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

by James Schannep

  “Welcome aboard the Hornblower! I’m not one for speeches, so I’ll say only this. We set sail for Spanish waters. The enemy expects us, yet we are the superior seamen. Do your work as assigned, and victory will see the day. Fail to do so, and it’s not only your life in your hands, but your brother Tars who stand to left and right of you. As such, I will tolerate nothing less than perfection. First night out, double ration of rum. After that—expect only to be rewarded for victory!”

  The men cheer, though you can’t be sure if they’re truly excited to be hunting the Spanish or simply fulfilling their duty to cheer after a Captain’s speech. Most likely, they’re cheering for the double ration of rum.

  The Captain leaves and the men don’t stand on ceremony. Someone calls, “Weigh anchor!” and the final preparations for leaving London begin. Other commands are bandied about, but you linger behind and watch land disappear with equal measures of excitement and dread.

  * * *

  In addition to rum, which is poured by a half-gill tot and diluted with water into a half-pint measure, you’re issued a gallon of beer. Both of these libations are intended to keep longer than a barrel of fresh water might, and lacking that, at least make scum palatable once it turns.

  Muscles aching from the day, the rum and beer goes down easily. Too easy, in fact. Cousin James notices your empty jug at dinner and addresses you wryly. “Coz, the time for that behavior’s behind ya. A gallon’s supposed t’last ya ’til tomorrow’s supper!”

  Before you can reply, a shout dampens your thoughts. Only when it comes again do you realize he’s talking to you. “I say, Landsman! With me, on watch!”

  “Go on,” James says. “I’m larboard watch, opposite shift. I’ll relieve ya in four hours.”

  You nod and rise to join the officer of the watch. A little unsteady, and not just because you haven’t got your sea-legs under you just yet. The man appraises you, but it’s hard to read his reaction. Through the boozy haze, you look him over as well. He’s fair-skinned and fair-haired, unusual for those who spend their days at sea. A twenty-year-old member of the gentry, bred to keep a stiff upper lip.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dalton, your immediate supervisor and officer of the watch,” he says, introducing himself with the traditional “left-tenant” pronunciation. “As a landsman, your duties on watch include the literal one—that is, keeping a watchful eye for signs of sail, rocky outcropping, or anything unusual, really—but moreover, you’re a part of the general upkeep of the Hornblower, intended to help preserve the ship’s course and maintain the highest possible speed. As the newest and greenest recruit onboard, however, your first assignment is to watch and learn. If anyone asks you to do something, you do it. If not, you stay out of the way. Is that clear?”

  During his speech, the pair of you walk through the ship and back above decks. The night is dark, with little to distinguish the sky from the sea. The same queasy feeling from yesterday’s carriage ride rolls over you. Perhaps, with some luck, your green pallor won’t show in the cloudy moonless night.

  “Aye, sir!” you say after suppressing your bile.

  Dalton turns to an older man, white-haired, but somehow not as distinguished-looking. He’s an older Midshipman, too old for his rank, which makes him an “oldster.” He greets the Lieutenant in a thick Dutch accent.

  “And how are we looking, Mr. Magnus?” Dalton replies.

  “Bad omen for a launch, sir. Rough seas ahead and no stars t’sail by.”

  “Let’s check the barometric pressure, shall we?”

  The pair of them walk off together and you take a cautious step to follow, but your stomach swirls about in protest. It’s not just the too-much rum and beer, though that certainly didn’t help. Can’t deny it any longer: you’re not just drunk, you’re seasick. Not the best start to a new career in the Royal Navy….

  • Rush over to the side to spew while no one is here to witness such an event.

  • I need to rest, just for a minute. Lieutenant Dalton did say I should stay out of the way unless ordered.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Hatchet Job

  Robin takes one of the boarding axes and smashes it into the wooden door, tearing a gash and sending splinters flying back. He alternates blows with the largest of the African pirates, a former slave who calls himself Freeman. The pair of giants breach through the door in no time.

