In the seasons that followed, Luke and his surviving tribe did well and learned many things. No longer were they hungry, farming the clifftop land, foraging farther afield in good weather, and gathering mollusks, shrimp and shellfish from rockpools and tide shallows. Drunn and his moles taught them how to create screens of rock, driftwood and overhanging vegetation for their caves, disguising them from the gaze of unwanted visitors and providing windbreaks against harsh weather. Windred looked after little Martin, who had become a sturdy toddler, living the simple life, still as solemn and well-behaved as ever.
Luke, however, was a different creature from the easygoing, good-humored leader he had been before his wife’s death. His tribe learned to give him a wide berth and ask no questions of him. He kept a cave apart from the others, in which he was making and storing weapons. He came and went at odd times, returning with materials he had gathered in his wandering. Martin was the only one he would confide in, though he constantly questioned Drunn and Welff on the habits of Sea Rogues. How often did they visit the north coasts? Did they ride at anchor or beach their vessels? What sort of discipline did they employ, what was the average size of a crew, what type of weapons and tactics did they favor? If a ship was sighted out on the main, all creatures ran for cover, but Luke would lie on the clifftops with Martin, watching it. The little fellow listened carefully to what his father had to say.
“I hope that vessel doesn’t put in here, son. I’m not ready for them yet. Better that it stays out to sea and sails off. But when I’m ready, the day will arrive when I’ll be looking for a ship to land here, and then we’ll see what the seascum are made of. Look, she’s veering off southward. We won’t be bothered by that one, thank fortune. Come on, you can help me to build up our weapon supply.”
Luke showed his son how to make arrows, while he himself attended to the bows. “See these, they’re ash branches, good heavy wood. I’ve chosen the ones that are medium thick and straight, and dried the ends out by standing them in warm sand around the fire. Now, we make a slit in the opposite end and fit a piece of feather in it, like so, then bind above and below the feather with twine. Next, I place the dried end of the wood in the fire, let it burn, but not too much, then rub it to a point on this rock, burn a little more, rub a little more. Here, Martin, try the end of this with your paw. Be careful.”
Martin dabbed his paw gently on the needlelike point his father had rubbed onto the fire darkened ash. He smiled. “Oo, it shark!”
Luke smiled at his little son, who was still learning to pronounce words. “Aye, ’tis shark all right, very shark. Sea vermin don’t wear armor, so an arrow doesn’t need a metal or flint tip. A good hefty ash shaft with a firepoint will stop ’em!”
Vurg entered the cave and indicated Martin with a nod. “His Grandma Windred is lookin’ for him. Dinner’s ready in the big cave. Are you coming, Luke?”
Luke glanced up from the bowstring he was twining and greasing. “I’ll be along. There’s still work to do here.”
Vurg looked around at the rows of stakes waiting to be sharpened, flint axheads, unstrung yew bows, and gnarled driftwood limbs waiting to be fashioned into clubs. “A fair ole bit o’ work I’d say, Luke. Why don’t me’n’Cardo an’ some of the others help you?”
Luke knotted off the end of his finished bowstring. “My son’s a good little helper, but I could do with some like you to lend a paw. Why didn’t you offer sooner, Vurg?”
His friend smiled wryly. “Because none of us fancied gettin’ our heads bitten off.”
Luke offered his paw. “Sorry, mate. I accept your help gratefully. ’Tis not your heads I’m lookin’ to bite off, just the Sea Rogues’.”
Vurg took Luke’s paw and shook it warmly. “Good. Let’s go an’ get some dinner, then every able-bodied beast in camp will pitch in with pleasure!”
*
From then on Luke became a real Warrior Chieftain, directing his creatures in the making of weaponry, drilling and training his fighters and marking off the shoreline around the caves in various strategies and plans for when the time was ripe.
It came unexpectedly, one evening the following summer. Having finished their day’s chores, the tribe sat about after dinner in the big cavemouth, their backs warmed by the fire within, enjoying the pleasant evening. Windred was singing an old song which had been passed down through her family.
