The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  ‘About a hundred an’ ten, maybe twenty, not many really. Let’s go an’ see what Morio has mustered up.’

  Lieutenant Morio was seated in the orchard with quill and parchment on an old treestump. Pasque was assisting him in compiling the figures on what number of fighting beasts were available.

  Perigord looked questioningly at the two hares. ‘Make y’report, be it good or ill. Speak up, chaps.’

  Morio wiped an inky paw against his tunic. ‘Well, it ain’t good, Major, but they all seem fit’n’able. There’s fifty Redwallers, and thirty squirrels come in from round Mossflower, all pretty fair archers an’ good slingers, well equipped too. Skipper’s rounded up a few more otters, bringin’ his strength up to twoscore. Wish we had more otters – they look like they know their way round a fight.’

  Perigord straightened his green velvet tunic, now practically in tatters after all it had been through. ‘Wishes don’t win wars, Lieutenant, we make the best of what we’ve jolly well got. Have y’counted all the shrews’n’hogs?’

  ‘I have, sah. One hundred an’ sixty-three all told, and if you add our twelve, well, that’s the total strength. Always providin’ that Tammo, Midge an’ Rockjaw make it back from the Rapscallion camp in one piece.’

  Perigord did a quick mental calculation. ‘Well, that makes nearly three hundred we can put in the field. Pasque, me pretty one, how’s the jolly old armoury?’

  Pasque Valerian had slightly better news. ‘Top o’ the mark, sah. Everybeast carries their own weapon an’ there’s a chamber in the belltower crammed full of arms, all manner of blade, spear and bow. Ginko the Bellringer says you’re welcome to ’em all, sah!’

  Twayblade drew her rapier and, flicking an apple from a nearby branch, caught it deftly and polished it on her sleeve. ‘Three hundred, eh. Wish I’d told Midge to let the Rapscallions know there was only two hundred of us, but I said three, hopin’ we might have had four. Always nice to keep a hundred as a surprise reserve. Ah well, no use worryin’ over spilt cider, wot.’

  Perigord took the apple from his sister and bit into it. ‘Indeed, we’ll just have t’give ten times as good as we get off the vermin. Hello there, what’s amiss here?’

  The Galloper Riffle was trying to restrain Viola Bankvole from reaching Perigord.

  ‘Sorry, marm, y’can’t see the Major right now, he’s busy.’

  Viola thrust her jaw out belligerently. ‘Stand aside, young sir, or I’ll take a stick to you. I must see your officer right now!’

  Perigord gestured Riffle to one side. ‘At y’service, marm. You wanted to see me?’

  Viola shot Riffle a haughty glance before addressing the Major. ‘It’s our Abbess. She’s missing and so are Shad the Gatekeeper, Foremole Diggum, Craklyn the Recor . . .’

  Perigord cut her off with a wave of his paw. ‘Enough, marm, enough! Just tell me how many altogether.’

  ‘Well, there’s five of them. They’re nowhere to be seen, I’ve searched the Abbey grounds high and low. Now, what do you intend doing about it, sir?’

  Perigord answered her gently, seeing that Viola was upset. ‘Beggin’ y’pardon, lady, but there ain’t a lot I can do. We’re about to march off an’ fight a war. So as y’see, I can’t spare anybeast to go off searchin’ for your friends.’

  Viola Bankvole’s paw waved under the Major’s nose as she ticked him off. ‘Well, that’s a fine how d’ye do. But mark my words, sir, I will gather more reliable searchers and look for them myself. Good day!’

  She flounced off through the orchard, calling to the older ones. ‘Gurrbowl, come here! I need you to search with me, and you, Mother Buscol, you too, Brother Ginko. Follow me!’

  Captain Twayblade chuckled as she rescued the apple back from her brother. ‘I say, chaps, I think we’d best stay here an’ search. Send her off to face the vermin. She’d soon send ’em packin’, wot!’

  Perigord nodded admiringly as he watched Viola bullying half the Abbey elders into service. ‘Aye, she’s a bold perilous creature right enough. But to business now. Pasque m’dear, would y’be good enough to assemble the leaders? We’ll have to get geared up an’ movin’ shortly.’

  The last full meal had been produced in Redwall’s kitchens by Guosim shrew cooks. They had filled six huge cauldrons with a thick stew of leeks, mushrooms, carrots, turnips, watershrimps, onions, potatoes and lots of herbs, enough to feed an army. October Ale casks were broached and served in beakers with rough batch loaves and wedges of autumn nutcheese.

