Dakota Viking: What Price Glory?

A Frigate
Dominic Serres
Source

HMS Dunoon was plunging on a following sea, trying to haul closer to the prize, a French merchant alone, rounding the “Rock.”

Orders called, men scrambling in the rigging, loosing a couple reefs out of the sails, canvas snapping taught in the breeze. Surging forward, trying to gain an advantage by angling ahead.

Bow chasers barely in range, their gunners already at their posts Royal Marines crewed the bow guns while the sailors worked to close the distance. Gunners ready, glance at the Captain … he nods … “FIRE” lanyards pulled sending two 9 pound balls from the long barreled bow guns, smoke blows to the side enough to see splashes well astern of the target. Need to get closer. An hour, more?

Time to change the watch, everyone stays on station, action is close at hand. The marines are constantly adjusting their aim on the bow chasers, finally another nod from the Captain. Rounds out … one splash … one hit? Range still closing slowly, they beat to quarters, marines readying muskets and climbing to the fighting tops.

Sailors taking over a majority of the guns, most were 12 pounders but they did have 4- 18 pounders positioned center on the second deck. 2, 9-pound bow and 2, 9-pound stern chasers rounded the main armament.

The bow chasers were now on a fire at will order, random shots, as fast as they can reload. It became somewhat of a speed competition between the two crews. The splashes, while disappointingly common were becoming less frequent.

“Run out the starboard battery!” the captain ordered the helmsman to change course 60 degrees to port, wait for the volley then resume pursuit course.

A deck down, orders barked out, gunports opened, powder monkeys (barely more than little children) ran up with powder charges in bags, these were rammed into the withdrawn barrels, a wad and solid shot was rammed into place, lines through blocks ran the barrel out.

The gunner gave the order for the slight adjustment to the elevation wedges, waited for the order…

“Fire”… the ship was in a slow low roll, wait … others fired immediately rewarded with huge columns of water.  “Wait” ship catching a lower “ditch.” Other crews starting to reload, slight rocking upswing with a roll to port. Yank that lanyard! Deafening blast and whine in the ears. Hearing just became a low thrum. Shouting to be heard … "Reload!"

No splash, hit? or long overshoot? Reload, a practiced dance of deadly intent, everyone has their part. Sponge and worm the barrel, powder charge rammed home, wad and shot added, spike the powder bag, prime … and wait the order.

Bow chasers fire and they can feel the ship rolling to port again, guns run out waiting for the right target picture … there she is, a little more ragged than the last view. “FIRE” the gun captain saw this was nicely timed with the ship’s roll, and the rippling broadside in those tight confines shook your body to the core.

They started to reload, then stopped. The merchant was slowing, rudder damage? Unable to keep the wind. Sails luffing in the breeze. The Frenchman turned full broadside and fired a ripple of cannon fire as she was able. Not a Man of war but she had a punch. Her Master knew she was done, he just wanted to spit his final vengeance out at the Brits.

Raked across the bow, as she was, the wounded among the sailors mounting rigging to drop sails as they prepared to come alongside, was devastating. Splinters, broken woodwork, blood and broken men fell to the deck. The gun crews gave up some of their numbers to the boarding parties, the object was to take her as a prize, not sink her. This should be an easy merchant capture. Not a naval engagement.

Orders barked, experienced men did whatever they did to prepare for a fight, the inexperienced … did what they could to “courage” themselves and not wet their breeches.

Cutlass, boarding axe, pike, and flintlock, bow and stern they formed, Marines still in the rigging were pouring fire onto the French deck, others climbed down to the boarding parties.

Grappling hooks out, French trying to cut the lines, Marines shooting them.  A cannon will fire from time to time, from both sides, more to harass, wound, and kill, than ship damage at this point. The quarterdeck swivel gun barks out, filled with a couple handfuls of musket balls, it causes a sudden change in the mood of the battle, their Captain went down, and a couple dozen French sailors swarmed onto OUR deck.

They were met hand to hand, steel to steel, they came midship our stern party swarmed over the carnage caused by the swivel gun and boarded them. Our bow party and some of the lower gun crews met their boarding party head on. Hack, stab, slash, punch, bite, why were they fighting so hard, what was their cargo?

Over the rail, a slip here will get you crushed between the hulls, a belaying pin in his left and a boarding axe in his right, onto their deck slippery with blood. Clusters of melee fighting, seeing a large French sailor using a pike on his messmates, John charged. Target on the right, left hand cross body the belaying pin thuds into the pikeman’s skull throwing the head back chin up, perfect for an axe strike to the throat. Done.

