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

by James Schannep

  They now fly the Jolly Roger—a black pirate flag, of custom design. Crossed cutlasses serve as the outline to an hourglass, with a death’s head in the upper chamber and a drop of blood pouring out as the sand in the lower chamber. The message is simple, clear. Surrender while you still can.

  The crew ravages the beach, felling trees, digging up turtle nests for eggs, dozens of pairs of boots tromping everything in sight. Their ranks have swelled since last you met the crew, and indeed, at least half of their number are now African pirates or perhaps former slaves.

  Each man is more fearsome a sailor than you’ve ever seen, armed with cutlasses and pistols. They’re dressed flamboyantly in leather and silk, with golden hoop earrings and jewelry about their necks and fingers.

  “Orders, Cap’n?” one of the sailors says. Then you recognize the man, it’s Marlowe. And the seaman he addresses is none other than Rediker, now made captain.

  “Have Chips lead the careening on the Deleon’s Revenge,” he says, indicating a new name for the Cooper’s Pride. “Take a few others inland in search-o’-fresh water. Remember, Saltboots might be here somewhere, if only as a skeleton.”

  “And if we should stumble across a living, breathing Saltboots?”

  “Bring our former shipmate t’me. If Saltboots be alive, no doubt we could learn-o’-freshwater and food caches all the more quickly. Hell, if t’were me, I’d offer t’be our guide in exchange for a block-o’-cheese after a few weeks out here sucking on coconuts and turtle’s eggs.”

  They both have a good chuckle at that.

  • Seems Rediker might find your knowledge valuable. Step out of the jungle and return from the dead.

  • Haunt the men from a distance. These are pirates, after all.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  True Colors

  As ordered, the men abandon the top decks of the ship and rush into the hold. The African pirates are already here, waiting.

  “Barricade the door,” Rediker starts. “When they break in—”

  “No. Leave the doors open. Spread out; let them come,” you say. All eyes go to you. “We kill every last one, no prisoners. Just try not to get too much blood on the uniforms.”

  The bloodthirsty pirates grin, ready for revenge against the crown.

  “Lamps out,” Marlowe says, getting it.

  Boots clatter from above, announcing the arrival of the Royal Navy aboard your ship. Soon they rush below decks, scouring the ship for any sign of you. Waiting until the last possible moment, you cry, “NOW!!!” and the bloodbath begins.

  The naval soldiers were expecting a barricade, like Rediker had in mind—not an ambush from an inferior force. It’s a brutal battle in the confinements of the ship, but this is your home, and the crew of the Deleon’s Revenge have a decided advantage in the dark depths of the ship’s hold.

  “We must move quickly, once the fighting is over,” you say to Rediker. “The half of the crew who played at plague victims, get them into these naval uniforms. The other half—into irons. Find me an officer’s uniform. Are you ready for your debut as Captain Bloodbeard?”

  Rediker blinks, confused. Then a smile slowly creeps across his face.

  * * *

  Back out on deck, you move in the Lieutenant’s uniform, large hat pulled low on your brow. Marlowe, also dressed as a military man, lowers the pirate flag, raising the English colors in its place.

  “The ship is ours!” you cry out to the man-o’-war.

  The pirates in irons are lined up on the deck, put on their knees and held at bay by the remaining Royal Navy seamen. Or, at least that’s how it appears. At length, the commander of the Hornblower comes across to the Deleon’s Revenge to accept Captain Bloodbeard’s surrender.

  “So this is the rogue giving the colonies so much trouble, eh? Well done, Lieutenant!” the captain shouts, turning to you.

  Then his smile drops. At this, you raise a pistol to aim at the man and the pirates all stand up, tossing the unclasped irons away. Those pirates pretending to be Royal Navy seamen also follow on your signal, taking captive the naval captain’s entourage.

  “Actually, this is the rogue giving you so much trouble, Captain. Your sword, if you please.”

