Turning, you see a haggard-looking man. The boils on his flesh make James’s scars look angelic by comparison. Hunched in such a way as to hide his great height, perhaps even from a long ago mis-healed wound. Presently, he grins at you through a maw of chipped and missing teeth.
“I should think not,” you say. “Just off to find supper before I conclude my business at port. I’m afraid I haven’t any alms to give to the poor…”
The haggard man glowers and says, “Got a business partner waiting on ya?”
“Precisely,” you lie, sensing the way out.
“Best-o’-luck with it,” he says, clearly wishing you the opposite fate.
You’re not sure what that was all about, though your instincts say it was one of the unsavory characters who might be hanging around port that James warned you about. Happy to be free of him, you hurry off to find your meal.
* * *
That steak-n’-ale pie was quite good, but your hand looked practically naked without a tankard in it, and your throat was left dry without a frothy something to wash the flaky crust down with. Still, best to keep your head clear while you’re on your own.
Back outside, the same haggard-looking man hunches in the shadows a block away. He starts forward, but recoils at the sight of something behind you. When you look back, you see a pair of town guards patrolling the streets. Sensing the safety of their presence, you say hello. They note your provincial clothing with concern.
“Far from home at a late hour, ain’t ya?” one asks.
“Sure feels that way,” you confess.
“There, there, you’re safe now. Tell us where you’re staying in London and we’ll make sure you make it back safely. That’s enough excitement for one night, I’m sure,” the second guard says, comforting.
“Well,” you admit, sheepishly. “I’m not staying anywhere in London.”
“Poor planning,” his partner offers. “But I’m sure we can find you an inn.”
“I… I need to find my cousin.”
“And where might this cousin be?”
“He…” you start, then think better of admitting his use of a brothel. “I don’t know where he is.”
With a sigh, the first guard says, “Already sleeping soundly, I’m sure. You can find him in the morning.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll put you up for the night,” the other adds.
“Really? You’d do that?” you say, somewhat dumbstruck by their kindness.
“Well, of course! In fact, we’re required to by law, ain’t we?” he replies.
“That’s the way of it,” his partner agrees. “Ever since the Vagabonds Act was passed back in 1597, we’ve been giving a free holding cell to any and all vagrants.”
“Vagrants!?” you protest, but it falls on deaf ears.
• Go directly to jail, do not spend $200 on a place to stay, and await your sentencing!
• Get out of jail free. Make a run for it and lose the town guards in the alleys!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Red Crossing
There are some men beyond saving. The one obliterated by a cannonball isn’t even in few enough pieces to count. Another has a two-foot wooden beam buried in his abdomen, his face ashen, and crimson on his lips.
But there are others you can help. One nearby sailor shattered his kneecap when struck by the flat side of a piece of debris. Helping the man up, you wrap his arm over your shoulder and help him walk.
Another reaches out and you pull the man to his feet, offering your other side for support. Blood pours from his left leg, and you soon realize that his foot has been completely blown away. He too might be beyond saving, but damned if you won’t try anyhow.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Lieutenant Saffron demands.
“Sir, taking these two to surgery.”
“You can’t abandon your post!” he says, clearly too stunned to think rationally.
“Aye, sir. I won’t be gone a minute. You’ve got the larboard broadside covered for me, don’t you?”
He looks back, so you continue on before he can protest further. The ship is complete chaos, but there’s a clear path to the surgery. It’s marked by drips of red, which quickly become a river as you drag the bleeding wounded down to surgery for help.
Wycombe, the ship’s surgeon, quickly examines the two you’ve brought him. “Christ Almighty. You’ve got to tie off limbs like that one! What’s wrong with the other?”
“Me knee!” the sailor groans.
“Keep off it, stay out of the way. I’ll see to you after I sew up the bleeders.”
“Somethin’ for the pain, please.”
“No. Get him out of here!”
