Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 281: Post-War Legacy Issues

On March 2nd, a massive fleet consisting of ten two-masted warships and twenty Knarr ships arrived in Northern Denmark.

Witnessing the black dragon flags flying high on the masts, the nobles managing the port were caught between surprise and joy, immediately dispatching men to head upstream to Aalborg at the fastest possible speed.

"What a massive vessel," a noble exclaimed, looking up at the largest two-masted brigantine, estimating its cargo capacity to be three times that of a standard Knarr ship (about three hundred tons).

Before long, a smaller two-masted sailing ship approached the pier. A young military officer stepped off, wearing a black double-breasted uniform and a leather tricorn hat. His collar was embroidered with clover and three horizontal stripes in white silk thread.

Glancing at the surrounding low-lying houses with a hint of disdain, the naval captain ordered, "Get your men ready. Do not delay the fleet from unloading the grain. During our stay, the port's defense will be taken over by the Marine Battalion. Do you have any problems with that?"

"Understood."

The noble dared not anger these authoritative figures. He now profoundly realized the disparity in strength between the two nations. Should a war break out, this fleet alone could transport two thousand armored soldiers, effortlessly capturing Aalborg.

Over the next half hour, the fleet docked one by one, first unloading a full-strength Marine Battalion. Aside from the name, their equipment, tactics, and organization were exactly the same as the original Mountain Infantry Battalions, and they were responsible for small-scale coastal conflicts.

Fweeeeeet—

"Hurry up! The first company is responsible for port defense, while the second and third companies will build the pier and the barracks."Deputy battalion commander Ingvar blew a shrill brass whistle, urging the soldiers to speed up their movements. After the war ended last year, he had tentatively applied to the Ministry of War for a transfer and received approval in just two days. The higher-ups had sent him to a military academy for half a year of advanced study before throwing him into the newly formed Marine Battalion. For this, his colleagues nicknamed him "Lucky Ingvar."

That afternoon, Ubbe arrived on horseback and found a large group of soldiers felling trees to build the pier and camp. They had even hired local residents to help, acting as if they completely owned the place.

'No, once this war ends, I must build large trebuchets at the port. I heard my cousin Erik Jr. has similar installations in Bergen and Oslo. I will borrow some manpower from him when the time comes.'

Making up his mind secretly, Ubbe met with the fleet admiral Joren, who put on a show of bowing in greeting to prevent the situation from becoming too awkward. "Your Majesty, according to the agreement, your side must fully assist the fleet in recruiting immigrants."

"No problem." The most important thing was surviving this year's famine. Ubbe smiled amiably, as if the two were old friends who had not seen each other in years.

Having received the King's permission, Joren made the following arrangements: he anchored the main fleet at the estuary of Aalborg and dispatched the Marine Battalion along with seven hundred sailors southward to recruit immigrants along the way.

"Remember, aside from guarding against bandits, you must also pay attention to hygiene. Before drawing water, carefully inspect the upstream of the rivers or the wells to ensure they have not been contaminated. Furthermore, all personnel are forbidden from drinking unboiled water. Violators will be severely punished!"

"Understood!" The person in charge of this operation was the Marine Battalion commander Leif. Although he was still young, he had lived through the Second Viking-West Francia War, the civil war in Britain, and the Irish campaign, giving him ample experience to command this unit.

On March 5th, Leif led his troops south, accompanied by one hundred supply wagons loaded with barley, oats, and other cheap grains. These could be sold locally for high prices, allowing them to purchase more draft animals and supply carts.

"Has my homeland really fallen into such a state?"

Ingvar had originally been a farmer in Denmark as well, having dragged his family along to migrate to Britain over a decade ago. Witnessing the tragic sights on both sides of the road, he felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

Unburied corpses by the roadside had been pecked down to the bone by ravens, and the fields were heavily overgrown with weeds. After turning past a forest, a fishing village appeared ahead. Three longships were being dragged onto the riverbank, their hulls stained with dark red marks, while dozens of men carried wooden buckets off the ships.

