Carrul had already anticipated the problem. Unfortunately, he could not hold out a great deal of hope. “We need to contact our badger friend and get him inside here, but that’s not possible. The Searats are standing between him and us. We’ll just have to wait our chance, though there isn’t much likelihood of that at present.”
Martha tried to hide the frustration in her voice. “But there won’t be a much better opportunity than right now. Most of the Searats’ attention is on the badger. If only we had somebeast who could slip out unnoticed! Whoever it was could leave by the small eastwall gate. They’d be shielded from any attention by the Abbey building. It wouldn’t be hard to steal through the woodlands to the corner of the northwest wall. When it got dark, it would be simple to creep out onto the flatlands and make contact with the badger. Then they could both return the same way.”
The Abbot folded both paws within his wide habit sleeves. “No, ’tis far too risky at the moment, Martha. We’ll wait—tomorrow, perhaps. Oh dear, all this worry and strife. I’m longing for the day when those villains are long gone from Redwall and we can all get back to a normal, peaceful life.”
Martha stood up. “Don’t fret, Father, it’ll happen when you least expect it. Do you know, I feel restless. Think I’ll exercise my new walking skills. I’ll go up to the dormitory windows and see how things are going. Best steer clear of Great Hall, and all those pepper bombs bursting inside.”
The Abbot smiled wearily at his young friend. “Take things easy, Martha, don’t go tiring yourself out.”
She paused on the stairway. “Oh, I’ll go as slowly as Old Phredd. By the way, Father, could you do me a favour? Will you sit guard on these stairs and make sure those Dibbuns don’t go rushing back to Great Hall?”
Abbot Carrul stretched himself lengthways across the step. “Certainly. I might doze off a little, but they won’t get past me. You go on now, and remember what I said about taking things easy!”
However, taking things easy was the last thing on the young haremaid’s mind. Martha had a mission: she would be the one to contact the badger. She went up to the back rooms on the east side, choosing one that was mainly used as a linen store. It was filled with blankets, sheets and tablecloths.
Knotting bedsheets together, she fashioned a makeshift rope, reasoning aloud to herself. “Finally I can do something useful to help Redwall. Now I can walk, and run, too. After all those seasons stuck in a chair, it would be a crime to waste my new gift!”
Climbing down the rope was easier than the haremaid had imagined. She had forgotten how strong her grip had become from wheeling a chair about for most of her life.
35
Dawn light seeped over the river, casting a haze of pale green-gold mist. Saro lounged in the stern of the main logboat with Bragoon, savouring the new day, and a few scones still warm from early breakfast.
“Ah, this is the life, mate, save the wear’n’tear on me ole footpaws. There’s nothin’ like a nice lazy rivertrip, eh?”
The otter grinned as Horty approached them, pushing on a hefty oarpole, part of two double lines of shrews. The young hare turned and started to make his way back to the prow, where he would repeat the process of poling the craft upriver.
He glared at the otter’s cheery face and stuck his tongue out insultingly at Saro. “Blinkin’ idle bounders, sittin’ on your bloomin’ tails, wallopin’ down scones, while I slave m’self into an early grave. Huh, should be blinkin’ well ashamed of y’selves!”
Briggy left the prow and strode down the centre of the logboat, between both lines of polers. Exchanging a sly wink with Bragoon and Saro, he clipped Horty lightly across the ears, roaring at him in true rivercraft language, “Avast there, ye long-legged layabout, quit prattlin’ an’ git polin’. We gotta build those muscles up t’make a warrior of ye! Ain’t it a wunnerful life, nothin’ t’do but pole about all day on the river, ye lucky swab! Dwingo, give us a drumbeat there. Come on, shrews, put yore backs into it. Sing out a polin’ shanty to speed us on our way. Push, ye shrinkin’ daisies. Push!”
The drumbeat rolled out, echoing around the forested banks, with deep, gruff shrew voices singing in chorus. The shanty was a totally untrue pack of insults about Log a Log Briggy, but he sang along with them lustily.
“Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!
Our Cap’n is a bad ole shrew,
I wish I’d never signed to roam.
He feeds us worms an mudpies, too,
oh ma, let me come sailin’ home.
Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!
Ole Briggy is a lazy hog,
wid a belly like a tub o’ lard,
if we don’t call ’im Log a Log,
he beats us bad an’ treats us hard.
Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!
One day our logboat sprang a leak,
an’ I gave out an ’earty wail,
the Cap’n gave me nose a tweak,
an’ plugged that leak up wid me tail.
Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!
We ran head-on into a gale,
our Cap’n made me cry sad tears,
’cos the wind ’ad ripped right through the sail,
so he patched the canvas wid me ears.
Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!
Ye’ve heard me story, messmates all,
an’ if I spoke a lie to you,
may me nose swell into a fat red ball,
an’ me bottom turn bright green’n’blue.
Barrum, babba, whum! Pole to the beat o’ the drum!”
Horty was astonished; he turned to the shrew behind him. “By the left! I say, old chap, are you allowed to bandy insults like that about Briggathingee, wot?”
The shrew kept poling as he gave Horty a broad wink. “It ain’t serious, mate, ’tis all done in good fun!”
Briggy saw Horty gossiping and descended upon him. “Stop jawin’ an’ keep pawin’, rabbitchops, or I’ll ’ave yore whiskers for desksweepers!”
The young hare gave Briggy a cheeky grin and launched into a barrage of insults. “Oh shut your blatherin’ cakescoffer, y’great bearded windbag! You sound like a duck with a beakache, hasn’t anybeast ever told you? Hah, tush’n’pish for all your ilk, sah, you wobble-pawed, twinky-tailed excuse for a barrel-bummed toad. Who d’you think you’re jolly well talkin’ to, you wiggle-whiskered, bawlin’ braggart!”
Horty turned back to the shrew he had spoken to previously. “Pretty good, wot! That told old Log-a-pudden a thing or two!”
The ashen-faced shrew hissed back at him. “We only ever does it in songs, all t’gether like. If’n you speak like that, face t’face wid a Log a Log o’ Guorafs, that’s mutiny, mate!”
Horty turned round to find Briggy looming over him with a face like thunder.
The force of the shrew chieftain’s roars made Horty’s long ears flap. “Mutiny, eh? I won’t ’ave mutineers aboard my logboat! Grab ’old o’ this mutinous beast, put ’im to task! No more rations for ’im while he’s on this vessel!”
Four shrews frogmarched the hapless hare off to the stern where he was given a large sack of wild onions to clean and peel.
Bragoon made his way to the prow, where he had a quiet word with the shrew chieftain. “Ye were a bit ’ard on Horty there, mate. The young ’un wasn’t wise to yore rules an’ reg’lations, he thought ’twas all a bit of a joke. Horty didn’t mean ye no real insult.”
Briggy’s eyes twinkled. “I know he didn’t, friend, but I said I’d toughen ’im up. If’n that young ’un ever expects t’join the Long Patrol, he’s gotta learn manners an’ curb his tongue. Could ye imagine one o’ those hare officers from the Long Patrol lettin’ a recruit speak to ’im like that? Joke or not, some stiff-eared sergeant would clap ’im on a charge an’ use ’is guts fer garters!”