Look for the next target, a cutlass slashes past him, drive the axe into his armpit and backhand a pin blow to the head. Down, with his axe. Stuck, leave the axe, pick up the cutlass. Not really trained for the sword, he wields it just like an axe, hacking and chopping, with no style but to good effect. He added to the butchers bill. Men fighting their way below, topside the fight was near done and it appeared they might being striking their Colors. Shouts from below, down into the darkness, blind, shadows, grunts, screams, blackpowder blood and bowels assaulted the nose. Why did they defend this so hard?

A cry from his left, oncoming sailor with a pike, smack the shaft aside with the belaying pin and thrust with the cutlass, the pike wielder’s eyes go wide as the steel buries itself in his guts. John smells the sailor’s last breath in his face, and what he had just opened up lower down. Deck more slippery. A halfhearted cheer comes down from above, they’ve struck their colors. Thud, the sailor with the pike hits the deck for the last time.

Just what the Devil did they have as cargo that they put up such a fight?

National treasure? Royalty? Hatred?

Editor's Note: As DV is on a roll as of late, I'm letting him run free. As for me? Je n'ai rien.

Progress

 Busy, Busy, Busy.  Getting the House(s) ready for putting on the market.  Our current house is 5 years old,  our previous house (on the property) is 25 years old and the two guest cottages are 8 years old.  I'm sure there's an old Chinese proverb that describes this situation quite well.

"Stuff expands to fill available space and given enough time (see above) this will continue until every cubic inch of space is filled."

I believe this quote was stolen and adapted from Sun Tzu.  That having been said, evidence shows it to be it to be astonishingly true.

Mostly!

As I've discussed earlier, we're getting ready to move to College Station, to be closer to our Daughter and Family.  Lot's of good reasons, Grand Kids and Family support as we get older are two key ones.  Aggie Football might also be on the list somewhere.

No Beans, I did not go to that School.  My money did and I'd like to get some return on the investment.

So back to the situation at hand,  the guest cottages are in pretty good shape as they're cleaned every time a guest checks out.  So, pretty much just replacing anything that's a bit worn/shabby.  

 

Our old house had been mostly resuscitated at this point,  Mrs J has done a really good job at doing the interior redesigning the inside.  Looks very eye catching, but simple also.  So, easy to maintain.  A lot of Stuff has been resigned to the dump or Good Will.  A lot of Stuff.

 

This dumpster was totally full when it was hauled off to the dump!  As I said...

In any case, my big mission was redoing the front porch. 

 

That's the original porch fencing.  The decking required a few replacements, but other than some weather fading, the wood's in pretty good shape.

 

 

Got the inside framing done and things were starting to come together. 

 

A couple of days later, AKA last Saturday, it was pretty much finished.  Still need to reface the upper supports between the porch fence and the overhang, but that shouldn't be too hard.

 

Famous last words. 

Our current house, 5 years old, is in pretty good shape, just a bit of deep cleaning and decluttering.  Easier said than done, I know!

 

 

 

 

And finally, the Horse Barn.  Doing my best to keep it clean, but between you know what and the hay in the barn, it's a full time job.  As I said, doing the best I can. 

 

Problem for this week is the water source to the horse's water tank, stopped working.  Hard water, finally froze the float valve, so water was watering the grass instead of the tank.  The horses still had water, just a bit more of it around the barn.  

 

I've already disconnected it so it wouldn't leak any more

So, gonna let you go and make a trip to Tractor Supply to pick up the requisite parts and go and fix that issue.  I'm replacing all you see except the hose.  We're having a contractor come in in the next week or so to install pipe from the water source to the barn.  That should take failed PVC links our of the picture.

 

Progress, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes unexpected, but....Progress!

 

Peace out y'all!

 

 

What's Doing?

OAFS Photo

So there's another bit of historical fiction in the books, so to speak. I've been wanting to do some ACW-related stuff for a while, the fictionalized tale of my great grandfather's regiment was one way to do that without rattling any cages. Some folks are still pretty riled up about that time period.

No, I'm not one of them. It's history, water under the bridge, you learn from history or you don't. As "they" say, "ain't no thang."

But now I'm on a Civil War kick. The opening photo is the book I'm currently reading, been wanting that trilogy for a long time.

Our next door neighbor was having a yard sale last year and The Missus Herself and I wandered over to say hello near the end of it. And there, sitting atop a cabinet of some sort or another was Shelby Foote's trilogy for the lordly sum of two American dollars.

"Sue, do you have change?" (All I had was a twenty.)

"Just take it, no charge."

The Missus Herself started to spool up as 1) she doesn't like to take advantage of folks, and 2) she claims I have "too many books."

We convinced her that it was a worthy addition to the library (yes, she rolled her eyes) and I got the set, gratis, my favorite price.

I'd rather forgotten that I had it until I finished up the book I had been reading about Gettysburg, so I resolved that it would be next, and so it is.

