The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  Lousewort rose, smiling happily. ‘Er er, then we’re still mates?’

  Sneezewort’s snaggle-toothed grin smiled back at him. ‘I was only kiddin’ yer a moment back. We wuz always mates, me’n’you, true’n’blue! If yer can’t find a spot by yer fire an’ a bit t’spare for yer ole mate, then wot sorta mate are yer, that’s wot I always says. You nip along now an’ get the wood!’

  Damug squatted at the water’s edge, honing his swordblade against a flat piece of stone as he conveyed his orders to the Rapmark Captains.

  ‘There’s plenty of food and water here. We’ll camp by this stream until they bring back Borumm and Vendace and the others. When they do I’ll make such an example of them that no Rapscallion will ever even think of disobeying me again. Gaduss, we’ve got no scouts at present, so you take fifty with you and go north. I want you to do a two-day search in that direction, but if you find anything of interest before that, report back immediately.’

  The weasel Gaduss saluted with his spear. ‘It shall be done, Firstblade!’

  Nearly a full day’s journey up the same streambank the water broadened, running through two hills whose tops were fringed with pine and spruce trees. Log a Log, Chieftain of the Guosim shrews, was busily cleaning moss from the bottom of a beached and upturned logboat, assisted by another shrew called Frackle.

  They paused to watch the other shrews fishing. Frackle wiped moss from her rapier blade, nodding towards them. ‘Lots o’ freshwater shrimp in that landlocked stretch o’ water,’ she said.

  Log a Log ran his paw along a section of hull he had cleaned off. ‘Aye, freshwater mussels, too. Minnow an’ stickleback were there in plenty last time I fished that part. Take a stroll over there, Frackle, easy like – an’ don’t look up at yonder hill on the other bank, we’re bein’ watched by some o’ those thick-’eaded Rapscallion vermin who tried attackin’ us yesterday.’

  Frackle sauntered away, murmuring casually, ‘Aye, I see the glint o’ the sun on blades up in those trees at the ‘illtop, Chief. What d’ye want me to do?’

  The shrew Chieftain went back to cleaning his boat. ‘Just take things easy, mate. Tell the crews not t’look suspicious, pass the word to the archers t’drift back to their boats an’ git their bows’n’arrers ready. We’ll give those vermin a warm welcome if they comes down offa that ’ill an’ tries crossin’ the stream.’

  Panting and breathing heavily after their long run, Vendace, Borumm and forty-odd Rapscallion fugitives lay flat among the trees on the hilltop, watching the shrews below.

  Borumm stared at the packs that had been unloaded from the boats. ‘There ain’t time fer us t’stop an’ forage in this country. We needs those packs o’ vittles if’n we’re gonna circle an’ make fer the sunny south.’

  One of the fugitives crawled up alongside the weasel. ‘Cap’n Borumm, those are the beasts that set on us. They kin fight like wolves wid those liddle swords o’ theirs. Huh, you shoulda seen the way that ole chief one finished off Hogspit!’

  Vendace curled his lip at the vermin in a scornful sneer. ‘Stow that kinda talk, lunk’ead, yore with real officers now. Huh, ‘Ogspit? I coulda put paid to ’im wid both paws tied be’ind me back. Bunch o’ river shrews don’t bother me’n’Borumm none, do they, mate? Phwaw! They’re bakin’ sumthin’ down there, I kin smell it from ’ere. Mmmm! Biscuits, or is it cake?’

  Borumm smiled wickedly at the fox. ‘Wotever it is we’ll soon be samplin’ it. Right, let’s make a move. Keep’idden climbin’ down the ’illside, play it slow. I’ll give the word ter charge if they spots us.’

  The shrewboats were all cleaned and anchored in the shallows. Log a Log and his shrews stood around the cooking fire, all acting relaxed, but keyed up for action.

  ‘Scubbi, Shalla, take the archers an’ use our boats fer cover. Spykel, Preese, get be’ind those big rocks wid yore slingteam. Lead paddlers, stay back ’ere with me an’ Frackle, ready to jump in the boats an’ launch ’em. Those vermin are startin’ downhill, too far out o’ range yet. If we ’ave to make a run fer it, stay out o’ midstream, and use the current close t’this bank.’

  A rat named Henbit came running to the hilltop. His eyes took in the situation at one quick glance. Turning, he dashed back pellmell to where the ferret Skaup was leading the main party at a run, hot on the tracks of the fugitives.

