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

by James Schannep

  “Free those in chains! They’ll join us in our fight!” Rediker cries, cocking his pistol at the ready before joining the climb himself.

  With the Revenge sinking, you’ve little choice but to climb the fortress and join the assault.

  The pirate crew is greeted with shocking defenses. In order to resist a slave insurrection, ships like this one are built to defend not only attacks from without, but attacks from within as well. There’s a huge barrier erected between the main decks and the crew on the quarterdeck. And what’s worse, the swivel guns are aimed not seaward—but at the middle of the ship.

  These guns fire now at the attacking pirates, with brutal efficiency. Those who survive make to scale the barrier and find the slaver captain, but the crew slashes at them from above, maintaining the high ground.

  It’s a brutal attack, one you’re unprepared for with your small guns and smaller crew. These sailors are terrified at the thought of a pirate attack, and now revel in fending off your blundering attempt at plundering.

  A slave ship would indeed make for a grand pirate vessel, and history has a few examples where this really occurred, but those pirates were hardened crews, better armed and better prepared.

  Rediker’s eyes have proved bigger than his stomach, and it’s clear now he bit off more than he could chew. With a sinking ship being the only place to flee, you’re left to the mercy of the slaver crew—a notoriously merciless bunch. They live their lives throwing dead and dying human cargo overboard and beating the living into submission; what tenderness could you possibly hope for now?

  THE END

  Quit While You’re Ahead

  Or, while you still have a head, that is. Win or lose, these sailors are dangerous men, made even more so by drink. Probably best to walk away while you can and wait for your cousin.

  So you sit by the bar nursing a gin, lost in a half-drunken translation of Homer. Oh for shame, you start, or is it How shameless? Hmmm. Perhaps either could work, so you continue with, mortals blame the gods, for it is said evil comes from gods, but it is mortal men, rather, who by their own recklessness do earn sorrows by their deeds…

  A chorus of “Hurrah!” rocks the tavern and breaks your thoughts. When you look up, you see that Cousin James has returned. He’s practically glowing, with a smile that threatens to wrap all the way around his head.

  “Cousin! Come, let’s continue our revelry elsewhere,” he says, leaning in for confidence with a whispered, “Not much more we can do in this tavern, eh?”

  Back outside, the sun has set and the moon now dominates the night sky. Despite the biting cold of the riverbank after dark, you feel warm and content. But that’d be the gin talking. In fact, it speaks for you now, and you find yourself getting wistful as you say, “What a life you lead, cousin. Excitement, adventure, romance, and brotherhood.”

  “Beware and take care, ye would-be seamen. Though two-hundred set sail, less’n fifty come in,” James replies, lyrically. “Don’t get ahead-o’-yourself, coz. ’Tis a hard and dangerous life. One I’m done with, truth be told.”

  “Really? But how can you go back to life in Buckinghamshire after you’ve been to Barbados?”

  “You don’t find many old sailors,” James replies, somber. “I aim to retire while I can. Now come, I’ve lost my taste for gin. Let’s have a good English ale, shall we?”

  Another port-of-call for sailors awaits ahead, at the opposite end of the boardwalk, beckoning you to come closer with sounds of sea shanties and revelry. This one, from the sign out front, calls itself THE BLOW HOLE.

  “Another brothel?” you ask.

  “No, just a pub. Why? What makes you think that?”

  “Never mind,” you say, looking once more at the sign before heading inside.

  It’s a rowdy group inside, singing songs and carousing. You make your way to the bar and get a pint with James. That somber tone still infects his voice as he orders his ale, and you can tell his memories weigh heavy on his conscience.

  “Did you… lose many friends?” you try.

  “Not many, no. Good mates are hard to come by. Best mates, even more so. I only lost just the one, coz. Like a brother. Maybe more than that, I dunno. I loved that man, I did,” he replies, then taking the ales, toasts loudly, “To Johnny. There’s old ships, and new ships, and ships lost at sea. But the best ships are friendships, so let’s drink t’you and me.”

  James’s voice cracks at the end and his eyes glisten, if ever so slightly.

  “To Johnny,” you say, then clink your tankard against your cousin’s.

  As you’re drinking, a nearby sailor scoffs, “What a coupl’a ninnies.”

  The man with him puckers for a fake kiss, then says, “More like buggerers. C’mere Johnny, oh Johnny,” before kissing the air again.

  • Punch him right in that kisser. Teach him for disrespecting the dead, and your cousin to boot.

  • Tell your cousin they’re not worth it, and offer to buy the next round.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Rabbit

  You turn and run, heading down past the tavern, hoping to lose the men in the twists and turns of the alleyways. Unfortunately, you must not have done much hunting in the countryside, otherwise you’d know that fleeing prey only stirs up the blood of a predator.

  The men sprint after you, howling not only in your imagination. These sailors spend all day every day on their feet, climbing ropes and heaving equipment, while you’re more accustomed to a drawing desk or a fainting couch.

