High Rhulain

28

With the exception of Cuthbert, most of the Long Patrol hares were ill-suited to seafaring life. The Purloined Petunia had been outward bound little more than a day and a half from Salamandastron, yet she was making remarkable progress. The odd hare, in his role as the sea otter captain, Frunk W. Bloodpaw, had driven them hard both night and day. Initially, nearly all the crew were seasick, but Cuthbert, playing the bully skipper to the hilt, had worked them so severely that all thoughts of illness had been knocked out of them. He further compounded the treatment by singing them a shanty entitled “The Landlubber’s Lament,” accompanying himself on the ship’s drum with his two ladles.

“There ain’t nothin’ like a life at sea,

when yore on pleasure bent,

so hearken crew, I’ll sing to you,

The Landlubber’s Lament

bold lads, the Landlubber’s Lament!

I dearly loves a storm each morn,

when the ship heaves up an’ down,

an’ up an’ down an’ up an’ down,

an’ oftimes round an’ round

bold lads, an’ oftimes round an’ round!

Wild gales rip through the riggin’,

all the decks aflood with sea,

wid waves as high as mountains,

Ho, that’s the life fer me

bold lads, ho, that’s the life fer me!

So I boils up some ole skilly,

an’ I stirs the duff in too,

in me greasy liddle galley,

’tis the stuff t’feed the crew

bold lads, the stuff t’feed the crew!

Pots o’ cold’n’watery cabbage,

lots o’ slimy turnip ends,

an’ some fish heads with the eyes in,

to see that we’re all friends

bold lads, to see that we’re all friends!

Then I’ll feed ye second helpin’s,

just t’keep ye well content,

an’ at night I’ll serenade ye,

with the Landlubber’s Lament

bold lads, the Landlubber’s Lament!”

Tiria had put off her regalia whilst onboard, redressing in her old tunic and kilt. The ottermaid did not stand on the ceremony of her exalted rank; instead, she chose to take a turn at the oars with the hares. Sitting on the bench alongside Colour Sergeant O’Cragg, she rowed out the late-night watch, with both of them pulling lustily on a long sweep oar. The sergeant, a big sturdy hare, was usually taciturn by nature, seldom questioning things. But as they toiled together, he murmured to Tiria, “Beggin’ yore pardon, miss, but h’are ye sure we’re a-goin’ the right way?”

He paused a while before voicing his thoughts. “Wot h’I means is this. When yore surrounded by water, h’everythin’ looks the bloomin’ same, miss. ’Ow d’ye suppose Cap’n Major Frunk knows where this ’ere Green h’Isle is?”

Tiria did not really know, but she thought up an answer. “I expect he knows by the position of the moon and stars. Though in the daytime, the cap’n steers by the sun, which always rises in the east and sets in the west. Also, we have our osprey. If the ship strays off course, Pandion can fly out and find the right way to go.”

Sergeant O’Cragg was satisfied with her explanation. “Thankee, miss, ’tis good t’know. Though h’if ’twas me steerin’ by those stars, we’d soon be lost. ’Ave ye ever seen’ow many stars there is h’in the sky at night?”

Tiria turned her gaze upward. What the sergeant said was true. On first glance, there seemed to be the usual amount of stars, but as she continued to look, more stars than she had ever dreamed of became visible. All the vast tracts of the nightdark sky were aglitter with innumerable pinpoints of light—some large, some small, others so minute that they resembled dust, covering infinite areas of the uncharted dark vaults. It was a staggering sight.

Tiria lowered her eyes, blinking as she agreed with her companion. “Good grief, Sergeant, there seems to be more stars than sky up there. I’ve never looked long enough to notice it before, it’s almost beyond belief!”

As they bent their backs to the oar stroke, Sergeant O’Cragg came up with another question. “Wot d’ye suppose they really h’are, miss?”

This time Tiria was stuck for an answer. “I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it. Have you any ideas, Sergeant?”

He surprised her with his reply. “They’re the spirits h’of warriors, miss, h’every brave beast that ever fell h’in battle. Leastways that’s wot ole Colonel Gorsebloom used t’tell me when h’I was nought but a liddle leveret. The colonel brought me h’up, y’see. H’I don’t recall ’avin’ no parents, miss.”

Tiria glanced sideways at her hulking oarmate. He looked embarrassed by his own words. She gave him a friendly smile. “Really, I wonder what made him say that?”

