Ulysses Dixon

Authority is a solvent of humanity: look at any husband, any father of a family, and note the absorption of the person by the persona, the individual by the role. Then multiply the family, and the authority, by some hundreds and see the effect upon a sea-captain, to say nothing of an absolute monarch. Surely man in general is born to be oppressed or solitary, if he is to be fully human; unless it so happens that he is immune to the poison.
—Patrick O’Brian, “H.M.S. Surprise”

Ulysses Everett Dixon (Quiddity Harpooneer)

Statistics
Age: 33, Nationality: American, Birthplace: Philadelphia 1811.

Combat

Skills
Accounting 5%, Anthropology 10%, Appraise 20%, Archeology 5%, Art/Craft (Blacksmith) 20%, Art/Craft (Carpentry) 60%, Art/Craft (Cooperage) 30%, Art/Craft (Ropework) 65%, Artillery 65%, Charm 30%, Climb 40%, Credit Rating 50%, Cthulhu Mythos 2%, Demolitions 65%, Disguise 5%, Fast Talk 25%, First Aid 45%, History 20%, Hypnosis 1%, Intimidate 70%, Jump 15%, Kingsport Cult 5%, Law 10%, Leadership 60%, Library Use 20%, Listen 45%, Locksmith 5%, Mechanical Repair 75%, Medicine 10%, Natural World 25%, Navigate 45%, Occult 10%, Operate Heavy Machinery 50%, Persuade 20%, Pilot (Boat) 70%, Psychology 30%, Read Lips 5%, Renown 5%, Ride 45%, Science (Astronomy) 10%, Science (Meteorology) 15%, Seamanship 65%, Sea Lore 40%, Sleight of Hand 5%, Spot Hidden 65%, Stealth 10%, Survival 35%, Swim 10%, Throw 65%, Track 10%, Whalecraft 70%.

Description

A rugged, wiry man with a hatchet-shaped face and a muscular frame, your most striking feature is a pair of ice-blue eyes. You favor naval-style dress, your old pea-coat still keeping you warm after all these years. You walk with a slight limp, but disdain to even notice it, though occasionally you’re disgusted to find yourself absently using a harpoon as a crutch. An emotional man, you find it hard to mask your feelings. While this makes you a poor gambler, you pride yourself on being an honest seaman!

History
Born in Philadelphia in 1811 to a well-to-do family, you always knew your destiny was to be an officer in the United States Navy. Your father was first lieutenant onboard the President during the War of 1812, before losing his leg in combat with the Endymion. Your uncle is a surgeon on the Constellation, and your grandfather served under John Paul Jones in the Revolution. So it was with great joy and satisfaction that you first stepped onboard the U.S. man-of-war Leviathan, a young midshipman from an illustrious family of heroes. A 44-gun frigate, the Leviathan had distinguished itself in 1812 by capturing the HMS Macedonian. You couldn’t have been more proud.

However, your happiness was soon tempered by a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Although you discharged your duties well, and were quickly commissioned as a lieutenant, something was amiss. The reason for your unease was simple, even if a civilian might not understand it: there was a terrible absence of war. How could a man truly test his mettle during such peaceful times? It was a concern shared by many junior officers, including your friend Lieutenant Alan Loveless.

The Black Island
One afternoon in 1831 the Leviathan boarded an unusual trio: a harried-looking commodore, a taciturn man rumored to be an intelligence officer, and a special attaché from Miskatonic University. The Leviathan was instructed to rendezvous with two other warships, the Vandalia, an 18-gun sloop, and the Independence, a 90-gun ship of the line. Your destination was an uncharted island in the South Pacific.

Upon reaching this nameless rock, you were ordered to blockade the island’s only ingress—a small cove scooped from its cliffs of towering basalt. After rowing a detachment of marines to the black sands of the beach, you returned to the Leviathan and waited. And then you waited some more.

A week later, three British men-of-war appeared over the horizon, and you beat to quarters. You were just as mystified as the rest of the crew. The United States had been at peace with England for almost two decades; and yet here you were, ordered to prevent British access to a godforsaken island of black cinders in the middle of nowhere. For three days the Brits maintained their distance, but on the fourth morning they began pushing closer. The Independence fired a warning shot across the bow of their flagship, the HMS Chester Todd. They continued their advance, replying with a warning shot of their own. Captain Selvagee gave the order to open fire, and the British eagerly returned the favor. For the first time, you saw action!

