Rakkety Tam

27

Dawn had not yet broken over the west flatlands outside Redwall. Brigadier Crumshaw stood on the Abbey walltop above the main gates, accompanied by Sergeant Wonwill, Captain Fortindom, Abbot Humble and Burlop Cellarhog.

The brigadier jammed his monocle into position as he polished it. Peering out impatiently over the darkened plain, he muttered aloud, “Confound the rotters! Y’know, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if their bally nerve failed ’em an’ they didn’t turn up—eh, Sergeant? Wot wot!”

Wonwill screwed his eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of the foe. “Might be as y’say, sah, h’I can’t see a blinkin’ sign of ’em. Huh, but me ole sight ain’t wot it used t’be, sah.”

Tergen came hobbling up the wallsteps, still munching on a breakfast oatcake. “Haraaaark! This bird will see what you cannot!” With a hop and a skip, he leaped into a space between the battlements. His keen gaze swept the area, then he nodded knowingly. “Yahaaar! This bird has sighted vermin!”

Crumshaw glared at the goshawk. “Where away, friend?”

Tergen indicated with a talon. “Kaaaarrr! See, Wotwot, two arrow flights to the north. The vermin make fire over yonder, look!”

Burlop turned his attention to the pale flicker which showed to the northwest. “I can make ’em out, sure enough, all gathered round the fire in their cloaks. Well, it looks like we’re going to get our battle today, Brigadier.”

Crumshaw stared askance at the solid young hedgehog. “We, sirrah! D’ye mean you’ll be joinin’ us out there?”

Burlop held up the stave axe and the coopering mallet he had brought along. “Never fear, I’ll be right there! I live at Redwall, so I’m fit an’ able to defend my Abbey.”

Derron Fortindom posed elegantly, paw on sabre hilt. He gave Burlop an admiring glance. “Well said that, chap, wot! Pity you won’t be takin’ the field t’day, Brigadier. But never fret, sah, I’ll put a few vermin on the account under your name.”

The monocle fell from Crumshaw’s eye in astonishment. “What the dickens d’ye mean, Captain? Who says I won’t be joinin’ the skirmish, eh?”

Abbot Humble summoned up his courage and faced the angry old hare. “Er, begging your pardon, friend, but I for one must say it. You can hardly fight with one paw in a sling and a hole through your shoulder that isn’t healed.”

The brigadier’s moustache bristled with indignation. “Pish tush, Father! ’Tis me duty, I’ve got to go, wot wot!”

Tergen attempted to flap his bandaged and splinted wing. “Akkaawww! Wotwot, you like this bird, hurted. You, me, we cannot go. Be inna way of fightin’ beasts. We stay!”

The brigadier raised his swagger stick as if he were about to strike somebeast. He vented his fury on them. “Never! I say never, d’ye hear? My orders are orders around here. I say I go, an’ by the cringe I shall go!”

Wonwill attempted to placate him. “Beggin’ y’pardon, sah, but you’ll be far better off up ’ere with the Father H’Abbot. You ain’t in no fit state to fight, sah, if’n ye’ll forgive me sayin’.”

Crumshaw rounded on him. “No, I will not forgive ye sayin’, Sergeant. One more word from ye an’ I’ll slap ye on a flamin’ charge!”

Wonwill turned away, shrugging his shoulders. “Is that yore last word, Brigadier sah?”

Crumshaw stuck his chin out defiantly. “Indeed it is! The very idea, not leadin’ me own hares out t’fight the enemy. Unthinkable, Sergeant, unheard of . . . !”

He got no further because Wonwill spun on his paws and shot a neat, powerful left hook to his brigadier’s chin. Before Crumshaw’s unconscious body collapsed to the walkway, Wonwill had him tightly, supporting him.

“Mister Derron, take the h’officer’s footpaws an’ ’elp me get the ole boy downstairs. Father, is there any place we can make ’im comf’table?”

Burlop stepped in and relieved Wonwill of his burden. Lifting Crumshaw easily, the strong young Cellarhog strode down the wallsteps with no apparent effort. “Brother Gordale will be in the kitchens for breakfast. I’ll put the Brigadier in the gatehouse bed. ’Tis a big, soft ’un.”

The Long Patrol were forming up on the front lawn by the gatehouse. The young hares broke ranks to gape at the curious sight.

“I say, has the old chap dozed off?”

“Haw haw, now there’s a cool head on the mornin’ of a blinkin’ battle, eh wot?”

Wonwill came marching down the wallsteps. “Nah then, wot’s all this then? Back in y’ranks, eyes front, stan’ to attention. That means you, too, Miss Folderon!”

