The Rogue Crew of Skor did likewise. All activity ceased as the lists were taken.
Corporal Welkin Dabbs reported, “Sah, Drander an’ Wilbee have fallen, I regret to say. Lancejack Sage, Trug Bawdsley an’ Lieutenant Scutram all sustained wounds, sah, but they’ll recover, I’m told. The rest o’ the column are all present an’ correct . . . sah!”
Ruggan Axehound saluted his father. “Rogue Crew lost Kite Slayer an’ Endar Feyblade. I ain’t counted the wounded yet, but there’s not many. Er, permission to go after the vermin who escaped out the west gates, Chief?”
Sister Fisk stamped a paw down angrily, her voice shrill. “Haven’t you had enough of killing! Kindly take yourselves into the orchard so we can dress your injuries and feed you!”
Skor was about to speak when Rake interrupted him. “Och, the Sister’s right, ye bloodthirsty auld beastie. We’re all guests o’ the Father Abbot an’ these good creatures, so let’s abide by their rules!”
Thibb bowed solemnly to Rake. “My thanks to you, Captain. Please feel free to avail yourselves of anything Redwall has to offer.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Skor yawned, leaning on his axe haft. “Fair enough, so be it. I’m tired an’ hungry, too. Crew, put up yore weapons!”
Dorka Gurdy had a request. “When yore all fed an’ bandaged, mayhaps ye’d like to shove that filthy ole boat out of our Abbey. It don’t look nice, sittin’ there!”
Amidst general laughter, the warriors of the Long Patrol and the sea otters of the Rogue Crew went off to the orchard followed by a crowd of cheering Redwallers.
35
In her forge chamber at the mountain of Salamandastron, the Badger Lady Violet Wildstripe sat reading. She loved going back through the archives of her legendary fortress. It was early morning. She was sipping a beaker of coltsfoot and burdock tea, perusing the yellowed scrolls and volumes of past scribes. Lady Wildstripe looked up as a gentle tap sounded on her door.
It was Major Felton Fforbes. He eased himself into the chamber quietly. “Ahem, sorry to disturb ye, Milady.”
Putting aside her reading materials, she rose. “Bit of a chill on the air these last few days, Major. May I offer you some hot tea?”
Fforbes twitched his neat grey moustache, accepting the tea. This had almost developed into a morning ritual, as the two mulled over Salamandastron affairs.
The Badger Lady drifted across to the long window, which stood open to the outdoors. There was still a sea mist out on the western horizon. She inhaled deeply, leaning out slightly as she surveyed the mountainside. The major joined her, waiting politely to see what Lady Wildstripe had to say.
Breathing deeply once more, she exhaled slowly with a sigh. “Autumn days have a charm of their own, the aroma of heather and sea milkwort, enchanting!”
Fforbes gave a perfunctory sniff, nodding. “As ye say, Milady, nice scent of autumn, wot!”
She pointed to the lower slopes of the southern face. “And those mountain ash trees, see how they’ve become changed? All the leaves are red and golden brown.”
Fforbes took a quick glance at the rowans, which he had already seen several times since dawn. “Ahem, yes, indeed. Charmin’.”
They stood in silence, the major knowing what Lady Wildstripe’s question would be.
After a while she spoke. “No news of Captain Nightfur and his column today?”
The major drained his beaker, dabbing his moustache with the back of a paw. “No, Milady, ’fraid not. They’ve been gone for some time now, don’t know what the deuce is keepin’ ’em!” He humphed slightly. “Y’d think a simple mission to Lord Axehound on the High North Coast wouldn’t take ’em this long. Autumn’s almost a quarter gone. Let’s hope they make it back by winter, wot, wot?”
Lady Violet watched as the sea mist began evaporating into the soft warm day. “Do you think we should put out a search party, Major?”
Felton Fforbes placed his beaker firmly on the stone windowsill. “Search party, marm? What’n the name o’ blitherin’ seasons for? We’ve got up’ards of a score o’ Gallopers out on the dunes an’ across the northern shores. You’ll know immediately if they’re sighted. No need of search parties. None at all, I should say not!”
Lady Wildstripe felt rather nonplussed. “Why not?”
The major explained, with a hint of vehemence in his tone, “Rake Nightfur, Lieutenant Scutram, Corporal Dabbs an’ Colour Sarn’t Miggory, that’s why! How d’ye think warriors an’ veterans like them would feel? Havin’ t’be fetched back home by some bunch o’ shave-scutted leverets? They’d never live down the blinkin’ shame, Milady!”
Lady Violet spoke softly. “Forgive me, Major. I never thought of that. It’s just as well I have you to advise me.”
Felton Fforbes poured her another beaker of tea, his brusque manner vanishing. “Ahem, I wouldn’t fret over such things, Milady. Tell ye what, though, how’d you like t’go out on a patrol yourself?”
She looked puzzled momentarily. “Me, out on patrol? Whatever for, Major?”
The Long Patrol officer smiled briefly. “Call it a sort of jolly old exercise, wot! You an’ I, an’ the relief Gallopers, we could all go. That way you could see the lay o’ the land. Who knows, marm, ye might even spot Cap’n Nightfur an’ his column. As for the young Gallopers, they’d see it as some sort o’ test. Y’know they’re always out to impress their Badger Lady.”
Violet Wildstripe expressed surprise. “Oh, dear me, I never realised they felt that way.”
The Major chuckled. “Still learnin’, eh, Milady? Shall we say you’ll meet us all shortly on the foreshore? ’Twould be a pity t’waste such a glorious day—great hikin’ weather, wot!”
Lady Wildstripe was delighted at the prospect. “Right, then, I’ll be down in two ticks!”
Old Colonel Bletgore was seated on a smooth sun-warmed rock, leaning his chin on a long knob-handled stick. He accosted a passing Galloper. “I say there, young ripscut, where’s everybeast off to, eh, wot? Speak up!”
The Galloper saluted. She was bright eyed, bushy tailed and eager not to stop and gossip with the ancient colonel. But courtesy to a senior officer bade her reply. “It’s the Second Season Gallopers, sah, we’re to escort Lady Wildstripe on a patrol of the area, sah!”
Bletgore waved his stick at the young hare as she hurried off to join the ranks. “What’n the name o’ blitherin’ boulders would she want t’go on a confounded patrol for, eh . . . wot . . . wot?”
Thirty of the young hares stood lined up on the foreshore, every one brushed, combed, rigged out in light green tunics and fully armed. Lady Wildstripe paced alongside the major as he inspected them. She kept silent, letting Felton Fforbes comment.
“Ah, young Folderum, got Right Markers post, eh? Very good, your pa’d be proud of ye, laddie buck!”
Folderum saluted with his father’s sabre, which was still a trifle too large for him.
“Thankee, Major sah. The patrol are well armed, all carryin’ blades, ten with lances an’ the rest with bows an’ shafts . . . sah!”
The major nodded, moving on down the ranks. “Chin up, Miz Peasblossom. Tuck that tummy in, Grumby. Hold that lance upright, Twilby—don’t want to stab any of your messmates. Is that a top button I see undone, Frubbs Minor? Do it up, bucko, that’s the style!”
He turned to Lady Wildstripe, barking out briskly, “Parade all correct, Milady!”
She gave him a gracious smile. “Thank you, Major. Give the order to lead off. Perhaps with a good marching tune, please.”
Major Felton Fforbes made a small circle in the air with his swagger stick. “Patrol will lead off to the left—aye, an’ give us a lively song. How about ‘General Billyoh’s Rant.’ Right, off y’go, now, quick march!”
Every hare knew the marching song by heart. They roared it out with gusto into the clear autumn morn.