The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Here’s the wheeze, old chap. Damug Warfang, like all Warlords, is prob’ly very superstitious. Well, what if an old ragged soothsayer puts a word in the ear of somebeast close to him?’

  Perigord frowned. ‘What sort o’ word?’

  ‘Well, sah, the sort o’ word tellin’ where a battle might take place an’ sayin’ how unlucky ’twill be to look upon Redwall Abbey until the battle is won, an’ how the chosen battle place’ll be lucky for a certain Rapscallion leader . . .’

  The Major shook his head at Midge’s quick-wittedness. ‘Enough, enough, I’ve got the drift now. Well done, Midge Manycoats! Spot of action for you, young Tammo; the rhyme says you’ve got to go with Midge. Don’t worry, he’ll disguise you pretty well.’

  Eyes shining, Tammo clasped his dirk hilt. ‘Y’can rely on me, sah!’

  Perigord ruffled Tammo’s ears fondly. ‘Splendid! I knew I could. Y’know, you look the image o’ your mother sometimes, not half as pretty, but somethin’ about the eyes. However, can’t let you two go alone. Rockjaw, you are our best tracker. Go with ’em, find the camp, and keep y’self close. We’ll use you as a go-between. Very good! Sar’nt Torgoch, you an’ Lieutenant Morio go right away at dawn an’ scout out a good location for the battle. We’ll get news of the chosen spot to you, Rockjaw. Taunoc, with his sharp eyes and knowledge of the woods, will be messenger. Meanwhile, Midge, you can be workin’ y’self into the vermin’s confidence. Shouldn’t be too hard for a hare with a head on his shoulders like you have, wot. We’ll get word t’you as soon as a good location’s been staked out. That’s all, chaps. Get some rest now, busy day ahead of us tomorrow. Dismiss!’

  BOOK THREE

  * * *

  The Ridge

  * * *

  36

  TWO HOURS AFTER dawn the next day, four logboats plied the waters of the broad stream north by west from Redwall. Foremole Diggum and his team crouched uneasily in the boats, some of them with cloaks thrown over their heads. Moles are not noted for being great sailors, preferring dry land to water.

  ‘Boo urr, ’taint natcheral t’be afloaten abowt loik this!’

  ‘Hurr nay, oi’m afeared us’n’s moight be a sinkin’ unnerwater!’

  Log a Log dug his paddle deep, scowling at them. ‘Belay that kind o’ talk, I ain’t never lost a beast off’n a boat o’ mine yet. Quit the wailin’ an’ moanin’, willyer!’

  Skipper stuffed bread and cheese in his mouth, winking at his otter crew as they gobbled a hasty breakfast. ‘Ooh, ’e’s an ’eartless shrew, that’n is! Ahoy there, moles, come an’ join us in a bite o’ brekkfist, mates.’

  Gurgan Spearback, swigging from a flask of October Ale, noted the moles’ distress.

  ‘Hearken, Skip, yon moles were a funny enough colour afore ye offered ’em vittles – don’t go makin’ ’em any worse!’

  Log a Log’s companion Frackle pointed with her oar-blade. ‘There ’tis, see, two points off’n the starboard bow!’

  Part of the stream forked off down a narrow tributary. Steering the logboats into it they followed the winding downhill course of the rivulet, wooden keels scraping on the bottom as they went. After a short distance, Log a Log waved his oar overhead in a circular motion.

  ‘Bring all crafts amidships, sharp now, bow’n’stern broadsides!’

  Four logboats were soon wedged lengthways against the flow, their stems and sterns resting on opposite shores of the narrow waterway. Gratefully, the moles scrambled ashore, kissing the ground in thanks for their safe landing. Skipper and his otters went ahead, to the point where the stream disappeared into a hillside.

  ‘This is it, mates,’ announced Skipper. ‘Spread out an’ search for a big boulder!’

  By the time the rest arrived the streamflow had dwindled a bit, owing to the course being blocked by the logboats.

  Gurgan waded through it and climbed the hill to admonish Skipper. ‘Thou’rt still hurted, thee shouldn’t ha’ come!’

  The tough otter scratched at one of his wounds which was beginning to itch. ‘Coupla scratches never stopped me doin’ what I like, mate. Ahoy there, mates, that’s a good ole boulder ye found!’