Wycombe goes to work tying a tourniquet for the man missing a foot, and you help pull the other wounded sailor from the surgery. Finding him a quiet place to sit, you rush off to find others to help. And there are plenty. More cannon shot is exchanged as fast as the crews can reload, creating freshly wounded seamen with each enemy hit.
At length, the night goes dark, the Hornblower pulls ahead of the Don Pedro Sangre, and a ceasefire is ordered. Captain Longwick comes to inspect the gun crews, with Lieutenant Dalton by his side, and praises everyone for working through the terror. Then he orders the viscera mopped up.
“And Lieutenant Saffron—quick thinking, by having your gun crews tend to the wounded. Well done!” Captain Longwick says, praising your superior.
Saffron gives a slight glance your way, but then salutes and says, “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He doesn’t give you a second look.
“Bastard,” one of the other seamen growls. The men know the truth of it, even if you won’t get credit for it with the Master and Commander of the ship. Captain Longwick departs and Lieutenant Dalton comes by to address you personally.
He says, “Orders are: no lights, and complete silence. We’ve pulled ahead of the Don Pedro Sangre, but the enemy is giving relentless chase. God willing, we’ll lose her under cover of darkness. Now get some rest, we’ll be on watch soon.”
You’re about to offer the usual sharp, “Aye, sir!” but stop just in time, giving only a salute.
Dalton nods, leaving you be.
Well done! You’ve survived your first battle aboard the Hornblower and gave as good as you got. Now get some rest, and when you’re ready—click here to continue….
Rediker
Interesting choice, Dear Reader. Not sure if you just weren’t paying attention during all those campfire ruminations, or if you’re trying some sort of bluff, but here’s how it plays out:
“The killer was none other than… Rediker himself,” you say.
There’s a moment of shocked confusion, then a smile breaks over Rediker’s face.
“Of course it was me,” he says.
“Wait… what?” you reply.
“I orchestrated the whole thing, from day one. Killed Bullock without so much as arousing suspicions. And then? I took his ship for meself and now sail as Cap’n Rediker, the most fearsome pirate t’ever sail under the black. It’s that very same cunning, Saltboots, that makes these men follow me t’the back-o’-beyond.”
He’s taking credit! Trying to look more the pirate to his men. Well, that backfired.
“But can’t have ye revealing me secrets t’the civilized world, can we?” Rediker says, then with a flick of his head, he sends his most bloodthirsty men after you.
THE END
Red Rum
“The murderer was the ship’s surgeon—Butch,” you say, before going on to relate your recollection of the events on the Cooper’s Pride that led to this suspicion. All listen silently as you detail the moments leading up to the crime, their eyes darting from you to Butch and back again, hanging on every word.
Once you’ve told your tale, the focus turns entirely to the accused. From the look on his face, you can be certain you’ve uncovered the truth. At length, the man sighs, looks down, and then slowly nods his head. As he confesses, you take
the rum from your hip and drink to justice for spilt blood.
“Aye, ’tis true. Was my hand that ended Bullock’s life, though it were his own that spilled the blood. Poisoned, made to choke, and slit his own throat in hopes-o’-drawing another breath. I never knew the man would do such a thing, but it made so none suspected my hand, so….” Butch shrugs with a calloused sort of nonchalance. “Remember that dead sow? How the hog looked strangled? Well, that were just practice; trying t’get the right concoction at the right dose. I smashed the cabinet in the surgery, ’cause I thought once ye lot knew the cap’n were poisoned, that would send ya down t’me. But I never needed the excuse, as it turned out.”
“But why? Why kill the captain? That’s the one detail I never could discover,” you say.
Butch reaches inside his blouse, removing a small section of parchment, folded into quarters. As he unfolds the note, you realize he’s holding the missing page from the captain’s log! Rediker motions and Barlow snatches the page from Butch’s grasp, giving it to the pirate captain to read.
