Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  Nelson cleared his throat.

  A breeze struck Elias, cooling the sweat on his neck. Aye, Nelson would be a good addition to his crew. Though he was as wiry as a vine, he had more than proven his physical strength. Plus, he had a good knowledge of seas and sailing. Why, just an hour ago, he’d spotted a ship following them that no one else had seen. Thankfully, after close inspection, it turned out to be a British merchantmen and nothing to worry about.

  He faced the first mate. Besides, mayhap God was sending Elias another soul that needed saving. “I don’t see why not, Mr. Nelson. I could use another man of your caliber. As long as you don’t mind that, along with transporting goods, I have also been known to preach and privateer.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Cap’n. Thank ye.” He touched his hat as if he’d once been in the navy and turned to leave but halted at the sight of Miss Westcott emerging from below.

  Elias thought he saw the man grin from ear to ear before he sped off. He couldn’t blame him. Even with her soiled skirts and unkempt hair fluttering about her in the wind, she was lovely. Her eyes met his and his heart leapt in hope she’d given up her mistrust of him after last night. But instead, she lifted her chin and strode to the railing, yards from where he stood.

  Ignoring the pinch to his heart, he ordered the remainder of the sails furled and the anchor dropped, and soon the Enmity slowed to a halt as close as they could get to land without grounding her.

  “Mr. Rigley.” He called the second mate over to him. “The ship is yours.”

  The second mate’s eyes widened along with his gap-toothed smile. “Aye aye, Sir. Thank ye Sir. I’ll fix her up an’ get her sailing quick as a wench can—”

  “I know you will,” Elias interrupted and nodded toward Miss Westcott, instantly silencing the man. “Godspeed to you, Rigley. Miss…my wife and I will be taking a boat ashore.”

  “Aye, Sir, I’ll have one lowered.”

  Within minutes, Elias found himself in a jolly boat alongside Nelson, Miss Westcott, and two sailors.

  She spoke not a word to him as they rowed to shore. Nor when he assisted her onto the wharf. In fact, the baffling woman uttered a simple, “Thank you, Mr. Dutton,” before clutching her skirts and proceeding down the dock toward town. Thank you! That was all he received for the trouble she caused him—the lies he’d told, the sacrifice of sleep to keep her safe, last night when he’d held her during her nightmare. Thank you?

  He followed her down the dock onto the street and grabbed her arm. “Miss Westcott, I know you have no money for passage on another ship. I will happily take you to Charles Towne, but I must stop at Barbados first.”

  He waited for her quick agreement. After all, what choice did she have?

  “And just how will you take me there? As your wife again, I suppose?” Spite stung in her tone, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.

  So, he attempted humor. “Was it such a bad experience?” His grin only caused her scowl to deepen. He rubbed the back of his neck and studied her, perplexed as usual. “Nay, as my guest this time.”

  She laughed and glanced over the city. “Guest? Vapors. You are captain for a few days and you act like you have your own ship to command.”

  He quirked a brow, too angry to correct her. “Miss Westcott, Kingston is no place for a lady alone.”

  “It looks harmless enough.” She shielded her eyes from the sun as a pig chased two chickens not a yard from where they stood.

  “’Tis not like Portsmouth. Kingston is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Hmm. Another Biblical reference, Preacher?” She started on her way. “I can take care of myself,” she shouted over her shoulder with a wave of her hand.

  Elias resisted the urge to fling her over his shoulder and take her to his ship. He was no longer a pirate and even when he was, he’d never stooped to kidnapping ladies.

  Though, in truth, he’d never been tempted so strongly to do so.

  However, he wasn’t a man to beg. And he seemed to be doing a lot of begging with this lady. After all, he still had some pride left, the good kind, the male kind. Though the thought of never seeing her again was slicing a rent in that pride at the moment. But what could he do?

  “You can find me on the Restoration when you change your mind,” he yelled after her. “But I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.”

  She didn’t respond, just kept walking. An innocent dove strolling into a lion’s den.

