The Long Patrol.

Brian Jacques.

BOOK ONE.

The Runaway Recruit

Melting snowdrifts with gra.s.sy knolls poking through made a patchwork of the far east lands as winter surrendered its icy grip of the earth to oncoming spring. Snowdrop, chickweed, and shepherd's purse nodded gratefully beneath a bright mid-morning sun, which beamed through small islands of breeze-chased clouds. Carrying half-melted icicles along, a tinkling, chuckling stream bounded from rocky cliff ledges, meandering around fir and pine groves toward broad open plains. Already a few hardy wood ants and honeybees were abroad in the copse fringes. Clamoring and gaggling, a skein of barnacle geese in wavering formation winged their way overhead toward the coastline. All around, the land was wakening to springtime, and it promised to be a fair season.

It is often said that a madness takes possession of certain hares in spring, and anybeast watching the performance of one such creature would have had his worst fears confirmed. Ta-mello De Fformelo Tussock, to give this young hare his full t.i.tle, was doing battle with imaginary enemies. Armed with stick and slingshot, he flung himself recklessly from a rock ledge, whirling the stone-loaded sling and thwacking left and 4 right with his stick, yelling, "Eulaliaaaa! Have at you, villainous vermin, 'tis m'self, Captain Tammo of the Long Patrol! Take that, y'wicked weasel! Hah! Thought you'd sneak up behind a chap, eh? Well, have some o' this, you ratten rot, beg pardon, rotten rat!"

Hurling himself down in the snow, he lashed out powerfully with his long back legs. "What ho! That'll give you a bellyache to last out the season, m'laddo. Want some more? Hahah! Thought y'didn't, go on, run f'your lives, you cowardly crew! It'd take more'n five hundred of you t'bring down Cap'n Tammo, by the left it would!"

Satisfied that he had given a justly deserved thrashing to half a thousand fict.i.tious foebeasts, Tammo sat up in the snow, eating a few pawfuls to cool himself down.

"Just let 'em come back, I'll show the blighters, wot! There ain't a foebeast in the blinkin' land can defeat me ... Yaaagh, gerroff!" He felt himself hauled roughly upright by both ears. Lynum and Saithe, Tammo's elder brother and sister, had sneaked up and grabbed him.

"Playing soldiers again?" Lynum's firm grip indicated that there would be no chance of escape.

Tammo's embarra.s.sment at being caught at his game made him even more indignant. "Unhand me at once, m'laddo, if you know what's good for you," he said, struggling. "I can walk by myself."

Saithe gave Tammo's ear an extra tweak as she admonished him: "Colonel wants a word with you, wretch, about his battle-ax!"

Tammo finally struggled free and reluctantly marched off between the two hulking hares, muttering rebelliously to himself, "Huh! I can tell you what he's goin' t'say, same thing as usual."

The young hare imitated his father perfectly, bowing his legs, sticking out his stomach, puffing both cheeks up, and pulling his lips down at the corners as he spoke: "Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain't the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck, what've y'got to say for y'self, eh? Speak up, sah!"

Lynum cuffed Tammo lightly to silence him. "Enough of that. Colonel'd have your tail if he saw you makin' mock of him. Step lively now!"

5 Entering the largest of the conifer groves, they headed for a telltale spiral of smoke that denoted Camp Tussock. It was a rambling stockade, the outer walls fashioned from tree trunks with a big dwelling house built of rock, timber, moss, and mud c.h.i.n.king. This was known as the Barracks. Motes, squirrels, hedgehogs, and a few wood mice wandered in and out of the homely place, living there by kind permission of the Colonel and his wife, Mem Divinia. Some of them shook their heads and tuttutted at the sight of Tammo being led in to answer for his latest escapade.

Seated close to the fire in his armchair, Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock was a formidable sight. He was immaculately attired in a buff-colored campaign jacket covered with rows of jangling medals, his heavy-jowled face shadowed by the peak of a brown-bark forage helmet. The Colonel had one eye permanently closed, while the other glared through a monocle of polished crystal with a silken cord dangling from it. His wattled throat wobbled pendulously as he jabbed his pace stick pointedly at the miscreant standing before him.

"Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain't the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck, what've y'got to say for y'self, eh? Speak up, sah!"

