The Battle of the Cowshed

Author’s note: I wrote this story for English. I got full marks, if anyone’s interested. Anyway, it’s a retelling of the Battle of the Cowshed in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. The meanings of the little numbers are at the bottom of the story. I hope you like it!

Catch the pigeon flew over the town of Willingdon. He wasn’t one of those scrawny city birds and any bird watcher would have been able to see that he didn’t belong there. His feathers were too glossy and he was too plump. If they had said he was a farm bird they would have been correct. What they wouldn’t say was that he was a spy from Animal Farm.

He passed over the Red Lion pub and saw a group of people outside. One of them was the hated Mr Jones. He thought, That looks interesting. I’ll go and see what’s going on.1

Catch landed near one of the wooden tables and pecked at the fallen peanuts. The discussion went on overhead.

‘I WANT MY FARM BACK!’ roared Mr Jones. ‘I WILL NOT LET THOSE BLASTED ANIMALS CONTROL IT FOR ANOTHER DAY!’

He banged his fist on the table, sending an over laden ashtray falling onto the floor. Coo2, thought Catch as he dodged the ashtray to avoid coming to an unfortunate end.

‘Calm down, Jonesy,’ said one of the other farmers.

‘DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! CALM DOWN YOURSELF!’

‘I’m not the one using too many exclamation marks,’ pointed out the farmer.

Mr Jones took a long swig of beer. ‘Ok,’ he said in slightly more normal tones, ‘I’m better now.’

‘I think Jonesy has a point,’ said one of the farmers from Foxwood. ‘It’s bad business for farmers everywhere because of those animals at Manor Farm. I heard of a farm in Scotland that had its owners thrown out! For nothing at all.’

‘Which was exactly what happened to me,’ said Jones quickly. ‘I was a good farmer, wasn’t I? Fed the animals three times a day and that was how they repaid me!’

Coo, coo3, thought Catch.

One of Jones’ old workers sighed. ‘Everything’s going wrong.’

There was silence, broken only by the rustling of the leaves by the October wind.

He was right. Everything was going wrong for farmers everywhere. Not just for farmers, but for the public too. People who couldn’t tell one end of a cow from another (this could also apply to some of the farmers) were finding themselves with less and less food to cope with. The Government was talking about rationing. Farms everywhere were being lost to the animals that refused to trade with the humans. The uprising at Manor Farm had created a chain reaction, and no one wanted to be there when the dynamite exploded.

Eventually someone said, ‘We could steal it back, you know.’

‘Preposterous!’ said Jones, but there wasn’t much certainty in his voice. None of the farmers wanted to enter a battle that they couldn’t win.

‘We could,’ insisted the first speaker, a stable lad from Pinchfield. ‘We’ve got sticks and guns –’

‘Correction,’ said Jones, ‘I’ve got a gun.’

‘Alright then, Jonesy has a gun,’ continued the stable lad. He was a bit miffed about being interrupted mid-rant. ‘My point is, we have superior intelligence4, superior weaponry, and what do they know about battle plans?’

There was silence again. Another pigeon – one that was less intelligent than Catch and knew only urban life – tried to land on the umbrella that covered the table from the usual autumn rain and the attempt did not go very well. It ended up falling into somebody’s beer.

The men considered what the stable lad had said. He did have a point. The animals were, after all only animals. Why had humans used them for their own purposes for the past few centuries if it weren’t that animals were too stupid to know how to retaliate?

They totally forgot that the animals had beaten them the first time and could probably do it again.

So Catch made himself comfortable as the debate went on overhead and made sure to gather as much information as possible. As the sun set, sending the world into a cold autumn night, he flew back to Animal Farm to tell Snowball and the others about what the humans would do tomorrow, on October the twelfth.

Snowball was surprisingly excited at another chance to battle the humans. His eyes became wide and he began to move with more energy than before. As Catch told him about the humans’ plans for the rescue of Manor Farm his questions came in short, sharp bursts, as though he couldn’t spare a breath.

Eventually the pig’s interrogation of the pigeon ceased and Catch flew back to his roost.

Snowball called in Napoleon and Boxer to discuss his battle plans. Napoleon was looking decidedly sour that evening and Boxer was flicking his tail to try and wake himself up.

‘The humans plan to recapture our farm!’ squealed Snowball. ‘Isn’t this brilliant?’

Boxer blinked. It didn’t sound like very good news to him.

Snowball picked up his book of Julius Caesar’s campaigns, which had been found in a gap between the bookshelf and the wall. It didn’t look as though Jones had read it much; it was still pretty much new, for Snowball treated books with a sort of respect and never liked to see the pages bent or maltreated in any way. ‘The humans believe we are weak, right? There’s a manoeuvre in here that uses that to our advantage!’

Snowball explained it to them, saying where the animals would go and what would happen.

‘How do we know,’ said Boxer carefully, ‘that the humans will do what you said they will?’