It was not what you were expecting. Cannonballs crashed into the deck, flinging deadly splinters with the force of arrows. Men were torn asunder by grapeshot and explosive charges. Your guns spoke, and spoke loudly, but when a smoldering ball of British iron smashed into the neighboring gun crew, you were astonished to find yourself holding someone’s severed arm. You heard someone remark that the Vandalia was sinking.

The battle raged on, unfolding in chaos and terror. The Independence was on fire, the Leviathan couldn’t turn properly, and the British were sending waves of boats into the cove. When you were ordered to reinforce the beach, you were horrified by the stink of your newly-discovered fear. Your boat seemed to take forever to reach the shore, and you were drenched with sweat and spray from the occasional near-miss. Your men anxiously looked to you for leadership, but you could barely meet their eyes. Arriving at the beach you found only confusion. The British were everywhere, many appearing just as astonished and terrified as you were. The first enemy you encountered raised his cutlass, and you fired your pistol in his face, blowing his fingers from his sword and removing half his skull. A Royal Marine charged you, and you skewered him with your sword. You just stood there, staring in shock at the blood spurting over your hands, the dying man’s words muffled by the ringing in your ears: “Sorry about that, sorry—Jesus mate, what’ye do that for, Jesus, I’m sorry.” You were dimly aware that your men were acting around you, with or without your orders. And to be truthful, you couldn’t recall your exact instructions. Reinforce the marines, yes, but how, where, and why? Suddenly you toppled into the black sand, your eyes fixed on the overcast sky. The last thing you remember was the sky fading out and narrowing to a point, like a magic lantern show preparing to flash “FIN.” Someone, thankfully not you, felt an agonizing pain in his leg.

When you regained your senses, you were back onboard the Leviathan. Your leg was splinted and bandaged, and your questions went pointedly unheeded. Your mouth tasted like metal. A surgeon named Dr. Talbot kept mentioning morphia, a strange and beautiful word… Later they took you on deck for fresh air. The black island was nowhere to be seen; nor were any other ships. Then it was back to the morphia…

After you were strong enough to sit up in bed, the taciturn intelligence officer entered your cabin and delivered the final shock: you were required to sign a legal document assuring your total secrecy. In the name of “national security,” you would never be allowed to speak of the mysterious island, the British warships, or the ensuing battle. You would be given an honorable discharge and a handsome pension. No mention was made of your cowardice in battle, nor were you allowed to see the men you had failed. Asking after Lieutenant Loveless, you were told that Alan was well, but you were forbidden to see him.

And that was the end of your career in the Navy.

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace from the Sea
When you returned to Philadelphia, you were bitterly unsurprised to find no news of the event in any newspapers, American or British. It was as if it had never happened. And worst of all was your wounded leg—you were under orders to repeat the ignoble excuse concocted by the Navy: that you injured your leg in a training accident. A training accident! You were, in effect, humiliated. Not only were you a disappointment to your family, you knew in your heart of hearts that you had finally encountered peril, and had folded like a coward. Your nerves were as shattered as your leg.

With nothing left to do but regain your health, you took up carpentry, your father’s postwar trade, and learned to cobble together benches, wardrobes, tool sheds, fancy beds. Things for women and lubbers. Kindly, your family suggested you return to sea as a carpenter; they insisted that your career didn’t have to be over. Your father even volunteered to write the Navy, to get you reinstated. But you knew it would be to no avail. And carpentry—? But you had to escape somehow, you had to free yourself from dry land and flee your shame. After two years of convalescence and constant exercise, your leg had healed enough to be seaworthy; although it remains subject to painful “lock-ups” at unpredictable moments. Travelling to Kingsport, you subjected yourself to the most dreary and punishing work the sea had to offer: you signed onboard the Celaeno—a bloody whaler. As the ship’s carpenter. As a goddamned idler.

