Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  He passed the fire pit. Nay, not his meal. Which meant the alternative. Wrists raw, body aching, heart thundering, Charity closed her eyes.

  They sent for the king’s doctor

  Who sewed it on again

  He sewed it on so neatly…

  A voice filtered past her song to light upon her last speak of hope—a voice speaking English. Her would-be-husband halted and loosened his grip on her hair. Shouts and footsteps ensued. Charity opened her eyes to see several natives pointing spears at the dark jungle.

  The leaves moved and in marched Elias, hands in the air, and a smile on his face.

  ♥♥♥

  “Greetings, my friends,” Elias said in the Arawak native tongue as he searched the crowd nervously. There. There she was. Charity, her hair in the grip of the chief’s eldest son, Hadalak, if Elias remembered his name. “I come in the name of my God, Yahweh.”

  When he’d found the barefooted footprints alongside the mark of woman’s small shoe, he’d felt a bit of relief. At least she’d not been bitten by a poisonous frog or gored by a wild boar. However, he also knew what the Arawak did to women prisoners, especially white women, and time was of the utmost importance. His men at his heels, Elias had rushed after them, lifting up an urgent prayer that these particular natives would remember him from his visit last year.

  Apparently his prayer was answered as the natives lowered their spears, and Elias found himself instantly assailed by respectful greetings from all around. Bowing men parted the way for him, women reached to touch his clothes, while little children circled around him, laughing and playing.

  Leaves shuffled and Elias’ men shoved through the foliage behind him, but the Indians paid them no mind as Elias approached Hadalak and gestured toward Charity. He said something in the Arawak language that essentially meant “this is my woman” to which the man’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. Elias stood his ground, not yet looking at Charity, but praying silently for God to reveal His strength through Elias’ eyes to this young native.

  Releasing her hair, Hadalak backed away and crossed arms over his chest, none too pleased at the turn of events. Only then did Elias face Charity. Her hair a tousled mess, her eyes glazed with shock and terror, she simply stared up at him as if she were seeing a ghost.

  “You came,” she mumbled out.

  Smiling, he took her hand in his, felt her quivering and instead wrapped his arm around her shoulders. When he turned around, the cacique, or chief, stood before him, extending his welcome with a subservient bow. Then gesturing for Elias to follow him, he led him to the center of camp and motioned for Elias to take the honored seat beside him on a wooden stool.

  Elias gave Charity his most reassuring look, instructing her to sit at his feet as was the custom of the wives of spiritual leaders. Thankfully, she complied without the argument he expected. But then again, surely she was beyond terrified by now. Oh, how he longed to comfort her, but that would have to wait until they were alone. And out of danger. If he knew one thing about these Indians, ’twas that it only took one wrong move, one wrong answer, and their reverent fear of him would dissipate with the balmy breeze. In truth, he couldn’t blame them. Most white men had done naught but lie and enslave their people.

  The chief’s wives surrounded Elias—a good sign—while much to his father’s dismay, Sulamet leapt into Elias’ lap. The chief chastised his son, but Elias told him all was well. In truth, he was most pleased to see the seven—now eight—year-old lad so healthy and strong. He tickled him, eliciting a giggle, then released him back to his mother as he scanned the mob for any sign of hostility. A few talked amongst themselves, others gazed at him as if waiting for a word of wisdom, some nugget of truth to hold onto, or mayhap a miracle as he had done before. But he was more interested in whether they still followed the Son of God he’d told them about last year—the great Creator’s Son who sacrificed His life for them. As he glanced over their eager faces, his spirit quickened. What he wouldn’t give to remain with them a week or more to instruct them further and encourage their faith. But he had his sister to think of…and more importantly at the moment, the poor lady huddled beside his leg.

  He’d never seen Charity so complacent. And quiet. She surveyed the scene beneath lowered lashes, her chest rising and falling, her tremble evident to all. ’Twas shock, to be sure. He must get her back to the ship post-haste. Rising, he drew her up beside him and faced the cacique, intending to offer his apologies for his short stay, when the chief also stood, gestured toward Elias and addressed his people. With every word he spoke, Elias’ gut wrenched tighter and tighter.

