The Redemption

by Marylu Tyndall

  But now he knew the value of a man’s soul—made in the image of his Creator—and killing did not come easily for him, even for the sake of his country.

  “Boy, we gave’t to them Spaniard cockerels, eh Cap’n?” Brighton exclaimed, wrapping the wound. “They sure were fooled by yer fishermen trick.” After ripping the bandage with his teeth, he tied the final knot, causing Merrick to wince. “Sorry, Cap’n.”

  Merrick flexed his arm as Brighton packed his supplies into a canvas bag. “Thank you, Brighton. Did you see to the other wounded?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n. Just like ye said, them first, then you.” As he left, Sloane entered with a tray of hot tea, followed closely by Master Kent. Slurred boasts and off-key ditties rode in on a breeze that reeked of rum and blood.

  “The loot is stored below, Captain, and the prisoners are in the hold,” Kent announced. “What course should I set?”

  Merrick glanced out the window and saw the flaming remains of the merchant vessel they had blasted with cannon fire after relieving it of all goods and crew. “Turn her ten degrees to starboard, south by southwest. We’ll find a nice little island for our new friends to inhabit.” He gave a playful grin.

  Kent returned his smile with an “Aye, aye Captain,” before rejoining the revelry upstairs.

  Sloane set down the tray and poured the tea. “We made a good haul this time, Cap’n. Gold an’ silver worth more’n ten thousand pieces o’ eight, bushels o’ pearls from Rio de la Hacha, not to mention spices, coffee, gunpowder, an’ tobacco. The best loot I seen since Cap’n Morgan’s raid on Gran Granada.”

  Merrick rose and walked to a mahogany armoire. “I grow weary of this meaningless hunt for treasure.” He sighed as he plucked a clean shirt from a pile.

  “Aye, I know ye’s got much bigger prey in mind these days, but ye’s still got the crew to be thinkin’ o’,” Sloane said. “How about a shot o’ rum with yer tea, Cap’n?”

  Merrick turned and gave a sly grin. “You know me well, my friend.” He hesitated, and then indicated a small amount with his fingers. “Just a little.”

  The rum went down with a warmth that soothed every nerve in his body. It was a familiar and dangerous seduction, one he had fallen prey to on more than one occasion. But by the grace of God and the strength of his own will, he knew his limitations, so when Sloane offered him more, he declined.

  “Ye’ve changed a lot, if I might say so,” Sloane commented, “an’ fer the better, says I.”

  “Truly? I wonder.” Merrick laid his head back on the chair. “I used to be able to handle all this killing.”

  “An’ ye think it better to have no feelin’s on it at all? To not let it bother ye? Now, ye have a conscience, Cap’n, an’ that be a good thing, to be sure.”

  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t make my job easier.”

  “Would ye rather be the way ye were afore? Not carin’ who ye be killin’? Why, ye was as ruthless an’ devilish as the rest o’ them blokes out there. Listen to them now, gettin’ drunk an’ carryin’ on like a bunch o’ animals.” Raucous laughter, loud boasting, and the crash of broken glass drifted down to the cabin. “An’ ye was a lot meaner, too, if I might say so.”

  Sloane sat on a nearby chest and took a swig of rum, then corked the bottle and laid it aside. He was a middle-aged man, short and thick and well-muscled. He had been a sailor all his life and a pirate only recently. The years at sea had cracked his face like a worn piece of driftwood.

  “Now that ye be a godly man,” he continued, “ye make a much better cap’n.” He hesitated, “An’ friend, too, I might add.”

  Merrick smiled at his quartermaster. “You’ve been a good friend as well, Sloane.” Rising, he struck flint to steel and lit a lantern swaying overhead. The flickering light dispelled the gathering dusk and cast drifting shadows across the wooden floorboards. “At least the crew will be happy for a while when they get their portion of the loot.” He gave a half-hearted smile.

  “Aye, Cap’n, ye needn’t be worryin’ about them. Ye’ve well earned their respect, at least the lot o’ them. Ye’re as stern as needs be when the occasion calls fer it, and ye’re fair to all. Ye ain’t no coward, neither, an’ ye fight right alongside them. An’ ye won them all a good amount o’ treasure.” He swiped the sweat from his brow. “I don’t hear much complainin’ from them.”

  Merrick sipped his tea. “Maybe you’re right. But you know as well as I they can turn on me quicker than the strike of a snake.” He stood and walked over to peer out the window. “I wonder sometimes why I signed up to captain this crew of cutthroats.” He chuckled. “I must keep one eye on them, one eye on the Spanish, and another eye open while I sleep should either of them sneak up on me.” He turned and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Aye, Cap’n, ye wouldn’t be havin’ it any other way, and ye knows it. What else would ye be doin’? Wearin’ lace an’ prancin’ around London, sword-playin’ with royal brats an’ being at the whim of the earl?” Sloane lifted his eyebrows and got up to retrieve the tea tray.

  Merrick chuckled. “You have eloquently reminded me why I am indeed on this ship. In fact, why I am indeed anywhere but back in London with my father. Thank you. It does make me wonder what I will do when England is no longer unhappy with Spain.”

  “That’s most likely a ways off. An’ ye’ll think o’ somethin’ when the time comes.”

  Merrick nodded. “For now, at least the plunder keeps me afloat until I can catch that worthless cutthroat and bring him to justice before he can slaughter any more innocent people.”

  “Aye, that it does. Don’t worry, Cap’n, ye’ll be crossin’ paths with him soon.” Sloane lifted the tray and headed toward the door. “Anything else I can get fer ye?”

