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

by James Schannep

  “I would better serve you, serve the Hornblower, sir, as an officer candidate than as a Landsman,” you say.

  In the silence that follows, you tack on another “sir” just for good measure.

  “Each man delights in the work that suits him best,” Captain Longwick muses, turning away to help Akuchi slide the officer’s coat over his broad shoulders.

  “For the gods honor justice; honor the decent acts of men,” you reply. After studying Homer’s Odyssey for the last month, you’d more readily recognize the quote than you would the very ship upon which you now stand.

  “Certainly weren’t embellishing the education. Very well, if you took the time and effort to come convince me, I should think you’ll continue to work hard aboard the quarterdeck of my ship,” he explains. “Argyle, what do the manifests show?”

  His recorder replies in a thick Scottish accent, “Midshipmen billets ’re full, aye, Cap’n. Though you yourself could always add another servant on the books.”

  “Excellent. I’ll take this one on as a fosterling. Official title: Commander’s Ward. Make it so.”

  “Th-thank you, sir! You w-won’t regret this!” you stammer.

  “Don’t gush, Ward. I have enough toadies and lickspittles as is. If you’re to join my officers’ cadre, I’ll need you challenging the veracity of my commands. No use comes from telling me how good a job I’ve done. Initially, I should like you to shadow Lieutenant Dalton, but first you’ll need to speak with the quartermaster to be issued a uniform, and a fearnaught jacket. Do your best to live up to its name. Now then, I believe the men have mustered for my embarkation speech? That will be all, Ward.”

  You depart while Argyle scribbles your new position upon parchment and Akuchi offers Captain Longwick his commander’s cap. As quickly as you can, you rush to find your new uniform and form up with the men on deck.

  * * *

  “So, you’re the new Commander’s Ward I’ve heard so much about,” Lieutenant Dalton says. Word travels fast onboard, it seems. The man appraises you, but it’s hard to read his reaction. Like one dog sniffing another, you look him over as well. He’s fair-skinned and fair-haired, unusual for those who spend their days at sea. A twenty-year-old member of the gentry, bred to keep a stiff upper lip.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dalton, your immediate supervisor and officer of the watch,” he says, introducing himself with the traditional “left-tenant” pronunciation. “Tell me, Ward. What makes you so special that the Commander should pluck you from the press gang ‘recruits’ to join the ranks of the officers?”

  You take a moment to consider an answer, looking out over the quarterdeck. Soon, the Captain will arrive to give his address to the crew—the whole ship is gathered awaiting his speech—but for now, Dalton wants to make small-talk.

  • Play it close. Say, “In time, I should hope you’ll see that for yourself, Sir. The Captain gave me an opportunity that I aim to make the most of.”

  • Confide in him. Say, “The Master-of-Arms barely gave me a second glance. If I would have left my fate to that man, I’d never have been given a chance such as this.”

  • Shine him on. Say, “It’s not that I’m special, Sir. It’s that none of us are. We are all but players strutting and fretting about war, wouldn’t you agree?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fish and Chaps

  Grinning like a fiend, James takes you under his wing as if he knew you’d come around the whole time. For a moment, you simply walk together down the market promenade, watching the spectacle. Nearby, fishmongers unload their catch for the Billingsgate market by throwing leviathan-sized prizes across the path from one man to the next in a chain down the row.

  “Stick close to me, coz, and keep one hand on your coin purse. If these men here can’t sell it to ya, they’ll happily unburden you in other ways. But then again, the pickpockets aren’t nearly so bad as the press gangs and crimps.”

  “The what?” you say.

  “You must’ve heard of ’em. His majesty’s fleet’s always in short supply-o’-good hands, doubly so in time of war. And when they can’t find good hands, well, any hands’ll do.”

  “Surely, not,” you say, examining your own smooth, student’s hands.