Tammo remained silent, staring at the floor as if to find inspiration there. Grunting laboriously, the Colonel leaned forward, lifting Tammo's chin with the pace stick until they were eye to eye.

*' 'S matter, sah, frogs got y'tongue? C'mon now, speak y'piece, somethin' about me battle-ax, wot wot?"

Tammo did what was expected of him and came smartly to attention. Chin up, chest out, he gazed fixedly at a point above his father's head and barked out in true military fashion: "Colonel, sah! 'Pologies about y'baltle-ax, only used it to play with. Promise upon me honor, won't do it again. Sah!"

The old hare's great head quivered with furious disbelief, and the monocle fell from his eye to dangle upon its string. He lifted the pace stick, and for a moment it looked as though he were about to strike his son. When the colonel could find it, his voice rose several octaves to shrill indignation.

"Playin1? You've got the bra.s.s nerve t'stand there an' tell me you've been usin' my battle-ax as a toy Outrage, sir, 6 outrage! Y're a pollywoggle and a ripscutt! Hah, that's it, a scruff-furred, lollop-eared, blather-pawed, doodle-tailed, jumped-up-never-t'come-down bogwhumper! What are yen?"

Tammo's mother, Mem Divinia, had been hovering in the background, tending a batch of barleyscones on the griddle. Wiping floury paws upon an ap.r.o.n corner, she bustled forward, placing herself firmly between husband and son.

"That's quite enough o' that, Corney Fformelo, I'll not have language like that under my roof. Where d'you think y'are, in the middle of a battlefield? I won't have you roaring at my Tammo in such a manner."

Instead of calming the Colonel's wrath, his wife's remarks had the opposite effect. Suffused with blood, his ears went bright pink and stood up like spearpoints. He flung down the pace stick and stamped so hard upon it that he hurt his foot-paw.

"Eulalia'n'blood'n'fur'n'vinegar, marm!"

Mem countered by drawing herself up regally as she grabbed Tammo's head and buried it in the floury folds of her ap.r.o.n. "Keep y'voice down, sir, no sense in settin' a bad example to your son an' makin' yourself ill over some battle-ax!"

The Colonel knew better than to ignore his wife. Rubbing ruefully at his footpaw, he retrieved the pace stick. Then, fixing his monocle straight, he sat upright, struggling to moderate his tone.

"Some battle-ax indeed, m'dear! I'm discussin' one particular weapon. My battle-ax! This battle-ax! D'y'know, that young rip took a chip out o' the blade, prob'ly hackin' away at some boulder. A chip off my blade, marm! The same battle-ax that was the pride of the old Fifty-first Paw'n'fur Platoon of the Long Patrol. 'Twas a blade that separated Searats from their gizzards'n' garters, flayed ferrets out o' their fur, whacked weasels, an' shortened stoats into stumps! An' who was it chipped the blade? That layabout of a leveret, that's who. Hmph!"

Tammo struggled free of Mem's ap.r.o.n, his face thickened with white flour dust. He sneezed twice before speaking. "I ain't a leveret any longer, sir. If y'let me join the jolly oF 7 Long Patrol, then I wouldn't have t'get up to all sorts o' mischief, 'specially with your ax, sah."

The Colonel sighed and shook his head, the monocle falling to one side as he settled back wearily into his armchair. "I've told you a hundred times, m'laddo, you're far too young, too wild'n'wayward, not got the seasons under y'belt yet. You speak to him, Mem, m'dear, the rogue's got me worn out. Join the Long Patrol indeed. Hmph! No self-respectin' Badger Lord would tolerate a green b'hind the ears little pestilence like you, laddie buck. Run along an' play now, you've given me enough gray fur, go an' bother some otherbeast. Be off, you're dismissed, sah. Matter closed!"

Tammo saluted smartly and hurried off, blinking back unshed tears at his father's brusque command. Mem took the pace stick from her husband's lap and slapped it down hard into his paw.

"Shame on you, Comspurrey," she cried, "you're nought but a heartless old bodger. How could y'talk to your own son like that?"

