Cun-eche Yámawe
Episode 1:
Quartermaster: Drake Timberline
The Devil’s Storm
November 8th, 1723
Captain’s Log: The situation has worsened. Since Captain Lennox Graymane and his fleet of royal bootlickers engaged us off the coast of the Keys, Captain Ashton “The Woodsman” Barclay has deftly rode the westerlies, piloting the Woodman’s Wake and the rest of his fleet along the eastern seaboard of the Americas.
His intention was to reach the tip of the Floridian panhandle and then sail to the Bahamian islands where he could resupply and lie low in waters much friendlier to those of the pirating profession. Barclay’s hit-and-run fleet ships are considerably faster than those of the Royal Navy, allowing us to stay ahead of pursuing naval ships. Until today.
Royal Navy Captain Rowan Blackwell anticipated Barclay’s maneuver, approaching with his fleet from the Bahamas, cutting off Barclay from the Bahamas. The naval battle was fierce. The Trinity and the Rose sank under the fire from Greymane and Blackwell’s ambush. Barclay saw an opportunity and fled along with the Hangman’s Ghost and Neptune’s Lightning, heading north along the eastern coast.
Barclay has stared out from the bow of the Wake for several hours. It does seem hopeless. The mighty fleet of feared Captain Barclay decimated. Food and grog dwindles from this extended chase. If Barclay flees too far North, he will run straight into the strength of the Royal navy.
The crew grumbles.
“Mayhap if we strike our colors, they’ll spare the lot of us.”
“Bah! Fool’s talk. The Royals hang every sea rat they catch, just to wet their bloody flags.”
“Then what? Charge headlong into their blasted cannons? Or drift ‘til the sea takes us? We’re in a right cursed bind, we are — led to ruin by none other than Captain Barclay hisself!”
Typically the aforementioned grumbling wouldn’t be tolerated, but the countenance on the ship has changed. Something must change soon. If not, mutiny may destroy us before hunger or sword.
Quartermaster: Drake Timberline
The Woodsman’s Wake
November 10th, 1723
Captain’s Log: These mountains are miserable.
Yesterday, the Lightning peeled off from the Storm and the Ghost, raising the flag of parlay. Blackwell’s ships circled the Lightning, accepting the surrender. Suddenly dozens of cannons from the ship cut loose, the Lightning disintegrated under the withering deluge of fire. Agonizing screams echo across the waves, intermittently drowned out by cannon fire and the spontaneous report of small arms fire peppered in, the royal sailors picking off the surviving members of the Lighting crew. The poor souls of the doomed pirate crew crawled up the sinking ship, grasping for anything to keep them out of the cold dark waters, or out of the line of sight of a sharp-shooter. It was man crawling over man, although it was all in futility, each man falling to a lead ball or a watery grave.
Graymane’s fleet continued on to hound the remaining Wake and the Ghost, leaving Blackwell’s ships to continue to tear at the sinking ship, like a shiver of sharks circling the carcass of a fallen whale.
The weight of reality settles over Barclay’s crew and the grumbling ceases. The desperation of survival sets in and the crew man their stations with a quiet intensity. The crew of the Ghost must have shared this focus on preservation, faithfully trailing behind the Crown. Barclay stares out over the bow, unmoved.
“We have to abandon the ship,” mutters Barclay. The deck goes silent, everyone freezes.
"DID YE NOT HEAR ME, YE WRETCHED SCALLYWAGS?! HARD TO PORT! READY THE LIFEBOATS! BARRELMAN—SIGNAL THE GHOST! MAKE READY TO STRIKE FOR SHORE ON MY MARK!" screamed Barclay. The crew scrambled as Barclay scanned the shoreline.
“There,” said Barclay pointing at an inlet with a sand bar running across the mouth of it, “we’ll run them aground there, blocking that limey bunch from following us in. The landing party will have to blow through our ships or paddle around. Quartermaster, full speed ahead!”
Later, that afternoon the Wake struck the sandbar. It felt like the deck was yanked out from under our feet. The crew soon steadied themselves and stood ready by the lifeboats. The Ghost followed shortly after. As soon as the ship came to a halt, the crew quickly dropped the lifeboats and began desperately rowing towards the shore. Barclay hopped aboard our lifeboat, the last sailor to step off the Wake.
We had barely begun rowing before Greymane’s fleet opened fire. The Wake and the Ghost took a few shots but were quickly reduced to splinters. Lead shot and cannon balls whizzed over our boat. Others weren’t so lucky. Most of the rifle shots were ineffective, but the cannons were more accurate. It was hell. Many of the lifeboats were ripped apart by cannon fire, and several more that weren’t capsized among the raucous waves. Around 300 pirates from the two ships were reduced to less than a hundred by the time we reached shore, cruelly snatched from this mortal coil like fresh hatchling turtles vainly scurrying away from cruel predators. The rest of us made like the lucky devils we were and fled into the woods, running from the screams and death that lay behind us.