I remembered Shelby Foote from the Ken Burns Civil War series and had been impressed by his knowledge and demeanor. Now I'm impressed, to say the least, with his writing. I read where a number of "professional" historians don't care for his work. I do hereby note that one can replace the word "professional" with "boring" and it would be more accurate. Too many "professionals" have made the study of history painful in the extreme. So I care naught for their opinions.

I like the guy, may he rest in peace.

Another thing I've got on my plate is this:

OAFS Photo

Yup, Civil War miniatures. I've always been a big fan of toy soldiers and when they (Warlord Games) came out with their Epic scale figures (each figure is roughly 13mm tall, a lot smaller than most figures) I was keen to purchase them.

I was going to start with the ACW, some years back, but then they came out with the Waterloo series, so I had to get them first. Now the progeny gifted me more 'Amazon Bucks" so I was able to grab the ACW set as well. I even sprang for some extra buildings, primarily because one of these was included ...

Source

Which are all over the place near Gettysburg, sometimes referred to as a "bank barn" or a "Pennsylvania barn." I've also seen the term "Schweizer" or "Swisser" barn used as this type of barn possibly originated in Switzerland.

Anyhoo, I also bought the Union and Confederate commanders (Lee, Grant, Jackson, Meade, etc.) and bought the Iron Brigade as well. (I mean how do you fight an ACW battle in the East without the Iron Brigade?)

So there's a project I need to get to work on.

And now they're coming out with an American Revolution line in Epic scale. So I need to save up my pennies for that when it comes out. (Bastards! Er, I mean, wonderful, glad they're doing that ...)

I'm also spending time (probably too much time) playing Scourge of War: Gettysburg. Which looks something like this -

Law's Brigade seizing Little Round Top
Screen shot from the game

The game's victory conditions are completely out of whack, it has something to do with timing and seizing certain terrain features. I say "out of whack" because I captured Little Round Top and had turned the Federal left when the game ended and it said, "Sorry, you lose."

Harrumph. I did better than Longstreet and I "lose"? Harrumph again, silly software people.

Still and all, the game is a lot of fun.

Anyhoo, that's what I'm up to. Blogging is going to be light as I have a lot of irons in the fire right now, so ...

Be seeing you.

1863: Chancellorsville, then Home

Source

Chère maman,

How I long for home and hearth now, I am heartily sick of the army. Our boys have once again been led to defeat and ruin by the generals.

Near the end of April we were encamped with Reynolds' I Corps to the south of Fredericksburg. Then on May the 1st, Joe Hooker got himself into a mess in a place the locals call "The Wilderness." And pretty wild it is, lots of underbrush, hilly and heavily forested. Rather like back home up in the mountains.

He ran into Stonewall himself in that tangled mess and rather than fight it out, he pulled back, leaving the place to Jackson, thinking to stand on the defensive rather than attack.

So on the 2nd, Reynolds' Corps (with us in it) was ordered north, around Fredericksburg and to a place where we could ford the Rappahannock and get stuck in to the secesh. Of course, we got flung across the river and then waited.

In the meantime Howard's Germans got themselves run out of the wilderness, leaving a big mess behind.

We guarded the ford whilst everyone else was fighting. Until it was time for everyone to re-cross the Rappahannock, we were the rear guard and lost ten men keeping the Johnnies at bay.

I swear, all this army does is stumble from one mess to another.

Votre fils, Joseph

"Frenchie!"

Joseph heard his name called and he turned to see his friend Thomas, he had found hot coffee and had somehow managed to come away with the whole pot.

"Where'd you get that, Thomas?"

"Officers were having a brew but they got called away for an orders group. I suspect we'll be moving one way or t'other and soon."

All day the men had listened to the thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry in the near distance.

Thomas Dignan poured them both a cup, took a sip, then spoke.

"I heard tell that Sickles and his boys are damned near surrounded at a crossroads called Chancellorsville, while the rest of the army sits in The Wilderness waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Cap'n just came through while you were on picket duty, said that Sickles and Couch managed to pull back into The Wilderness but that the damned Germans ran away again. Also heard that old Thomas Jackson is dead.¹ Shot by his own pickets!"

Thomas just sat there for a moment, "Stonewall? Dead?"

"That's what they're saying."

"Well, I'll be damned." Thomas shook his head as he said that. Oddly enough, he felt bad for the man himself, though not the cause he served.

"Steady lads, steady."

The 22nd New York stood in line, waiting while the bulk of the army crossed back to the Union-held side of the Rappahannock. Marse Lee had managed to drive the Yankees again. Joseph wondered if the Rebs fought better on their own turf. Lord knows, they fought hard in Maryland, near Sharpsburg, last year, but to no avail.

In Virginia they fought like wildcats.

The regiment had received a number of replacements over the winter and was now at a strength of near three hundred. Many of the new recruits had proven unsuited for army life and had been sent home. What remained was solid.

