Rakkety Tam Page 8

  Wonwill was haranguing the slower marchers in typical sergeant fashion. “Step lively now, ye bunch o’ ditherin’ daisies—left, right, left, right! Flummerty, sort ’em out, that’s your left! Pick up those paws, you ’orrible little h’animal. Straighten that back, missie, think ’ow lucky you are. Out for a nice walk on a lovely day, eh! Folderon, wipe that smile offa yore face, missie, an’ stop flutterin’ yore lovely eyelashes at young Flunkworthy, or I’ll ’ave yore scut for supper! Keep up at the back there—chins in, chests out, shoulders back, eyes front. That’s the ticket, me buckoes!”

  Doogy chuckled at the dismayed faces of the three back rankers. “Flunkworthy, Folderon an’ Flummerty, eh, the awkward squad. Poor wee beasties, they dinna know the sergeant’s all bark an’ no bite tae the young ’uns.”

  Tam spat out sand kicked up by the front rank. “Aye, but they’ll learn soon enough. ’Tis one thing goin’ for a walk an’ another keepin’ pace with a regiment.”

  It was midnoon before the brigadier gave orders to call a halt, and that was only because he was waiting on reports from the forward scouts. They set up camp where dunes and sand gave onto the heath and flatlands.

  Tam and Doogy sat with Wonwill and Corporal Wopscutt, resting whilst they dined off haversack rations. Crumshaw had given orders that no fires were to be lit. The food was plain but nourishing—thick slices of chestnut and barley bread with wedges of yellow cheese, washed down with mint and pennycloud cordial.

  Ferdimond De Mayne was sitting with another group close by. His voice could be heard clearly as he directed remarks at Doogy.

  “Haw haw haw! Wild Doogy Plumm, eh? What sort of a bloomin’ name is that for a chap, wot? Fat little braggart with a silly great tail who wears a flippin’ skirt. No wonder he’s jolly well wild. Haw haw haw!”

  Doogy reached for his claymore, growling, “Ah’ll put a button on yon lanky toad’s lip. That’ll teach him tae mock mah kilt!”

  With a firm paw, the sergeant prevented Doogy rising. “Stay put, mate. Pay no ’eed t’young De Mayne. Only a fool rises to the bait of h’another fool.”

  Tam had a grip on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s right, Doogy, let it be. The time’ll come when you’ll face him, but not right now.”

  The little Highlander thumped his paw against the ground. “Aye well, it cannae come soon enough for me, ye ken!”

  Further discussion was cut short by the arrival of two young hares, the scouts Kersey and Dauncey, a twin brother and sister. The brigadier joined his sergeant’s group, beckoning the scouts to sit with them.

  “Strewth, here’s the best young gallopers we’ve had in many a season, wot. Corporal Wopscutt, bring ’em vittles an’ something t’drink. Well, chaps, how did the reccy go?”

  Dauncey was still panting as he threw a salute. “Phew! Followed the vermin tracks nor’east, sah. . . .”

  Kersey continued as her brother paused. “Still the same bunch of villains, sah, with that odd-pawed beast leadin’ ’em. . . .”

  Then it was Dauncey’s turn. “They were at a high-banked stream yesterday. Seems they captured some River Rats—Driftail’s bunch it was, sah. . . .”

  The brigadier’s monocled eye swivelled to Kersey. “Our old foe Driftail, eh? How did ye know ’twas him?”

  Kersey pulled a digusted face. “We found his blinkin’ head, sah. Dreadful thing t’report, but the vermin ate the River Rats!”

  Dauncey duly followed his sister. “All save two, sah, whom they took along with ’em when they broke camp. Good golly gosh! Fancy scoffin’ a gang o’ scummy rats, filthy vermin, wot!”

  Crumshaw polished his monocle studiously. “I wouldn’t shed any tears over those blighters, young ’un. They’ve done their share of slayin’ in the past. A few less for us to bother about, wot! Where d’you estimate the vermin’s present position, miss?”

  Kersey pointed. “Still goin’ slightly east, sah, but cuttin’ off sharp north into Mossflower Woodlands. They should reach the tree fringe by evenin’.”

  The twins fell upon the food and drink which Butty had brought them. Wonwill exchanged glances with Crumshaw. “Puts ’em a day an’ some hours in front of us, sah.”

  The direction his scouts had given suddenly dawned on the brigadier. The monocle dropped from his eye. “Great wallopin’ weasels! Turnin’ sharp north—that can mean only one thing. Those vermin are bound t’run smack into the blinkin’ Abbey!”

