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

by James Schannep

  Captain Longwick comes to inspect the gun crews, with Lieutenant Dalton by his side, and says something, but your stare is distant, and you’re half-deaf, with ringing ears. 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….

  Falling Sickness

  Billy shakes his head, clearly disappointed. But Captain Bullock looks right past you. He addresses the four men who were also crimped into service and says, “This, men, is why we always bring more hands than we need.”

  Then he pummels you with newfound ferocity. He was clearly holding back last time and now he beats you senseless with his full strength. You won’t be much good to the Cooper’s Pride with broken ribs or a fractured skull, but that’s not the point of this display. You’ll make a good tale.

  The Legend of the Recruit Who Wouldn’t Take the Oath.

  It’s a gruesome beating that ensures you’re discharged from your obligation and returned to your home in Buckinghamshire. You’ll recover after a month of bed rest, but you’ll never be the same. No more translating Homer for you. Instead, you’ll be spoon-fed mushy peas and read bedtime stories.

  When people ask of your fate, the answer will invariably be, “Oh, such a shame. Got the falling sickness after a bad trip down to the Port of London.”

  THE END

  Falling Star

  It takes a considerable amount of core-strength to go spread-eagle up the well, so you’d better move quickly before you tire yourself out. The locomotion is an ungainly sort of gallop: left foot, left hand, right foot, right hand. It’s a strange balancing act as you awkwardly scale the walls, but you do make progress. One hand, one foot. Other hand, other foot. Inches at a time.

  Then you lift one foot to slide it upwards just as the grit beneath your opposite foot gives way. That foot slides out from beneath you faster than you’re able to reposition it, and, with nothing to hold onto, you fall back down to the base of the well. The floor of this natural well is a soup of mire after the recent storms and you splash back into the muck, breath knocked out of you all over again.

  Okay, let’s try this once more:

  • Leaning forward. Feet planted on at the rear wall and hands on the front, you can back slowly up.

  • Try to dig your way out. By pulling down the earthen walls, you can make a ramp and climb to safety.

  • Leaning back. With your shoulders and hands pressed on the wall and feet out in front, walking.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Fear Merchant

  The next morning, you awaken with a splitting headache and reach up to shield your eyes from the harsh light of dawn, only to find your hands are bound to your feet by ropes. Your stomach turns, and it feels like the whole world lurches continuously back and forth, back and forth. A hard, wooden beam digs into your shoulder blades, and your backside is numb from sleeping in this position of confinement.

  Looking about, the first thing you notice are the four men who share in your predicament. Each has the look of a seaman, half still black-out drunk and the other half nursing head wounds. All five of you are bound together by your ropes. The next thing you notice: you’re aboard a ship! A wave of panic rolls over you, and you realize that the world around you actually is moving back and forth with the swell of being afloat.

  “Cut ’em loose, Robin!” a voice cries from somewhere out of sight.

  A muscle-bound, heavily tattooed man does just that while you look for the speaker. It doesn’t take long, for as he approaches he begins a monologue, “Me name’s Billy, mate-o’-the Cooper’s Pride, this fine ship upon which ye sit, and as as-o’-now, serve. I have papers ’ere, signed by yourself and the notorious Richard ‘Spotted Dick’ Martin. Dick is a crimp, a fear merchant if ever there was such a thing, and whatever debt ye find yourself in is now owed t’the Pride.”

  Billy tugs at his grey muttonchops thoughtfully, then adjusts his too-tight and ill-fitting garb. You start to protest, along with several others, but Billy interrupts, “Now, I know ye lot didn’t volunteer for this, and I hate t’recruit this way, honest I do, but there’s a war on and a shortage-o’-able-bodied seamen, so this’s the way it must be. Hear me now: we’re innit together. All in the same boat, as the saying goes. And ’tis legally binding, like it or no.

  “Yet, take heart! You’ll be paid a fair wage while at sea and come to earn your place among your brethren. Cap’n Bullock will take your oath-o’-obedience once I get ya t’make your mark on the contract with the Pride. We’re headed t’Boston! Once formalities’re over, I’ll assign your quarters.”

  You glare at Billy, but before he makes eye-contact, your view is eclipsed by a Jerusalem Cross painted atop leather-tanned flesh. The tattooed seaman named Robin cuts your bindings and the newly unconstrained blood flow flushes a feeling of relief, if only for a moment. But when Robin moves on to the next set of ropes, you see Billy has been joined by a new figure.

  This man is clothed in finery and lace, untarnished by the grit and grime of manual labor. The cravat tied about his neck is flawless, and a tricorn hat obscures his features beneath shadows. A wealthy merchantman, to be sure, but he holds his walking cane with deeply tanned hands so there can be no mistaking his mysterious appearance—this is your new captain.

  “Mr. Greaves, I trust our new recruits are ready for their oath of obedience?” Captain Bullock says, addressing Billy formally.

  Finding your feet, you look about and realize that you’re still moored in port.

