ’un, he’s got a touch o’ battle shock. I recall m’self bein’ like that first time I saw serious action.’
Pasque sat alongside Tammo, rummaging in her herbalist’s pouch. ‘Lie back now, easy does it. Here, chew on this – don’t swallow it, though. Spit it out when you’ve had enough.’
It was a sort of sticky moss, bound together by some type of vegetable gum, with a taste reminiscent of mint and roses. Tammo chewed slowly, and through half-closed lids he watched Pasque mixing herbs by the fire. She was the prettiest, most gentle creature he had ever encountered. Tammo resolved that he would get to know her better, then his thoughts became muddled as he drifted away into warm dark seas of slumber.
Night had fallen when he awakened, and a delicious aroma of cooking reminded him he was very hungry.
Perigord’s sister Twayblade patted the log beside her. ‘Feelin’ better now, young ’un? Come an’ perch here. Rubbadub, bring this beast somethin’ to eat, wot.’
Instinctively, Tammo reached to touch his injured head. A massive paw engulfed his, and he found himself staring upward into the fearsome face of the giant hare, Rockjaw Grang.
‘Nay, lad, th’art not to touch thy ’ead yet awhile. Best leave alone what our little lass ’as patched up. Sithee, coom an’ set by t’fire.’
Rockjaw picked Tammo up as if he were a babe and sat him down between Twayblade and Pasque, who smiled quietly at him, and said, ‘I hope you’re feeling better this evening.’
Tammo flushed to his eartips and muttered incoherently, feeling completely awkward and embarrassed for the first time in his life. He wanted so much to talk with Pasque, yet his tongue would not obey his brain. Rubbadub saved the situation by marching up with a bowl of hot pea and celery soup with fresh-baked bread to dip in it.
He winked and grinned broadly. ‘Drrrrrrrr tish boom!’
Russa raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, he does cymbals too?’
The young galloper Riffle refilled the squirrel’s beaker. ‘Aye, marm, bugles also, an’ flutes when he’s a mind to. Ol’ Rubbadub’s a full band when the mood takes him.’
Major Perigord turned to his troop good-humouredly. ‘Stripe me, but you’re a dull bunch o’ ditchwallopers! We ain’t welcomed our guests with the anthem yet.’
Tammo looked up from his soup. ‘The anthem?’
Midge Manycoats took out a tiny flute and got the right key. ‘Humm, humm, fah, soh lah te, fah, fah, fah, that’s it. Right, troop, song of the Long Patrol. Like to hear it, Tammo?’
The young hare nodded eagerly. ‘Rather, I’d love to!’
With Midge acting as conductor and choirmaster, the little woodland camp with its flickering fire shadows echoed to the famous marching air of the Salamandastron fighters.
‘Oh it’s hard and dry when the sun is high,
And dust is in your throat,
When the rain pours down, near fit to drown,
It soaks right through your coat.
But the hares of the Long Patrol, my lads,
Stouthearts they walk with me,
Over hill and plain, and back again,
To the shores of the wide blue sea.
Through mud and mire to a warm campfire,
I’ll trek with you, old friend,
O’er lea and dale in a roaring gale,
Right to our journey’s end.
Aye, the hares of the Long Patrol, my lads,
Love friendship more than gold.
We’ll share long days, and tread hard ways,
Good comrades, brave and bold!’
Rubbadub completed the anthem with a long drumroll and a double boom as Tammo and Russa thumped out their applause on the treetrunk.
The terrible twins, Tare and Turry, called out to Tammo, ‘Come on, come on, you’ve got to jolly well sing us one back!’
‘Aye, so y’have, sing up, Tamm, you look as if y’could belt out a good ditty!’
Russa Nodrey noted the horrified look on Tammo’s face, and smiled wryly at Perigord. ‘Hah! Look at ’im, that’n would sooner be boiled in the soup than sing wid yore pretty Pasque sittin’ next to ’im!’
She spared Tammo further embarrassment by volunteering herself. ‘Ye can’t expect that hare t’sing whilst ’e’s recoverin’ f
rom an injury. I’ll do my anthem for you, ’tis called “The Song of the Stick”. Though I usually sings it when I’m alone.’
Leaping up, Russa began twirling her small hardwood staff, tossing it in the air, catching it on her tail, flicking it back overhead into her paws and spinning it until it became a blur as she sang:
‘This ain’t a sword, it ain’t a spear,
An arrow nor a bow,
’Tis just a thing I carries round,
With me where e’er I go.
It cannot talk or grumble,
And never answers back,
But it can sniff out vermin,
An’ land ’em such a crack!