  Tam had never visited the place, but he knew what Abbey Crumshaw was referring to—“Redwall Abbey.”

  Doogy shrugged. “Oh, that Abbey. Och, we came doon by followin’ the shoreline, so we never got tae see it.”

  Brigadier Crumshaw sprang upright. “Well, yore goin’ t’see it afore yore much older, laddie. We leave straightaway, Sergeant. Break camp! You two gallopers, go on ahead at the double. Report back t’me when ye find where the vermin entered the woodlands. We’ll probly make it to the broadstream with a forced march late this evenin’. We’ll sally forth at dawn an’ cut down their lead, wot!”

  Within an incredibly short time, Tam and Doogy found themselves on the march again—packs on backs, blades belted, kicking up a column of dust upon the flatlands in the ranks of the Long Patrol. Wonwill brought up the rear with Butty and Lancejack Wilderry.

  There was little humour in the sergeant’s tones as he exhorted the marchers. “Move yoreselves now, pick ’em up an’ put ’em down at the double! Speed up now, lef’ right, lef’ right, there ain’t no room for stragglers in the Patrol. Stir yore idle selves!”

  One of the old stagers hastened them on with a speedy chant.

  “I’m chewin’ dust because I must,

  as long as I’ve got mates to trust,

  we’ll march on ’til our paws are bust,

  ’cos we’ve been given orders!

  So on we roll, the Long Patrol,

  forget your bed an’ drinkin’ bowl,

  ’cos if you stop, yore in a hole,

  the Sergeant’s right behind ye!

  Left right, march he’ll say,

  over the hills an’ faraway,

  from crack o’ dawn to end o’ day,

  good mateys an’ companions!”

  Even the best of them were weary and pawsore when they reached the broadstream banks at late evening. Stumbling with fatigue, the regiment scrambled down the steep slopes, eager to find the best sleeping places. Camp was set up and two big fires lighted on the brigadier’s orders. Crumshaw reasoned that, if the twin blazes were sighted, the vermin might do an about-turn. This would mean the Long Patrol would be under attack—a far better situation, from his viewpoint, because the hares were armed and ready, but Redwall Abbey was not.

  Tam had become separated from Doogy in the rush down the bankside. Both he and Corporal Wopscutt were about to cool their paws in the shallows when they were distracted by angry shouts. Turning, they hurried back to a crowd of hares who had gathered to witness the hubbub.

  It was Doogy and Ferdimond at each other’s throats with drawn swords.

  Ferdimond was yelling at the onlookers who were packed tight about them both. “Make space there, so I can swing me bally blade!”

  Doogy was trying to raise his claymore, but he was so tightly hemmed in that his nose was nearly pressing against Ferdimond’s chin. “Swing yore bally blade, eh? Ah’ll swing yore bally ears from mah belt as soon as ah get room tae do it!”

  Tam pushed forward into the press, but he was pulled to one side by Wonwill, who had the brigadier with him.

  Crumshaw winked at Tam. “Leave this to us, MacBurl. That’s an order, stay out of it. There’s a good chap, wot!”

  Wonwill bellowed in his best parade-ground manner. “Teeeeeen . . . shun! Stand fast all ranks, offisah present!”

  The hares fell back and came to attention as Tam followed Crumshaw and Wonwill through to the centre. The tough sergeant immediately pulled Doogy and Ferdimond apart. “Nah then, wot’s all this ’ere, you two, eh?”

  Ferdimond
saluted with his long rapier. “Point of honour, Sarge, private dispute doncha know!”

  Wonwill faced Doogy. “Wot’ve you got t’say for yoreself, Mister Plumm?”

  The highland squirrel bared his teeth. “Ah’ve got nothin’ tae say, Sarge. Mah claymore’ll do the talkin’ for me. But that fancy talkin’ fop’ll no’ be round tae trip me up from behind again when ah’ve finished!”

  The brigadier came smartly forward, his moustache bristling. “Put those blades down immediately! Rules an’ regs of our regiment don’t permit duels, private or public! Listen t’me, buckoes. If one of ye was to slay the other, I’d be forced to sentence the winner to death for killin’ a comrade. Quince, Derron, you will disarm these hotheads!”

  The two captains sprang in and confiscated the blades. Crumshaw cocked a monocled eye at Wonwill. “Well, Sergeant, ’pon me scut, these two look as if they ain’t goin’ to kiss an’ make up, wot! Looks like they’ve got plenty o’ vinegar still in ’em, eh? What d’you suggest?”