The Colonel replaced his monocle and squinted challeng-ingly. "Bodger y'self, marm! I'd give me permission for Lynum or Saithe t'join up with the Long Patrol, they're both of a right age. Stap me, though, neither of 'em's interested, both want t'be bally soil-pawed farmbeasts, I think." He smiled slightly and stroked his curled mustache. "Young Tammo, now, there's a wild 'un, full of fire'n'vinegar like I was in me green seasons. Hah! He'll grow t'be a dangerous an' perilous beast one day, mark m'words, Mem!"

Mem Divinia spoke up on Tammo's behalf: "Then why not let him join up? You know 'tis all he's wanted since he was a babe listenin' to your tales around the fire. Poor Tammo, he lives, eats, an' breathes Long Patrol. Let him go, Corney, give him his chance."

But the Colonel was resolute; he never went back on a decision. "Tammo's far too young by half. Said all I'm goin' t'say, m'dear. Matter closed!"

; Popping out his monocle with a wink, Comspurrey De Fformelo Tussock settled back into the armchair and closed his good eye, indicating that this was his prelunch naptime. Mem Divinia knew further talk was pointless. She sighed wearily 8 and went back to her friend Osmunda the molewife, who was a.s.sisting with the cooking.

Osmunda shook her head knowingly, muttering away in the curious molespeech, "Burr aye, you'm roight, Mem, ee be nought but an ole bodger. Oi wuddent be surproised if* n mais-ter Tamm up'n runned a ways one mom. Hurr hurt, ee faither can't stop Tamm furrever."

Mem added sprigs of young mint to the golden crust of a carrot, mushroom, and onion hotpot she had taken from the oven. "That's true, Osmunda, Tammo will run away, same as his father did at his age. He was a wayward one too, y'know. His father never forgave him for running away, called him a deserter and never spoke his name again-but I think he was secretly very proud of Comspurrey and the reputation he gained as a fighting hare with the Long Patrol. He died long before his son retired from service and brought me back here to Camp Tussock. I was always very sorry that they were never reconciled. I hope the Colonel isn't as stubborn as his father, for Tammo's sake."

Osmunda was spooning honey into the scooped-out tops of the hot barley scones. She blinked curiously at Mem. "Whoi do ee say that?''

Mem Divinia began mixing a batter of greensap milk, ha-zelnut, and almond flour to make pancakes. She kept her eyes on the mix as she explained: "Because I'm going to help Tammo to run away and join the Long Patrol. If I don't he'll only hang around here gettin' into trouble an' arguin' with his father until they become enemies. Now don't mention what I've just said to anybeast, Osmunda."

The faithful mole wife's friendly face crinkled into a deep grin. "Moi snout be sealed, Mem! Ee be a doin' the roight thing, oi knows et, even tho* ee Colonel won't 'ave 'is temper improved boi et an' you'll miss maister Tamm gurtly."

A tear fell into the pancake mix. Tammo's mother wiped her eyes hastily on her ap.r.o.n hem. "Oh, I'll miss the rascal, all right, never you fear, Osmunda. But Tammo will do well away from here. He's got a good heart, he's not short of courage, and, like the Colonel said, he'll grow to be a wild an' perilous beast. What more could any creature say of a hare? One day my son will make us proud of him!"

Several leagues away from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug Warfang turned his face to the wind. Before him on the tide line of a shingled beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship fleet. Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black and gray smoke wisped off the cooking fires among them.

The drums began to beat. Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was dying.

The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles as it clawed its way up the sh.o.r.e. Soon Gormad Tunn's spirit would be at the gates of Dark Forest.

Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a sideways glance at Byral standing farther along the beach, and smiled thinly. Gormad would have company at Dark Forest gates before the sun set.

Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was close to death.

IO.

Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of any normal rat. Gormad had been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule as Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death tent where their father lay, in accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat, or drink until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat between them. Only one would remain alive as Firstblade of the mighty army.

The day wore on; Gormad Tunn's flame burned lower.

A small pebble struck Damug lightly on his back. "Lug-worm, is everything ready?' * he whispered, lips scarcely moving.

The stoat murmured low from his hiding place behind a rock, "Never readier... O Firstblade."

Damug kept his eyes riveted on the sea as he replied, "Don't call me Firstblade yet, 'tis bad luck!"

A confident chuckle came from the stoat. * 'Luck has nothin' to do with it. Everythin' has been taken care of."

The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing with larger ones until the entire sh.o.r.eline reverberated to their beat.