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Episode 2:
Quartermaster: Drake Timberline
The Devil’s Storm
November 11th, 1723
Captain’s Log: These woods are miserable. After escaping Greymane, we tore through the brush like hunted rabbits—only we were torn like the hounds. Briars lashed our skin, underbrush snagged our boots, and every step felt like a fight with the forest itself as we ascended up the mountain.
“NOW ME BOYS,” cried the Woodsman, “TURN AN’ FIRE ON THE CHASERS WHILE THEIR BLOOMERS BE DOWN!”
Several riflemen stopped just within the tree line and wheeled about, loosing a sharp volley at our pursuers. Greymane’s sailors were hot on our trail in their landing craft, however, the sudden volley of musket fire caught them off guard. Their rowers dropped to the hull for cover. Two of the boats capsized outright, dumping their crews into the cove. Cheers rose from our ranks, and more pirates spun around to fire their pistols wildly at the floundering navy men.
Greymane’s fleet answered with a terrible thunder. Cannons boomed from offshore, cannon balls tearing into the coastline and scattering the momentarily emboldened pirates. I saw cannonballs exploding through the forrest—and worse. One grizzly shot tore straight through a sailor’s chest and exploded against a red cedar, shattering the trunk. The trunk splintered, dropping the tree and pinning half a dozen scrambling men beneath its limbs. I tried to free who I could, but the cannon fire was relentless. I was forced to leave the weaker wallowing beneath the branches, bid on by the withering barrage.
The scattered and bloodied pirates eventually reconvened on an outcropping near the top of the mountain. Numerous pirates lay wounded on the ground. The wounded lay where they fell, groaning low—a chorus of the defeated, sung by a choir of the maimed. While one could argue that living another day was victory in and of itself, the retort would surely be that if living was the victory, then the game was not quite over yet, and even still, the outlook for these poor souls was mighty dim.
I arrived in the outcropping’s clearing in the wake of the Woodsman, who stormed into camp matching the afternoon’s cannon fire with the roar of his own voice, barking orders before his boots even stopped moving.
“YOU TWO, GATH’R FIREWOOD FOR THE FIRE AND MAKE IT QUICK OR I’LL CLEAVE YOU TO THE BRISKET, SAVVY?” cried the Woodsman, striving to maintain an air of control amongst an atmosphere of chaos.
He turned, eyes flashing like lightning, as Ashgourd Flintlock—captain of the Hangman’s Ghost—stumbled into the clearing with three of his loyal crewmen at his heels.
“YOU T’REE,” roared Barclay, pointing with his long, shining dirk, “GRAB ONE-TOOTH COLBY AND SCOUT A PATH INLAND. GATHER WHAT YE CAN—BE GONE ‘FORE NIGHTFALL!”
“NOW WAIT JUST A MINUTE,” barked Flintlock in return. The frantic buzz around the camp immediately froze, the collective breath of the survivors held, hanging on the next words out of Flintlock’s mouth.
“Speak,” murmurs Barclay, voice low and tight, eyes locked with Flintlock’s.
“We’ve followed ye ‘round the world,” Flintlock said, gravel in his voice. “I’d follow ye to the gates of Davy Jones’ Locker. You’ve always led us ther’ and back ag’in. But I won’t follow another pace ‘til we speak plain. Our boats are lost. Our men—gone. Our stores—gone. We’re buried in this god-forsaken forest. Greymane’s marines are likely licking their chops for us, like dogs on a leash. They could even come tonight.”
“Do ye question my command, Ashgourd?” The Woodsman’s tone turned sweet as poisoned honey, daring Flintlock to walk the dangerous line of dissent.
“No,” Flintlock answered, steady and resolute. “But my crew looks to me. I sail under your banner, and am proud to do it—but I answer to my own men as captain. I hope you’d consider the same for yours.”
Flintlock pauses, chewing over his next words carefully.
“I agree we should stick together, less we fall separately. However, if the time comes, I will consider the well-being of my crew my highest priority.”
The Woodsman holds Ashgourd’s gaze, considering the words he said turning them over in his mind. Then he chuckled—low, dangerous, and knowing. A captain with such camaraderie with his crew could not be crossed—not now, not here. An internal struggle would doom them all.
“As ye should, Mr. Flintlock,” Barclay said, the fire cooling in his voice. “Come. Let us plot our next move.”
The two captains strode off, disappearing just beyond earshot. Behind them, the buzz of striking camp came alive again, men resuming their work under the dying sun.
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Episode 3:
Quartermaster: Drake Timberline
The Devil’s Storm
November 12th, 1723
These woods are miserable. The rain began in the early morning hours, a never ceasing torrential downpour that beat the remaining life out of the poor souls trapped on the mountain top. The dark skies of night changed into the dark gray clouds of a rain-soaked day. The pirates did what they could to preserve what little rations they had, laying over various coniferous trees in an attempt to block the rain. Despite their efforts, water leaked through the rough thatch cover, dripping on the newspaper wrapped hard tack and salted meats. The pirates ate what they could of the meat, but the tack had quickly turned into a gritty paste.
The scouting party that the Woodsman sent out the previous afternoon had not returned. Ashgourd would frequently draw up his coat and wander to the edge of the camp, staring off into the forest, searching for the delinquent scouting party.