O’Cragg shrugged. “ ’Cos h’I asked ’im. The colonel taught me this ’ere poem h’about stars. Would ye like to ’ear it, miss?”

Tiria replied readily. “I’d love to, if you can still remember it.”

The colour sergeant winked at her. “ ’Course h’I can, just lissen t’this.”

Proudly, he recited the poem taught to him by his old mentor.

“There are many places a spirit may rest

when life’s long march has ended.

Every creature returns to its home,

exactly as nature intended.

The cowards and traitors, the liars and cheats,

each in their turn is awarded,

someplace that they deserved to go,

as their actions in life accorded.

Those who proved untrue to their friends

lie thick in the dust of the earth,

trodden on forever by all

to show what treachery’s worth.

In the mud of swamps, in rotting weeds,

they lie imprisoned by evil misdeeds.

But the warriors true, the brave of heart,

who valiantly upheld the right,

they are raised on high, to the velvet sky,

bringing light to the darkness of night.

They’ll stand there as long as the sky will,

their honour in brightness will glow,

a lesson to see, for eternity,

of where the real warriors go!

So ere my eyelids close in sleep,

these are the words I will say,

may I have the courage and faithfulness,

that my spirit should join them one day.”

The ship sped on through the night as they rowed in silence. Tiria was lost for words. Who would have thought that the big colour sergeant, hard as granite and tough as oakwood, had a heart so innocent and simple? In the midst of these thoughts, she was startled by the arrival of their relief, Quartle and Portan.

“I say, shove over, you chaps. The blinkin’ buffs have arrived, wot!”

“Rather, we’ll be rowing the jolly old tub until dawn!”

Tiria and the sergeant rose from the bench as the two subalterns scrambled into their places at the sweeps.

Quartle twiddled his ears in a jocular manner. “Expect your old royal royalness is about ready for some flippin’ shuteye, eh, miz?”

Portan winked impudently at the sergeant. “Nighty night, Sarge, off y’go, wot! I’ll bet you dream about bullyin’ greennosed recruits round the old barrack square. Leff right, leff right, pick those paws up, laddy buck!”

Colour Sergeant O’Cragg riveted them to their seats with his famous parade-ground glare. “One more word out of ye, an’ h’I’ll pick yore paws h’up an’ sling ye h’into the sea, you’orrible liddle beasties!”

Tiria was still chuckling as she wrapped herself in an old cloak and lay down behind the small galley. Slumber was not long in claiming her after half a night of rowing. Cuthbert never slept; when on board, he was constantly on duty. The odd hare sat at the tiller in a sort of half-doze, steering his vessel by instinct. Apart from the gentle lap of waves, it was quiet. The Purloined Petunia ploughed smoothly over the deeps, on into the starstrewn night. Thirty-one hares, a fish hawk and one ottermaid westward bound.

In the grey half-light preceding dawn, Tiria was awakened by the high piercing call of the osprey. She looked up to the masthead to find that Pandion had gone. Making her way astern, the ottermaid found Cuthbert still seated at the tiller with one eye open. She questioned him briefly.

“It’s not light yet. Where’s Pandion gone?”

Cuthbert scratched his ear lazily. “That ole rascal comes an’ goes as he pleases, Tillie me gel. May’aps he’s spotted land, I don’t know.”

Racing forward, Tiria scrambled out onto the bowsprit and scanned the sea around her. The waters were smooth, with hardly a wave of any size, blanketed by a mist that had taken on a soft golden haze as the sun began to rise. Visibility was virtually nonexistent, but from somewhere far off she could distinguish the muted cry of gulls. Hanging on to the bowline, Tiria leaned out, peering keenly into the waking day. Behind her the sail flapped idly and began to fill. The same breeze which was stirring it began to shift the mist rapidly.

Tiria stood stock-still, her eyes following the receding mists. Suddenly her fur rose from rudder to eartip as she picked out the dark blotch on the western horizon. There it was! Raising a paw to her mouth, Tiria bellowed, “Land dead ahead! Land hoooooooooo!”

The ship came alive to her cries. A babble of excited chatter broke out.

“I say, you chaps, did somebeast say land a bally head?”

“Eulalia! There ’tis, jolly old land, we made it, wot!”

“Get some blinkin’ breakfast served, I ain’t goin’ ashore on an empty tum. I get vexatious without vittles, y’know!”