  Chapter 19

  Outside the invisible fortress Charity had erected around herself was the intriguing vision of a native encampment, complete with dark-skinned men and bare-breasted women decorated with shells, feathers, and bones. All of them chattered in an unknown tongue as the fire crackled and spit into the starry sky, and the smell of roast meat and yams and corn sizzled beneath her nose. A moment ago, she’d been about to be ravished by one of the natives, bound once again to an abusive man…powerless, enslaved. Yet now, she had somehow conjured Elias from the jungle. He couldn’t be here, of course. That didn’t make any sense. Nor did the way the natives almost worshiped him. Nay, more like revered or … feared. But that also was ludicrous. She was probably in the Indian’s hut right now, enduring hell. But in her mind, she was next to Elias as he sat on a stone beside the chief, his thick boot shielding her side, his hand gripping hers—a bulwark of strength and protection—chatting away in the natives’ language as if he’d been speaking it all his life.

  What a wonderful dream! She’d try and stay as long as she could. Or mayhap, if she were lucky, she’d never wake up again.

  She did wake up, though, when Elias pulled her to her feet and seemed ready to leave. But then the chief said something, and Charity felt Elias stiffen beside her before he lowered her back down. When he finally looked at her, ’twas with blue eyes pouring peace and safety straight into hers, his features melting with concern. “You are safe now, Charity.” He gave her hand a squeeze as if to affirm his words. “We must stay awhile, but I’ll have you back to the brig in no time.”

  She could only stare up at him and ask. “How…how are you here?” Before he could answer, a commotion among the Indians drew his attention to his men standing at the edge of the clearing—Josiah, Mr. Ballard, and two more sailors. Ballard’s eyes met hers, and he started for her only to be stopped by a fence of spear tips.

  “Back to the shore, gentlemen,” Elias said. “We will join you there.”

  “But, Cap’n,” Josiah protested, his brow dark and beading with sweat.

  “Now.” Elias’ tone brooked no argument. Grunting, the men disappeared into the greenery.

  Charity’s fear returned. Now ’twas just Elias against all these Indians. Did he know what he was doing?

  Yet, as the natives relaxed and everyone in the village settled into an evening of eating, talking among themselves, and listening to every word Elias spoke, she had to admit that he did. He knew precisely what he was doing.

  Women worked over the fire, and bowls were passed, along with gourds of water and chunks of some kind of hard bread Charity had never tasted before. Cassava, she was told it was called.

  Elias handed her a platter of meat and offered her a smile that held such promise, tears burned in her eyes. She took a piece, oddly finding her fear subsiding and her trust rising for this man who waltzed into a camp of savages, speaking their language and commanding their respect.

  Hours passed, and although Charity’s stomach felt like one of the iron pots over the fire, she forced herself to sample the food, some of which she recognized, some of which she was afraid to ask what it was. She shifted her gaze between the ground by her skirts and Elias, her anchor of strength, her rope of safety among this sea of unknown dangers. He kept a firm grip on her hand and gave it an occasional squeeze, and she resisted the urge to lay her head upon hi
s knee, to feel the warmth and strength therein.

  Despite the dozens of eyes she felt raking over her body, she tried to avoid looking at the faces of the Indians and the bare breasts of the women. Heat flushed her at their lack of modesty, but she never once caught Elias staring at them, which is more than she could say of his men before they’d left.

  Elias consumed his meal with gusto, conversing with his host and a few others nearby. Women brought their children to him, and he laid hands on each one and prayed for them in their native language, always ending it with the name of Jesus. A word, a Name, she well recognized.

  “I don’t understand,” she asked him when the natives’ attention was elsewhere. “Do you know these people? How are they so kind to you?”

  “I’m a missionary, remember?” He winked and took a bite of what looked like roasted bat.

