Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  “No woman of mine is going to dress like a trollop for all men’s eyes to see!” he had said. When in truth, he’d forbidden her to go out enough for anyone to see her at all.

  Odd that she felt like thanking him at the moment for that particular restriction since she found herself on a ship full of men.

  Something foul brewed in her stomach, and she sat for a moment and tried to level her light head, wondering when this nausea would stop. Fresh air. She needed fresh air.

  After splashing water on her face and pinning her hair up as best she could, Charity headed above deck. Sunlight blinded her as she took the final step onto the teetering planks. A blast of tropical wind struck her with more force than she’d been expecting, flapping her skirts and sending her hair flailing like an octopus.

  Whistles and catcalls bombarded her as she stumbled to the starboard railing and gripped the wood, praying she didn’t toss her accounts yet again in front of these men. Below, the sea churned and sloshed as sunlight flamed the tips of rising swells as far as the eye could see.

  “Sheet home. Lower Top Sails!” The captain’s voice bellowed behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder to see him nod in her direction. At least he wasn’t angry at her for ruining his boots. She wondered where Elias was but didn’t dare glance across the ship where she felt dozens of eyes boring into her. But then the captain shouted his name, something about bracing and bluntlines, and Charity couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the reply.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, she spotted him balancing precariously on a topyard, adjusting sail alongside four other men. Stripped to the waist, wind tossed his tawny hair while sweat glistened on a chest far too bronze for a preacher.

  He yelled something to the captain, who cursed in return before shouting another order up to him. With the ease of a hardened sailor, Elias slid down the shrouds and landed on the deck to assist a group of men who were tugging a line.

  Why was the captain working him so hard when he’d paid for their trip? More importantly, why was Elias allowing it? Either he was a fool or he was too weak to stand up to the captain.

  No. Not weak. At least not physically. Muscles rippled up his biceps and across his back with each heave of the rope like powerful waves of liquid steel glistening in the sunlight. Mesmerized, Charity couldn’t help but stare—continued to stare when he finished his task and headed toward her. Oh, my. Lord Villemont’s chest had never looked like that, rounded and firm in all the right places. The only deterrent to Elias’ Adonis appearance was the wooden cross hanging around his neck—a reminder of his vocation.

  When she lifted her gaze, his blue eyes absorbed her, twinkling with mischief. Half a day’s stubble peppered his jaw, making him look more rogue than rector. And she hated the blush that burned her face.

  “Good day to you, Mermaid Darling.” He slid beside her. “How did you sleep?”

  She frowned at his nickname for her. “Well enough,” she lied, still not looking at him as she took a step away.

  He glanced down at his chest. “Forgive my appearance. The captain keeps me busy.”

  “As I see. Why do you let him order you about?”

  He shrugged and leaned on the railing. “He needs the help. I need the fresh air. Besides, it gives me a chance to get to know the crew.”

  “And why would you want to do that?” Clearly they were beneath him in education and status.

  “Mayhap ’twould give me a chance to speak to them of God.”

  “Ah, yes, ever the preacher.” Charity huffed as the ship rose over a swell. She gripped the railing and eyed him. “Mayhap the men would listen to your proselytizing if they didn’t deem you a ninny for groveling at the captain’s feet.”

  He laughed. “My, my, the mermaid has a bite.” He rubbed his jaw, studying her. “And where, may I ask, has your stutter run off to? Blown away in the trade winds, perhaps?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Her intention with the affront was to dissuade any interest he had in her. But the blasted man kept smiling her way.

  “It comes and goes, if you must know.” she said. “Why are you not insulted by my remark?”

  “Do you wish me to be?” He grinned.

  “I wish you to have a backbone. Though I shouldn’t expect it of a preacher. ‘Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation.’ ”

  “Ah, impressive! The lady knows Scripture.”

  “Enough to know that God asks us to bend our backs to the taskmaster’s whip, to submit to the authority He places over us, to allow a thief to take the shirt off our back and then give him another. Following God creates weak men.” She curled her fists. Weak men who beat their wives.

