MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Honor Bound
James marches determinedly down the muddy promenade, despite your pleas for him to wait just one confounded minute. Thinking rashly, you tromp after him, grab him by his arm, and spin your cousin around on his heels.
His sharp eyes look to your hand upon his arm, then slowly up to your face. He releases the handle of a dirk at his waist—which, truth be told, you never even saw him reach for—then takes your hand in his own. James’s skin is rough and calloused, fingers firm as wood, with a grip strength that would rival a winch.
“Never, ever, take hold-o’-a seaman like that if ya value these fingers,” he says, prying your hand off himself and holding it up for inspection, as if you’d never seen your own fingers before. “Most would gut ya ’fore they took the time t’look ya in the eye, understand me?”
“I don’t intend to deal with any rogues, save for yourself,” you say, mustering your coolest tone. “Aunt Margaret entrusted me with enough coin to see you fed and returned home, and enough oath-swearing to ensure I’d discharge my duty with haste.”
“Oaths you’ve sworn are not mine to uphold, coz.”
James spins back around and continues on his way.
“So you will not return?” you call after him. “Shall I tell your mother of your refusal? Or should I grant her the mercy of saying you’d never arrived at port at all?”
He turns back, exasperated. “I arrived early, or did ye not notice the sun shines still? If you’re bound and determined t’buy me a steak-n’-ale pie and load me into a carriage, go procure those things whilst I take a moment to wash the salt off me soul. Don’t I deserve a sailor’s welcome from a wench before I’m forced to endure an Englishman’s welcome from his mother?”
Seeing you hesitate, he adds, “Or come, let me buy you a drink while I’m still in a cheerful mood. But I swear by all the virgins, Mary or otherwise, if ya come between me and my shore leave one more time, I’m bound t’forget we’re related.”
• Let him have his fun while you find a carriage. Best James feed his baser natures while you’re out of sight and can still claim plausible deniability when Aunt Margaret grills you later.
• Don’t let him out of your sight! If the cost of keeping your cousin at your side is enduring a shot of sailor’s rotgut, so be it.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hospitable
Dalton commends your choice, noting, “Not many have the stomach to enter the surgery unbidden.”
Then he leaves you to it, moving about on his own rounds. The pathway to the surgery is sticky with drying blood, and you order the first sailor you come across to find a mop and a friend and see to it. Then you head inside.
The air is warm and humid, and there’s an earthy stench, like month-old garden compost. A dozen men lie about in various states of treatment, while the only one on his feet is the surgeon himself—Wycombe.
“And?” he says, not looking up from his current patient.
“And what?” you reply.
“And what do you require of me?” Wycombe sighs out.
“I’ve only come to check on the wounded.”
Now he looks up at you, as if he’s only now decided you’re worth noticing. He appraises you, keeps his findings to himself, and turns back to his work. “Help yourself.”
Practically every man has a bandage of some sort, most from wooden splinters from the cannon barrage. A few have limbs tied off completely, the ends mangled by battle and bound back together by the surgeon. Then there’s a man you recognize from one of the gunner teams, skin ashen, eyes grey. His stomach opened, the viscera inside congealing.
“I thought you were here for the wounded?” Wycombe asks, suddenly at your side.
“That’s right,” you say.
“That man’s dead,” the surgeon offers.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Wasn’t bothering anyone until recently.” There’s a glaze over Wycombe’s eyes, pupils the size of saucers. He adds, “I suppose he’s awaiting a funeral. If you’d like to help with the others, trying to stave one off, that might be a better use of your time.”
You nod and Wycombe bids you follow. There’s a seaman with a distorted stump of a foot who groans in a fog of pain. The surgeon informs you that he’ll need to saw off a clean end for the man, and asks you to hold the sailor down while he does so. You pin the man’s arms by his side and Wycombe gives him a leather strap to bite onto. The surgeon nods, and you return the gesture.
Then Wycombe saws away just below the knee.
The seaman cries out muffled but ferocious animal growls, bucking about in agony. You manage to keep him held down, and it’s a clean cut. As Wycombe tends to the newly exposed flesh, you watch the freshly poured blood seeping between the planks of the floor, and find you’re panting for breath.
“Don’t look away!” Wycombe shouts with sudden passion. “Remember that man’s face, Midshipman Ward. This is the true bounty of war. If God and His Majesty see fit to make you a commissioned officer, I pray you carry this moment with you throughout your command.”
You look at the surgeon with new eyes. He doesn’t fight the battles, yet he’s always the closest to the dead and dying. Unable to find the words, you simply nod in response, and spend the rest of the afternoon helping in the surgery. Speaking with those despairing, feeding those unable to do so themselves. Sopping up the spilt bounty of war where you can.
• This has put me in a somber mood. As an officer candidate, it’s my duty to learn how to best prevent carnage like this in the future. I’ll spend the night studying.