O my liddle stick o’ wood, my liddle stick o’ wood,
Whacks here’n’there an’ everywhere,
No weapon’s half so good,
An’ I am tellin’ you,
My friend so stout’n’true,
This liddle piece o’ timber,
Has always seen me through.
It’ll wallop a weasel, sock a stoat,
Or fling a ferret from ’is coat,
‘Twould knock a fox clean out his socks,
My liddle stick o’ wood!’
The hares gathered round, applauding Russa, who was still performing tricks with the hardwood which made it seem as though it had a life of its own.
Tammo waved at her. ‘Thanks, matey, that was great!’
Russa came over to whisper in his ear. ‘I wouldn’t do it fer any otherbeast, Tamm, performin’ in public ain’t my thing. So remember, you owe me one, pal.’
When the meal and the entertainment were over, Major Perigord gave out his orders.
‘Heads down now, chaps, we move out at dawn. Rockjaw, take first watch. Riffle, Midge, reccy round a bit, see if y’can pick up the vermin trail for the mornin’. Compliments an’ g’night, troop.’
Russa and Perigord sat by the fire, long after the rest were asleep, conversing in low tones.
‘What brings you an’ the Patrol over thisways, friend?’
‘Rapscallions an’ Lady Cregga Rose Eyes’ commands. We travel on her orders, Russa. Last winter we did battle with old Gormad Tunn an’ his army, never seen so many vermin in me life, wot! Well, we gave ’em the drubbin’ they richly deserved an’ sent the scum packin’. Great loss o’ life on both sides, but Rapscallions got the worst of it, by m’left paw they did! Our Badger Lady was like a pack o’ wolves rolled into onebeast when the Bloodwrath came upon her. They took off like scalded crabs an’ we pursued ’em almost into deep water, hackin’ an’ smashin’ at their fleet, did a fair part of damage to it. Hah, off they sailed screamin’ an’ cursin’ something dreadful!’
Russa stared into the fire. ‘Evil murderin’ beasts, ’twas all they deserved!’
The elegant Major stroked his mustachios reflectively. ‘Trouble is, nobeast seems t’know where the blighters went. We know Rapscallions don’t sail out on the open seas, they hug the coasts an’ make raids from their ships. So we’re certain they can’t have had their fleet sunk out at sea an’ got themselves drowned, worst luck. Lady Rose Eyes is extremely worried, y’see they’ve dropped completely out of sight, over a thousand Rapscallions, with Gormad Tunn and those two evil sons of his, Damug an’ Byral. Our Badger Lady figures that the cads are layin’ up someplace, plannin’ a major comeback. Huh, they won’t come near Salamandastron again, but she’s of the opinion, an’ rightly so, that the great Rapscallion army’ll find a target easier than our mountain. Russa, I tell you, with a mob o’ that magnitude they could create a veritable bloodbath anyplace!’
Russa nodded her agreement. ‘So she sent you an’ yore troop out to track ’em down?’
Perigord stirred the embers with his sabretip. ‘That she did, old friend, and we searched most o’ the winter until we located today’s gang. But they’re only a blinkin’ fraction of the main band, must’ve had their ship blown off course an’ wrecked. I think they’re travellin’ overland to join up with the others, that’s why we’re trailin’ ’em. Pity we had to show our paws by attackin’ them today, but I couldn’t let you an’ young Tammo be slain by those foul blackguards.’
Russa patted the Major’s left paw gratefully. ‘Thanks, Perigord. I wasn’t greatly bothered, but it’d be a shame t’see a fine young hare like Tammo butchered by vermin. I brought him along with me because ’tis his life’s ambition to join the Long Patrol. ‘E idolizes you lot.’
The hare squinted along the length of his sabre blade. ‘I could see that. Bear in mind, both Tammo’s mater’n’pater ran with the Patrol once. He comes of good fightin’ stock, that young ’un. Officer material I shouldn’t wonder, wot?’
Both beasts sat silent, watching the flames die to embers. Russa finally stretched out in the shelter of the beech log, and said, ‘If you take him with yer I’ll come along for the trip. Promised his ma I’d look out fer ’im. Wot’s yore next move?’
The Major unbuttoned his tunic and lay down. ‘Sleep what’s left o’ the night I s’pose, then carry on trailin’ the vermin an’ see where they go. Though if they persist in travellin’ south I’ll have to stop ’em permanent – can’t have those killers wanderin’ up the path to Redwall Abbey. Lady Cregga’d have an absolute fit if she knew we’d let a gang o’ bloodthirsty thieves anywhere near the Abbey.’
Russa rolled over so that her back was warmed by the embers. ‘Fits right in with my plans. I was plannin’ on visitin’ ole Abbess Tansy, an’ of course there’s always the famous Redwall kitchens, no grub better in the land!’
