“Shots fired!” one of the seamen shouts, finally recognizing the incoming fire.
“Return fire!” Captain Longwick commands.
Much louder exchanges of rifle fire erupt from behind as the sailors attack those in the Spanish crow’s nest.
“Rear battery, fire!” the Commander issues.
Looking back, you see the sharpshooters shrink away under your shipmates’ counterattack, so you stand back at the wheel to make the necessary course corrections. Keeping a wary eye up over your shoulder, ready to duck back at a moment’s notice and use the jury-rigged rope steerage, you keep the ship at the proper heading.
Captain Longwick comes by, sees your setup and glares at you with narrowed eyes before uttering, “Clever…” and continuing on. Somehow, that didn’t seem a compliment, but you make peace with the idea and continue to steer under less-than-mortal danger.
Eventually, the sky grows dark, and the firing from the ships goes quiet. You’re relieved from your post, replaced by a new set of hands, and sent down 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….
Knowledge is Power
The harbormaster accepts your bribe and smiles broadly through rotten and missing teeth. “Ye seeks an easy catch, eh? I can do ya one better! There be a Spanish warship spotted in these waters, just past Cuba, said t’hail from Maracaibo. A pirate hunter called the Elige tu Veneno. Do yourself a favor and set course for Bermuda and stay on the leeward side-o’-the islands t’steer clear. Find your prey there, where she’ll be unprotected.”
Thanking the harbormaster, you make sail. Though his advice proves sound enough to keep you free of the pirate hunters, you don’t find the whereabouts of any merchant ships, either. Likely, they’re sticking close to the very protection that you seek to avoid.
* * *
“Cap’n, shipworm done set in. We’ve gone overdue for a careen,” Chips the carpenter reports a week later.
Rediker agrees that this is as good a time as any, so you order the ship to find an island to careen upon. Wooden ships naturally rot over time, a condition that’s exacerbated in warm Caribbean waters. To combat this, it’s common for ships avoiding port authorities to beach themselves on an island where the hull can be scrubbed and repaired. Once finished, she’ll be as fast as she’s ever been.
A suitable island will provide a refill of your fresh water stores and perhaps even fresh meat from local goats or pigs. What’s more, you can finally have the name “Cooper’s Pride” removed from the ship and “Deleon’s Revenge” painted in its place.
A suitable island is indeed found shortly, and upon seeing its shores, you can’t help but feel a pang of familiarity, Déjà vu, like you’ve been here before in another life. The shores are made of soft sand, a thick tree-line abutting right up against the surf. It’s hard to grasp the scale of the island from atop your ship, but the center appears to rise into a hillock or small mountain.
Shaking off the odd feeling, you order the crew to make landfall and refit the Deleon’s Revenge.
* * *
Another week passes, and you find yourself back in familiar waters in search of prey. It’s not long until you hear the call of “Sails!” and emerge to the quarterdeck to get a better look.
“Raise the black!” Rediker cries.
“Belay that order. Let’s get a good look at her first,” you say.
“Aye, Cap’n. What colors should we fly? English?”
You nod, then take the looking glass for yourself. The bloom of canvas and wood is only slight on the horizon, but they make from open seas towards the coastline you now sail along. She’s a large vessel; of that there can be no doubt. The Spanish warship? If so, you’re no safer flying the English flag than you would be flying the black. Whoever it is, they’ve spotted you—for they sail on a direct approach.
At length, you make her out. She’s a warship, all right, but one of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. If they think you a simple merchant vessel, their intercept course is certainly odd. If they know you to be a pirate—perhaps even after word of your escape from Boston—that would explain her trajectory.
“An English frigate,” Rediker confirms after you show him the looking glass.
“Ship-o’-that size has at least three times our guns,” Marlowe adds. You can be sure his calculation includes those guns you’ve added in these last few weeks.
“I ain’t made for a prison,” Barlow says.
“Me neither, mate. Comes to that—we’ll take them down with us,” Rediker says.
The crew look to you for orders.
• “Helmsman, run us along the coast. Big warships aren’t made for the shallows. If they want to chase us, they’ll have to risk running aground.”
• “Steady. Half the crew into the hold. Get blankets and cover the remaining crew. We’ll see if they’d like to board a ship quarantined for plague.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Laid to Rest
“You’re right, Rediker,” you say. “Your man Barlow, too. I couldn’t agree more.”
Rediker stares back dumbly, blinking with disbelief. “Well… good. That settles it, then?”
“Not quite. You’re right about ignoring those in London. The English plunder the Indies for spices and tea. The Dutch take from the dark continent, looting the very Africans themselves,” you say, to pointed looks from the former slaves now on your ship. “The Spanish ravage the natives of the Americas, filling their ships with treasure. The French do the same, pillaging the New World for delicacies. And we? Well, I say we take from them all!”
Many of the crew nod and mumble assent, but you’re just getting started.
“Barlow, you’re certainly right about my experience. Rediker undoubtedly knows more than I do about running a ship. But tell me truly, Rediker, how were these new men recruited? Did you tell them that you were an excellent bookkeeper, with fair and just pirate articles? Or did you entice them with tales of the mutineer who slit a terrible captain’s throat from ear-to-ear, leaving the tyrant with a beard of blood?”
