Major Perigord walked in a circle around Tammo, shaking his head and smiling. “Mem Divinia, eh, great seasons
o’ salt, the prettiest hare ever t’slay vermin. I worshiped her, y’know, from afar of course, she was ever the Colonel’s,
and me? Pish tush! I was nought but a young Galloper. Ah for the golden days o’ youth, wot!”
He broke off to listen to the screams of the fleeing vermin growing fainter, then turned to Corporal Rubbadub and
said, “Be s’good as to call the chaps’n’chappesses back, will you, there’s a good creature.”
Still smiling from ear to ear, Rubbadub marched off in the direction of the retreat, his drum noises echoing and
rolling throughout the small woodland.
“Barraboom! Barraboom! Barraboomdiddyboomdiddy boomboom!”
The Major perched gracefully on the fallen beech trunk. “Complete March Hare, ol’ Rubbadub, took too many
head wounds in battle, doncha know. Never speak, but the chap makes better drum noises than a real drum, or four real
drums f that matter. Brave as a badger and fearless as a fried frog, though, a perilous creature t’have on your side in a
pinch.”
Tammo remembered the term “perilous hare,” so he gave the polite rejoinder, “As you say, sah, a perilous creature,
an’ what more could one ask of a hare?”
Perigord nodded his head and winked broadly at the younger beast. “Rather! ’Tis easy t’see you’re the Colonel’s
offspring, though I think that fortunately you favor your mother more.”
Tammo touched his aching head and leaned back against the beech.
Major Perigord was immediately apologetic. “Oh, my dear fellow, what a beauty of a lump they gave you on the
old beezer—you too, Russa. Forgive me, chattin’ away here like a sea gull at suppertime. We must get y’some medical
attention. At ease in the ranks there, sit down an’ rest until Pasque gets back. She’s our healer—have y’right as rain in
two ticks, wot! You’re with the Long Patrol now, y’know, no expense spared!”
Despite his headache, Tammo managed a bright smile. “Did you hear that, Russa? We’re with the Long Patrol!”
13
To Tammo’s utter amazement, when all the hares returned to camp, he counted only eleven, including Perigord and
Rubbadub. The Major was amused by the look on his new friend’s face.
“I can see what you’re thinkin’, laddie buck. Well, let me tell you, the Long Patrol counts quality high above
quantity, wot! Here, let me introduce y’to our happy band. This is our Galloper, Riffle, fleet of paw and faster’n the
wind. Sergeant Torgoch, a walkin’ armory, collects weapons, ’specially blades. These two’re Tare’n’Turry the terrible
twins, can’t tell ’em apart, eh, never mind, neither c’n I. Lieutenant Mono, our Quartermaster, can steal a nut from a
squirrel’s mouth an’ make him diink he’s jolly well eaten it. My sister, Captain Twayblade, charming singer but rather
perilous with that long rapier she carries. The delightful Pasque Valerian, best young medico t’come off the mountain,
I’ve seen her fix a butterfly’s wing. That chap there’s Midge Manycoats. He’s our spy, master o’ disguise an’ deadly
with a noose. Then there’s Rockjaw Grang, Giant o’ the Norm, bet y’ve never seen a hare that size in a season’s
march. That leaves m’self, whom y’ve met, an’ Corporal Rubbadub, the droll drummer.”
Rubbadub smiled widely, clapping his ears together twice and issuing a drum sound so that it looked as if the ears,
and not his mouth, had made the noise.
“Boomboom!”
Russa nudged Tammo and, nodding toward Torgoch, murmured, “That ’un’s carryin’ yore blade, mate!”
Amid the array of daggers, swords, and knives bristling from Torgoch’s belt, the young hare identified his own
weapon, its shoulder belt wound ’round the blade.
Tammo braced himself and faced the hare. “Beg pardon, old lad, but I rather think that’s my dirk you’ve got.”
The Sergeant took Tammo’s weapon from his belt. Balancing it deftly on his paw, he smiled ruefully. “I ’oped it
wouldn’t be, young sir, ’tis a luvverly blade. I took it orf a vermin oo didn’t look as if Vd be usin’ it agin. You’d best
’ave it back, y’don’t see knives like this’n a lyin’ about every day. A proper officer’s weapon ’tis, I’d say a Badger
Lord could’ve made it.”
Tammo was about to put on the belt when he suddenly sat down hard on the ground and began shivering. The ache
in his head had become overwhelming. The tall saturnine Lieutenant Mono nodded gloomily at Pasque Valerian and
said, “I’ll light a fire an’ heat some water. You’d best see to that young ’un, he’s got a touch o’ battle shock. I recall
m’self bein’ like that first time I saw serious action.”
Pasque sat alongside Tammo, rummaging in her herbalist’s pouch. “Lie back now, easy does it. Here, chew on this
—dkm’t swallow it, though. Spit it out when you’ve had enough.”
It was a sort of sticky moss, bound together by some type of vegetable gum, with a taste reminiscent of mint and
roses. Tammo chewed slowly, and through half-closed lids he watched Pasque mixing herbs by the fire. She was the
prettiest, most gentle creature he had ever encountered. Tammo resolved that he would get to know her better, then his
thoughts became muddled as he drifted away into warm dark seas of slumber. Night had fallen when he awakened, and
a delicious aroma of cooking reminded him he was very hungry.
Perigord’s sister, Twayblade, patted the log beside her. “Feelin’ better now, young ’un? Come an’ perch here. Rub-
badub, bring this beast somethin’ to eat, wot.”
Instinctively, Tammo reached to touch his injured head. A massive paw engulfed his, and he found himself staring
upward into the fearsome face of the giant hare, Rockjaw Grang.
“Nay, lad, th’art not to touch thy ’ead yet awhile. Best leave alone what our little lass ’as patched up. Sithee, coom
an’ set by t’fire.”
Rockjaw picked Tammo up as if he were a babe and sat him down between Twayblade and Pasque, who smiled
quietly at him and said, “I hope you’re feeling better this evening.”
Tammo flushed to his eartips and muttered incoherently, feeling completely awkward and embarrassed for the first
time in his life. He wanted so much to talk with Pasque, yet his tongue would not obey his brain. Rubbadub saved the
situation by marching up with a bowl of hot pea and celery soup with fresh-baked bread to dip in it.
He winked and grinned broadly. “Drrrmrr tish boom!”
Russa raised her eyebrows. “Oh, he does cymbals too?”
The young Galloper Riffle refilled the squirrel’s beaker. “Aye, marm, bugles also, an’ flutes when he’s a mind to.
Ol’ Rubbadub’s a full band when the mood takes him.”
Major Perigord turned to his troop good-humoredly. “Stripe me, but you’re a dull bunch o’ ditch wallopers! We
ain’t welcomed our guests with the anthem yet.”
Tammo looked up from his soup. “The anthem?”
Midge Manycoats took out a tiny flute and got the right key. “Humm, humm, fa, sol la te, fa, fa, fa, that’s it. Right,
troop, the ‘Song of the Long Patrol.’ Like to hear it, Tammo?”
The young hare nodded eagerly. “Rather, I’d love to!”
With Midge acting as conductor and choirmaster, the little woodland camp with its flickering fire shadows, echoed
to the famous marching air of the Salamandastron fighters.
“O it’s hard and dry when the sun is high
And dust is in your throat,
When the rain pours down, near fit to drown, It soaks right through your coat.
But the hares of the Long Patrol, my lads,