“And what would ye have us waste it on?”
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.
• Say a prayer for the poor seaman; nothing else you can do.
• Tie a length of rope around your waist and leap in!
• No time! Dive in and help crimped Jack back to the ship.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Life Sentence
You slowly release the hammer on the pistol so it’s no longer cocked, then lower the weapon and stow it in your waistband once more. Billy’s shoulders sink with relief and he steps forward.
“Go on then, Billy. I have business at port, so we’ll amicably part ways.”
“I knew ye were a good sort, I did.”
“But… you could’ve just asked, you know. Might be I would’ve even left you with a pension to live out your days here in the colonies.”
He tugs at his muttonchops thoughtfully, then says, “Come now, Saltboots. The pirate’s life ain’t for ’ole Billy, but I’m a sea dog until the day the good Lord sees fit to take away me fitness for seafaring, and ya can lay down t’that. I aim t’find me a good, honest ship and earn me place aboard. Come with me! Vouch for ya, I would. Maybe ya got in over your head? How’s about a second chance, eh?”
• Take him up on his offer. He’s right. You are in over your head. It’s never too late for a fresh start!
• Refuse. You’ve got a ship of your own. Why volunteer to lick the boot of some new tyrant?
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Listless
You stand, shocked and waiting to see what can be done for the man. Billy arrives on the scene, but it’s too much weight for one man to lift. Captain Bullock turns to Butch, asking, “Could he still work? Can you save his foot?”
“Best I could do is cut it off,” the surgeon says with a shrug.
The crimped sailor hears this reply and a new batch of wailing erupts.
“You want to keep your broken foot, then take it with you—get off my ship!” Captain Bullock cries. “If this was an accident, I’ll not have a man so incompetent in my employ. If this was malicious, to shirk your duty, I’ll not clear your debt due to injury, oh no! Breaking your body so as not to break your word, eh? What a fiend. 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.
Loose Lips
“Ye won’t find many in Boston friendly t’deserters,” one of the sailors warns.
Rediker shrugs. “’Tis already a prison sentence we face, innit? Worse yet, this here be a jail ye can drown in.”
“Oh, they don’t aim t’lock ye up. The pride-o’-Boston is her gallows.” This silences the man’s impunity, for a moment. The sailor continues, “Just be careful when he’s in a state. If the Cap’n ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy!”
“Surely, if he were that bad, ye wouldn’t agree to another voyage with him as master,” Barlow, the crimped, mustachioed seaman chimes in.
The first man shakes his head. “I’ve sailed under worse tyrants. Truth is, we thought it best t’sign up fast and avoid the press. No offense.”
“None taken,” Barlow and Rediker say in unison.
“Cap’n Bullock’s a right wanker, no denyin’ it. But he mostly keeps to himself and Billy runs the ship day-to-day, thanks be t’God.”
They hush themselves at the sound of approaching footsteps, but it’s only the second pair of crimped men arriving, and the idle talk continues unabated.
“I’m Marlowe,” the experienced seaman says at length.
You make a mental note not to confuse Marlowe with Barlow as the rest of the men introduce themselves, ten more common tars in total. Then you do the same, adding, “Admittedly, this is my first time aboard a ship. My cousin James sailed into port with the Cooper’s Pride, though you might know him as Jimmy Saltboots.”
A broad grin stretches over Marlowe’s face. “Jimmy were our good-luck charm! Why, as long as ye wasn’t mates with Jimmy, nothin’ bad could happen t’ya. Glad t’have another Saltboots aboard, but keep your distance.”
So he’s saying… Jimmy was good luck so long as you weren’t his friend? That doesn’t bode well for your companionship over the course of these next few months! Your mind scrambles for a way to say that you’re not your cousin, and that his luck has nothing to do with your own.
“Red’s got the luck-o’-the Devil himself!” Barlow says, interrupting your thoughts. “Already escaped the hangman once, what with a letter-o’-marque.”
“You were a pirate?” the words escape your lips.
“Privateer.” Rediker’s eyes narrow, and he shoots a glare at Barlow. “Aye, we hunted the seas of the Spanish main. But the letter’s expired, so return to London we must and here ye find us now.”
The other seamen look at Rediker in a new light, but before anyone can speak further, they hush at the sound of footsteps. This time it’s Billy, the mate.
“Ho, there, Saltboots! Cap’n Bullock wants a word. Get a move on! The rest of ye, look lively, we still got cargo t’be loaded before we can set sail! C’mon now!”
