The Hornblower turns to meet the smaller vessel, side-by-side, coming to a near standstill for boarding—but not before letting loose a devastating broadside from the starboard battery. It’s hard not to feel left out; that was your gun crews.
“Fire!” comes the command, and your new firing team discharges their muskets at the pirate crew.
Then the order for full attack comes, almost instantly drowned out by the battlecries of the sailors charging into battle. The musket fire was simply to give cover, and now you move forward with cutlass, ready for the fight.
You’ve grown much stronger these last weeks at sea. More capable with your hands and confident in their abilities. With the bloodlust of battle welling up inside, you rush the pirates, saber swinging with wild ferocity.
It’s like a kind of dream, like you’re watching someone else do all this fighting. And fight you do—like a lion. The pirates are large, fearsome, and musclebound. Covered in jewelry, fine leathers, and tattoos. But the ship is just as filthy as they are under this façade and they lack the discipline for a cohesive attack.
The pirates might actually be better individual fighters, but it’s a not to be a fight of individuals. The sailors rush over the scoundrels with pure numbers and with these brothers at your side, you slay villainous rogue after villainous rogue.
“Cap’n Rediker, look out!” a mustachioed man shouts as you approach.
The pirate captain, one who wouldn’t have been distinguishable as such from the rest of the crew without this forewarning, turns to face you. He has a red skullcap, a pierced eyebrow, and fire in his eyes. You try to think of something witty, some prepare to die like a dog sort of statement, but it’s the blood-soaked cutlass that does your talking for you.
The pirate captain, rather than turning to cross swords with you, simply removes one of his four flintlock pistols with his other hand, draws back the hammer and dispatches you with all the attention he would give to putting down a rabid dog. Probably best you didn’t call him one, to be honest.
Captain Rediker doesn’t give you a second look as you stumble back, clutching the gut wound. It’s another pirate, in fact the man who warned the captain, who finishes you off.
The last thoughts that go through your mind are something like, they have pistols? How is that possibly fair? Well, it’s not. But that’s what you get for bringing a sailor to a pirate fight. Though you did die for king and country, if that’s any consolation.
THE END
Die Hard Pirates
The pirate crew leaves their looting, instead taking the Portuguese crew as plunder. Pistols aimed, knives to necks, the crew is held hostage as a desperate bid for negotiations with the Spanish. Soon, they are right up alongside your ship, looming over the Revenge by at least another deck height, if not two.
“English pirates, no?” the Spanish captain calls.
“These men are our captives. Turn, sail away and we will not harm them,” you reply coolly.
“Drop your weapons now, and we shall not sink your ship.”
“Do you doubt me? We will not hesitate to kill all these innocent men, if provoked.”
The Spanish captain shrugs. “That many less Portos in the world.”
You swallow hard. How to reply to that?
“I am commissioned to hunt pirates.” The captain continues. “If you will not yield, I will be forced to sink both ships. A larger bounty if I bring you alive, to be sure, but I see pirates on both these vessels. Two sunken pirate ships will work just as well.”
Looks like the Spanish are just as happy to spill Portuguese blood as your own. The only choice left is whether to go down in a blaze of glory, or to surrender and be hanged… or worse.
THE END
Dig Your Grave
This pit has been here for quite some time, as evidenced by just how hard the earthen walls are. The mud and rock are densely packed, but after some effort, you pull some loose. The floor of this natural well is a soup of mire after the recent storms and you can use that to soften the walls.
As the hours tick by, you make little progress. Bringing the dirt off the walls forms a thicker sludge on the ground, but one that your feet and legs sink down into. Looks like it will be quite some time before you’ve displaced enough earth to stand upon it.
After you get to a certain point, gravity starts to help out. You pull a particular stone or dirt clod and whole sections of the wall collapse. With these keystones removed, the rest follows.
Then you dislodge a particularly large rock and a huge sheet of dirt slides down into the well. Far too much, in fact. It slides down like an avalanche, burying you beneath before you have a chance to climb on top.
You’re crushed beneath the earth, unable to move, barely able to breathe. And here you will remain, buried in a grave you’ve dug for yourself.
THE END
Doesn’t Add Up
“Look, there’s the killer’s knife!” you say, pointing to the evidence on the floor.
Chips rushes inside the captain’s quarters with Joe, searching for signs of the real killer… but the cabin is completely empty. No one hiding in the wardrobe, under the bed, nor beneath the desk. It’s totally clear.
“That’s impossible!” you cry. “I heard—he was alive when I came to the cabin. The killer must still be here!”
The search is renewed, reviewing the same spots over and over, but to no avail. More and more of the crew arrive on the quarterdeck, an audience held just outside the late Captain Bullock’s cabin. In desperation, you pull at candlesticks, check behind paintings, press against the books on the shelf.
“There must be some way. A hidden door or compartment.”