• I could use a drink after this. Surely Captain Longwick will re-open the rum stores to toast our escape from the enemy. Time to celebrate life!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hubris
It’s tempting to use the pages of your journal for kindling, but no—this will hold the only record you were here! The first task is easy enough. You gather dead and dry driftwood and the fibrous husks of coconuts and tree bark peelings to use as kindling. Once gathered and stacked in such a way as to protect the fire pit from the wind (while giving enough space for the fire to breathe), you simply need to ignite the pyre.
Taking the rum bottle, you try to focus the sunlight into a beam of concentrated light and heat. But, alas, the waning sun of evening does not provide enough light for this technique. Perhaps you could strike the correct type of rocks against one another to send a spark into the kindling? It’s likely there are some to be found in the interior, but out here by the sandy shore, you’re not given much, so that won’t work either.
Looks like your only option left is friction. Rubbing the driftwood together eats at the flesh on your hands, but after the time on the ship spent hardening them against the ropes, they’re up to the task. All it takes now is time and patience.
The sun sets without any hints of fire, and all you have to show for your efforts are warm pieces of driftwood. You’re starting to fear you may be going to sleep hungry, thirsty, exhausted, cold, and disappointed.
That thirst makes you think of the rum, which in turn makes you think of the pistol. The flintlock pistol! In a sudden burst of inspiration, you remove the shot and powder, careful to rest the components in a bowl-shaped scrap of wood rather than lose any on the beach—you’ll need this weapon one day.
The flintlock mechanism works by literally striking a piece of flint, which creates a massive spark. So all you have to do is hold the pistol near the kindling, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger. Flash! The sparks leap into the kindling.
When the first tendrils of smoke curl from the driftwood, you jump up and shout out with joy. Then you gather your senses and breathe the breath of life into the fire, helping the spark grow into a flame, growing it amongst the rest of your kindling.
After what feels like hours of trying, the rest of the process only takes a few seconds until you’ve got yourself a roaring fire. You carefully reload the pistol and
store it back into your waistband. Best not to use that trick too many times, or you’ll wear out the mechanism before you have a chance to use the weapon.
Sitting back, you enjoy the warmth of the fire. Though you have an empty belly, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Until the first drops of rain patter down from the heavens. The fire hisses at the assault, and the flames strike back, licking higher into the sky. The rain grows into a deluge, sheets of water dumped down atop your island.
“Why?!” you shout aloud.
But your fire cannot survive the onslaught, and soon you’re soaked through.
Like Prometheus, you’ve been punished for bringing fire into the world. Now, in the freezing rain, it’s tempting to use that fifth of rum to peck at your liver; Zeus’s punishment would feel like a blessing here, if only for a few moments.
No, you won’t succumb to the temptation. You push the thought from your mind and instead, look for a place to hide from the brunt of the storm. But where?
• Beneath a coconut tree. The broad leaves will provide some protection, and I can rest against the trunk.
• Do what you can with the rest of the driftwood. Some of the husks are big enough to lie under.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hungover
You awaken the next morning with a muster to the main decks. It’s to be a funeral for the men lost in battle. The crew is gathered, and the fallen are laid out near the edge, ready to be dropped into the sea.
Every single one of the faces of the dead are familiar, despite this being a ship full of nearly two-hundred other men. Faces you’d seen at the water cask or in line for chow. Faces you’d hauled rigging with or scrubbed the decks beside. Faces you’d heard making jokes, singing shanties, or damning the storms.
Those faces are still now, white as marble.
The dead lie upon their hammocks, nearly sewn into them—the only bit that remains exposed are those faces. The last step will be to sew them up completely, with the final stitch sewn through the nose to ensure that they are truly dead and not just insensible.
Captain Longwick says a few words, but all you can hear is the sea. Birds caw and waves rush against the hull of the ship. When the eulogy is complete, that final stitch is sewn and the men are flung over, sent into a watery grave.
The last act of kindness and remembrance is an auction of the men’s gear. Their best mates bid much higher than any set of trousers or leatherbound book or corncob pipe is actually worth, for the profit will be sent back to England as a final gift of pension to the men’s families.
So too does this speech become muddled to your ears. You hear nothing but the creaking of the ship. Indeed, the only words you hear are Homer’s: “Beware the toils of war; the mesh of a huge, dragging net, come to sweep up the world.”
“Ahoy, there, Landsman!” a voice finally breaks through your subconscious. It’s the Master-of-Arms calling out to you. He says, “Nice of ya to join us back here in the land-o’-the living! We’re making landfall. There’s wood to be chopped and water to be pumped.”
• Go out in search of a good spring. You haven’t had a clear drop to drink in weeks.
• Join the team chopping wood. With all the repairs to the ship, you’ll need a fresh resupply.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hunted to Extinction
“Leave the prize! Make all sail!” you command.
And the panic sets in. Half your crew, if not more, is deep inside the Portuguese merchantman rifling through her cargo when the orders come. How long will you give them to make it back?
In the rush to flee, the boarding platforms simply fall into the sea. The grappling hooks are severed, rather than detached. Men leap from the Portuguese ship back to the Deleon’s Revenge and with the Spanish warship approaching, some men are indeed left behind.
