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

by James Schannep

  Captain Longwick arrives on deck, white shirt billowing. His ceremonial officer’s coat hasn’t been worn in weeks and his dark hair, overdue for a cut, flutters in the wind. With an open hand to receive it, he’s given the telescope by Dalton.

  At length, the captain lowers the telescope and 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. Mr. Magnus! Chart a course, we’re to outrun her and report back!”

  Captain Longwick takes another long study from the looking glass, then adds, “Double the men pumping the bilge for maximum speed. We’ll lose them under cover of darkness. Not a single lantern to be lit after sunset, nor a match for a pipe. Have the cook serve early, then extinguish. Once fed, prepare gunners and load the guns, open the armory and set snipers. If they hope to catch us… we’re going to make it costly.”

  Lieutenant Dalton offers a sharp salute, and Captain Longwick disappears back into his cabin. Dalton turns, ready to relay the orders. From what you’ve seen these last few weeks, this could be the perfect opportunity to shine!

  • Volunteer to lead a team into the pump room. The Captain listed this as his first priority!

  • All sails is quite the task and requires as many hands as can muster. Await your orders here.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pressure Point

  You stay hidden, watching and waiting to see what else they’ll say. Lieutenant Dalton checks the barometer again just as the first few drops of rain start to splash against the deck. There’s a sudden swell in the seas, and the Hornblower lurches in response—as does your stomach.

  But it’s your heart that leaps into your throat when you hear, “Just what the bloody hell d’ya think you’re doin’?!”

  Both Dalton and Magnus look back towards the voice. When you turn, you see it’s the Master-of-Arms standing behind you.

  “Performing my rounds,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “I’ll be damned if ya are! You were spying on these men!”

  “I was doing no such thing! I was performing my rounds, as ordered.”

  “Like hell. Your intents be easier t’see than that of a shark drawn to the sounds-o’-battle!”

  “What’s all this, Geoff?” Dalton asks. “What exactly is going on here, Ward?”

  • Tell these men you think you got off on the wrong foot and want to start over. Say, “Gentlemen, please. This is all just a misunderstanding!”

  • Perhaps there’s another way out here. If you challenge him to a duel, he’ll have to back down! Say, “This man is calling me a liar! I demand satisfaction!”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pressurized

  You grab hold of the rigging and hoist yourself up. Even with exhausted muscles, adrenaline spurs you on, higher and higher. Rope over rope, you climb. The wind whips with a ferocity you’ve never experienced before, and though the fibers cut into your soft hands, you’re happy to have the extra grip against the incredibly fierce storm.

  After you make it sufficiently high enough, you look around and feel a sense of accomplishment. You’ve really pushed your way up here!

  But… now what?

  As a Landsman, you haven’t been trained for this. You don’t know what to do next. So… looks like you’re clinging. You could try calling out for help, but no one would hear you way up here, shouting to match the storm. Besides, everyone else is busy securing the sails. Can’t have them tearing in the gale-force winds.

  That’s it! You need to help loose the sails, right?

  You pull at the knots, but unfamiliar with those too, you have a rough time getting them to budge. Finally, one of the connections goes limp and the rope lashes out again and again, like a whip in the wind. Part of the rigging, newly free, sweeps out and knocks you clear.

  You fall, taking the fastest way back down to the deck. A thunderclap sounds with a great crack! and you smash back onto the ship with a terrible crack of your own to echo the storm. Luckily for you, that break in your spine means you didn’t feel this otherwise painful death.

  THE END

  Prestige

  “Well, well, I didn’t realize we had nobility in our manifests! Might ye have a ring I can kiss, your lordship?” the Master-of-Arms says, taunting.

  “That… that isn’t necessary,” is all you can think to say in reply.

  “Well, thank God Almighty for that!” he laughs.

  “I only mean to say, that I might better serve in a capacity befitting my education.”

  “Too good t’be a common Tar? That ye might be, but midshipmen don’t show up with the press gang, no matter how posh they’d be who sired ya.”

  “Sir, I really must protest,” you protest.

  “You wanna plead your case to the Cap’n directly? Be my guest. Otherwise, fall in line, Landsman. We’ll harden those hands soon enough. Now help us get these crates loaded up!”

  • Get to work. Idleness will only make things worse.

  • The Captain is a gentleman. He will appreciate the gumption it takes to seek him out and will award me a spot within the officers’ ranks.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Presumptuous

  Before the Master-of-Arms has a chance to shoot, you turn to offer him only your profile as a target, lock your elbow, aim between his eyes, and squeeze the trigger. The burst of sparks that comes from the flintlock force you to squint and turn away, and when you open your eyes again you see only a plume of smoke between yourself and the Master-of-Arms.

  It feels like an eternity, but after a few moments the spent gunpowder dissipates, and the Master-of-Arms stands before you, unharmed.

  You’ve missed him!

  The head offers only a very small target; a shot made all the more difficult by your unfamiliarity with both firearms and the sea beneath your feet. It was one in a million, really, and those betting on the outcome of your duel adjusted their payout odds accordingly.

  The Master-of-Arms is now free to take his shot, unobstructed by time or the need for haste.

