Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  “With me.” Elias gestured for Josiah to follow him below.

  Back in his cabin, hair dripping over a chart and bottles and pens tumbling over the map, he found what he was looking for. “There. We’ll seek shelter on that island. ’Tis close, and if I remember, it has a natural harbor.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. We been there before.”

  “When the storm passes, we’ll fix our rigging and be on our way.” Scads! He raked back his wet hair. Of all the luck. ’Twould seem something or someone seemed determined to keep him from saving his sister.

  The brig seesawed, and Josiah gripped the desk for support, his dark eyes meeting Elias’, missing the usual peaceful assurance that followed the large Negro around.

  Gedding burst into the room, carrying a bundle of frayed lines in his hands. “Cap’n. The rigging. Someone cut straight through it.”

  ♥♥♥

  The ship shot into the air like sparks from a fire. Tightening her grip on the table, Charity’s legs and arms burned from trying to avoid being tossed around the cabin like a sack of grain. The table and cot were the only two things bolted down, and she took turns clinging to one or the other.

  The men who had dragged her here on the captain’s orders had given her a rope with which to tie herself to something solid, but she didn’t want to be trapped should the ship capsize. God forbid. Alarm zipped through her at the thought of water gushing through the doorway so hard she wouldn’t be able to escape. Though it would be a fitting punishment for her crime. A wave pounded on the porthole as lightning painted everything in morbid gray. Charity pressed a shaky hand on her belly. Not a fitting punishment for her baby. An innocent who had committed no sin.

  The storm roared, hammering the hull with watery fists. Charity lost her grip and tumbled over the deck. Her head hit the bulkhead just as the floor tilted the other way, shoving her into the cot.

  Enough! ’Twas as if Lord Villemont had resurrected in the form of a storm, intent on beating her to death from the grave. She would not allow it. She’d rather face him above with sea and wind than remain helpless in this tiny prison.

  Grabbing her rope, she stumbled out the door, and struck the hall bulkhead. Hard. Dazed, she managed to climb the ladder up to the main deck, only losing her grip on the rungs twice.

  Elias, Josiah, and Mr. Ballard stood on the quarterdeck, lashed by ropes to railings and binnacle, eyes on storm and sails, and shouting orders to a crew doing their best to keep the ship afloat.

  Yet the storm seemed no worse than when she’d been on deck before. In fact, it seemed to have quieted a bit. She started for the capstan, arms raised at her side for balance, when something fell from the sky.

  Splat! A man landed on the deck nigh two feet in front of her. The young lad, Eddy! Blood pooled beneath him, instantly washed away by rain and wave.

  Charity screamed.

  She didn’t know how Elias got to her so fast, but his arms engulfed her and forced her back from the horrific sight.

  “’Tis Eddy! Eddy!” She freed herself from his grip and darted for the young man, falling to her knees before him.

  Water soaked through her skirts. Thunder pounded the sky with its displeasure.

  “Hicks! Ross! Bring him below.” Elias shouted, prying Charity up. “And find Gage!”

  The men hoisted Eddy by his feet and hands and carried him below. A wave slammed over the deck, wiping away his blood as if it had never happened.

  Still gripping her, Elias spouted orders and chastised the men, in particular Nelson. “Why wasn’t he lashed to the mast?”

  Nelson shook his head, his eyes hollow, water streaming down his face

  The men returned from below. “Cap’n, Gage be in no condition t’ help Eddy.”

  She felt Elias stiffen against her. Wind whipped hair in her face. Lightning flashed silver spikes across the charcoal sky as the deck raised on one end. Grabbing the capstan with one hand, Elias tightened his grip on her with the other.

  Josiah charged toward the bow where sailors struggled with tangled lines. Mr. Ballard shouted from the wheel. “Captain, where do I point her?”

  “I’ll help him.” Charity turned to look up at Elias, his face just inches from hers. Water beaded on his lashes and matted his hair to his head. She could see the conflict in his eyes. “Allow me to do something.”

  “Do you know doctoring?” he shouted above the wind.

  “A bit.” What was one lie among so many? Besides, she’d doctored herself plenty.