The hares fell into formation as Derron Fortindom came onto parade with an announcement to make. “Right, listen up, you chaps. My goodself an’ the Sergeant will be leading the attack today. Make sure blades an’ lances are at the ready. Don’t want t’see anybeast trippin’ up or stumblin’ over a weapon. Slingers, check your stone pouches. Archers, I hope those bowstrings are unfrayed an’ quivers are full. Any questions?”

Flummerty piped up. “Is the Brigadier ill, sah?”

The captain thought up an answer quickly. “Er, no. Actually his wound was botherin’ him. He had a bad night, so he’s gone off to catch a little sleep.”

The haremaid fluttered her long, dark eyelashes. “I had a bad night, too, Captain. That Folderon, she was snoring like a bucket o’ frogs, kept me jolly well awake. Can I nip back to the dormitory an’ catch a little sleep, too?”

Captain Fortindom, often tongue-tied in the presence of pretty young maids, was temporarily lost for an answer. Wonwill, however, was made of sterner stuff when it came to fluttering lashes and coy glances.

He tweaked Flummerty’s ear. “Nah then, me blushin’ beauty, ye can sleep when you’ve battered a few o’ those vermin flat with those eyelashes, but if ye pout anymore you’ll ’ave ’em dancin’ on that rosy red bottom lip o’ yores. Straighten yore face, miss!”

Daybreak was soon upon them. With the rising sun warming their backs, the warriors came out of the front gates, marching in double file.

Burlop halted out on the path. Turning, he waved to Humble up on the ramparts. “See the gates are shut tight, Father, an’ keep everybeast indoors until this is over. We don’t want ’em straying out onto the wall an’ riskin’ any harm.”

The Abbot smiled down at his young protégé. “I will, Brother Burlop. You watch yourself out there. Pay heed to the officers’ orders. Go safely, my son!”

The young Cellarhog waved his mallet and hurried off to join the rear. Humble’s emotions were mixed as he watched him go: though very proud of Burlop, he was also very sad to see a normally peaceful young Redwaller going out to battle. The old hedgehog wiped away a tear, murmuring aloud to himself, “If I’d had a son, he could not be dearer to me than you are, young Burlop.”

Fortindom strung his hares out on the flatlands in skirmish order after they had entered the plain to the south. The Patrol stood facing the vermin, both sides just out of arrowshot of each other.

The sergeant squinted forward at the enemy. “Cap’n, they’ve got about twoscore comin’ at us. The rest look t’be layin’ in reserve around that fire. Wot do ye think, sah, a pincer movement may’aps?”

Fortindom drew his sabre as he weighed the situation up. “Hmm . . . I think not, Sergeant. When the points of our pincer meet, that’d leave the vermin reserves to strike at our centre. I think we’ll take a straight runnin’ fight to ’em. Not just a charge, mind—leave lots of halts for arrows an’ slingstones but keep pressin’ forward, eh?”

Wonwill liked the idea. “Aye, then if’n those scum find the guts, they might try to charge us. Hah, ’twill be bad luck to the vermin, Cap’n. Our Long Patrol’s never been beaten in a charge, ’tis wot we do best.”

Fortindom clipped a buttercup with an artful cut of his blade. He pinned the flower in his buttonhole. “Have ’em advance five paces behind me, Sergeant. Right, let’s open the ball, eh wot!”

The gallant captain strode forward a certain number of paces, then halted. A deadly hush lay over the ground from both sides. He raised his sabre elegantly, kissing the blade as he did. “A fine mornin’ for filthy flesh eaters t’die, wot?”

The hares held their breath as a dozen arrows whipped through the air from the vermin ranks toward the lone hare standing out front. But Fortindom, an excellent judge of distance, did not back down. As the arrows thudded into the earth, a mere pace short of his footpaws, he rapped out sharply, “Longbows . . . fire! Slingers . . . stand ready!”

The Long Patrol used much larger bows than the vermin archers. Ten hares had been waiting with long ashwood shafts fitted to their tall yew bows. They let fly, angling the bows slightly upward. The arrows buzzed through the sunlit morn like angry bees as the air played through their grey gull feather flights. The vermin archers fell back fast, but four of their number were not fast enough, and the shafts found them.

Then the battle began in earnest. Whirling their slings, the hare throwers ran out beyond the archers. They cast off their stones as the war cries thundered forth. “Eulaliiiiiiaaaaaa! Give ’em blood’n’vinegaaaaaar!”

The vermin archers regrouped and fired. Two hares went down. “Gulo! Gulo! Kill kill kiiiiiillll!”

The vermin slingers came forward slowly, with the spear, sword, and axe carriers following as the slingers cast their stones. The hare archers began firing on the run, the slingers advancing, too.

Still out front, Fortindom leveled his fearsome sabre blade straight at the foe, shouting, “Forward the Patrol! Chaaaaaarge!”

