Brian Jacques - Rakkety Tam

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!”