“Aye, sir.”
“I’ve known Vice-Admiral Maturin all of my career. It’s worth having a powerful, influential man as a patron who’s invested in seeing you succeed. You’ll need the same if you’re eyeing a King’s commission as lieutenant. And it wouldn’t do well to disparage those patrons, no matter how far you’ve advanced in your career.”
The words aren’t spoken harshly, but the meaning is clear: Longwick didn’t appreciate you putting him in the position of speaking ill of the Vice-Admiral, no matter how strange the man might be.
“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!”
• 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.
• Captain Longwick is watching you carefully now. Accept his books and spend the evening studying to show him how committed you are.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Penniless
The interior of the tavern is filled with the haze of smoke, barely illuminated by candlelight. You stand at the threshold, blinking with wide eyes, willing them to adjust while your ears search out James’s voice from the din of the bar.
After a few moments, shapes begin to materialize in the smoky lounge. A dozen sailors recline in the eaves, each with a woman or two for company.
“Has anyone here seen a sailor named James?” you try.
A few blank looks find their way towards you, then the men go back to their own business. A sinking feeling settles into your chest; you go to the bar in search of answers. The proprietor plants both palms on the surface of the bar and leans in to get a good look at you as you approach. Perhaps she also aims to disarm you with a double helping of cleavage, but you’re in no mood to take the bait. Her right eyebrow rises inquisitively. Clearly, you’re not her usual clientele.
“I’m looking for my cousin, James. He was coming in for a quick drink. I have a carriage waiting.”
She shrugs. “You’re welcome to look around.”
“You haven’t served him? He’s about yea-high—”
“A drink? Hmm… a drink? Has someone bought one-o’-those in here? I don’t rightly know. What’d that be like, pouring a drink? If only there was some way to remind me. My memory ain’t what it used to be, ya see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any money,” you say, picking up on the solicitation of a bribe.
Now her left eyebrow rises. “Then I’m afraid you are indeed a lost soul, and unwelcome here. Nothing personal, but if these sea dogs and scallywags starting thinking they can mill about without payin’ for the privilege, well, my business is sunk. You understand, I’m sure.”
You offer a curt nod and turn to go. With your eyes fully adjusted to the dull candlelight of the tavern, you give another desperate scan, but see no sign of James. One older seaman watches you go, tendrils of smoke from a hookah pouring from his nostrils and swirling about his grey muttonchops.
Out front, the driver puffs at his own pipe. He can’t help but read the disappointment on your face and says, “The best way out of it, if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, is t’give him a good clout on the ear, worst one you can muster, then offer him a double if he don’t want to follow you back outside.”
“I appreciate the advice, only he’s not there. We agreed I’d be right back! I don’t know where he could have disappeared to.”
“I’ve got a few ideas,” the driver says with a sigh. “Sailors at port are all the same. You want another piece of advice? Let me take you home. ’Tis getting dark out, and this is no place for good, wholesome country folk like yourself. I mean that kindly, mind you.”
• No! You gave your word to return your cousin safely home. Thank the driver for his time, but ask for a refund on the fare. James is bound to turn up, sooner than later.
• Maybe he’s right? If James gets himself in trouble, that’s on him. You gave it a good try. It’s time to end this foolishness and head back to Buckinghamshire.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Perchance to Dream
“Up! All hands! Up, or we all perish!” the cry comes, shaking you from your slumber.
How long were you asleep? It’s impossible to tell, and in the commotion, it doesn’t much matter. Now that you’re on your feet, you feel the violent rocking of the ship that the hammock had countered. You rush up with the crew, ready to lend a hand to prevent the threat of death.
Thoughts of seasickness are replaced by sheer terror when you reach the open air. Lightning arcs across the sky with the dreadful crack of thunder only an instant behind. The sea rollicks like an open flame and foams upon the deck—beating her with great waves, threatening to pull all asunder.
One such wave nearly knocks the ship on her side, and a man who was up in the rigging of the mainsail is thrown into the sea. You recognize him as the third crimped sailor, the one in a white-and-blue striped shirt.
“Man overboard! Jack’s gone in!” the sailor Marlowe cries.
Billy throws a rope, but when it hits the water, it disappears into the inky sea, and now he watches with a sort of helpless indifference as the sailor struggles for his life. It’s clear the man has no idea how to swim and will soon drown.
• Tie a length of rope around your waist and leap in!
• Say a prayer for the poor seaman; nothing else you can do.
• No time! Dive in and help crimped Jack back to the ship.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Pitiless
Rushing inside the dim tavern, you call, “James? Oh, Cousin James?” to deaf ears.
You bump headlong into a dark shape your unaccustomed eyes can’t quite make out. With a rude, “Hey, watch it!” you’re given a hard shove and sent sprawling towards the bar. It’s brighter up here, illuminated by lantern, rather than the dull candlelight of the eaves.
“You look lost,” a feminine voice notes.
“So I’ve been told,” you reply, dusting yourself off and straightening your clothing. “A congenital affliction, I’m afraid, though one I’ve only learnt of today.”