  • Accept this new reality with quiet dignity. Try to fit in and learn before you make any moves.

  • Cry, “I signed no such papers, nor will I sign anymore! I’ll say no oath to no man! I don’t belong here.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fear the Unknown

  Haunting, that’s an interesting way to put it. These men are certainly superstitious, but they aren’t cowards. You’re able to walk just out of sight, nearly silently. After a few weeks in the jungle, you’re much more adept at navigating theses trails than the men who tromp through the underbrush, hacking away at the vines and branches with their cutlasses.

  But you’re no native. Eventually, they perk up, having heard some twig or seedpod crack beneath your feet.

  “What’s that?” one of the pirates says.

  They all listen for a long moment.

  “Saltboots?” Marlowe says at length.

  The men brandish their cutlasses, hacking ever closer to your spot hidden amongst the underbrush. One of the pirates, either by design or dumb luck, nearly slashes into you. Ducking back, you startle the man—and his fight-or-flight reflex is set firmly on the former.

  He swings his cutlass at you with deadly intent, and you disarm the man in self-defense. It all happens so quickly, but before you know what’s happened, you hold the man’s cutlass for your own as he bleeds out on the jungle floor.

  Crack! A pistol echoes, firing into the leaves only a hair’s breadth away.

  “Bring me that murderous bastard’s head!” Marlowe cries.

  The pirates give chase and you instinctively run, the whole gang after you. On an island, there’s little room to flee, and should they find your shelter, you’ll be at a decided disadvantage. What now?

  • Find an ally. Lead them towards the jaguar’s den.

  • Use the terrain. Lose them down a ravine or into the natural well.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Feed the Beast

&n
bsp; “Don’t like sweeties, d’ya?” Dick says, tucking the tin away.

  “I think I should go,” you answer, trying to do just that.

  Dick stays with you down the boardwalk, unshakable. “I agree! Only, maybe we’re at odds with just where ’tis ye should end up.”

  “Leave me alone!” you protest, growing fearful. “I don’t want your cake, I don’t want your friend’s transit service—I don’t want anything to do with you!”

  His eyes darken as he continues, “Guess we’ll just do it the hard way. Port’s full-o’-ships with manifests need fillin’. My calling is t’find aimless folk like yourself and help give your life some direction.”

  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. Surely, there must be some safety from this fiend in a public house!

  You rush forward, Dick slow at your heels because of his crooked spine. A pair of sailors sway in their boots out front, clearly intoxicated. Their faces are bloodied and bruised from fighting, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Good sirs!” you say, “This man is pursuing me!”

  They turn to see Dick, and your chest fills with hope when you see they hold no love for the man. Eyes narrowed, they square up.

  “Bugger off, crimp!” one calls.

  “I have no quarrel with ye lads,” Dick says, huffing for breath. “Help me get this would-be deserter back in line and the next round at the alehouse is on me!”

  That changes things. The pair of sailors now look at you like a meal ticket. Your hand gropes for your coin purse. You’re not holding a great deal of cash, though maybe enough to buy some protection. But Dick must have encountered this tactic before, because he’s ready for it.

  He says, “On top-o’-that, I’m sure we could agree that whatever cash’s held in there was lost in the scuffle, by fortune t’be found evenly split between your own two pockets.”

  That clenches it. 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.

  • Dick has won the battle of wits. Your only real option is to fight.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fire in the Hole

  You let the Portuguese crew stew in the hold, simmering in their own fears and doubts, while Robin rigs up some grenadoes for the assault. The name comes from granadas, the Spanish for “pomegranate,” due to the size, shape, and similarities to the seeds within.

  As a precursor to the grenade, grenadoes are hollowed-out iron balls, perhaps even cannonballs, filled with shot, then lit by a fuse. Though these are the iconic image of a “bomb” used in modern-day cartoons, grenadoes are no joke, as you’ll soon learn.

  Robin brings one of these makeshift bombs, along with an external fuse to ignite when ready. You take the grenado, weighing it in your hand, then look to the hatch below. Murmured voices come from the hold, no doubt the Portuguese crew wondering when the assault might start.

  Holding the explosive high to be ignited, all eyes on you, it feels a bit like you should be giving a toast. In a moment of inspiration, you say, “Had they surrendered, we’d wish them well. But they didn’t—so they can go to hell!”

  The pirates chuckle and Robin lights the fuse.

  “Everyone, back to the Deleon’s Revenge,” you order. “Now!”

  As they go, you drop the bomb down through the hatches, running hot on their heels back to your ship in preparation for the blast. You jump across the gap between the two vessels and—

  KABOOM!!!

  Fire, smoke, wood, and viscera spray forth from the belly of the Dos Santos like the devil was a sperm whale breaking the surface of hell. Men scream and rush out of the hold, hoping to douse their burning flesh in the open air.

  “Finish them off,” you command.

