Manaan’s Little Daughter Ever since arriving at the great Empire of Cathay the crew of
Manaan’s Little Daughter had been aboard ship, apart from their brief foray onto dry land when unloading their cargo. The massive fleet gathered in the harbour had needed protecting from pirates, and the tiny sloop with its relatively clean lines was considered perfect for such a job - sleek, weatherly and stiff, armed with four small pieces of artillery, swivel guns that the sailors named ‘murderers’. Her crew were also relatively healthy, for they had avoided the yellow fever, scurvy and flux that had beset so many other ships. Some amongst her crew said that this was more than good fortune but the blessing of the great god of the sea. Others put it down to the fact they had managed to catch fresh fish with their nets often enough on the long journey that they rarely had to rely on hardtack and salt beef, and being a supply and reconnaissance boat they had not been forced to stick so close to the fleet that they caught every contagion spreading through it. All of which should have made them happy, were it not for the fact that they were thus considered fit enough to begin patrolling duties immediately, without need for shore leave of any kind.
Every crewman hailed from the city of Marienburg, all now serving the VMC, and thus the Order of the Dragon Shield. Her master Bram van Driel had chosen them carefully, even those he had had to accept from other ships during the journey had been vetted to his satisfaction. Now Bram had a crew who he could trust to work hard and fight bravely, and to follow his commands for they had learned to respect his abilities.
He stood near the prow, his red and white panache feathers fluttering in the wind as they hauled close to a bowline, busily tacking their way through what they hoped were deep waters - though the Little Daughter had a shallow enough draft to risk close proximity to most shores. His mate, Sander Atema, stood amidships watching him, obviously awaiting his command. Bram grinned at his friend, knowing his large moustache would be fluttering as were his feathers, and knowing that Sander often joked with him about it.
Bram held his muskatoon at his hip - he was more nervous in these waters than he had been during the entire journey to this side of the world. Suddenly a cry did come, but it was not from the master, instead it came from the ship’s stern.
“Ship ahoy! Windward and closing, perhaps a league away.”
Everyone turned to look and to a man found themselves having to shield their eyes from the sun. This was why the ship had not been spotted, for it was coming from the east and it was early in the day, which meant the sun’s bright glow had concealed it. Also it was not a tall masted ship, but some sort of Cathayan vessel.
“What does she claim to be by her colours?” asked Bram.
“Can’t see any colours - don’t think she’s flying any,” came the answer.
Bram leaped across the deck, picking up his lunette d’approche and placing it to his eye, keeping it lower than the sun to avoid blinding himself.
“Manaan protect us,” he muttered. Then shouted, “Clear the deck, prepare for a fight. And bring the swivels to the rear stanchions!”
“What is she?” asked Sander by his side.
“She might be Cathayan-made but she’s crewed by Orcs. I think we’ve found ourselves some pirates!”
“Master, are we to fly colours?” shouted Sander.
“We are indeed! We’re no pirates, but a commissioned pirate hunter of the VMC. So raise the colours lads, and let those dogs know who it is they are fighting,” answered Bram.
Every hand aboard the Little Daughter was busy - the two boys dragging a basket of grenades to the deck, while Sander handed muskets and pistols to the crew. There was room enough for two swivels on the little poop deck, so two were mounted. Each contained case shot and a little sangranel for good measure. They might not hurt the enemy’s ship, but they could tear open green flesh easy enough. Bram was not happy that the foe had the weather gauge and so could control the fight in turns of conditions, but one thing he was certain of - he would not fire until they were very close, pistol shot range at the most, for to fire sooner would be the desperate and nervous act of terrified men, and the foe would know it. To fire sooner would only make the greenskins more confident of defeating their prey.
The trouble was, the greenskins had a bow chaser, and it was a 6 pounder by the looks of it. If that was loaded with chain, double head or bar shot then it could bring down the Little Daughter’s mast by the board, and then they would be a sitting duck. Bram put it from his mind - there was nothing he could do, nothing his men could do. They would just have to receive the shot and pray it did not sting too bad.
There was no need to employ the perspective glass any more. The Orcs were close enough to see withy the naked eye - even Bram’s slightly purblind eyes could make them out. He found himself staring down the muzzle of their piece.
Obviously the orcs knew not to waste their shot, for they were not yet firing. If they waited until pistol shot then they really could do some damage to the little sloop.