“They should have been back hours ago,” exhaled Ashgourd, the concern for his men written across his face.
“They’re just bedded down,” mused the Woodsman. The pirate lounged beneath a craggy overhang and puffing on his pipe, rolling his finger through the silky smoke like he didn’t have a care in the world. “A dolphin wouldn’t come out in this downpour.”
“Even so Mr. Barclay,” growled Ashgourd through gritted teeth, “I would like to know the welfare of my men.”
“Why of course, Mr. Ashgourd,” replied the Woodsman, seeming to ignore the tension through a veneer of charm. “Send your five finest.”
“I will be accompanying the envoy,” says Ashgourd tightly, “along with two of my men, your quartermaster, your choice from your crew for our last man, and three days worth of rations.”
“Mr. Ashgourd,” answered the Woodsman with false injury, “untrusting are we?”
“Just equipping us for our best chance of success, Captain,” replied Ashgourd, strapping on his sword and picking up his double-barrel shotgun, slinging it across his shoulders.
“I see,” says the Woodsman slowly. “Master Atley accompany Captain Ashgourd on his errand, and do make sure they return safe and sound.”
From beneath a rough hemlock shelter, a young pirate emerges from under a leather long coat, which was several sizes too big. Despite being lanky, moving awkwardly across the camp, there was a grit in his stare. Not the best candidate, but he would do.
“Well then, good luck!” says the Woodsman with a sinister glint in his eye.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Our envoy plunged into the woods in the early afternoon after collecting three-day rations for each man. The rain had not let up, and the sound of the precipitation was relentless. Atley, despite his appearance in camp, moves naturally among the trees, like a tall willow swaying gently between the trees. Ashgourd had him take point, leading the group with a small eyeglass and scout rifle.
The rest of the group spreads out in a slightly convex line behind Atley. We walked all day, searching over hills and dale, through woods and fields. One of Ashgourd’s crew, a strapping sailor named Harrison Thorne who worked for his father as a trapper and pelt hunter as a younger man, scoured the woods for “sign” of the missing scouts. Occasionally he would stop and examine a skinned twig, or a disturbance in the mud, but the continuing rain made tracking the scouts nigh impossible.
At the top of a hollow, Thorne examines a small tree closely, then shakes his head. “Its hard to tell, any trace of them was probably washed away in the monsoon,” said Thorne, exasperated. “We’re losing light and this is a losing cause in this weather anyways.”
Ashgourd stares around, considering the situation. Spotting a small crag running down the side of the hollow, Ashgourd calls the party together.
“We’ll bed down there for the night. Mr. Timberline, Mr. Thorne, we’ll work on making us some shelter,” directed Ashgourd. Ashgourd points to his other sailor Curtis Sweet, the master cooper on the Ghost and menace at the card table, “Mr. Cooper, take Mr. Atley and gather us some firewood.”
…..…………………………………………………………
I sat in a large oak tree right above our campsite, nestled in a fork midway up the tree. The cold steel of Atley’s scout rifle chilled my hands. The rest of the rescue party slept below me, circled around the roaring fire. The woods were silent, the only sound being the leftover rain water drip, drip, dripping onto the forest floor below. The full moon cast a silver light over the forest, creating a stark contrast between moonbeam and shadow.
Sitting out there for hours, sometimes the shadows seem to move, specters moving from one patch of darkness to another. Surely, just a trick of the brain.
But then I saw it. A single moon beam pointed straight at me, locked upon my person. The beacon sent a chill down my spine, my heart dropping into my stomach. I clutched the scout rifle tightly and dared not to move. After what felt like hours, but was truly minutes, the shining at some point disappeared, although I could not say when. It’s was like light disappeared by fading into the deep darkness.
Shortly, my curiosity overtakes my fear. Not to say that I was fearless, indeed, I trembled like a wind blown tree. But I had to know. Whether it be a friend, our list comrades or someone who could help, or a foe, a angry native, naval scout, or something worse, it was worth the risk. I scrambled out of the tree quietly, and cross the campsite. I didn’t want to wake anyone, surely this was all the machinations of a sleep deprived young sailor.
I picked up a rough made torch, a sap soaked handkerchief wrapped around a dry branch, and tucked it in my belt, and set off into the woods. I dared not light it. I made my way through the woods by moonlight, staying in sight of the campfire. I cross over into the next hollow and am nearly knocked down by the smell of death. I cover my nose with my shirt, nearly gagging.
I walk several paces when something solid clips my forehead, passing overhead and knocking my hat off. I hear a creak, like a rope under weight. I can’t refrain any longer, I strike a match and ignite the torch.
Before me hangs the eviscerated body of one of the pirate scouts. His leg had been torn off, sinew and tissue hung loosely from the remaining stump. The ragged wound looked as if the leg had been chewed off. Five scratches tore across the torso, allowed various entrails to fall out, dangling below the pirate’s belt, a shining silver buckle, reflecting beams from the moon.
I stood, staring in horror. And then I heard the gunshot.