  As the Redwall force ate, Perigord consulted with their Chieftains: Skipper of otters, Log a Log of the Guosim, Gurgan Spearback of the Waterhogs and Arven, Champion of Redwall, bearing with him the great sword of Martin the Warrior. There was not a lot to say that had not already been said; they all knew what they had to do, and even in the face of overwhelming odds they were prepared to do it, or go down fighting.

  Mother Buscol had evaded Viola. She stood on the sidelines, with Russano the badgerbabe and Orocca’s three young owls in the straw-lined wheelbarrow, enjoying the sun. The rest of the Abbey Dibbuns crowded round, hanging on her apron strings, in the absence of anyone else to mind them. Together they listened to the Major address his troops.

  ‘Right ho, chaps, for those who don’t know me, let me introduce m’self. I’m Major Perigord Habile Sinistra of the Salamandastron Long Patrol, commandin’ this entire operation, though your orders will prob’ly reach you through your own leaders an’ chieftains. Now I’ll make this as short as possible, wot! There’s a thousand Rapscallions sweepin’ upcountry, an’ Redwall Abbey’s in their path. So to save the place I’ve . . . ahem . . . arranged for the jolly old fracas to take place elsewhere. According to Taunoc the blighters are on the move and we’ve found the ideal place to meet ’em head on. So that’s what we’ll jolly well do, if y’follow me. As you know, we’ll be outnumbered by more’n three to one, but by jingo we won’t be outclassed! We won’t be outfought! An’ as long as I can stand with a sabre in me paw we won’t be driven backward a single pace!’

  Every creature listening leapt up cheering and brandishing their weapons.

  ‘No surrender! No retreat!’

  ‘Eulalia! ’S death on the wind!’

  ‘Boi ’okey they’m furr et!’

  Perigord gestured for silence. ‘Thank you, friends. But as you know, not all of us will come marching home. War is war and that is a fact. So if there are any of you with families or young ’uns to look after, well, nobeast will think less of ye if you go home to them now.’

  A rough-looking otter stood up. ‘Beggin’ yore pardon, Major, but I got a wife an liddle ’uns, an’ if I didn’t go with ye then I’d think less of meself. ’Cos we ain’t fightin’ the vermin just to protect Redwall, we’re facin’ ’em to make the land safe an’ rid of their kind.’

  Mother Buscol trundled her barrow of babes through the army ranks, followed by a flock of Dibbuns. She halted in front of the Major and presented him with a cloth bundle. ‘Indeed to goodness, sir, you can’t ’ave an army without a flag to march under, oh dear no you cannot!’

  Skipper and Arven unrolled the bundle. It was a dark green tablecloth with a big red letter R embroidered upon it. Inside the bundle was another smaller package which Buscol gave to Perigord. ‘It ain’t velvet, sir,’ the old squirrelmother said, shrugging awkwardly, ‘but may’ap ’twill be of service.’

  Arven grabbed a long pike and began fastening the flag to it. ‘Here, Skip, lend a paw, you can tie better knots than me.’ The banner was lashed to the pikestaff, and Arven waved it high over the crowd. Back and forth it fluttered in the sunlight as the massed shouts rose to a concerted roar:

  ‘Redwaaaaaalll! Redwaaaaaalll! Redwaaaaaalll!’

  Major Perigord slipped out of his tattered tunic and donned the one that Mother Buscol had made for him. It was blue linen, homespun, but beautifully fashioned from an ancient bed quilt. Fastening on the medals from his old tunic, he bowed gracefully and kissed the squirrelmother’s paw. �
��My thanks to ye, lady, I’ll wear it with honour an’ pride. Mayhap I’ll even return here with it unharmed.’

  The Dibbuns dived upon the Major’s old tunic.

  ‘Me wannit, ’smine, gitcha paws offen it, Sloey!’

  Perigord eyed them sternly. ‘Silence in the ranks there, you fiends! Y’can wear it a day each at a time. Sloey first.’

  Even the search party led by Viola left off their task to see the Redwall army on its way. Elders and Dibbuns alike lined the path to the main gate as the warriors marched past four abreast, every creature well armed and carrying provisions. Arven and Perigord stood to one side, each drawing his blade to salute the flag, which was being borne by Skipper. The stout otter dipped the colours, awaiting orders as the columns formed up on the path outside.