Many wooden drying racks had been set up at the village entrance. Women silently smoked salted fish, the fishy stench mixing with the pungent smell of smoke in the air.

"Hey, do not be nervous. We are the Navy of the Kingdom of Britain, ordered to recruit immigrants." Seeing the fluttering black flag and the uniformly equipped black brigandine armor of the troops, the crowd's wariness eased slightly. Wigg had plenty of money; his army would probably not covet their scraps.

Faced with the massive disparity in military strength, the local residents put away their weapons and listened to Ingvar's explanation: "We expect to recruit at least thirty thousand people this year. The first few batches will be allocated flat land with better conditions, while subsequent immigrants will have to reclaim the land themselves by clearing bushes and draining swamps."

In recent years, tens of thousands of Danish immigrants had traveled to Britain, so the residents had more or less heard about the conditions offered. The crowd gathered to discuss, but only ten percent accepted the recruitment.

Observing the wooden buckets the residents were carrying, Ingvar guessed that this group had managed to pillage some grain from other regions, hence their low willingness to relocate.

Since relocation was entirely voluntary, he said no more, dispatching a squad of soldiers to escort the ten households north before continuing their journey.

On March 11th, the convoy arrived on the outskirts of Aarhus. This town had once been besieged by the Frankish Army, and the nearby areas had been requisitioned for grain multiple times. The fields were as desolate as a ghost town. Tracks of wild wolves could be seen along the way; they moved in packs and even dared to attack isolated scouts.

Outside the palisade, the Marine Battalion explained their intentions. The local Earl breathed a sigh of relief. "By Odin, we have finally awaited your arrival. Give me twenty thousand bushels of grain, and I will not interfere with any of your subsequent actions."

"That is too much." Leif haggled and slashed the price by eight thousand bushels, then dispatched a rider to notify the fleet.

Before long, three Knarr ships fully loaded with grain docked at the pier. The Lord was overjoyed, detailing twenty shieldbearers to serve as guides and fully cooperating with the Marine Battalion's operations.

"Aside from the vicinity of Aarhus, you can do whatever you please in the rest of the regions. But let me warn you in advance, the countryside is crawling with numerous bandits. If you suffer any losses, absolutely do not place the blame on my head."

Leif asked, "Have you not tried wiping out the bandits?"

The Lord sighed. "Wipe them out? The largest bandit group has five hundred men. Lacking grain, I cannot call up the conscripted militia or vassal forces, so I can only let them run amok. Famine is rampant within our borders; even if I wipe out this current group, other starving peasants will inevitably turn into new bandits sooner or later."

The next day, Leif marched west under the guidance of the shieldbearers. In every village, they managed to recruit over twenty percent of the population, and some villages even migrated entirely. They quickly rounded up more than three thousand people.

Upon receiving the news, the main fleet arrived in Aarhus to load the immigrants and return to Britain. Ingvar maintained order at the pier, taking a moment to chat idly with a ship captain in his fifties.

"We can finally head back," the captain said, gazing at the immigrants continuously boarding the ships. He pulled out a tin flask containing sugarcane rum and took a small sip.

"Why?" Having recently joined the navy, Ingvar patiently probed for some useful inside information.

Historically, captains and sailors had always preferred the southern routes. Every time they sailed to Lisbon, the crew could carry a portion of their own goods to sell locally, then purchase spices to resell back home.

For a single voyage, factoring in wages, long-distance bonuses, and spice profits, an ordinary sailor could earn forty silver pennies—equivalent to the cost of one cow and one pig. This was a perk tacitly permitted by the Admiralty.

"It is that lucrative?" Ingvar gasped, feeling fortunate that he had joined the naval ranks.

The old captain patiently explained, "The navy is different from the army. Every oceanic voyage inevitably suffers from attrition—dying of illness or being swept to the bottom of the sea by storms. If the higher-ups were to cut back on the compensation, how many people do you think would willingly continue enduring such hardships?"