  He nodded and released her to one of his men.

  Charity regretted her decision the minute she stepped onto the gun deck and was led to a far corner where a lantern oscillated above Eddy’s still form lying atop a table. Blood trickled beneath his head and dripped onto the floor, while Gage stood staring at his friend with a look of sheer panic on his face.

  The sailor who’d escorted her, a Mr. Ross, gripped the surgeon’s shoulders. “Mr. Gage. Mr. Gage! The lady’s here t’ help.”

  Gage slowly lifted his eyes to her, blinked a couple of times as if he weren’t sure what he was seeing, then stared back at Eddy.

  Charity rolled up her sleeves. She’d seen blood before. Lots of it. Mostly her own. “I’ll need clean rags, water, if you have any, rum, and Mr. Gage’s surgery bag.”

  Relief lifted the man’s expression as he nodded and sped off.

  The ship jerked. The deck tilted, and Mr. Gage stumbled. Charity blocked his fall with her body, and was rewarded with a cloud of alcohol that stole her breath. She shoved him to stand. “Mr. Gage. You must sober up and help Eddy. Please tell me what to do.”

  The sailor returned, arms loaded with a black bag, cloths, and a pitcher from which water sloshed over the rim. His nervous gaze landed on Eddy. “He didn’t fall from too high. He’s goin’ to be okay, ain’t he, doc?”

  Gage didn’t answer.

  Gripping the surgeon, Charity shook him. “What do I do, Mr. Gage?”

  He rubbed his eyes, then blinked as if trying to focus. “Press rags over the wound on his head. Hard.”

  Grabbing the clean cloths from Ross, Charity circled the table and nearly slipped in a pool of blood. “Help me turn him on his side.”

  Placing the other items on a chair, Ross took Eddy’s shoulder, lifted him, and positioned him on his right side where they could get a clear view of the wound.

  Blood oozed from a matted patch of hair on the back of his head. Gulping down nausea, Charity covered it with rags and held them as firmly as she could.

  The ship bucked, and Gage wobbled and plopped into a chair against the bulkhead, dropping his head into his hands.

  Blood soaked through the rags. Terror soaked through Charity.

  “Now what, Doctor?” she shouted. “Sober up. We need you!”

  Gage struggled to rise. “I must examine the wound.” Teetering around the table, he leaned toward Eddy as Charity removed the blood-soaked rags.

  “Can’t see if the skull is injured. But we must stitch the wound.” He held his hands before him, trembling as much as the ship around them. “You’re going to have to do it, Miss.”

  “Me?” Charity’s heart cinched. “I can’t.”

  “You’ll have to, Missss Westcott.” He slurred out the words, his eyes flitting over her as if he couldn’t quite see where she was.

  She snapped her gaze back to Eddy. “Will he live?”

  “Not if we don’t close that wound.”

  “We?” Charity huffed.

  “I can help.” Ross approached with more rags.

  Charity took them and covered the wound again. “Find a needle and twine in Gage’s bag. And rum.” He handed her a bottle. Uncorking it, she poured it over the wound, then onto the rag, her mind numb, her heart tight, and her breath coming hard.

  She could hear Gage instructing Ross how to thread the needle, his voice uneasy and distant, but all she could see was the inch long gash on the back of Eddy’s head and
the blood bubbling from it like a fountain.

  What in God’s name was she doing? The room spun, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She was going to be sick.

  The ship veered again, the deck slanted, and waves thundered against the hull. But from the sound of the water, it seemed they were slowing. She hoped that was a good sign.

  Ross handed her the needle. She turned to ask Gage how to proceed, but the surgeon stumbled to the corner and emptied his stomach. Bile rose in her throat as she exchanged a glance of terror with Ross.

  “Hold the lantern for me, will you?”

  He nodded, eyes wide, and sweat dotting his forehead.

  Charity bit her lip. How hard could it be? Just like sewing a quilt, right? While sitting atop a galloping horse. Except this was human flesh. And a life that depended on her.

  Holding that flesh together, she slid the needle through.