Reborn In Blood and Iron
Fortunately, luck would finally break in your direction, and you found yourself lowering after the first whale sighted. A midship oarsman had slipped in the excitement and cracked his head, and the third mate asked if you could “pull a fucking oar.” But you did much more than that. As the whale was approached, the harpooneer, a man named Doyle still green to the iron, froze in the face of the monster’s frightening bulk. Without hesitation, above the violent oaths of the mate, you tore the harpoon from Doyle’s hand and pitched it into the side of the whale. Not knowing to discard the second harpoon connected to the whaleline, you were almost killed when it shot overboard! The mate cheered, the boat jerked ahead, and the chase began. From that moment onwards, you were a harpooneer.

What mad ecstasy raced through your body when you stood against the gunwale and released the iron! What pure euphoria! That night you wept in joy, years of released tension unknotting your clenched heart. You faced the whale, for the first time, and you defied it! Here was a hunt to test any man’s mettle. And so you began rebuilding your toppled courage, one butchered whale at a time. After this first illuminating voyage, you immediately shipped on the Electra, returning to Kingsport a highly successful boatsteerer.

Dixon and the Quiddity
In 1841 you signed the articles of the Quiddity, reputed to be the most “fishy” whaler in the Kingsport fleet. The voyage began promisingly, with Captain Joab leading you from one fat whale to the next. You were the second mate’s harpooneer, a young man named Elijah Watts, and you made an efficient team. He even let you wield the lance once or twice, teaching you to pierce the life of the Beast with your wicked steel. You were also aided by the ship’s blacksmith. An odd fellow named Leland Morgan, he had invented a new harpoon toggle: upon impaling the whale and snapping the wooden pin, the barb swiveled perpendicular to the shaft, ensuring a greater purchase. With Morgan’s ingenuous gig, your steady arm, and Watt’s capable leadership, the Quiddity filled with barrels of lucrative oil. Indeed, the last few whales you harpooned were the largest you’d ever seen, great black monsters that put up a satisfying fight.

On the homeward leg of your voyage, the Quiddity encountered the prodigious white whale sailors call Mocha Dick. After two long days of chase, you finally lowered. The monster quickly turned upon its pursuers. It was an unmitigated disaster. Captain Joab lost his leg, Chief Mate Warnock was flung into a stupor, and Third Mate Whipple’s boat was lost at sea. Having never pulled close to the beast, only your boat emerged unscathed. Elijah Watts was forced to take command of the Quiddity while Joab was delirious with fever.

After searching in vain for Whipple, the Quiddity headed home, but was becalmed during a week of doldrums. On the 29th day after the disaster, you miraculously found the third mate’s boat, but only Whipple and a sailor named Joshi had survived. They claimed the others were killed by Mocha Dick during the attack, and they had staved off starvation by harpooning a shark. After stopping in Valparaíso for repairs, the Quiddity sailed for Cape Horn. With Whipple restored and Watts in command, you helped by serving as unofficial “fourth mate.” Tragically, your friend began losing his hold on sanity, and you watched helplessly as Watts collapsed under the burden of command. As a tempest buffeted the Quiddity around Cape Horn, Watts finally snapped, lashing himself to the helm and singing nonsensical songs. You tried to help, but he accused you of “conspiring with the devil.” Just as the ship threatened to capsize, Captain Joab roused himself from his sickbed and saved the day. Watts was confined to his bunk for the remainder of the voyage, prevented from raving by grog and laudanum. The Quiddity returned to Kingsport on August 15, 1844. Elijah Watts was taken to Mercy Hospital, where you visited him a few days later. The poor soul didn’t even recognize you.

This upcoming voyage is your fourth whaling expedition. Although you’ve finally regained your nerves and repaired your honor, your encounter with Mocha Dick has shaken your renewed confidence. You’ve been having nightmares in which you face Leviathan’s wrath and, as you did upon that cursed black beach, become paralyzed with terror. You’ve decided to address this fear the only way you know how—by throwing yourself into the storm and pushing yourself to the limit.

Roleplaying Dixon

You are a shrewd, cunning, and capable man, with the capacity for expansive moods ranging from fierce joy to smoldering rage. Your tales of life in the Navy have earned you the nickname “Lieutenant” among the greenhorns and “Old 74” among the seasoned whalers. Although you served aboard a 44-gun frigate—twenty-eight guns shy your sobriquet—both nicknames suit you fine. After all, you’ve been a part of something most whalemen will never understand, and you’re secretly pleased they hold you somewhat aloof from a trade institutionally scorned by the Navy. Despite a distaste for the dirtier aspects of your new profession, you treat your shipmates as brothers-in-arms, and you are well-liked and respected by all.