  “Make them wish they’d never resisted,” you say.

  “Bloodbeard’s revenge!” Rediker yells.

  The pirate crew rushes inside with ferocious cries, echoed back by horrified screams. The clang of metal against metal adds its own screeching to the fray, and pistol fire adds its own roar above all. Whether it was Rediker’s or the Portuguese captain’s, time will tell.

  After a few violent minutes, the fighting stops.

  You hold your pistol at the ready, afraid as to which side might be the first to emerge. Breath held with anticipation, a man emerges and your adrenaline spikes, but it’s your very own Bosun, Joe.

  “The ship is yours, Captain,” Joe says, heaving for breath.

  Walking inside the dark interior, the smell of death is overwhelming. Men writhe in pain at your feet and the corpses you step over hold more familiar faces than not. Losses were heavy on both sides, it seems. At the end of the corridor, the enemy captain stands defiant, held captive by Rediker and his men.

  “You now have what you wanted. Please. Spare the rest of us,” the man says with a thick Portuguese accent.

  “What I wanted, was no resistance,” you say. “I will spare the rest of your men.”

  “I have a wife. Children.”

  “And were you a good father?”

  “W—what?”

  “Were you a good master to these men? Did you treat them fairly?”

  “Of course!” he cries.

  You look past the captain to his men. Most look away at your gaze, but a youth with tears in his eyes and purpled bruises shakes his head “no.” At this, several others also shake their heads. This man was a cruel master, a tyrant, perhaps even worse than Bullock.

  “Glad to hear it,” you say. “All I ask of you, then, is to give a toast to your captors.”

  “A toast?” the terrified man parrots back.

  “A toast—to Bloodbeard!”

  The men quickly produce a grog cup, fill it, and hand it to the captain. He looks uncertain, but you offer a smile and nod. “Go on. Drink up. All of it.”

  “To Bloodbeard!” he toasts.

  The captain brings the cup to his lips and leans back as he drinks deeply. At this, you signal to Rediker, who slits the man’s exposed throat. The captain sputters and spits, falling back.

  “To Bloodbeard!” Rediker yells.

  “Hurrah!” the men cry.

  Blood sprays for a few sickening moments, then the captain falls, dead.

  “Sign the articles, join Bloodbeard’s crew, and you’ll sail as free men!” Rediker announces.

  * * *

  Once the inventory is finished, Rediker reports in, “Massive haul, Cap’n. Sugar, indigo, cacao, tobacco, leather, silks, silver, gold, and jewels. Once we divide the shares, hell, I’d say each man just earned himself three years’ pay! Not bad for a first-timer.”

  “Refit the ship first. Take their carriage guns, plus any weapons. Once the Deleon’s Revenge is made stronger, the rest is profit.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. It’ll take a few hours t’move all the cargo, but we should be full up. Afterwards, shall we plot a course for New Providence to unload our ill-gotten gains?”

  “Do it!” you say.

  • “’Twas a grand first catch, Rediker. Once we make sail, open the rum stores for the men. I’d like to make another toast… to the first of many! And the start of a prosperous partnership.”

  • “I’m going to go through the Porto captain’s cabin to see what I can find. He was right, I need a manner of dress befitting the name of Captain Bloodbeard.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICEr />
  Haven on Earth

  It’s time for a celebration! While you’ve been a pirate in the eyes of the law for the better part of a month now, this first true act of piracy has cemented your reputation as Captain Bloodbeard, scourge of the seas. Now you’ll toast rum with your crew and sail to New Providence, famed haven of the Brethren of the Coast.

  Though the current watch is sober, the rest of the crew are far from it. Butch the surgeon stumbles about the quarterdeck, murmuring a song to himself. As he gets closer, his melody grows louder. “Have a drink, and t’hell with care! Be gone, dull care, I prithee, be gone from meeeee!” he sings, drawing out the final note until his voice cracks.

  “Cheese it, ya lout,” Rediker says. But it is a celebration of merriment, is it not?

