Here, the boarding party throws grappling hooks, drawing the prey in ever closer until they can leap aboard. The Portuguese crew does their best to cut the ropes binding the two ships together, but they only slow the progress, not stop it. Once your first men leap onto the prize ship, the enemy crew scatters, heading below decks.
Your pirate crew holds a motley medley of armaments. Wielding boarding axes, wooden and iron beams; whatever makeshift weapons they could find. Weapons aren’t generally found aboard merchant vessels, so you’ll want to upgrade your armaments as soon as possible. For now, it looks as though the crew has raided the carpenter’s toolset.
“What d’we do now, Cap’n?” Barlow asks.
“Could smoke ’em out?” Marlowe suggests.
“No. We don’t want t’start a fire on a wooden ship,” Chips says.
“How about we rig up some grenadoes? Can ye do it, Robin?” Rediker asks.
The hulking gunner nods. “Might blow a hole in the ship, though, if the magazine’s open.”
“I say we hack our way in. Break down the door and make ’em pay for resistin’!” Butch offers.
As captain, the say is yours.
• Break down the door! A few axe strokes and you’ll be inside.
• Have Robin rig up some grenadoes and blow your way in.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Spotted
You point past the guards, back towards London. “What’s that?! A fire?!”
They turn, and you dart off back towards the port. Into the nearest alley, running as fast as your legs will carry you. Or rather, as far as a belly full of steak-‘n’-ale pie will allow your legs to carry you. When you can run no further, you clasp your hands around your knees and take deep gasps of air.
“There, there,” a familiar voice croaks. “Town Guard can’t getcha now. You’re safe with your ole friend, Dick.”
When you look up, you see the same crooked man who spoke to you outside Spencer’s Free House.
“If it’s money… you want… I’m afraid… I don’t have… much,” you say between heaving breaths.
“Ya know, normally I’d try to come up with some clever ruse, but I’m tired, same as you. I’ve been followin’ ya ’round all night, see? So, I’ll just cut to the quick.”
He produces a black, leather-bound object, the lanyard looped around his wrist on one end, and a heavy ball wrapped in sailor’s line on the other. You realize, just as he starts to swing it, that this is a blackjack club, or cosh.
“Wait!” you cry, to no avail.
One of the blows glances your head at the temple, sending you down to the muck underfoot. He must’ve been a seaman once, because despite his crooked spine, Dick is able to deliver terrible attacks when provoked—a lesson you learn a bit too late. The savage beating is enough to make you lose consciousness, though not enough to kill you. Time will tell if that would’ve been a mercy.
Wake up and face the consequences of Dick’s involuntary conscription on your behalf.
Stern Expression
You turn away towards the rear of the ship and hurry off. The Master-of-Arms approaches and growls, “Where’d ya think you’re going?”
“I have urgent business with the Captain,” you say, hoping to use this as authority to take leave of the man.
“Ain’t ye on watch? Ring the bloody bell if there’s an emergency!”
“I shan’t be a minute!” you cry out before running off.
If Lieutenant Dalton and Mr. Magnus heard you nearby, you haven’t much time to lose. And from the looks of it, the Master-of-Arms is headed to further collude with them anyhow.
Best to make haste!
* * *
Captain Longwick glowers as you explain what you’ve just overheard. He shakes his head with disappointment. But not for the reasons you might’ve hoped.
“Ward, your admission into the officer ranks was sold upon the understanding that you would better serve in this capacity. Yet, here you are, proving to be a burden.”
“But—but, sir! These were direct threats!” you stammer.
“Made to you personally?” he asks.
“Well… not exactly….”
The flesh about his neck reddens, but rather than showing his temper, his voice goes quiet as a whisper. “Do not mistake my earlier kindness as showing favor. Prove yourself, navigate the murky waters of shipboard politics, and earn your place amongst us. Until that day, until you earn the rank of Midshipman, I will not be entertaining another personal audience. Am I perfectly clear?”