  Whispering a prayer for her safety, Elias headed to his ship. He hadn’t time for this. His sister Rose could be in a great deal of danger by now, and every minute was a delay in coming to her aid. His parents would never forgive him should tragedy befall another of his sisters on his watch. He would never forgive himself. He’d already been delayed enough by Captain Littleman’s incompetence.

  He cast one last glance at Miss Westcott, but the crowd had swallowed her whole.

  It wouldn’t take her long. She’d speak to the wrong person, enter the wrong building, and she’d be running back to him, begging him to take her with him.

  Or so he hoped.

  ♥♥♥

  With every step Charity took away from Elias, her nerves cinched tighter. Half of her—the foolish, gullible half—longed to run back to him and take him up on his offer to bring her home. Two years ago she would have done just that. She had done just that. With another man equally as kind, gentlemanly, and pious. And look where that had gotten her. Men were not to be trusted. Especially religious men who were too good to be believed. No one was kind. Everyone was out for themselves. If only she could get that through the ridiculous romantic half of her that still dreamed of happy endings.

  At least she had other choices now. Truth be told, she never thought she’d had other choices. At first she’d been too humiliated to leave her husband, too worried she’d bring irreparable shame to her family. Then after her family left for the colonies, she’d been too frightened to leave Lord Villemont and wander the streets of Portsmouth penniless. Yet here she was in a place far worse. What had changed? Had she grown stronger? Or had her fear of being enslaved again overcome her fear of starvation? Either way, she was at the mercy of the fates.

  Or of God—if He bothered to take notice.

  For my babe, God. For my babe. The innocent growing within her.

  Weaving around a peddler hawking some kind of fruit, she started across the street and stepped in a pile of horse manure. Warmth sludged over her foot as flies buzzed up her legs. A man passed her and chuckled.

  Precisely her point. No happy endings here.

  Extracting her shoe from the smelly muck, she forged ahead and drew a deep breath. Now, what was she to do? On the rare occasions her father had been home, he’d taught her to be strong, independent-minded—though she was a female—and resourceful. Tears were not allowed. Shows of weakness were scoffed at. Though still mere girls, she and her sisters had run the house in the absence of her mother and had run it like a tight ship.

  Gathering her resolve, Charity stepped onto the porch of a chandler’s. She needed money. Women had few opportunities to make a living in this world, most of which were too immoral to mention and even now caused a blush to heat her cheeks. Ignoring the strange looks by passersby, she shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the harbor—a turquoise sea of silver-tipped waves, upon which over a dozen ships rocked. Perhaps she could sign on with one of them heading to Charles Towne as cook or cabin steward. Nay. They would never accept a single woman aboard for anything but … well, she’d already gone there.

  She wondered which ship was the Restoration. Perhaps Elias was even now booking passage aboard her. But what did it matter?

  Putting the thought out of her mind, she started down the street and came upon the Skinny Goat Tavern. One peek through the glassless window revealed a clean, well-lit place that served both drink and food. Several women ate with their husbands and even a few children wandered about. Charity could certainly serve food or even sweep t
he floors if necessary. She cringed at how far she’d fallen from the wife of a Viscount with a healthy fortune and a bevy of servants. But she wouldn’t trade a lifetime of servitude for one more day trapped in Lord Villemont’s clutches. Besides, it would only be for a short while until she could procure passage home.

  Lifting her head high, she entered through the open door and searched the room for the person in charge. That must be him, the well-dressed man standing by the back table shouting at a group of workers. Of course she had no way of really knowing. She’d never been in such an establishment, nor in a pub or punch house—all places her father had warned her never to enter. Then after her marriage, Lord Villemont rarely allowed her to leave the house. Perhaps she was naïve, but how hard could it be to walk up and ask for work from the proprietor?