  Click to continue…

  Two Bits

  You climb out to the ship’s waist—the main deck for green hands that sits recessed between the rear quarterdeck and the fo’c’sle upper deck. The yardarm swings cargo down into the hold, and you nearly bump into the fleshy pink snout of an enormous sow. She squeals in your face, triggering further squeals of laughter from above.

  When you look up, you see a boy of about seventeen, thin as a whip, with hair of obsidian and tawny skin. He’s fair-looking and exotic, and gives a tilt of his head in response to your prolonged stare.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—you’re not…” you stammer, trying to find the words.

  “British? But of course I am! You’ll be this tanned too, in a month or so,” he says.

  Your face must be priceless, for he erupts in a new gale of laughter.

  “I’m Yousefah,” he says, his accent becoming plain. “From British India. Though most just call me ‘Joe.’ I’m the Bosun here on the Pride, so when I pipe me whistle, you come.”

  You nod and Joe produces a straight razor, then begins to dry-shave right there on deck. Captain Bullock haunts the quarterdeck, notes Joe, and shouts to Billy, “Mr. Greaves! Send the new surgeon to my cabin with his cutting shears. I’m in need of a haircut.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Billy cries in response.

  “The surgeon gives haircuts?” you say, thinking aloud.

  But Joe hears and answers, “Perhaps you think the captain is flaunting his own importance?”

  “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t be too quick to judge Captain Bullock,” Joe continues. “While it might look like a frivolous request, might be something more. He said new surgeon, did he not? Could he be ensuring the man better have a steady hand?”

  Before you have a chance to respond, Billy arrives at the bosun’s side. “Ho, there, Saltboots! Cap’n Bullock wants a word. Where’s the rest of ’em?”

  “Still below, I should think.”

  “Christ Almighty, we still got cargo t’be loaded before we can set sail! C’mon now!”

  Not much choice here:

  Best not keep Captain Bullock waiting…

  Under Pressure

  You go back to the watch, saved somewhat ironically, by a deadly storm surge. The sea swells, sending your stomach into a worse state than it’s ever been. If the carriage ride into London had left it unsettled, this storm now swoops in to leave your stomach downright conquered. You find a bucket meant for swabbing the deck and use the vessel to store your day’s vomited rations. And the storm is just getting started.

  Lieutenant Dalton raises the alarm. “Up! Every soul, and nimbly, for God’s sake, or we all perish!”

  “Up into the maintop! Take in the topsail!” Mr. Magnus adds.

  Rain comes down upon the deck in sheets. Gale-force winds pick up anything not battened down (nearly yourself included!) and lightning fractures an otherwise black sky. The crew—those who were on rest included—rush from below decks to help prepare the Hornblower to weather the storm.

  Some sailors notice you clutching your bucket, but few bother to give you a disappointed shake of the head. You’re no use here, not yet, and it’s speed that saves lives, so they’re content enough just to have you out of the way—for now.

  * * *

  That night was certainly the worst the storm had to offer, though a weather system does follow the ship for the next few days. The more superstitious of the sailors (that is to say, nearly all of them), start looking for something or someone to blame.

  And that night was just the start of the difficulties for you personally. Because of your position of Ward, you’re constantly asked questions you couldn’t possibly know the answer to, then berated for not
knowing anyhow. Lieutenant Dalton gives you extra volumes to read and study during your “free time,” but Mr. Magnus and the Master-of-Arms make sure you have none to spare by adding additional duties. Swabbing the deck, scouring the hull, and pitching new lines are added on top of your requests from Dalton, with both sets of supervisors demanding timely obedience.

  And sleep? A distant memory. The few times you’re afforded to lie down, either someone suddenly shouts or drops cannonballs or other equipment right over your head. And you could swear those same two conniving men are always smirking nearby when that happens. Either that, or Lieutenant Dalton has you woken and brought up to the top deck during your sleep shift to witness this or that procedure.