  The stone was partially sunk into the earth, but Foremole Diggum and his crew soon dug it out. Using a smaller rock as a chock, the otters levered the roundish mass of stone uphill, using shrew oars to move it. Gurgan threw his added weight into the task whilst Foremole marked out a spot on the hilltop, calling, ‘Bring ee bowlder up to yurr!’

  Once or twice the heavy stone rolled back on them, but they were determined creatures. Otters, shrews, moles and the Waterhog Chieftain gritted their teeth and fought the boulder, fraction by fraction, until it rested on Foremole’s mark. Sighting with a straight twig, Foremole ordered the boulder moved a bit this way and a bit that way. Finally satisfied, he took an oar and gave the boulder one hard shove with the paddle end. The great rock toppled down into the stream, sending up a shower of water; then it rolled back downhill and lodged itself squarely across the spot where the flow vanished underground. Moles and otters dashed down to pack the edges with a mixture of mud, pebbles and whatever bits of timber came to paw.

  The flow of the stream halted and backed up on itself until it became a becalmed creek. A short celebratory meal at the creekside would have been appropriate, but the otter crew had eaten all the food, so they drank the last of the October Ale and plum cordial, then got the boats headed out. Log a Log called out to the moles, who had remained onshore, ‘Come on, mateys, back to the Abbey. ’Twill be a fine fast sail downriver, we’ll be back afore ye knows it!’

  Foremole wrinkled his nose, trundling off along the bankside. ‘You’m go, zurr Log, an’ gudd lukk to ee. Us’n’s be walkin’ back even if’n it takes ten season t’do et. No more sailin’ fur molers!

  Tammo watched fascinated as Midge Manycoats applied his disguise before a burnished copper mirror in Sister Viola’s dormitory. The small hare explained as he went along.

  ‘Alter the face first, that’s half the trick. See, I roll my own ears down and put on this ole greasy cap with false ears stickin’ out the side of it, one’s only half an ear an’ the other has a slice out of it, just like some smelly ole vermin. Now, I rub m’face with this oily brown stuff – pass me that candle, Tamm. Singe the whiskers down an’ rub ’em ’til they’re scrubby. Good! Put a patch over one eye, and paste a thin bit o’ bark over the other, givin’ it a nasty slant. Aye, that’s more like it. Look, a little black limpet shell, stick it on the end of my handsome nose with a blob o’ gum an’ presto! Snidgey pointed vermin hooter, wot! Few bits o’ darkened wax over the teeth, two long thorns stuck in the wax just under the top lip. Haharr, fangs! Pass me that greasy charcoal stick, hmm, two wicked downcurved lines, one either side of the mouth, that’s it! Righto, I throw this filthy tattered sack over me, belt it with a loose cob o’ rope, crouch down a bit, hunch shoulders, shuffle footpaws. What d’you see, Tammo?’

  The young hare gasped in amazement. Standing before him was an aged vermin creature, neither wholly rat, ferret or stoat, but definitely vermin of some type.

  ‘Great seasons o’ soup! No wonder they call you Midge Manycoats!’

  Midge adopted the whining vermin slang. ‘Harr, wait’ll yer sees yerself when I’m done wid ye, cully!’

  Rockjaw Grang was having what he figured would be his last good hot meal for a while, working his way through an immense potato, mushroom and carrot pastie, oozing rich dark herb gravy. Dibbuns surrounded the big hare, watching his throat bob up and down as he polished off a tankard of dandelion and burdock cordial. Gubbio the molebabe pushed a steaming cherry and damson pudding in front of Rockjaw, and Sloey, none the worse for her adventure, poured yellow meadowcream plentifully over it.

  ‘Whoo! A you goin’ to eat alla dat up, mista G’ang?’

  Rockjaw sat the mousebabe up on the table. ‘Sithee, jus’ you watch me, liddle lass, but keep out of t’way, else I’ll scoff thee an’ all. Aye, y’d be right tasty wi’ a plu
m in yore mouth an’ some cream o’er yore ’ead!’

  Clapping their paws and jumping up and down, the Dibbuns chortled.

  ‘Goo on, mista G’ang, eat Sloey alla up!’

  The giant hare set Sloey back down on the floor. ‘Only if she’s very naughty. ‘Ey up, wot’s this?’

  Two thoroughly evil-looking vermin shuffled into the kitchens and began dirtying their blades by coating them with vegetable oil and soot from the stovepipes. The Dibbuns shrieked and leapt upon Rockjaw, clinging tearfully to his neck. He patted the tiny heads soothingly.