Gormad Tunn's eyelids flickered once, and a harsh rattle of breath escaped from his dry lips. The Firstblade was dead!

An old ferret who had been attending Gormad left the death tent. He threw up his paws and howled in a high keening tone: "Gormad has left us for Dark Forest's shade, And the wind cannot lead Rapscallions. Let the beast stand forth who would be Firstblade, To rule alt these wild battalions!"

The drums stopped. Silence flooded the coast like a sudden tide. Both brothers turned to face the speaker, answering the challenge.

"I, Byral Fleetclaw, claim the right. The blood of Greatrats runs in my veins, and I would fight to the death him who opposes me!"

"I, Damug Warfang, challenge that right. My blood is pure Greatrat, and I will prove it over your dead carca.s.s!"

A mighty roar arose from the Rapscallion army, then the hordes rushed forward like autumn leaves upon the gale, surrounding the two brothers as they strode to the place of combat.

A ring had been marked out higher up on the sh.o.r.e. There the contestants stood, facing each other. Damug smiled wolf-ishly at his brother, Byral, who smirked and spat upon the ground between them. Wagers of food and weapons, plunder and strong drink were being yelled out between supporters of one or the other.

Two seconds entered the circle and prepared both brothers for the strange combat that would settle the leadership of the Rapscallion hordes. A short length of tough vinerope was tied around both rats' left footpaws, attaching them one to the other, so they could not run away. They were issued their weapons: a short, stout hardwood club and a cord apiece. The cords were about two swordblades' length, each with a boulder twice the size of a good apple attached to its end.

Damug and Byral drew back from each other, stretching the footpaw rope tight. Gripping their clubs firmly, they glared fiercely at each other, winding the cords around their paws a few turns so they would not lose them.

Now all eyes were on the old ferret who had announced Gormad Tunn's death, as he drew forth a sc.r.a.p of red silk and threw it upward. Caught on the breeze for a moment, it seemed to float in midair, then it dropped to the floor of the ring. A wild cheer arose from a thousand throats as the fight started. Brandishing their clubs and whirling the boulder-laden cords, the two Greatrats circled, each seeking an opening, while the bloodthirsty onlookers roared encouragement.

"Crack 'is skull, Byral-go on, you kin do it!"

"Go fer 'is ribs wid yer club, Damug! Belt 'im a good 'un!"

"Swing up wid yer stone, smash 'is jaw!"

"Fling the club straight betwixt 'is eyes!"

Being fairly equally matched, each gave as good as he got. Soon Byral and Damug were both aching from hefty blows dealt by their clubs, but as yet neither had room to bring cord 12.

and boulder into play. Circling, tugging, tripping, and stumbling, they scattered sand and pebbles widespread, biting and kicking when they got the opportunity, each knowing that only one would walk away alive from the encounter. Then Byral saw his chance. Hopping nimbly back, he stretched the foot-paw rope to its limits and swung at Damug's head with the boulder-loaded cord. It was just what Damug was waiting for. Grabbing his club in both paws, he ducked, allowing the cord to twirl itself around his club until the rock clacked against it. Then Damug gave a sharp tug and the cord snapped off short close to Byral's paw.

A gasp went up from the spectators. n.o.beast had expected the cord to snap-except Lugworm. Byral hesitated a fatal second, gaping at the broken cord-and that was all Damug needed. He let go of his club, tossed a swift pawful of sand into his opponent's face, and swung hard with his cord and boulder. The noise was like a bar of iron smacking into a wet side of meat. Byral looked surprised before his eyes rolled backward and he sank slowly onto all fours. Damug swung twice more, though there was little need to; he had slain his brother with the first blow.

A silence descended on the watchers. Damug held out his paw, and Lugworm pa.s.sed him a knife. With one quick slash he severed the rope holding his footpaw to Byral's. Without a word he strode through the crowd, and the ma.s.sed ranks fell apart before him. Straight into his father's death tent he went, emerging a moment later holding aloft a sword. It had a curious blade: one edge was wavy, the other straight, representing land and sea.

The drums beat out loud and frenzied as the vast Rapscallion army roared their tribute to a new Leader: "Damug War-fang! Firstblade! Firstblade! Firstblade!"

