These four pigs were the same four pigs that had protested when Napoleon abolished the Sunday meetings. They confessed that they had been secretly in touch with Snowball ever since his expulsion, that they had collaborated with him in destroying the windmill, and that they had entered into an agreement with him to hand over animal farm to Mr. Frederick. They then added that Snowball had admitted to them, in private, that he had been Jones’s secret agent for years.
The next bit was horrifying! The pigs had finished their confession and the dogs just promptly tore their throats out, and Napoleon started shouting at us all, asking whether any other animal had anything to confess.
The tearing out of throats and the fear going through everyone went on and on for what seemed like forever. The three hens who had been the ringleaders in the attempted rebellion over the eggs now came forward and stated that Snowball had appeared to them in a dream and incited them to disobey Napoleon’s orders. As predicted, they were slaughtered.
A goose then came forward and confessed to having secreted six ears of corn during the last year’s harvest and eaten them in the night. A sheep then confessed to having urinated in the drinking pool, urged to do this, she said, by Snowball. Two other sheep confessed to having murdered an old ram, an especially devoted follower of Napoleon, by chasing him round and round a bonfire when he was suffering from a cough. All four animals were slain on the spot.
The confessions and executions carried on and there ended up being a horrible pile of corpses at Napoleon’s feet. I’d never seen anything like it before, none of us had. The air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones.
Another tragic day for me, with a horrible event was Boxer’s death. Boxer was probably my only real friend, and he was a great and true one.
Late one evening last summer, I was lying out in the sun, just thinking, when a rumour ran round the farm that something had happened to Boxer.
He had gone out alone to drag a load of stone down to the windmill, and sure enough, the rumour was true. Two pigeons came racing in with the news that Boxer had fallen and is lying on his side and he can’t get up. Myself and half the other animals on the farm rushed as quickly and as best we could to the knoll where the windmill stood.
My heart sank, as sure enough, there lay Boxer, his neck stretched out, unable to even raise his head. His eyes were glazed and his sides matted with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of his mouth. He spoke in a very weak voice. He said it was his lung, but that it does not matter, as he believes we could finish the windmill without him. He said that he had been looking forward to his retirement and that he only had another month to go anyway. He then said that perhaps, as I’m growing old too, I could retire at the same time as him and let me be his companion.
This touched me greatly, and I was honoured to think that it would happen.
All the animals rushed back to the farmhouse to tell Squealer and to get help. However, I remained with Boxer, and so did Clover. I lay down at Boxer’s side. There was no speaking between us, purely eye contact, and I used my long tail to keep the flies off him.
After a short while Squealer appeared saying that Napoleon was making arrangements to send Boxer to be treated at the hospital in Willingdon.
I felt very uneasy about this. Except for Mollie and Snowball, no other animal had ever left the farm, and I didn’t like to think of my sick best friend in the hands of human beings.
However, Squealer convinced me that the veterinary surgeon in Willingdon could treat Boxer’s case a lot more satisfactorily than we could ever do here on the farm, and about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was with difficulty got onto his feet and managed to limp back to his stall where Clover and I had prepared a good bed of straw for him.
For the next two days Boxer remained in his stall. The pigs brought out a large bottle of pink medicine, which they’d found in the medicine chest in the bathroom of the farmhouse. Clover administrated it to Boxer twice a day after meals, and in the evenings she lay in his stall and talked to him. Of course I was constantly by his side whenever I could be, keeping the flies off him and being his companion.
Boxer professed not to be sorry for what had happened, and if he made a good recovery he could expect to live another three years. Boxer often told me, when we were in the stall at night, that he looked forward to the peaceful days he would spend in the corner of the pasture. It would be the first time that he’d have the leisure time to improve his mind and study, and he intended, he said, to devote the rest of his life to learning the remaining twenty-two letters of the alphabet.
However, Clover and I could only be with Boxer after working hours, and it was in the middle of the day when that horrid, hateful van came to take him away.
I had sneaked off work for a while, and was on my way to see Boxer in his stall amongst the farm buildings. The rest of the animals were in the field, weeding turnips under the supervision of a pig. I was almost at Boxer’s stall when a large, closed van, drawn by two horses pulled up. A sly looking man in a low-crooned bowler hat was sitting on the driver’s seat and two other men were loading Boxer into the back. On the side was written: ‘Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue-Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.’
A sudden rush of panic shot through my entire body. They were taking my best friend to the knacker’s! I then galloped from the farm buildings to where the animals were, braying at the top of my voice. (It was the first time I had actually galloped properly for absolutely ages, but that’s beside the point for now.) I yelled at the animals to come quickly because Boxer’s being taken away, and sure enough, without waiting for orders from the pig, they raced back to the farm buildings.
The animals crowded round the van and started chorusing: “Goodbye Boxer! Goodbye!” The fools obviously thought he was being taken to get better! At this point I was absolutely irate, how could so many animals all be so stupid?! I pranced round them all stamping the earth with my hoofs. I called them fools, which was polite for what I was thinking, and told them to read what was written on the side of the van. They were all too slow, so in the midst of the deadly silence I repeated: “Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue-Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied. Do you not understand what that means?! They’re taking Boxer to the knacker’s!”
A huge cry of horror rose from all the animals, and it was at this point that the man on the box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the yard at a smart trot. We all followed, crying out anything we could at the top of our voices. Clover forced her way to the front and the van began to gather speed.
Clover, bless her, tried to stir her stout limbs to to a gallop, and achieved a canter. “Boxer!” she cried, “Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!” and just at this moment, as though he had heard the uproar outside, Boxer’s face, with the white stripe down his nose, appeared at the small window at the back of the van.
Clover continued yelling in a terrible voice: “Boxer! Get out! Get out quickly! They’re taking you to your death!”
We all took up the cry of “Get out Boxer, Get out!” but the van was already gathering speed and drawing away from us.
It was uncertain whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said, but a moment later, his great face, that had been my wonderful companion and that I loved dearly disappeared from the window and there was a tremendous sound of drumming hoofs coming from inside the van.
Once, there was a time when a few kicks from the legendary Boxers hoofs would have smashed the van to matchwood, but unfortunately his strength had left him and after a few moments the sound of drumming hoofs grew fainter and died away.
In desperation we yelled to the horses which drew the van to pull over and stop. The stupid brutes, even though we yelled to them that they were taking their own brother to his death, were too ignorant to realise what was happening, and merely set back their ears and quickened their pace.
Boxer’s face didn’t reappear at the window, and my heart sank, my head filled with mixed emotions. Anger, sorrow, etc.
Someone thought of racing forward and shutting the five-barred gate, but in another moment the van was through it and rapidly disappearing down the road.
Boxer was never seen again.
Three days later Squealer came and announced the news that Boxer had died in the hospital at Willingdon, despite receiving every attention a horse could have.
After that I just switched off for a while, I needed to be by myself, to mourn over the death of my best and only real friend. The best companion a donkey could ever have.
Personally, looking back, I now believe the rebellion to be a complete waste of time. The rebellion certainly brought about change, but only the pigs gained power. The rest of us were all as powerless at the end, as we were at the beginning. Take Boxer for example, he put his heart and soul into his work, and he worked his socks off for us all, because it was what he felt he should do, and what he was made to believe in. He was supposed to have a nice, long, peaceful retirement to pay back all his hard work, but the way I see it, is that the rebellion worked him solidly to his death, so he never did experience the other side of life.
I gained nothing from the rebellion, and lost my greatest friend. I believe Boxer gained nothing either, but he gave everything, and what for? The loss of his life.