  ‘Shush now, liddle ’uns, ’tis only Midge an’ Tammo. actin’ at bein’ varmints. You go an’ play with the babby owls an’ Russano now. I’ll eat those two up if’n they frightens any more Dibbuns.’

  Shad the Gatekeeper took Abbess Tansy and Craklyn down to the platform beneath the south wall. They lowered two lanterns on a rope and saw the water had dwindled away to a mere trickle.

  Shad grunted with satisfaction. ‘Y’see, marms, they found the stream an’ likely blocked it off. Soon it’ll be dry down there. May’aps then we’ll go down an’ take a look around. I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m real curious t’see wot ’tis like. I know you are too, miz Craklyn.’

  The old Recorder peered down at the drying streambed. ‘It’s my duty to see what’s down there. Everything has to be recorded and written up for future generations of our Abbey. Which leads me to think I’ve been looking in the wrong place to find out more about this – the answer might lie in your gatehouse, Shad. I suspect that if we look through Redwall’s first records, the truth about all this may emerge.’

  Tansy kissed her old friend’s cheek. ‘But of course! What a clever old Recorder you are, Craklyn.’

  The Recorder of Redwall turned away from the pit, signalling Shad to escort them above ground. ‘You’re no spring daisy yourself, Mother Abbess. Come on, we’ve a long dusty job ahead of us.’

  Shad hastily excused himself from the task. ‘Beggin’ yore pardons, but I got other chores t’do. You ladies ’elp yoreselves to anythin’ y’need in my gate’ouse. I can’t abide the dust an’ disorder when you starts unpackin’ those ole record books’n’scrolls off the shelves, miz Craklyn.’

  Tansy watched the otter hurrying off across the Abbey lawns. ‘Other chores to do indeed, great wallopin’ water-dog!’

  Craklyn chuckled as she took her friend’s paw. ‘Don’t be too hard on poor Shad. Otters never made good scholars. He’s probably off to play with little Russano and the baby owls.’

  * * *

  37

  THE SOUTH WALLGATE had been jammed shut by the subsidence, so Tammo, Midge and Rockjaw were leaving by the little east wallgate. Major Perigord and Pasque Valerian saw them off. Perigord was none too happy about Tammo going.

  ‘Now remember, you chaps, keep y’heads down an’ don’t attract too much attention to yourselves. Normally I would have sent Tare or Turry with Midge, but as the rhyme names you, Tamm, well it seems you’re the one to go. So take it easy, young bucko, an’ report back to Rockjaw whenever you can. We’ll get news of the battleground to you as soon as we hear back from Torgoch and Morio. Look after ’em, Rock. I’ve no need to tell you of the danger they’ll be in.’

  Rockjaw Grang saluted the Major. ‘Never fear, sah, y’can rely on me!’

  The soft brown eyes of Pasque looked full of concern. Tammo winked roguishly at her from beneath his vermin disguise. ‘Don’t fret, chum, we’ll be back before you know it!’

  Perigord watched them threading their way south through the woodland until the three figures were lost among the trees. He locked the east wallgate carefully, then, turning to the dejected Pasque, he chucked her gently beneath the chin. ‘C’mon now, missie, you’ll bring on the rain with a face like that, wot! Your Tammo’ll be back in a day or two, full o’ tales of how he outwitted the Rapscallions. Cheer up, that’s an order!’

  Midge Manycoats had done an excellent job of disguise on Tammo, making him look old and thoroughly evil by giving him shaggy beetling brows to hide his eyes and a matted straggling beard. To this he added a greasy flop hat, lots of jangling brass ornaments and an old dormitory blanket, that was literally in frayed tatters, after he had finished trouncing it about in the orchard compost heap. Tammo not only looked villainous, but smelled highly disreputable.

  Both hares found themselves gasping for breath under their camouflage. Leaning against an oak tree they pleaded with the long-striding Rockjaw.

  ‘I say, Rock, ease off a bit, will you, you’ve got the pair of us whacked with that pace o’ yours!’

  ‘Aye, slow down, mate, or we’ll perish long before we find the vermin camp. Whew! I’m roasted under this lot!’

  The big fellow turned and retraced his path, halting several paces from them and wafting a paw across his nostrils. ‘By ’eck, you lads don’t mind if’n I stands well upwind of ye?’

  Tammo leered nastily and tried out his vermin accent. ‘Ho harr, me ole matey, you don’t expect us t’go sailin’ inter a Rapscallion camp smellin’ like dewy roses now, do yer?’

