Luke was now every inch the Warrior Chieftain of his tribe. Sheathing his blade, he nodded curtly at the stunned faces of the fighters surrounding him. "Well done, we've gained ourselves a ship!"
Cardo let his lance drop, obviously shocked. "Luke, they're dead. We've slain them all."
Luke picked up the lance, pressing it into his friend's paw. "Aye, that was the idea, mate. Or would you sooner that we were caught nappin' an' murdered like our families were?"
There were loud cries of agreement with Luke. Friends crowded around to shake his paw or pat his back.
Luke glanced up at the clifftops. "Steady, mates, plenty o' time for that later. Some of you fill in that trench. Dulam, you an' the others roll those vermin carcasses into the sea, the ebbin' tide'U carry 'em out. I don't want the young 'uns to see any of this. Vurg, come with me. We'll have to rig up some means o' haulin' the ship above the tideline, so she don't get carried back out on the floodtide."
Luke and Vurg hurried to the cliffs, intercepting Drunn, who was climbing down to see the result of the battle.
"Burr, you'm winned, zurr Luke. Oi alius knowed ee wurr a gurt Wurrier, ho urr!"
Luke took the friendly mole's outstretched paw and shook it heartily. "Drunn my old mate, how are ye at movin' ships up beaches?"
The mole sized up the situation immediately. "Et be the least oi c'n do furr ee, zurr!"
Before the incoming tide had arrived Drunn, with the aid of his moles, some mice and the hedgehogs, had dug a shallow channel from the Greenhawk 's prow to a spot above the tideline. This he lined with slabs of cliff shale, well wetted down with seawater. On the vessel's forepeak was a windlass, a simple mechanism for hauling up the ship's anchor, with a horizontally revolving barrel. Welff Tiptip and her hogs helped to carry the anchor up onshore, where they wedged it firmly between two big rocks jutting up out of the sand. Now the ship was attached to the land by its anchor rope. Drunn chose the stoutest creatures to turn the windlass, which they did by ramming home stout poles into the housing. Once the slack of the rope was taken up, they began turning the windlass in earnest.
The young ones and oldsters had come down from the clifftops. Extra paws were needed, so they all joined in. Windred and old Twoola ran back and forth, splashing more water on the shale slabs as the ship slid forward, up onto shore, creaking and groaning. Martin and young Timballisto pushed with all their might against the windlass spokes, along with the rest.
It was a happy day. A sprightly breeze moved the clouds away, sunlight beat down on the workers. Joyfully they toiled, turning the windlass bit by bit, moving their ship up the shore on its own anchor rope. Some even improvised a shanty to keep up the rhythm of the task, and soon everybeast was singing it.
"Oh don't it make a sight so grand,
A ship that travels on the land,
Keep that windlass turnin', bend yore backs an' push!
We'll soon have her above the tide,
Then we'll clean an' scrape each side,
Keep that windlass turnin', bend yore backs an' push!
We've got to find a good tree fast,
Then we'll build a new mainmast,
Keep that windlass turnin', bend yore backs an' push!
With pitch an' rope we'll make her right,
All shippyshape an' watertight,
Keep that windlass turnin', bend yore backs an' push!
You vermin scum, oh mercy me,
Beware when Luke puts out to sea,
Keep that windlass turnin', bend yore backs an' push!"
Gradually the ship slid over its runway of wetted shale slabs, finally coming to rest above the tideline, with the bow end firmly wedged between the two standing rocks that had secured the anchor. Luke was smiling broadly, as he patted the barnacle-encrusted hull. "Well, there she is, a right old slop bucket if ever I saw one, mates, but by winter I guarantee she'll be good'n'ready." He called to Martin, who was down by the tideline with Timballisto, stowing things behind a rock. "Ho there, son, what are you doing?"
Martin beckoned his father to join them and explained, "We collected all the weapons for you, see."
He unrolled an old length of sail canvas, revealing a jumbled assortment of swords, daggers and various blades that had been once owned by the crew of the Greenhawk.
Luke ruffled his young son's ears approvingly. "Well done, Martin. You, too, Timbal. These are far better than our makeshift weapons!"
Timballisto selected a short sword for himself. Martin picked up a longish curved blade and began thrusting it into his belt. But Luke took the sword from his son and tossed it back with the other weapons.
"No, you're far too young to carry a blade yet, son. Timbal, you may keep your blade. "Tis about time you had oneyou'll be fully grown in another couple o' seasons." Seeing the disappointment on Martin's face, Luke threw a kindly paw about his son's shoulders. "Martin, you don't need the blade of any seascum. My sword is yours by right. It was passed on to me by my father and one day I will give it to you."
The young mouse's piercing gray eyes searched his father's face. "When?"
In his mind Luke saw himself asking the same question of his own father. He gave Martin the same answer he had received long ago.
"When I think you are ready."
************************************
Throughout the remainder of summer and all of autumn, the tribe of Luke worked long evenings, after their day's chores of farming food and foraging the shores was done. Gradually the once rickety Sea Rogue ship took shape. The hull was careened, ridding it of weed, barnacles and other saltwater debris. Unsound and rotten planking was torn out and replaced with good stout oak, which they traveled far to find and haul back. Cauldrons of pitch and pine resin bubbled continuously. Lengths of rope were woven and hammered in between the ship's timbers. Then the pitch and resin were poured into the joints, sealing them and making the vessel watertight. Any spare food was cooked and preserved in casks for ship's stores, along with new barrels for fresh water to be carried in. Luke oversaw everything, paying careful attention to the slightest detail.
"Do it proper and 'twill serve you well!" Everybeast in the tribe became familiar with their Chieftain's constant motto.
Winter's first icy breath was coating the northern coast with rimefrost when the new mainmast was raised. Vurg and Drunn had chosen a good tall white willow, which would bend with the wind where other wood might crack and break. Newly patched and hemmed, the wide single mainsail was hoisted, fluttered a moment, then bellied proudly out in the cold north breeze. A cheer went up from the creatures who had worked so hard to repair the vessel. Luke stood back upon the shore with Martin and Windred, surveying the new craft. It had three curving sails from the bowsprit to the mainmast, with the big triangular sail and a tall oblong one either side of the new willow. At the stern was a smaller mast with one other triangular sail. It obviously met all Luke's requirements. He smiled at Martin. "She'll have to have a new name, son."
Martin, like all youngsters, always had a question. "Why do they always call ships 'she'?"
Luke had to think about that one for a moment. "Truth t'tell, son, I'm not sure, but I think they call ships she because, well, she's like a mother to her crew."
Another inquiry followed immediately from the serious-faced young mouse. "I haven't got a mother. Will she be my mother?"
Luke's eyes were sad as he replied, "No, son, I'm afraid not."
Windred stared reprovingly at Luke. "D'you mean you're not taking Martin along with you? He's your son, Luke!"
The Chieftain nodded. "Aye, he is, and that's why I'm not goin' to risk his young life out there on the seas. Beside that, Windred, you're his grandmother, so he'll have to look after youthe only family I have left in this world is you two. Now let's hear no more of it. Would you like to name the ship, son?"
Martin would not let anybeast see tears in his eyes, so he rushed off along the shore, calling back to Luke, "Call her Sayna after my mother!"