  It was a high summer day, and the sun shone out of a sky that appeared bluer than it had ever been. They stood waiting in silence, listening to grasshoppers chirruping and skylarks singing on the western flatlands. Many Redwallers straightened their backs, breathed deeply and blinked to prevent a tear appearing, wondering if they would ever see the old Abbey on such a beautiful day again.

  All the goodbyes had been said, though Major Perigord bowed to Sister Viola and spoke a last few words. ‘’Tis always hard to leave a place, marm, particularly when certain friends are not there to wish you farewell. I wish you every good fortune in your search for the Mother Abbess and her companions. In happier, more peaceful times, myself and the patrol would have been at your disposal to help find them, but alas it was not to be. I hope you bear me no ill will, marm. I must bid ye goodbye.’

  Sister Viola smiled at the gallant hare. ‘How could any true Redwaller bear ill will to a brave soldier marching to defend our home and our very lives? Never fear, sir, I will find our lost friends. I bid you success and good fortune along with my goodbye. You are a perilous creature, Major.’

  Sergeant Torgoch’s stentorian roar rang out through gateway and path. ‘Flagbearer three paces forward! All offisahs to the vanguard! In the ranks . . . Atten . . . shun! Corporal Rubbadub – beat the advance! By the right . . . quick . . . maaaaaarch!’

  Shouldering blades, Perigord, Arven, Gurgan and Log a Log formed the first rank of four behind Skipper’s banner, with Rubbadub behind them setting up a fine, paw-swinging drumroll.

  ‘Barraboom! Barraboom! Drrrappadabdab! Buboom!’

  Galloper Riffle called out through the rising dust cloud, ‘Permission for the Company to sing “O’er the Hills”. Sah!’

  ‘Permission granted, Galloper,’ Perigord’s voice rang back at him. ‘Sing out with a will!’

  ‘O’er the Hills’ was a famous marching song and close to three hundred voices roared it out lustily:

  ‘O’er the hills an’ far away,

  ’Twas there I left my dearie,

  An’ as I left I heard her say,

  “Come back to me d’ye hear me,

  Y’may eat cake an’ drink pale wine,

  But come back home at autumn time,

  An’ on fresh bread’n’cheese you’ll dine,

  For no one brews good ale like mine.”

  O fields are green an’ skies are blue,

  Ole woods are high an’ full o’ loam,

  But hearken friend I’ll tell you true,

  Ain’t noplace in the world like home.

  O’er the hills an’ far away,

  ’Tis there my home’s awaitin’,

  The season’s shorter by a day,

  Whilst I’m anticipatin’,

  A logfire made from cracklin’ pine,

  An’ washin’ dancin’ on the line,

  As blossoms round the door entwine,

  Hurrah for there’s that dearie mine!’

  Redwallers old and young stood out on the path waving kerchiefs, aprons and headscarves, until the marchers diminished to a faraway dust cloud, with their song a faint echo on the hot air.

  Viola could not help sniffling into a lace kerchief. ‘Oh, they made such a brave sight going off like that!’

  Ever the practical creature, Gurrbowl Cellarmole shooed the Dibbuns back inside, remarking, ‘Hurr aye, they’m did, an’ let us’n’s ’ope they’m lukk ee same on ee day em cumms back!’

  * * *

  46

  THE TWO RATS, Sneezewort and Lousewort, kept their weapons firmly centred on Midge and Tammo, suspicious of their every move. It was a stalemate that was lasting far into the night, with little hope of the two hares escaping.

  Eventually, the fire inside the canvas and brush shelter began to burn low. From beneath his heavy disguise, Midge Manycoats winked significantly at his friend. It was time to make their move. Tammo edged slowly around until he judged that Rinkul the ferret and his cronies, who were hovering outside, could not see him.

  Midge stood upright. Sneezewort’s spearpoint menaced him, a fraction from his throat. ‘Siddown, ragbag, where d’yer think yore goin’?’

  Midge stood his ground, nodding at the guttering flames. ‘Need more wood fer the fire, matey.’

  The rat considered Midge’s request, then jabbed with his spear so that his prisoner fell back in a sitting position. ‘I’m not yore matey, an’ you ain’t goin’ nowhere. Lousewort, keep an’ eye on ’em. I’ll get the wood.’

  Once Sneezewort had gone outside, Midge turned to his slow-witted partner. ‘You ain’t afeared of us, are yer, bucko?’

  A slow smile spread across the rat’s dull features. ‘Er er, scared? Huh, why should I be scared o’ two ragbottomed beasts like youse? Yore no bother at all t’me.’

