If you didn’t know any better, you might have suspected a lust for power and further advancement could have led Joe to any length, perhaps even to kill. Sure, the captain’s knife was found covered in blood, but that could have been a ruse, could it not? Joe’s razor seemed indelibly sharp; capable of a dry shave that left the bosun’s face silky-smooth and without so much as a nick or a blemish.
At least, that’s how it had appeared.
The first clue was a few weeks back, when one of the lashings came free on a starboard carriage gun. A loose cannon is a terrible danger aboard a ship, as the gargantuan slabs of iron can crush a man unlucky enough to be caught between the gun and a mast or deck rail.
Joe was shaving at the time, walking the quarterdeck while doing so (as was often the case), when the call of “loose cannon!” came from the ship’s waist. The bosun leapt into action, dropping the razor in an instinctual bid to secure the lashing before the carriage gun could truly roam free.
The razor blade fell right down on top of you, but when you put up your hands to shield yourself, the shaver simply bounced off you, clattering to the deck. Picking the blade up, you learned there was no edge to the razor whatsoever. Duller than a butter knife; a razor in name only.
Joe’s eyes had shot open when he saw you test his razor, and he quickly ordered you to help secure the cannon, leaving an open palm to demand the return of his blunt instrument.
Why shave with a false razor? Did he want to appear older, capable of growing coarse whiskers like the burly men in his crew? Such an odd and fascinating quirk.
That led you to watch the bosun more carefully. You quickly realized how much Joe had kept apart from the rest of the men. Eating and sleeping alone, off in some corner. Never dressed in front of the others, washed, or went to the toilet when anyone else was around.
Such behavior had never seemed odd to you before, as a bosun is somewhat of a superior position. But your curiosity was raised and, well, you took to spying on him. It wasn’t the kindest or most proper thing to do, following Joe when he answered nature’s call. Not something you’re proud of, certainly. But it is where you learned the truth—that he… is a she.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Joe had pleaded when she saw you had learned the truth.
“But who are you, really?”
“I’m still me, I’m still good ole’ Joe,” the bosun replied, but your look must have said it all, because she went on, “I told the crew my name was Yousefah, which sounded enough like ‘Joseph’ to earn the nickname ‘Joe.’ But the truth of it is, my real name, my birth name, is Akademi. My father was a high-ranking official in service of the Emperor, but my mother, rather than shame him with only daughters, raised me as a boy. My older sisters would be married off, yet how could I? If I married, surely the secret would be revealed. So I was sent to sea, to become a man, and I did, in a sense.”
“Does no one else know?” you had asked.
“Captain Bullock, but that is all. The captain values loyalty, and so he keeps my secret. You too, will have my loyalty and my gratitude if you’ll only do the same. Please, you must not tell anyone.”
And you did keep Joe’s secret, but so much for his—her—loyalty. Did the bosun speak up when you were charged with Bullock’s murder? Not a word in your defense. But… maybe Joe thought you truly were the murderer, and so feared you would reveal her true identity if she spoke out either way?
No matter. Joe’s razor was not sharp enough to kill, and with Captain Bullock protecting her secret, she was loyal to the man. It couldn’t have been the bosun who ended Bullock’s life.
Indeed, thinking back, Joe was on watch beneath the night sky—just like you—when the gruesome deed was done. Who else might have held ill will against the late captain?
• What about Chips? Did the carpenter hold any ill will towards the captain?
• What about Robin? What secrets might the tattooed gunner have held?
• That’s enough for tonight. Best to take your mind off things and enjoy the warmth of the fire.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Duty-Bound
You look away, back towards the open sea before you. Soon, it will be dark, and it’s up to you to keep the Hornblower on a straight course from the time the sun has fully set to the time the stars can be read for navigation. Worse yet, it looks to be a cloudy night ahead, so you’ll have to do most of the steerage by instinct.
With both hands on what’s left of the wheel, you can feel the tug of the sea against the ship, and course-correct accordingly. But should you let her loose, free to list against the currents, you’ll certainly lose your way.
That crack sounds on the wind again, and you take a wallop on the shoulder like you’ve never felt. There can be little doubt: you’ve been shot! But if the Hornblower can press on with a few splits in her hull, so can you.
The second marksman’s attack is announced with the same crack. You take a hit right in the chest, only a few inches from the last wound. The gunshot burns fiercely, a great pressure as you try to breathe, but breathing is a luxury for cowards. You bravely keep hold of the helm.
“Shots fired!” one of the seamen shouts, finally recognizing the incoming fire.
“Return fire!” Captain Longwick commands.
Much louder exchanges of rifle fire erupt from behind as the sailors attack those in the Spanish crow’s nest.
“Rear battery, fire!” the Commander issues.
As the cannons boom, your wrists grow cold as the blood pouring from your sleeves gets exposed to the crisp night air. Yet you hold your ground all the same.
Eventually, the firing from the ships goes quiet. You’re relieved from your post, replaced by a new set of hands, and sent down to Wycombe, the surgeon.