Some creatures said that Russa came from the deep south, others thought she was from the west coast, but even Russa could not say with any degree of certainty where she had come from. The red female squirrel had neither family nor tribe, nor any place to call home: she was a wanderer who just loved to travel. Russa Nodrey, she was often called, owing to the fact that squirrels' homes were called dreys and she did not have one, hence, no drey.

n.o.beast knew more about country ways than Russa. She could live where others would starve, she knew the way in woods and field when many would be hopelessly lost. Neither old- nor young-looking, quite small and lean, Russa carried no great traveler's haversack or intricate equipment. A small pouch at the back of the rough green tunic she always wore was sufficient for her needs. The only other thing she possessed was a stick, which she had picked up from the flotsam of a tide line. It was about walking-stick size and must have come from far away, because it was hard and dark and had a l.u.s.ter of its own-even seawater could not rot or warp it.

Russa liked her stick. There was no piece of wood like it 13.

14 in all the land, nor any tree that produced such wood. It was also a good weapon, because besides being a lone wanderer, Russa Nodrey was also an expert fighter and a very dangerous warrior, in her own quiet way.

Off again on her latest odyssey, Russa stopped to rest among the cliff ledges not far from Camp Tussock. Happy with her own company, she sat by the stream's edge, drank her fill of the sweet cold water, and settled down to enjoy the late-afternoon sun in a nook protected from the wind. The sound of another creature nearby did not bother Russa unduly; she knew it was a mole and therefore friendly. With both eyes closed, as if napping, Russa waited until the creature was right up close, then she spoke in perfect molespeech to it.

"Hurr, gudd day to ee, zurr, wot you'm be a doin' yurra-bouts?"

Roolee, the husband of Osmunda, was taken aback, though he did not show it. He sat down next to Russa and raised a hefty digging claw in greeting. "Gudd day to ee, marm, noice weather us'n's be 'avin', burr aye!"

Russa answered in normal speech, "Aye, a pity that some-beasts blunder along to disturb a body's rest when all she craves is peace an' quiet."

"Yurr, so 'tis, marm, so 'tis." Roolee nodded agreement. * 'Tho' if ee be who oi think ee be, marm Mem at Camp Tussock will be pleased to see ee. May'ap you'm koindly drop boi furr vittles?''

Russa was up on her paws immediately. "Why didn't you just say that instead of yappin' about the weather? I'd travel three rough leagues 'fore breakfast if I knew me old friend Mem Divinia was still cookin' those pancakes an' hotpots of hers!"

Roolee led the way, his velvety head nodding. "Burr aye, marm, ee Mem still be ee gurtest cook yurrabouts, she'm doin' pannycakes, ottenpots, an' all manner o' gudd vittles!"

Russa ran several steps ahead of Roolee coming into Camp Tussock. Lynum was doing sentry duty at the stockade entrance. In the fading twilight he saw the strange squirrel approaching and decided to exercise his authority.

Barring the way with a long oak quarterstaff, he called of- 15 ficiously, "Halt an' be recognized, who goes there, stranger at the gate!"

Russa was hungry, and she had little time for such foolishness. She gave the husky hare a smart rap across his footpaw with her stick. "Hmm, you've grown since I last saw ye," she commented as she stepped over him. "Y'were only a fuzzy babe then-fine big hare now though, eh? Pity your wits never grew up like your limbs, y'were far nicer as a little 'un."

Mem Divinia wiped floury paws on her ap.r.o.n hem and rushed to meet the visitor, her face alight with joy. "Well, fortunes smile on us! Russa Nodrey, you roamin' rascal, how are you?"

. Russa avoided Mem's flour-dusted hug and made for the comer seat at the table, as she remembered it was the most comfortable and best for access to the food. She winked at Mem.

"Oh, I'm same as I always was, Mem. When I'm not trav-elin' up an' down the country, I'm roamin' sideways across the land."

Mem winked back at Russa and whispered, ' 'Your visit is very timely, friend. I have something to ask of you." Then, on seeing the Colonel approaching the table, she quickly mouthed the word "later." Russa understood.

Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock viewed the guest with a jaundiced eye and a snort. "Hmph! Respects to ye, marm, I see you've installed y'self in my flippin' seat! Comfortable are ye, wot?"