The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  Only a fool would risk everything for a woman.

  Kent gazed into the canopy stretched above him like a massive web of green. Monkeys scampered across branches, chattering warnings. Multicolored birds of all sizes flitted between the branches, their ear-piercing twitters raking over him. Patches of dark blue broke through the maze as the sun stole the light from the sky in its descent. It had been a long day. Kent’s feet ached. Sweat saturated his shirt, and the bites from a multitude of bugs spotted his bare skin and began to itch. He was hungry, thirsty, and miserable, but all he could think about was how Isabel and Frederick were faring under these conditions, or if they were faring at all. His terror increased with each step he took, and he prayed God would keep them safe and lead him to them.

  Besides Kent’s nagging fear, the worst part of the journey had been having to stare at Sawkins’s back. If Kent had his way, he’d never have to gaze at any part of his brother again. The man had done naught but blubber and complain all day long—a constant annoying whine that matched the buzz of the mosquitoes in Kent’s ears.

  Thunder growled in the distance, and a light mist sprinkled over them as they entered a small clearing. “We’ll stay here tonight,” Kent ordered, hearing the sighs of relief behind him.

  “Egad, ’tis about time.” Sawkins stormed to a nearby log and plopped down. “I thought I would be reduced to a puddle of sweat.”

  “One can only hope.” Cutter said, swatting at a bug fluttering about his head.

  Sawkins stood and took a step toward the doctor, his hand grabbing for the cutlass that no longer hung by his side. His face reddened as he fumbled through his clothes for any other weapons, then he blew out a sigh.

  Cutter raised his brows, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Not so tough without your sword, are you, your lordship?”

  Kent stepped between them. “Sparks, Sawkins, gather wood for the fire.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Sawkins thrust his chin out.

  “Do you wish to eat?” Kent asked.

  With a flex of his angular jaw, Sawkins turned and followed Sparks into the brush, both soon returning with armloads of wood. While Kent knelt to start the fire, Hoornes and Cutter laid out the water pouches—recently topped off at a creek that had crossed the trail—some dried meat, and an assortment of fruit the men had foraged along the way.

  Hoornes rubbed his hands together and plucked his rat from his pocket. “I’m starvin’.”

  Dragging a dead log to the fire, Kent sat and tugged off his boots, stretching his toes in the stagnant air. A bright red and orange bird flew overhead, drawing his attention, and he watched as it landed with ease on a nearby branch, turned its head, and stared down at him with one eye. He half wondered if the fowl were a spy sent by Morris to see who dared follow him. Kent wished it were so, because that would mean Isabel was close by. His heart leapt at the thought. In fact, his whole body yearned to jump up and find her. But the men were tired and the jungle too treacherous at night to traverse.

  Sawkins brushed dirt from a log and sat down, grabbing some meat. Cutter took his place beside Kent, while Hoornes and Sparks settled upon the leaf-strewn ground.

  Sawkins scowled and pointed to Hoornes’s rat, scampering over the pirate’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let the filthy beast go free?”

  “Because we need you to lead us to Morris.” A slight grin twisted Cutter’s lips as he snatched a piece of meat.

  Sawkins narrowed his eyes.

  Glaring at Sawkins, Hoornes took the creature into his hands and began stroking its back.

  The men dove into the food, giving Kent a moment of silence, save for the smacking of their lips as they ate, and the buzzing of the forest. Taking a swig of water, Kent scanned the jungle as dark shadows draped over the trees and shrubs. The scent of moist earth and fragrant flowers surrounded him. He plucked a yellow fruit from the pile and bit into its sweet, juicy pulp.

  Sawkins tossed a laugh toward Kent. “Do you really believe, Captain, that your men will return for you? They have your ship and your treasure. Why, if I were them, I’d be long gone by now.”

  “Lucky for me—and for them—they are nothing like you.” Kent offered him a jeering grin, but behind his smile, the pain of Sawkins’s statement cut deeper than Kent wanted to admit. All he’d worked so hard to achieve these past years could be gone. Without his ship, his treasure, and the power they gave him, he would be reduced to nothing once again. Then even if he found Isabel, what could he offer her?