“Aye, sir,” you answer. What else can you say?
“By God, I should have you flogged for abandoning watch to bring me this trifle. Out of my sight!”
With tail sufficiently tucked between your legs, you head back out to the decks. By now the storm is in full force, and the men rush to brace the ship to weather against it. Mr. Magnus glares at you, then marches over.
“Up the foremast with ya!” he commands with an evil smirk.
You know it’s incredibly dangerous, especially for someone so green, but you’ve just been given a direct order. What’ll it be?
• That’s on the opposite end of the ship. In a gale like this, he’ll never know if you go or not. Agree, but hide until the storm has passed.
• Do your duty with gusto! He must be underestimating you. Maybe you can earn the trust of these men though hard work?
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sticks and Stones
Your words cut to the quick, and Dick’s eyes go dark with rage. He produces a black, leather-bound object, the lanyard looped around his wrist on one end, and a heavy ball wrapped in sailor’s line on the other. You realize, just as he starts to swing it, that this is a blackjack club, or cosh.
The first blow hits your wrists as your hands come up to protect your face.
“Better get used to these! Your bosun or ship’s mate’ll deliver worse for a vile tongue like that!” he cries, just before striking you again. “Been mollycoddled in the country too long, friend. But Dick’ll break ya-o’-that!”
One of the blows glances your head at the temple, sending you down to the muck underfoot. He must’ve been a seaman once, because despite his crooked spine, Dick is able to deliver terrible attacks when provoked—a lesson you learn a bit too late. The savage beating is enough to make you lose consciousness, though not enough to kill you. Time will tell if that would’ve been a mercy.
Wake up and face the consequences of Dick’s involuntary conscription on your behalf.
Superiority Complex
A low growl comes from the predator as you step forward. Its ears fold back against its head, fur bristles on its neck as it cowers. Maybe you really are intimidating? You stare harder into the creature’s eyes. The jaguar suddenly springs off its back legs, lunging out, with claws extended to their fullest and most lethal.
What should you do?
• Fight back! Aim for the head with punches and kicks while protecting my jugular as best I can.
• Play “dead.” The jaguar is asserting dominance and will lose interest if I don’t fight back.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Suppressed
You stay quiet, walking in line with the rest of the sailors. You’re marched back out to port with an escort of redcoat soldiers—Lobsters, as the sailors call them—past the docks that house the merchant vessels and off to a section where the ships-of-the-line reside. Huge command vessels, waiting to be filled full of military fighting men. There are smaller sloops and gunships too, looking fast and fearsome. England is readying herself for war against Spain, and these wooden ships and iron men are the tip of the spear.
And then there’s the HMS Hornblower. She’s not the biggest in the fleet, but much larger than some. Her timbers are newly scrubbed, pitched, and held tightly together; sleek yet powerful. She leans forward, ready to speed off as soon as her sails are unfurled. A colossal, carved figure from Norse mythology looms proudly at the bow.
The figurehead is a
musclebound, bearded warrior, who holds an enormous ox horn as a trumpet that he’s set to blow into eternally. It’s so large in fact, that he needs both hands to hold the horn; biceps bulging from the effort just to hold the instrument in place. From your studies, you recognize the figurehead as Heimdall and the Gjallarhorn he’ll use to signal the coming of Ragnarok—the end of the world.
“A frigate,” one of the other recruits murmurs, letting you know which class of ship looms over you now. You know practically nothing about ships and seafaring, so this designation doesn’t tell you much. To your eyes, it’s an impressive vessel, with too many cannons for you to count before you’re marched forward yet again.
The ramp is extended and dozens of seamen bring supplies onboard. Your motley gang of recruits pales in comparison to the mighty beast of war. How many men does a frigate hold? 100? 200? Far more than the sparsely-manned merchant vessels down the docks, that’s for sure.