  She stopped before the man and waited for him to finish shouting orders. But they weren’t orders. The man told a vile joke which Charity was glad she hadn’t heard from the beginning. The three men surrounding him—who suddenly didn’t look like workers at all—bent over laughing when suddenly their eyes latched upon her and widened in desire. The man telling the joke faced her, his brows lifting.

  “Are you the proprietor of this place, Sir?” she asked.

  Which sent the men, including the joke-teller, into another bout of hysterics.

  “Ole Jamaica Jim ain’t the proprietor o’ nothin’ ’cept his next mug o’ rum!” one of the men slurred out, eliciting further chuckles.

  Only then did the foul odor of stale spirits reach her nose. She started to leave, but the man clutched her arm and drew her back. The perspiration on her neck turned to ice as she stared into cold, foggy eyes, brimming with malevolence.

  “I’ll be whate’er ye want, Missy.” He wiped drool from his mouth with his sleeve.

  Keep calm, Charity. Keep calm. Never show your fear. “I’m looking for employment. If you’re not the proprietor, would you be so kind as to point out who is.”

  Again the laughing.

  “I’ll be happy t’ put ye to work, Missy.” The man ran fingers through his slick, dark hair, then adjusted a rather lavish silk cravat, the posh attire defying his unschooled speech. “How’s about comin’ upstairs wit’ me. I’ll compensate ye fairly.”

  Fury boiled, devouring her fear. Just because men were physically stronger, they thought they could rule the world and everything in it. Charity jerked from his grip and lifted her nose. “I would rather be dragged over the bottom of the sea than be touched by the likes of you. You are a pig, Sir. A foul-mouthed, drunken beast of a man who preys on innocent women. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Music ground to a halt, along with the hum of chatter as patrons glanced their way. But Charity didn’t care. Spinning on her heels, she marched from the tavern into a gust of wind and a blazing sun.

  Amidst the crowd, a familiar face sprinted across her vision. The first mate, Nelson. But then he was gone.

  Music picked up behind her, along with voices, as she stormed down the street, searching for some way to make money.

  There! A picture of a printing press engraved on a signpost above the door. A printing shop! Perfect.

  Peace settled on her instantly once she stepped inside and breathed in the smell of ink and wood and parchment—familiar, happy smells from a time long ago when on occasion her father allowed her to assist in her uncle’s shop, and she had fallen in love with the printed word.

  “May I help you, Miss?” A kind-faced man wearing an ink-stained apron and a genuine smile looked up from setting type into a form.

  “Yes, I—”

  The door crashed open and before she could stop them, the four men from the Skinny Goat entered. The one called Jamaica Jim pinched her arm and dragged her from the shop.

  “Ye’ll be comin’ wit’ us, Missy! No one insults Jamaica Jim an’ gets away with it!”

  Heart crashing through her chest, she fought against his grip as he dragged her down the street, his men following behind, laughing and cursing.

  “Help! Help me please!” she cried out, but people scattered when they saw who held her in his grip.

  Perspiration slid into her eyes. She blinked it away and dragged her feet. A cloud of dust rose that nearly blinded her as she continued appealing for help. Surely there was one honorable man willing to stand up to this fiend. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she chastised herself for needing a man at all. She was smart and she was strong. There must be something she could do.

  Jamaica Jim flung an arm around her waist and attempted to hoist her up. Before he could, Charity shoved all her weight against him. Instead of causing him to lose his balance, pain thundered up her arm and the beast chuckled and spit to the side.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  “Some place quiet where ye can pay off yer debt, Missy.”

  His friends grunted like pigs in heat.

  Terror clamped every nerve. This can’t be happening. She would not be abused by another man. She would not!

  Hoisting her up beside him, he hauled her down the street, laughing and joking with his friends.

  The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes. Charity drew a deep breath. When down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose…

  Up ahead a mare was tethered to a post. Her big brown eyes met Charity’s, soft and kind as if the horse sympathized with her predicament. And a thought occurred to her. A fleeting thought that she wouldn’t allow to settle into reason, for if she did, she doubted she’d attempt it.

  Forcing her body to go limp, she pretended to faint.