  Henbit dashed up and threw a hasty salute. ‘Borumm an’ Vendace straight ahead, Cap’n! They’ve jus’ left that ’illtop to cross the stream an’ attack those shrews!’

  Skaup acted quickly. ‘You there, Dropear, take fifty an’ run on ahead. Don’t go up the ’ill, go round it – come at ’em along the shore. I’ll take the rest an’ make for the shore from ’ere, that way we’ll get ’em between us. Never mind the shrews, we’re ’ere to bring those traitors back, not to fight wid a gang o’ boatmice. Get goin’!’

  Vendace and Borumm were almost down the hill when the fox whispered to his partner, ‘D’yer think they’ve seen us? I coulda swore I saw the ole one lookin’ over this way once or twice.’

  Borumm waved his paw to the vermin scrabbling downhill, urging them to move a bit faster. ‘Nah, if’n they’d seen us we’d ’ave known by now, mate. Best stop our lot when we reach the streambank, that way we can all charge together. That water looks pretty shallow t’me.’

  It took more time than Vendace liked for the last vermin to get down off the hill on to the shore. He fidgeted impatiently, conveying his anxiety to Borumm. ‘All of a sudden I don’t like this, mate. Those shrews gotta be blind if they ain’t seen us by now. Lookit our lot too, barrin’ for me an’ you an’ a couple o’ others, there’s scarce a decent blade between us – they’re mostly armed wid chunks o’ wood or stones.’

  The weasel glared bad temperedly at the fox. ‘Fine time ter be tellin’ me you’ve got the jitters. Wot’s the matter, mate, don’t you think we kin take a pack o’ scruffy shrews? Straighten yerself up! Come on, you lot. Chaaaaaarge!’

  Bellowing and roaring, they made it into the shallows – then they were besieged on three sides. Log a Log and his Guosim loosed arrows and slingstones across the water. The charging line faltered a second under the salvo, then they were hit by the forces of Dropear and Skaup coming at them from both sides. It was a complete defeat for Vendace and Borumm’s vermin.

  ‘Stay yore weapons, Guosim,’ Log a Log called to his shrews, ’this isn’t our fight no more. But stand ready to bring down any vermin tryin’ to cross the stream!’

  The fugitives could run neither forward nor sideways. Some tried running back uphill, where they made easy targets for arrow and lance. The remainder, knowing what fate would await them at the paws of Damug Warfang, fought desperately, trying to break free and run anyplace.

  Across the stream the shrews sat in their logboats, paddles poised as they watched the awful carnage.

  Frackle averted her eyes, as if she could not bear to watch. ‘They’re from the same band, some of those creatures must’ve fought together side by side. How can they do that to one another?’

  Log a Log watched the slaughter through narrowed eyes. ‘They’re vermin, they’d kill their own families for a crust!’

  There were only ten of the original fugitive band left alive – the rest lay floating in the stream or draped on the hillside. Skaup grinned evilly at Borumm as he noosed his neck to the others, forming them into a line. ‘Firstblade Damug’ll be well pleased to see you an’ the fox safe back under ’is paw, weasel.’

  Bound paw and neck, the prisoners tottered painfully along the shore, driven by spearbutts and whipped with bowstrings. Skaup turned to stare across the stream at the Guosim sitting in their logboats. ‘You got off light t’day, but you’ve slain Rapscallions. We’ll settle with you another day!’

  Log a Log’s face was impassive as he picked up a bow and sent an arrow thudding into Skaup’s outstretched paw. ‘Aye, we’ve slain Rapscallions, an’ we’ll slay a lot more unless you get gone from this place. I warn ye, scum, ne
xt time I draw this bowstring the arrow won’t be aimed at yore paw. Archers ready!’

  Guosim bowbeasts stood up in the logboats, setting shafts to bowstrings, awaiting their Chieftain’s next command.

  Skaup’s face was rigid with agony. He looked at the shrew shaft transfixing his paw and the Guosim with bows stretched, and slunk off, his voice strained with pain and anger as he yelled, ‘We’ll meet again someday, I swear it!’

  A ribald comment echoed across the streamwaters at his back. ‘Be sure t’bring that arrow with ye, ’twas a good shaft!’

  Skaup was close to collapse when he made it back to his party. Dropear threw a paw of support around his shoulders. ‘Siddown, Cap’n, an’ I’ll dig that thing outta yore paw.’

  The ferret pushed him roughly aside and staggered onward. ‘Not here, fool. Let’s get out o’ sight further down the bank!’