Burlop Cellarhog found himself plunging forward with the Long Patrol warriors. Brandishing both axe and mallet, he roared out bloodcurdling war cries with the best of his comrades. Filled with an exultation he had never known, the young Cellarhog covered the ground just as swiftly as the fleet-pawed hares.

But there was no crash of conflict as both sides met. Splitting into two groups, the vermin veered off in two directions. Burlop was level with Captain Fortindom as they sped forward, heading straight for the smaller group of reserve fighters around the fire. Two unsuspecting ermine were facing the frontrunners. Fortindom’s sabre flashed like summer lightning, decapitating one. The other dithered for a brief moment, his eyes searching out any avenue of escape before meeting those of Burlop in a fleeting glance. Then the Cellarhog’s heavy coopering mallet cracked down on the ermine’s skull, slaying him instantly. Fortindom whirled, slashing with his lethal blade at the cloaked figures around the fire. He ground to a halt as the vermin crumpled and collapsed around him. The captain’s sabre sliced through another spearhaft, which was propped upright beneath a cloak.

He howled furiously, “Decoys! They were only decoys, set up to fool us, with a couple o’ real ones to bait the trap!”

Hurtling across to where Burlop was sitting next to the ermine he had despatched, Fortindom cursed, “Hell’s teeth of blood’n’fire! Decoys!” Then he shouted to the hares who were pursuing the fleeing vermin, “Run ’em down, me buckoes! No surrender an’ no quarter! Run the scum into the ground. Take no prisoners!”

With dust spurting from his footpaws and bloodlight shining in his eyes, Fortindom thundered off in search of prey.

Burlop was in no state to heed the fray. He sat, motionless at first, staring at the creature he had slain. Then he began to rock back and forth, tears streaming down his homely face as the awful realisation hit him. He sobbed brokenly. “I’m sorry, I never meant to kill you. I’m only the Cellarhog from the Abbey. Please, please forgive me. I’ve never done this before, I’m not a warrior!”

But the sightless eyes of the dead ermine were turned up to the high bright sun, as if ignoring his killer’s pleas. Axe and mallet fell unheeded from Burlop’s paws. He rose slowly, staggering back toward Redwall like a creature in a walking dream, his tears watering the small flowers of the flatlands as he stumbled back home to the Abbey.

Throughout all the commotion, a pair of grappling hooks clanged over the battlements at the east wall. They grated upon the red sandstone, taking the strain as eight white foxes scaled the rope ladder which was attached to the grapnels.

Freeta the vixen was first over the walltop. She helped the others up, reminding them of their mission. “Rogel, Farn, get down below and open that little wallgate. Ye know what ye must do?”

Rogel drew his curved sword. “Aye, we hold it until Captain Zerig and the others get here. After we let them in, we lock the gate an’ check all other entrances are tight shut. Then the tall rabbit warriors will be locked outside the Abbey.”

Gazing from the walltop at the deserted grounds inside the outer wall, Freeta squirmed with delight. “Who but a vixen could think of such a plan? Look ye at this place—’tis a paradise!”

Farn strung an arrow to his bow, grinning wolfishly. “Aye, an’ peaceful, too. All the creatures who are not warriors must be hiding inside the big house.”

A tall, gaunt fox gazed hungrily at the Abbey building. “Methinks ’tis like a great meatstore!”

Freeta pointed her blade at him meaningly. “Thy life will be short if ye touch them before Zerig arrives an’ this place is secure. We will need captives to show us about this wondrous place. They can tell us where all their treasures are hidden. We will make them talk.” She licked her blade before adding, “One way or another. Follow me an’ heed my orders. We will find a way into the big house.”

In the second-floor dormitories, Redwallers crowded the west windows, watching the fight out on the flatlands.

The ottermaid Brooky shaded her eyes. “It’s a bit far out to see ’em properly, Armel. Oh, what a shame, I was enjoying seein’ those horrors gettin’ their comeuppance. Where are they now—can anybeast see?”

The goshawk stood on a sill, his keen eyes missing little. “Harraaaggg! They scatter like flies, but our warriors are after them. Now the vermin run back to the woodland.”

Foremole Bruffy smote the sill with a heavy digging claw. “You’m cowurds! Oi ’opes ee ’arebeasts h’appre’nds they’m villyuns afore they’m gets ’idden in ee trees!”

Sister Armel had lost any great interest in the battle once she had witnessed the vermin being routed. Her immediate concern was to prevent any of the Dibbuns from falling out of the dormitory windows. She grabbed the tail of Mimsie the mousebabe, not a moment too soon.

“Back in here, missy, right now! Down you go onto the floor. Tergen, please don’t lean against the shutters on that injured wing like that, it’ll never heal properly. Mudge, don’t lean out so far, you’ll fall. Oh come in, you rascal, there’s nothing to see anymore!”