  “Blast it all!” The man halted, released her for a moment, then reached down to jerk her upright.

  She jumped up and kicked him in the groin.

  Growling in pain, he bent over. In that split second before his men reacted, she charged toward the horse, put her foot in the stirrup and swung herself up. Then grabbing the reins, she kicked the mare into motion.

  “Thief! Thief!” was the last thing she heard as she galloped down the street.

  Blood rushed so fast through her, she could hardly think, hardly breathe. All she could do was keep her head low and keep the horse moving as fast as she could. The street narrowed and inclined. Buildings gave way to gated properties with cultured gardens leading to wooden homes in the distance.

  Vapors! What had she done? More importantly, what was she to do now? She hadn’t time to think about it when the sound of horse hooves pounded behind her.

  One quick glance showed her two men were following. And gaining!

  No!

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” It was not the voice of Jamaica Jim. Whether that was a good or bad thing, she didn’t know.

  Pressing her body against the rolling muscles of the horse beneath her, she nudged the beast faster.

  The crack of a pistol sounded. The whine sped past her ears.

  “No more warnings, Miss! The next one goes in your gut.”

  Vapors! Could her life get any worse? Tugging on the reins, Charity brought the mare to a stop.

  “Hands in the air!”

  She complied.

  Above the pulse thrumming in her head, she heard someone dismounting, the neigh of a horse … and oddly, the warble of colorful birds above her staring down upon her misfortune.

  Rough hands grabbed her waist and dragged her from her perch.

  A tall man, neatly dressed, with tiny eyes, and a bushy mustache stared down at her. “I’m Constable Clemmins, Miss. And you are under arrest for horse thievin’.”

  Chapter 11

  “She what?” Elias tossed down his quill pen and rose from behind his desk.

  “Aye, Cap’n, I swears.” Nelson fumbled with his hat. “I saw it wit’ me own eyes. She’s locked up in Braysworth Prison as we speak.”

  “For horse thieving?” Elias circled the desk, positive he’d heard the man wrong.

  “That’s wha’ the Constable be sayin’. He’s given her a choice. Hang on the
morrow or be sold as an indentured servant t’ the horse’s owner.”

  “This is madness!” Elias swung his baldric over his head and stuffed pistols into the clips.

  His first mate, Josiah entered and glanced between them, his dark skin gleaming in the rays of a setting sun through the stern windows.

  “They say it were Jamaica Jim that’s started it,” Nelson continued. “He were draggin’ her through the city, intent on makin’ her his own.”

  Jamaica Jim. Elias knew the man. Worthless bedeviled pirate. But how did she get mixed up with him? More importantly, now what was he to do? He must leave at first light. His sister’s life depended on him. But how could he allow Miss Westcott to become a slave? Or worse, hanged. He sheathed his sword.

  “Josiah, this is Nelson. He’ll be our new bosun. See that he gets settled.”

  “Looks to me you be the one needin’ settlin’, Cap’n. Or an extra blade by your side?” The large black man gripped the pommel of his sword as he stepped forward.

  “Nay. Stay here and ready the ship. I must do this alone.” He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a pouch, and tied it to his belt beneath his coat. “I’ll return soon.”

  Everyone had a price. He only prayed he had enough to pay this particular one.

  ♥♥♥

  Drawing her knees up to her chest, Charity wrapped her arms around them and stared at the flies swarming over the bowl of slop they’d served her for supper—hovering and buzzing, but never landing as if the food was too grotesque even for them. A ray of fading sunlight from a barred window barely lit the dark prison cell that was encased in cold stone, save for the door made of rusty iron bars. It had only taken her two hours to get used to a smell so foul, it seemed to have a life of its own. She’d also grown accustomed to the cursing, shouts, and howls of agony from her fellow prisoners echoing down the long corridor. What she hadn’t gotten used to was the terror etching its way through every bone and fiber of her body, leaving a benumbed death wish in its wake. She laid a hand over her belly.