You’re greeted by the Master-of-Arms, a fastidiously groomed sailor who doesn’t bother with introductions further than his title. As each man passes, he gives them a position and a location to report. “Convicted pickpocket? S’pose a man with nimble fingers can wrangle the rigging. Bosun’s mate. And you? Fear not, we’ll work that love-o’-gin outta ya. Seaman. You, any skills? Woodworking, eh? Carpenter’s mate.”
James makes it to the front of the line where he reports, “Two years’ experience aboard the Cooper’s Pride, merchant vessel.”
The Master-of-Arms looks him over and says, “How many fingers ya got?” James shows off all ten and the man concludes, “Gunner’s mate.”
And then it’s your turn. “Any skills?” the Master-of-Arms asks.
“I can read,” you offer.
“And what can ya do with your hands?”
“Umm, write?”
He glowers in response. At length he roars, “Landsman it is, then!”
“Landsman? That’s a funny name for a sailor.”
Now he laughs and says, “Well, then! Keep your nose clean and, provided ya live long ’nuff, we’ll make a seaman outta ya in no time.”
You gulp. “To whom do I report, sir?”
“Anyone and everyone. Landsman is as low as ya can get on the totem pole! Now help us get these crates loaded up!”
• Wait! I come from a good family! Surely there is a berth more befitting my breeding?
• Get to work. Idleness will only make things worse.
• I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here! Sneak off the ship in the commotion of loading up.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Sweet Relief
The berries are sweet, plump and ripe, with a nice, tangy aftertaste. It leaves a pleasant tingling sensation in your jaw muscles as the tart mixes with the sugary, releasing a flood of saliva. Most of a seaman’s diet is composed of salted meat or flavorless coarse biscuits, so a bushel full of berries feels like Christmas morning.
Once you’ve had your fill, to the point of where you really could eat no more, you fill your pockets with extra berries for a snack later. The entire experience is intoxicating; leaves you feeling lightheaded, with a pleasant numbness in your mouth.
A bit of a stomach-ache sets in, but that’s not all that surprising due to the rich and unfamiliar nature of the snack. It is a bit surprising, however, when the stomach-ache sets into a full-blown cramp, and you double over in pain.
Your abdominal muscles seize up, sending you into a fetal position on the sand, clutching your gut. It’s an excruciating pain, and your hands form themselves into claws as you try to dig in to stop the cramping.
Then the paralysis sets in.
Even though we humans eat plenty of red fruits, in the natural world, red means dead. This bright coloration is actually a warning. “Don’t eat me, or you’ll regret it.” Despite those on the menu and in our markets, about 90% of wild-growing red berries are toxic.
As are the sort growing near the shores of your island.
THE END
Taking Flight
You sprint away from the quarterdeck, frantically scanning the ship for signs of Billy. Joe and Chips run after you, frantically crying “Murderer!” as they give chase. While Joe is nimble-footed, and Chips would have an iron-grip if he could catch you, neither man can. Too great is the fear that propels you onwards.
But where can you really hope to run on a ship out in the open ocean? All you really need is to find Billy. Your heart soars when you see the doors to the fo’c’sle open, but falls back into despair again when you see Rediker emerge.
“You!” you cry, unable to help yourself. “You did this!”
Rediker grabs hold of you, and Barlow helps when he emerges from behind his companion.
“What’s this now?” Rediker says.
“Hold there! Saltboots killed the Cap’n!” Chips cries from across the ship.
Rediker’s eyes grow wide and he turns to his co-conspirator. “Quickly! Help me get Saltboots overboard, we’ve been made out!”
The two of them pick you up and throw you into the sea. The shock of the cold and wet causes a reflexive gasp for breath, bringing a salty drink to gurgle as you struggle to stay afloat.
“Saltboots jumped for it!” Barlow cries.
You try to scream out, but your sodden clothes pull at you from below.
“Too good an end for a murderer!” Chips says, arriving at the side.