“Discovered a man amongst my crew to be that of a convicted killer. Known as ‘The Butcher of Bicester’ by local authorities; these same men who informed me that the surgeon on my ship was wanted for uxoricide—the murder of his own wife. I am to deposit this ‘Butch’ with the Admiralty Court of Boston at my arrival, which it will surely give me great pleasure to do with haste,” Rediker reads.
“You kept the page?” you say, incredulous.
Butch shrugs again. “The cap’n wrote that right in front-o’-me, dictating aloud as he did so. Showing off his power. Ain’t so powerful now, is he? Well… I s’pose ’tis a trophy-o’-sorts. The Butcher of Bicester—who would believe it? Me, famous! That oughta show her too! Oh, she had it comin’.”
“I believe that would be infamous. And now I believe what you have coming, as it were, is to be taken into irons, or perhaps left on this island in my stead. Seeing as how the sentence is rightfully yours, I will happily relinquish it,” you say.
Rediker chuckles, starts to laugh, and soon the others join in until it’s a boisterous chorus of guffaws. Buahahaha! and the like. Hearty pirate laughter.
“We all be murderers now, Saltboots!” Rediker says. “Bloody thieving pirates, every last man. Ya think we’d turn one-o’-our own over t’face justice? There is no justice, save for what we carve out for ourselves. If we want our thirty pieces-o’-silver, we’ll damn well take ’em.”
“Besides, only offed his old lady,” Marlowe says with a shrug.
“That’s right. Ain’t poisoned none the rest-o’-us, have ya, Butch?” Barlow adds.
“Not yet!” Butch laughs, getting in on the joke.
And the boisterous laughter begins anew.
“Oh, come now, don’t fret, Saltboots!” Rediker says. “Butch’s still one-o’-us, but ye did indeed prove your innocence. We’ll take ya with us and drop ya off at the next civilized port we find. Never let it be said Cap’n Rediker ever killed who didn’t have it coming.”
“Just like me wife!” Butch adds, furthering the piratical merriment.
* * *
That was about the best outcome you could hope for, seeing as how you are dealing with bloody thieving pirates, after all. Now that you’ve gotten to the bottom of things in the Case of the Mysterious Captain Murderer, the crew focuses on getting to the bottom of their ship—the careening of the hull, for which they are moored here.
You show them where the fresh water lies, along with the best food stores, helping to expedite the process of refitting the ship. Then they put you to work scrubbing. Chips orders a few of the planks replaced completely; others are vigorously treated with brimstone and tallow. Soon the ship is cleaned and treated—free of worms, barnacles, and mollusks—once more as seaworthy as she ever was.
Careening complete, the pirates take to sea. Truth be told, you missed floating along the waves, and it feels good to be out among sailors again; even if they are bloodthirsty pirates. Though that good feeling is to be short-lived.
“Sails!” comes the call.
“Spanish? Did that bloody warship find us?” Rediker asks.
“Aye, warship, Cap’n. But she’s English!” the watchman calls back.
“Damn our rotten luck,” Marlowe says.
Rediker shakes his head. “We’ll have t’lose ’em in the inlets. Stay close to shore. King George’s dogs ride too low to follow along the reefs and sandbars. Barlow, secure Saltboots here into the hold before our honest shipmate gets any ideas-o’-aiding the Crown.”
Barlow nods, then takes you roughly down below to be tied up in case of action.
• Once you’re alone, fight him off! Barlow’s thin as a whip, and you’re now a hardened survivalist.
• Resist, but slightly. Flex, take a deep breath, then squirm your way free of these bonds once he’s gone.
• Don’t resist, but as soon as he’s gone, remove the gag and call for help once the action starts.
• Make no resistance. Stay put, rescue will come at the hands of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Reflecting Pool
Dashing back through the jungle, tripping over roots and vines, thorns tearing at your clothes, you make it back to the freshwater pond with all the grace of a stampeding wildebeest. Performing a cannonball leap into the center of the pond, you create quite a splash, but once the waters settle, you realize that you indeed have not been struck dead by lightning.