  Thou shalt have no other gods before Me. The words of the first commandment fired through Kent’s mind.

  “Honor among thieves?” Sawkins’s laughter interrupted his thoughts. “My dear, naive brother, how have you managed to remain captain of your own vessel all these years?”

  Kent flung his hair behind him. “I don’t see your ship anywhere.”

  Cutter chuckled, and Sawkins curled his lip.

  “Don’t listen to ’im, Cap’n,” Sparks adjusted his eye patch. “The men be wit’ ye to be sure.”

  Kent nodded as gray smoke from the fire spiraled upward and disappeared into the darkness. The woodsy, charred scent filled Kent’s nostrils.

  Hoornes rose and rummaged through one of the packs, pulling out a bottle of rum. Uncorking it, he sat and took a swig before passing it to Sparks.

  “So we shall arrive tomorrow?” Kent turned a suspicious eye toward Sawkins.

  “Yes, though I cannot promise they will still be there.” He shifted his gaze away from Kent. “But I can bring you to the place Morris intended to take them.”

  “Hmm.” Cutter grabbed the bottle from Sparks and took a sip, then held it to Kent.

  Kent shook his head. He needed to remain alert. Besides, he had a notion God did not approve of his over-indulgence in the pungent liquid, and he intended to curb his appetite for it from now on.

  Thunder rumbled, sending a growl rolling through the forest.

  Kent wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and prayed the evening would assuage the stifling heat.

  The fire flickered over Cutter’s face. “I hope they are unharmed.”

  “Rest assured, your lover is quite safe,” Sawkins taunted. ”She’s been in on this from the beginning.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Kent said.

  Ignoring Sawkins, Cutter swallowed. “I am still baffled that she declared her love for me in the presence of her father. What audacity.” He grinned and shook his head.

  Sawkins flapped his stained silk shirt against his skin. “Do you truly believe any woman would want to live her entire life looking at your hideous face? Faith, she was only being kind—a fickle emotion oft found among females.”

  Frowning, Cutter plucked his pipe from a pocket, filled it with tobacco from his pouch, and stuck it in his mouth. Then grabbing a burning twig from the fire, he plunged it into the bowl and lit it. As the smoke coiled upward, a shroud of gloom seemed to wrap around him.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Kent said, his stern gaze shooting from Sawkins to Cutter. “He’s an impudent fool who has no understanding of women. Otherwise he’d be able to keep one for himself.”

  Sawkins blew out a gasp.

  “Hard to believe Hann be a girl,” Hoornes piped in, tipping the bottle of rum to his lips.

  “Indeed. She had me fooled.” Kent rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  “A common occurrence since your birth.” Sawkins smirked.

  “Yet who was foolish enough to be tricked by both Morris and Morgan?” Cutter raised his brows toward Sawkins and puffed his pipe.

  A chortle arose from Sparks that was quickly silenced by Sawkins’s fierce gaze.

  Kent stretched his feet toward the fire and crossed his arms over his chest. “My half brother has always suffered from a bloated confidence unhindered by his many limitations.”

  “Indeed?” Sawkins face swelled red. “We shall see who has limitations.”

  Shaking his head, Kent gazed into the jungle. A black cu
rtain had dropped over the scene, leaving only dark shadows in its place. He could make out nothing save what the circle of firelight afforded him.

  Hoornes drew a pack beneath his head and lay down upon it, setting his rat on his chest. Taking one last swig of rum, Sparks corked the bottom, set it aside, and eased to the ground in a heap. Soon, their snores rose to match the drone of the night insects.

  “Perhaps you should get some sleep as well,” Kent said to Sawkins, hoping he’d take the hint and spare them his annoying company.

  A frog hopped into the firelight next to Sawkins, and without hesitation, he raised his boot and crushed it.

  “Cruel.” Cutter shook his head.

  Kent groaned. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Pish, that’s the difference between you and me.” Sawkins ground his boot into the frog’s remains and looked up, his eyes aglow with mischief. “You’re too soft. Don’t you remember what Father taught us? Control and power—that’s the way to succeed.”