  Midge moved closer to him, chuckling in a friendly manner. ‘Of course we ain’t, a dumb ole vermin like me mate there, an’ a pore one-eyed wreck like me. Fat chance we’d ’ave agin a fine big strappin’ beast like yerself, armed wid a great spear like that ’un. But lookit, yore spear shaft’s cracked right there!’

  Lousewort lowered his head, following Midge’s pointing paw. ‘Where? I don’t see no crack.’

  Midge’s other paw came swinging over, clutching a stone he had picked up from where he had been sitting.

  Whump!

  He hit Lousewort a hefty blow between the ears. The rat’s body wobbled and he staggered dazedly. Using the handle of his dirk, which he had kept well hidden beneath his cloak, Tammo sprang forward and dealt Lousewort a smart rap between the eyes.

  Midge caught the spear, lowering the senseless rat quietly down. ‘Quick, Tamm, put that fire out and get this spear!’

  Tammo kicked earth over the embers, then, grabbing the spear, he stood to one side of the entrance. Midge positioned himself on the other side, holding the fallen rat’s cloak at the ready. Almost as they did, Sneezewort ducked inside carrying a few twigs. ‘Hoi! ‘Taint arf dark in ’ere, wot’s go . . . Mmmmffff!’

  Midge had flung the cloak over the rat’s head. Tammo gave him two good hard knocks with the spearhaft to make sure he went out.

  Then they lay still, peering outside at Rinkul and his band, who had made a fire some distance away – careful after Damug’s warning to stay away from the prisoners. Tammo watched them until he was sure they had noticed nothing amiss. Midge passed him Sneezewort’s cloak and spear, and donned Lousewort’s cloak himself.

  ‘Get rid o’ those rags now, Tamm. We’ll have to shift pretty fast!

  Discarding their disguises, they slid under the rear of the canvas shelter and wriggled off into the night, hugging tight to the ground until they were well away. Midge threw the hood of his cloak up. ‘Now t’get old Fourdun free. Right, Tamm, straighten up there! Make it look as if we’re two sentry-type vermin takin’ a duty patrol round the camp, wot.’

  Picking their way boldly round Rapscallions sleeping by campfires, the pair made their way down to the stream. Bluggach the Rapmark Captain was snoring next to his companions by the water’s edge, their fire untended and burned to white ashes.

  Tammo crept up to the cage and identified himself to the old squirrel. ‘It’s Tammo an’ Midge. C’mon
, old chap, time to go!’

  A few swift slices of Tammo’s dirk severed the ropes on the cage door and Fourdun crawled out, having already freed himself of his bonds with the small knife they had given him earlier.

  Positioning themselves either side of Fourdun, the hares gripped his paws and marched him off quietly, Midge whispering to him, ‘If anybeast stops us leave the talkin’ to me. We’re two Rapscallion guards takin’ you to Damug ’cos he wants to question you. I’ll bluff us through, don’t worry.’

  Lousewort had two things going in his favour, an extra thick skull and remarkable powers of recovery. Staggering from the dark smoky shelter he sat on the ground nursing his head and grunting with pain.

  Rinkul, who had been watching the darkened shelter suspiciously, came bounding over. ‘Where’s the two prisoners? ’Ave yer still got ’em?’

  Shaking his head gingerly, Lousewort peered up at him. ‘Er er, I dunno, it went dark all of a sudden!’

  Rinkul ran back to his fire and snatched a blazing brand. Kicking Lousewort aside he rushed into the shelter and, seizing Sneezewort cruelly by one ear, struck him several times with the burning stick until the rat came round with a yelp.

  ‘Bunglin’ idiot,’ Rinkul snarled into Sneezewort’s frightened face. ‘Y’ve let ’em escape, ’aven’t yer! Best thing you can do is take off fast afore the Firstblade learns they’re gone, or Damug’ll slay you’n’yore mate fer sure. Go on, beat it an’ don’t raise no alarms. Leave those two t’me, I’ll settle wid ’em!’ He signalled to his waiting band. ‘Arm up an’ let’s go, they’ve escaped. Don’t go shoutin’ an’ roarin’ all over the camp. I wants those two ragbags fer meself. We’ll catch ’em an’ take ’em somewheres nice’n’quiet where I’ll do that pair ’ard an’ slow afore dawnbreak. Now go silent!’

  Lousewort staggered upright, and Sneezewort leaned on him for support. ‘That’s us finished wid the Rapscallions, mate. Let’s be on our way afore Warfang wakes an’ decides to ’ave us fer brekkfist!’