Snowball gave him a cynical look. ‘They’re only humans. They’re bound to do that. After all, in their eyes, we’re only animals.’

Boxer turned to Napoleon to see what he thought of this. The cart horse was surprised to see the pig looking disgruntled and looking at Snowball with distaste.

Napoleon saw Boxer’s expression and shrugged. ‘Do whatever you think is best.’

It was settled. There was a meeting in the barn, at which all the animals were told

what part they’d play in the battle. Pigeons would be on guard all day to see when Jones and his men arrived.

There was a nervous buzzing in the air as the animals returned to their sleeping quarters. Every one of them trusted Snowball and had complete trust in his plans, but there was always that little nagging question: Would they fail?

At around noon, Grab the pigeon, Catch’s daughter, made an ungainly landing in the farm yard, cooing that, ‘The farmers’ are coming! The farmers’ are coming!’

Immediately all animals took their places. Grab warned them that the humans looked angry and had a lot of weapons. Snowball told her that it didn’t matter; the animals would win unless the humans had sprouted talons and acquired intelligence overnight.

As Jones and his men – old farm workers and about half a dozen from the neighbouring farms of Foxwood and Pinchfield – strode down the path it was apparent that they had not sprouted talons or anything that might help them win. Jones carried his gun, an old fashioned musket that he wasn’t all that good at aiming, while the others carried sticks. All the men had something in common: a look of grim determination that showed they were fearful of nothing and prepared to see it through, whatever it was.

The only one not looking like this was the stable lad. He’d found a Union Jack flag and attached it to his stick. He waved it about in the air and sang, ‘Good old Jonesy had a farm, eieio! And on that farm there was a rebellion, eieio – ’

‘Shut up,’ said a farmer. ‘You’ll give us away.’

They neared the gates and the large sign saying ‘Animal Farm’. They stopped and the look of determination vanished to be replaced by uncertainty.

‘Well then,’ said one of them nervously, ‘shall we go?’

‘Yes,’ said Jones firmly but did not step forward himself.

They would have stood there all day if the pigeons had not then flown from the hedge where they had been hiding and began muting the humans from mid-air. The thirty-five birds were hard to shake off and soon the humans were in the middle of a grey cloud of feathers. The farmers could see almost nothing but could still feel.

What they felt were the geese. A few moments after the attack of the pigeons they had waddled out, hissing and looking a lot fiercer than the average goose.

As they neared the humans their long necks snapped forward and their blunt beaks began jabbing at the humans’ calves and legs. One got a little too enthusiastic and tore at the trousers of one of them.

The geese were a mere annoyance to the humans. The pigeons may have been a problem but the geese were dealt with by hitting the sticks in a downward direction. They hissed fiercely all the way back to the safety of the farm.5

It was then Snowball launched his second attack. He, Muriel, Benjamin and the sheep rushed forward and took their chance to harm the hated humans.

This was almost too much for the farmers. They had arrived, sure that they would win, but now this fate was looking less and less likely.

In all fairness to them, they tried their best. It was just that they were all ready bruised from the geese and each was still sporting a slight hangover from last night. It w–

as just unfair to ask them to fight these aggressive, determined and well-organised animals before they had had a chance to have several strong coffees.

However, things were starting to look up. When things were at their direst the big white pig that seemed to be the leader let out an ear-piercing squeal. Immediately the animals turned tail and ran.

The farmers cheered. The stable lad began singing ‘Good old Jonsey’s farm’ again until one of the others hit him over the head. The enemy was retreating. They knew that animals were no match for them!

Everything started to slide downhill again afterwards.

As they turned the corner, cheering and (in the case of the stable lad) rubbing his head where one of his fellow farmers had hit him, the three horses and the three cows and the rest of the pigs blocked their exit by jumping out of the cowshed.

The majority carried on running in the direction of whatever exit they could find. One tried to jump over the fence with such force that they nearly spilt one of the beams in two and gained quite a lot of bruises. Those that stayed behind were either braver or still a little bit sloshed.

Back to the battle itself.

Snowball headed straight for Jones. The human raised his gun and aimed directly for the space between Snowball’s eyes. As I said earlier, Jones had some trouble when it came to aiming. Benjamin, Muriel and the sheep had re-entered the battle, much to the sorrow of one of the latter. The bullets missed their mark but scored bloody groves on his back before embedding themselves in a sheep. The poor creature dropped dead there and then.

The momentum of Snowball’s run sent him into Mr Jones’ knees. He lost his balance and fell into a pile of dung. His gun flew from his grasp and landed near the stables, where Mollie the pony had taken refuge from the horror and bloodshed.

Not all the animals lost heart so easily, however. Boxer had reared onto his hind legs and his iron-shod hoofs were a terrifying sight. The stable lad, reasoning that he had had sufficient experience with horses to survive, was rewarded for his troubles by being hit on the forehead and that was the last thing he saw before everything went black. He fell into the mud, pale and lifeless.

Several more of the human attackers attempted to flee.