“Old Ninian mouse and his goodwife,
Needed a house to build,
They had a family grown so large,
Their tent was overfilled.
To setting sun the old wife toiled,
From daybreak in the east,
But Ninian was a lazy mouse,
Who loved to sleep and feast.
The wife heaved stone and carried wood,
For door and wall and beam,
While Ninian idly in daylight,
Snored on in peaceful dream.
She raised the gables, built a roof,
Her back was bent and sore,
As Ninian ate up all the food,
And loudly called for more.
So when the house at last was built,
His wife nailed up a sign,
Which stated ‘THIS AINT NINIANS!’
She said, ‘That shows ’tis mine!’
Then when the countless seasons passed,
And all within had died,
The rain and storm of ages long
Had swept the sign outside.
It washed the first three letters out,
But left the rest intact.
That sign now reads, ‘S AINT NINIANS!’
A church? A joke? A fact!
So traveler if you read the sign,
Then take my word ’tis true:
A dreamer can become a saint,
So can a glutton, too!”
Welff applauded with the rest, chuckling and shaking her head at Windred’s song.
“Tell me, Windred m’dear, is it true, is there such a place as Saint Ninian’s, or is it really a joke?”
Luke answered for her. “’Tis a fact, marm. I was born at Saint Ninian’s, as was Sayna my poor dear wife. We were driven out, when I was a babe, by an evil warlord, a wildcat named Lord Greeneye Verdauga who had a horde of vermin at his command, so they told me, but I was far too young to remember. This is our home now, and nobeast will ever drive us from here while I am about.”
Drunn Tunneller dashed toward them, waving. He was panting hard, having clambered down from the clifftops.
“Burr, git ee insoid, guddbeasts all, ee Sea Rogue ship be a cummen yurr!”
Immediately the tribe began pulling out driftwood and vegetation to disguise the cave’s entrance as they had been shown. Luke nodded to Vurg and Dulam to accompany him down to the tideline.
Shading their eyes against the westering sun, the three mice stood in the ebbing tide shallows watching the ship. Vurg scratched his head and looked to Luke. “Doesn’t look quite right t’me, mate. What d’you make of it?”
Luke scrutinized the vessel keenly. It was still a good distance from land. “Hmm, could be just an honest merchant trader, but in these waters I doubt it, Vurg. It doesn’t seem to be making good headway—if it’s trying for land, it won’t make it here until near daybreak tomorrow at the rate ’tis goin’, eh, Dulam?”
Dulam watched the strange craft take a north tack, as if trying to catch the wind. He pointed. “See, she’s got a broken mast, I think. That’s why the going’s so hard for that ship!”
Luke checked Dulam’s sighting. “You’re right, mate. Maybe this is just what we’ve been waiting for. Back to the cave and rouse our fighters!”
*
Reynard Chopsnout, captain of the vessel Greenhawk, was in high bad humor. His ship was taking on water, and to make matters worse, add a broken mainmast and ten days on short rations. Moreover, the crew were becoming mutinous and he was hard pressed to maintain command. The Corsair fox pawed irritably at the hard polished blob of pitch which served him as a snout. It was stuck on where his nose had been until he came off worse in a swordfight with a skillful ferret.
Chopsnout roared at the hapless weasel who was wrestling with the tiller. “Hold ’er fast to the wind, Bootbrain. What’s the matter with ye? To the wind I said, wagglepaw, the wind!”
Some of the vermin crew were aloft, trying to rig a jury mast. One of them called down mockingly, “Don’t shout too ’ard, Choppy, yer nose’ll fall off!”
Chopsnout grabbed a belaying pin and hurled it up at the rigging. It fell back, almost hitting him. Amid the hoots and jeers of the crew, he yelled, “Who said that? Come on, own up, ye lily-livered poltroon!”