"Hear they come boys! Hold until I give the command!" Colonel Phelps sat his horse and watched as the Confederate skirmishers broke out of the far tree line.

Joseph saw the puffs of smoke long before he heard the familiar "zip" of Minié balls whipping overhead. The first shots were always too high.

"Steady! Steady!"

A man beside him grunted, clutched his belly then fell to the ground. Joseph waited for the command. He could see the secesh forming up across the way, but not making any move to advance.

"Looks like they're content to see us back across the river, eh Frenchie?"

Joseph smiled as Thomas said that, he sure hoped there wasn't going to be a general fight here by the ford.

And there wasn't, the Johnnies were content to take long range shots at the departing columns of Union troops. The regiment suffered ten wounded, one or two serious, but no one was killed outright and they were able to take the injured men across when it was their turn.

As the last cavalry pickets forded back to the northern side of the Rappahannock, Joseph prayed that he'd seen his last action. In a month the regiment would return to Albany to be mustered out. He'd done his time, he had had enough.

More than enough.

Newspaper clipping from 1863 -

Sunday night, before starting for their homes, the Regiment was highly complimented in an address by Gen. WADSWORTH, for their bravery and discipline. In every action they have been in, they have indeed covered themselves with glory.

The sanitary condition of the Regiment has been remarkably good, having lost but twenty by natural causes. In officers, they have lost eleven killed and one died a natural death; men, fifty-seven killed and nineteen a natural death; missing and never heard from, eight; wounded, about one hundred and sixty-five.

They left this city about 825 strong, and have received in the neighborhood of 300 recruits, many of whom, however, were discharged as unfit for service. Their aggregate now is 505 men, 419 with the regiment, and the rest in the hospital and elsewhere.

 

After dinner at the Delavan, the Regiment proceeded to the Capitol, where they were welcomed by Gov. SEYMOUR, Col. PHELPS responding in a few brief and appropriate remarks. The Regiment then proceeded to the Barracks. Source

The 22nd New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment's war was over.

¹ In reality, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson was accidentally shot by one of his own men. He was evacuated and had his left arm amputated. However, he caught pneumonia and died after the battle, on the 10th of May, 1863.

Dakota Viking Sends: Second Raid

Source

They’d harpooned a seal and were readying the sand box fire as the hunters butchered the carcass. Fresh was always better than dried, they had a couple deep cod lines out just in case. They continued south, searching the shoreline, for anything.

Blubber, crisping and frying, a quick dip into seawater to cool and salt, pop into mouth … so good.

Lura pulled out his recently acquired sword, inspecting it as he rubbed it down with fat, not what he was used to seeing, shorter, single handed made for stabbing. Old. The elders said it came from an ancient empire to the south, that was no more. More steel than someone of his position should own. He’d actually seen hewing spears with this long a blade. A true battle prize. He had the man's shield too, not round, more square, but curved to protect better. His was broken, and as old as it was, this would have to do. As to broken, his left wrist still hurt like Hel, but no serious damage. Just rest it a few days.

Rugged coastline south, another seal, good eating. Smoke rising in the distance, a whaling village? Steering toward shore. Small fishing vessels passing to the sides, keeping distance. Just as well. Slash the oars out and head for the smoky shore. Pull! Harbor in sight, pull! Not fast enough, a huge mob of men waited on the beach. They were chanting something, so we gave back a few "Haaarroouuuuus!" and beat on our shields.

They came right down to the waters edge and those with bows started lobbing arrows at us, young boys were slinging rocks at us. The longboat ground to a stop on the rocky shore. Over the side! Fight out of the water! They had us disadvantaged, trying to form a shield wall in the water. Spear out, shield up, axe in belt shortsword in scabbard.

Form up and push forward. Trying to link shields with those around him, the rocks and water, making this difficult. Forward! Thwack … sharp pain from his forehead, slings … Keep that shield up, face is wet … his blood … keep moving.

Spear low under the linking shields, formed and walking. Our side starts chanting a saga of Odin slaying Ice Giants, they gibber and screech like women. We trot forward together as one until within striking range, and then our line explodes into their mass. Lura stabs two with his spear; the third one keeps the spear in his body.

Shield up, grab frantically for the axe. Start chopping down at a shield up, spear thrusting bastard. Push forward past the spear, shield it aside … too close for a good axe hack. Push through and over the spear guy, on his back trying to bring the spear to bear, Lura plunges his axe into his prostrate foe's face, thus ending the confrontation.

Two more steps and he is back in the melee. Lock shields, push forward. He’s not happy with the results of his axe against shields, shoves the shaft back into his belt and pulls the battle prize shortsword (he wanted his spear) Thrusting and stabbing the blade out from behind the shields landed several hits, some he stabbed went away, some came back for more. All were bloodied.