“D’ya take us for fools?” Chips cries. “Ye got the man’s blood on your hands. That which spilled it, killed it.”
Rediker, Barlow, and Marlowe stare you down from the periphery, while Billy rushes inside the cabin, demanding to know what’s happened.
“Saltboots murdered—” Chips starts.
“No! That’s a lie!” you protest.
Joe steps forward. “Cap’n Bullock’s dead, that ain’t in dispute. But there weren’t no witnesses. You’re the captain now, Billy. What should we do?”
Billy looks towards you, doubt in his eyes.
• Appeal to his reason. What possible motive could you have? There must be an investigation!
• Appeal to his emotion. Hasn’t Rediker long been a troublemaker? He must be the murderer!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Double Up
Argyle swallows hard and turns to his ledger. Wycombe couldn’t care less as he slaps more coin on the table to give it another go. But Monks is fuming. The cannon and cutlass tattoos ripple with tension just below his skin as he slides the coin pile your way.
Another win! You now have more coin than you know what to do with. The three men glower at you, though they’re willing to keep going if you are. They place their bets, then turn to you.
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
Down the Hatch
The gin burns on its way down and you cough hoarsely in response, much to the amusement of the hooch-hardened clientele of the tavern.
“Second one’ll be easier,” Spence promises.
“I think that might be the last one,” you croak, still sputtering fire.
“Now, now, mind the rules. Here, take your medicine now, and sip it this time, while I tell ye of your good cousin.”
Heeding her advice, you sip at the second
glass of gin. It does go down much smoother this time, though not as easily as it might if mixed with tonic water and lime. Unfortunately for you (and for sailors plagued by mosquitos and scurvy), that would be an anachronism, as the famous “G&T” won’t be in popular use for another century.
“Jimmy told any and all who’d listen that he wasn’t bound back for a ship, but that he wasn’t bound for Bucks, neither,” she says, using the diminutive for Buckinghamshire. “He had his drinks like a man spending his last night upon the earth, and like most men, looked to spend said night with a buxom lass at his side.”
“He found a girl and they left together?” you ask, finishing the drink.
A gruff, mutton-chopped sailor joins the bar at your side. By way of introduction, he says, “Jimmy Saltboots always were of a romantic nature. Give the pair-o’-us a round, on me, Spence.”
The barkeep pours while you get a look at your new companion. He’s well-dressed for a seaman, at least by your limited experience, though his garb holds tightly to a frame expanding with recently added weight. His grey whiskers are stained rust-red around the mouth from habitual tobacco use.
“Thank you, Mr.…?”
“Call me Billy, mate of the Cooper’s Pride, the ship that paid Jimmy’s wages until tonight,” accepting and raising his glass, he continues, “Clink and touch, then drink your hooch!”
His thick seaman’s accent makes the toast rhyme, and you follow his motions: touching glasses together for the clink, tapping them against the bartop for the “touch,” then downing the gin. It doesn’t even burn this time.
“So, where’s Jimmy now?” you ask, directing the question to the pair of them.
“Eh, engaged in congress, as ye might well imagine,” Billy answers.
“I don’t kiss and tell, nor share the exploits of others. Bad for business,” Spence says. She starts pouring another two drinks and Billy looks to you.
“Customary t’buy a round if one’s bought for ya,” he says.
The gin makes this decision for you, and you nod, sliding a pair of coins forward from your collection to the growing pile that belongs to the house. You clink glasses with Billy once more, though without benefit of the toast this time.
“I don’t know what ole Jimmy was goin’ on about, you’re not so bad,” Spence says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, head swirling from so much of the powerful liquor.
“All he ever wanted was a good time with a good English girl,” she says, smiling. Then goes to pouring another round.
“That’s all any man could want! How ’bout a shanty, boys?” Billy cries.
As the rest of the sailors crowd the bar, Spence pours drinks for the lot of you, and your coins disappear with your cares. With the gin passed about, Billy starts off lyrically with, “When I was a little boy, so my mother told me.”
The men reply in a droning sing-song chant, “Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
Billy continues to lead the chorus with, “That if I did not kiss the girls, my lips would turn all moldy.”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!” they cry, and getting the hang of it, you join in about halfway through the refrain.
“I worked the seas so long as I pleased, not knowin’ what I was missin’.”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
“Then I sets me sails afore the gales, and started in a-kissin’.”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
“First I met a Yankee gal, but sh’was too fat and lazy!”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
“Then I met an Irish gal, but she was bloody crazy.”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
“Next I court a Frenchie gal, but sh’was too free an’ easy.”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”
“But now I have an English gaaaaaaal, and sure she is a daisy!”
“Way haul away, we’ll haul away Jooooooooooe!”
Everyone draws out the last line, then cheers and downs their drinks, offering a boozy kiss to the English girls on their arms. So it is that you drink the night away, forgetting about both your obligations and your cousin. Not much choice here:
Wake up the next morning and face the consequences of your actions.
