Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

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!”

Bragoon agreed. “Yore right, Briggy, a bit o’ discipline wouldn’t ’urt ’im. All three o’ them young ’uns’ve been livin’ the soft life at Redwall fer too long. The two maids are much better be’aved than Horty, they’ll lissen t’reason. But Horty’s too wild an’ ’eadstrong. One day he’ll make a fine warrior—after he’s learned a few stern lessons.”

Briggy stroked his beard. “Don’t fret, mate, I’ll knock all the rough edges off’n Horty. My Jigger was the same ’til I showed ’im the ropes. Lookit Jigger now, commandin’ his own logboat. There’s a young shrew anybeast’d be proud t’call son!”

The otter went back astern and sat with Saro. Behind them Horty was weeping buckets as he peeled and chopped the pungent wild onions. He went at it with vim and vigour, though scowling and muttering about the injustices of life aboard a logboat.

“Bit flippin’ thick this lot, wot? A few measly words to old Brigalog an’ he treats a chap like a bloomin’ vermin marauder! I mean, what did I say? The bearded old buffer should count himself jolly well lucky, wot! Oh, yes indeed, when Hortwill Braebuck Esquire starts really chuckin’ insults, he could roast the flamin’ ears off a milky-whiskered shrew. I could’ve called the chap a lot worse! Twiggle-jawed trout! Giddy-nosed toad! Pickled old pollywog! Witless water beetle! Puddle-pawed duck’s bottom! Or even Skinnyforlinkee Wobblechops! Huh, I think I let him off lightly, really. Good job one can hold one’s temper, wot wot!”

Log a Log Briggy came striding down between the polers. “Ahoy there, mates, is that mutineer be’avin’ hisself? I might let ’im get a bite o’ supper tonight, if’n I ’ears an apology.”

Bragoon nudged Horty. “Did ye hear that, matey?”

The young hare turned a face, still running onion tears, to the Guoraf chieftain and declared dramatically, “Y’mean you’d restore my scoffin’ privileges, sah? Merciful Logawotsyaname, I’ll peel every last one of these foul fruits, I swear I will. Good Captain, I’ll be the saltiest young riverbeast you ever clapped eyes on. Listen to this. Shiver me sails an’ rot me timbers, fry me barnacles, scrape me keel, an’ all that nautical jimjam. You, matey sah, are lookin’ at a completely reformed beast!”

Briggy glanced at Saro. “Wot d’ye think, marm, is that a rogue worth feedin’?”

The aging squirrel saw the haunted look in Horty’s eyes and took pity. “Aye, Cap’n, only a moment ago Horty was sayin’ wot a good ole Log a Log ye are. Ain’t that right, Brag?”

With difficulty, the otter kept a straight face. “Right enough, I’d give ’im another chance if ’twas up t’me.”