  So you ask, “Who here can give us a real song?”

  Butch looks contrite and mutters curses under his breath, but the rest of the crew remains silent, looking from man to man. Then Joe clears his throat and starts, “Oh, I love a girl across the water.” It’s a clear, ringing, angelic tenor that catches the attention of all on the ship.

  Rediker smiles at recognition of the song and replies with the refrain, “Way, hey, roll and go!” and the rest of the crew joins in as the chorus, “And we rolled all night and we rolled all day, gonna spend my money on Sally Brown.”

  “Sally Brown is a bright mulatto,” Joe continues.

  “Way, hey, roll and go!” Rediker echoes.

  “Well she drinks dark rum and she chews tobacco,” Joe sings.

  “Way, hey, roll and go! And we rolled all night and we rolled all day, gonna spend my money on Sally Brown!”

  “Goin’ down to Nassau t’see Miss Sally,” Joe begins the next stanza.

  “Way, hey, roll and go!”

  “Oh, yeah, when she sees me she won’t dilly-dally.”

  “Way, hey, roll and go! And we rolled all night and we rolled all day, gonna spend my money on Sally Brown!”

  “She’s lovely up aloft and she’s lovely down below,” Joe sings.

  “Way, hey, roll and go!”

  “She’s lovely ’cause she loves me, that’s all I want t’know.”

  “Way, hey, roll and go! And we rolled all night and we rolled all day, gonna spend my money on Sally Brown!”

  The shanty finished, the crew cheers and downs their drinks, and continues the celebration late into the night.

  * * *

  Port Royal was once known as the wickedest city in the West Indies. To polite society it was “a receptacle of vagabonds, sanctuary of bankrupts, and a close-stool for the purges of our prisons”; it was considered by the civilized world to be “as sickly as a hospital, as dangerous as the plague, and as wicked as the devil.”

  Now, that dubious honor goes to New Providence Island, known as the Republic of the Pirates. If Justice looked the other way in Port Royal, New Providence went so far as to be the one that blinded her. For you, it’s the safest harbor money can buy.

  Rediker convinces the crew that the bulk of the prize money should go towards outfitting the Deleon’s Revenge for future conquest. Though you doubled your armaments once you took the guns from the Dos Santos, you’ve still got a ways to go before you need not fear a ship-of-the-line.

  As Bloodbeard’s reputation spreads through the alehouses and brothels, you find more men eager to join your ranks. A merchant ship of this class would normally hold 15-25 crewmembers, while a pirate crew on the same ship might swell to ranks of 75-85 men. Rediker chooses the fiercest from among the new pirates, as well as those with valuable skills, but you’re confident that he’s no longer plotting to vote you out.

  The men who sailed here from Boston, not wanting to get left behind, spend their wages on weapons and clothing. Not a single one of your regulars opts to stay in New Providence.

  Soon the ship is refitted and you have a fearsome pirate crew ready to for action. Best not to disappoint them. Where to, Captain Bloodbeard?

  • Let’s set sail and come what may! The world is ours for the taking.

  • Let’s find an informant and pay to learn of a rich target. A small investment for a larger prize!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Helpless

  You rush down to the man’s side, Captain Bullock hot on your heels. Billy arrives on the scene at the same time, but when you reach out to lift the load, your hands are swatted away by the captain’s cane.

  “Leave him be! Any who tries to help this scoundrel, I swear by God I’ll bury you down under there with him!” Bullock roars, before turning his ire on the hapless victim. “Oh, you bastard. Think I don’t know what you’re doing? I pay the crimp for your debt, and you try to abscond by injury! I’d wager you think you’re entitled to a disability pension too? You bastard. You won’t get a single penny, do you hear? Not a single penny! Mr. Greaves, get this coward off my ship and file a claim against him for damaging our cargo. Bosun! Get us underway as soon as he’s gone, before any of the others try the same.”