  “Don’t look so worried,” James chuckles. “They won’t come snatch ya from your bed. But a drunk in port or a gambler down on his luck makes for easy pickin’s, so the crimps are always on the lookout when a ship comes in. And whatever y’do, don’t sign nothin’ no matter what they tell ya ’tis.”

  “But what good would someone like me be on a ship?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve worked with lads-o’-thirteen who managed to carry their weight. Hell, some of ’em might have even been lasses. Couldn’t tell and didn’t care, so long as they pulled their duties. And speaking of lads, lasses, and pulling duties, here we are.”

  James indicates the sign above the tavern, hand-painted and faded. SPENCER’S FREE HOUSE. With a fresh grin, he pushes the doors open like a man who owns the place, and swaggers up to the bar.

  The interior is filled with the haze of smoke, barely illuminated by candlelight. You can hear the low murmurs of patrons, but you can’t make out any of the figures within until your eyes have time to adjust.

  The bar itself is brighter, illuminated by an oil lamp, amplified by a rear mirror. As you get closer, you see the figure manning the bar is, in fact, womanning the bar. Brown hair and grey eyes, though if there’s any grey in her hair, she looks like the type where you’d know better than to talk about it.

  She stands at above average height, or perhaps her no-nonsense air gives the illusion of taller stature. She’s anywhere between 40 and 50 years of age, dealer’s choice. The barkeep shifts behind the counter, waiting to hear your order.

  James speaks up, with exaggerated confidence, “You must be Lindy Spencer. I’m told Lindy’s Ladies are the loveliest in London. We are but two lonely sailors looking for a good drink and someone t’share it with.”

  “Just in from port, that it?” Her right eyebrow raises and she looks you over. “Both of you?”

  “We have both indeed just arrived in port,” you say, stretching the truth.

  “Call me Spence. I can’t claim the drinks are all that good, but they’re cheap and in good supply, and they do what they say on the tin. And I happen to have a few friends who’ll sit with you while you drink as many as ya please.”

  “Well then, Spence. We’d love t’be joined by two-o’-your finest friends, please,” James says.

  • “Just the not-so-good drinks for me, thanks.”

  • “No harm ever came from sitting together, and I could use a new friend!”

  • “Can I have a water? I’m the one responsible for getting us home.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Fool/Hearty

  You heroically leap into the surging seas and swim out towards the missing Jack. Adrenaline pushes you forward and, despite the resistance of baggy clothes, it feels like you skim across the surface towards the victim. In the darkness, you use the lightning flashes to try to locate the poor man, but there’s no sign of him. The sea swells such that your only hope of finding him is to be at the crest of a wave when lightning illuminates the surface of the sea. You swim until your arms burn, and then—you swim some more.

  Just as you’re about to give up hope, there’s a biting pressure and you’re pulled under. No, not a shark. Jack has his claws dug deep into your flesh as he tries to climb you in order to stay afloat. Thoughts of heroism change to panic as you try to avoid assuming the role of victim. Still, he’s incredibly strong and panicked himself; there’s no reasoning with the terrified Jack.

  Sadly, the buddy system will claim two lives today.

  THE END

  Footnote to History

  What a disappointment this trip turned out to be! James was supposed to show up, regale you with tales of adventure over dinner, and then, as dessert, serve up the real juicy bits on the rid
e home. Tomorrow would be a day full of celebration, with a ball thrown in his honor! But, alas. You’ll have to think of some excuse as to why you came home empty-handed.

  Eventually, the family learns that James “enlisted” in His Majesty’s Royal Navy the next morning and headed back out to sea. The savvier branches in your family tree, however, suspect the press gangs found him drunk and prevailed upon him to consider the needs of the realm over his own, but that will not be your cousin’s legacy.