It worked! But, well, you were only sort of right. While the pond is situated in a lower-lying area than the ridge, and thus is less likely to attract the attention of Zeus’s bolts, jumping into the pond itself didn’t really help. If anything, it’s made things worse, because now your head is the tallest object in the water.
And the second tallest is swimming right towards you.
Crocodylus acutus, the American crocodile. It would seem your flailing about has set off the predatory instincts of this riparian reptile, and since you acted like a wounded animal, the crocodile responds in kind.
With your own lizard-brain kicking into high gear, you make to swim back out of the pond, but you’re a few hundred-million years behind the evolutionary power curve on this one.
THE END
Representation
James looks at you, knowing you’re up to something dastardly. Heading him off, you say, “Best if you don’t know what I’ve got in mind, cousin. Only do me a favor before you walk away, and drop your key to the magazine.”
Your cousin simply stares at you for a moment more. Maybe it’s the wily look in your eyes, or maybe it’s the bags beneath them, but after another beat he turns, presses his palms against the table, and gets up to walk away. There, left behind next to his plate, sits his gunner’s mate’s key to the ammunition stores.
Taking the key, you head down to the magazine. You should be mustering for watch right now, but you have a few precious minutes before the first bell sounds. If anyone were to ask what you’re doing skulking around below-decks, why, you’re just taking the initiative! Familiarizing yourself with your ship, like a good Ward.
As you make it down to the magazine, you hear voices behind the locked door. This is it! You slowly turn the key, not wanting to alarm them, but truly—they have no other exit.
When you open the magazine, the scene is set perfectly. Cannonballs, musket shot, gunpowder; everything as expected. But also, three chairs around a crate with coin and dice on the surface. And three guilty parties seated in flagrante delicto.
The ancient mariner across from you seems to be the leader of the bunch, a clean-shaven bastion of civilization amongst these brutish men whom you make out as Wycombe, surgeon assigned to the HMS Hornblower. The gruff man on your left has several facial scars and two tattoos: a cannon along one forearm, and a cutlass on the other. He’d be the man your cousin called “Monks,” the ship’s gunner. To your right sits Argyle, the bespectacled ship’s recorder. He’s the only one who lo
oks at you with recognition.
“Ward? What in the bloody hell’re ya doin’ down here?” he says.
“Before we go any further, gentlemen, know that I have measures set in place should I suddenly ‘disappear.’ Should you choose to silence me with violence, the Captain will certainly soon learn the truth of it all,” you bluff, the words flowing from some unknown muse. “Know also that I have no ill-will against you three, only I’m in a terrible predicament and I see no other means out. So, should we agree to terms, you can trust this is the end of it, as far as I’m concerned. You have my word of honor.”
“The devil are ya blatherin’ about?” Monks asks.
“It’s plain to see,” Wycombe answers for you, with cool nonchalance. “We’re being blackmailed for our vice. Go on, then, what are your terms?”
As it turns out, the three hold no great love for either the Master-of-Arms or Midshipman Magnus. They simply want to roll their bones in peace, and you don’t ask much in return for letting them do just that.
After you’ve struck an accord, the men are true to their word. Cousin James is no longer to be treated as a workhorse, but that’s simply the icing on the cake. Your main course comes from Argyle himself. Once he’s finished his agreed-upon part of the bargain, you’re summoned to the Captain’s quarters.
* * *
Argyle steps out, gives you a stern look, and says, “I don’t doubt these men deserved this fate. Nor do I think of your maneuver as anything other than a desperate measure. Just know: we are not allies. Nor should you want me as an enemy.”
Before you can reply, the Captain cries, “Ward!” and Argyle leaves. Best not to keep your commander waiting any longer. Once you enter and the formalities are dispensed with, you’re placed at ease.
Longwick offers no small talk. He launches right into, “My summoning you here, Ward, isn’t entirely a compliment. Argyle has re-evaluated the books and it looks like I don’t have room for a Ward after all.”
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 28