Villagers working up the courage to attack, rushing forward, and if they didn’t clumsily fall forward while swinging their weapon at the shields, they would kick at the shields … exposing your groin to angry men with sharp blades is not a good idea. Many fell, we advanced. They screamed, we roared. Stab, slash ,step, repeat. Thud, another shot from a sling, shield up thwack, another! Can’t hardly look around thud, again. Armed men in front are retreating, shot and arrows crescendo, then taper off as ready ammunition depletes.

Battle Cry! Rooooaaar!!! Rush forward as the defenders run. A bunch of kids scramble up a low hill, turn and start slinging rocks at the men pushing forward. He and a handful of men get into the cover of the huts, and start searching.

Dark, cramped huts, smoky and smelling of fish, not much wealth here, again some iron, very little silver, screeching women and kids to be ignored … until … one screechy hag attacks him with a knife. Lura pulls his axe from his belt by the steel and thumps the harpy on the head with the butt of the axe handle. She goes down with a shriek; he gives her another thump for good measure, then picks up the knife and throws it into the outside path to be gathered as loot when they leave. Women can be fierce and deadly, they’re not to be trifled with. Shouts from outside, our archers have persuaded their slingers to leave. Though some would stay, permanently.

Someone found something up the hill, shouts out for more men … Running uphill, lungs burning for breath, ahead, where the commotion is, a stone keep? Longhouse? Not a castle? Whatever it was, the townsmen were defending it.

Arrows and rocks zipped over the wall randomly. A big stone building with a wooden door. Fire and steel eventually burn/break through the wood. Men rush through the still burning doorway smoke thick inside, eyes burning hard to see, floor slippery … blood and spilled guts of the defenders … the smell … groans, whimpers, laughter and roars, echo in the stone hall. 

Many of the men in the hall, all wearing the same dark cloaks walked up to us and kneeled with hands clasped in front of them, muttering a chant. The first couple were killed, the others beaten until they ran away, though that old grey haired one stayed until beheaded.

Some kind of temple, like we have for our Gods, only theirs was a deadman on a crossed pole. Gold trinkets, silver and copper cups and goblets, bowls, ceremonial things and tokens, a couple handfuls of coins; all thrown into bags and baskets to be topped off with whatever we threw into the paths among the huts.

We gather what we can, and raid the fish racks for ready dried cod. Many sea birds were in the butcher process a product of the slings.

A few of his fellow raiders have taken on the task of bringing slaves back, trouble and expense too high for the reward, even if you manage to keep them alive. The village watches us from the higher hillside, elders silent, youngsters yelling, shouting and throwing things.

Barrels of whale fat/oil, and several barrels of ale which were promptly loaded onboard (after they’d tapped one). The slingers were getting annoying about the time we pushed off the beach. We were well out into the harbor and those little bastards were still landing thunks at distance. You’d hear them whizz and thump into the sail and clatter to the deck. Made you keep your head down.

Ale, so much better than that stale brackish water they’d been drinking. It clouded the head nicely, and they were sailing … salt-spray, gulls, plunging deck, open sky, good friends, and …

Ale …

Some of the slavers were selling favors from their captures. Things were getting ugly between some involved in the play. Konrad barged in and put an end to the pettiness. “next one of you that starts a fight on this boat is going over the side.” Everyone knew he meant it.

Quaff a few more gulps of ale, then curl up in his cloak at his bench. Hull plunging, rocking, surging forward, peaceful sleep.

Awake … must piss … where’s the wind from … stumble to the side.

Bright daylight, beautiful sky, choppy sea. Skuas were gliding back and forth riding the wind off the sail. Tear off a chunk of dried cod, dip it in some whale oil … breakfast to start the day.

Lura makes his way back to the steer board, and asks the skipper for a turn for experience the skipper turns the steer board tiller over to him and watches the boat and Lura intently. For awhile, then he goes and relieves himself and grabs some cod.

Surging with the wind, down-wave on a following sea … was exhilarating, keep the course, steer into breakers, don’t get sideways to the waves. Fresh wind, speed, he loved sailing.

More men were waking, communal bowls were passed around for washing hair and faces. A fire started for the fresh fish and birds that needed to be boiled.

The steersman wandered up and observed Lura for awhile, eying the longboat and sail, he nodded. “Good, steady, if you want to learn more, I’ll make sure you are taught.”

“Of course! I want to learn everything”

“Well, I’ll take over in a bit, you steer your course and come up with some questions for me to answer, I’ll be back.”

Later, fresh boiled cod and a fresh tapped barrel of ale …

They continued on a Viking.

This and That ...

야끼만두 (Yaki Mandu)
Source

As I'm not in the mood to write any fiction and as The Missus Herself fed me one of my favorite comfort foods (the opening photo), you get a short bit of who knows what? (And yes, there is a recipe for those at the source of the photo.)