  Beneath his disguise, Midge winced at the pitiful attempt. ‘I think you’d best keep your lip buttoned an’ pretend to be my dumb assistant, Tamm. That vermin accent o’ yours is awful!’

  Rockjaw agreed with Midge’s assessment. ‘Aye, yore too nice spoken, Tammo, prob’ly ’cos you was well brung up!’

  Young Friar Butty brought a tray to the gatehouse that afternoon, because neither Tansy nor Craklyn had been back to the Abbey building for anything to eat. Both windows and the door were wide open to counteract the dust. Butty blinked as he entered and looked about for somewhere to set the tray down.

  ‘I was beginnin’ t’get worried about you, marm, an’ you too, miz Craklyn. So I brought you a snack. There’s turnip an’ carrot bake, cold mint tea, some blackberry tarts an’ a small rhubarb an’ strawberry crumble I made special for you. They’re fresh strawberries from the orchard, nice an’ early this season.’

  Tansy looked up over the top of her tiny glasses. ‘Thank you, Friar Butty, how thoughtful. Just put the tray on that chair, please. Let’s take a break, Craklyn.’

  While they ate their food, Butty looked around at the piles of books, ledgers, scrolls and charts piled everywhere, lots of them browny-yellow with age.

  Craklyn watched him as she sipped gratefully at a beaker of cool mint tea. ‘Those are our Abbey records going right back to when Redwall was first built. Unfortunately they’re mixed in with lots of old recipes, poems, songs, herbalists’ notes and remedies. Help yourself to any recipes that you like – they may come in useful when you get stuck for cooking ideas.’

  Butty, however, was looking at the latest piece of writing, the parchment on which Craklyn had recorded the words sent via Tammo from Martin the Warrior. He read aloud the second part of the verse.

  ‘One day Redwall a badger will see,

  But the badger may never see Redwall,

  Darkness will set the Warrior free,

  The young must answer a mountain’s call.’

  Abbess Tansy glanced up from her seat in a deep armchair. ‘Why did you pick that part of the poem to read, Friar?’

  The young squirrel tapped the parchment thoughtfully. ‘Well, it seemed to me at the time that the first part of the thing was all that you were interested in, that bit about the battle taking place elsewhere and Tammo goin’ along with Midge Manycoats. Nobeast took an interest in the second part. What d’you suppose it means?’

  Craklyn pointed out the first two words of the ninth line. ‘See here, this line begins with the words one day. So we take that to mean at some distant time in the future. All we were looking for in the poem was Martin’s immediate message to save Redwall from danger. But you’re right, Butty, it is a very mysterious and interesting part you read out. Alas, we cannot see the future, so we will just have to wait for time itself to unroll the message it contains.’

  Friar Butty put the parchment down and riff
led through the mass of papers piled on a nearby shelf. He withdrew a thick and aged-looking volume, blowing the dust from it. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right, marm, time reveals all sooner or later, probably even the secrets that this old volume contains.’

  Tansy liked young Butty; he was a fast learner. ‘My word, that is an ancient-looking thing. Does it say who wrote it? The name will be inside the front cover.’

  Butty opened the book and read the faded script therein. ‘The journal of Abbess Germaine, formerly of Loamhedge.’

  Mint tea spilled down Craklyn’s gown as she jumped upright. ‘The architect of the Abbey! That’s the very volume we’re looking for! Well done, young sir!’

  Hurrying out into the sunlight the trio seated themselves on the broad stone wallsteps leading to the gatehouse threshold. Craklyn turned carefully to the first page. ‘I’ll wager an acorn to a bushel of apples that the answer to what lies beneath our south wall is in these pages somewhere!

  The crews of the logboats strode into the kitchens, refreshed by their fast trip downstream and hungry as hunters. Skipper whacked his rudderlike tail against a big pan. ‘Ahoy, Friar Butty, any vittles fer pore starvin’ creatures?’

  Mother Buscol waddled from the corner cupboard, waving a threatening ladle at the otter. ‘Look, you great noisy riverdog, Butty ain’t ’ere, see. So don’t you come with yore rough gang a shoutin’ an’ hollerin’ round these kitchens when we just got the owlbabes takin’ their noontide nap!’

  Gurgan Spearback touched his headspikes respectfully. ‘Thee’ll ’scuse us, marm, we’ll be well satisfied t’sit out in your dinin’ room an’ wait t’be served by one as pretty as yoreself.’