  You’d complain, but technically that is what being an officer candidate entails.

  As a result, you’re starting to fall asleep elsewhere: such as, while eating. Once, while using the privy. Worse, while on watch. You’ve already had two warnings, each time with a bucket of cold seawater over your head, and you’ve been told gravely that there won’t be a third chance.

  Every spare moment, you rack your brain, thinking for a way out of this predicament. They’ve done nothing wrong, according to the letter of the law, so you can’t go to the Captain. And your immediate supervisor, Lieutenant Dalton, is either in on it, or simply willing to turn a blind eye against their cruelty. What other ally do you have, save for a cousin who’s a common Tar.

  “Good God, coz. Ya look in an awful state!” James says, catching you at supper on the third day. “Are ye ill?”

  “It’s…” you start, taking a moment to consider your reply before going on:

  • “…it’s nothing. Just taking a while to ‘learn the ropes’ as they say. I’ll be fine.”

  • “…it’s the other officers. It’s like they want me to fail! I’m at my wit’s end.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  An Understanding

  Though the Jaguar does not understand your words, the calm, soothing tones cross the barrier from human language into the animal kingdom. Your body language, more than anything, is saying, “I am not your prey, nor you mine, we are two hunters who can live together in mutual respect.”

  The jaguar holds its ground and allows you to retreat.

  Granted, that could just be today. You’re still best to keep a roaring fire at night and look over your shoulder as you hike through the jungle. And watch your footing—nothing screams, “I’m prey!” like falling and flailing. Just ask that little piggy.

  Although this final lesson you’ll have to learn the hard way.

  * * *

  You’re hiking through the jungle, looking for signs of a larger pork population, when the underbrush goes out from under you. Falling into darkness, you lash out for a handhold, but just too late. You slam down at the base of a natural well. It’s not a manmade trap, for there are no spines at the bottom. Still, the fall was incredibly painful and it’s pitch-black down here.

  Anything broken? You don’t think so. Regardless, it’s best to take a moment to catch your breath before finding your way back out. What’s the best way out of a natural hole?

  • 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.

  • Like a starfish. With your arms and legs spread on opposite walls, you can totter your way up.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Universal Gravitation

  You must be coco-nuts to use a tree out in the open as shelter! Though this is the tropics, hypothermia is still a real danger and leaning against a tree offers negligible protection from the rain, while adding absolutely zero protection from the wind. You tuck your knees into your chest and shiver while the storm rages on.

  WHAM! A coconut blasts against the beach, sending wet sand into the air like a mortar strike. WHAM! Another coconut hits just off your foot, bouncing against your thigh with enormous force. These fruit pods are falling from fifty feet up, carried down by the storm with devastating speed.

  Then the final (as far as you’re concerned) coconut hits squarely upon your own melon, striking you dead with an instantaneous demise. You’ve now joined the exclusive, but very real, list of people unfortunate enough to experience Death by Coconut.

  THE END

  Unlucky

  Admittedly, there’s more to the game than a simple toss of the coin, but in only a few minutes, the outcome is the same as if you’d done just that. The dice clatter to the table, showing a loss for you. All that coin, gone!

  Wycombe takes a deep hit from his opium pipe and Monks divides your ante amongst the winners, while Argyle keeps tally on a scorecard.

  “You look as though you have an albatross about your neck,” Wycombe says. “Fret not, ’tis only money.”

  “Aye, wages come and go,” Argyle agrees.

  “But we ain’t scavengers,” Monks adds. “Double or nothin’, and ya could winnit all back.”

  They’re giving you a second chance, but at a double-or-nothing rate, you’d owe more than you have in your coin purse if you were to suffer another loss. Still, they don’t know that, do they? And if you win, they’d never be the wiser that you bluffed your way into winning your money back….

  If you want to say no, enough excitement for one night:

  • Cut your losses and return to the bar to wait for Cousin James.

