“Lieutenant! Don’t just stand there! Half your men need to take the wounded down to surgery. The other half can take their places on my guns! Prepare to return fire!” you shout.
Lieutenant Saffron nods, then splits his men fore and aft to the tasks assigned.
“FIRE!!!” you shout, signaling the rear battery once more.
The whole scene plays out again and again, and you tie off your arm to slow the bleeding, in-between commands. After what seems an eternity, a ceasefire is issued from above. The Hornblower has pulled away, and the enemy pursues the ship from the rear. Finally, you head down to Wycombe the surgeon to treat your arm.
You tell him to tend to you once the men with more serious injuries are dealt with, which leaves you waiting in his cabin until the wee hours of the night. The “splinter,” as Wycombe calls it, is removed without issue, and your arm is bandaged. So long as it doesn’t become infected, you’re expected to fully recover and, best of all, keep the limb.
Finally, the adrenaline wears off, exhaustion sets in, and with a sense of pride keeping the pain at bay, you’re able to get some sleep. Not much choice here:
Well done! You’ve survived your first battle at sea. But the Hornblower isn’t clear just yet. Get some much needed rest, and when you’re ready—click to continue….
Caribbean Standoff
Now you’re pointing your pistol at the man, reflexes sharpened by weeks of survival. The other pirates draw down on you, but no one dares fire. Rediker, for his part, simply laughs, then applauds. Whether he’s applauding the spectacle or your bravado, who could say?
“Very well then, Saltboots. I’ve always wanted t’shoot in a duel, ya know that? Prove me mettle. I’d say we’d be about ten paces, wouldn’t you?”
He draws his pistol and goes for the shot.
Crack! Before you even know what’s happened, you’ve fired the flintlock, held these past few weeks for thoughts of revenge. The shot spent, you drop the pistol and produce the fifth of rum from your hip. Raising the rum, you say, “Here’s mud in your eye.”
Rediker falls to the beach, dead.
You drain the fifth, toasting to success and revenge, just as you’ve promised yourself. The shoreline erupts with more gunshots, first from Barlow, and then the other men follow suit. They all aim directly at you for revenge, and riddle you with holes.
Despite everything, this death feels a bit like victory, and you die with a smile on your lips.
THE END
The Carpenter
“Always were a bloody liar!” Chips cries in response to your accusation. “Lying again, Saltboots! Don’t believe a word-o’-it, Cap’n.”
“Oh, I won’t. Spare us the evidence, Saltboots. I know Chips be innocent.”
“And how do you know that?” you say, taking the bait.
“Because a carpenter is far more valuable to this crew than a maroon. We’re here careened, in case ye did not notice. And Chips’ll have us float again, fast and sleek. You? Well, ye might provide a few hours of entertainment for the crew, but that’s all. Boys, do what ye will with the castaway here. Just make sure there ain’t no breath left when you’re done.”
The pirates leer at you with wicked grins. This won’t be pleasant.
THE END
Carry On
“That’s a dirty job, indeed. Top marks for volunteering!” Dalton says, with genuine appreciation.
You offer a salute and head down to the pump room. Wood is porous, and all ships take on water, no matter how tightly they’re sealed. This accumulates in the ship’s bilge, and the resultant “bilge water” must be pumped out, lest she rides low and collects drag, slowing the ship. Some water buildup is to be expected, but if you can clear out the excess, the Hornblower should see a boost in speed—which could be crucial in this chase.
It’s backbreaking work, plunging and raising the handle again and again to pump the water out, but you’re spurred on by an overwhelming sense of purpose. This is work that needs be done daily, but today is the first time that you truly feel like your doing so could directly save the lives of the crew.
After a grueling hour, you’re relieved by the next shift and sent up to eat an early meal. Fine by you; that activity worked up quite an appetite!
The ship is abuzz with speculation pertaining to the Spanish warship now chasing your own frigate. Many of the men are keen to fight, even against a superior force. A frigate is more maneuverable than the larger man-o’-war, and Captain Longwick seems like a tactician who could use that to his advantage. The anticipation is the worst part—these sailors want to see what both he and the Hornblower can do!
The scuttlebutt is that the armory is to be unlocked, muskets issued, and stations taken. Each of the cannons is to be made ready for a possible fight. The excitement’s getting to you too. Maybe it’s time to get in on the action?
• Offer your keen eye as one of the snipers. Alone, aloft, and alienated from the cannon shot.
• Request a position on one of the gun teams. You’ve been training for this!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Castaway
One shot to end it, and rum for the courage to do so. That’s the advice you were given, the advice for a murderer left to die and rot. But that’s not the fate you deserve, marooned on an island for a crime you didn’t commit. This won’t be the end; can’t be the end. For you, the single pistol shot will serve for revenge and the rum to toast your success.
They may have cast you aside, but this need not be a death sentence. One survives because they have a reason to survive, simple as that. It’s a concept you’ve come across time and again in your studies—given a “why” to live, one can bear any “how.”
For you, that reason will be to clear your name and see the true killer brought to justice.