Abbot Humble took hold of the molebabe, but the little one clung to the sill, resisting any attempt to pull him back into the safety of the dormitory.

Mudge protested. “Burr leggo, H’Abbot zurr. Oi’m watchin’ ee foskers down thurr on ee steps!”

Humble drew Mudge inside, looking over the sill as he did. “There’s no foxes down there, you little fibber. . . .” Then he caught sight of Freeta and her crew, who had stepped back from the Abbey door and were looking upward.

Humble pulled back hastily. “Tergen, come in off that sill! Jem, Walt, close the shutters. Be still and quiet everybeast, please!”

Sister Screeve glimpsed the Abbot’s shocked face. “Father, what’s the matter?”

Humble pointed to the window, his voice a hushed whisper. “Foxes at our Abbey door. How did they get into Redwall?”

“Search me, I never asked ’em. Sneaky villains, hahaha!” Everybeast turned to glare at the ottermaid.

Armel silenced her sharply. “It’s no laughing matter, Brooky!”

Brooky looked around sheepishly. “Sorry!”

Brother Gordale turned to Humble. “What shall we do, Father?”

The Abbot sat down on a bed. “Er, er . . . give me a moment will you, friend? Let me think.”

The strong young ottermaid grabbed two long window poles, tossing one to Armel. “Let’s get down there. The rest of you, find something to use as a weapon and follow us quietly!”

Freeta banged on the Abbey door with her sword hilt. Another fox placed his mouth to the crack of the doorjamb and called aloud, “We have seen ye. Open this door or ’twill go badly with ye!”

There was no answer. Freeta instructed two other foxes, “Climb up one of those ledges to the right. Have a look through those long, coloured windows an’ tell me what ye see.”

The one fox, by climbing onto the shoulders of the other, was able to reach the sill, then easily scrabble up over the smooth stone. He spat on the windowpane, then began rubbing at it with his paw.

Armel and Brooky were crossing Great Hall when the ottermaid, detecting a squeaking noise from the windows, spotted the fox peering in through a section of amber-coloured glass.

Holding the brass-hooked window pole low, she whispered to her friend, “Go and see what he wants. Don’t look at me . . . Go!”

Once she reached the window, Armel mouthed a question to the fox on the other side of the glass. “What do you want?”

She had to repeat the question before the intruder understood. Pointing to his open mouth and grinning wickedly, he pantomimed an eating gesture, clearly indicating Armel as his desired meal. She smiled back at him, mouthing a reply. “You want to eat me?!”

The white fox nodded. Walking out of his view, Brooky stole along the wall beneath the window until she reached a bench nearby. The fox was still mimicking the act of eating, licking his lips and showing his teeth, when Brooky jumped up on the bench. The large, solid ottermaid slammed the window pole hard at the stained-glass section, smashing it through the window—and the fox’s fangs at the same time. He fell backward with a gurgling scream.

Freeta and the others came running. She grabbed hold of the injured one, heaving him upright and shaking him as she grated angrily, “What happened . . . Who did this? Speak, fool!”

The fox tried to mumble something, but his mouth was too badly injured. Blood spattered the vixen’s face.

Repulsed, she pushed him away before turning upon his companion. “Why weren’t you up there, too, mudbrain?”

He protested. “There was no room for two. I was holding his paws lest he fell . . . Duuuunnnhhhh!”

Freeta ducked sideways, narrowly missing two window poles which, instead, thudded down so hard on the fox’s head that he collapsed to the ground—unconscious. The vixen managed to grab the end of one pole. Tugging it, she yelled at the other foxes, “Do something! Shoot arrows through that broken window!”

“Eulaliiiiaaaaaa!”

The vermin whirled about, just in time to see Brigadier Crumshaw emerging from the gatehouse, making a lone charge across the lawns toward them. The old hare was waving his swagger stick, running right for the foxes.

Freeta snapped an order at the three vermin who had already notched shafts to their bowstrings. “Stop him! Fire!”

One arrow went wide of its mark, but the other two struck Crumshaw. Amazingly, he carried on with his headlong charge, still waving his stick and roaring, “Give ’em blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliiiiiaaaa!”

Freeta was backed up against the Abbey wall as the brigadier bulled his way through to her. She slashed at his face with her sickle-curved sword. Crumshaw was injured a second time, but he was unstoppable. Struggling to gain control of the weapon, he had seized the sword by the blade, which resulted in deep cuts to his paws. Despite the brigadier’s pain, in one last desperate effort he turned the blade until its point was against the vixen’s neck, hurling his full weight onto it. They fell to the ground together, locked in a death hold. Freeta stared at him disbelievingly and gave a dying gurgle.

The brigadier slumped forward, his mouth against the dead fox’s ear as he gasped his last words, “Forward the Buffs . . . wot . . . Eulayyyyy.”