Other attackers fared little better. By now, Lysander had rallied his warriors with the cry of “Spartans, forward!” The Greeks responded with a flurry of action that cleared the deck of invaders. But there were hundreds more Romans, ready to take their place. They crowded onto the portable gangplank linking the two ships. Unless that bridge was destroyed, the Unfinished Business was doomed.
Two swords flashing, Isaac leapt onto the narrow platform. Eyes wild, features contorted with anger, he made no effort to protect himself from his enemy’s
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attacks. Instead he fought with an insane rage to match that of a Norse Berserker. Slashing left and right, he killed a man with each blow. The narrow width of the gangplank made it impossible for more than one to confront him at one time. And no one man could stop him.
Soldiers tried, and soldiers died. Others, seeing their death in his eyes, scrambled back to the safety of their own ship. Single-handed, Isaac cleared the boarding ramp and held it. Blood spurting from a dozen wounds, he glared at the crew of the trireme, as if daring them to do their worst. Then, before any could respond, he leaped back onto the deck of the Unfinished Business.
“Pull us free,” yelled Bowie unnecessarily. Already, a dozen Spartans struggled with the grappling hook that held the boarding ramp in place. Oak panels shrieked in protest as the metal claws tore free. Cheering wildly, the Greeks shoved the platform off the longboat and into the River.
“Spartans, to your oars,” commanded Lysander. It was time for a quick getaway.
Casually, Davy Crockett lifted a small bag made of leaves and dried clay from a storage box on the poop deck. A short vine fuse dangled from its side. Balancing the object in one hand, he lit the fuse with the firestarter he held in the other. Shrugging his shoulders, he tossed it over the gap separating the two boats. It exploded a second later. Surprised Romans screamed in pain as hundreds of small fragments of quartz and flint filled the air.
“Darned things work pretty good,” commented Crockett, lighting a second grenade. Unconcerned, he watched the fuse sputter. “Short fuses, though.”
With a flick of the wrist, he lobbed it at the trireme. Bowie sighed in relief as the bomb exploded among their
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enemies. Crockett was a bit too casual about death and destruction.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Bowie as the Spartans started rowing, “before Crockett blows us to hell and gone.”
6
Two weeks and a thousand miles later, they learned more than they wanted to know about revenge. Anxious for several days of shore leave, they anchored the Unfinished Business at a peaceful Egyptian village. While the crew relaxed in town, Bowie questioned the town elders on the route ahead. Nearby, Socrates coached Davy Crockett on the finer points of swordplay.
Bowie had just concluded his meeting when Bill Mason appeared in the doorway of the council chambers. The historian’s face was white as a sheet, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that Bowie found disturbing.
“You free for a little while?” Mason asked, his voice trembling.
“Sure,” answered Bowie. “What’s up?”
“There’s two women I want you to meet,” replied Mason mysteriously. He beckoned to Socrates and Crockett. “Can you two come with me? It’s important.”
Mason refused to say anything more. The four of them walked swiftly through the small town and entered the ever-present forest that stretched from the end of the beach to the mountains approximately a mile from the water. It took them about twenty minutes to reach their destination.
“The villagers told me about these women and their captive,” said Mason as they closed in on a rough cabin
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sheltered among the huge trees. “Not willing to believe what I heard, I came here this morning. And soon wished I hadn’t.”
“Care to explain what you mean by that, Bill?” asked Davy Crockett, his gaze jumping from place to place. The veteran Indian fighter always stayed alert in the woods.
“Just listen to the women’s story,” said Mason. “You’ll understand my meaning quick enough.”