Pocketing the rum and journal, and stowing the pistol in your waistband, you watch as the Cooper’s Pride sets sail. Will Billy truly come back for you? Or, God willing, might some other ship happen by and rescue a sailor in need?
Neither will happen, however, if you don’t survive this first night alone.
The sun hangs low on the horizon. Turning back, you see that this island must be at the start of the tropics. Broadleaf ferns lead into the jungle interior, and coconut trees dot the skyline. That’s good. You may be deserted on this isle, but fortune favors you that it’s not a desert isle. You’ll find food here, and water.
There isn’t much daylight left, but enough to start your preparations. What’s the first priority?
• Shelter. The weather can turn sour at any moment and you need a “fo’c’sle” on your new home.
• Fresh water. Head into the interior of the island in search of something to drink besides rum.
• Fire. This was mankind’s first invention, and a critical step towards taming the natural world.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Chaos
“Wh-what?” Rediker stammers.
“Go on, tell them, this is a mutiny!” you prod.
“Well, I mean, we got no love for Cap’n Bullock, but I never ordered ye t’kill the man!”
“At least not outright,” Marlowe mutters.
“I’m confused. Who killed the cap’n?” Barlow asks.
That’s when Billy arrives, demanding to know what’s happened.
“It’s a mutiny!” Joe says, backing away.
“Saltboots killed the cap’n,” Chips adds.
“No, that’s not true!” you say. “It is a mutiny, but I didn’t kill the man. Someone in our number did. The mutineers. It’s still a mutiny, and we are in charge!”
“Robin! Put these men in irons!” Billy commands.
“I’ll not hang for this, damn you!” Rediker cries.
Then chaos erupts on the quarterdeck. Fists fly, and improvised weapons are used as bludgeons. More and more of the crew arrives by the second as word spreads, further increasing the carnage. Unlike a warship or pirate vessel, very few of the men are armed, but all
are ready for a brawl.
Should you reach out for the captain’s knife? You’re considering this when a terrible blow strikes you between the shoulder blades, knocking you down. Rolling over, you see Chips raise one of his carpentry tools for another strike.
“Bloody murderer!” he cries, before becoming one himself.
THE END
Chart a Course
With the excitement of schoolchildren, you rush out with Cousin James up to the top decks to find the helmsman. The man sees your excitement plain as the stars in the sky, and grins to himself, but keeps his silence.
“Oh, come on! Tell us!” you say.
“If ye must know, have a look for yourself. Go on—where are we headed?” the helmsman asks, looking to the stars.
Cousin James studies the sky and you do too, but he’s more experienced and shouts the answer. “West-sou’-west! But where to? Madeira? The Azores? Canary Islands?”
“Yes, the Canaries are Spanish-owned!” you supply.
“Indeed, but think… further,” the helmsman says.
“The West Indies?” James says, trepidation in his voice.
“Aye, we’re t’warn the Governors in the Caribbean of a Spanish plot.”
Nodding thanks to the helmsman, you leave him be, discussing the possibilities with Cousin James. The West Indies, the Caribbean seas, and a Spanish plot!
“How very cloak-and-dagger,” you say. “That’s the haven of pirates, is it not?”
“Well, parts of it, anyway. Lots-o’-trade routes run through the West Indies, which draws in Brigands,” he answers.
“Do you really think we’ll see any?”
“You’d best hope not, Coz! The only thing worse’n a black flag would be a red one.”
“A red flag?”
“A black flag wants only booty, but a red flag wants revenge. No quarter to be given,” he says solemnly. “Come on, then, I’m beat.”
Truth be told, you’re exhausted as well, but your head spins with thoughts of pirates, gold chests, treasure maps, and adventure. Not much choice here:
• Get some rest, and dream of daring rogues and walking the plank.
Cheap/Thrills
Billy shakes it off good-naturedly. “Well, if you’re afflicted by a chronic lack of coin, ye could always set sail like your cousin! Ask Jimmy Saltboots here for tale-o’-his first night a’sea.”
“Jimmy… Saltboots?” you say, trying it out.
“Though greener than your hometown hillsides, I knew he’d have a sailor’s life yet, ain’t that right, Jimmy?”
“Not for me, Billy. I ain’t never goin’ back. I have a lifetime’s tales to tell. But tonight, I only want the tail!” At that James downs the rest of his drink, scoops up his lovely companion, and carries her into a back room like a Viking raider might carry a prize after plunder.
“Don’t s’pose you’d wanna take his spot on me ship?” Billy asks half-heartedly.
Though you know it’s rhetorical, you take a moment, looking around at the bar and the life of a seaman by extension. All you see are a bunch of men living life like this night might be their last. In the rear, there’s a man smoking from a hookah pipe who’s so covered in tattoos you almost can’t distinguish him from the patterned wallpaper. Other seamen lounge with still more women and drink.
Another few men play dice, exchanging coin between throws. They make eye-contact and with a nod, offer you a place at the table. Care to give it a go?
• Stay at the bar and say, “You’re kind to think of me, Billy, but I shall simply wait to deliver my cousin home, whether he’s ready to leave the seafaring life or not.”
• Go join the gamblers and say, “Sorry, Billy. I think I’ve chanced upon a different way to earn some coin while I wait for my cousin.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Chips, Ahoy!