  Log a Log and his shrews stood watching them until they were behind a curve in the streamcourse. The shrew leader stroked his short grey beard. ‘Hmm, what we saw ’ere t’day tells me somethin’, mates. If they could afford to slay more’n thirty o’ their own kind, then there must be more of ’em than I thought – a whole lot more! Right, let’s get these craft under way, midstream where the current runs swift. Watch out for a weepin’ willow grove on yore port sides. We’ll take the back waterways an’ sidecut off to Redwall Abbey. I think I’d best warn ’em there’s trouble comin’.’

  * * *

  30

  ALGADOR SWIFTBACK CAST a fleeting glance backward as he marched on into the gathering evening. ‘Whew! I say, we’ve covered a fair old stretch today. Salamandastron’s completely out o’ sight!’

  Drill Sergeant Clubrush’s voice growled close to his ear. ‘The mountain might be out o’ sight, laddie buck, but I’m not! No talkin’ in the ranks there, keep pickin’ those paws up an’ puttin’ ’em down. Left right, left right, left right . . .’

  Over one hundred and fifty hares of the Long Patrol, some veterans, but mainly new recruits, tramped eastward into the dusk, with Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, axepike on shoulder, always far ahead.

  The lolloping young hare named Trowbaggs still had difficulty in learning to march properly. He put his left paw down when everybeast was on their right and vice versa, and for the umpteenth time that day he stumbled, treading on the footpaws of the hare marching in front.

  ‘Oops! Sorry, old chap, the blinkin’ footpaws y’know, gettin’ themselves mixed up again, right left, right left . . .’

  Deodar shook her head in despair as she watched him. ‘Trowbaggs, y’great puddenhead, it’s left right, not right left!’

  Clubrush’s stentorian voice rang out over the marchers, ‘Long Patrol – halt! Stand still everybeast – that means you too, Trowbaggs, you ’orrible liddle beast!’

  Thankfully, the marching lines halted, standing to attention until the order was given.

  ‘First Regiment, stand at ease! Water an’ wood foragers fall out! Duty cooks, take up chores! Lance Corporal Ellbrig, pick out yore sentries for first watch! The remainder of you, lay out y’packs an’ groundsheets, check all weapons an’ arms! Four neat rows now, clear away any nettles an’ prickles over there – that’s yore campsite for tonight, you lucky lot!’

  Hares dashed hither and thither on their various duties as Sergeant and Lance Corporal roared out orders. In a short time, military precision resulted in camp being set up.

  Algador sat with his companions by the shallows of a small pond, everybeast cooling off their footpaws and resting on their packs.

  Furgale lay flat on his back, complaining to the stars. ‘Oh, my auntie’s bonnet! I thought ol’ Clubrush was goin’ to march us all bally night. Look, there’s steam risin’ out of the water where I’m dippin’ me pore old paws!’

  The Sergeant’s tone was almost an outraged squeal. ‘Get those dirty great sweaty dustridden paws out o’ that water! It’s for drinkin’, not sloshin’ about in. Trowbaggs, what’n the name o’ seasons are you up to, bucko?’

  ‘Wrappin’ m’self up in me groundsheet, Sarge. Goodnight!’

  Veins stood out on the Sergeant’s brow as he roared at the hapless blunderer. ‘Sleepin’? Who said you could sleep, sah? Get that equipment cleaned, lay out yore mess kit, line up for supper! Forget sleep, Trowbaggs, stay awake! Yore on second watch!’

  Trowbaggs groaned aloud as he searched in the dark for his mess kit. ‘Somebeast’s pinched me flippin’ spoon. Oh, mother, I want to go home. Save me from all this, I wasn’t cut out for it, wot!’

  ‘Never mind, scout,’ a kindly older hare named Shangle Widepad whispered to him, ’it gets worse before it gets jolly well better. Here, I’ll swap with you. I’m on first watch, you do it and I’ll take second sentry for you, that way you’ll be able t’get a full night’s sleep.’

  When the camp had quietened down and was running smoothly, Clubrush went to sit beside Lady Cregga at the pond’s far side. She looked up from polishing her axehead and asked, ‘How are they doing, Sergeant?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll shape up, marm, never fear. First day’s always the longest for the green ones. P’raps if we don’t march ’em as ’ard an’ far tomorrer . . .’

  The rose eyes glinted dangerously. ‘They’ll learn to march twice as hard and fast, aye, and fight like they never imagined, before I’m done with them. I never brought them along on any picnic, and the sooner they realize that the better. Dismiss, Sergeant Clubrush!’

