The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  Friar Butty was ecstatic. ‘O sweet life! O fresh fresh air! O green pretty grass!’

  Foremole was used to being underground. He sat back and grinned at the young squirrel’s antics. ‘Hurr hurr hurr! Wot price ee treasure naow, young zurr? Oi’ll wager ee wuddent loik t’go back an lukk fer it?’

  Butty shook his voluminous Friar’s habit and the cloakful of treasure fell out upon the grass. ‘I wasn’t leavin’ that behind! Why’d you think I slipped down the chain – it was the weight of this liddle lot!’

  Shad tweaked the young squirrel’s nose. ‘Yer cheeky liddle twister, we shoulda left you fer the toads an’ mudfishes!’

  Butty pulled loose and jumped out of the patch of moonlight they were standing in. His four companions looked shocked for a moment, then they started laughing uproariously.

  He pouted at them indignantly. ‘What’re you all laughin’ at? I don’t see anythin’ funny.’

  Craklyn wiped tears of merriment from her eyes. ‘Oh, don’t you? Well, take a look at yourself, you magic green frog!’ Swamp mud, dried and crusted, and the dust on Butty’s paws, was shining bright green in the darkness. He gazed at his small fat stomach in anguish. ‘I’m green, shinin’ bright green!’

  Craklyn patted his back sympathetically, and a cloud of green dust arose. ‘It must be some mineral in the mud that does it, phosphorus or sulphur I suppose. Heeheehee! Lead on, Butty, we won’t need a torch to show us the way, my small green-glowing friend!’

  Butty waved a bright green paw at the Recorder. ‘One more word outer you, miz Craklyn, an’ I’ll give yore share o’ the treasure to Sister Viola, so there!’

  Two old moles, Bunto and Drubb, were sleeping in the gatehouse at Redwall Abbey, when they were wakened by banging on the main gate. Bunto blinked from the deep armchair he was settled in. ‘Oo c’n that be a bangin’ on ee gate inna noight?’

  Drubb rose stiffly from the smaller of the two armchairs by the fire. He yawned, stretched, and said, ‘Us’ll never know ’til us’n’s open ee gate. Cummon, Bunto.’

  Stumbling out into the darkness, they unbarred the big gate and opened it a crack to see who required entrance to the Abbey. The other four had hidden themselves; Butty stood there alone. The two moles took one look and scooted off towards the Abbey building, roaring in their deep bass voices, ‘Whuuuooooh! Thurr be ee likkle green ghost at ee gate, an’ ee’m lookin’ loik pore young Butty. Murrsy on us’n’s!’

  A half of a dandelion wine barrel cut lengthways formed the badgerbabe Russano’s cradle. Mother Buscol rocked it gently with a footpaw as she dozed on a pile of sacks in the dark, warm kitchens of Redwall. Only a faint, reddy glow showed from the oven fires, where the scones were slowly baking for next morning’s breakfast. From his cradle, the little Russano sat up and pointed at the strange apparition which had appeared. He smiled at it and uttered the only word he knew.

  ‘Nuts!’

  Mother Buscol half opened her eyes, enquiring sleepily, ‘Nuts? What’s nuts, m’dear?’

  Then her eyes came fully open and she saw Butty standing there. ‘Waaaoooow! ‘Tis young Butty, come back to ’aunt me! Ho, spare me, green spirit, don’t ’arm me or the liddle one!’

  The glowing phantom answered in a hollow, moaning voice, ‘Bring scones from the ovens, enough for five, honey too, an’ woodland trifle if’n there be any about. Some strawberry fizz an’ October Ale. I’ll be outside. Remember now, enough for five!’

  The spectre faded slowly away to the small canteen outside the kitchens. Mother Buscol busied herself, complaining to a cockle shell charm she always wore around her neck. ‘Indeed to goodness, fat lot o’ good you were. Lucky charm, indeed. I was nearly eaten alive in me bed by an ’ungry ghost. Fifteen scones, that’ll be three apiece, now where’s that woodland trifle got to? Oh dearie me, don’t you fret, my liddle babby, I won’t let ’im ’ave you!’

  Russano stood up in his tiny nightshirt, chuckling. ‘Yeeheehee. Nuts!’

  Accompanied by Taunoc and Orocca, the old squirrelmother brought a heaped tray out. Shad had to take it and put it on the table, as she almost dropped it. In the lantern-lit area Butty appeared normal.

  Tansy waved at her. ‘Hello, Mother Buscol, Orocca and Taunoc, my friends. How are your eggchicks? Well, I hope?’