  The yams in her stomach soured.

  “You see that little boy?” He pointed to the child who’d leapt into his lap earlier. “God used me to raise him from the dead last year.”

  Charity choked on her cassava bread. “What?”

  “I came here to preach the gospel, but they had already heard it from other missionaries, men who brought weapons along with Bibles. They intended to roast me alive. Not a pleasant prospect, I assure you,”—he added with a smile—“when the chief’s son was bit by a poisonous spider and died. I told them my God could revive him, and they allowed me to pray for him.”

  “And he came back to life?”

  “Does that shock you? Jesus and his disciples brought people back to life.”

  “But that was only for them, for a short time.”

  He grinned, firelight twinkling in his eyes. “’Twould seem I’ve proven otherwise, eh?”

  Yet how could she deny it? If it hadn’t happened, these people would not be treating him with such reverence. They weren’t treating her with reverence, or at least looking at her with reverence. That, coupled with an uneasiness she sensed in Elias, caused her dread to return. “How long must we stay?”

  “The night.”

  “Nay.” She would not survive a night of such terror. “I couldn’t possibly…” Her breath caught. “I—”

  “You must,” Elias said without looking at her as the chief began speaking to him.

  That night began when, after the meal and festivities, one of the natives escorted Elias and Charity to a small hut near the center of the village. Once inside, and with the cloth flap closed, only a sliver of moonlight filtering through a hole in the roof provided any light. Enough to see that one large hammock swung from a post in the center, upon which two blankets laid.

  Charity hugged herself.

  “Are you all right, Charity?”

  He’d never used her Christian name before, and the sound of it on his lips brought her more pleasure than she cared to admit.

  “I have no idea.”

  He moved closer, perhaps to embrace her for comfort. But she couldn’t. She wanted to feel his arms around her so desperately. She needed to feel safe, cared for, protected. But to depend on this man would be the worst thing of all. Especially the way her emotions whirled with feelings for him she could no longer deny. She stepped back.

  He halted. “I’m sorry we are forced to spend the night together yet again, but their belief that you are my wife is the only thing that saved you.”

  “Thank you,” was all she could manage. Though she owed him much more.

  She heard his boots shuffle in the dirt, saw his shadow move, sensed him smiling as he said, “This is the second time in days we’ve been married. Mayhap God is trying to tell us something?”

  His voice teased, and she responded in kind. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. Dutton.”

  “Will you at least call me Elias? Since we must share this hammock?”

  She swallowed and glanced at the tiny cloth tied between two poles. “The name I will agree to. The hammock, absolutely not.”

  He shrugged. “Then you and the bugs shall be very happy.”

  A shiver coursed through her, and she glanced down at the shadowy ground. “Surely a gentleman should offer to sleep on the floor?”

  “There are poisonous spiders on this island, my little mermaid. I doubt you’d want to face the Arawak without me in the morning.”

  The thought crossed her mind that she really didn’t want to face much of anything without this man. But she shoved it aside. “I can’t believe you risked your life to tell these people the gospel.”

  “Preacher.” He chuckled.

  Indeed, but not like any she’d known. Not like any man she’d known.

  Wind rustled the flap door and brought a swirl of dust into the hut. Elias pushed the animal skin aside and peered outside. “So, Miss Westcott, associating with a preacher definitely has its advantages, no?”

  She smiled. “More than I had anticipated.” Light from the fire accentuated the strong lines of his face, the stubble on his jaw, and the intensity in his eyes as he surveyed the surroundings. Was he worried for their safety? She hugged herself. “Thank you for coming after me.” Though she still could not fathom why.

  He closed the flap. “I wish you hadn’t wandered off.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Easy to get lost in these jungles. I should have warned you.”

  His shadow moved to the hammock and crawled inside. “Join me, Charity. I promise to behave.”