  James goes on to be missing in action, and his legend grows to heroic proportions. A statue is erected for him in your hometown of Aylesbury. You, on the other hand, spend your life doing little more than reading about the exploits of others and dreaming of adventure. Perhaps, in another life…

  THE END

  Foreshadowed

  Captain Longwick’s mood darkens and a shadow creeps across his countenance as he replies, “The war is here, Ward. These are kingdoms; the seat of power. The colonies? At best, territorial skirmishes. At worst? A haven for pirates. Freebooters, buccaneers, privateers—call them what you will, but men of honor fight here, for King and country.”

  “The Hornblower’s the fastest ship in the fleet, Captain! We’ll be back before you know it,” you say, trying to raise his spirits.

  “This is your first posting, is it not? Soon enough, you’ll see. The hours will be long and hot. Still, it won’t be all bad. It gives me plenty of time to drill the men. And you? Well, there might not be a better time to study before the next promotion board convenes.”

  “Aye, sir. Do you really think I’d have a shot at lieutenant?” you say, taking the opportunity to change the subject.

  “I think if you’re seriously committed, I can lend you some pertinent books on the subject. The examination for lieutenant shouldn’t be undertaken without due preparations.”

  “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir!”

  • Captain Longwick is watching you carefully now. Accept his books and spend the evening studying to show him how committed you are.

  • A night to celebrate, indeed! Head back to the Hornblower and toast to the events of the past, the gift of the present, and those challenges yet to come.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  For the Birds

  In Buckinghamshire, the early bird may have gotten the worm, but here on your island, the saying can be extrapolated for gulls and the fish trapped in tidepools. You’d have to get up pretty early to snatch any trapped sardines, for this is what these birds have eaten for eons.

  Instead, you find an array of starfish, sea anemones, and tiny thimble-sized hermit crabs.

  There are, however, a bed of mollusks that you can eat. Cracking the shells open with the butt of your pistol, you scoop out and eat the slimy morsel inside. The meal would certainly be better when cooked; something you’ll keep in mind once you’ve got a fire going. In fact, you might do well to line your pockets with a few of these to have with dinner.

  The meal leaves you with a great thirst, however, so you’d best look for a way to quench it.

  • A quick mouthful from the tidepool should help keep thirst at bay while you look for fresh water.

  • Try sucking on a pebble. Ancient wisdom says there’s a hidden force at work that will slake your thirst.

  • Open your mouth as you walk, flexing your tongue to “awaken” it. This will cure the dry mouth.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Fortunate One

  When you arrive at Captain Bullock’s cabin, you find the door open. Stepping inside, you see the ship’s master seated, a tablecloth draped about his chest, upon which lie several tendrils of hair. Standing behind the captain is a portly, clean-shaven man in the act of giving him a haircut.

  “Sir, reporting as ordered—”

  “Ah, there you are,” the captain interrupts. “Am I to understand you’re another Saltboots?”

  “Aye, Captain!” you say, doing your best sailor impression.

  “This man here is known as ‘Butch.’ He’s our new surgeon. And now we’ve all met. Now then—”

  “Surgeon?” you parrot back. The words contain more incredulity than you’d intended, which the captain clearly notices.

  “Yes, we were just discussing his… unorthodox position. But a butcher who’s lost his shop has more experience in carving meat than he does in cooking it, and I’m more in need of a surgeon than I am another cook.

  “Now then, I can certainly see the family resemblance, Saltboots. But the reason I called you here was to take your measure, as it were. Young James lied about his age and experience when he came aboard, in spite of which he earned his place. I know the men don’t ever much like their captain, but I liked your cousin, I confess. A hard worker who didn’t talk back. Still, it’s not my role to be liked. I am not your friend, you understand. Perhaps it’s better if you came to see me the way young James did, which I should think is more like a father. What do you say?”

  “Arghhh!!!!!”

  The crashing sound and the piercing scream which follows infiltrate the cabin and make your blood run cold. Butch snips off a lock of hair he shouldn’t have and the captain jumps to his feet, flinging off the tablecloth. The three of you rush out to see the commotion, where the screaming continues still.

