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.