Another insult rang out from below, where other crew members were baling out the water the Greenhawk was shipping. “Bootbrain’d ’andle the tiller better if yer fed us proper, yew ole vittle robber!”
Chopsnout could not see who made the remark. He danced and stamped in anger on the deckplanking. “Liar. Filthy foul-tongued liar. I get the same amount o’ vittles that everybeast aboard gets!”
There was an ominous clack. Chopsnout quit stamping and dropped on all fours, scuttling about the deck. This caused great hilarity among the crew, and bold ones began yelling.
“Oops, ole Choppy’s lost ’is hooter agin, mates. Hahaharr!”
“Let’s ’ope it don’t bounce down ’ere an’ kill somebeast.”
“Give ’im a chance, mateys, ’e’s on the scent of it. Heehee!”
“Arr now, don’t say that, bucko, ’e’ll go an’ get all sniffy on us. Hohohoho!”
The irate fox soon found his pitchblob nose and stuck it on hastily. He paced the deck waggling his cutlass ominously. “Go on, laugh, ye slabsided slobberin’ swabs, but don’t come whinin’ t’me for aid or advice. I’m finished, d’ye hear, finished!”
He strode off huffily to his cabin. Bootbrain dithered at the tiller, not sure of which way to swing it. “Harr, cummon, cap’n, we was only funnin’. Wot course d’yer want me to set?”
Chopsnout poked his head round the cabin door and cast a withering glance at the weasel. “Course? I couldn’t give a frog’s flipper wot course you set. Sail where y’fancy, let the ship leak ’til she sinks, leave the mainmast broken. ’Tain’t my bizness. I’ll leave the command o’ the Greenhawk to youse clever-tongued beasts, an’ see ’ow you like it!”
There was an uneasy silence from the crew. Darkness was falling fast and nobeast was about to take on the responsibility of running the vessel. Chopsnout smiled triumphantly. “So, what’ve ye got to say t’that, me fine buckoes?”
Bootbrain, who was never given to teasing or insulting his captain, could not help making an observation. “Cap’n, yore nose is on the wrong ways round. Ye’ve stuck it on backward.”
The final straw came when a strangled titter rang out from below. Reynard Chopsnout slammed his cabin door shut and sat sulking in his cabin.
*
Sometime after midnight there was a rap on the cabin door. Chopsnout snarled at the beast without, “Go ’way an’ leave me alone!”
The rapping persisted, accompanied by a voice. “But cap’n, lissen, ’tis yore ole mate Floggtail. I’ve spotted somethin’ on the shore. Come an’ look!”
Adopting a stern face, Chopsnout emerged from his cabin. The crew were gathered on deck, peering at a fire burning on the beach some distance away. The Corsair fox could not help smirking as he addressed Floggtail, the searat first mate.
“Well well, a fire, eh? Looks no different from any other I’ve seen. What d’ye plan on doin’ about it, mate?”
Floggtail stared hard at the firelight, scratching his fat stomach distractedly. “Er, er, Scritchy an’ Wippback reckons we oughter tack a bit an’ sail beyond that point stickin’ up south’ards, cap’n.”
Chopsnout smiled encouragingly at the two searats. “Hmm, clever thinkin’, you two. Wot next?”
Both searats hastily explained their plan.
“We drops anchor t’other side o’ the point, cap’n.”
“Aye, then, er, we climbs over that point an’ drops in on ’em.”
“That’s right, then we slaughters ’em all an’ robs any vittles we find!”
Chopsnout shook his head in despair at their stupidity. “How d’ye know that those creatures on shore ain’t already sighted us an’ armed theirselves up, eh? An’ tell me this, wot’s t’stop this ship sinkin’ if’n you takes the time to tack around be’ind yonder point? Well cummon, I’m waitin’ fer an answer off’n some bright spark?”
There followed a deal of paw shuffling and blank looks, then Floggtail appealed sheepishly to Chopsnout. “Er, cap’n, ’ow would yew go about it, sir?”