Dragged Down
The jaguar is initially thrown off-guard when you shout out, the beast’s ears back and tucked down for the offensive. But when you start up the tree, that shifts the creature’s behavior into full predator mode. Jaguars are exceptional climbers. With a single bound, the jungle cat claws into your trousers and rips you from the tree. You’re tangled together and the jaguar roars out as you fall.
What should you do?
• Play “dead.” The jaguar is asserting dominance and will lose interest if I don’t fight back.
• Fight back! Aim for the head with punches and kicks while protecting my jugular as best I can.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Dressed to Kill
Captain Vasco de Ferro of the Dos Santos was a man of fine tastes and distinction, if somewhat pretentious. Raiding his cupboards, you find dozens of bottles of rare and vintage port wine. The cabin itself is lined with oil paintings by masters of their craft and a sculpted bust in the man’s own likeness. In his wardrobe are garments made of black Italian leather, crimson Chinese silks, and bone-white French lace. The top shelf holds a half-dozen tricorn hats with full, luxuriant feathers, gingerly stored in boxes.
And then there’s what must have been his prized possession. Most likely a family heirloom: a military saber, with a gilded handle and a sharp gleaming blade. The sheath is black as death, with golden ringlets to hang the weapon at your side.
When you emerge from the cabin, it’s in style. Primarily clothed in black leather to aid in combat, you’ve got the flourish of a crimson blouse with a clean, white cravat. Bullock’s dueling pistol hangs from a silken sash, next to one taken from Ferro’s collection, and his saber swings at your side. Your former captain’s knife is tucked into knee-high boots, while your fingers are now protected by silver rings. With its regal plumage, a black, velvet-lined tricorn hat gives you an additional two feet of stature.
All eyes find their way to you—it’s plain that Captain Bloodbeard has been reborn yet again.
“Make for New Providence,” you say.
* * *
Port Royal was once known as the wickedest city in the West Indies. To polite society it was “a receptacle of vagabonds, sanctuary of bankrupts, and a close-stool for the purges of our prisons”; it was considered by the civilized world to be “as sickly as a hospital, as dangerous as the plague, and as wicked as the devil.”
Now, that dubious honor goes to New Providence Island, known as the Republic of the Pirates. If Justice looked the other way in Port Royal, New Providence went so far as to be the one that blinded her. For you, it’s the safest harbor money can buy.
Rediker convinces the crew that the bulk of the prize money should go towards outfitting the Deleon’s Revenge for future conquest. Though you doubled your armaments once you took the guns from the Dos Santos, you’ve still got a ways to go before you need not fear a ship-of-the-line.
As Bloodbeard’s reputation spreads through the alehouses and brothels, you find more men eager to join your ranks. A merchant ship of this class would normally hold 15-25 crewmembers, while a pirate crew on the same ship might swell to ranks of 75-85 men. Rediker chooses the fiercest from among the new pirates, as well as those with valuable skills, but you’re confident that he’s no longer plotting to vote you out.
The men who sailed here from Boston, not wanting to get left behind, spend their wages on weapons and clothing. Not a single one of your regulars opts to stay in New Providence.
Soon the ship is refitted and you have a fearsome pirate crew ready to for action. Best not to disappoint them. Where to, Captain Bloodbeard?
• Let’s find an informant
and pay to learn of a rich target. A small investment for a larger prize!
• Let’s set sail and come what may! The world is ours for the taking.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Dudderidge
There’s a moment of silence. Of shock. But then the men laugh, howling like animals, their heads thrown back, shrieking with laughter sent up to high heaven.
“Saltboots has gone mad on the island!” Marlowe cries.
“Where be Dudderidge, anyhow?” Rediker asks.
“In the kitchen, like always. That cripple never did leave his berth, save for killin’ Cap’n Bullock, that is!” Barlow says, renewed laughter.
Then they all laugh.
And laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
And then they kill you.
THE END
Dumbstruck
So… that’s a myth. Lightning strikes the earth roughly 40-50 times per second, or about 1.5 billion hits per year. If lightning were to really only strike a single spot once, we’d have stopped having lightning altogether eons ago, for want of a place to strike.
Instead, the truth is: if a particular target is appealing to lightning, it’s struck over and over again. And what if a person were to stand directly in such a spot?
CRACK!!!
THE END
Duplicity
How did a seventeen-year-old boy from the Indian subcontinent get to be the bosun on an English merchant ship? From his youth, to the way he always dry-shaves on deck even in the roughest seas, to the way he practically glides across the deck on the surest feet in the crew—your bosun was an enigma.
Until you learned Joe’s secret.
There could be no doubting his skill as a sailor, nor the bosun’s proficiency in piping out the orders given by the captain, but it’s certainly odd to rise to a rank of such prominence as a lad, especially one who hails from foreign shores.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 8