CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Big Birthday Battle

In which a bread stick and quick thinking save the day. And in which friendship is repaid.

Silence fell in the great hall, unbroken except for distant cheering from the children’s table in the far corner, where the celebrants were either too short to see what was going on or too young to understand the calamity unfolding before them.

The Chief Weasel, eyes bulging in disbelief, finally collected his wits and shrieked, “Help!” The Under-Stoat shrieked, “Treachery!” The henchmen shouted, “A spy! A spy!”

Courageous Badger, that stouthearted fellow, found himself standing alone against hundreds, but did he hesitate? He did not. He swung his baguette at the Chief Weasel, who squealed in dismay and beat a hasty retreat around the head table to hide behind the Under-Stoat.

The Under-Stoat studied Badger with cruel eyes and said, “’Ere all alone, are you, Mr. Badger? Wot a pity your friends ain’t here to help you. Get ’im, boys!”

The reluctant henchmen hesitated. One of them whined, “But it’s the Badger.”

“I know it’s the Badger. I can see it’s the Badger,” carped the Under-Stoat. “D’you think I’m bleedin’ blind? But look about you, lads. There’s only one of him, and there’s hundreds of us, see? Wotcher waiting for? Follow me!”

The Under-Stoat seized a stick and advanced on the Badger, followed by a dozen soldiers. Badger’s great cudgel whistled through the air, and he briefly drove them back. He swung his stick left and right, this way, that way, but scores of other weasels, seeing the great warrior standing alone, gathered up their courage and advanced on him. A moment later, still others followed, until he was covered with weasels, hordes of them, and, despite his stout heart and whirling club, he began to sink beneath their number.

And what of our cake-onauts? What of Matilda? The blood froze in her veins at the sight of Badger disappearing beneath a swarm of weasels, but she willed herself to act. She sprang on a chair and delivered a smart blow to the latch of the cake with her baguette. The three warriors inside—who had been straining against the lid with all their might—poured out, a seeming torrent of Toads, a cascade of Rats, a wave of Moles, all shouting hair-raising war cries that echoed throughout the chamber, magnifying their number into a vast army. They ran to Badger’s aid and soon had him dug out. Half the stoats and weasels turned tail and ran to the far end of the hall, shrieking in woe, leaping up the chimney, and hiding under the tables. The other half held the line. It was touch and go.

Badger shouted at Matilda, “Go back to the kitchen and follow that Sammy! He’ll know where Humphrey is.”

She took off like a shot, clearing a pathway with her bread stick.

*   *   *

At the far end of the passage off the kitchen, Sammy and Humphrey sat and played a game of chess. Neither’s heart was in the game, but for very different reasons. Sammy fidgeted with nerves, while Humphrey sat slumped in apathy. The weasel finally looked at his friend and said, “They have a plan, Humphrey, your uncle and his friends. They’re coming to rescue you.”

“They are?” said Humphrey, perking up. Then, “Are you going to tell?”

Sammy looked at him. “Why would I do that?”

“I … I just thought you might. Since it concerns your tribe, and all.”

“You was only good to me, Humphrey. You was my friend.”

“Still am,” vowed Humphrey.

“Nar.” Sammy shook his head sadly. “I doubt they’ll let us play together again. I’ll miss you, I will. And I’ll miss our kite. That was the best day I ever had.” He sniffled and looked away.

“Then I suppose this is good-bye,” said Humphrey, his specs misting up.

“Yeah. I s’pose it is. I’ll sit with you until they come. If that’s all right with you.”

“Yes, please. That would be good.”

Shouts filtered down the passage. Soon they could hear the furious cries of the warriors and the thumping of stout staves and the ringing clash of steel.

Humphrey began to quake with nerves. “Oh,” he whimpered, “I-I’m afraid.”

“Me too,” said Sammy. “Me too. Here, give us your paw.”

They joined paws and sat side by side. And trembled together. And waited for whatever was to come next.

Fortunately, what came next was Matilda. She rushed into the room and said in urgent tones, “Humphrey, do you know who I am?”

“You’re the baker,” he whispered. “You winked at me.”

“That’s right. I’m the baker, and I winked at you. I’m here with your uncle and Rat and Mole and Badger. They’re in the great hall at this very moment. Now be a good boy and come with me. There’s no need to be afraid. We’ll have you home in no time.”

Home! Ah, such a lovely word. Such a comforting word. And how it resonated in poor Humphrey’s heart. Ah, home! To one who had suffered kidnapping, and false imprisonment, and long days of forced labor, and harrowing nights of loneliness, could there be any more comforting word in the entire language? He let go of Sammy and went to Matilda, but still he hesitated for a moment.

“I’ve got to go, Sammy,” he said.

“You go, Humphrey—’s all right. I’m awful sorry about what happened. You won’t hold it against me, will you? I’m awful sorry.”

Matilda said, “There’s no time. We must hurry.”

And although Humphrey’s heart was full, and although he had more to say, he wheeled and ran down the passage, Matilda at his side.

A minute later, they had made it to the kitchen. They peeped out into the hall, where our heroes were pushing forward and sweeping all before them. The stoats squealed; the weasels wailed. There was much yelling of the worst kind of profanity: “Drat!” was heard and “Blast!” and even “By Jove!” and other shocking utterances best not repeated here.