Chopsnout snorted airily. “Ho, yore in trouble now, so youse need yore ole cap’n agin, eh? Well I ain’t makin’ a move ’til I gets a full apology off’n this crew for the insults I’ve bore!”
Staring at the deck as if the answer lay there, the vermin crew mumbled disjointedly.
“Sorry, cap’n, er, about yore no . . .”
“About wot we said to yer.”
“Aye, we didn’t mean it, cap’n.”
“’Twas on’y a joke, cap’n, we won’t say nothin’ no more.”
“Yore the best cap’n ever t’sail the seas, sir!”
Chopsnout attempted a sniff, holding onto his nose, which was starting to wobble slightly. “Well all right, so be it. But next time you start any o’ that I’m done with ye for good. Now, ’ere’s the way I sees it. That fire on shore is only a liddle ’un, an’ all I can see is two beasts sittin’ by it, mouses mebbe. If’n there was a full tribe o’ them, there’d be a great big fire, so I figgers there’s on’y the pair of ’em, prob’ly some ole hermit an’ his wife. They’re either daft or blind, ’cos they ain’t seen us, or they wouldn’t’ve lighted a fire an’ give themselves away. Hark t’me now, this is my plan. Leave off fixin’ the mast an’ balin’ out water, all four paws on deck ’cos the tide’s starting to ebb. Grab any spare planks, timbers or oars an’ start paddlin’ ’er for the shore double quick. We’ll run the Greenhawk up on the sand an’ beach ’er high’n’dry. Then we’ll capture those two mice an’ torture ’em ’til we finds out where they’ve hid all their vittles. After they’ve cooked us a good feast, the rest’s simple. We fixes the leaks an’ the mainmast, chops the ole mouse’n’his wife up fer fishbait, then sails off south fer a bit o’ sun an’ plunder!”
Bootbrain nodded his head in admiration of Chopsnout. “Stripe me, ’ow d’you remember it all, cap’n? Yore a clever ’un, no two ways about it!”
The Corsair fox drew his ragged frock coat about him haughtily, staring down his imitation nose at the astounded vermin crew. “Aye, that’s why I’m a cap’n, so mind yore manners an’ git about yore business, you dumbclucks!”
*
Vurg raised his eyes from the fire on the beach that he and Luke were sitting by. “She’s headed straight for us. They’ve put out paddles. You were right, Luke, that ship’ll land here around dawn.”
Luke reassured himself by touching the sword concealed beneath his cloak. “Good. Is everything ready, Dulam?”
The mouse who had crawled up in the sand behind Luke made his brief report. “Aye, ready. Old ’uns an’ the babes are well away, hidden beyond the cliffs, an’ our fighters are waitin’ in the caves.”
Luke watched the Greenhawk moving closer to land, speaking to Dulam without turning his head. “Tell them to make every shaft count—’twill be kill or be killed. We’ll only get one chance to capture that vessel.”
Dulam wriggled off back to the caves. Luke sensed Vurg’s trembling, and he placed a steadying paw on his friend. “Take it easy, Vurg. This is the best chance we’re ever goin’ to get of startin’ to avenge our loved ones. Trust me.”
His companion stole a glance at the hard-eyed warrior sitting beside him. There was not a shred of pity or unsureness showing on Luke’s face, just cold wrath and determination. Vurg suddenly stopped trembling.
“I’m all right, Luke. I trust you. All of yore tribe do!”
*
The Greenhawk was aided by a light breeze caught by her square-rigged aftersail, speeding up the vessel’s progress, drawing her closer to the pair of forlorn figures huddled about the guttering fire onshore. Reynard Chopsnout drew his cutlass and climbed up to the prow. He crouched there, putting a final edge to his blade on an iron cleat. Already he could mentally hear the whimpers of the two shorebeasts, pleading for their lives. This was going to be as easy as falling off a log!