Bram’s mind was racing. He had an idea, but was not sure it would work. Still, his head was empty of any other possibilities so it was this or nothing.
“Lads,” he shouted, “Blow on yer coals and make ready to give fire as soon as I command. Aim right for the muzzle of that cannon. If you’ve got a musket, then ready yerself too - and stuff any extra ball or two down, and swan shot if you have it.”
This would take courage and careful timing. Bram wanted to fire the volley when there was a chance they might hit something, so he had to wait until the foe was close. But he could not afford to let the orcen piece fire first. All or nothing, he thought, and with a mental prayer to Manaan, he crawled onto the poop deck and popped his head over the gunwhale right in between both swivels.
Sander looked with disbelief - if the swivels both fired with Bram between their muzzles, then his ears would ring for days. He might damage his ears for good. Then it dawned on him what the master intended. He lifted his ‘fusil buccanier’ to his shoulder and opened the pan.
Holding his breath, Bram watched. The orcs were close now, but he watched only one of them - the one carrying the linstock. Then, suddenly, he saw the orc raise the linstock over the piece’s breach, bringing it down towards the touch-hole.
“Give fire!” he screamed louder than he had ever done, then lowered his head and clasped his hands hard upon his ears.
Two swivels and four muskets fired, the smoke momentarily obscuring their view, but the wind already whipping it away to leeward. The Little Daughter’s crew set about re-loading (as Sander ordered them), while the other two swivels were passed forwards to replace the two that were now emptied. Everyone was glad to have work to do, for all did not care to think about the shot that might be coming their way any moment.
Then the smoke cleared, just as Bram raised his pain-filled head above the gunwhale.
“Ha!” he cried, “Manaan be praised!”
The orcen ship was still there, exactly as before, the gun too - but there was no orc standing near it. Every foul greenskin pirate on the foredeck had been felled, and the linstock had never touched home.
Then Bram frowned - there were of course still some crew aboard, and now one was clambering up the to foredeck. He had no linstock, but carried a matchcord in his hand. His red eyes seemed to gleam, and Bram knew full well what he intended …
Turn 3, sea fluff reportAs the smoke cleared a little more Bram could see something else in the orc’s hand. Yes, there was a matchcord - it’s tell-tale glow very evident - but it was attached to the serpentine of a handgun and not carried loose in the orc’s hand.
Perhaps Bram’s had been mistaken, and it was only fear that had him believe the orc intended to fire the cannon? Perhaps the orc merely thought to fire his musket? Greenskins were hardly known for common sense, and what cunning they had was brutal and vicious rather than quick witted. So maybe the thought that applying the matchcord to the cannon instead of his own firearm had not occurred to the orc?
“Manaan, let it be so,” prayed Bram. Then he turned and shouted loudly (it seemed quiet in his ringing ears, and he tried to compensate by bellowing as he never had before). “Olaf! Where are you? Olaf!”
There was no answer. Not one that Bram could hear anyway. Sander was suddenly there before him, hefting one of the swivels.
“No time,” said Bram. “Get Olaf here, ready to shoot now.” He gestured over his shoulder, “Kill that one before he works out he can fire the cannon!”
Suddenly Olaf was there too, and it occurred to Bram that the black haired Kislevite had probably answered with his usual, “Aye, master,” but that due to his somewhat shivered hearing Bram hadn’t heard him.
“You know what to do?” asked Bram.
Olaf gave a curt nod as he hopped up to the very stern of the ship, and peered towards the approaching ship. As he did so he cocked his firelock and began to swing it around.
In that moment, just as Olaf lifted the butt of his long barrelled musket to his shoulder, Bram and Sander were busy behind him. The master, having noticed the wind had changed ever so slightly, had pointed to the port-side stanchion and Sander took this to mean place his swivel there. Seeing this, the sailor behind with the other loaded swivel did the same. Bram, meanwhile, grabbed a hold of the tiller and readied himself to pull with all his might.
As soon as Olaf’s shot rang out, Bram pulled hard and the Little Daughter began to turn to leeward.
“Through the eye,” said Olaf. “Even orcs don’t get up after that!”
Bram, who had heard nothing of Olaf’s calm analysis of the effects of his shot, screamed at the Kislevite to help him, and Olaf leaped down, grabbed the tiller, and also yanked hard.
The ship began to turn and as it did so the orcen ship’s flank was brought into view.