“I can give your cousin something for the pain,” Wycombe says, speaking to James about you. “But once sleep should come, I’m afraid that will be the end of it. The musket ball has penetrated the lung, bringing bits of uniform fabric inside. There are already signs of infection. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to be done. If you’ll excuse me, there are others I must tend to.”
Then Cousin James is by your side. “Did us proud, Coz. We’re out of the worst-o’-it. You’ll get a statue back home in Aylesbury, I’ll make sure,” he says, eyes glistening.
You fought bravely, but your adventure ends here.
THE END
Earning His Stripes
Carefully cupping the rum tot in your hands to protect it from both spillage and curious eyes (as, technically, you’re supposed to drink when served, lest a seaman “store up” for a binge), you bring the gift down to the ship’s hospital. In addition to serving as surgery and clinic for the infirm, this is Butch’s cabin, though the man himself is presently absent.
Chips is here, consoling the wounded. Barlow and Rediker too. The young sailor who was flogged sits against a desk, as lying down in a hammock will be next to impossible with a flayed backside. Hopefully the rum will help.
“Never took ya for a rebel, Saltboots,” Rediker says, noting the tot. “Ain’t that against orders?”
“Captain ordered Butch not to give him anything for the pain. Never said anything about the rest of us,” you say, handing over the rum.
Rediker nods his respect and passes the gift along. “There ya go, lad. Earned your stripes today. You’re a tiger now!”
The young man gratefully downs the ration, then shakes his head. “I didn’t even do nothing ’cept me duties. It were an honest mistake.”
“Aye, ’course ’twas,” Chips says. “Ya did nothin’ wrong.”
“Oh, ya did wrong all right.” Rediker steps up. “Reminded the cap’n just how small a man he is, and a small man cannot abide by that. Needs t’make himself feel big, by makin’ the other smaller still. But what he don’t consider—is that you’re stronger now, for the abuse. None fear the whip so much as he who ain’t tasted the lash. But if that’s the worst he can do, what’s left to fear?”
> “That’s right. You’re a tiger now, lad,” Chips agrees.
Eight bells rings, signaling a change of the watch. The young sailor thanks the group for coming, then you all disperse and head up to perform your duties.
* * *
Even though the storms have subsided, the sky remains covered by a thick blanket of clouds. Once the sun has set, as now, that makes it increasingly difficult to navigate. The compass will generally keep the course, but there are strict orders for any seaman who makes a sighting of the stars to take note and report in to the captain, so he can compare with his charts and make a more accurate heading towards Boston. A discrepancy of even a degree could put you hundreds of miles off-course and mean a delay of several days or even weeks into port.
You’re scanning the horizon for any astronomical signs when your eye catches several figures in the moonlight. It’s a trio of men gathered near the bow, unusual in a severely undermanned watch. The three of them then head down into the hold, one by one, which is stranger still, as they now leave the bow unmanned.
• Surely they have good reason. Keep your watch. No good can come from abandoning yet another post.
• Best to trust a gut instinct, and this just feels plain wrong. Follow the conspirators down into the hold.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Easy Way
As a sailor, you’re no stranger to the effects of alcohol. After all, your daily ration of drinking water has rum added to it to prevent the growth of algae inside the barrels. But that was diluted. This? A fifth of rum consumed all at once? With no freshwater whatsoever, and the sun beating down upon the sands of your island?
Intoxication sets in before you even finish the fifth.
That makes ending it all that much easier. The decision made, you just needed to take away any inhibitions that might’ve kept you on this mortal coil. Thoughts like, Who really killed Bullock? Or, Will the killer simply get away with it? Or, Whatever happened to Cousin James? Or, Will anyone back home know what happened to me?
Instead, finished with the rum, you bring the pistol up to your lips instead, a kiss to end it all.
THE END
Either Way
It takes quite a while to find the first game trail, but skills like this one will surely develop and grow easier with time. The grasses lilt towards the small, tromped-down path, trying to obscure it, but actually giving it a distinct pattern that you’ll learn to recognize.
Game trails mean game, which means meat. Goat? Pig? Hard to say. Either way, you haven’t seen any animals yet, so that might mean predators too. If the prey are hiding, then the game is afoot, so to speak.
Then you hear it—the telltale roar of water.
Rushing forward, you find a clearing with a great pond, fed by a waterfall. The source must come from somewhere up the mountain, and though it’s no gushing river, it is more than a trickling brook. This water will sustain you!
Drinking straight from the waterfall itself, you taste the purest water you’ve had since becoming a sailor. Possibly even the best water of your life. Untainted by civilization, purified by the rocks and the motion of the waterfall, this is pure mountain stream water.
Well done! This source of water was an important find, and you mark it on your mental map as you head out to further explore the island. You’ll want to find a better place for a more permanent shelter than on the shoreline. After last night’s storm, you know it’s too exposed to the elements out there. You’ll certainly want somewhere close to this water source, and with a good view of the shore so you can watch for approaching ships. Somewhere elevated, perhaps.