  The first thing you feel is your feet fly out from under you as you’re tackled to the ground. They wail on you, using you as a release for their frustrations.

  “Show you who’s fool!”

  “Like that? Have ’nother, ya Nelly!”

  “Dandy bastard!”

  You’re beaten savagely, left facedown to drown (somewhat ironically, in a port) in a puddle of muck. Not the noblest final resting place.

  THE END

  Rank Has Its Privileges

  Jumping to the front, you’re able to secure a spot on the longboat. Once it’s lowered into the water, Captain Longwick gives the order to row, and the small craft glides smoothly under the power of your strokes. A dozen questions flutter in your mind as you row towards the enormous first-rate ship of the line, the supersized HMS Rochambeau.

  While the Spanish warship Don Pedro Sangre dwarfed the HMS Hornblower, the flagship is as impressive as they get. The pride of England—even if she is a prize from the last war fought against the French. The longboat crewmen hail out to the sailors aboard the Rochambeau and a rope ladder is thrown down.

  Captain Longwick starts up, and you make to follow, but one of the other sailors tugs on your breeches to pull you back with a call of, “Sit down!”

  “Aren’t we to board?” you ask.

  “Aye, Landsman. An’ there ye’ll be served fine English roast beef and ale pumped straight from the cask!” another seaman cries, voice thick with sarcasm. The other sailors get a good laugh at your expense.

  “Did ye forget your shore rigging? We’re t’meet with all the finest ladies-o’-society!” another says, barely able to get the words out before bursting into another round of laughter.

  “We’re really to just wait in the boat?” you ask.

  “Of course not,” the eldest seaman says, straight-faced. The others quiet down and look to him, but then a broad grin breaks across his face and he continues, “But first they gotta call, ‘Ho! Landsman on deck!’ t’hail your arrival!”

  The longboat rocks about in the sea under the thrashing belly-laughs.

  “Hardy har-har,” you say, crossing your arms and looking out to the open sea.

  The longboat sits moored to the warship for several tedious hours, during which time the sailors intermittently try to revive the long-dead joke about the Landsman Who Wanted to Meet the Admiral, but mostly they spend that time napping.

  At length, Captain Longwick returns, looking rather perturbed. You want not
hing more than to know what happened aboard the ship, but you’ve learned your lesson and don’t press the issue. Perhaps a midshipman could have accompanied the Master and Commander on this errand, but certainly not a common Tar.

  Once back aboard the Hornblower, Captain Longwick addresses Lieutenant Dalton, which is about as close to the scuttlebutt as you’ll get.

  “Captain Longwick, the ship is yours. You’ll find we’ve already begun repairs from our action at sea. Nothing else to report,” Dalton says, offering a salute.

  “Excellent. We’ll need to finish repairs and resupply before our next assignment. We’re to head to the West Indies and deliver word of the Spanish plans in the Caribbean. But that can wait until tomorrow. For tonight—I believe I promised rewards for victory? Remove any limitations on grog and open up the extra rations of rum.”

  * * *

  The men, in various states of drunkenness, sing and dance, play cards and other games, jostling and joking in every berth of the ship. A fight breaks out, and though it’s quickly subdued, the quarrel doesn’t escape the attention of the officers up on the quarterdeck.

  “It’s been a while since they’ve been allowed to let loose, sir,” Lieutenant Dalton says.

  “Yes. Looks like the men might need to burn off some of this… enthusiasm,” Captain Longwick replies.

  “Aye, sir,” Mr. Midshipman Magnus says from the other side. “Could rally ’em about for a Sailor’s Hornpipe? Or Sling the Monkey?”

  Noticing you eavesdrop, Dalton says, “Something we can help you with, Landsman?”

  Curiosity getting the better of you, you reply:

  • “Begging your pardons, sirs, but what exactly is a Sailor’s Hornpipe?”

  • “Sorry to interrupt, but I must ask: Is there really a monkey onboard? One that we might… sling?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Rats in the Cargo

  The hammocks sway as the rollicking of the ship increases. You must be headed out into open seas, for the vast ocean pushes the Cooper’s Pride nearly to her side with each undulation. The fact that the hammocks move in tune with the ship is a mercy, so it’s almost like you’re not rocking at all, but rather the ship rolls around you. Closing your eyes helps maintain this illusion.

  But when the floorboards creak, you sneak a peek towards the source. Just as you suspected! Barlow slinks away, on tip-toes no less, silently weaving through the sleeping men.

  Trying to match the creaking of his steps to mask your own, you step off your hammock and follow the man down into the hold. The ship’s swaying gets to you, but you swallow your bile and continue on.

  Barlow moves down past the stores of wine and rum (an obvious spot to steal away to) and past the chickens and dairy cows. It’s not his stomach that leads him away, that much is clear. He takes a lantern hanging from a beam and uses it to light his path. You’d never imagined it would be so dark below decks, but without sunlight, lamplight is all you can hope for. You’ll have to follow close, lest you trip and reveal yourself.