Not much choice here:
Best not keep Captain Bullock waiting…
Love Story
Barlow was one of the sailors crimped into service at the sam
e time you joined up with the Cooper’s Pride. He’d arrived with Rediker, and was by the other man’s side day and night, following him like a lost puppy. The mustachioed man never struck you as particularly bright; not the kind who could orchestrate a murder where he would vanish from sight. But what he lacked in intellectual prowess he made up for in loyalty. But is pure loyalty reason enough to kill?
This reminds you of a time, the day before the murder, in fact, when you came into contact with another ship that had departed from London bearing letters. It’s common, as you learned, for ships to carry mail for those with whom they might cross paths.
Rising Phoenix—that was the name of the ship. It sticks out in your memories because you yourself received a letter from home. The Phoenix had caught a favorable wind to catch the Pride, though that was the only favorable aspect of the encounter.
The letter from home informed you that Cousin James had been pressed into the service of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Right now, even, James likely sails for King and Country in the war against the Spanish.
As much as your own family was angered, hurt, or even in shocked disbelief of your going to sea, Aunt Margaret was a tempest at your failure to bring your cousin home. She had arranged a marriage for James; a favorable pairing with the daughter of a magistrate that Maggie claims to have spent all of her social currency in arranging. But without him back in Buckinghamshire, the match was surely to fall through, and Aunt Margaret to spend the rest of her days in squalor.
“You’re a buggerer!” Captain Bullock had cried, lowering his own letter.
Barlow stiffened at the accusation, but did not meet the master’s gaze.
“I’ll have no abnormals in my crew. Look at me, man! Your captain is speaking, Barlow!” Bullock had continued, circling around to chastise Barlow. “What I hold here, is nothing more than a dire warning against your queer tendencies!”
“Cap’n, I dunno whatcha heard—” Barlow had started.
“Heard? What I’ve read—in plain black-and-white, inked by a captain whose word I trust—is that you and that damnable Rediker were caught sharing a bunk. By multiple witnesses!”
Barlow gaped, but was unable to respond. As for Rediker, the man was down in the fo’c’sle at the time, getting his rest between watches.
“It ain’t true,” Barlow managed at length. But you could see it on the man’s face, the plain truth of the accusations. He and Rediker had been more than just friends, it seems. Perhaps still were.
“I don’t want to hear you deny it, Barlow. Your sins may burn you in hell yet, but while you still walk this earth, you are mine to command by rights. What I want to hear is your solemn oath that there’ll be no buggery aboard my ship! Swear it, you bastard!”
“Aye, Cap’n. I swear it,” Barlow said, tears in his eyes.
The captain’s own eyes narrowed, lingering to look over Barlow and see if the man were sincere. He must’ve thought he’d sufficiently frightened the seaman, for Bullock left the encounter at that and stormed away.
The crew who’d witnessed the outburst had looked away; pretended not to hear, and let the issue drop. As for yourself, it seemed at the time that unless unfounded—the truth of it—was that Barlow truly did love Rediker.
You’d heard of the proclivities men would engage in when far from shore, so paid it no mind. But now, in light of the Captain’s death… was it reason enough to kill? If Bullock had further discovered the men in a moment of passion, he could have threatened punishment or legal actions in Boston. Men had been hanged for less.
Barlow would have certainly had a motive; that much is clear from your reminiscing. The page missing from Bullock’s log could likely implicate Barlow and his affections. But did he have opportunity to commit the crime?
Thinking back again to the conspiracy of men in the moonlight, that fateful final watch before you’d discovered Captain Bullock in the final moments of his life. One of the three figures, upon further reflection, had moved in a peculiarly familiar way.
He moved like he was following a companion he’d do anything for. Like he was following the man he loved. Barlow had gone down into the hold before you discovered the murder, there can be no doubt. So if he had acted against Captain Bullock—his was not the hand that held the knife.
Who else might have hated the master and commander of the Cooper’s Pride enough to kill?
• Rediker himself, obviously. Think back to what you know… could his have been the hand on the knife?
• Marlowe—the old sailor was the third pea in their pod. But why? What ills did he bear Captain Bullock?
• That’s enough for one night. Time to get some sleep. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Lucky
As the roll of the dice would have it, you win! You’re still getting the hang of the game, and yet, Monks slides a heap of coin over to your side of the table, muttering, “The Lord giveth…”
“And this be how we choose to spendeth,” Argyle agrees, noting the scores in his ledger.