Major Perigord Habile Sinistra licked his lips dreamily. ‘I’m right with you there, old sport!’
* * *
14
ARVEN WAS JERKED into wakefulness by Shad the otter Gatekeeper. The burly creature was cloaked and carrying a lantern. ‘All paws on deck, mate, yore needed at the wall!’
Wordlessly, the squirrel donned his tunic and grabbed a cloak, then the pair stole out of the dormitory silently, loath to waken young Redwallers still sleeping.
Descending the spiral stairs to the ground floor, Shad explained what had taken place. ‘I was asleep in the gatehouse not an hour back when Skipper an’ his otter crew arrived. Funny, I sez, I was comin’ over t’see you today, messmate. Was you now, sez ’e t’me, well that is funny, Shad, ’cos I couldn’t sleep fer dreamin’ that summat was amiss at the Abbey, so I roused the crew an’ set course for ’ere right away! Well, there’s a stroke o’ luck, sez I to ’im, you saved me a journey, matey, y’better come an’ look at our south wall.’
By then Shad and Arven were at the main door of the Abbey building. Pale stormlit dawn was breaking. A gale force wind tore the breath from their mouths, buffeting both creatures sideways, and hissing rain glistened off the grass in the cold half-light.
Sheltering the lantern beneath his flapping cloak, Shad shouted at Arven, ‘Come an’ see for yoreself!’
Leaning into the tempest, heads down and cloaks drawn tight, both beasts made their way to the south wall.
Skipper of otters stood at the southeast end of the wall, he and his crew sheltering beneath a monstrous jumble of branches, limbs, twigs, leaves and stone blocks. Arven nodded briefly to the otters, then launching himself into the mass of foliage he shed his cloak and climbed nimbly upward into the tangle. No squirrel could climb like the Champion of Redwall; in a short time Arven was vaulting out of the foliage on to the battlemented walkway which formed the walltop. Bracing himself against the stormy onslaught he surveyed the damage and its cause.
Mossflower woodlands grew practically right up to the east wall, curving slightly at the south corner and petering out to give way to gently sloping grassland. Directly at the curve a great beech tree had fallen upon the end of the south wall. The ancient forest giant had stood there for untold seasons in high and wide-girthed splendour, only to be felled during the night by the irresistible force sent by weather’s wildness.
Near the beech base Arven could see where the top-heavy t
ree had broken. Long, thick wood splinters shone whitely in the rain, like the bone fragments and shards of some dreadful wound. In its crashing fall the trunk had hit the wall, scattering battlements, walkway and sandstone blocks, the tremendous weight hewing a large V-shape into Redwall’s outer defences.
As Arven came springing back down to ground, Skipper draped the squirrel’s cloak about his shoulders.
‘Much damage, mate?’ he asked.
Arven nodded. ‘Much!’
Skipper indicated his sturdy crew with a wave. ‘Well, much or little, it don’t bother us, matey, we’re ’ere to lend a paw in any way y’need otters. Where d’you want us t’ start?’
Arven patted the faithful creature’s back. ‘You’re a good ’un, Skip, you and your crew. This Abbey only stands by the goodness and loyalty of its friends. But there’s nothin’ we can do whilst the weather keeps up like this. Come on, let’s get you lot inside and find you some breakfast by the fire.’
Skipper’s craggy face broke into a smile. ‘Lead us to it, me ole mate!’
Mother Buscol was official Redwall Friar, and the small fat squirrel liked nothing better in life than to cook. She watched the hungry otter crew poking their heads around her kitchen doorway and hid her pleasure by scowling at them.
‘Indeed to goodness, an’ what do all you great rough beasts want, hangin’ around my kitchens like a flock of gannets?’
Skipper winked roguishly at her. ‘Feedin’, marm!’
Narrowing her eyes, she shook a ladle at him. ‘Hot oatmeal an’ mint tea’s all you’re gettin’ out o’ me this morn.’
Skipper came bounding in and swept Mother Buscol off her paws, planting several hearty kisses on her chubby cheeks. ‘Oatmeal an’ mint tea is fer Dibbuns, me beauty. Where’s the good October Ale an’ a pan of shrimp ’n’hotroot soup, aye, an’ some o’ those shortycakes fer afters? Cummon, tell me afore I kisses you ’til sundown. Haharr!’
Her slippered paws kicked the air as she beat the otter playfully with her ladle. ‘Lackaday, put me down, you great wiry whiskered oaf, or I’ll clap you in a boiler an’ make riverdog pudden of you!’
The Long Patrol Page 7