First I want to thank Dakota Viking for giving me the day off yesterday, I got to relax and we all got a taste of writing talent that I hope we can get more of. In your own good time, DV.  No rush. After all, quality is worth waiting for.

Being retired is still kinda cool, i.e., the novelty hasn't worn off yet. Yes, there are days when I'd like to get back in the saddle and go back to the work I enjoyed over the past decade, but things, they are a changing. My sense was "not for the better," which is why I reached for the ejection handle and punched out.

At breakfast the other day Liz said it would be nice to have me back in the lab for at least one day a week. I think that's mostly so I can listen to her rant about the direction things seem to be going in. Honestly, I could handle one day a week, they wouldn't even have to pay me!

But that's all theoretical anyway.

My buddy Tom introduced me to this really good band Plush a while back (might even be, probably is, going on two years now, maybe three) and they're going to be in town (well New Bedford, but that's just a hop skip and a jump from here) and that I should accompany him and Brian (another buddy from work).

The Missus Herself assured me that nothing was on the schedule for that week, so I received clearance. It's off to another concert I go. Looking forward to it.

Tom was going to get me a t-shirt last time he went (he's seen them four times) but thought better of it.

Why? (You might ask.)

Well, it's an all female band, all very talented, all very lovely. Tom figured that The Missus Herself wouldn't be pleased with me parading around with this picture on my chest -

Plush

"Really, Tom? Do you really think my gorgeous wife is worried about her ancient, grizzled, old husband running off with a young lady?"

"No, not really. But the shirt was fifty bucks, I'm not springing for that!"

Smart man, my buddy Tom.

Hopefully he talks me out of buying a t-shirt at the concert!

That is all, carry on.

Be seeing you.

Dakota Viking Sends: First Raid

Ein Wikingerüberfall¹
Ferdinand Leeke (PD)

Yes! Face to the breeze, Lura could smell the green coming off the land, a day, maybe half? Bright blue sky, cobalt blue sea, freshening breeze, a shiver of spray, by Odin’s Eye he loved sailing!

The sky was just barely darker to the steer board side, an almost imperceptible shadow, caused by land blocking the light reflecting off the sea. Gulls were working the rolling waves for a couple days now, almost there, then to find a town.

He was young, on his first time going Viking, his pater told grand tales of going Viking to the east. There had been trade and a few raids west, now his Jarl wanted them to raid and bring back what they could from those seldom visited shores.

The voyage gave him time to further hone his axe, a simple woodcutters axe, not a gleaming war-axe like some of the older men had, and certainly not a sword the wealthy men carried. A belt knife saex,² a man-tall simple spear his brother had carried, and a rough hewn wood shield with a crude hammered center boss, his most important possessions.

The men had practiced together for several weeks, different attack and defense techniques, and he was sparring on board with others when he could. Some had a bit of armor, mostly leather with rings or studs attached. Most just wore wool pullover jerkins or cloaks. The wealthy elders, well, they had more.

Row in calm sea, hang onto the wind. They were pulling the land up from the horizon. Always on to that western shore …

Fishing boats, two men pushing oars, no match for our 30 and sail. Hard to understand their strange speech, we think their harbor is around those headlands. These two have nothing we want, we leave them with their nets, to think about the fate of our destination. Keep pulling those oars. The current really rips around these headlands, fast water and choppy waves, PULL! Make the turn into the smoother water of the inlet, now we can speed up, steady pull don’t rush, don’t tire yourself. Smooth, pull, glide, repeat. Skipper readying for the beach, barking orders.

Thud, THUNK, zip, THUD, thud, whiz, thud! THUD!

Arrows!

So close, a couple more pulls, grind into the beach … All stop, everybody out. Scramble for weapons and shield, over the side.

Splash into the cold, up to his waist, Odin’s Balls it was cold! Run! Splashing ashore, looking to form a line. The arrows were coming more slowly, and some of our archers were firing from the boat. An arrow struck his shield, hard … then another stuck deep, they were targeting HIM!

Glance to the side, his buddy Vasvik has one in the lower neck bleeding terribly, then one appears in his eye, his friend is gone. Rage! Ignoring the practice they’d done, he charged alone at the source of the arrows. He broke the shaft off as he ran, a low guttural roar rose up rising to a tenor crescendo as he ran … THUD!

“Bastard!”

There he was, between the fishing skiff and the hut, nocking another arrow. Rage! Right arm swinging the axe down from above, shield parallel to his path. The hapless archer looks up just in time to see the huge bearded barbarian barreling into him, the archer’s world goes dark forever as the axe buries itself in his poor skull.

