Sergeant Wonwill and the Patrol hares crouched behind a border of rhododendron and hydrangea bushes which separated the east end of Brother Demple’s vegetable drills from the back lawns. Somebeast sniffed aloud and began sobbing. The sergeant looked around until he found the culprit, Flummerty.
The tough Wonwill gave an exasperated sigh. “Now then, missy, you ain’t gettin’ sulky ’cos ye want to go t’bed, are ye? Stop those waterworks h’immediately!”
The haremaid continued to weep loudly. “S . . . s . . . sorry, sah, I can’t help it.”
The sergeant turned his eyes skyward distractedly. “I said stop snifflin’. That h’aint a request, it’s a h’order! Cartwill, lend ’er yore kerchief, will ye?”
The young hare passed Flummerty his kerchief, but she continued to sob piteously. Crawling along to where she was crouched, Wonwill patted her ears gently. “Nah then, me beauty. Yore goin’ to soak all the curl out o’ those pretty eyelashes. Wot is it, me little maid? Why all the snuffles n’tears?”
Flummerty wiped her eyes hard, struggling to regain her composure. She explained the reason for her sorrow haltingly. “It’s . . . it’s the Brigadier. I found him in a corner by those long windows. They killed him!”
Wonwill’s eyes glazed over as he seized the haremaid by her shoulders. “Y’mean our Brigadier . . . Crumshaw . . . dead?”
She nodded, her hot tears splashing on his chest. “He must’ve charged the foxes single-pawed. There were two broken arrows in his chest, and a sword had cut his face from ears to jaw. The Brigadier was lying beside the fox that did it, sah. He must’ve killed the brute with his last breath. He . . . he died all alone, sah!”
Wonwill gazed around at the stricken faces of the other hares. He blinked hard, then smiled through the tears that hung unshed in his eyes. “Forward the Buffs, eh! The ole battlebeast, I never h’imagined Brigadier Crumshaw dyin’ in bed of long seasons, surrounded by medicines an’ such. Dry yore eyes, missy, an’ the rest of ye. D’ye think yore h’officer’d want ye lookin’ like this?”
Young Flunkworthy took a deep breath and mastered his grief. Squinching up one eye as though it held a monocle, he did an amazing impression of the brigadier. “By the left, next one I catch blubbin’, I’ll put him on a flippin’ fizzer, wot wot! Not the done thing, y’know. Can’t abide any bloomin’ beast mopin’ about like a dratted duck at a drownin’, eh wot!”
That did the trick. Though there was still a bit of sniffing and paws being rubbed across eyes, the young hares were much better.
Wonwill winked at Flunkworthy. “That’s the ticket, young Flunk. We’ll mourn the Brigadier later. But for now, let’s see if’n we can’t face up t’the scummy villains who started all this.”
Kersey ground her teeth audibly. “Blood’n’vinegar an’ guts’n’gore, that’s what those murderers are in for when I meet up with ’em!”
Wonwill forestalled further threats by reverting to his old parade-ground-sergeant manner. “Silence in the ranks there, young sahs an’ marms. Keep your ’eads down, weapons ready, an’ wait on my command!”
Captain Zerig gave a grunt of triumph when he saw the small east wallgate still lying ajar. Releasing Rogel’s ear, he strode cautiously into the Abbey grounds and stared all around.
Motioning the vermin in, he remarked to an ermine alongside him, “Mice with broomsticks! There isn’t a mouse in sight anywhere. ’Tis so peaceful an’ quiet ye could lay down an’ take a nap. Hark, Rogel, where are the hordes of mice with broomsticks, eh?”
As the last vermin came through the doorway, Derron Fortindom kicked him in the back, laying him out flat. He slammed the door, shot the bolts and drew his long sabre in one fluid movement. “Apologies for the mice. I sent them indoors. Are hares more t’your likin’, sirrah?”
Zerig saw his fate written plain in the perilous eyes of the sabre-fighting captain. Both he and the vermin who served under him turned to run and seek some means of escape, but none existed: Their way was barred by the swords and javelins of the Long Patrol.
Inside the Abbey, Foremole Bruffy, Sister Armel, Brooky and Burlop Cellarhog, whom they had found wandering in the grounds, had their paws full. At the first shouts of battle, Tergen had tried to get out into the thick of the fray. Clashing his beak and flexing his talons, the maddened goshawk screeched, “Haayaaakah! Stand aside . . . this bird will kill vermin!”
To curtail Tergen’s wild desires, Brooky the ottermaid dropped a huge woven wall hanging over him. The whole thing began leaping about as though it were alive.
Brooky shouted as she tried to hold the covered hawk still, “Somebeast help me before I’m dragged outside!”
Sister Armel, Foremole and Burlop added their weight by sitting on the wall hanging, holding on to the big bump at its centre which jolted up and down. Though Tergen tried to break free, the four Redwallers managed to restrain him.
The roars and bellows from out near the east wall, mingled with the bloodcurdling battle cries of the hares, grew to a crescendo.
Friar Glisum clapped both paws over his ears. “Oh, the dreadful din! What’s happening out there?”
Sister Screeve began climbing on a table to look out of the windows. Her voice had a hysterical ring to it. “It’s slaughter, that’s what it is. Slaughter!”
Surprisingly, it was Abbot Humble who pulled her down. He shook the Recorder mouse, shouting at her, “You were out there a short while back, Sister, killing the vermin with other Redwallers. Of course it’s slaughter—goodbeasts slaughtering evil ones!”
Wandering Walt sat Screeve down, calming her. “Thurr naow, doan’t ee fret yurrself o’er yon vurmint villyuns. They’m h’only gettin’ wot bee’s due to ’em.”
Brother Demple viewed the situation logically. “Sister Screeve, would you sooner have the vermin in here, slaughtering us? I for one would not.”
The two Dibbuns, Mudge and Perkle, had been dashing hither and thither, their voices shrill with excitement. “Bludd’n’vin’ger! Yooleehayleeee!”
Ulba the molemum collared both the babes. “Coom yurr, likkle scallawaggers, sitt still noaw, or oi’ll chase ee both up to you’m beds!”
A sudden silence fell outside. In the eerie quiet which followed, Brooky began laughing. “Hahaha! It’s like hitting yourself over the head with a saucepan, ’cos it’s nice when you stop. Hahahaha!” Her merriment was halted by somebeast banging on the Abbey door.
Abbot Humble called out, “Who is it?”
Wonwill could be heard outside. “ ’Tis us, Father. You can h’open up, sah!”
The Redwallers set up a rousing cheer as the hares marched into Great Hall, but it died upon the lips of everybeast when they saw what the slow-marching Patrol bore between their ranks. Laid out upon a trestle taken from the orchard was the still form of Brigadier Crumshaw. In one paw, the old warrior still held his swagger stick. The broken arrows in his chest and the awful wound across his face could be seen by all. Crumshaw’s monocle dangled from his bloodstained tunic by its cord.
Captain Fortindom saluted Humble with his sabre, nodding toward the makeshift bier. “Father, may we request someplace to lay him until the evenin’? The burial will take place at sundown, in the Abbey grounds, with your permission, sah.”
Humble, who had become firm friends with the feisty old officer, led Fortindom and the bearers over to the great tapestry. Then he addressed the group. “I think the best way we can honour your Brigadier is to lay him there, beneath the likeness of our warrior, Martin.”
Wonwill smiled up at the brave mouse’s picture. “A warrior watched over by a warrior. Father h’Abbot, I think the Brigadier would’ve liked that. Thank ye kindly!”
BOOK THREE
“The Walking Stone”