  Wonwill elbowed the pair further away from each other. “H’it’s my opinion they’re bound to ’ave at each other, sah. May’aps they should settle their spat like proper gentlebeasts. Could h’I suggest the noble art, sah?”

  Behind his monocle, the brigadier’s eye twinkled. “Capital idea, a little exhibition, eh wot! Purely nonvindictive an’ in the true spirit o’ the sport. Carry on, Sergeant, read ’em the rules!”

  Crumshaw drew a line in the bank sand with his swagger stick and stood back. Wonwill called Doogy and Ferdimond up to scratch. “Ready, young sirs? Place yore right footpaws on the line an’ face each other. Forepaws well clenched now, that’s the style! Yore goin’ t’give everybeast a boxin’ display. No bitin’, gougin’ or scratchin’. When I says fight, ye both go to it. But when I says ’alt, youse stop. H’agreed?”

  Doogy and Ferdimond were eyeing each other fiercely, milling their forepaws in tight, small circles as they both snarled, “Agreed!”

  Wonwill’s battered features creased into a grin. “Thankee kindly, young sirs. Ready? . . . Fight!”

  Doogy’s paw shot out. Thud! He caught his opponent a punch right to the nosetip. The hare staggered slightly, then countered with a stinging blow to his adversary’s right eye. Undeterred, the small Highlander brought forth an uppercut which rattled his foe’s jaw. Then Ferdimond connected with a left that made Doogy’s ear ring. Both fighters continued at it, hammer and tongs. A lot of hares were shouting for Ferdimond, but just as many joined Tam in cheering Doogy on. There were cries of advice and encouragement from both sides as the combat raged back and forth.

  “Tuck yore chin in, old lad, watch the blighter’s left!”

  “Give him the jolly old one-two, that’s it!”

  “Bang away at his tuck basket, that’ll wind the blighter!”

  “Duck an’ weave, keep jabbin’ away with that right, mate!”

  They pounded away relentlessly, footpaws never leaving the line. Doogy’s right eye was almost swollen shut, and Ferdimond’s nose looked like an overripe damson plum. The hare whipped out a pile-driving left, but the squirrel ducked it, looping a superb right to his opponent’s chin.

  Whump! Ferdimond was knocked off the line, flat on his scut.

  Wonwill leaped in, shouting, “H’alt!”

  Leaning over Ferdimond, he put the question, “Are ye finished, Mister De Mayne?”

  The hare spat out a tooth, jumping upright like a coiled spring. “Finished? I’ve only just bloomin’ started, wot!”

  Wonwill watched as he came forward to paw the line again. “Righto, fight on!”

  Ferdimond floored Doogy with a left cross to the head.

  Another halt was called as the sergeant questioned Doogy. “Mister Plumm, ’ave ye taken h’enough, sir?”

  Quick as a flash, the highland squirrel was up, grinning crookedly. “Ach, away wi’ ye, Sarge. Ah’ve got the poor lad right where ah want him tae be. Oot o’ mah way!”

  They battled on, neither giving any quarter. A simultaneous barrage of punches from both sides sent the two contestants down. Staggering up and blowing for breath, they swiped out wearily at each other until they both collapsed again.

  The sergeant had filled Doogy’s shield with streamwater. He winked at the brigadier, who nodded knowingly.

  Splash! Wonwill drenched the pair. As the two gasping opponents sat up, the sergeant beckoned them upright to paw the line. “I ’aven’t called an ’alt yet, sirs! Ye wanted to fight, so stop malingerin’. H’up off yore hunkers an’ fight!”

  Bone tired, they hauled themselves upright and fought on. Everybeast had fallen silent now. They looked on as the two exhausted battlers raised leaden paws and swiped away. Most of the punches were only hitting midair; twice, in fact, the weary rivals found themselves back to back, actually peering about for each other. Tottering around, they tripped over their own paws and finally collapsed in a heap.

  Satisfied, Brigadier Crumshaw signalled Wonwill, who called a final halt. “Well, sirs, ’ave ye both ’ad enough now?”

  Ferdimond had trouble lifting his head to reply. “I’ve had enough if he has.”

  Doogy raised a swollen paw. “Aye, an’ ah’ve had mah fill if’n he has.”