  Kent threw a log into the fire. Yes he did remember his father’s words, all too well. They haunted him day and night. Had Kent been that cruel once? Had he crushed the weak and defenseless beneath his boot just as Sawkins had done to that poor frog? Kent hung his head. Forgive me, Lord. Make me a new man. Even as he silently breathed the words, he knew the change in him had already begun.

  With a grunt, Sawkins stood, shifted his log away from the fire, and stretched out on the ground beside it, closing his eyes.

  Kent snatched a stick and poked at the flaming wood.

  Cutter seemed lost in his own thoughts as he smoked his pipe and stared into the flames. Finally he said, “I fear I may not find sleep tonight. I am worried for Hann and Lady Ashton.”

  “As am I.”

  “What do you suppose Morris intends to do with them—especially Lady Ashton?”

  “I prefer not to consider it.” Kent rubbed his eyes.

  “Do you think of her often?”

  Often? She consumed his thoughts, day and night, and even more since he’d gotten to know her and love her. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost her. But he wasn’t ready to admit such weakness to his friend. His thoughts drifted to Frederick. “Did you see my son?”

  “A fine boy, to be sure.” Cutter nodded.

  “Fine? Why, he’s magnificent.” Kent grinned. “A true pirate’s son.”

  Sawkins cleared his throat from where he lay. “You’re a bigger fool than I assumed if you think that fine lady will ever want a common pirate like you. Why, you have nothing to offer her.”

  “And you do?” Kent replied curtly, cursing under his breath. Why hadn’t the villain fallen asleep and given them some peace?

  “I have noble blood.” Sawkins kept his eyes shut, but crossed his arms against his chest. “And the title that goes with it—something you can never boast of—and if I’m not mistaken, something the lady highly values, especially for her son.”

  “So that’s the bait with which you trapped her.”

  “’Twas no trap, Brother. Why, she nearly gave herself to me in the hold of your ship.” Sawkins propped himself on his elbows. “If you hadn’t come along…” He sighed, shaking his head, then grinned with malicious delight.

  “That was you!” Kent lunged toward him. Clutching the collar of his shirt, he nearly lifted him off his feet. “You frightened her half to death!”

  “Frightened?” Sawkins managed to sputter, despite the clamp Kent had on his neck. “I assure you, she desired me as much as I desired her.”

  Kent tossed him to the ground and began searching the camp.

  Laboring to sit, Sawkins rubbed his throat. “We shall see where her affections lie when we find her.” A hint of a grin played on his lips.

  Fury tore through Kent. He’d had enough. Must he suffer this man’s impertinent tongue all night as well as all day? Grabbing a bundle of rope from the pack, he stormed toward him. Sawkins’s eyes widened, and he fumbled to stand. Kent flipped him over and wrenched his arms behind him, binding his wrists together.

  “What is the meaning of—” Sawkins’s protest was stifled by the handkerchief Kent thrust inside his mouth.

  Wide-eyed and groaning, Sawkins scrambled to his feet. Kent shoved him toward a tree lining the clearing. Then forcing him to the ground, Kent wrapped the rope about his waist and yanked it tight, knotting it to the tree.

  “Now, will you go to sleep?”

  Ignoring Sawkins’s muffled curses, Kent returned to his place by the fire and joined Cutter. One look at each other sent them both rolling in laughter.

  Hours later, after Cutter had drifted off to sleep and Sawkins’s groans had faded, Kent stretched back onto a log and laced his hands behind his head. He stared up at the patches of stars sparkling amidst the trees and wondered if God was looking down on him. Doubts flooded him. Had his encounter with God on board the Restitution been real? Did the God of the Universe truly love him and care for him as a father does a child? Then why had Isabel and his son been taken from him? He sighed. Perhaps he deserved no less for the crimes he had committed. But not Isabel. She had done nothing wrong. I don’t understand, God, but if You’re there, please help me find them.

  The hint of a glow brightened behind Kent’s eyelids. The chirping of birds called to him in his slumber, but another noise rose to prick his nerves—footsteps, then the swoosh of leaves. Feeling for the knife strapped to his thigh, Kent grabbed it and sprang to his feet. Muttering, Cutter labored to sit, while Sawkins groaned from the tree that held him captive. Hoornes and Sparks still snored in the distance. Hoornes’s rat curled up beside him.