  The Sergeant stood to attention and saluted. ‘Aye marm, thank ye marm!’

  Clubrush went to where his equipment was neatly laid out. Somebeast had carefully folded his groundsheet, so that he could retire immediately without making it up into a sleeping bag. Being an old campaigner, the Sergeant upset the sheet with his pace stick. A pile of nettles and some soggy banksand flopped out on the ground.

  He lay down on the clean dry part of the sheet and shouted, ‘Oowow! Who put this lot in me bed? You ’orrible rotten lot, I’ll march yore blatherin’ paws to a frazzle in the mornin’!’

  Smothered giggles sounded from the recruits’ area. Sergeant Clubrush smiled as he settled down. They were good young ’uns; he’d do all he could to help them make the grade.

  Obeying Damug’s orders, Gaduss the weasel had scouted north with his patrol all day, reaching the southern edge of Mossflower Wood by nightfall. He allowed no fires to be lit in the small camp set up at the outer tree fringe. The night passed uneventfully.

  In the hour before dawn the scouts broke camp and pressed on. They had not been travelling long when the weasel gave a signal. Dropping flat in a patch of ferns, the vermin patrol watched Gaduss wriggle forward. Through the mist-wreathed treetrunks a silent figure moved, seeking shadows between shafts of dawn light.

  Gaduss unlooped from his belt a greased strangling noose fashioned from animal sinew. Winding it around both paws, he inched forward until he was shielded by an ash tree, directly in the traveller’s path. Timing it just right he leapt out behind the unwary creature and whipped the noose over his head and round his neck.

  Rinkul was fortunate in that it also looped over the stick he was carrying. In panic, he pushed outward with the piece of polished hardwood, preventing the sinew from biting into his windpipe.

  Both beasts went down, rolling over and over in the loam, kicking, snapping and scratching at each other. The vermin broke cover and dashed to assist their officer, tearing the fighting duo apart. Seconds later the two were face to face, Gaduss wide-eyed with surprise.

  ‘Rinkul, wot’n the name o’ blood’n’claws are you doin’ ’ere?’

  The ferret massaged his neck where the noose had bruised it. ‘Findin’ me way back ter Gormad Tunn an’ the army. Nice reception yer gave me, mate, ’arf choked me ter death!’

  Gaduss stuffed the noose back into his belt. ‘You ’aven’t ’eard, then. Gormad’s dead, so is Byral, ’tis Damug Warfang who’s Firstblade of Rapscallions now. Where’ve y’been?’

  Rinkul sat down on a rotti
ng stump. ‘Been? That’s a long story, mate. Our ship was driven off course an’ wrecked up near the northeast coast. I’ve been through a lot o’ things an’ I’m the onlybeast left alive out o’ a shipload. But that’s by-the-by. Get me ter Damug Warfang, I’ve got news fer ’is ears alone – urgent news!’

  * * *

  31

  IN THE ORCHARD of Redwall Abbey the tables for the owlchicks’ feast had been laid. Friar Butty supervised his helpers round a firepit, over which the hot dishes were being kept at a good temperature. Apple, pear and plum blossoms were shedding their petals thickly on the heads of the feasters. It was a joyous sight.

  The three owlchicks sat on cushions inside an empty barrel alongside their mother’s place at table; the badgerbabe lay in an old vegetable basket lined with sweet-smelling dried mosses. Tammo and Pasque sat together, with Arven and Diggum Foremole either side of them. Mother Abbess Tansy occupied her big chair, which had been specially carried out. She looked very happy, clad in a new cream-coloured habit, belted with a pale green girdle cord. The Dibbuns had made her a tiara of daisies and kingcups, which she wore proudly, if a little lopsidedly, on her headspikes.

  Good Redwall food had the tables almost bent with its weight. Rockjaw Grang grabbed spoon and fork in a businesslike way. Gurrbowl Cellarmole nodded to him as she and Drubb rolled a barrel of October Ale up to its trestle. ‘Hurr, ee lukk ready t’do a speck o’ dammidge to yon vittles, zurr!’

  Sergeant Torgoch eyed a large spring salad longingly. ‘You’ll ’scuse me sayin’, marm, but ’e ain’t the only one ’ereabouts who’s lived on camp rations fer a season, eh, Rubbadub?’

  The fat hare’s smile matched the sun in the sky. ‘Rubbity dubdub boomboom!’

  Abbess Tansy nodded politely to the Major. ‘As our guest, sir, perhaps you’d like to say the grace?’