Fall of Riga- A play on the 17th Interactive
I thought it would be interesting to write a story on the 17th Century interactive. This has no bearing on the actual thread whatsoever.
In this story, Soloboskyi needs to be changed into Solobowski. There are multiple references to Soloboskyi, so mentally change it to Solobowski.
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Pan Solobowski watched the falcon diving amongst the reeds along Lake Peipus. The husaria officer had settled on the shore, his Valachian steed nosing amongst the tall grass. Most of the banner had settled as he had amongst the grass. A week had passed since the banner had ridden through the Smolensk gates. The city was ruined by the disease, starvation, and the Cossack foot-soldiers. As the cannons breached the walls, the Cossack locust poured inside. Swinging halberds, shooting the bows, cutting with swords. They had ravaged the inside of the town, raping, pillaging, looting. The 2,000 Ukranians had drunk themselves into the bottom of the barrel, taking credit on vodka against future loot. As the husaria rode in, the Cossacks had worked their horrors.
Pan Solobowski pulled out the tanned leather map of Livonia. The Swedes had surrounded Ryga, the Swedish navy blockading the harbor. The Danish had attempted to relieve the city, but to no avail. The Lithuanian Hetman had attempted to relieve the city from the south, but his command had faulted, and the Finnish riders had driven the Polish riders away. Surprise had been written on the face of many of the Husaria elsewhere.
"Pan Solobowski, tell me, where is the main column?" The lieutenant Pan Hysalizki approached from behind, his tall Swedish boots stomping the mud.
"Their on their way to Ryga, just like we are."
"But, where captain?"
Standing, Solobowski pulled down his black moustache, and punched the lieutenant in the stomach. Coughing and spitting, the lieutenat doubled over on the grass.
"There lieutenant, now shut up, and mount up," Solobowski walked over to his horse and mounted. Swinging the leopard pelt over his shoulders, he turned in the saddle to check on the the other hussars. They had returned from the shore, and they mounted. Turning his horse southwest, he clicked his tongue to his mouth, and the column rode on.
It was near afternoon when he pulled his steed to a halt before a small Estonian hamlet. A mountain amongst the flat terrain of Estonia. Here some of the Tartar scouts had reported Swedish supplies in the town. The hamlet was indeed packed with Swedes. Wagons were parked outside the town. In town, the Swedes had built pens for pigs, cattle, horses, and chicken.
"Lieutenant Hwcizki, take about fifty troopers and cut the northern road. Lieutenant Dobowick take another fifty and cut the southern road. I'll take the hundred and capture the town. When the horn blows thrice, return your riders to the town."
"Aye Pan!" was the reply as columns of riders broke from the hussars and headed with the lieutenants. Soloboswski waited ten minutes for the roads to be cut. Pulling out his stabbing sword, Solobowski moved his horse forward, begining at a march pace. Then, he increased the step. His hussars fanned out behind him. Another increase, the trot. Then at about one hundred and fifty yards, a thunderous gallop. The hussars hadn't placed the wings on the saddles, but the sight was still terrifying. The Swedes had seen the riders, but weren't prepared when the riders crashed into the hamlet. A couple houses was all that stood. Crashing into man and wood, the horses carried the riders onward, the riders thrusting and battering the Swedish men to death. Four times, the riders tumbled across the hamlet, four times the Swedes were killed. Half of the riders dismounted and searched the houses, and pistol shots rang out from inside. All told, about thirty Swedish men were dead, and hundreds of supplies were denied. Blowing thrice on a brass horn, the sounds echoed across the barren grassland. A few minutes later, the hundred riders returned to the town.
"Kill the pigs. Wring the chickens' necks. Free the cattle and tie in the horses. Put anything that might be needed, grain, beer, gunpowder, essentials on the horse. Burn the rest."
As Pan Solobosyki rode from the hamlet, the evening sky was lit with flame and hell. The bodies burned and shrank. The smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh permeated the air. Then two explosions as powder charges under the town square exploded. A third was amongst the remaining wagons. The cattle startled, but returned to grazing on the grass.
Captain Njord cursed the Poles. "Where is the powder! The second battery needs powder!"
A messenger stood before the blustering Swede, withstanding the harsh, vodka laden breath.
"God almighty, how in Jesus Christ are we to get the fornicating walls broken if we have no fornicating powder!"
"I...I don't know captain, I'm only doing what I was told..." the messenger, a boy of twelve or thirteen was cut short.
"God-damn them to hell! Go to the admiral ask for some fornicating powder! God-damn them to the inner circle of all damnation!" The Swede yelled at the top of his lungs, sitting beside his artillery piece. A few months of bombardment had brought down some stone. Assaults had not yet carried the city. Then the Poles sneaked in grain and meat during the battle outside Ryga. The Swede commander had been lucky the Pole Hetman was a total klutz, or the Swedes would be looking over Ryga, at the end of a pike.
A cannon farther down the siege line barked, followed by a crack as the Ryga wall suffered the impact.
"Hey captain, they got bread and cheese from Stockholm!" a cannoneer called as he left the tent forest.
"They always have bread from Stockholm, and the cheese is moldy."
"Aw captain, your always so pessimistic."
"Your always happy Garjholm."
"True captain, true!" The Norwegian enjoyed living to much for Njord's liking.
"There's no powder from Tallinn, so we'll need to scrape the cannonballs again, get the rust off."
"They should land at Ventspils, or closer. We control every waterway north of here."
"Yeah, well they haven't thought of it yet, so shut up!"
Garjholm smiled slightly, then pulled a piece of bread and ate it.
"You got your beer ration Garjholm?"
"In my stomach captain. I heard that cannon four's captain is against alcohol in any form."
"Yeah, well he's a lunatic Protestant, and it's to bad he doesn't drink. Drinking is the only way I live."
"Captain, shouldn't you start slowing down on the liqour. That Scotsman, Henry Borne, he died a few weeks back. He drank like beer was his own blood. Doctor said he died of liver problems."
"Scotsmen are weak. The only way your live through fourty winters is by drinking."
Johnathon Brook puffed his clay pipe, the smell of tobacco and weeds swirling into his nostrils. Sitting in a tavern south of Ryga, he enjoyed the luxuries not many of the Swedish paymasters enjoyed outside Ryga. The Swedes were busy firing cannons and matchlocks, while his pikemen and musket-men were guarding their rear. News had been mixed after the start of the siege. The Danes had sent a fleet that battled the Swedes. The Danes were even allied to Poland. The Danes were defeated, and the Poles were beaten back, which surprised the pikemen. Johnathon thought they might break through, but they didn't. They did smuggle supplies into the city itself, sustaining the garrison.
Stretching back, he scratched the short beard he had grown over the summer. The entire nation of Swedes seemed to be beards, moustaches, and some even braided it. Bristol didn't have that many men with moustaches, most shaved it clean off.
Stomping his feet, Johnathon stood and walked outside. Night had enclosed the tavern and the surrounding buildings. The Swedes had fortified several towns around Ryga, hoping to secure a modicum of protection and security.
Walking through the town, he entered the outskirts, where tents had grown like mushrooms after a heavy storm. The army of the Swedish were set on capturing Ryga.
Walking to his tent, a smather of light arrows fell into camp. Some struck tents and fell away. Others hit flesh, resulting in screams and blood. Two of his pikemen were dead of blood loss.
Damn Poles. Tossing his pipe to the side, he stepped inside his tent and began to undress. Slipping into the sheets, he heard another clatter of arrows.
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Re: Fall of Riga- A play on the 17th Interactive
Originally Posted by Marshal Murat
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