“Can one not boil down all of life to a fifty/fifty split? Everything that can be can also not be. Riches, poverty. Love, hate. Life, death. The fates toss dice, and always play double-or-nothing at sea,” Wycombe notes, eyes fluttering from his opium high.
Something sticks with Monks and he cries, “That’s right. Gotta give us a chance to win our money back—double’r nothin’!”
If you want to say no, enough excitement for one night:
• Collect your winnings and return to the bar to wait for Cousin James.
Or let it ride! The winning choice has been randomized, and the outcome of these choices may or not be the same. Play the dice/coin game again, or simply pick your luck of the draw:
• Heads on the coin toss, or a one, two, or three shown on the die. Click here.
• Tails on the coin toss, or a four, five, or six shown on the die. Click here.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Marlowe
“Have ye gone mad? Or were ye just always daft?” Marlowe says in response to your accusation.
“He was with me in the hold, planning a mutiny, when the deed were done,” Rediker says.
“Ah-ha! I’ve just got you to admit to mutiny!” you say, pointing a finger back at him.
“I think too many meals of coconuts have gone and made ye just plain nuts, Saltboots,” Rediker says, tapping his own head for emphasis. “Of course I admit the mutiny! I’m captain-o’-a pirate crew!”
Then they all laugh.
And laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
And then they kill you.
THE END
Master-of-Arms
Tendrils of smoke curl about the barrel of the Master-of-Arms’ flintlock pistol. Somewhere in the back of your mind the enormous Crack! of the gunpowder shot registers. Your chest tightens. Breathing becomes difficult, and then you taste copper as you try to inhale through a lung that’s flooding with blood.
You’ve been shot!
The Master-of-Arms smirks with satisfaction and brings his pistol back into resting position; elbow cocked and flintlock pointed skyward. What did you expect? His name is the “Master-of-Arms,” after all, and now he’s just proved it by serving up a fatal gunshot wound.
THE END
Master of Fates, Captain of Souls
The captain puffs up and paces before the crimped men and yourself, deliberately tapping his cane before each step, despite no limp to compensate for. The ruffles of his garb, as well as his own strutting, make him look somewhat like a rooster inspecting a henhouse.
The cock of the walk, as they say.
“If I’m to be favored by fortune,” he starts, “And the lot of you are to do your work as assigned, without giving me any vile troubles, this will be our only interaction for the duration of the voyage. You are by all rights mine to command, but the law sees fit that you’ll be fed, clothed, sheltered, and even paid for the privilege.”
Captain Bullo
ck has the look of a man who’s the Admiral of his own imaginations. Putting on the airs of a military man, despite his uniform of civilian finery. Perhaps he truly was once a Naval Officer, passed over for promotion, only to take the fast-track to command via hiring on as the master of a merchant vessel. Or, perhaps he knew himself better than to seek a commission in the first place, harboring a secret shame of cowardice, and now plays at military commander here on the Cooper’s Pride.
“But there’s another law aboard this ship—and that is my word. You must act, without hesitation, at any order given. Failing to do so puts this craft in mortal jeopardy, and it is mine own duty to put down a wretched dog endangering the lives of a score of others.”
He pauses, staring the group down for emphasis.
“Excellent. I do believe we are in accord. Now step forward, state your name, swear to follow my orders, and return to Mr. Greaves for assignment,” Captain Bullock concludes.
The first man rises forward. He has a red skullcap, like the blue cousin James wore, a pierced eyebrow, and fire in his eyes. A troublemaker, to be sure. Yet it is with poised solemnity that he says, “Rediker, sir. You have my oath.”
The next seaman, who wears a long mustache and a patch of whiskers just beneath his lips, steps forward. “I, Barlow, do solemnly swear t’do me duties, sir.”
Captain Bullock looks to you next. Swallowing your pride, you swear an oath to the ship and her commander, then walk over to the mate, Billy Greaves, while the next two would-be-sailors say their piece.
“Don’t look so low, now,” Billy says. “Soon enough you’ll learn ’tis the common tars who run the ship and Cap’n Bullock’s only another part-o’-her t’be steered and managed. Your cousin Jimmy Saltboots survived, and you’ll find you’re a Saltboots too. Now here, take your hammock, slops, and head to the fo’c’sle to find your berth.”
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 21