But those are the lucky ones.
“She’s a bloody pirate hunter!” Rediker shouts.
“Fire rear guns!” you command.
That’s when the first shots from the Spanish warship boom forth, smashing into your comparably tiny ship and battering the crew with wooden splinters from the blast. And they’re gaining still.
It was too late from the get-go. The Spanish ship had the wind while you were at a complete stop. By the time you reach your full speed, they’ve already caught you. The only choice left is whether to go down in a blaze of glory, or to surrender and be hanged… or worse.
THE END
Hunter
The pirates give chase through the jungle, hot on your heels, slashing their cutlasses as they go. None fire their pistols, for it would be a waste of the flintlock’s single shot to discharge the weapon without a clear line of sight.
Lithe and swift, you manage to pull slightly ahead of the men. This frenzied run soon brings you to the jaguar’s lair. Here, you hide nearby, claiming a stone the size of a small cannonball. Once the pirates come close, you hurl the projectile into the jaguar’s den, drawing the men closer with the clatter, and the beast out of the cave at the same time.
“Over here!” Marlowe hisses to the others, leading them inside.
A great animal yowl sounds out, followed by the screams of men and the rapport of pistol fire. The jaguar sprints off into the jungle, but not before killing two of the pirates—Marlowe and another man. In the commotion, you’re able to take them from behind and kill the others.
Claiming a pistol off the fallen pirates, you now stalk the rest of the men, armed to the teeth. They respond in kind, setting fire to the underbrush of your island. Soon, only Barlow and Rediker remain—and you’ve got a pistol for each man.
The flintlock you’ve been carrying all these weeks is the one you save for Captain Rediker. Stepping from the underbrush, they turn to face you, faces full of surprise. Out here, on the very beach you were abandoned upon, only the three of you stand living.
• Fire at Rediker first—he’s the bigger threat.
• Fire at Barlow first—savor the victory.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
A Hut of One’s Own
The first night’s dwelling won’t be much more than that—a dwelling. Like an animal nest, you need a “human nest” in which to sleep. Having a comfortable abode is something that can come later. For now, priorities are two-fold. First, somewhere protected from the elements, and second, somewhere out of the way of curious neighbors.
What can you expect to find on this island? Lions, tigers, bears? Cannibals? You don’t know what’s out there yet, so it’s best they don’t know where you are, either.
Collecting small downed trees and large branches, especially those with natural forks, as well as palm leaves and fibrous husks that you can twist into cordage, you get to work. A raised or protected area to post your shelter would be ideal, but you make do for tonight.
Fortunately, your experiences with the ropes and rigging of the ship, as well as with assisting Chips the carpenter now come to bear fruit on your first night alone. The forked branches of wood serve as a nice frame for the makeshift hut, which you layer with palms and smaller branches to make the roof.
The sun has long since set, but still you continue making the dwelling as secure as you can. When the rain starts in, you’re glad you did so. The heavens open in a deluge, and while your shelter isn’t water-tight, it’s better than you could’ve hoped for.
Lying inside, your own body heat is enough to insulate; such as it is, the hut is small enough that not too much heat escapes. You could swear you can hear someone or something walking around out there, so you keep as silent as death. Maybe it’s just the sounds of the storm and your imagination conspiring against you?
The pistol digs against your side as you try to sleep, but you keep it close lest the storm spoil the gunpowder. The idea of revenge, of justice, is the one thing keeping you going right now. But who could have killed Bullock? He was slain by his own knife, in his cabin, so the killer couldn’t have gotten far. Moreover, who might have had a motive to kill the captain? The
re was a page missing from the ship’s log—that cannot be a coincidence.
Then it occurs to you: you kept your own log all this time. Since your journal faithfully recalls a month spent with these seamen, you might actually know them well enough to ascertain their motives. Perhaps if you think hard enough, the answer is already there, waiting in the recesses of your memory! At the very worst, it should help keep your mind off the storm and whatever’s “out there.”
You start with the most obvious suspects. Three men in particular, thick as thieves, come to mind:
• Marlowe, the oldest sailor on the ship.
• Rediker, the ringleader of the crimped men.
• Barlow, the mustachioed man always at Rediker’s side.
• Actually, no. Best way to keep my mind off things will be just to get some rest.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Icarus
“Every seaman here knows,” Marlowe says.
“Well, I do not. And I should like you to explain yourself, lest I take offense!”
“No offense intended, honest. Nothin’ bad never happened to Jimmy, nor those on watch with him. Only, he had two chums that he got on with—those were the only two that we lost on the whole voyage! He took that second man’s loss harder than most, and kept to himself after—and we ain’t lost no more men. So, ya see, he’s a good-luck charm! So long as ya don’t get too close…”
“Flew too close to the sun…” you mutter.
“That’s right! Some sun is good, course, but Jimmy was like too much-o’-a good thing. Left out in the sun, ye go mad.”
“And what if I’m not like my cousin?”
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 17