“We don’t get many… refined… customers, is all.”
You look up to the barmaid, only to find a barmatron. She’s pleasing enough to look at, though it’s clear she’s weathered many years’ tenure behind this bar, the effect of which has hardened her features.
“I’m looking for my cousin, James. He was coming in for a quick drink. I have a carriage waiting.”
“You’re welcome to look around,” she shrugs.
Tired of getting the runaround, you say, “That tactic doesn’t seem to pay dividends. Perhaps if you supplied me with information on my cousin’s whereabouts, I’d be the one paying you?”
“Lost, but not a fool,” she replies, smiling. “That’s good to hear. Elsewise I might be worried for your safety. Tell you what, buy yourself a drink and it might help loosen my lips.”
“I thought the effect was intended for the one who imbibes, not the other way around.”
“My bar, my rules. I’m the owner, by the way. Lindy Spencer, but call me Spence. That’s another rule-o’-mine.”
“Very well, pour me the same you served James,” you say, bringing your coin purse up to the bar.
“Taste for the strong stuff must run in the family,” she says, right eyebrow rising. “Though I’m afraid this hooch and the tale I have to tell will both leave a bad taste. Your cousin was here, sure enough. I know for certain because the first words from his mouth were, ‘That damned cousin of mine will be the death of me,’ and I can only assume there ain’t two sailors with cousins searching for ’em.”
Eyes fully adjusted to the dark, you look around, but see no sign of
James.
“So he had a drink and left,” you reply, leaving ‘hoping to leave me behind’ left unsaid.
Her left eyebrow goes up now. “Ain’t touched your drink. That’s bad manners, and I need to pour ya a second if you want to hear part two.”
• “I appreciate the effort, but I’m afraid I must abstain.” Pay the tab, then leave to search for James with a clear head.
• “Very well, a liquid dinner for me, then.” Down the drink and nourish yourself on the ambrosia of information.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Precipitating Event
James looks deeply distraught, clearly knowing there’s more to it than that, but all he does is give a squeeze to your shoulder before parting ways. After getting a belly full of food—the only source of energy the sleep-deprived can hope for—you head up top to start the night’s watch. The evening is dark, but warm. Humid, with the threat of yet another stormy night.
“Have you studied Norie’s Epitome much, Ward?” Lieutenant Dalton asks, handing you a copy of the book. “Do give yourself a refresher this evening. I should like to have a chat on a few key subjects after watch.”
After watch meaning during your rest cycle, of course.
“Aye, sir!” you say, accepting the volume.
The full title is The Epitome of Practical Navigation, which is gilded upon the smooth, leather-bound spine just above the emblem of an anchor. You take the book, find a quiet spot illuminated by lamplight, nestle down into a makeshift basket of coiled ropes, crack open the tome—and immediately fall asleep.
* * *
You awaken with a start; half a dozen hands grope over your body. They’re all common seamen, and you barely recognize the faces. The carpenter’s mate is here, as is a corporal you’ve seen under the Master-of-Arms. What do they want with you? Are you dreaming?
“We told ya there’d be no more warnings,” Mr. Magnus says. “Tried dousing ya in cold water, but it wasn’t enough, eh?”
“A Jonas! Best tossed overboard!” the carpenter’s mate shouts.
“Aye! The storm’s been follow’n!” another sailor agrees.
“Come now, we ain’t savages,” Magnus says.
Then the Master-of-Arms speaks up. “That’s right. Get a basket. If splashing water ain’t workin’, we’ll just have to try longer exposure.”
You’re shoved into a metal birdcage, barely big enough to fit a person inside. A rope is fastened through the top and you’re lowered overboard, just to the waterline. Every few seconds, the swell of the sea overtakes you, dunking you into the cold wet of the waves before bringing you back up again. It’s all you can do to keep breathing.
“Ya can spend the rest-o’-the watch down there!” the Master-of-Arms calls down. “Should keep ya ’wake, I’d think!”
The mob disperses, leaving you to the whims of the sea. It’s a terrible existence; the equivalent to waterboarding in the age of sail. So it comes as a mercy half an hour later when you catch a glimpse of Mr. Magnus sawing at the rope from above with his dagger. Soon, he cuts you loose.
Just like that, you sink down with Davy Jones, never to be seen again.
THE END
Present for Duty
Without the Master-of-Arms or Midshipman Magnus trying to sabotage your career (and with Lieutenant Dalton sufficiently subdued), you’re able to proudly walk the decks as a Midshipman. No one forgets your roots, however, and the nickname “Ward” stays with you. Instead of your surname, you’re addressed as Midshipman Ward. And, truth be told, you wear the title as a badge of honor.
Sevennight passes, each evening with wicked weather. Your digestive tract gradually empties itself of countryside finery (butter and milk and cheese), and is resupplied with hardtack and “Irish Horse” (coarse sea biscuits and salt-beef), which helps harden your constitution.
