Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 324: Captured Vikings

After clearing away the barnacles, Major Lake directed the men to repair the ship's hull. They nailed down wooden planks, filled the gaps with hemp oakum, and then poured in thick, viscous coal tar.

After two days of busy labor, the Voyager was fully repaired. Major Lake sent men into the woods to check the numerous traps they had previously set. Half an hour later, a high-pitched scream echoed from the forest.

"We have a situation! Prepare for battle!"

The crew donned their brigandine armor, grabbed their spears and crossbows, and assembled on the beach to await orders. Suddenly, a crew member burst from the underbrush with an arrow sticking out of his back. He ran frantically, shouting, "The natives are hunting me! They have iron weapons!"

What?

Lake thought he had misheard. The indigenous people of the New World lacked metalworking technology. Could these be products sold by the West Sea Fur Company?

The very next moment, shrill, eerie shrieks rang out ahead. Dozens of figures draped in animal skins charged out of the woods. Most wielded wooden spears and stone axes, but the burly man leading the pack wielded a one-handed sword, wore an iron helmet, and was clad in tattered brigandine armor.

"Hold your ground! Do not fire yet!"

Ignoring the bows and arrows fired by the natives, Major Lake waited until the distance between the two sides closed to thirty yards before ordering his crew to unleash a volley.

Almost simultaneously, ten crossbow bolts pierced the bodies of the enemies, causing the natives' charging momentum to falter. Their chieftain forced them to press forward, only to be blocked by a dense wall of spear thrusts.Before long, the light crossbows fired again. The shooters unanimously aimed at the iron armor-clad chieftain. One of the crossbow bolts plunged right into his unprotected thigh, instantly stripping him of his ability to resist. He collapsed onto the sandy beach, wailing in agony.

With the enemy's morale plummeting, Major Lake ordered an assault. The crew leveled their spears and marched forward in unison, forcing the natives into a continuous retreat until they completely routed the equally numbered native force.

Seeking to seize the enemy's grain, Lake left his first mate with eighteen men to guard the ship, while he personally led thirty men charging into the woods to pursue the fleeing natives. By one o'clock in the afternoon, they arrived at a crude encampment nestled within the forest.

The tribe had a sparse population, boasting only about fifty wooden cabins in total. Faced with the iron weapons and armor of the Vikings, the remaining natives were utterly defenseless. After putting up a brief resistance, they scattered and fled in all directions.

"Stop pursuing! Gather the grain."

Lake had no desire to entangle himself with these natives for too long. He ordered his subordinates to harvest the nearly ripe corn and pumpkins. At that moment, his second mate ran over to report, "Captain, the boys found a captive in the animal pen. He appears to be one of ours."

Lake hurried to the largest shack in the camp. Behind it was a pen holding over forty massive, bizarre-looking chickens—turkeys—and inside, bound with thick ropes, was an unkempt, filthy man continuously muttering incomprehensible words under his breath.

"He really is a Viking. What are you standing around for? Quickly, untie the ropes!"

Lake patiently communicated with the rescued captive. Through the man's halting and disjointed recounting, he managed to piece together a rough understanding of what had transpired.

The man was a sailor for the West Sea Fur Company. He had departed from Quebec in March and sailed south. They were ambushed while docking in this area. He and five of his companions were captured and turned into slaves by the natives. His five comrades had sequentially died of illness, leaving him as the sole survivor.

"To be beaten to such a state by natives... sigh, your captain, first mate, and second mate are simply a bunch of worthless trash. They should all hang from the gallows!"

Lake sighed heavily for a long time before ordering the camp to be burned to the ground. He returned to the beach with the grain and the forty-plus strange chickens. To be safe, the crew took advantage of the tide to move the Voyager back out into the bay, preventing it from being burned in a potential native night raid.

Guided by the rescued captive, the Voyager sailed north along the coastline, heading toward the Viking settlement in the New World—Quebec. The ship encountered no storms during the journey. The only bad news was that those bizarre chickens tasted atrocious. Their meat was dry and stringy, carrying a distinct, earthy smell. The helpless cook resorted to chopping the poultry to bits with an iron ax and boiling it for hours, resulting in a strangely flavored pumpkin, corn, and chicken porridge.

In November, the Voyager slowly sailed into Quebec. The moment the gangplank hit the docks, the locals eagerly crowded around. The throng featured quite a few indigenous faces. Most of the people were bundled up in thick mink coats, their deerskin boots splattered with mud, and their exhaled breaths condensed into white clouds in the freezing air.

"We carry no cargo. This is an exploration vessel of the British Navy. I am Major Lake."

Wearing a tricorn hat and dressed in a crisp, black double-breasted uniform, Lake announced their identity and mission to the crowd on the pier, requesting an audience with Bjorn Ironside.

A voice called out from the crowd, "He is currently purchasing furs in the Great Lakes region. You will probably have to wait a while."

Even though the ship lacked desperately needed goods from the Old World, the residents still warmly hosted their fellow countrymen. After obtaining permission, Lake had his crew tow the Voyager into the dry dock for thorough repairs.

Five days later, Bjorn Ironside's galley fleet returned. Learning of the British Navy's visit, he tracked down Commander Lake and asked, "Is your mission this time to open up a southern sea route?"

"That is correct," Lake replied. "Following His Majesty's intelligence, we located the North Equatorial Current and the Gulf Stream. Our sailing speed has vastly improved. Furthermore, the southern climate is warm, making it much more suitable for development."

At the tavern table, he recounted everything they had encountered, especially the giant tortoises on the southern islands, drawing gasps of amazement from the local residents. "I am not lying. We still have two tortoise shells stored in the cargo hold. I intend to transport them back home for a public exhibition. Their meat is absolutely exquisite, vastly superior to those bizarre chickens."

By mid-November, the repairs on the Voyager were complete. Heeding the advice of his crew, Major Lake decided to winter in Quebec to avoid the brutal winter sea conditions of the North Atlantic.

Bitterly cold winds howled, and the temperature plummeted. The river surface began to freeze over, and daylight hours grew increasingly short. Unaccustomed to such a harsh climate, the crew of the Voyager spent their days huddled around the fireplace for warmth, unknowingly enduring the brutal winter until March of the year 866.

Even now, the frozen river in Quebec had yet to thaw. Bored out of their minds by this mundane lifestyle, Lake and his crew took to wandering aimlessly around the settlement.

One day, a native arrived at the western wall riding a dog sled. Bjorn Ironside conversed with him briefly before ringing the alarm bell, summoning all five hundred adult males in the settlement.

"What is going on?" Lake approached to ask for information. Having entirely abandoned the pristine dignity of a naval officer, he was wrapped tightly in a thick layer of mink fur, looking for all the world like a walking gray puffball.

Bjorn Ironside explained, "I have formed alliances with a few nearby tribes. One of those tribes has been attacked and requested my military assistance. Do your men want to join in? They are willing to pay us in mink furs as a reward."

The forty-five surviving crew members of the Voyager gathered together to discuss the matter, and the major crunched the numbers.

"The Voyager has a carrying capacity of one hundred and fifty tons. Aside from our necessary supplies, most of the cargo hold is completely empty. If we assume a full load of furs, we could expect to sell it all for around three hundred pounds. Every brother here would get a share of seven pounds. Coupled with the bounty from this operation, none of us will ever have to work another day for the rest of our lives!"

Low risk, high reward!

The crew eagerly accepted the proposal, willingly plunging themselves into the tribal conflict.