  With that, Captain Bullock turns his back on the man and signals for Butch to return with him to his cabin. Billy waves you forward, and now you help lift the great load. You only need a few inches before the poor sailor pulls the remainder of his wrecked leg from under the remainder of the wreckage. Following the mate’s lead, you help the man up and off the ship.

  A shrill whistle sounds and the other sailors rush to muster above decks. At your hesitation, Billy says, “C’mon, Saltboots! That there’s the Bosun’s call!”

  Not much choice here:

  Head on back to see what the call means.

  Herring

  Indeed, try as you might, you cannot think of any particular grudge or secret that Billy might hold against Captain Bullock. But not all murders are premeditated. Perhaps this was a crime of passion, or even an accident of sorts. If Billy were to be implicated in such a thing, there’s only one set of memories you need concern yourself with: where was Billy Greaves on the day of the murder?

  That’d be the same day as the flogging of the boy, and the whole crew was made to be present for that grisly event. Once things had settled down and the men sent back to their watches, what had Billy been up to?

  Dealing with the fallout of mail day.

  As the day prior had been a mail day—in which another ship had delivered a parcel of postage—the men were likely in a state. Most news a seaman receives from shore is of ill portent, and that leads to a sort of tunnel vision, where every event could be construed as a bad omen. On mail days, sailors skulk about their duties, foul moods simmering together to make a stew of negativity on all decks. This could have spilled over into the following day, and many of the crew likely credited the bad omens to the flogging itself.

  Billy himself was in a foul mood the day of the murder, though not because of the flogging. Had he received a nasty letter in the post? Or was it simply the burden of cleaning up after everyone else ate the bad news stew?

  “How’d this happen, Butch?” Billy said when they had spoken after the flogging.

  “I dunno, Billy. That’s why I called ya here.”

  You’d been heading up towards your night watch when you’d heard the voices coming from the surgery—which was both the ship’s hospital and the surgeon’s quarters.

  “Tell me what ye saw.”

  “Nothing, Billy. I weren’t here. Went up to speak to Cap’n Bullock, as ordered. And when I returned, I found it like this—smashed open and all sorts of vials of God-knows-what stolen from the pharmaceuticals.”

  “And what did Captain Bullock want with ya?”

  “Well… that there’d be a private issue, Billy. A letter about me late wife, God rest her soul. Settling of affairs back in port.”

  Staying back and out of view, you peered in through the open door. Butch’s medicine cabinet was broken; smashed open, glass everywhere. As for the boy who received the flogging, he lay sleeping, knocked insensible by pain killers.

  “And him? What’d he see?” Bi
lly asked.

  “Slept straight through, from the looks-o’-it.”

  “Didn’t Bullock order against medications?”

  “Well… maybe ’twas the Christian thing to do,” Butch said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Better yet, maybe ’twas the thief that smashed my cabinet and took the laudanum t’give the lad?”

  “Which was it, then, Butch?”

  “How the bloody hell should I know? Said I weren’t here!”

  “Christ. Now I got a poppy-head amongst the crews. Get this cleaned up, find a secure place for the rest-o’-them medicines, and I’ll see what I can’t do t’get this sorted.”

  Seeing Billy about to leave, you hastily left the corridors yourself, heading above decks before your shift on watch. If there were a thief onboard, perhaps there’s more to this than a simple killing. Had Bullock caught the thief? Who would have stolen medicines from under Butch’s nose? If the order to have the surgeon report in to the captain’s cabin had been relayed, the thief could have known the medicine cabinet would be unattended.

  “Look at Red’s herring!” Barlow shouted when you reached the top deck. “Hot damn, Red! Herring!”

  Rediker had been fishing over the side, and now held a herring as his prize.

  These two clearly had no idea what was going on below decks, though you weren’t much more informed. There must be some clue you’re missing….

  • Rack your brain over what odd occurrences happened near Dudderidge, the sea cook.

  • Revisit the memories of Butch, the former butcher employed as the ship’s surgeon.

  • Simply stare up at the stars—the same your shipmates presently sail beneath—until you fall asleep.