  To try double or nothing, go again! The winning choice has been randomized, and the outcome of these choices may or not be the same. Play the dice/coin game again, or simply pick your luck of the draw:

  • Heads on the coin toss, or a one, two, or three shown on the die. Click here.

  • Tails on the coin toss, or a four, five, or six shown on the die. Click here.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Unprecedented

  “Ward, use caution. There’s much weight behind such words,” Lieutenant Dalton warns.

  “Indeed, words have weight, sir. Though I was simply on my rounds, as ordered, I’ll ask him again, directly: as the Master-of-Arms, are you actually accusing me of lying? Of spying, no less?”

  “I’ll not back down,” the man replies.

  “Geoff, please, this is not the—” Dalton tries, but the Master-of-Arms cuts him off.

  “If the Ward would challenge me to a duel, I accept!”

  Mr. Magnus says nothing, but smiles at such a prospect. Clearly he does not think your chances against the Master-of-Arms to be very great.

  “So be it,” the Lieutenant says with a resigned sigh. “I shall inform Captain Longwick of your intentions immediately.”

  * * *

  The raging storm postpones any thoughts of duels or satisfaction, but the Captain promises to address the issue first thing the next morning. That leaves you all night to think about just what you’ve gotten yourself into. The way the ship rollicks violently would forbid sleep anyhow.

  Did you think the Master-of-Arms would hope to avoid the conflict? Or were you just feeling cornered, with no other way out? It’s an awful storm that buffets the ship, but nothing compared to the tempest of dread within your soul.

  Cousin James tries to convince you to forego the duel, or at least forestall it, but you turn him down. “I’m sorry, Cousin. But I don’t think I can. Events are already in motion… if I were to relent now, these scoundrels would treat me all the worse for it—and now, with good reason.”

  James simply nods, knowing the truth of your words. An officer’s greatest asset is their word of honor, and so the same is true of an officer candidate.

  “I don’t know much about duels,” James confesses. “A common Tar cannot challenge a peer, much less an officer, so ’tis a privilege reserved to your own rank and file. Still—I can tell ya this: if ya rush the shot, you’ll miss. But so will the Master
-of-Arms. Maybe try to get him to rush and shoot first, then ya can take your time and aim true.”

  * * *

  The noontime sun shines brightly in the sky over the main deck. A fine day to die, an inner voice says darkly. The officer cadre has gathered to bear witness, with Captain Longwick in full dress uniform yet again.

  “The Commander’s Ward is not typically in a position to challenge an officer to a duel. Indeed, this is a highly unusual request. Yet as a Ward is not directly under the Master-of-Arms in the chain of command, it must technically be considered within regulation. If the aggrieved parties truly want to continue, I am in no position to deter this course,” Captain Longwick says, as much to you as to the gathered crowd. “Will neither party relent?”

  “My honor has been besmirched,” you say, the words leaden in your mouth.

  The Master-of-Arms clears his throat and offers, “Sir, your Ward ain’t nothin’ but a spy; I tell it true.”

  “Very well. Without resolution, there is little choice but to settle this in a gentlemanly fashion—by means of duel! We should traditionally attempt landfall, but I will not turn the ship back into the storm we’ve just weathered. Ten paces, one shot, then if both parties miss, to be decided with cutlass. First to draw blood will be declared the victor. Select your weapons.”

  Twin pistols—the Captain’s very own—sit inlaid in a velvet-lined case. They are ornately designed, but as will soon be proved, as deadly as they are beautiful. Once you each take a pistol, you march out your ten paces, heart thumping and stomach more sour than ever.

  When you turn, the world becomes calm and clear with the certainty of mortality lingering over you. The sun is brighter than you ever remember seeing it, the gulls seem to flap their wings one feather at a time, and the swell of the sea undulates as regularly as a metronome. That wave of calm washes over you as well, and your hand steadies on the pistol, despite the rolling of the ship beneath your feet.