At the stern was a rudder, some ten feet long, cut from a solid piece of oak. On the nearby poop deck stood a powerful ballista. The mast was only thirty feet high, but the sail, made from dragonfish membrane, stretched forty feet across.
The Spartans adjusted easily to the new ship. With its single sail and bank of oars, it resembled the triremes that they had sailed for Sparta. After several trial runs
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with the new crew, Thorberg pronounced them worthy of his vessel. A hundred and nine days after starting work, the Viking shipwright informed Bowie that all was ready.
Anxious to get going, the Texan immediately ordered their supplies loaded onto the t>oat. Not believing in long good-byes, he decided to set sail the following morning.
The whole population of New Athens turned out to see them off. The faces of the crowd reflected a mix of emotions, ranging from anger to joy, envy to disdain. Bowie no longer cared. Never a patient man, he was happy to be on his way.
Finally, the last of the supplies were loaded, the crew were at their oars, Thorberg at his rudder. All that remained was to lift anchor and set sail. Bowie lifted a hand in farewell.
“Speech,” called a voice from the shore. “Speech, speech,” echoed many others.
Momentarily taken aback, Bowie hesitated, not sure what to say. Socrates, standing next to him on the poop deck, suffered no such modesty. He stepped forward immediately.
“My friends, good countrymen,” his voice rang out, silencing the cries of the crowd, “today the bravest sons of New Athens set sail on a great adventure. We go in search of the gods, those magical beings whom many of you foolishly insist resurrected us on the banks of this mighty river. Personally, I cannot imagine we will find them, for as you well know, I strongly doubt that they exist.”
Most of the crowd nodded politely, not listening in the least to what the philosopher said. A few even applauded politely. However, Bowie noticed a number of unhappy faces. “Make ready to cast off,” he muttered to Thorberg as the boos started.
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“Once before, I stood before such a noble assembly,” Socrates continued. “On that particular afternoon, you graciously condemned me to death for corrupting the youth of Athens.” The boos were growing louder, but the philosopher ignored them. “A model citizen, I obeyed your command. In my heart, though, I knew that if hemlock was given to all those in Athens guilty of a similar crime, the city would stand empty of life!”
By now, the crowd had turned ugly. En masse, the citizens surged forward, seeking to pull the boat back to shore and rip Socrates to pieces. Pieces of debris tossed by the angry Greeks pelted the ship. “Up anchor,” commanded Bowie hurriedly, as a stone whizzed by his head. “Fast.”
The longship darted into the current like an arrow taking flight. In seconds, it sped out into the center of the River. “If I encounter the gods,” shouted Socrates in derision, “I will surely warn them of your hospitality.”
“Nice and diplomatic,” said Bowie with a heavy sigh, as the banks of New Athens slipped far behind. “From now on, do me one favor. Clear any speeches with me first.”
“I could not bear to leave them without a few words of wisdom,” said Socrates, sounding not the least bit contrite. “At least our departure will be remembered for years to come.”
“You can say that again, frogface,” declared Davy Crockett, joining them. He had been at the front of the boat during the speech. In a drink match with the frontiersman a month before, Socrates had let slip his nickname on Earth. Ever since, Crockett insisted on using it all the time.
“Reminds me of the time when the good people of Tennessee voted me out of office,” Davy continued.
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“For my concession speech, I told the ungrateful scum to go to hell. Then I gathered up some friends and rode off for Texas.”
“Another diplomat,” said Bowie, smiling. “No wonder you got killed so often since Resurrection Day. Telling the truth ain’t the way to win many friends.”