The ship’s carpenter was a man who kept to himself, mostly. But after the death of the sailors in the storm, he opened up. Chewing on a hardtack biscuit, a fishing line over the edge in hopes of finding something more flavorful and easier to sink his teeth into. And during that time, he chewed on his own superstitions.
“Saw Saint Elmo’s Fire,” Chips said, as if to the night air.
“What’s that?” you replied.
“Jacques, the crimped man who went overboard. He saw it the night before. Called it a corposant, but t’were the same. A bad sign, that. Worse omen still for he that spots it. And look what happened!”
“That’s enough!” Captain Bullock had reprimanded, before continuing on his rounds.
After a few minutes, Chips continued, “I saw a sign m’self. Out on the seas, clear as day, were a boat. Not a sailing ship, but a boat, one with oars. They was rowing, but never came closer. Called out, I did. Ahoy! Sometimes people are lost, even found way out here. It’s possible, is all I’m saying.
“Yet not a soul so much as looked up to answer me. Hailed several more times, as much for me own waning sanity. Ahoy! But all they did was row. Rowing, rowing, never coming closer. Unnatural, that. It had to be Charon’s boat, d’ya see? Waiting for Jacques t’come aboard. The man fell over and the rower disappeared. Satisfied t’have his manifest filled, the ferryman left us be.”
“Chips! Did I not tell you to stow such talk?” Bullock roared, making his way back.
“Aye, Cap’n!” Chips called back sharply.
“If I hear any more such superstition out of you, I’ll cut your bloody tongue out and throw it overboard. Might do you some good, damn you. A carpenter needn’t a tongue to do his work.”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Chips called again.
That seemed to satisfy Bullock, who left. Chips took the threat to heart, and didn’t speak up anymore, but kept his eyes trained on the inky waves, mind racing and seeing hobgoblins in the dark, no doubt.
Superstition can spoil a man’s mind, rob him of his senses. Seamen are by nature a superstitious lot, and made them cast a Jonah overboard many a ship over the years. Could something he saw or heard have driven Chips to murder?
The link seems tenuous, at best. He was the first to arrive and accuse you, after all. Likely as not, if the man had truly been bewitched into committing murder, he would have felt justified and confessed.
No, if the carpenter had a real motive, it remains a secret.
• What about Robin? What secrets might the tattooed gunner have held?
• What about Joe? Was there any secret the bosun might kill to protect?
• That’s enough for tonight. Best to take your mind off things and enjoy the warmth of the fire.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Cleanup Crew
Down in the ship’s magazine, you find Cousin James stacking cartridges to redistribute the spent ammunition stores, likely preparing for an imminent resupply. The gunner, Monks, counts cannonballs, marking down the result on parchment; so you wait at the entry, not wanting to interrupt.
At length, he feels your presence and looks up. “Well? Whaddaya need?”
“Hello, Mr. Monks. Just wanted to check on my cousin, is all.”
“Just Monks,” he corrects, then looks back to his mate. “Go on, I can finish up.”
“Many thanks,” James says, wiping his brow and heading out to join you. James leads you to the nearest water cask, dips in the drinking gourd, and takes a long draw. But rather than looking sated, his face puckers and he says, “Ugh, thank God this’ll be refreshed soon.”
“Along with all that spent gunpowder…” you say, thoughts returning to the previous night’s battle.
“Aye, have ya got your hearing back yet?”
“What?”
“I said, have you—” he starts, catching himself at your grin. “Bastard. Glad t’see ya made it through your first blood-letting.”
“There were a few times I feared I might not,” you confess.
The Master-of-Arms happens by before James can reply, butting in with, “Ahoy there, ya two idlers. Come and put your hands t’use while f
lappin’ your gums.”
Following the man, he leads you to the surgery, the boards outside of which are tacky with drying blood. “Go on then, clean ’er up!”
The Master-of-Arms leaves, and you find a bucket with Cousin James. Kneeling in the muck to scrub, you say, “Sorry. Guess I should’ve left you in the magazine.”
“Eh, job needs doin’. You make for finer company than that grouch of a gunner. Honestly surprised he let me go, I am.”
Continuing the chit-chat, you scrub the remnants of your fallen comrades off the planks, using the conversation as a way to keep your mind off of what’s collecting underneath your fingernails. Talk inevitably goes to home, then back to thoughts of the war.
“Ya made it through the first battle, coz. Hard part’s over!”
Your eyes drift past your cousin, into the surgery and the men laid up in various states of bandaging. The surgeon, Wycombe, steps out and peers down at you.
“There’s more inside, if you’ve acquired a taste for it,” he says.
“Sir…?” you reply.
“No? Go on, then. You’ve nearly finished. I imagine the captain will look to make good on his promise of victory rum.”
“Let’s go see!” James says, hopping up to leave.
And indeed, Captain Longwick has removed any limitations on beer and grog, and restored the right to rum. As if they fear the Master and Commander will soon change his mind, the men imbibe like they’ve been left on a desert isle for days, only to finally find a spring. The way they gulp it down, those fears might prove to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 5