  The wind blew hair in his face, and he snapped it aside. “An interesting interpretation, Miss Westcott.”

  “And yet you demonstrate the truth of it before my very eyes.” Grrr. Why was he still smiling at her? “How did you learn to handle sails, Mr. Dutton?”

  His smile remained—white teeth, all straight save one that was slightly crooked on his upper right side. “Here and there.”

  “Ah.” She raised a brow. “The preacher has secrets.”

  “No more than you.”

  “I have no secrets, Preacher. I told you why I’m here.”

  He leaned on the railing and cocked his head. “Have you?”

  Sails snapped overhead, startling her. “Are you really a preacher, Mr. Dutton?”

  “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “Who on earth do you preach to? Do you have a church hidden on one of these islands?”

  “The world is my church, Miss. I speak the truth to whoever will listen, sailors, natives, pirates …”

  “Pirates?”

  He glanced over the glistening sea. “It might surprise you to know many are quite receptive to the Gospel.”

  “It would surprise me. I have rarely seen such interest among the finest of gentlemen.”

  “Mayhap you’ve been associating with the wrong gentlemen.”

  “On that I will agree.” Her stomach gurgled and she placed a hand atop it.

  “You look pale. Have you broken your fast this morning? The ship’s biscuits are barely edible, but they are better than nothing.”

  “Thank you, but I doubt I can eat anything.”

  “Mayhap the captain has some ginger for your mal-de-mer?”

  “A preacher and an apothecary.” She bit her lip, finding herself more than curious about this preacher. “Do tell, is your goal to save the entire world from hellfire?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Mr. Rigley!” Captain Littleman shouted. “Mr. Nelson! Shorten sail! Stand by to take in main course!” His gaze found Mr. Dutton. “Mr. Dutton, quit dawdling an’ get back to work!”

  But instead of complying, Mr. Dutton stared up at the sails, his expression one of bewilderment and alarm.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  He shoved his hair back. “For all his supposed years at sea, Captain Littleman has very little understanding of wind, currents, and sails. With the direction and force of our present wind, hauling in the main before the topsails could cause excessive heeling and weaken the upper spars.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “Some of his men know what they are doing.” He glanced over the sea. “But the Windward Passage is not the safest place in the world. Filled with pirates, smugglers and the like. Ships are easy prey sailing between Cuba and Saint Dominique.”

  Charity hadn’t considered such dangers.

  She must have looked worried, for he added, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He reached to touch her hand.

  She instantly pulled it from the railing and leapt back.

  “If you keep acting like your husband has the pox, people will start to suspect.
”

  Releasing a sigh of frustration, she studied him. “You seem like an honorable man, Mr. Dutton. I appreciate that you behaved the gentleman last night, and I pray your honor continues. But there is no need to pander, protect, nor pamper me further.”

  “Mermaid darling, I rarely pander or pamper, though protect I’ll own up to. And I’ve been known to preach on occasion.”

  She gave a tight smile and gazed out to sea. “I forbid you to do that as well.”

  ♥♥♥

  Captain Littleman yelled once again for Elias to return to work, but he wasn’t ready yet to leave the elusive Miss Westcott. Elusive and baffling. One minute her courage astounded him, the next, she shrank from his touch like a skittish mouse. And where did her mistrust of God come from—the bitterness and anger that sharpened her eyes and barbed every word when she spoke of the Almighty and preachers, in particular? Equally baffling was her nightmare, screams that had woken him and nearly sent him to her bedside. But not wanting to add to her fright, he remained still, lying on the deck, listening to her cries for mercy, her whimpers of pain, and then a song … a nursery rhyme whispered on a distant prayer.

  Before she woke with a shout of agony.

  The man in him longed to take her in his arms and protect and comfort her. The preacher longed to open her eyes to a God who was both Father and Friend. But Elias did nothing. He’d merely said a prayer for her then. And another one now as she lifted her face to the wind and closed her eyes.