  Ross’ eyes rolled back in his head, and he wilted before her eyes. Charity grabbed the lantern before he toppled to the deck. Beyond him, Mr. Gage was still heaving in the corner.

  Setting the lantern on the table, Charity took a deep breath, along with a minute to gather herself.

  She had to do this and do it well, or Eddy would die.

  ♥♥♥

  “Let go the anchor!” Elias shouted, and Josiah repeated the order, adding specifics for the anchor crew. Despite heavy wind and high seas and torn rigging, Elias had found the island and navigated the ship into its small harbor. They’d be safe until the storm passed, at which time they could effect repairs.

  Too busy preventing the ship from capsizing, he’d had no time to consider who would have sabotaged the rigging and why. Now, as the wind lessened and brig settled into a rocking motion instead of seesawing, his fury rose.

  But before he took action, he must check on Eddy.

  Leaving Josiah in command, Elias leapt down a hatch, scrambled down a ladder to the gun room, and followed lantern light to a sight he’d never expected to see.

  Ross and Gage slumped on the deck and Miss Charity Westcott stitching a hole in Eddy’s head.

  All by herself.

  Her hair had dried into honeyed corkscrews tumbling to her waist, blood stained her gown, and she bit her bottom lip as her eyes remained intent on her task. Elias could only stand there, dripping on the deck, not wanting to disturb her, admiration burgeoning at the lady’s courage.

  Finally, she slid the final loop through, knotted the twine, cut it with a knife, and placed a clean rag over the wound.

  Releasing a breath, her shoulders slumped, and she started to sink to the ground. In two steps, Elias caught her by the waist and led her to sit on a barrel. She stared up at him, numbly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You stitched Eddy up.”

  She stared off into space. “As you can see, I was the only one who could.”

  Circling the table, Elias examined the wound, smiled at the haphazard stitches, then began mopping the blood on the table. “Excellent work. It will hold.”

  “Will it?” She lifted droopy eyes to his. “I hope so. My first.”

  “I see Ross was of no use.” He thumbed toward the man lying in a heap on the deck.

  “He tried.” She attempted a smile. “The storm?”

  “We are safe, anchored near an island.”

  Gage moaned from the corner and started to rise.

  Elias thought to help him but changed his mind. “Besotted clodpole.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gage muttered and wiped his mouth. “How is he?” He staggered to the table and gripped the edges.

  Charity also stood. “The bleeding is stopped and the wound is stitched, though I’m not sure I did it right.” She dipped a clean rag in water and laid it on Eddy’s forehead. “Why isn’t he awake?”

  Gage stared at his friend then hung his head, his expression folding in agony. “He may never wake.” Despair broke his voice. “Only time will tell. He’s concussed from the fall. There’s no way to know how much damage his brain endured.”

  Elias wanted to throttle the man for his intemperance, for putting young Eddy at risk, but from the look in Gage’s eyes, he knew the man was already suffering his just dues.

  “We will pray for him. You, me, and Miss Westcott,” Elias said, noting the upsweep of Charity’s brow.

  “I don’t pray anymore,” she mumbled.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Withdrawing his wooden cross from beneath his shirt, Elias bowed his head and offered a simple prayer for complete healing and protection for Eddy, at the end of which both Gage and Miss Westcott added, “Amen.”

  Now, Eddy was in the best hands of all—God’s.

  ♥♥♥

  Assured that Eddy would be properly attended, Charity went back to her cabin, more exhausted than she ever remembered being. The wind still howled through the rigging, the rain still tapped on the deck, and the waves still slapped the hull, but to a much lesser degree. Relief swept through her that they were near land and safe from the storm. Too tired to undress, she fell onto her cot and thought of Elias’ prayer for Eddy’s healing. She’d never heard the likes of such a prayer. Did God even heal today? Yet Elias’ words and tone were full of confidence that God not only did, but that He delighted in doing so.

  She rubbed her temples where a headache formed. The odor of sweat and blood and Gage’s vomit rose to bite her nose. Oh, how she longed for a bath. And a new gown. For now, she longed for sleep. But it remained elusive—just out of her reach, as usual. Instead, her thoughts filled with blood and Lord Villemont and lost babies, and she left her bed before the nightmares possessed her.