Of course, no one suspects your darkest secret; that you quailed in the face of combat. This shame remains alloyed to your deepest core, and makes you doubt your own motivations. For that reason, you are the first to volunteer for hazardous tasks, driving yourself relentlessly and sometimes foolishly. This reputation for reckless bravery is most evident during a whale hunt, and your comrades have remarked that you’ll do “anything” to land that iron. The truth is, you’ve come to despise whales. But that hatred is a complex mixture of fear, awe, and shame. Every hunt is a trial, a test of your mended courage. Will you face the Leviathan and laugh at death? Or will your shatter into pieces, cracking under pressure and causing the death of your men—once again.

And of course, that day in 1831 remains a perpetual source of curiosity and anger. What was on the Black Island? And why can’t you ever tell of it?

Forming Relationships
You find it easy to make friends, both among the officers and the foremasthands. You have a rough-and-tumble side to your personality, and value action and physicality over reflection and book-learning. While technically only a boatsteerer, your natural talent for leadership has served you well, and the men consider you a “fourth mate.” Indeed, you were learning much under Elijah Watts; and you feel his absence sorely. There’s no doubt you should have been promoted to third mate. You had decided not to ship out again from Kingsport, but ol’ One Button Jake offered you the 65^th lay, and guaranteed you an immediate jump to second mate after this voyage. Still, the slight has made you a little disgruntled, a sentiment you share with P.H. Whipple, whose career has likewise been stifled in its natural advancement. This dull sense of resentment binds you together, and if Whipple treats you like an officer instead of a boatsteerer, that’s only your due. It’s fair to say that you begin the scenario with an unmerited antipathy for Mr. Joseph Coffin, whose addition to the ship’s articles is the cause for your grievance. Still, it’s not Mr. Coffin’s fault, is it?

Dixon’s Goals
For the first part of the scenario, you have only one goal—to show to everyone that you’re not just an excellent harpooneer, but a natural-born leader. You will try to distinguish yourself as best you can, and if that means irritating Mr. Coffin or your fellow harpooneers, so be it. The important thing is that you have the support of the men, and of course Captain Joab and First Mate Pynchon. After all, if something happens to one of the officers, fate may once again place you in the right place at the right time. As the scenario progresses, your goals may change—but that would be spoilers, right? (Hint: there may be a White Whale and a Black Island…)

Mythos Knowledge
Your Cthulhu Mythos score is negligible; only your knowledge of the Black Island gives you any foothold in that forbidden door. To you, Cthulhu is a tongue-twister, and Dagon the name of a pirate ship your grandfather sent to the bottom of the waves.

Possessions
Your sea-chest is a work of art, created during your convalescence in Philadelphia. Not only does it sport beckets of perfect ropework and carved panels depicting glorious naval battles, the chest is fitted with a false bottom. (Any snoopers must make a Hard success on a Spot Hidden roll find it.) This secret compartment hides several personal items: a journal that includes a detailed description of the events of 1831 and a sketch of the mysterious Black Island, some silver Chinese taels worth $150, two flasks of rye whiskey, and a pair of flintlock pistols. The first is your father’s .54-caliber Simeon North 1826 Navy pistol, complete with handsome black varnish and brass pan. The second is a rare treasure: a fully-engraved “Doune” Highland pistol, crafted by Christie & Murdoch in 1752. Your grandfather took the steel pistol from a British officer during the Revolutionary War, and it’s remained a family heirloom ever since. Both guns are clean, secured in oilcloth, and are stocked with extra flints, twelve rounds of shot, and adequate powder. You’ve shown nobody these illicit weapons, but you won’t hesitate using them under the right circumstances. The “public” interior of your sea-chest contains a (largely unread) Bible, an excellent set of carpentry tools, a few pages of pornographic French woodcuts you acquired in a trade from Elijah Watts, and a collection of wood carvings you’ve fashioned when idle. Not counting your hidden silver, you begin the scenario with $100 in cash and banknotes, but your family name could certainly secure you a loan.

