Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The squirrel lay back and closed her eyes. “Yore good at schemin’, mate. What’s the plan?”

The otter lay down and closed his eyes also. “First a short sleep, wait’ll the camp’s quiet.”

Saro opened one eye. “An’ then?”

Bragoon stuck Martin’s sword into the ground, close to paw. “I don’t know just yet, but ye’ll be the firstbeast I tell when a good idea comes along. I’m goin’ to sleep, wake me in an hour. Otters get good ideas when they take naps.”

Saro rolled over onto her side. “No, you wake me, ’tis your turn.”

Her companion watched the starlight playing along the swordblade. “How can I wake ye when I’m makin’ the plan? You wake me!”

The squirrel grumbled. “Huh, ’tis always me. Alright, you take a nap an’ do all the plannin’, I’ll wake ye in an hour.” The only answer she received was a pretend snore from the otter.

The midnight hour had just passed. Silence reigned over the Darrat camp, broken only by protracted snores mingled with nighttime woodland sounds.

In the cage, Horty sat clasping his stomach and grimacing. Fenna came over to sit by him. “Tummyache, eh?”

The young hare answered dolefully. “Absolute agony, doncha know. No use upsettin’ you an’ Springald, so a chap’s got to be brave an’ silent, even though he’s dyin’. It must’ve been somethin’ I ate.”

Springald overheard him and snorted. “Something? You great glutton, ’tis not something, but how much of that something you ate. That big cauldron’s almost empty!”

Horty winced. “Ah me! Maids can be beautiful but cruel. I only scoffed that porridge because you two wouldn’t touch it after the first mouthful. Ha, ’twas me that saved you a jolly good whippin’. Sacrificed meself for your rotten sakes, that’s all the gratitude a chap gets, wot?”

One of the three guards in front of the cage snuffled and grunted at the sound of Horty’s raised voice. The captives sat in frozen silence until he settled back down with the other two rats. The three guards snorted in soft unison.

Springald whispered, “Look at them—not a care in the world. We’d be that way, too, snoring in the dormitory. Huh, that’s if we’d had the sense to listen to the Abbot and your sister Martha. Wish we were back at Redwall now.”

Fenna murmured, “Wishing isn’t much use. What we should be doing now is escaping while the guards are asleep.”

Horty forgot his pains for a moment. “By jingo, you’re right, old gel. Escape, that’s the bally idea! Right, chaps, anybeast got a scheme or a plan of some type, wot?”

They sat racking their brains for a while, until Fenna admitted limply, “We’ve got no chance, locked in a cage and surrounded by armed guards. They’d cut us down before we managed to get two paces!”

Numbly they stared at one another. A tear trickled down Springald’s cheek; Fenna’s lower lip started quivering. Horty blinked and sniffed.

“We’ve really gone an’ done it now, haven’t we, chaps, wot!”

Then a rope fell from above, close to the cage. Attached to it was a sharp knife and a piece of bark that had charcoal writing scrawled on it: “Hush, take knife, escape. Tie rope to pot. Wait.”

Horty peered up through the bars at the overhead rock ledge. Bragoon’s tough-lined face was staring back at him. The otter held a paw to his mouth, signalling silence. Working feverishly, Springald took the knife and tied the rope to the cauldron handle. At a wave from Fenna, the cauldron rose upward, halting just above the cage.

Gripping the rope firmly, Bragoon began swinging the iron cauldron from side to side until it moved back and forth in mighty sweeps like a giant pendulum. Horty watched it as it swung, lower and lower, whizzing close to the cage front, until it reached the level of the three snoring Ratguards. Then the cauldron jerked outward. Kurblunggggggg! It struck two of the rats, laying them out senseless. The remaining one sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Wot was th . . .” Podongggg! The cauldron caught the third rat on the return swing, knocking him head over paws.

Springald was sitting on Fenna’s shoulders, slashing at the ropes which kept the wooden roof bars in place. The sharp knife made short work of them.

Hemper Figlugg awoke. He heard the cauldron toll like a muted bell as it hit the last rat. Waddling out of his hammock, he went to investigate the noise. Seeing Fenna’s head poking out of the cagetop, he hastened forward, shouting wheezily, “Burcha Glugg ’scapin’! Wakey wakey, Darrats!”

Borlongggggggg! The swinging cauldron biffed him on the back of his great fat head. Hemper Figlugg performed a somersault, raising a big puff of dust as his back hit the ground. His shout, however, had roused the Darrat horde, who came staggering from under the ledges and thick bushes, grabbing for weapons.

Bragoon roared down to the escapers, “Cut that pot loose an’ grab on to the rope!”

Springald slashed the cauldron free, and they took hold of the rope.

Saro’s head appeared above the high ledgetop. “One at a time, we can’t pull ye all up t’gether!”

Horty grabbed the spear from a fallen Ratguard. Taking charge, he rapped out orders like a veteran sergeant. “Steady the buffs, chaps! Spring, you go first, Fenna next! I’ll hold these bounders off, wot!”

The Darrat had just realised what was taking place. Around half a dozen of the boldest came at the young hare.

Spear at the ready, Horty challenged them bravely. “Step up there, laddie bucks, meet a flippin’ Redwall warrior, wot! Two or ten at a time, doesn’t blinkin’ matter to Bonebreaker Braebuck. Have at ye, scurvy nosewipes! Come on, don’t be shy, ye wiltin’ wallflowers. Wot!”

A big broad mottled rat charged at him, waving a hatchet. A slingstone flew from above, and the rat stood still, tottered, then collapsed in a heap.

Horty threw himself at the other five rats, who had been advancing on him slowly. He was in his element.

“I’m the son o’ the roarin’ buck! D’ye want to visit your ugly ancestors, eh? Well, I’m the one who’ll send ye to Hellgates. Yaaaaaaah!”

At the top of the ledge, Fenna and Springald stood with their rescuers. Bragoon shook his head. “Is he mad? Look at ’im!”

Horty was like a whirling demon, lashing out with his long hind legs as he thwacked wildly about with the spear. Rats went down like ninepins before his onslaught.

Sarobando nodded in admiration. “That young ’un’s got the makins of a powerful warrior, but he’s still a hotheaded learner. Soon as he tires they’ll overpower ’im an’ bring ’im down.”

Springald yelled down to her friend. “Horty, get to the rope, hurry!”

The young hare looked at the pack of rats charging toward him. “Right away, marm, cover me jolly old back, chaps!”

Saro used her sling, while the others pelted the rats with rocks from the ledge as Horty ran for it. He reached the rope and looped it about his waist.

“Haul away!”

Kappin Birug flung a wooden club that caught Horty square between both ears, before bouncing off his head.

Horty grinned. “Yah missed me!” Then he fell unconscious.

Ducking slingstones and a few arrows, the rescuers—along with Fenna and Springald—hauled Horty’s limp figure up onto the ledgetop.

Bragoon peered anxiously down as more archers began appearing. “Better get goin’ an’ move out o’ range. They mean business!”

They struck off into some thick pinewoods, carrying the senseless figure of the hare between them.

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