Squelch. Lura ripped the stuck axe from the downed man’s skull, roared in triumph at his first kill and trotted onward looking for more. There was a shield wall forming on the rocky scree, but as he was well ahead of it, he went hunting. Slipping around huts and boats, he saw the town defense setting up, ragged, spears, axes, farm tools. He stayed still until they started walking toward the beach, then he slowly followed, taking in the feel of the crowd (who was confident, in charge, and who were slightly better than cowards.)

“His” shield wall walked forward shouting curses, “their” crowd started yelling and waving their weapons. An occasional arrow still zipped out from both sides. They stopped, Lura charged, two of the best dressed and armed men were standing behind the crowd, one had a sword and shield, the other some kind of boat hook on a man length pole. He held his spear in his left hand along side his shield boss ”handle,” as he ran he swapped the spear and axe.

Getting to contact range he bellowed an oath and drove the spear into the sword bearer’s ribcage, his momentum pushing the spear out the other side, He let go the spear. Right hand grabs the axe and with a backhand blow drives the blade into boat hook’s right shoulder at the base of the neck … Hook drops.

Shouts, yelling, he’s been noticed, a few turn. Lura takes a fresh grip on the axe handle and stares into the eyes of those who turned … thinking, “that one is serious, that one is looking for a way to get off the line and just face one, and that one … you could get to run if you yelled.”

He locked eyes with serious man, charged and roared, flicker of fear in “serious'” eyes then cold determination. He was going to fight! But what was his weapon? A boat builders wooden sledgehammer? No shield. Lura swings low for the thigh, but is driven to the ground by a crushing blow from that same hammer.

The shield breaks on impact and his wrist has a strange numb/pain in it. Calling out a war cry Lura swings his axe at “hammer’s” shin, glancing blow, saves him from getting crushed and lets him get to his feet. “serious hammer” is doubled over, but comes back to the task at hand instantly. The one who he could have dispatched with his voice is gone, running down the beach.

The middle one looks like he’s having second thoughts. Lura screams at him and turns to attack the “hammer”. He reaches behind his back and pulls his long bladed saex. Axe in the right, saex in the left, (though his left hand has no strength) he mock charges at the second guy with the spear and shield, then turns directly into a swinging sledge, dropping and bending out of the way, sends the edge of the huge mallet bouncing off his head.

He had started his swing, the axe almost buried in “hammer’s“ side, almost, broke a couple ribs and doubled "hammer" over. Lura was dazed from the glancing hit, “middle guy” screeches and runs forward with his spear. He holds the saex up in front as he prepares the axe swing.

Swing, knock the spearpoint just to the side, saex up, slicing anything exposed as they pass, one step to the right and bury his axe into the spine, pull the axe, body still twitching. "Hammer" is stilled with a hard axe strike to the base of the skull.

Others have turned, then a mighty shout roars out, his men advance toward him, defenders dying and running in equal numbers. Cut down some of the slower ones, but there is no honor in that. Let the rest go. Shouts and screams, hearty laughter and bellows of triumph.

Lura turns, looking for his brother’s spear, actually it was his now, but it reminded him of his big brother. There, sticking out of the swordsman in the red cloak, was (his) Sven’s spear.

Quickly he surveyed the scene, sheathed his saex, grabbed the spear shaft and pulled … He set the axe down and used both hands, his left wrist hurt badly. A couple of grunting pulls and an extra set of hands came to help.

“Konrad, thank you,” when they pulled the bloody shaft free.

“You hit them from the rear when they stopped us ... they broke.”

Konrad reached down and pulled the deadman’s sword from its sheath.

“Decent blade… you earned it.”

Search the town. Not much, screaming, terrified women and children, some iron tools, pans, a little ceremonial silver, basic food stores. They took what they could, slaves could bring a heavy profit but you had to be wealthy to take care of a slave until it could be sold. They’d need to find a bigger town.

Pull back out to sea and down the coast, searching. The wind in his face ...

He loved sailing.

¹ A Viking Raid

² Saex = a small sword, fighting knife or dagger

Editor's note:  A splendid first post from our own Dakota Viking. Here's to more like this!

1863: Along the Rappahannock, the Mud March

Winter Campaigning.
The Army of the Potomac on the move. Sketched near Falmouth--Jan. 21st
Alfred R. Waud (PD)

Chère maman,

The weather here has been consistently miserable, cold, rain, and nothing but a sea of mud around our bivouac outside Fredericksburg. Now, after the butchery of that late battle, old Burnside seems to have cooked up yet another scheme to outfox Bobby Lee.

We are heartily sick of Burnside and long for the days of our Little Mac. Can the President find no one else to lead this poor Army of the Potomac? Morale is terrible, most of us are at the point of letting the secesh go their own way, we just want to go home.

If the Army continues to throw our lives away, many will do just that!

I must close this now, the drummers are beating the assembly, what new fiasco awaits us?