Notes & Inspirations for Ulysses Dixon

If White Leviathan were a movie, Dixon might be played by William Fichtner, or “Sully” of The Perfect Storm. Or perhaps a younger Robert Shaw—imagine Quint from Jaws when he was still a sailor onboard the USS Indianapolis. Players looking to understand Dixon’s Navy background are encouraged to sample Patrick O’Brian’s “Jack Aubrey” novels or C.S. Forester’s “Horatio Hornblower” books. The former inspired the excellent movie Master and Commander, the latter the worthwhile television series, Horatio Hornblower. There’s also Herman Melville’s novel White-Jacket. A somewhat critical look at the Navy, the novel was inspired by Melville’s experiences onboard the USS United States, the real-life model for the USS Leviathan. As far as Dixon’s passion with the harpoon, Moby-Dick is all you need!

Special Thanks
Special thanks to Kelly Ohanessian, who played Ulysses Dixon during my own run-through of White Leviathan. Kelly was utterly fearless, embracing every weakness and foible of the character with good cheer—a long-running series of terrible dice rolls didn’t hurt, either. While only a few player characters survived the campaign, Dixon had the most memorable death—being killed, cooked, and served up as a feast for his enemies at Abaddon! Also thanks to Chris Gross, who played Dixon for the first time during a demo game at NecronomiCon, Providence.

Opening Moves

Materials
Dixon begins the game with two handouts: “Period & Setting 1844-1846” and “Main Glossary.” At the Keeper’s discretion, the player may be provided with additional material about sailing ships, whaling, nautical customs, and Kingsport history.

Starting Position
Having returned to Kingsport on August 15, Dixon spent a few days carousing at the Knotted Iron, happy to have survived the tempest around Cape Horn. He then took the train from Arkham to Philadelphia. After two months with his family, he returned to Arkham refreshed and ready to sail. At 9:00 am Sunday Morning, October 27, Dixon boards the coach to Kingsport. The coach is scheduled to arrive at South Hill Station at 10:00 am.

Adventure Hooks
The following scenarios provide engaging ways for Dixon to begin the adventure in Kingsport. Some represent obligations, while others are optional. The player may wish to discuss them with the Keeper before gameplay begins.

Reunion with Morgan
Leland Morgan kindly allowed you to store your sea-chest at his lodgings in Kingsport. Morgan is a queer fellow, and you’re pretty sure you’re his only real friend. Still, he’s a fine blacksmith, and his toggle gig is the most effective harpoon you’ve ever used. Upon arriving in Kingsport, you plan to meet Morgan at the Knotted Iron and raise a few pints of Innsmouth Stout.

Find Lodgings
You plan to stay in Kingsport for nearly a week, so you’ll need lodgings. There’s King Timmy’s Hotel, the cheap flophouse where Morgan is staying; the Knotted Iron, which rents rooms above the tavern; and the Kingsport Hotel, a respectable boarding house frequented by officers. You could probably afford a room at the fancy new Hotel Poseidon, but you’d rather save the money for recreational pursuits!

Visit Elijah Watts
When you last saw Elijah Watts, he was mad as a hatter. Maybe he’s recovered his wits over the last two months? You should look into his condition.

The Tradition
You’re a handsome fellow, and you’ve never had any problems with the ladies. Although your parents believe you should marry, what’s the point? You’re not ready for children, so why leave a pretty young wife stranded on shore? But you do enjoy the company of women, particularly girls of easy leisure. Port Judies, nurses, and laundresses are one thing; and captain’s daughters are quite another—but nothing soothes a man’s soul before a long journey like a night with a real woman, a talented woman. You’ve followed this “tradition” since your Navy days, and you think it’s time to kick it up a notch. You have never been to the Starry Busk, but it’s reportedly the most fancy brothel north of Boston. You’ll need a bath and clean clothes, and probably ten to twenty dollars, but Lady Jezebel’s girls are supposed to be the best that money can buy—and what use is money at sea?

White Leviathan > Player Character Profiles
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Author: A. Buell Ruch
Last Modified: 12 November 2021
Email: quail (at) shipwrecklibrary (dot) com
White Leviathan PDF: [TBD]