MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Equally Good

  Though the jungle is thick and the terrain hazardous, with enough experience, one can read the topography as well as any map. That experience, for you, has only just begun, but you go into the wilderness with eyes open.

  All this vegetation on the island proves that water is plentiful, and last night’s rainstorm certainly proved that, but the water must collect somewhere. If you keep looking, surely you’ll find it. The vegetation grows more lush and verdant, hinting of an area well-fed by water. The slope of the trek feels low-lying enough as well….

  Then you hear it—the telltale roar of water.

  Rushing forward, you find a clearing with a great pond, fed by a waterfall. The source must come from somewhere up the mountain, and though it’s no gushing river, it is more than a trickling brook. This water will sustain you!

  Drinking straight from the waterfall itself, you taste the purest water you’ve had since becoming a sailor. Possibly even the best water of your life. Untainted by civilization, purified by the rocks and the motion of the waterfall, this is pure mountain stream water.

  Well done! This source of water was an important find, and you mark it on your mental map as you head out to further explore the island. You’ll want to find a better place for a more permanent shelter than on the shoreline. After last night’s storm, you know it’s too exposed to the elements out there. You’ll certainly want somewhere close to this water source, and with a good view of the shore so you can watch for approaching ships. Somewhere elevated, perhaps.

  So you start hiking to explore your island. And with the clouds rolling in, you’ll soon get to see how the rest of the topography fares in a tropical squall. You’re out in the open, hiking on a ridgeline with a perfect view of the coast where you were abandoned, when a “Boom!” from the heavens blasts apart a long-dead tree only twenty yards ahead on the trail.

  A great thunderclap accompanies the lightning only a moment later, and the hair starts to rise on your neck. What should you do?

  • Immediately drop down, knees upon the trail and head bowed before the Almighty. Pray to be spared!

  • Retreat to the waterfall and leap into the pond. The safest place is to stay lower than ground-level!

  • Dash back into a forested part of the jungle to find shelter under the trees!

  • Hurry to the exact spot where the bolt hit—lightning never strikes the same place twice!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Escape from Bondage

  Despite holding no real ill-will towards you, Barlow ties the ropes tightly. A seaman’s habits die hard, it would seem. But by straining against the bonds now, they’ll be that much looser when you squirm free.

  Your former shipmate binds your hands together behind your back, and your feet together at the ankles. Lastly, he adds a gag—a bandana set across your mouth and knotted behind your head.

  “Don’t fret, Saltboots. Good ole Red will lose those blue-backs by supper, and ye’ll be back out with us. Ta-ta!”

  With that, he’s gone. Letting out that breath you’ve been holding, you feel the ropes slacken. Relax your muscles, and the effect is even greater. The ropes don’t exactly fall off, but now at least you’ve got a chance.

  Struggling against the bonds makes you sweat, which helps lubricate your skin against the tug of the hemp ropes. By bringing your fingers together in a conical point, you can slide your hands out, inch by inch, with each oscillation of your shoulders. One up, then the other. Closer and closer.

  Finally, your first hand is free! After that, the second hand comes much, much faster. Then it’s on to your feet. Slipping off your boots, you’re able to get your feet free from the ankle ropes by pointing a toe and sliding away from there.

  Cannon fire booms from above, signaling the start of hostilities. Boots clatter across the upper decks as the crew rushes from position to position. The pirate ship is under attack!

  What should you do?

  • Find a weapon. Time to fight off these pirates and help your liberators!

  • Sabotage the ship. Drop the anchor and strike the sails!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Espresso

  You pick up the tool—a twin-handled blade known as a cooper’s hollowing drawknife. The two wooden handles are a deep brown, connecting to a central blade meant to drag fragments away from barrels and help shape them. The blade itself resembles something of a self-contained scythe.

  Should certainly serve as a threat. Heart pounding and palms sweaty, you take the drawknife and move to intercept.

  “Whatever mistake this man has made, surely he’s been properly reminded not to repeat it in the future,” you say.

  “Well, well, well. One worthless tit done found the other, eh? Shipboard discipline’s me purview, ya dunce. And whaddaya propose to do with that there drawknife, Ward?” he says, mockery turned your way.

  “I suppose whittle you down to size, if you won’t back down, sir.”

  His eyes grow wide. “Are ya threatening an officer-o’-the-watch? Drop it now, and maybe I’ll see to it that you’re only flogged for this and not hanged.”

  The Master-of-Arms goes for the flintlock pistol on his belt. Your pulse quickens. Time to act!

  • He won’t shoot. Call his bluff as he calls yours. Raise the drawknife as a weapon, but hold your ground.

  • He’s close enough that you can definitely “disarm” him with the drawknife before he’s able to draw.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  An Example

  Billy sighs, shakes his head, and mutters, “There’s always one…”

  The four sailors who share your predicament all look away, like they know something terrible is about to happen. The captain walks forward, shifting his cane from one hand to the next, clearly not using it for locomotion.

  Without a word, he cracks you across the collar with the bludgeon. There was no windup, yet it’s a brutal strike. The site burns with pain, and you instinctively roll for cover. He lands a second blow with the cane across your back, then follows up with a kick to the ribs. You gasp and wheeze for breath, unable to focus on anything save for the wooden planks of the ship.