One such was Frank Parsley, a simpleton from Foxwood. He edged along the edge of the cowshed. The fence was in sight.

High above him, on the roof, the cat set waiting. When she saw him she could not help but let out a small purr. Her claws slid out like scimitars but without that annoying metallic sound that always gives away a sword being pulled out of its scabbard. She flexed her paws and settled into a crouch, bunching her legs underneath her for a good leap.

The farmer was underneath her now. He obviously thought he was safe because he was assuming a more relaxed air and wasn’t looking about himself in worry so much.

At that moment the cat launched her attack. With a yowl she landed on Frank’s head and dug all four sets of claws into his neck.

It was definitely a yowl, she decided later. It wasn’t of a high enough pitch to be a scream and it was definitely not a meow. No self-respecting cat would ever meow during a battle, unless it was to lull the enemy into a false sense of security. It was quite a good yowl, actually, and was completely wasted because the human started screaming before he even knew she was there.

Eventually the cat was thrown off and the farmer ran faster than he ever had in his entire life.

That’s for all the tuna-flavoured kibble, thought the cat as she trotted off to find her next victim.

The cat was not the only animal to take vengeance in some way. Every creature on the farm, even the goldfish in the farm house, found a human to hurt. As soon as an opening was available all of the invaders left.

Within five minutes the battle was won. The pigeons and the geese followed them down the road, pecking and annoying them the entire way home.

All save one human, though. Boxer stood over the body of the stable lad, pawing gently at his body and blowing warm breath onto his neck.

‘He’s dead,’ said the horse sorrowfully to no one in particular. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Come now, comrade,’ said Snowball. ‘You killed him while defending your home. If they had been victorious we would have returned to the squalor of our old lives. The only good human is a dead human.’

Boxer turned sorrowful eyes to the pig. ‘I forgot my hoofs were iron-shod. I do not think I could take another life.’

Clover was half-listening to this conversation but the majority of her attention was fixed on the stable yard. Eventually the mare said, ‘Where’s Mollie?’

What ensued was a panicked search. Had she been taken? Vain though Mollie was, the thought of her in the hands of the humans was not worth thinking about.

Clover found the white pony in her stall, cowering and shivering with fright. Mollie explained that she had taken fright when the gun went off and had hidden in here.

When they returned to the yard Boxer was pleased to see that the stable lad had left. He was only stunned and stayed away from horses for the rest of his life, getting a job as a banker. The stable lad died at the age of eighty-seven, leaving all his money to his wife and three children.

Napoleon declared the flag to be run up. ‘Beasts of England’ was sung several times until Benjamin got dehydrated.

The poor sheep that had been shot was given a funeral. Everyone attended, including the cat.

‘Comrades,’ said Snowball, ‘it is indeed tragic that today we lost one of our fellow creatures. It brings home the reality that the life we live now is not perfect. It is, however, a better life than the one we once led under the rule of Jones.’

There were a few nods and some murmurs of agreement.

‘This poor sheep knew the dangers of the battle, yet she participated gladly. We must use her bravery as an example. Every single one us must be prepared to lay down our life if need be for the welfare of Animal Farm, the farm we’ve worked so hard to keep running. See the corn over there?’

Every head dutifully turned to the pile of corn.

‘We harvested that corn ourselves, comrades! We cut and stacked and threshed that corn ourselves! If the humans had taken over, we would have lost every single grain of it!’

Snowball’s voice softened. ‘Animal Farm is ours, comrades. We shall defend it until the end. Goodbye, comrade: wherever you are, we hope you are happy and leading a peaceful, human-free life.’

A Hawthorne bush was planted on the sheep’s grave. ‘Her body is returned to the earth,’ explained Snowball, ‘and then to the tree. In a way she is not really dead.’

Boxer and Snowball were both given medals6 to show that they were ‘Animal Heroes, First Class’. One was placed on one of the branches of the hawthorne tree in honour of the dead sheep, who had received ‘Animal Hero, Second Class’ for the part she played in the battle.

After much debating and arguing, it was named the Battle of the Cowshed, for it had taken place in its shadow. Some of the suggestions put forward were very strange. ‘The Battle of the Grey Feathers’ was put forth by the pigeons, and the cat wanted it to be called ‘The Battle Against Tuna Kibble’ which no one quite understood the reason for, because none of them could remember tune kibble anywhere in the battle.

Napoleon placed the gun at the bottom of the flagstaff like a piece of artillery. It was decided that it would be fired twice a year: once on October the twelfth, the day of the Battle of the Cowshed, and on Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the Rebellion.

Thus ended the humans’ attempts to reclaim Animal Farm.

1Actually he thought, Coo. Pigeons have a limited vocabulary.

2 This translates to: Temper, temper.

3 This translates to: Yeah, right!

4 A debatable point in some people’s view.

5 Almost all. One was hit on the head and woke up long after the battle had ended and thinking it was a duck.

6 Old brass horseshoes