  Taunoc bowed courteously and alighted on the table. ‘We are all healthy, thank you, Abbess. Welcome back to Redwall!’

  * * *

  50

  MAJOR PERIGORD HABILE Sinistra looked around the high ridge in the dawn light, sizing up the hillside and valley below.

  ‘You an’ Morio did well, Sergeant Torgoch. This ridge could be held against many by a few. Top marks, wot!’

  Morio threw a languid salute. ‘Best place we could find, sah. Looks like we’re first here.’

  Brisk as ever, Torgoch was issuing orders. ‘Scout around now, see if y’can find stones, any kind from pebbles to blinkin’ boulders. Put ’em in piles along the ridge – always useful t’chuck down on the vermin.’

  Perigord nodded approvingly. ‘Good show, Sar’nt, make use of the terrain, eh, wot. Chief Log a Log, what can I do for you, old lad?’

  The Guosim leader nodded, shrews not being in the habit of saluting. ‘Thinkin’ about food fer the troops, Major. Shall we risk lightin’ cookin’ fires?’

  ‘Why not, old chap, why not, we want the blinkin’ enemy to see where we are. Light some whackin’ great bonfires, if y’please.’

  Log a Log took Perigord at his word, and soon three huge fires were alight and blazing out like beacons in the grey of dawn.

  Gurgan Spearback had a stroke of luck. His Waterhogs reported they had found a great, fallen pine trunk on the ridge’s other side.

  ‘Thee did well, ’ogs. Fetch rope an’ wedges. Methinks I’d like yon timber atop o’ the ridge – ’twill come in useful.’

  Everybeast joined in to roll the big dead trunk uphill. Gurgan, painted for war, wearing his club and axe, supervised the job. ‘Put thy backs into it, thou slabchopped ne’er-do-well rabble! A liddle twig like yon should give thee an appetite for when we breakfast. Worry not about gettin’ lily-white paws dusty, by me spikes, come on, move it, afore I move ye to bitter tears!’

  Captain Twayblade levered hard at the pine with a pike, smiling in high good humour at the fat hedgehog’s insults. One of Skipper’s crew working alongside her gritted his teeth as he threw his weight against the massive log, and muttered, ‘Wot’s so funny, Cap’n?’

  Twayblade leaned on the pikehaft, taking a short breather. ‘That Waterhog, old chap, Gurgan thingummy. I’d like to put him in a contest against our Sergeant Torgoch. I wager they could insult a regiment for a full day without jolly well repeatin’ themselves. That Waterhog’s a born Colour Sergeant!’

  Pasque Valerian sat alone near the tall standing rock at the ridge centre, her breakfast untouched, watching the daybreak. Rising from behind a bank of dusky cream cloud, the sun appeared, reddish-hued like a new copper coin, burning the morning dew into tiny wraithlike tendrils. It was the start of a high summer’s day, but the young hare was downcast.

  Arven, the Champion of Redwall, had already eaten. He wandered across to where Pasque sat and, leaning against the rock, he watched her. ‘Gracious me, there’s a long face! D’you want it to rain?’

  The young hare looked up into the squirrel’s kind features. ‘No sir, I hope the day stays fine.’

  ‘Lost your appetite too, I see?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get round to eatin’ it, sir.’

  ‘What is it, then? Are you afraid of the battle to come?’

  ‘Not really, sir. I’ve seen quite a bit of action with Long Patrol.’

  Arven drew the Sword of Martin from its sheath across his back. He touched Pasque’s paw lightly with the tip, smiling secretly. ‘D’you see this sword? Did you know that it has the power to make pretty hare maidens happy?’

  Pasque cast her eyes over the legendary blade. ‘I’ve never known a sword do that, sir, but if
you say it does then I’ll have to take your word.’

  Arven snorted impatiently and flourished the blade. ‘Hah! I see y’don’t believe me. Right, I’ll show you, missie. C’mon, up off your hunkers and see where my blade is pointing!’

  Pasque arose with a small sigh. She did not feel like being forced to laugh at sword tricks.

  Arven pointed the blade out and downward to the back of the ridge. ‘Place your eye level with my sword and look carefully.’

  The young hare did as she was bid, and in an instant she was wreathed in smiles, jumping about excitedly. ‘It’s Tammo, he’s coming! He’s coming here!’

  Arven watched the small figure below on the plain, running in front of two others like a true Long Patrol Galloper. ‘Y’see, I told you this is a powerful sword!’