“Oh, my giddy aunt, just look, terra flippin’ firma. I can’t wait t’get me confounded paws on it!”

Cuthbert’s shouts rang out above the clamour. “Getcher idle bottoms back on those oar benches, ye shower o’ bobbin’ beetles! Who gave the order for ye to stand round chattin’ an’ gawpin’ like a gang of ole mousewives on a trip round the bay? Shape up, an’ let’s see a few rosy blisters on those lily white paws from rowin’ ! Heave an’ row an’ row an’ pull an’ push an’ pull! Row! Row!”

Passing over the tiller to Rafe Granden, Cuthbert wasted no time in retrieving his barrelhead drum. Soon it was booming as he battered away with his two ladles, still harassing the crew to action.

“Row, ye bilge-bottomed blaggards! Brekkist! Wot swab mentioned brekkist, eh? Ye don’t get a single sniff o’ the cook’s apron until the keel hits the shallows! Row! Let’s hear those backbones a-creakin’, git those sweeps movin’, ye misbegotten maggots, ye far-flung flotsam, ye jumped-up jetsam!”

Quartle sniggered to Portan as they pulled furiously, “Ole Blood’n’guts says the nicest things, don’t he? I always wanted to be a jumped-up jetsam!”

He missed the stroke and tumbled backward. “Whoops, sorry, must’ve caught a crab!”

Portan whispered as he pulled his comrade upright, “Well, don’t tell anybeast, old lad. They’ll all want some!”

The wind stiffened, sending the vessel riding full tilt and landward. Once again, Cuthbert started berating his hapless crew. “Lay to wid those oars! D’ye want to run us onto a reef? There’s rocks ahead! Ship yore sweeps, finish with those oars afore ye wreck me valuable vessel, ye cloth-eared clods! I told ye to row, not t’go bloomin’ mad!”

Quite a bit of muffled laughter broke out among the oarcrew, but they gratefully shipped oars whilst Cuthbert, aided by the fat Corporal Drubblewick, frantically shortened the mainsail to decrease the vessel’s speed. With Tiria at the bowsprit calling directions and Cuthbert manning the tiller skillfully, they charted a course between rocks and reefs. The Purloined Petunia made a stately landfall, her keel crunching into the pebbled shallows.

Even before they had dropped anchor, the main body of the crew made an eager stampede for the side, everybeast wanting to be first ashore. Cuthbert suddenly cast off his maritime coat and reverted to his role of Major Blanedale Frunk. However, it was only with the timely assistance of Captain Rafe Granden and Colour Sergeant O’Cragg that the Long Patrol were stopped from disembarking and wading ashore. The roars of the three officers froze the crew in their tracks.

“Stand fast there, ye mutinous mob. Come to attention all of ye!”

“Yew ’eard the h’offisah, stan’ fast! Just twitch h’an ear, laddie buck, h’an yore h’on a bloomin’ fizzer!”

“Steady in the ranks, pay ’tenshun to the Major now!”

Cuthbert strode the deck, glaring through his monocle. “Lady Tiria, Cap’n Granden, Sarn’t O’Cragg an’ my goodself are goin’ ashore. We’ll form the advance guard in case of attack. Subalterns Quartle an’ Portan will drop anchor an’ furl sails. Corporal Drubblewick an’ the cookin’ detail will follow us ashore to light a fire an’ ready up some vittles. The rest of ye, form a chain from ship to shore, an’ bring all supplies’n’arms to land safe’n’dry, an’ in good order. Whilst you are on yonder island, you’ll conduct yourselves like Long Patrol hares. Right, stan’ easy, dismiss, an’ attend to your duties!”

As the hares went about their tasks with military efficiency, Tiria wandered a little way up the beach. She climbed upon a rock and stared around. So this was the fabled Green Isle, she thought, the home of her distant ancestors. This was actually where the High Queen Rhulain had once ruled.

Colour Sergeant O’Cragg marched up and came smartly to attention. “Major Frunk’s compliments, miss. Will ye be dinin’ with the Patrol?”

Savoury odours drifting from cauldrons over the cooking fire reminded Tiria that she was hungry. “Oh yes, please, Sergeant. That would be nice!”

The burly hare saluted. “Right y’are, miss, but the major says ye don’t get h’a bite ’til yore dressed properlike h’in yore regalia!”