  • Pray for a miracle.

  • Think skinny thoughts.

  • Watch the man line you up in his sights.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Prey Upon

  As this is not a domestic jaguar (not that those even exist), it finds your pointing gesture meaningless. However, when you start to run, that’s a signal it can pick up on. Jaguars are not known for attacking humans, but a fleeing animal strikes a chord with the predator on an instinctual level. The jungle cat sprints after you as you tromp through the woods, catching you easily and bringing you down with a practiced tackle.

  Pound for pound, the jaguar has one of the most powerful bites of any living feline, which makes quick work of your spine and skull.

  THE END

  Proving Ground

  Dudderidge had been a kindly sea cook. A man of about thirty, who hobbled around on one good foot, the other having been ruined by some long-ago accident. The wound looked like that inflicted by a crate drop, or perhaps a foot smashed by a horse while on shore leave, or maybe even a combat wound from an old engagement. Truly, you couldn’t say—and no explanation was ever volunteered.

  Still, the man had always done fairly well with what he was allotted in his kitchen. The joke aboard many a merchant vessel is that there’s only one qualification needed to be a sea cook: you can’t know the first thing about cooking. Dudderidge broke the mold in this way. Yet even if the man were secretly a gourmand, he wasn’t afforded the ingredients to really show off.

  Your memories of Dudderidge are primarily that of standing in line for chow and a simple, “Here ya go,” uttered bef
ore he’d slop a scoop down on your square food tray.

  Three times a day; three square meals. There were only a handful of times you saw the sea cook outside of his kitchen, and only one time you saw him in a mood other than jovial. In fact, he was outright panicked. Outraged. Like a hot kettle set to boiling.

  Something had been bothering you prior to this reminiscence. Deep down, you knew the way that feral jungle pig died felt oddly familiar. Now that you’re thinking back to your time on the Cooper’s Pride, you can recall why. Dudderidge had been in his foul mood the day a prized sow had been found dead. But it wasn’t just the loss of future meals. There was something else, too….

  “Christ almighty! Short-o’-fresh meat as it is!” Dudderidge moaned. “Butch, what in the bloody hell happened here?”

  “Why ask me?” the surgeon shot back.

  “Ain’t ye the one who found it?”

  “Aye, got a dead pig, same as I told Billy. Here, see for yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with the damned thing? Ain’t ye the ship’s surgeon?”

  “Only because there already were a cook. Spent me whole life butchering dead flesh; what do I know about why they die?”

  “Stow the sob story. I just need t’know if we can eat it, is all. Blessed thing looks poisoned,” Dudderidge said.

  “Or strangled,” you had added.

  That got a look from both men. But it truly did look that way, the way the flesh was swollen around the animal’s throat. Spittle made a foam around the snout and mouth. You’d have to be a monster to strangle a hog of that size. Even Robin might not have been up to the task.

  “Disease. I’d be sure of it,” Butch said, all at once.

  “Disease? Christ almighty!” Dudderidge had shot back, throwing his hands up.

  “Could ye be mistaken?” Billy asked. He was silently watching the pig hitherto. But now he let his concerns be known. “Diseases mean quarantine…”

  “Well… no need for that. Yes, ’tis disease. But not one that can be caught by men, so take comfort there. Best we toss it over straightaway.”

  And that had been the end of that. Still, there’s something about this memory that feels, well, familiar. Maybe if you keep digging through the recesses of your mind, the truth will bubble up to the top?

  • Think back to your time with Billy Greaves, the Mate and right-hand man of Captain Bullock.

  • Revisit the memories of Butch, the former butcher employed as the ship’s surgeon.

  • Simply stare up at the stars—the same your shipmates presently sail beneath—until you fall asleep.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Puffy

  Like little floating rocks, these fish even puff when you miss, filling themselves full of air and allowing an easier second attack. It takes a few stabs with the spear to get the hang of it, as the refraction of light shifts where you perceive the fish to be versus where they actually are, but eventually, you’re able to catch a meal of rock-shaped fish.

  Making a great feast from your bounty, you eat like you truly are the monarch of this small island. It all goes down swimmingly. Huzzah!

  That is, until the toxins set in. Fish like these are some of the deadliest known to mankind. Known to you a little too late, it would seem. Your face and neck expand, much like those pufferfish. Then paralysis sets in and you die slowly, lying near your camp.

  THE END

  Push Your Luck

  “Whaddya mean ya ain’t got no more coin?!” Monks the gunner yells.

  “Ya wagered double your loss, and thus owe twice what ye placed in the pot last round,” Argyle says, as if you simply don’t understand the math.

  “I don’t know what to say. I got carried away.”

  “We wasn’t playin’ for fun. You’ll pay, damn you!” Monks says, slamming a fist on the table. The commotion brings the attention of the rest of the bar.

  “Spence, in your tavern, what pray tell, happens to a gambler unable to settle a debt?” Wycombe asks, appealing to authority.

  “It gets settled outside,” she says. “Either by the press gangs or by a beatin’, aggrieved party’s choice.”

  “Who says it can’t be both?” Monks asks, glaring at you.

  “Now, gentlemen, wait, please. I’m sure we can come to some accord.”