Votre fils, Joseph

Sergeant Halpin went through the bivouac of Company K shouting for the men to fall in with full equipment. "We're marching off to war again lads! Grab your shite and fall in on the colors! Move, move, move!"

Joseph threw a glance at Thomas Dignan as he struggled into the straps of his pack. "Where is old Burn going to take us now? He find some new place to get us killed?"

Thomas chuckled and shook his head, "Surprised that you'd disparage a fellow New Englander like that, Frenchie."

"Ah merde, he is from Indiana and I am from Quebec, neither one of us is really from New England."

Halpin stuck his head into the tent, "You two quit jawing and get yer arses in formation! Move!"

The long column of Wadsworth's First Division of John Reynold's First Corps looked bedraggled and miserable. The rains had turned the road into a sea of mud. Cavalry and artillery had preceded the infantry and had torn an otherwise reasonable road into a primitive, sodden farm track.

Colonel Walter Phelps, Jr. rode his horse beside the column, his First Brigade had earned its nickname of the "Iron Brigade of the East" on a long march earlier in the war. He noted, with pride, that his boys were marching with their heads up, resolute looks upon their faces.

The 22nd New York was leading the brigade march and he called out to Lieutenant Colonel John McKie, Jr. "Your boys are setting a fine pace, John!"

McKie, marching on foot with his men, his horse nowhere to be seen, tossed a salute at the brigade commander, "Hell Sir, my boys will march through hell itself if the cause is right."

Under his breath McKie muttered, "Too bad Burnside doesn't know his arse from his elbow."

Phelps shook his head, "Keep that thought to yourself, John. No sense pissing off the lads any more than they already are."

"Understood, Sir. My boys don't mind dying, just want it to mean something."

"Don't mind dying? Who the hell is he talking about?" Thomas was angered at the colonel's comment.

"Like we've a say in the matter, Thomas. We go where we're told, we fight, we die, and the generals throw it all away at every turn. Merde, I say. Au diable tous ces généraux!¹"

"Fais attention à ce que tu dis, Gaudry!²" Sergeant Chartier looked sharply at his fellow francophone. Chartier was the only man in the company who called Joseph by the name he was born with.

"My apologies, mon Sergeant, it's just frustrating."

"It's the army, nothing more."

Joseph nodded, he wondered again how a man so young, rumor said he was only 14³ years of age, could be so wise.

"Damn it!" Colonel Phelps swore loudly when the courier from General Reynolds relayed the order to halt, word from Burnside's headquarters was that the march around Lee's left flank was cancelled. The roads were terrible and rebel cavalry had spotted the movement.

"Colonel, Old Marse Lee has his boys up in force at the crossing site. His sharpshooters are already knocking down engineers and artillerymen, if we push on, it'll be Marye's Heights all over again!" With that last word, the courier galloped down to the next brigade.

"Officer's call, Sergeant Major Towne! Regimental commanders to me!"

The brigade being very understrength, it didn't take long for Phelps' regimental commanders to gather. Lieutenant Colonel McKie of the 22nd, Colonel Beardsley of the 24th New York, Colonel Searing of the 30th New York, Major de Bevoise of the 14th Brooklyn (aka 14th New York State Militia), and Colonel Burnham of the 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters all looked at Phelps in anticipation of being told to reverse direction.

Colonel Burnham spoke up, "So is that it, Walter, back to our bivouacs across from Fredericksburg?"

Phelps nodded in annoyance, Burnham was a regular, and they seemed to take delight in talking down to "State" officers. Burnham wasn't a bad sort, just overly familiar at times.

"Yes, Hiram, time to wade home in the mud. Let's get the column turned around and be ready to move."

"Are we going to try and maneuver the column around in this mud?" Beardsley exclaimed.

"No, Sam, we'll about face, have the color parties move to what was the rear and will now be the front. No sense trying to maneuver off the road, we'll be here all damned day."

The morale of the Army of the Potomac had been improving at the thought of getting after the rebs, the turnaround sent morale once more into the pits of despair. It also sealed the fate of Ambrose Burnside's command of the Army. The President had lost all confidence in the man.

On the 26th of January, 1863, Major General Joseph Hooker took command of the Army of the Potomac. Major General Burnside was sent to the west, to the Department of the Ohio.

¹ To hell with all these generals!

² Be careful what you say, Gaudry!

³ According to Company K's roster: CHARTIER, HENRY J. - Age, 14 years. Enlisted, June 8, 1861, at Albany, to serve two years; mustered in as private, Co. K , July 2, 1861; promoted sergeant, March 1, 1863; mustered out with company, June 19, 1863, at Albany, N. Y. He was either a very big kid, or the roster is incorrect. I lean towards the latter. He is not listed on the 22nd's muster roll.

Author's Note: You can read more about the Mud March here and here.