So you start hiking to explore your island. And with the clouds rolling in, you’ll soon get to see how the rest of the topography fares in a tropical squall. You’re out in the open, hiking on a ridgeline with a perfect view of the coast where you were abandoned, when a “Boom!” from the heavens blasts apart a long-dead tree only twenty yards ahead on the trail.
A great thunderclap accompanies the lightning only a moment later, and the hair starts to rise on your neck. What should you do?
• Retreat to the waterfall and leap into the pond. The safest place is to stay lower than ground-level!
• Hurry to the exact spot where the bolt hit—lightning never strikes the same place twice!
• Dash back into a forested part of the jungle to find shelter under the trees!
• Immediately drop down, knees upon the trail and head bowed before the Almighty. Pray to be spared!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Empress of the Sea
Captain Longwick emerges in full uniform, his blue coat smart and tidy, buttons gleamed to a high shine. He places a hand against the mizzenmast and pauses, examining the wood grain as if this moment were shared by the ship and him alone. After some time, he nods approvingly, then paces—now appraising the crew, with his darkened eyes, in much the same way.
He cries out, “Welcome aboard the Hornblower! I’m not one for speeches, so I’ll say only this. We set sail for Spanish waters. The enemy expects us, yet we are the superior seamen. Do your work as assigned, and victory will see the day. Fail to do so, and it’s not only your life in your hands, but your brother Tars who stand to left and right of you. As such, I will tolerate nothing less than perfection. First night out, double ration of rum. After that—expect only to be rewarded for victory!”
The men cheer, the Captain departs, and the crew doesn’t stand on ceremony. Someone calls, “Weigh anchor!” and the final preparations for leaving London begin. Other commands are bandied about, but you linger behind and watch land disappear with equal measures of excitement and dread.
* * *
As you move through the serving line for dinner, Cousin James comes to find you.
“Cousin, I’m the Commander’s Ward!” you say, beaming.
“I know,” he answers darkly, then continues in an urgent whisper, “The Master-of-Arms is none too pleased. I overheard him with a Midshipman, an oldster named Magnus. He’s a bitter ole Dutchman, passed over for lieutenant too many times. They’ve got it out for ya, coz.”
Before you can reply, Lieutenant Dalton shouts, “Ward! With me, on watch!”
“Go on,” James says. “I’m larboard watch, opposite shift. I’ll relieve ya in four hours.”
Dalton escorts you through the ship and back above decks. Along the way he says, “You really should be eating with the junior officers. Fraternizing amongst common men is unsuitable for someone of your position.
“This ship is now your England; both homeland and monarch. Serve the Hornblower well, and she shall reward you in kind. But until you know her moods and temperament, it’s best to stay out of the way and simply observe.”
With a nod, you continue on to the top decks. The night is dark, with little to distinguish the sky from the sea. Maybe it’s James’s warning about the Master-of-Arms, or maybe it’s that you haven’t got your sea legs yet, but the same queasy feeling from yesterday’s carriage ride rolls over you.
Dalton turns to an older man, white-haired, but somehow not as distinguished-looking. He’s an older Midshipman, who greets the Lieutenant in a thick Dutch accent.
“Ward, this is Mr. Midshipman Magnus. You would do well to learn from his experience.”
Magnus looks you over, gives a curt nod, then turns back to the Lieutenant and says, “Bad omen for a launch, sir. Rough seas ahead and no stars t’sail by.”
“Let’s check the barometric pressure, shall we? Ward, be so kind as to continue your rounds on the ship,” Dalton says.
The pair of them walk off together, and your stomach swirls about in protest.
A familiar voice cries out from further down the decks as the Master-of-Arms berates some hapless seaman. You can’t quite hear the words, but the tone of a disciplinarian is unmistakable. Cousin James’s warning echoes in the back of your mind, curiosity getting the better of you. That double ration of rum might help for some courage right about now….
&nb
sp; Where will your rounds take you?
• Follow Lieutenant Dalton and Mr. Magnus. If the Dutchman thinks ill of you, this would be the perfect opportunity to catch him expressing it behind your back.
• Go look after the Master-of-Arms. If he’s making more enemies, perhaps it would be good to identify them as potential allies for the future?
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Empty Promises
The Admiralty Court in Boston collects you for questioning, and then arrests the crew of the Cooper’s Pride. Billy is true to his word, and gives an impassioned appeal to free not only you, but Robin, Joe, and Dudderidge the cook as well.
There’s just one problem.
A common defense, as the defense solicitors explain, is to claim you were forced into piracy. That you had no choice and intended to escape as soon as you were able. That it was indeed only the captain and his quartermaster who were culpable.
The problem? You’re the captain.
So… yeah. It’s the gallows for you, Saltboots.
Your defense counsel does offer one last chance: An appeal for a pardon. Those who turn to the authority of the Governor of the colony can have their sentence commuted to something lighter than corporal punishment.
Will you grovel for your life?
• Yes! The Governor is an educated man, and you can use your final words to show yourself as a fellow scholar who merely got yourself into a terrible misunderstanding. Plead innocence and beg for mercy!
• No! Enough running from fate. These are your final words, etched into eternity. Say something eloquent but brief, for brevity is the soul of wit.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 9