  “It can’t be both,” the surgeon explains, almost detached, “Because if you beat a debtor too badly, they lose value to the press.”

  Before you even know what’s happened, Monks has you lifted from your chair and escorts you outside. You desperately look for any sign of James, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Sadly, I don’t think it possible to work off the debt before we next set sail,” Argyle says.

  “The three of you were pressed! You wouldn’t want to see me pressed, would you?” you reason.

  “True enough. Let’s beat the tar right outta this cheat,” Monks says.

  “We won’t press you,” Wycombe says to three sets of shocked eyes.

  “You won’t?” you say, wincing in preparation of a beating.

  “No need. That man there is a crimp.” Wycombe says, pointing.

  Turning, you see a haggard-looking man. The boils on his flesh make James’s scars look angelic by comparison. Hunched in such a way as to hide his great height, perhaps even from a long ago mis-healed wound. Presently, he grins at you through a maw of chipped and missing teeth.

  “You ain’t no Londoner, nor a sailor,” a harsh voice croaks out.

  “I’m not! I’m no good to you!” you cry.

  “No problem at all. I can sell a debtor into civilian service,” the man says, speaking to the trio of seamen. “I’ll pay ya half’a what this one owes.”

  “Half!” Argyle calls. “I don’t intend to get robbed twice tonight!”

  “Curse your blood, crimp,” Monks agrees.

  Wycombe steps forward. “Do it. Otherwise we’re left with nothing but whatever cuts you intend to get on your knuckles, and I’d just as soon not sew anyone up just yet.”

  “Let me get just one good lick in,” Monks says.

  “Suits me,” the crimp says.

  Your luck, it seems, has finally run out. Not much choice here:

  Wake up the next morning and face the consequences of your actions.

  Put to Vote

  “You’re right, Rediker,” you say. “Your man Barlow, too. I couldn’t agree more.”

  Rediker stares back dumbly, blinking with disbelief. “Well… good. That settles it, then?”

  “I suppose, but we still need to vote on where we’re headed, don’t we?”

  Now he grins. “If it were up t’me alone, I’d say we set sail for the West Indies. Loot a fat merchantman flush-o’-New World booty on the way, then offload in New Providence, where we can have the… port experiences we missed out on in Boston.”

  Several of the pirates grunt in the affirmative at the euphemism.

  But it’s Marlowe who speaks up. “I support your bid for Cap’n, Rediker, I do. But the Caribbean’s a terror. I heard tale-o’-zombies on those isles. Men made slaves by voodoo magic. Then there’s yellow fever, shipworm, hurricanes and—”

  “Bloodthirsty pirates?” Rediker finishes. “Aye, there’s a reason for that. More inlets and islands than stars in the sky. We can strike from nowhere and be gone again ’fore we could ever be caught. ’Tis a tropical paradise, man! Voodoo zombies? Ha! If there are slaves t’be found in the West Indies, they’ll be liberated by the Deleon’s Revenge!”

  Now the African pirates cry their support. Marlowe seems unconvinced, though he drops the issue.

  “All in favor-o’-Cap’n Rediker leading us t’riches?” Barlow says.

  “Aye!” comes a mighty roar.

  “And all in favor-o’-sailing for New Providence, plunder, and well-rigged women?” Rediker asks.

  “Aye!!!”

  * * *

  “Sails!” comes the cry from the watch the next day.

  “Just a slaver,” Ba
rlow says, handing the spyglass to Captain Rediker.

  “Slaver?” several of the crewmen mutter, spreading the word. The African pirates seem keenly interested in this new discovery.

  “The Amazing Diamond, eh? Helmsman, pull us up alongside her!” Rediker orders.

  “Cap’n?” Marlowe says from the helm.

  “Ya heard me orders, Marlowe! We need food and water. We need more guns and crew—she’s got ’em!”

  “She’s a bloody fortress!”

  “Aye! Mayhaps we need a new ship, too! Action stations!”

  “I’ll not pilot us into the mouth-o’-hell,” Marlowe says, releasing the wheel.

  “Cap’n has full say during battle, damn you! Barlow, raise the black. I’ll take the bloody helm if you’re too lily-livered!”

  Rediker takes the helm, while Barlow unfurls a bolt of black canvas. As he raises the flag, you see the design chosen for the Deleon’s Revenge: crossed cutlasses form the frame of an hourglass, with a death’s-head encapsulated in the upper chamber and a crimson drop of blood falling like sand into the lower chamber. The warning here is three-fold: time is limited, and should the enemy resist, he risks bodily injury, or even death.

  At sight of the approaching black flag, the Amazing Diamond opens fire. Wooden splinters blast across the ship, but Captain Rediker continues his approach undaunted. Your ship fires back, but the merchantman only has a handful of guns to the dozen or more firing back at you. The carnage is immense, and you soon see firsthand why Marlowe refused his orders.

  “Cap’n, they hit us on the water-line!” Chips reports in.

  “Abandon ship! Take the enemy as prize!”

  The pirates throw grappling hooks at the galleon, which floats half as high again as the Deleon’s Revenge out of the water. Armed with cutlasses, they climb aboard for the attack.