  “Mr. Dutton!” Captain Littleman’s shout intruded on his chance to admire her beauty without her notice.

  Wind fluttered her brown hair, dark and rich like mahogany, the sun luring out reddish-gold streaks he’d never noticed before. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to another lady with lustrous dark hair. Rachel. Yet Miss Westcott was nothing like her. Miss Westcott comported herself like a lady, modest in her attire, adhering to strict morals. Nary a flirtatious bone existed within her, repulsed even by the attentions of men. She was an Admiral’s daughter who cared about her family and longed to be with them again. Just like Elias.

  Such wit and banter! She never failed to surprise him. Regardless of why God had brought her into his life, Elias must change her mind about the Almighty.

  Another shout from the captain, and Elias sighed in frustration. He bid Miss Westcott good day and headed for the ratlines when “A sail! A sail!” blared from above.

  Leaping into the shrouds, Elias made his way to the tops where he hoped to borrow the glass and study the advancing ship. Thankfully the sailor complied, and while bracing himself against wind and wave, Elias leveled it on the sails, seeking the ensign that would identify the nationality. There. The red blue and white of England flapped from the masthead.

  But something was wrong.

  Elias had been at sea his entire life. From the moment he could stand without falling, his father Rowan had assigned him duties on board his ship, The Reckoning. Then as Elias grew, his father taught him how to tie lines, climb the ratlines, furl and raise sail, tack, heel to, navigate shoals, man the wheel, the pumps and a host of other tasks. But most of all he taught him to trust his gut, his instinct, and the Spirit of God within him. And at the moment, that Spirit was twisting his stomach into a knot. One more glance through the glass confirmed his suspicions. He knew that ship. ’Twas the twenty-gun French ship of the infamous pirate Charles Vane.

  Chapter 7

  Cupping his hands, Elias shouted “pirate!” down to the captain, but the man merely stood there, feet spread apart, hands fisted at his waist, and ever-present pipe stuck in his mouth. Finally, he grabbed the telescope from his first mate Nelson and leveled it on the horizon.

  Elias made quick work of the shrouds and ratlines back down to the deck, and—noting the fear on Miss Westcott’s face in passing—dashed to Captain Littleman.

  “Captain, ’tis Charles Vane. I know his ship.”

  He plucked the cold pipe from his mouth. “Ye do, d’ye, and how d’ye know that?”

  “I’ve sailed these seas many years, Captain. My father has done battle with the man.”

  “Yer father?” The captain chuckled. “An’ who might that be?”

  “Captain, we are wasting time.” Elias glanced over his shoulder at the advancing ship, foam curling up her bow and sails heavy with wind. “Rowan Dutton. My father is Rowan Dutton.”

  The ship pitched over a wave, and Captain Littleman gripped the binnacle, a snarl on his lips. “The pirate turned preacher? Joined up wit’ those Hyde missionaries, if I remember. Ye be his brat, eh?”

  Elias bristled at the term. “Captain, please. The madman gains.”

  Perching the scope on his eye again, the captain shook his head. “I don’t see nothin’ suspicious. Just a British merchantman same as us.”

  Elias groaned. “Then why is he fast on our heels?”

  “I’m guessing because he’s not got a hold full o’ goods same as us. Oh, very well, ye nag me more than me own wife.” He turned to Nelson who exchanged a harried gaze with Elias. “Ready the guns just in case.”

  “Aye aye, Captain. Sakin!” Nelson leapt down the quarterdeck ladder. “Load the guns!” Several men darted across the deck, some dropping below.

  Wind blasted over them, thundering sails above and whipping Elias’ hair against his face. He shoved it aside. “I would raise all sail to the wind if I were you, Captain. With luck we can outrun him.”

  Captain Littleman’s chest expanded as if it would burst open at any moment. “I’m Captain here, and I’ll do as I see fit! Now, off with ye. Back to work!”