  She hesitated, a battle raging between emotions and reason, fear and faith, desperate need and overwhelming terror. In the end, she realized if this man intended her harm, he’d had plenty of chances. Besides, she could already hear the bugs skittering across the dirt floor. Moving toward him, she grabbed his hand and awkwardly climbed into the hammock and slid beside him with her back against his chest. Immediately the sides folded in and pressed them together so tight his warmth seeped into her from a body as solid as the ship he sailed upon. Keeping her arms low over her belly—lest he feel the babe growing there—she breathed in the unique scent of him, wood smoke and loamy musk, the effect oddly calming.

  She’d never been in a man’s arms when she wasn’t afraid. She’d never slept so close to a man either. Lord Villemont had always left as soon as he was done with her. Now, as this man, this preacher, drew an arm around her like a fortress, a small part of her heart began to soften, to yearn for possibilities…love…safety…a future and a hope.

  But that scared her most of all.

  The comfortable silence stretching between them—like a couple long accustomed to being in each other’s arms—also unnerved her. She must speak, talk, get her mind off the heady sensation of him.

  “You didn’t seem the least bit afraid marching into this hostile native village,” she said. “Nor did you display fear in the storm, nor when facing the pirates. Is there anything you fear, Mr…Elias?”

  His answer came swift and serious. “Not protecting those I love.”

  Not the answer she expected. Several minutes passed in which only the crackle of the fire, distant voices, and the buzz of insects filled the silence.

  “I can’t sleep,” she finally said.

  “I admit to having difficulty myself.”

  “You realize what is left of my reputation is forever ruined.”

  “Never fear, the Arawak are not prone to spreading rumors.” He chuckled.

  “Tell me stories, Elias. What of this mysterious past of yours? What events shaped such an enigma of a man?”

  “Enigma, is it?” His laughter rumbled through his chest and rippled over her back like a warm wave. “If I tell you, it may disparage your good opinion of me.”

  She doubted it. “Test me.”

  He released a heavy sigh and proceeded to tell her what a great childhood he had, raised by Godly parents who were missionaries and privateers like him.

  “My father, Rowan Dutton, was a pirate.”

  Charity smiled. “An evil one?”

  “Is there any other kind?”
r />   “That explains your ability to battle at sea.”

  “Aye, he taught me well.”

  Amazing. A preacher trained by a pirate. “Pray tell, what turned him from his vile ways?”

  “God and my mother, Morgan.”

  “The lady who paints? She sounds like a remarkable lady.”

  He laughed again. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Let’s just say she’s a very different lady from a very different place.”

  Charity almost said she’d love to meet her someday, but that would presume things she couldn’t afford to be presumed.

  Elias shifted, swinging the hammock, and she got the impression he was having as much trouble being close to her as she was him.

  “So, is that the extent of your disparaging past? Your father was a pirate.” Vapors. God forbid he should ever discover hers.

  “If only that were true.” He sighed, his warm breath wafting over her neck and causing a tingle down her spine. “Nay, like the prodigal son, I drifted away from the things I knew were right, from God Himself and”—he hesitated, and she sensed a deep sorrow come over him—“I became a pirate for a short time. Two years, in fact.”

  Astonishment swept through Charity, and she turned slightly and looked up, hoping to see his expression. “I can hardly believe it, Preacher.”

  He must have heard the teasing in her voice for he responded, “You don’t find it appalling?”

  “Nay. Shocking, exciting, perhaps. But not appalling. Unless you ravished women, of course, or stole from the poor.”

  “Neither. I did have some scruples.” He brushed hair from her face, and warmth flooded her at his tender touch. “You are a remarkable woman, Charity.”

  Her huff of disbelief only caused him to squeeze her tighter. “’Tis true.”

  Feelings of being worthy of such a man, of being cherished like he was doing now, swelled her heart to near bursting. But his admiration was based on a lie. A lie among many, that if he knew of them would cause him to hate her. “You don’t know me, Elias.” She tried to push away from him, to put distance between them, but the more she moved, the closer the hammock pressed them together.