  “Sloth and idleness will not be tolerated!” the captain roars. “Yet I am a merciful master. Repent, pledge your obedience, and do your work as assigned. You’ve signed the papers, no use for morning-after thoughts here! Mr. Greaves, if you please.”

  Billy rolls you over, wiping your face with a cloth, wet and cool. “Ya had your say, yeah? We all know ye did the right thing, by honor. Now, simply make an oath to Cap’n Bullock. Mean your words and we’ll see ya as honorable still. There’s a good way out here; I’m tryin’ to help ya.”

  The seaman seated next to you, a man in a red skullcap, nods his agreement and respect.

  Robin lifts you to your feet, so you’re once again facing Captain Bullock.

  • Remain defiant, and say, “An oath spoken under threat of violence is no oath at all.”

  • Live to fight another day, and say, “Very well. I shall serve the Cooper’s Pride with honor.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Exhausted

  It’s a rough night of fitful sleep, but sleep does eventually come. When you roll over to shift the pressures on your aching body, you hear sea birds shrieking and see patches of sunlight filter through gaps in your makeshift shelter.

  Emerging to face the day, you find the shoreline wrecked with fallen tree branches and palm leaves. Looks like quite the squall last night. Indeed, you should count yourself fortunate that nothing fell atop your dwelling while you were inside.

  Your stomach aches with hunger, and your mouth puckers with thirst. Sand clings everywhere, and your clothes are soaked through. While you are deciding what to put in your belly, might be a good idea to dry everything out—your clothes, journal, and pistol—in the morning sun.

  Then what?

  • The beach is littered with coconuts after the storm.
There should be both something to eat and something to drink inside. Crack open a few, and call them breakfast.

  • You didn’t notice until the morning light, but there are several bushes thick with red berries nearby. A sailor’s diet is long overdue on Vitamin C, and the sugars will help get you through the day.

  • Looks like it’s currently low tide, and the retreating sea has left several tide pools dotting the beach. Perhaps you can find some trapped fish, crabs, or mussels inside?

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Express Yourself

  James is determined to have you rise above the life of a lowly seaman. He tries to coach you on how to address the Master-of-Arms when you arrive on the ship, with “Aye, aye!” and “Sirs” tacked onto every sentence.

  You’re marched back out to port with an escort of redcoat soldiers—Lobsters, as the sailors call them—past the docks that house the merchant vessels and off to a section where the ships-of-the-line reside. Huge command vessels, waiting to be filled full of military fighting men. There are smaller sloops and gunships too, looking fast and fearsome. England is readying herself for war against Spain, and these wooden ships and iron men are the tip of the spear.

  And then there’s the HMS Hornblower. She’s not the biggest in the fleet, but much larger than some. Her timbers are newly scrubbed, pitched, and held tightly together; sleek yet powerful. She leans forward, ready to speed off as soon as her sails are unfurled. A colossal, carved figure from Norse mythology looms proudly at the bow.

  The figurehead is a musclebound, bearded warrior, who holds an enormous ox horn as a trumpet that he’s set to blow into eternally. It’s so large in fact, that he needs both hands to hold the horn; biceps bulging from the effort just to hold the instrument in place. From your studies, you recognize the figurehead as Heimdall and the Gjallarhorn he’ll use to signal the coming of Ragnarok—the end of the world.

  “A frigate,” James says, his voice full of trepidation. “The workhorse-o’-the Royal Navy. We’ll be sailing all over the seven seas on this tour, mark me words, coz.”

  Looks more like a Trojan Horse than a warhorse, by your lights. The ramp is extended and dozens of seamen bring supplies onboard. Your motley gang of recruits pales in comparison to the mighty beast of war. How many men does a frigate hold? 100? 200? Far more than the sparsely-manned merchant vessels down the docks, that’s for sure.

  You’re greeted by the Master-of-Arms, a fastidiously groomed sailor who doesn’t bother with introductions further than his title. As each man passes, he gives them a position and a location to report. James is ordered to be the Gunner’s Mate, but he holds back, watching as you try to explain your desire for officer training.

  “Too old t’be a Midshipman,” the Master-of-Arms replies. “Tell me your skills and I’ll assign ye a proper billet.”

  “Sir,” you protest. “I have a classical education—”

  “Aye, do ya? Then how’d ya end up here, eh?” the man asks with a smirk.

  “Look at these hands,” you say, trying a different tactic. “I would much better serve the ship with my knowledge of geography, tactics, and—”

  “I’ve heard enough. Our Midshipmen slots’re already filled by the sniveling brats-o’-noblemen.”

  “Surely there is a way!” you protest, further trying the man’s patience.

  “You wanna plead your case to the Cap’n directly? Be my guest. Otherwise, fall in line, Landsman. We’ll harden those hands soon enough. Now help us get these crates loaded up!”

  • The Captain is a gentleman. He’ll appreciate the gumption it takes to seek him out and will award me a spot within the officers’ ranks.

  • Get to work. Idleness will only make things worse.