Toad in his fury was puffed up to enormous size; he brandished his stick and screamed like a banshee. Badger, huge and gray, fought in grim silence, all the more terrifying for it. Mole, black and wrathful, laid waste to all in his path. Stouthearted Rat, his fur bristling, pummeled the Under-Stoat and Chief Weasel until they cowered and begged for mercy.

“We give! We give!” they cried, and fell to their knees, weeping.

At the sight of this pitiful display, Badger raised his paw and cried, “Enough! Fall back!” Such was his authority that the others stopped their punishing advance and fell silent.

“I think that they may have had enough,” said Badger. “Have you had enough, Chief?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” wept the Chief.

“Have you had enough, Under-Stoat?”

“Oh, Mr. Badger, sir,” groveled the Under-Stoat. “Take pity on us. I knows you to be a kind gentleman, sir.”

Badger turned to the others and said, “Leave them.”

“But, Badger,” cried Toad, “let me smack ’em some more! It was my nephew they took, after all. Speaking of which, where is he?”

“I’m over here, Uncle Toad.” Humphrey waved from the kitchen.

“Thank goodness, my boy. Are you all right? What a fright you gave us.”

“He’s fine,” called Matilda, and she and Humphrey emerged from the kitchen into the dreadful wreckage of the hall. Tables and chairs were upended; smashed bottles and glasses lay underfoot; squashed sandwiches and great gobs of pulped birthday cake were smeared everywhere.

“Badger’s right,” said Mole. “They’ve had enough, don’t you think? Let’s leave them to their cake and take Humphrey home. Time for a good feed and a nice cup of tea.”

“Oh, all right,” said Toad. He swung his stick some more and belabored imaginary animals. “You’re sure I can’t have one more go at them?”

Badger spoke again. “I think,” he said slowly, “that we all owe a great debt to the mastermind behind this successful campaign. I am speaking, of course, of Miss Matilda.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Ratty. Mole felt an ungracious (and admittedly small-minded) twinge of jealousy deep in the most secret chamber of his heart.

Rat looked at his friend. “I say, Mole, your paw. Is it bleeding?”

“It’s nothing,” said Mole, stoically pretending it didn’t sting like blazes. “Only a flesh wound.”

Matilda said, “Let me see that.” She inspected the laceration and then tore a strip of clean muslin from her apron. She bandaged the wound with such care and concern that the Mole’s pain abated, and he began to think she might not be such a bad sort to have around after all.

“Good old Moly,” said Ratty. “Took one for the cause. Splendid fellow!” And with that, the Mole’s genial spirits were restored, and he regretted having given way—even briefly—to petty thoughts.

Badger climbed onto the dais, every weasel eye upon him. “Now, look,” he said. “Let this be a lesson to you all. Mole, good-hearted chap that he is, has advocated on your behalf, and so we’re going to leave you the remains of the cake, although it’s more than you deserve. So mind your manners. No more seizing of nephews or, for that matter, young relatives of any kind. Are we clear on that point?”

“Yessir, Mr. Badger.” This was accompanied by much bowing and scraping. “Yessir, oh, yessir.”

“Now, Mole,” Badger went on, “I want you to ride back in the wheelbarrow with Humphrey. You’ve been wounded, and although it might be just a flesh wound, it still counts. And Humphrey is no doubt exhausted by all the excitement.” Upon seeing that the Mole was about to protest, he added, “No guff, now. Get in.”

Humphrey, whose knees were shaking so badly that he didn’t trust himself to walk home, was only too glad to be lifted into the barrow after the Mole.

Our party marched up the long hall to the main door. Once outside, they paused to breathe the cool, clear air and rid their lungs of the smoke of battle. Humphrey looked back, and for a second, he saw Sammy peeking around the door at him, forlornly waving good-bye. The next moment the small, bedraggled weasel was yanked away, and the door slammed with a rather rude report.

“It’s a shame about the cake,” Ratty said to Matilda. “Your grandest creation all smashed up like that.”

“Never mind,” said Matilda. “It had to be done. I can always bake us another one just like it.”

“Well, not just like it,” said Ratty, to laughter.

They set off for home. Three of our heroes were buoyed up by the success of their mission, and our fourth hero (Rat) was buoyed up by the presence of the fifth hero (Matilda), so none of them minded their fatigue. There was much jocular reliving of critical scenes of the battle and perhaps a bit more self-congratulation than was seemly, but such was only natural in a group of overstimulated animals, and thus could be excused under the circumstances.

Humphrey was naturally disappointed to find that his uncle was no longer a genius, but he was relieved and happy to be rescued.

Finally, at twilight, the weary warriors arrived at the dear old River, that most comforting of landmarks, a sight for the sorest of eyes. They gratefully climbed into the Rat’s rowboat and Toad’s punt to speed their journey home. Humphrey, exhausted, reclined in the bow and admired the full moon as it rose over the trees. It really was a very full moon. And it really was rising very rapidly. And—how odd—it was giving off an angry buzzing sound.

Just at that second, there was a loud splash between the boats, much too big for a jumping fish, and Humphrey realized with a shock that what he was regarding was not the moon, but in fact Toad’s balloon, manned by scores of howling stoats and weasels brandishing muskets and pistols, shaking their fists and bombarding them with a hail of rotten vegetables and stones of worrisome size.