  A pallet of cargo was dropped onto the right leg of one of the new recruits, whose name you don’t recall. Once crimped, now crushed.

  • Rush down to help lift the cargo off the poor soul.

  • Stay here behind the captain; maybe lift your jaw up off the deck instead.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Freedom Fighter

  There are no locks where you were stored, like so much cargo. After all, cargo doesn’t get up and walk away if it’s properly tied down (or in your case, tied up). Which means you’re free to move about the ship with ease. Captain Rediker ordered Barlow to deal with you, but the rest of the crew is engaged in something a bit more serious—a fight for their lives.

  When you emerge above decks, you see the full scale of the action. The Royal Navy ship fires a steady barrage of chase guns, which blast splinters across the bow, but the newly careened Deleon’s Revenge (né Cooper’s Pride) is a much faster vessel.

  The problem is, she’s sailing into a trap.

  The English ship pursues Captain Rediker until he sails around the coastline of another small island, where a Spanish Man-o’-War awaits. Is this the ship the pirates were hiding from? Did the English captain know this, and trap the vessel intentionally? Or is it simply the worst possible coincidence?

  You’ll be able to ask him yourself, soon enough.

  Finding himself between two enemies, Rediker shouts orders for evasive action. But that lets the English warship catch up, toss grappling hooks, and board.

  Meanwhile, gunfire pounds in and out from all sides. The Revenge takes the worst of it, but gives back as best she can. Carriage guns, swivel guns, grenadoes (handheld bombs), muskets, and pistols. It’s a deafening barrage, and men fall in droves.

  You pick up a fallen pirate’s cutlass, slashing at the ones on the defense. You hit them in the back, when they least expect it, but these are men who fight without honor.

  Finally, the Royal Navy boards. Crack! A young lieutenant fires his pistol right into your chest.

  Dropping the cutlass, your hands go to your chest as you gasp for breath. Your eyes widen at the realization that this is a mortal wound. Didn’t the Royal Navy Lieutenant know you were trying to help? Most likely not, as you were probably difficult to distinguish from the rest of the pirate crew in the action. One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist, after all.

  THE END

  Fresh-faced

  The four groups disperse, and you join your watch to meet some new comrades. An old salt you’d met when hanging hammocks below introduces himself as Marlowe, leader of the watch. Two more common tars greet you with mumbles and nods of approval when you tell them you’re the ship’s new Saltboots.

  The crimpe
d man assigned to the watch wears a long-sleeved blue-and-white striped linen shirt with a handkerchief tied loose about his neck. He has rosy cheeks and a head of short, black curls.

  “Jacques Goudron, a pleasure, I’m sure,” he says with a thick French accent.

  “You’re a Frog!” one of the sailors cries in response.

  “I am French, oui. But according to le capitaine as, ehh, Jacques were found at a port Anglais—English port—he can be made to work as an English man.”

  “S’pose that’s true enough,” Marlowe laughs. “Welcome aboard, Jack! Bad luck for ya, but good for us if you’re worth your salt. Now then, we’re the first larboard watch, and I have me traditions, if you’ll follow.”

  Marlowe picks up a single cannon shot from its spot resting in a nearby brass monkey, and the group follows to the mainmast. Here he produces a silver coin and turns to address the group. He holds the coin up to the mast, ready to strike it with the cannonball to drive it home.

  “Here we pay the angels for safe passage!” he starts loudly.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing to my ship?” Captain Bullock cries from the quarterdeck.

  Everyone freezes, fearing the power of the captain’s ire. He hurries over, not even bothering to tap his cane against the deck as he comes. The crew snaps to attention at the captain’s approach. “I said, ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’” Bullock repeats.

  “T-t-tradition, sir,” Marlowe stammers.

  “It’s bloody superstitious nonsense, and I’ll not having you damaging the mast with it.”

  “But sir, ’tis always been done!” Marlowe protests. “Every seaman here knows. Those who don’t pay tribute, they—”