“Aim at her stern,” barked Bram, hoping no-one else’s ears were ringing like his. “Kill the rest of ‘em.”
By now every man who was armed with a piece was ready - they had loaded without ramming home with the scouring sticks, just as Bram had told them to do whenever speed was of the essence. When their second volley came, both swivels fired as one (though it was mere chance that they did so), preceded and followed by the several cracks of pistols and muskets. Once again a good number they found their mark. More orcs were thrown from their feet, two hurled right up and over the side, splashing into the sea.
“Now lads,” shouted Bram joyously. “We’re the chase and they’re the prey. Let’s capture her.”
He pushed the tiller now, to bring her back a little, and through skill honed over many a year at sea, he brought her prow round to scrape along the side of the orcen ship, laying the Little Daughter alongside side so that her crew could board the enemy amidships.
The taking of the orcen vessel was easy enough. Only four greenskins remained uninjured after the volleys, and their attempt at ferociousness had a certain desperation to it that gave the men of the Little Daughter confidence rather than engendering any sort of fear.
Olaf was the first man aboard, dropping his long barrelled musket and leaping over onto the enemy deck cutlass in hand as if he were doing nothing more than his day-to-day labous. Before his feet had even touched the ground he had already left a broad and bloody gash in the cheek of the one orc who lunged forward to meet him. Bram landed behind him and finished off the bleeding orc with a pistol bullet to its chest, spattering the deck and lower mainmast with blood and gore.
The rest of the fight is not worthy of recording, if one could even call it a fight. It was more like butchery, and only one of the Little Daughter’s crewmen was injured - Old Odoric received a cut to the back of his hand from a wounded orc who had played dead before suddenly lashing out. Sander’s boot had knocked the offending blade form the orc’s hand, then his pistol had pushed a bullet deep into his thick skull. The orc fell backwards dead, its face appearing to have three eyes - two of them closed, the third a ragged black hole in the middle of its forehead, wide open and smouldering!
The hard work done, and quickly at that, the men set about their right of pillage. Anything they found upon the enemy sailors under the value of five gold pieces they could keep - it was only the rest (cargo and real valuables) that had to be shared between all according the ship’s articles. But the seamen of the Little Daughter were to be disappointed, for the things an orc considers precious enough to carry upon its person are not often what men would think valuable - bones, cords of teeth, mouldering ears and jagged bits of rusted iron. Only Olaf struck really lucky, finding a long and prettily decorated pistol of a strange but impressive design that must surely be dwarven in origin. Although it was most certainly worth a lot more than five crowns no-one argued with his taking of it for according to the articles the first man aboard a prize was due the best weapon found aboard her, and that was exactly what Olaf seemed to have found.
The noisome foulness below deck was a revelation, even to sailors who had travelled upon long journeys living above the open sewer that is several month old bilge water splashing about the ballast, while the bloody flux emptied every man’s bowels and the salt beef and pickled herring finally succumbed to worms and rot. The Orcen ship, however, went far beyond such horrors. She was buzzing with flies, as her slovenly crew had apparently been eating their flesh meat raw, and splashing blood everywhere. Not were they over keen on scrubbing the decks with brine and vinegar, for the blood was sticky and thick here, old and dry there. Cockroaches crawled so populous that there seemed to be another cockroach beneath every one. And the lice, perhaps made more vicious from sucking upon orcen blood, leapt high to land upon the scavenging men and sink veritable fangs into their flesh.
Within half of an hour Bram had had enough. He ordered his men to give up - there was nothing here they could use, only the cannon and a budge barrel of powder. The piece was thus taken, and Bram gave his orders.
“Burn her! Burn the orcs and their plague ship for they’re no better than sea rats and this filthy vessel is cursed.”
The Manaan’s Little Daughter sailed away as the smoke billowed from the prize. None aboard looked back to watch her burn. None cared when they heard the screams of a greenskin who must still have been alive, nor did they even notice the splash as the orc in question sought the relief of the sea water. Apart from Olaf. He had loaded his newly acquired pistol and now took aim at what should be a ridiculously exaggerated range at the frantic, flailing greenskin.
When he fired he was surprised to see the orc jolt that very moment, then cease all movement to float face down on the water.
No-one else had noticed what he had done, and none would believe him if he told them. Olaf grinned, then hefted the pistol to look at it.
“Little honey - you’re too good for orcs,” he whispered to the piece. “Let’s you and I have some fun together!”