  Rediker leads the boarding party on the attack. It’s a mop-up job, and there are a few fires left to extinguish, but there’s almost no resistance, not anymore.

  At length, Rediker reports in. “Christ Almighty. Absolute carnage. The master’s dead, along with half the crew. But she’ll float, so that half can limp home and call themselves lucky.”

  “And the prize?” you say.

  “Massive haul, Cap’n. Sugar, indigo, cacao, tobacco, leather, silks, silver, gold, and jewels. Once we divide the shares, hell, I’d say each man just earned himself three years’ pay! Not bad for a first-timer.”

  “Refit the ship first. Take their carriage guns, plus any weapons. Once the Deleon’s Revenge is made stronger, the rest is profit.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. It’ll take a few hours t’move all the cargo, but we should be full up. Afterwards, shall we plot a course for New Providence to unload our ill-gotten gains?”

  “Do it!” you say.

  • “I’m going to go through the Porto captain’s cabin to see what I can find. He was right, I need a manner of dress befitting the name of Captain Bloodbeard.”

  • “’Twas a grand first catch, Rediker. Once we make sail, open the rum stores for the men. I’d like to make another toast… to the first of many! And the start of a prosperous partnership.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  First Command

  Lieutenant Dalton applauds your boldness and agrees to let you command the starboard guns—the side the Spanish will be approaching. You haven’t a moment to lose in preparation. Typically, a midshipman would command only a single gun crew, while a lieutenant would oversee a group of such midshipmen, so to be given command of an entire broadside the first time the Hornblower sees action is a great honor, indeed. One you’re determined to live up to.

  The magazine is opened, where Cousin James and the gunner, Monks, offer cannonballs and gunpowder cartridges to be distributed. Ordering several of the younger sailors to act as “powder monkeys” to ferry these provisions, you ensure that your weapon teams will be well-supplied.

  Though you don’t have the luxury of standing idle and gazing about, word of the man-o’-war’s approach reaches your ears nonetheless. The Spanish warship is identified as the Don Pedro Sangre, a first-rate ship of 74 guns. By comparison, the Hornblower has only 36, of which you command eight on the lower gun deck. A daunting prospect, to say the least.

  “If the situation were reversed, we’d never dare,” someone grumbles.

  The men are clearly made anxious by the news. To reassure them, you say, “Fear not! We won’t simply drop anchor and pound it out with a larger foe. Our duty is to keep the Spanish at bay long enough to reclaim the wind and outrun her.”

  There are more grumblings. Many sailors are still unsure, so you add, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t get some good licks in, right?”

  The Lieutenant commanding the larboard broadsides, a young man named Saffron, whom you’ve had only a few encounters with, looks even more doubtful than the men under your command.

  “We’d do better to put oars out these gun ports,” he mutters.

  • Ignore the man. Better yet, chastise him for weakening shipboard discipline. This is what these men have trained for! Your duty is to have these cannons ready for a broadside attack.

  • It’s true, if there were some way to speed up, you’d increase your chances of reaching the fleet alive. Perhaps there is something more you could do to help the Hornblower escape the man-o’-war?

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  First Impressions

  The Master-of-Arms was clearly not expecting you to take him up on his offer. He demands your surname, and promises that he’ll do what he can to personally watch your career—a threat so thinly veiled that, even with limited experience, you fear you’ve made an enemy of the man.

  But, true to his word, he takes you to the Captain’s quarters. After telling you to wait outside, he goes to announce your intentions to the Master and Commander of
the HMS Hornblower.

  “The Cap’n will see you now,” the Master-of-Arms growls a moment later.

  He tries to follow you inside, but a voice thick with authority says, “That will be all.”

  After the Master-of-Arms leaves, you step forward to face Captain Longwick, the Master and Commander of both this ship and your fate. Standing in the middle of the luxuriant cabin, he’s younger than you might have expected, and his hair is coal-black, rather than the gray or powder-white of the current fashion. His eyes, deep-seated, and so dark you can hardly distinguish iris from pupil, move back and forth slowly, purposefully. As if hunting. You suddenly feel very much like the quarry.

  Averting your eyes from his, you notice you’re not alone. At the Captain’s desk, another man sits, a quill poised in hand. He’d look just as gruff as any seaman if it weren’t for the spectacles he wears. He stares at you over the rims of his spectacles, none too pleased to see you, and obviously finding your presence an interruption.

  “That would be Argyle, my stenographer and cartographer. Behind you, you’ll find Akuchi, my steward. And you would be my… what, exactly?”

  Argyle nods in greeting at his introduction, then returns to work. You look back to see a well-dressed African removing the Captain’s coat from a wardrobe. The steward then brings the coat around to Longwick and helps him don his formal uniform.

  “I would be your Midshipman, sir,” you say, trying to put on a brave face.

  “I believe Geoff told you we are at our capacity of Midshipmen.”

  It takes a moment, but then you realize Geoff must be the Master-of-Arms. Looks like he’s warned the Captain against your intentions.