  Elias grimaced, standing his ground. The man was naught but a toad, a toad full of hot air—a toad that would get them all killed.

  “Captain, if I’m right and this is Vane, you have no doubt heard of his cruelty to captured sailors.”

  “Leave me quarterdeck at once, Mr. Dutton!” Spit flew from the captain’s mouth. “One more word an’ I’ll chain ye to the keel. I’ll thank ye to remember that ye are but a passenger on board me ship. ” He pointed his pipe toward the main deck. “Go tend yer lovely wife. She looks a bit distressed.”

  Nelson returned, gave Elias another glance that said he agreed with him, then took up a spot beside his captain.

  “Clew up the main topsail!” Captain Littleman shouted across the deck.

  Elias could hardly believe his ears. “But Captain, that will slow us and give him the weather edge!”

  “What did I say about one more disrepectin’ word from you!”

  Elias knew he meant it. Blasted Fool! He stomped down to the main deck, glancing back at Nelson and then over the hustling crew. Why did they obey the man when ’twas obvious they bore him no respect? If only Elias could get them on his side. Mutiny. He shook his head. What was he thinking? Yet, how could he protect Miss Westcott and the crew if he had no power to do so? Frustration mounting, he slipped beside the lady and studied the ship approaching fast off their starboard side.

  “You must get below at once, Miss Westcott.”

  “Why?” Her voice bore the tremble of fear. “What is the matter?”

  “We are about to be attacked by pirates.”

  ♥♥♥

  Pirates? Did he say pirates? Charity stared after Elias as he leapt back into the ratlines and climbed to the tops as if he’d been doing it all his life. Swerving her gaze to the advancing ship, she shielded her eyes from the sun and studied it more carefully. Not that she would know a pirate ship from any other, but weren’t they supposed to have black flags with scary things like bones and knives and hourglasses on them? And what about cannons? Shouldn’t there be a row of them pointed their way and a host of scary-looking men mobbing the deck. She saw none of those things as the details of the ship came into view. Just a few sailors attending their duties and a man with a floppy hat standing at the wheel.

  The sun’s rays spired down upon her. She rubbed the back of her neck as perspiration slid beneath her gown.

  How would a pr
eacher know such a thing anyway? Surely Captain Littleman had more experience in these matters. She’d heard—in fact, the entire crew had heard—their argument of only moments before. Drawing a deep breath, she gripped the rail as the ship plunged over a wave yet again, spraying her with salty mist—a welcoming cool mist. Sails hammered above, and she glanced up to see several canvases flapping lifeless. The ship veered to larboard and more canvas sagged, slowing their progress.

  The captain cursed, and the crew hurried to haul lines and adjust yards.

  The advancing ship gained.

  Perhaps she should go below. She started to do just that when Elias sped down the ropes again, and the first mate shouted, “They’ve run out their guns, Cap’n!”

  Charity heard the words, but either the wind or her good reason tore them from her mind. Everything…slowed…down…as if the world moved through molasses—the rise and fall of the ship, the movements of the sailors, the flap of sails. Even the shouting became muffled … distant. ’Twas like a dreamworld that one watched from afar. Certainly not reality, for she couldn’t possibly be standing on the deck of a ship that was about to be blasted to bits. She gazed over the starboard railing and noted with curiosity that the advancing ship had doubled in size. The dark muzzles of more cannons than she could count stared at her like vacant eye sockets of death from the underworld.

  “All hands down!” The voice was Elias’, muted yet strong. The hands were also strong as she felt herself forced to the deck and his body cover her like an iron blanket.

  Thunder quivered the sky. An eerie whine sounded overhead, followed by an explosion that trembled the ship like an earthquake.

  Smoke and charred oakum filled her nose, burned her lungs. She coughed. Time sped up now. Her iron shield abandoned her, and she found him leaning over the side and cursing under his breath.

  He helped her to her feet, his blue eyes stark with fear. “Get below!” He didn’t wait to see if she complied as he stormed up onto the quarterdeck and charged the captain.