You pause briefly, allowing Rediker a sheepish, “Well…” before you continue.
“Few knew Edward Teach, but who among you hasn’t heard of Blackbeard? They’re one and the same! But it’s the legend itself that instills fear in the hearts of seamen. When facing a larger-than-life persona, merchantmen will gladly give up their stores rather than confront a living devil.
“So go on, then. Put it to a vote. Should we sail under Jack Rediker and know that our hard-fought plunder will be distributed fairly by equitable articles? Or will you follow a captain who strikes fear in the very soul of my enemies to become a scourge of the seas yourselves—pirates renowned for hunting Spanish men by day… and French women by night?”
This last bit you leave with a grin, which gets lusty chuckles from the men. Now that you’ve got them, you finish with, “I say we take from them all, or offer a blood-beard in return!”
A slow chant starts by one of Rediker’s African recruits, quickly picked up by the rest of the crew: “Blood-beard… Blood-beard… Blood-beard!”
It’s unanimous. More than that, it’s a new identity.
“Don’t misunderstand. I value you, Rediker, and your knowledge. Come! Help me draw up Captain Bloodbeard’s articles for the Deleon’s Revenge!”
You pump a fist in the air and get a mirrored “Hurrah!” from many in the crew. At length, the crew’s cheering dies down; the bosun pipes them back to work. Rediker joins you in the cabin.
“At least we have a clever Cap’n,” he concedes.
“Rediker, you must swear not to try something like this again. Rather, let us work together, grow rich together, then we can part ways as allies and friends.”
The man sighs, then nods. He spits in his hand and puts it out for a shake. “Make m
e your quartermaster, Cap’n Bloodbeard, and I swear t’serve both ye and the ship as best I can.”
After shaking on the accord, you set up the articles that will govern your future lives as pirates. In the process, you share brandy and chat into the late hours of the night.
* * *
The next morning, you’re awoken to shouts of, “Sails!” A rush of excitement brings you out to the quarterdeck to see for yourself. Spotting the bloom of white on the horizon, you reach out for the spyglass to get a better look. She’s a merchant ship! What luck!
“Dos Santos,” you read the painted name on the stern. “Spanish?”
“Portuguese, from the make,” Marlowe replies.
“Helmsman, plot a course to intercept. Quartermaster, ready the men for action. Our first catch of the day.”
Rediker takes up his role as Quartermaster, commanding the pirates to prepare for boarding. Robin readies gun teams, and soon, every hand is up on deck, itching for action. Barlow arrives with two bolts of cloth, one red and one black.
“Flags, Cap’n,” he says. “I only just finished the Jolly Roger. Should we fly the black?”
“Red means no quarter given. Black says we’ll play nice if they surrender,” Rediker explains. “Seen men jump ship at the sight-o’-red, which can be useful. But we can always recruit more crew from the black. That’d be my recommendation, Cap’n.”
Your orders?
• Fly the English flag! Let’s wait until we’re right up next to her before showing our true colors.
• Fly the red! The dread pirate Bloodbeard leaves no survivors!
• Fly the black! All we truly want is the loot and plunder.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Landslide
From this position, you get to watch the floor of the well become steadily further away with each step you make up the sides. It’s a strange balancing act as you awkwardly scale the walls, but you do make progress. One hand, one foot. Other hand, other foot. Inches at a time.
Then you lift one foot to slide it upwards just as the grit beneath your opposite foot gives way. That foot slides out from beneath you faster than you’re able to reposition it, and, with nothing to hold onto, you fall back down to the base of the well. The floor of this natural well is a soup of mire after the recent storms, and you splash back into the muck, breath knocked out of you all over again.
Okay, let’s try this once more:
• Try to dig your way out. By pulling down the earthen walls, you can make a ramp and climb to safety.
• Leaning back. With your shoulders and hands pressed on the wall and feet out in front, walking.
• Like a starfish. With your arms and legs spread on opposite walls, you can totter your way up.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Last Will
A bottle of wine is opened, but only those deemed in charge—that is, yourself and Rediker—are offered a glass. Hierarchy and propriety must always be honored, it seems, even when punishing a pirate crew. As the Captain, you’re allowed to go first.
“I repent of nothing,” you say, raising the glass in a toast. When you drink the wine, the notion of honey-sweet wine and Homer comes to mind, so it is Homer’s words that flow from your lips. “There is no creature on earth feebler than that of man, for he thinks that he will never suffer evil… there is a time for words, and a time for sleep.”
Then you down the rest of the wine.
Rediker raises his glass in a toast, saying, “I have but one regret, and ’tis not starting The Life sooner. If ye want a lesson from me, I’d pray it thus: that masters-o’-vessels not use their men so severely, as many do, which exposes men t’great temptations.”
With that, a rope is strung about your neck, prayers uttered, and the platform falls out beneath your feet to leave you swaying in the breeze.