The ottermaid looked indignantly at the tunic and kilt she had worn for the voyage. “Why, what’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

A smile creased the sergeant’s rough-hewn face. “Major Frunk says ye look like h’a ’edgehog wot’s been dragged back’ards through h’a bush, beggin’ yore pardon, miss. H’accordin’ to ’im, you gotta be h’attired h’as befits h’a future queen. H’either that or ye starve. Those h’are ’is words, not mine, miss!”

Fuming with the injustice of it all, Tiria was forced to go back aboard the ship and change into her regalia. She marched stiffly into camp, where she sat stone-faced amid the garrulous hare crew. Corporal Drubblewick served her with a bowl of mushroom and barley soup, some freshly baked griddle scones and a beaker of raspberry cordial.

The fat hare wiggled his ears at her. “I say, M’lady, jolly spiffy outfit, wot!”

Cuthbert strolled over, nodding his approval. “Top marks, a very smart turnout indeed! Ye really look the part now, Milady. Well done!”

Tiria treated him to a withering stare. “I’m so pleased you think so, Major.”

He indicated the other hares with his swagger stick. “Oh,’tis not just me, it’s the rest o’ the Patrol, doncha see? They’ll be goin’ into battle to regain this isle for ye. That bein’ the case, some o’ these buckoes may be slain defendin’ your title, miss. War’s war y’know, an’ they’d feel much better knowin’ they’re riskin’ life’n’limb for a queen who looks like a queen, an’ not some raggedy otter gel, eh wot?”

Tiria, completely humbled by this statement, put aside her food. “Please accept my apologies, Major Frunk. I never thought of it that way. From now on I’ll do my best to look and act like a queen. Forgive my foolishness.”

Cuthbert tapped her paw with his swagger stick, answering kindly, “Come on now, don’t get so jolly well upset. Eat up your vittles, Majesty, an’ remember: Handsome is as handsome does, wot!”

Tiria cheered up, accepting the hares’ compliments and putting up with their jokes. When the meal was finished, Captain Granden gave the order for everybeast to inspect arms.

“Before ye fall in t’march, look to those weapons. All lance an’ spearpoints to be correctly tipped. Pay special attention to your blades, sharpen ’em blinkin’ well. Bowstrings t’be waxed an’ tested, you archers, check your quivers. Slingbeasts, I don’t want t’see any frayed slings or half-filled stonepouches. This beach is full of bloomin’ good pebbles. Make bally sure your arms ain’t goin’ to let ye down if push comes to shove, buckoes. Then y’can fall in, formed in three ranks. Major Frunk an’ my goodself will scout ahead. Sarn’t Major O’Cragg, will ye take over please?”

He murmured in Tiria’s ear, “Ye’d best march with the Patrol, Lady. We don’t want to risk losin’ you just yet!”

The advance scouts had departed by the time the Patrol were ready and formed up. Tiria marched alongside Quartle and Portan, with Sergeant O’Cragg leading off at the front of the columns. The hares sang a marching song, though not too loudly, just to keep them in orderly stride.

“Left right, left right,

put those paws down lively now.

One two, one two,

come on chaps let’s show ’em how.

’Tis on to death or glory,

for every willin’ beast,

an’ what’ll we have to show for it,

a song a fight an’ a feast!

Left right, left right,

every mother’s son of ye.

One two, one two,

o’er shore’n’hill’n’vale’n’lea.

The Long Patrol are on the march,

from dawn ’til evenin’ light,

as long as we can end it with

a song a feast an’ a fight!

Left right, left right,

eatin’ dust an’ poundin’ earth.

One two, one two,

’tis all a warrior’s worth,

a dash o’ blood’n’vinegar,

for that we’ll string along,

while we’re alive we’ll all survive

on a fight a feast an’ a song!”

Sunlight glinted brightly off Tiria’s armour. Her short emerald cloak swaying jauntily, she picked up the words of the hares’ tune and sang it a second time. As she marched, thoughts began to tumble through the young ottermaid’s mind. She had come all the way from being an Abbeymaid who had hardly been far outside of Redwall, to a would-be warrior queen marching across Green Isle with the Long Patrol. And all in the space of one season! If only her father and all her dear friends—Brink Greyspoke, Abbess Lycian, Brinty, Girry, Tribsy, Friar Bibble and the rest—could see her now! A resolve rose within Tiria. She would not let any of them down, especially the gallant hares of Salamandastron. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she marched onward regally. Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was right: Handsome is as handsome does!