  Major Perigord had to lower his brows and glower a bit, to prevent himself from smiling. ‘I say, Pasque, old thing, d’you mind lettin’ go of young Tammo’s paw, just while he makes his blinkin’ report t’me, wot!’

  Tammo flushed to his eartips and gave a smart salute. ‘Midge’ll be here soon, sah, our mission was successful. Damug Warfang is headed this way with the Rapscallion army. Sorry to report that we lost Rockjaw Grang . . .’ Tammo’s voice broke for a moment. ‘He . . . he gave his life so we could escape. Brought a squirrel with us, name o’ Fourdun; he was a prisoner, y’see. I cut your trail ’twixt here, south o’ Redwall, and we’ve been runnin’ like madbeasts all night t’get here. Sah!’

  The Major turned aside and, taking out a spotted kerchief, he wiped his eyes. After a moment he faced Tammo again, his face pale. ‘Big Rockjaw Grang, eh? A good an’ perilous hare. By my blood an’ blade, we’ll make the vermin pay heavily for him! Go an’ get y’vittles, Tamm, you look quite done in. I’ll get the fine details from Midge. Thank ye, y’may dismiss.’

  Bluggach, the big stoat Rapmark, made his way to the head of the marching Rapscallions, pointing as he came level with Damug Warfang.

  ‘See, Firstblade, fires burnin’ on that ridge in the distance!’

  The Greatrat kept his gaze locked on the trio of smoke columns rising against the distant sky. ‘I saw them a while back. Send Henbit to me.’

  Henbit was a wily-looking Rapmark officer. He appeared at Damug’s side with scarcely a sound. ‘Mightiness, you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Aye, listen now. Take a score of trackers, good ones who are able to hide and run silent. Get over to that ridge, look for a rock like an otter’s tail, and see how many are waiting for us there. Then check the valley, it should have a rift running along the far side of it. Take care that you are not seen. Go!’

  Damug was confident that he could win. Who else could put an army of a thousand in the field? Where in all the country east of Salamandastron was any serious force of fighters to be found? As he strode at the head of his powerful force, Damug planned ahead.

  He had learned the lesson of over-confidence from his father, Gormad Tunn, when they attacked Salamandastron with disastrous results. Though this battle would be different and his opponents fewer, that was no reason not to take precautions. He would split the army into two groups, sending them into the valley from both ends in a pincer movement. This would catch any of his enemy who were lying in wait on the valley floor and prevent the Rapscallions being outflanked.

  Those Redwallers had a harsh lesson in death coming to them. Redwall – when the Abbey was his he would change its name. Fort Damug! That had a good sound to it. His name would live for ever when the place was mentioned in far seasons to come. Fort Damug. Tales would be told of how he defeated the foe on open ground and took the Abbey without disturbing a stone.

  A keen-eyed squirrel, one of the friends from Mossflower Wood, stood erect on top of the standing rock. Shading both eyes with a paw he scanned all round. The way in which he halted, tail erect and head thrust forward, told Lieutenant Morio that he had spotted something.

  Morio hailed him. ‘What ho there, Lookout, any sign o’ movement?’

  Holding his position, the squirrel called back, ‘Dustcloud comin’ out o’ the southeast, too faint yet t’see much!’

  Morio’s long face lit up momentarily. ‘Keep your eye on it, bucko, looks like our visitors are on their flippin’ way. Report if you note any change!’

  The big pine trunk had become a kind of social gathering place; hares, mice, hedgehogs, shrews, moles and squirrels grouped about it when they were off duty. Perigord sat scratching his initials into the wood as he listened to Morio’s report.

  ‘That sounds like the blighters right enough. When d’you think we can expect them to arrive?’

  ‘Can’t say, sah, have t’wait on the lookout’s report.’

  The Major winked at his waiting warriors. ‘Well, whenever it is we’ll give the blackguards a warm welcome, eh?’

  Ribald comments greeted this statement.

  ‘Aye, we’ll feed ’em a nice ’ot supper o’ cold steel!’

  ‘Haharr, we’ll rap their scallions for ’em!’

  ‘Give the villains rock cakes served with spearpoints!’

  Perigord looked down to the thick end of the trunk. Several creatures were throwing weapons at a shrivelled leaf, which they had pinned to the trunk. A selection of axes, knives and javelins quivered from the wood all round the leaf.

  A shrew called Spykel held up a ribbon of crimson silk. ‘First to pin the leaf dead centre wins this!’

  Log a Log balanced his rapier and threw it like a javelin.

  ‘A hit! The Guosim Chief’s hit it!’