  • I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here! Sneak off the ship in the commotion of loading up.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Eye on the Prize

  Dalton applauds your temerity and, after consulting his instruments, orders a heading of nor’-nor’-west. Having been at the helm several times in the last few weeks, you expertly steer the Hornblower onto the assigned course.

  Once the ship has turned back, the wind catches in her sails, and you cut through the sea like a dart. In an open race, the Spanish man-o’-war wouldn’t stand a chance in catching your frigate, but the winds are such that you’re sailing across them, while the warship has a direct tailwind.

  It’s slow going, but the other ship steadily grows on the starboard horizon, doubling in relative size with each turn of the hourglass. Dalton is correct, it would seem. She’ll be on you before nightfall.

  * * *

  The sun hangs low on the horizon, and the Spanish warship is nearly upon you. Identified as the Don Pedro Sangre, the ship is now so close that you can hear the enemy calling orders in the breaths between your captain giving his own.

  Longwick is ready for battle, as are the rest of the men. Cousin James and Monks the gunner have opened the magazine, and now the guns are loaded and readied. Those men not on a cannon team hold their muskets, anxious to be told to fire.

  “Midshipman Ward, keep us on course, come what may,” Captain advises. “If you drop steerage, we lose all speed and they’d certainly have us then.”

  A look across to the Don Pedro Sangre easily shows why. The Hornblower is a ship of 36 guns, formidable as part of a larger line of battle, but the Spanish warship has you outclassed. A third gun deck brings her cannon total to 74. You swallow dryly at the prospect of a direct fight.

  “If we let the Dons rake us with a broadside, that would make for a short chase indeed,” Captain Longwick says with classic British understatement. “But once we’re under the same wind, we’ll lose them. Lieutenant Dalton!”

  Then he’s off, further preparing battle stations, leaving you alone with the steerage once again.

  There’s a slight crack on the wind, like someone trying to start a fire by striking flint. Curiously, one of the planks splits open a few feet in front of you. It’s a small seam that appears, but that’s an odd enough occurrence to merit notice. Treated wood typically can handle the expanding and contracting nature of the ship, and an eye-slit peering at you from the deck seems a bad omen.

  Then that same crack sounds again just as a piece of the wheel shatters in your hand. The wooden handle simply bursts open from within, sending splinters across your chest. It’s like someone lit a small pouch of black powder inside the handle, or… you look up, back at the Don Pedro Sangre, and suddenly it all makes sense. A pair of sharpshooters reload their muskets in the crow’s nest.

  They’re firing on you!

  • Stand your ground! Remember Captain Longwick’s orders to hold course, come what may!

  • Take cover! They’ve got a direct line of fire, and you clearly make an easy target out in the open.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Eye-Opening

  Billy’s expression falters, if only for a moment. Looking back at the figure of the captain, Billy tugs on his muttonchops, considering his words. Then he sighs and says in a low voice, “There ain’t no justice nor injustice aboard a ship, sad to say. Here ye will find only two states: duty and mutiny. Mind that, and be governed by one law alone: All that ye be ordered to do, is duty—and all that ye refuse… ’tis mutiny.”

  Billy’s somber words hang in the air while Robin cuts at the ropes binding the men and Captain Bullock approaches with his walking cane. The four “recruits” rub their wrists and their limbs after a long night spent bound up.

  “Now go on, make your oath to Cap’n Bullock,” Billy prods.

  • “Very well. I shall do my duty, governed by honor.”

  • “It’s not right, Billy. But I’ve signed your papers. I will say the oath.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fall in Line

  “Landsman, where do you think you’re going?” the lieutenant asks, still in shock.

  “To fight the bloody enemy,” you reply.

  Lieutenant Sa
ffron makes no further effort to stop you as you cross to the rearmost starboard cannon, and the gun team you join simply nods in acknowledgment of your taking part. The midshipman in charge issues commands of, “Swab the guns! Load cartridge! Shot! Now run out the guns!”

  At this, the guns are to be cleaned, reloaded, and lined back up through the gun ports to be fired once more. You look for the swab, but another seaman has that job. So you watch, waiting to see just which position you’ve inherited by stepping forward. When “Shot!” is called, all eyes look to you, so you load the cannonball into the breech. Though you’re trained for swabbing the guns, these are all easy tasks that you’ve seen others perform dozens of times.

  The order to “Fire as they bear!” is relayed down to your position and the team prepares for full combat, firing the guns as fast as they’re able.

  “FIRE!!!” the midshipman shouts.

  The cannons explode with their deafening KABOOM!!! and the guns kick back against the breech ropes once more. Out of your usual position, you come within a hair’s breadth of being knocked back by the enormous cannon. You’re saved by a hand pulling you back at the last possible second, though you can’t be sure just to whom it is you owe your life.

  There’s no time for thanksgiving, either, as the gun crew immediately prepares for another volley. “Swab the guns! Load cartridge! Shot! Now run out the guns!”

  The only time the group pauses is to hit the deck when the enemy returns fire. The carnage is immense, and each barrage takes at least one of your comrades from the fight. You receive minor splintering, but nothing to prevent you from fulfilling your duties. 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.