You finally manage cries of innocence, but they fall on deaf ears and the men ultimately turn their backs and walk away. The Cooper’s Pride sails on without her captain, and without you too.
THE END
Tarnation
This group of “Jack Tars” (as seamen are commonly called) certainly fit the name, with their wide, baggy breeches tarred for weatherproofing. Their loose-hanging linen shirts and jackets look to have been sewn and resewn over and over again at sea. The whole kit has clearly survived age and beatings; both by weather and shipboard labor—perhaps even by an unruly master.
The nearest sailor catches you eyeing the odd-shaped buttons on his coat and offers them up for closer inspection. “Shark vertebra. Can make ye a set, if ya like, exchange for your daily rum tot.”
“Cheers. I’ll keep that in mind,” you say.
The leader of the group steps forward. “Call me Chips, ship’s carpenter and lead-o’-this-here starboard watch.” He has this moniker roughly tattooed on each forearm.
“So you won’t forget,” you say good-naturedly, pointing to the tattoos.
“So ye won’t, lest I lose one or the other… or me head,” is his humorless reply.
“Can carve your initials for ya, then rub in the gunpowder so it keeps. For another tot,” the nearby sailor offers.
“Jack of all trades, master of rum,” you mutter.
“Ye be Saltboots, Jimmy’s cousin, eh? And you there, hear tale ye were a privateer,” Chips continues.
“Scuttlebutt wastes no time. Call me Rediker, or Red, if it suits.”
“Just you stow such liberal thinkin’ aboard the Pride, hear me? Privateer’s more freebooter than he is common Tar, and we don’t need no such trouble.”
“Don’t fret,” Rediker replies with mock sincerity. “Won’t forget me rightful place.”
“See that ye don’t! A troublemaker in the crew damns us all to a harsh voyage, seen it meself time and again.”
• Say, “Excuse my ignorance, but I understood a privateer to be a perfectly legal position, no?”
• Say, “So… Starboard watch? What, pray tell, does that duty entail?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
A Three-Hour Tour
This group is formed by Robin, the heavily tattooed gunner, Butch the surgeon, and two more common seamen. The others introduce themselves, and you do as well, but Robin wastes no time with small talk.
“Call me Robin. I be the gunner, and this here’s the second starboard watch. Saltboots, stay with me. The rest-o’-you lot, we form up in four hours; eight bells.”
Your three compatriots depart, headed back down into the fo’c’sle to rest. Waiting to see what Robin has in mind, you take a moment to measure the man.
He’s shirtless, which shows off his musclebound frame as well as his ink. There are the traditional cannon and anchor tattoos, common among many sailors, a Jerusalem cross, and, most peculiarly, a treasure map. A dashed-and-dotted line runs along his leathered skin, ending in an “X-marks the spot” atop his heart. He keeps his head and body shaved clean, perhaps to show off this art.
“The Cooper’s Pride, she’s a sloop,” he says. “Near fifty-feet at the keel. Her mainsail there, ya can see the short-gaff type with long boom. Square topsail flying on the topmast, see? Topmast stay has a flying jib, too, but she’s furled—rough seas ahead. Foot ropes on her standing yard, mind those. Up there be staysail and jib.”
Following Robin, it comes to you with sudden realization: he’s giving you a tour! For someone who appears so gruff and brusque, menacing even, he proves to be genuinely interested in helping you learn your place.
He continues, “Four carriage guns, two swivel. Show ya how t’use both ’fore the week’s up.”
Robin points out the different parts of the ship, from the helm to the hold, and everything in-between. You learn where you’ll have your meals, and where you’ll go to relieve yourself once they’ve passed. You learn where the animals are kept, where their feed is stored, and where the muck-raking gets shoveled once they’ve passed their own meals in turn.
It’s a three-hour tour all told, taking up nearly your entire “off time” before the watch. Robin goes to get the report from the leader of the current starboard watch, so that they might change over positions seamlessly. Soon, eight bells are rung and your watch officially begins.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 33