THE END
Letter of the Law
“Aye, legal it may be!” Chips says, ire getting the best of him. “So be it the hangman’s never tried for murder, neither.”
“Some dogs’ll lick the master’s hand no matter how many times he beats ’em,” Rediker snarls back.
“Oh, you bastard. Think a Letter-o’-Marque made ye a big, tough man, did it? Not so tough no more, is ya?”
“Gentlemen, please!” you try, but the nearest sailor puts his hand on your shoulder to keep you out of the dispute.
“Sometimes the law recognizes the value of a man. Other times, well, men resort to natural laws,” Rediker proselytizes.
“Only law out here be Cap’n Bullock, and ’tis that man’s nature ye should concern yourself with!”
“Go on, then, toadie up t’your master and report me mutinous talk!”
Chips slowly shakes his head. “I’ll not make it so easy for ya. Want a flogging? Earn it yourself! Until then, this here be the first starboard watch, and I’ll only concern meself so much as ya perform your duties. Even King George don’t own the thoughts in a man’s head, so long as that be where they remain.”
The tension finally seems to be subsiding. Rediker gives the slightest nod. “Of that, Chips, we are of one mind. What duties would ye have me perform?”
Chips’ face sports a wicked grin. “Decks need scouring. Me professional opinion, that is. Grab some holy-stone and get to scrubbing. Saltboots, think ye better join Rediker in his task.”
Scrubbing the decks leaves your hands raw and bloody. Rediker attacks the task ferociously, taking out his frustrations upon the Cooper’s Pride. Doesn’t seem like he has any more to say on the matter, and he keeps his distance. Still, this isn’t a simple punishment but a necessary task; after four hours, the deck is smooth and unblemished by splinters or signs of rot. A healthy ship is a happy ship.
Eight bells sound, signaling that your watch is over.
Chips arrives, appraising your work. “That’ll serve. Eight more bells, then we fill our bellies and take our next watch. Get some time in the hammock while ye can.”
The afternoon was more draining than you expected—both mentally and physically—so time in the hammock could be exactly what you need.
* * *
“Up! All hands! Up, or we all perish!” the cry comes, shaking you from your slumber.
How long were you asleep? It’s impossible to tell, and in the commotion, it doesn’t much matter. Now that you’re on your feet, you feel the violent rocking of the ship that the hammock had countered. You rush up with the crew, ready to lend a hand to prevent the threat of death.
Thoughts of seasickness are replaced by sheer terror when you reach the open air. Lightning arcs across the sky with the dreadful crack of thunder only an instant behind. The sea rollicks like an open flame and foams upon the deck—beating her with great waves, threatening to pull all asunder.
One such wave nearly knocks the ship on her side, and a man who was up in the rigging of the mainsail is thrown into the sea. You recognize him as the third crimped sailor, the one in a white-and-blue striped shirt.
“Man overboard! Jack’s gone in!” the sailor Marlowe cries.
Billy throws a rope, but when it hits the water, it disappears into the inky sea, and now he watches with a sort of helpless indifference as the sailor struggles for his life. It’s clear the man has no idea how to swim and will soon drown.
• No time! Dive in and help crimped Jack back to the ship.
• Tie a length of rope around your waist and leap in!
• Say a prayer for the poor seaman; nothing else you can do.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Let Them Eat Cake!
You scoop up the spotted dick from its tin, custard dripping from the base, and shovel it into your mouth. Salivating at the prospect of the treat, your tongue is greeted by the fatty goodness of a pudding so rich, it melts in your mouth. Only the dried fruits give a need to chew. There’s a metallic tinny aftertaste, but you pay that no mind. It was stored in a tin, so that seems only natural.
Spotted Dick watches as you devour his eponymous treat,
smiling and pantomiming for you to eat more. “Good, innit? Don’t be shy, polish’er off. There ya go. Best ya ever had!”
It is quite good, insofar as spotted dick goes, and the sugary fat goes straight to your head. The rush leaves you lightheaded, tongue tingling and lips numb. When your fingers start going numb too, you start to panic.
“Oh, don’t worry, that’s just me secret ingredient!” Dick croons with laughter. “The ether helps keep ya docile as a newborn calf that’s found mummy’s teat for the first time! And while ya suckle away blissfully in dreamland, that’s when I pen ya up inside a ship and collect me shepherdin’ fee.”
Your legs go like jelly, only serving to cement his metaphor that you are not much more than a veal cutlet waiting to be processed.
Vision blurring from an overdose of ether, you lose consciousness.
Wake up, little sea cow, maybe you’ll find greener pastures atop the emerald waves?
Letting it Slide
Both men look to you, bringing their glares with them.
“Well, Saltboots. Allow me to educate ya,” Rediker says. “Ship’s watch be how the common Tar earns his pay and spends his day; it’s grueling, backbreaking work. This way ye find yourself hungry enough t’eat the rotten, meager rations and tired enough t’sleep on schedule in a kennel that wouldn’t be fit for dogs.”
“Aye, so it be, but ’tis our lot, and best that we not waste any more-o’-Cap’n Bullock’s time with idle chat,” Chips adds.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 20