  Wind wailed a mournful song through the rigging above, sending a chill through her. She didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Slipping out her door, she crept down the companionway, hoping to find Elias awake. A strip of lantern light shimmered from beneath his door. She smiled. The irony of her seeking out a man’s company was not lost on her. In truth, it nearly sent her rushing back to her cabin. But then voices reached her, and she eased beside the door that was slightly ajar.

  “I was much like you, Gage,” Elias said.

  “I can’t hardly credit it, Captain.”

  “’Tis true. I wasted two years of my life in the bottom of a bottle.”

  From Gage’s silence, Charity assumed he was as shocked as she.

  “’Tis the devil’s trap, this vile brew,” Elias continued. “Lured in by a promise of escape from troubles, false confidence, and fleeting euphoria, a man soon finds himself adrift on a fool’s sea with nary a paddle to reach land.”

  “I can’t stop,” Gage breathed out with a moan. “It takes away the pain.”

  “Does it truly? Or doesn’t it make it worse in the end?”

  Gage chuckled. “Indeed. Until I have another drink.”

  Silence, save for the creak of wood and the song of wind settled on them before Gage continued. “I’ve had everything most men crave, family, wealth, opportunity, and I’ve squandered them all away. Shamed my family.”

  “As did I. But ’tis not too late, my friend,” Elias said.

  “I nearly killed him.” Gage’s voice cracked. “Poor Eddy.”

  “Perhaps, but God sent Miss Westcott to your rescue.” Not a hint of sarcasm tainted Elias’ voice.

  God sent her? She nearly laughed.

  “But what about next time?” Gage groaned. “I don’t believe I will be able to resist a drink.”

  “You can’t on your own strength. But God can help you. Turn to Him. He helped me, and He will help you as well.”

  Turning, Charity made her way back to her cabin. She didn’t want to hear that God helped people, that He gave them strength to endure temptation, strength to overcome trials. For He had never done that for her.

  Angry at herself for seeking out Elias, she slammed her cabin door shut.

  She had no need of anyone. Not Elias. And certainly not his God.

  Chapter 17

  Against her will—yet again
—Elias lifted Charity into his arms from the boat and waded through the water to shore. Once he set her down, she thanked him and started down the beach, stumbling as her legs grew accustomed to solid land.

  “Don’t wander far, Miss Westcott.” Was all he said, and she was glad she couldn’t see the expression on his face, which she was sure was one of kindness. She was also glad he didn’t force her to stay and converse with him, for the man had appeared on deck that morning looking like a pirate god with his black leather breeches and waistcoat and wild hair blowing in the wind—a man that was anything but a mealy-mouthed preacher. He’d saved a ship from pirates, rescued her from hanging, and now had brought his entire crew safely through a storm. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? As if that weren’t enough, he seemed to really care about others, extending mercy to those who didn’t deserve it.

  Like Gage.

  Land! She focused her thoughts elsewhere. How wonderful to be walking on something that wasn’t constantly heaving. Despite her wobbling legs, she made her way down shore, dismayed when Mr. Ballard appeared at her side.

  Vapors, but the man wouldn’t leave her alone. Just that morning, he’d come by her cabin with an old gown he’d found stuffed in a chest in the hold. Though he apologized for the base-born fabric and style, Charity was more than happy to rid herself of her bloodstained skirts. Even if she did look like a scullery maid. ’Twas kind of the man, and she found naught to dissuade her from his obvious advances. Two years prior, she would have welcomed interest from a man with such a vast estate, gentlemanly manners, and noble blood—albeit distant noble blood. But she was not the same innocent she once was. Her zeal for wealth, title, and escape from her father’s house had cost her dearly.

  Besides, Mr. Ballard’s presence and pleasant conversation left her cold. So unlike Elias. Which made the preacher a danger to her. She glanced at him and found his glare locked on her and Mr. Ballard. Best to keep the captain at a safe distance, and what better way than to entertain Mr. Ballard?

  “May I accompany you down shore, Miss Westcott?” He loosened his cravat and smiled.