  The birds stopped chattering.

  Kent scanned the jungle, just a faint blend of green in the early dawn. Nothing. But he knew someone or something was out there. Holding his knife before him, he lowered his gaze and searched for his baldric and pistols on the ground. Spotting them, he stooped to grab a pistol when the jungle exploded around him.

  Slowly, Kent straightened. The camp was surrounded by half-naked men, brandishing spears.

  Chapter Thirty

  Agony of Loss

  Isabel trudged back into the pirate camp, dragging her feet through the mud along with her hope. Morris and Hann marched behind her.

  “I knew you weren’t to be trusted, girl,” Morris spat as he pushed past Isabel and stomped into the clearing.

  Isabel’s heart clenched. What would Captain Morris do to Hann now that she had openly disobeyed him?

  “I didn’t wish to defy you, Father, but the lady has done nothing to deserve the punishment you intend.”

  “That is for me to decide.” Grabbing a stick, Morris squatted and poked at the fire, igniting the coals. “Egad, sit down.” He gestured toward the logs the pirates had dragged around the fire. “’Tis my guess none of us will be sleeping tonight.” He threw more sticks onto the rising flames.

  With care, Isabel lifted the sling from around her neck. Then cradling Frederick against her chest, she sat on a log. His eyelids fluttered but he did not awaken. Nor did the four pirates who remained lost in their slumber, strewn across the ground like sacks of stale meal.

  With a shaky sigh, Hann dropped beside Isabel.

  Morris stood and warmed his hands over the blaze, although Isabel couldn’t imagine why. Prying her damp gown from her body, she prayed for a whiff of a breeze to cool her roasting skin. Smoke filled her nostrils, and she turned her head and coughed, tightening her grip on Frederick.

  Snatching an open bottle of rum, Morris raised it to his lips and downed several gulps. Then wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he leveled a piercing gaze at Hann. “I thought better of you for your brother’s sake.”

  Hann shook her head. “You haven’t been listening to me.”

  “’Tis you who should be listening to me!” he stormed, purple veins budging in his thick neck. “I’m your father.”

  The fire popped, and Isabel jumped, thinking a pistol had been fired. She squeezed Frederick, tryi
ng to still her frantic heart.

  Morris sank onto a rock and leaned the bottle on his thigh, staring into the flames. He seemed more disappointed than angry. Isabel’s nerves began to uncoil even as she noticed that sadness clung to him as heavy as the air. Despite his threats, a tender spot for him bloomed in Isabel’s heart. He’d suffered a tremendous loss—one she’d only been threatened with thus far.

  Perhaps if he spoke about his son it would help ease his pain, not to mention diminish his need for revenge.

  “Captain Morris,” Isabel gulped. “Tell me about Johnny.”

  “I’ll not be telling the likes of you about my son.” Morris scowled and gnawed his lip.

  “If I’m to suffer for his sake, I beg you, do not deny me the comfort of knowing what type of man he was.”

  Morris grunted and poured another draught down his throat. He lowered his gaze and kicked his boot into the dirt. The silver in his hair gleamed in the firelight, and Isabel noticed for the first time that a corner of his right ear was missing—an injury normally hidden beneath his hat.

  Finally, he raised his moist gaze to Hann. “Johnny was a fine lad, wasn’t he, Annie?”

  Hann smiled. “That he was, Father—the finest.”

  “He was only one and twenty.” His fiery eyes landed on Isabel. “About your age, and already a pirate captain.” Despite his anger, pride rang in his voice. “A good captain he was.”

  “Who’s to blame him, with you for a father?” Hann declared.

  Isabel gazed down at Frederick. She could not imagine loving him for twenty-one years only to lose him in a horrific mishap.

  “He sailed with Morgan and the Brethren in the raids on Porto Bello and Maracaibo,” Morris continued, staring into the fire. Then he lifted his bottle in a salute. “A fine pirate.” He took another swig.