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.