  Crumshaw stepped in, helping the sergeant to stand them upright. Joining both their paws, he concluded, “Well fought, chaps! A good scrap, I’d say, without havin’ to wipe each other out with swords, wot! Take a bow!”

  Both the Long Patrol and Tam gave the fighters three rousing cheers.

  The brigadier patted both their backs. “Absolutely top-hole! I hope this has solved any small differences ye may have had in the past, wot! Now, shake paws like two good eggs, then clean yoreselves up in the stream, eh?”

  Doogy and Ferdimond shook paws as best they could. The young hare grinned lopsidedly. “Sorry for what I said about you, old lad. I was wrong. You, sir, are a true flippin’ warrior!”

  Doogy attempted a wink, but both his eyes were swollen. “Och, yer no’ sae bad yoreself, matey. ’Twas all mah fault, ye’ll have tae excuse me for bein’ so touchy, ye ken!”

  Holding each other upright, they staggered into the stream to the accompaniment of hurrahs and backslapping.

  “What a go! Well fought, you two!”

  “Here’s to two perilous beasts, wot!”

  “Rather, that scrap’ll go down in Long Patrol annals!”

  “Aye, never seen one like it in me blinkin’ life!”

  Tam squatted by the fire with Wonwill. “Haha, just look at Doogy, wipin’ Ferdimond’s nose. They seem happy enough now, eh Sarge?”

  The old veteran smiled. “Like the Brigadier said, better’n seein”em carved to death by swords. A good ’ealthy boxin’ match h’is just the ticket for clearin’ the air, Tam!”

  Crumshaw, who had joined them, sniffed the night air with relish. “Only one thing better’n the smell of a streambank on a springtime evenin’—skilly an’ duff for supper, wot wot!”

  Corporal Butty Wopscutt, assisted by the haremaids Folderon and Flummerty, were cooking away industriously. Tam took in the savoury odour from the cooking fire. “Hope it tastes as good as it smells, sah.”

  Crumshaw stirred the fire with his swagger stick point. “Young Wopscutt’s the finest cook we’ve ever had, a real treasure, that ’un. An’ he ain’t put off by those pretty gels! By the way, Tam, that comrade o’ yours, Doogy wotsisname, quite a game feller, put up a superb fight. I’ve a feelin’ we’re goin’ to need chaps like him before the season’s out.”

  Tam watched Doogy and Ferdimond splashing in the stream. “Aye, yore right there, sah. Goin’ up against the Gulo beast an’ his vermin, we’ll want good warriors to conquer beasts who are so savage that they eat their enemies!”

  12

  On the morning following the moles’ celebratory supper, young Burlop Cellarhog was up and about his duties before Abbot Humble awakened. Burlop busied himself in the cellars, selecting a new barrel of October Ale. Having found the
one he had marked out, the young hedgehog upended it, single-pawed. He began knocking a spigot through the centre bung so the liquid could be tapped. Humble emerged from his bed in the corner, fastening the waist cord of his habit.

  The stout young Cellarhog touched his headspikes apologetically. “Father Abbot! I’m sorry, did my noise wake you up?”

  Humble stifled a yawn, smiling at his protégé. “Certainly not, Burlop. I merely slept a bit late after last night’s mole supper. What a pleasant evening it was, eh?”

  Burlop gave the spigot a final knock and set a tankard under it. “ ’Twas most enjoyable, Father, though the moles and our creatures finished off a barrel of the October Ale. I’m just replacing it. Would you care to taste a sip?”

  He stood back respectfully as Humble sniffed round the barrel staves, tapping his paw on the lid several times and then listening, as if for an answer. Burlop always deferred to his Abbot’s expertise. Humble turned the spigot tap, allowing a measure of ale to gurgle forth into the tankard. He spilt a drop on his paw and held it up to a lantern, checking on its colour and clarity. Burlop looked on anxiously as the Abbot took a sample mouthful.

  The old hedgehog rolled the ale round his palate, then swallowed it slowly. Beaming happily, he smacked his lips. “Excellent! Marvellous judgement, young Burlop! Of all the October barrels within our cellars, you could not have chosen a finer one!”

  Burlop bowed low, allowing his spikes to stand up and then letting them fall back flat several times—the typical hedgehog way of receiving a great compliment. “Thank you, Father. I learned all I know from you, and I’m always ready to heed your wise counsel.”

  Humble gazed fondly over the top of his spectacles. “I wouldn’t trust my cellars to any hog but you, friend. Now, what was I about to do, eh?”