  Gurgan Spearback inspected the leaf. ‘Nay, ’tis not dead centre, a touch left I’d say. Stand away now, yon ribbon’d look fetchin’ in my wife Rufftip’s spikes!’

  Gurgan stood on the ten-pace mark. Closing one eye, he licked the blade of his axe, sighted and flung it spinning. It struck the leaf, slicing it neatly in half through its middle. Pulling his axe loose, Gurgan wound the ribbon on to his paw. ‘See, that’s how a Water’og learns to cast his blade!’

  Midge Manycoats stopped Gurgan strolling off with the prize. ‘If a chap could send his blade spot into the cut your axe made, would you give him that nice fancy ribbon, old feller?’

  Gurgan chuckled so that his oversized boots quaked. ‘Hohoho! Hearken to this ’un! ’Taint possible, master ’are! Nobeast can cast a blade good as that in one throw!’

  Midge winked at Tammo, who was standing nearby with Pasque. ‘Show the Waterhog how our patrol chuck a blade, Tamm, go on!’

  The young hare blinked modestly. ‘Oh, really, Midge, I don’t go in for showin’ off.’

  From his perch on the trunk, Perigord interrupted. ‘Go to it, Tamm, win the ribbon for young Pasque!’

  Three paces further out than the mark, Tammo drew his dirk. ‘Oh well, if you say so, sah . . .’

  The weapon shot from Tammo’s paw like chain lightning. Hissing through the air it thudded deep into the centre of the split made by Gurgan’s axe. A roar went up from the onlookers.

  Bewildered, the Waterhog Chieftain inspected the throw. ‘Lackaday, I never seen a beast sling steel like that, young sir! What manner o’ creature taught thee such a skill?’

  Tammo grunted as he used both paws to tug the dirk free. ‘One called Russa Nodrey, a far finer warrior than I’ll ever hope t’be. Keep your ribbon, Gurgan, ’twas you split the leaf.’

  But the Waterhog would not hear of it. He draped the crimson silken ribbon on Tammo’s paw and bowed formally. ‘Nay, I’d like t’see thee give it to thy pretty friend!’

  Tammo felt his ears turn bright pink as he draped the silk about Pasque Valerian’s neck. Everybeast cheered him and Perigord shook him warmly by the paw.

  ‘Your mother’d be rather proud if she could see you now, Tamm!’

  * * *

  51

  FURGALE AND ALGADOR Swiftback had been out scouting the land ahead of the Salamandastron contingent. They returned at mid-noon and made their report to Lady Cregga and Sergeant Clubrush.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m afraid we haven’t sighted the ridge you described, marm. It must be further than you estimated.’

  The badger leaned on her fearsome axepike. ‘No matter, ’tis there somewhere, I know it is. Did you sight vermin or anything else of interest?’

  ‘Well, m’lady, about two hours ahead there’s a dip in the land, sort of forming itself into a windin’ ravine. It goes north and slightly west . . .’

  Cregga exchanged a knowing glance with the Sergeant. ‘Good work! We’ll camp there tonight and follow the course of this ravine you speak of. That way we won’t betray our presence; ’twill keep us well hidden as we march.’

  Drill Sergeant Clubrush winked at the two recruits. ‘Top marks, you two, that’s wot I calls usin’ the old h’initiative. Go an’ join yore pals in the ranks now.’

  Twilight was falling as they entered the ravine’s shallow end. Within moments nobeast within a league’s distance could tell there were five hundred hares on the march. The columns were reduced to three wide in the narrow gorge; they pressed forward with the rough earthen walls rearing high either side of them.

  Trowbaggs accosted Corporal Ellbrig in quaint rustic speech. ‘Hurr, ’ow furr be et afore us’n’s makes camp, zurr?’

  Ellbrig looked at him strangely. ‘Wot’re you talkin’ like that for, y’pudden-’eaded young rogue?’

  Trowbaggs continued with his mimicry. ‘Hurr hurr hurr! ’Cos oi feels just loik ee mole bein’ unnerground loik this, zurr, bo urr!’

  The Corporal nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you now? Well you keep bein’ a mole, Trowbaggs, an’ when we makes camp you kin dig out a nice liddle sleepin’ cave in the ravine wall fer yore officers.’

  Trowbaggs did a speedy change back to being a hare. ‘Oh, I say, Corp, why not let old Shangle do the diggin’? He looks a jolly sight more like a mole than I do.’

  Shangle Widepad fixed the young recruit with a beady eye. ‘One more squeak out o’ you, laddie buck, an’ y’won’t be either mole or hare, y’ll be a dead duck!’