  “Ah-ha, there ye are! Knew I’d find ya down here…” Barlow says to some unseen partner.

  Leaning close, eyes straining in the darkness, you’re unable to make out his fellow conspirator. Realizing that the other half of this clandestine rendezvous might be able to see you in the lamplight, you duck aside. The ship lurches at the exact same moment and you knock over a bucket as you’re scrambling for footing. Should you run? Hide? Leap out with a roar?

  “Over here, c’mon out,” Barlow calls out. Gritting your teeth, fists balled for a fight, you reveal yourself. “So… ye heard it too, eh?”

  Barlow holds up the lantern, temporarily blinding you. Then you see that he holds a small black kitten in his other arm, tucked against his chest.

  “I got ears like a…” he trails off, blinking. “Well, somethin’ that hears good.”

  Perhaps you’ve overestimated the man’s wit and cunning.

  “Think I’ll call him either Cap’n Kiddy or Bartholo-meow Roberts.”

  “Bartholo-meow?” you parrot back.

  “Black Bart, on account-o’-his fur. Maybe small now, but give’m a bit-o’-milk and he’ll be a rat-catcher yet, mark me words. Say… ya wouldn’t report a man for an act-o’-charity would ya, Saltboots? This little one needs me help.”

  Bart gives a pitiful mew to punctuate the point.

  “I’m not one to begrudge a kitten his milk. Your secret’s safe with me, Barlow.”

  “Aye, knew ya was a good sort, I did. Best we get back to the fo’c’sle ’fore we’re noticed absent.”

  Indeed. And the way the ship is swaying, you can’t get back into the hammock’s equilibrium soon enough.

  * * *

  “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

  Ready, or Not

  Billy nods, though it’s clear he doesn’t appreciate your sense of honor in this regard. “Take care-o’-yourself, but be warned. The longer ya linger at port, the more likely you’re t’end up pulled out t’sea.”

  He disappears back inside the tavern, and you continue your search for James.

  Another port-of-call for sailors awaits ahead, at the opposite end of the boardwalk, beckoning you to come closer with sounds of sea shanties and revelry. Another tavern, as can plainly be heard all the way across the promenade. With no other leads, you make your way down the river banks towards the tavern light like a moth to a flame.

  This one is called THE BLOW HOLE, which would be a real waste of a name if it weren’t another brothel as well. But you can sense a different atmosphere as you approach. Open windows, through which you hear men shouting.

  Just as you arrive, a sailor comes flying from the alehouse and into the muck at your feet. The doors burst open, with a trio of other men engaged in fisticuffs. Two of them quickly get the better of their foe and knock him flat on his back, next to the barroom Icarus lying before you.

  Do they need your help? Before you can decide, they get to their feet. A testament to the numbing effects of alcohol, no doubt. The pair watch their adversaries head back inside, then turn their attention to you.

  “Bloody hell ya lookin’ at?” one cries out, wiping the blood from his nose.

  “Some kinda Nelly?” the other asks. “Buy us a drink, then?”

  He laughs, but his friend takes it seriously. “You’re right! This town’d be nothin’ without brave men like us, so how’s ’bout a little thanks?”

  They slur their words, eyes measuring you hungrily. You back away, uttering, “Truly, you have my thanks. I’ll just be on my way to go get a cask. Wait here.”

  “This dandy takes us for fools,�
�� blood-nose says.

  “Just ’cause a man works with his hands, he still has a brain,” his partner protests.

  You look around for support. No one in the tavern pays you any mind, but back towards London proper there’s a patrol of town guard. If you call out for help, they just might hear you.

  • Yes, that’s what they’re here for! Call to the guard.

  • Fight the men. That’s the only language they understand.

  • Run for it! Half as much as not, the hare manages to outrun the hounds.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Rebuffed

  “I can see it in your eyes,” Billy says. “Same as Jimmy’s when he first signed on. Y’may not know it yet, but you’re a Saltboots too.”

  “And I prefer if you’d figured it out sooner than later,” Spence interjects. “Drink, lad, or lass. Paying customers only.”

  “My intention is only to wait for James,” you say, your mind still half-considering Billy’s words.

  Now her left eyebrow rises. “Then I’m afraid you are indeed a lost soul, and unwelcome here. Nothing personal, but if these sea dogs and scallywags starting thinking they can mill about without payin’ for the privilege, well, my business is sunk. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “You’re kicking me out?” you ask with surprise.

  “Go buy yourself a supper,” she says, shaking her head. “No man wants to walk out that door to see he’s kept someone waiting. Come back when Jimmy’s through with his welcome home. Here, I’ll give you the name of a place serves up a decent steak-n’-ale pie.”

  You look to Billy for support, but he simply shrugs as if to say, “Not my tavern, not my rules.”

  Back outside, the sun has set and the horizon holds a red glow.

  “Somethin’ I can help ya find?” a harsh voice croaks out.