Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 323: The Sea Route

In Wigg's memories of the Age of Discovery, European merchant ships bound for the Americas first had to sail south to the African coast, then follow the North Equatorial Current west until they reached the Caribbean Sea.

From there, the merchant ships could ride the Gulf Stream north to trade at North American ports, and finally return to Europe along the North Atlantic Current.

The entire route formed a massive clockwise loop. The real difficulty, however, lay in figuring out exactly where these ocean currents were located.

For a long time, there had been growing calls within the Admiralty to open up new sea routes. The Minister of Naval Affairs had once approached Wigg, asking where his knowledge of these ocean currents came from. Wigg had barely managed to gloss over the issue by lying that he had heard a voice in his dreams.

Out of trust in the King—perhaps even blind obedience—the Admiralty drafted an exploration plan. They constructed a three-masted sailing ship specifically designed for ocean voyages and christened her the Voyager.

By July, the Voyager had successfully completed her sea trials. With everything prepared, she set sail southward with a crew of sixty, embarking on a dangerous yet glorious journey of exploration.

A month later, the expedition ship arrived at the Canary Islands. The Earl hosted a grand banquet to entertain these brave men, and three days later, he personally went to the docks to see them off.

"I truly wish I could join this expedition. Unfortunately, I am tied down by matters here in the Canaries. Alas, I wish you all smooth sailing."

Carrying the well-wishes of the crowd, the Voyager sailed south along the African coast. Two days passed before a steady northeast wind began sweeping across the ocean. After consulting his crew, the captain ordered a change of course to the west.

Soon, the coastline vanished completely from sight, leaving nothing but an endless expanse of seawater in every direction. The wind blew from behind, billowing the sails and pushing the Voyager westward.Gradually, they felt an invisible force propelling the ship. Even when the wind occasionally died down, the vessel continued to be pushed steadily forward by this mysterious current.

As time slipped by, the crew grew accustomed to the monotony. Their daily duties consisted of keeping watch over the boundless sea from high up on the mast, adjusting the angle of the sails to catch the wind, and inspecting the ropes for wear and tear.

Whenever there was genuinely nothing to do, Major Lake had the crew scrub the deck with holystones. It burned off their excess energy and prevented brawls from breaking out.

For this voyage, the Voyager carried ample supplies. The bottoms of the water buckets were luxuriously lined with silver foil, which was said to kill bacteria. Every three days, the captain distributed a fixed ration of beer or sugarcane rum to slightly boost the sailors' morale.

After thirty-two days and nights of continuous sailing, the lookout spotted a cluster of black specks cruising through the western sky. A short while later, an island covered in lush vegetation appeared on the horizon.

"Look! A flock of birds! We made it!"

The lookout's shout roused everyone. They flooded onto the deck, gazing intently at this strange, uncharted land.

At noon, the Voyager anchored in a bay. The crew rowed small boats to the sandy beach, running around excitedly as the warm seawater washed over their ankles. Some used nets and hooks to catch fish nearby, then lit a bonfire. The bright orange flames greedily licked at the fish skewered on wooden branches. Grease dripped down with a sizzling hiss, filling the air with a rich, mouthwatering aroma.

"Hey, give me a piece!"

The famished crew gathered around with burning gazes. Using their daggers, they carved off chunks of the scalding fish and stuffed the meat into their mouths, barely bothering to chew.

That night, the crew strung up hammocks near the beach, finally enjoying a rare, peaceful sleep. The next day, an expedition party followed a small stream inland and discovered that the island was home to many giant, slow-moving tortoises. These creatures were massive and sluggish, with a fully grown adult weighing as much as five sailors combined.

"By Odin, what are these things?" A bold sailor raised his light crossbow and tentatively pulled the trigger. The bolt pierced the hind leg of a tortoise. Sensing danger, the remaining beasts sluggishly attempted to flee in all directions.

Realizing that these hulking creatures were completely defenseless, the crew swarmed forward. The heavy shells were easily flipped over, leaving the tortoises' thick limbs flailing uselessly in the air.

The sailors used ropes to drag the tortoises back to the coast, their carapaces scraping against the rough ground with dull thuds. After drawing straws, one unfortunate man was forced to be the taste tester. With a miserable expression, he swallowed a small piece of the stewed tortoise meat. After a few chews, his eyes lit up—it was delicious. Without hesitation, he devoured the entire pot of stew and even polished off the broth.

After three days of observation, the taste tester remained as lively as ever. Seeing this, Major Lake ordered the men to hunt more tortoises to replenish the crew's meat supplies.

During their rest period, aside from hunting, the crew had to mend the sails, explore the island, and erect a runic stone on both the beach and a high vantage point to record the exact time of the Voyager's arrival.

If the ship were to sink midway through the voyage, these runic stones would be the last traces they ever left in this world.

In late September, just before their departure, the crew captured a massive number of tortoises and crammed them into the hold as a future meat reserve. Following that, the Voyager set sail once more, heading due north.

Late one night, despite the weak wind, Major Lake noticed a significant increase in the ship's speed. He immediately took out his astrolabe to calculate their current position, then recorded the location of the ocean current in the ship's logbook.

More than a week later, the sky lost its clear azure hue, turning gloomy and overcast. The coastal scenery was drastically different as well. Towering coniferous forests replaced the swaying palm trees, jagged black reefs took the place of pristine white beaches, and the air grew thick with a cold, damp, and salty tang.

Along the way, Major Lake and the military officers drew detailed maps. Every time they made port, they erected a runic stone on the shore, claiming the land for the Tynemouth Family—even if the only things in sight were desolate coastlines and circling seabirds.

The North Atlantic in late autumn was exceptionally temperamental. Without any warning, the Voyager was caught in a fierce storm in early October. Thick clouds loomed heavily overhead, massive waves crashed relentlessly against the hull, and freezing rain poured down in sheets, reducing visibility to near zero.

The situation was critical. Major Lake adjusted their course, taking advantage of brief lulls in the gale to steer the ship toward the nearest coastline. Miraculously, they managed to reach a relatively calm river estuary.

Once ashore, there were no cheers—only the heavy silence of those who had narrowly escaped death. They were completely exhausted. Many had caught colds, and the sound of coughing echoed continuously through the group.

"Alas, only forty-nine of us are left."

After holding a funeral for two sailors who succumbed to illness, Major Lake was in remarkably low spirits. He organized the fitter members of the crew to chop down trees and, taking advantage of the high tide, drag the heavily damaged Voyager onto the beach for a lengthy repair process.

After more than three months at sea, the wooden hull of the Voyager was densely caked in a grayish-green layer of barnacles and oysters. Here and there, shocking holes bored by shipworms could be seen, making for a gruesome sight.

"Damn these barnacles!"

The crew cursed as they vigorously swung their iron shovels. Shards of barnacles rained down around them, and every strike of the shovel blades against the hull let out a piercing, grating scrape.