After clearing away the barnacles, Major Lake directed the crew to repair the hull. They nailed fresh planks into place, packed the seams with hemp fiber, and then poured thick coal tar over the joints.
After two days of hard work, the Traveler was fully repaired.
Lake then sent a party into the forest to check the many traps they had set earlier. Half an hour later, a sharp scream echoed from the trees.
"Something's wrong—prepare for battle!"
The sailors hurriedly donned their cloth armor, grabbed spears and bows, and assembled on the beach.
Suddenly, a crewman burst out of the undergrowth with an arrow lodged in his back. He ran while shouting:
"Natives are chasing me—they have iron weapons!"
What?
Lake thought he had misheard. The natives of the New World lacked metalworking technology.
Could it be equipment sold by the West Sea Fur Company?
The next moment, piercing war cries erupted ahead. Dozens of figures clad in animal skins charged out of the forest. Most carried wooden spears and stone axes, but the burly leader held a one-handed sword, wore an iron helmet, and was dressed in ragged cloth armor.
"Hold steady—don't fire yet!"
Ignoring the arrows shot by the natives, Lake waited until the distance closed to thirty paces, then ordered a volley.
Almost simultaneously, ten crossbow bolts slammed into enemy bodies. The natives' charge faltered. Their leader forced them forward, only to be stopped by a dense wall of spear points.
Moments later, the crossbows fired again.
This time, the archers instinctively targeted the armored leader. One bolt struck his unprotected thigh, instantly disabling him. He collapsed onto the sand, howling in pain.
Enemy morale wavered.
Lake gave the command to advance.
The sailors marched forward in step with leveled spears, forcing the natives to retreat again and again until the equally sized force finally broke and fled.
To seize the enemy's food supplies, Lake left the first mate with eighteen men to guard the ship while he personally led thirty sailors into the forest in pursuit.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, they reached a crude woodland camp.
The tribe was small—barely more than fifty wooden huts in total. Faced with Viking iron weapons and armor, the remaining natives had no real means of resistance. After brief fighting, they scattered into the wilderness.
"Stop chasing them. Gather supplies."
Lake had no intention of lingering in conflict. He ordered his men to harvest the nearly ripe corn and pumpkins.
At that moment, the second mate ran up to report:
"Captain, the men found a prisoner in the livestock pen. Looks like one of ours."
Lake hurried to the largest hut.
Behind it stood a fenced enclosure holding more than forty large, strange birds—turkeys. Inside, tied up with ropes, was a filthy, disheveled man muttering incoherently.
"That's definitely a Viking. What are you waiting for? Untie him!"
Lake patiently questioned the survivor. From the man's fragmented and confused account, he pieced together the story.
The man had been a sailor for the West Sea Fur Company. In March, his ship had sailed south from Quebec. While stopping here, they were attacked. He and five companions were captured and enslaved by the natives.
One by one, the others died of illness.
He alone survived.
"Beaten into this state by natives… sigh."
Lake shook his head in frustration.
"Your captain, first mate, and second mate were a pack of fools. They all deserved hanging."
After a long sigh, he ordered the camp burned. The crew returned to the beach with sacks of grain and more than forty of the strange birds.
To be safe, they used the tide to move the Traveler back into the bay, preventing a nighttime attack that might set the ship ablaze.
With guidance from the rescued sailor, the Traveler then sailed north along the coastline toward the Viking settlement in the New World:
Quebec
The voyage north passed without storms.
The only bad news was culinary.
The strange birds tasted terrible.
Their meat was dry and tough, with a strong earthy flavor. The cook had no choice but to chop the meat into pieces with an iron axe and boil it for hours, producing a pot of oddly flavored pumpkin-corn-chicken porridge.
In November, the Traveler slowly approached Quebec.
As soon as the gangplank touched the dock, locals rushed forward eagerly. Among the crowd were many natives. Most people wore thick marten-fur coats, their deerskin boots splattered with mud. Their breath turned into white mist in the cold air.
"No cargo," Lake announced.
"This is an exploration vessel of the Royal Navy of Britain. I am Major Lake."
Wearing a tricorne hat and a neat black double-breasted coat, he formally declared their identity and mission, requesting an audience with Bjorn.
A voice from the crowd answered:
"He's in the Great Lakes region buying furs. You'll have to wait a while."
Although the ship carried no urgently needed goods from the Old World, the residents warmly welcomed their countrymen. After receiving permission, Lake ordered the crew to haul the Traveler into dry dock for thorough repairs.
Five days later, Bjorn's fleet of rowing ships returned.
Upon learning that the British navy had arrived, he sought out Lake.
"So your mission this time is to open a southern route?"
Lake nodded.
"Yes. According to His Majesty's information, we found both the North Equatorial Current and the Gulf Stream. Our sailing speed improved greatly. And the southern climate is warmer—much more suitable for development."
Over drinks, he recounted their experiences, especially the discovery of the giant land tortoises on the southern island. The story astonished the settlers.
"I'm not exaggerating," he said.
"There are still two tortoise shells in the hold. We plan to ship them back home for public display. The meat tasted excellent—far better than those cursed birds."
By mid-November, the Traveler's repairs were complete.
Following the crew's advice, Major Lake decided to spend the winter in Quebec to avoid the brutal conditions of the North Atlantic.
Bitter winds swept across the settlement.
Temperatures dropped.
The river began to freeze.
Daylight grew shorter and shorter.
The sailors of the Traveler struggled to adapt to the harsh climate. They spent most days huddled around fireplaces for warmth, and before they realized it, time had passed into March of 866.
Even then, the river remained frozen solid.
Lake and his men grew restless from the monotony and began wandering around the settlement.
One day, a native arrived at the western wall on a dog-drawn sled.
After speaking briefly with him, Bjorn rang the alarm bell, summoning all five hundred adult men of the settlement.
"What's happening?" Lake came to investigate.
He had long since abandoned naval dignity, now wrapped head to toe in a thick marten-fur coat, looking like a walking gray ball.
Bjorn explained:
"I've formed alliances with several nearby tribes. One of them has been attacked and is asking for military support. Do you want to join us? They're willing to pay in marten furs."
The forty-five surviving sailors of the Traveler gathered to discuss.
Lake quickly did the math.
"The Traveler can carry 150 tons. After essential supplies, most of the cargo hold is still empty. If we fill it with furs, we could sell them for about 300 pounds. Each man would get seven pounds. Add the bounty from this mission, and we wouldn't need to work for the rest of our lives."
Low risk. High reward.
The sailors eagerly accepted the proposal and joined the tribal conflict.
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