Then a fortnight goes by, finally without any seasickness, and with skies clearing up. As time goes by, you learn the rigging and the sails, how to spot and tell the difference between sandbars and reefs, how to splice lines, knots and their various names, as well as steering and navigating both the ship and the social world of the crew on it. You read many volumes on seafaring, while also learning to read the stars, the sky, the weather, and the mood of your commander.
In all, an idyllic time at sea. There’s hard work, and plenty of it, but you’re accepted as part of the crew now, and becoming a more valuable asset with every day that passes. So it is that when a full month goes by without sight of a Spanish ship, it’s a blessing. Stronger, more confident, able to move about on sturdy legs, yes, all these things, but you’re still unproven as a Naval Officer. Luckily for you, that chance is just on the horizon.
Presently scanning with the looking glass, you nearly pass over the bloom of wood and canvas; so unfamiliar is the sight of another ship at sea. But there can be no mistaking it: from the ink drawings you’ve studied, you know you’re looking at an enemy warship.
“Sails!” you shout, lowering the looking glass.
“The Dagoes?” Lieutenant Dalton asks, before taking the telescope for himself. “By Jove, yes! Raise the Captain. We have a Spanish Man-o’-war in sight.”
Excitement coursing through your veins, you do just that. Returning with the Captain a moment later, you stand by, excited to see just what his orders might hold.
After taking a look for himself, Longwick says, “They’ve spotted us. Note this position and make all sail back towards the fleet. We’re to report the furthest vanguard of the Dons to the Admiral.”
Dalton hesitates. “Captain, do you mean we’re to outrun her? If we turn now, surely they’d see and get the jump on us. They have the wind; she’ll catch us before nightfall.”
“Then you’d better get us underway with haste, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, Captain. Midshipman Ward! Chart a course, we’re to outrun her and report back!”
Without a minute to spare, you leave them to set sail back towards home on an intercept course with the rest of the fleet. The pair finish their discussion out of earshot; Lieutenant Dalton offers a sharp salute, and Captain Longwick disappears back into his cabin.
Dalton turns and says, “God help us, Ward. They have a forty-degree lead on our course… There will be a bloody battle before we see the fleet again, mark my words.”
That might be true, but this could also be the perfect opportunity to shine! After a moment, you reply:
• “Once the course is set, I’d like to command one of the broadsides. The guns will keep them at bay.”
• “Lieutenant, leave the steerage to me! I’ll pilot the helm and take us true.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Pressing Forward
The crew rushes forth, frenzied to brace the ship against the storm while there’s still time. Yet the sight before you is another scene of chaos. The men move with extreme coordination—like a finely-tuned grandfather clock—each with their own part to play; perfectly set in their timing with one another. They swear terribly as they go, which to your nascent ears proves just as frightful as the storm.
Lieutenant Dalton notices and offers some insight. Shouting over the gale, he cries, “They swear to match the intensity of the storm! If they stop and kneel to pray, that’s when you should worry!”
The surging seas are so bad, you spend most of the time hugging a bucket and emptying your stomach into it, but no one blames you for being green around the gills. Dalton even offers a kind word here, saying, “Mr. Magnus is one of our most experienced sailors and he tells me this storm is one of the worst he’s ever seen.”
* * *
Sevennight passes, each evening with wicked weather. Your digestive tract gradually empties itself of countryside finery (butter and milk and cheese), and is resupplied with hardtack and “Irish Horse” (coarse sea biscuits and salt-beef), which helps harden your constitution.
Then a fortnight goes by, finally without any seasickness, and with skies clearing up. You shadow as many of the able-bodied
seamen as will let you, making sure you switch mentors regularly before trying anyone’s patience too much. In this way, you “learn the ropes” both literally and figuratively.
You learn how to handle the rigging, where to stand and what to hold, how to bind the ropes together, splicing the hemp with hitches and knots, lanyards and lashings, connections and concoctions with names like Cat’s Paw, Sheep Shank, or Flemish Eye. You learn the sails too: gallants and coursesails, topsails and jibs, studdingsails and staysails. You learn to furl, to loose, to shorten, to reef, to back and balance.
So it is that when a full month goes by without sight of a Spanish ship, it’s a blessing. Stronger, more confident, able to move about on sturdy legs, yes, all these things, but you’re still a fish out of water. Perhaps one that has figured out how to breathe air, but it’ll be a while more still before you learn to walk.
No one would call you Jack Tar, but you’re more than the would-be scholar who left London such a short time ago. For now, you’re still known as Landsman, and you’ll have to earn your designation of “able-bodied seaman” in time. Luckily for you, a chance to prove yourself is just on the horizon.
“Sails!” shouts Mr. Magnus, lowering the looking glass.
“The Dagoes?” Lieutenant Dalton asks, before taking the telescope for himself. “By Jove, yes! Raise the Captain. We have a Spanish Man-o’-war in sight.”
Straining, you can just barely make out the hint of wood and canvas on the horizon. What you wouldn’t give for a turn at the looking glass! Instead, you stand nearby, listening intently and splicing a length of rope so as not to appear in the way.
MAROONED: Will YOU Endure Treachery and Survival on the High Seas? (Click Your Poison) Page 25