  “No. I’m going to get some rest.”

  Merrick sprawled on his feather bed, hoping the exhaustion of the day would overcome the restless thoughts in his mind and pull him into a deep slumber. But visions of Reeves’s pallid face lying in his own blood—a gaping hole in his head—would not escape him. Rising, he paced the cabin and grabbed the bottle of rum, swirling the golden liquid and inhaling the pungent aroma. It had always made him feel better. It had always numbed the pain.

  “No,” he shouted, slamming it down on his desk. “Please, Lord, give me strength.”

  ♥♥♥

  During the next three weeks, Charlisse traveled twice around the island’s perimeter and found two different types of fruit—one was egg-shaped and filled with sweet white pulp, and the other was oval with tart flesh. Since she had not died after eating them, she assumed they were not poisonous, although she began to think death would bring a welcome change. She gathered palm fronds and created a small bed up in a tree near the beach where she had arrived, high above the crabs and other crawling creatures. Other than her daily trips for water, she spent most of her time there.

  She tore up her once-beautiful gown and used the bodice as a washrag, the sleeves to tie up her hair, and her skirt as a blanket at night when a chill overtook the island. Clothed in only her petticoat and undergarments, she had abandoned all modesty in the unlikelihood of ever seeing another human being. Even though she tried to maintain proper hygiene, an odor of perspiration and filth radiated from her body, and she sorely missed her toilette back home.

  One afternoon, a fierce rainstorm passed through, stirring up the waves and flashing lightning across the darkened sky, bringing with it terrifying memories of the storm she had endured at sea. A loud rumble of thunder followed. It began low, and then cracked open into a boom that shook the tiny island in a deafening blast. Charlisse imagined it was the angry shout of God, bellowing at her for all the wrongs she had committed. She shouted back at him, shaking her fist in the air, no longer caring what his wrath would bring.

  Aside from occasional downpours, time passed in endless boredom. An agonizing loneliness invaded her soul. Her only companion was the bird who had woken her on her first morning here. He followed her almost everywhe
re she went, squawking at her as if scolding her for some infraction she had committed. She named him Jack after one of the servants in her uncle’s manor house who always griped about everything. The bird’s attitude did not discourage her, however, from talking to him at great length about her life and how miserable she was, and how fitting it was that she should die alone on an island talking to a bickering bird.

  Longing to know the love of a father—her father—was the only hope that kept her going from day to day. But soon three weeks melted into four, then five, and time seemed to drag on into eternity. Charlisse felt as though the last remaining pieces of her mind were drifting out to sea with each morning tide. Each night, dreams tortured her slumber. Memories of her past swirled together like one gigantic nightmare with no beginning or end. She must be dying. Dying slowly, because her entire life appeared before her eyes—not in one big flash, but in jumbled chunks of mixed reflections—forcing her to agonize over every detail.

  A bright light reflecting off the gold crucifix that hung around her uncle’s neck shone in her eyes, waking her. He stared down at her, his baggy eyes filled with desire. Then his countenance changed, his smile transformed into a look of indignation. His angry voice yelled, “Your father is dead, you insubordinate child! And he is not coming back.” His face grew red, his cold eyes flashing with fury. Then his voice softened into a snake’s hiss. He grinned wickedly. “God is your father now, and he has put you in my charge.” He leaned closer. She cringed in the dark.

  Suddenly, the vision changed. She heard her mother crying, and she saw a young Charlisse running down the hall trying to find her. “Mother, Mother!” The hall grew longer with each stride Charlisse took so that no matter how fast she ran, she made no progress. “Mother!” she screamed in desperation, but her mother’s crying faded into the empty halls until it was gone. The silence was deafening.

  Charlisse sat up with a start. Forgetting where she was, she lost her balance and tumbled from her perch. A thick branch halted her fall. Bruised and scratched, she scrambled back into her makeshift bed. Darkness surrounded her, along with the all-too-familiar sounds of the crashing surf. She lay back down. Oh, God, please rescue me from this place

  Chapter 5: The Encounter

  The morning trade winds swirled fresh scents of the sea and the sweet spring tropics around Captain Merrick as he stood at the main deck railing, sipping his tea and thanking God for another day of glorious freedom roaming the crystalline Caribbean waters. He had found a small island in the shipping lanes, where his crew loaded the prisoners from the merchant vessel onto a cockboat and rowed them ashore. It wouldn’t be long before the Spaniards were rescued.

  Merrick had seen enough death for a lifetime. He only hoped his mercy wouldn’t weaken him in the eyes of his crew. So far, none of them had dared challenge him on anything of importance—partly from fear, he imagined, since it was obvious to all that his skill as a swordsman far surpassed their own.

  His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for an uncharted group of islands he had once seen this way in passing. The Redemption needed to be careened, and he must find a safe place in which to do it, preferably a hidden harbor. Having the ship grounded and tipped so the crew could scrape its hull of weeds and barnacles put the pirates in a precarious position should an enemy happen upon them. Nonetheless, it had to be done every few months or the wood would rot through and the ship would lose considerable speed—inexcusable in the trade of piracy.

  The pirates were just rousing to lumber about the deck, where several of them had passed out during the festivities the night before. The few alert enough to climb the ratlines were assisting with the sailing of the ship. Most, however, would spend the day lying about in the sun, drinking more rum to ward off their pounding headaches.

  The atmosphere aboard a pirate ship always amazed Merrick. Unlike His Majesty’s Royal Navy, discipline and order were strongly lacking among a crew of pirates. The men took their shifts randomly, working out schedules among themselves. Although skirmishes broke out now and then, most of the pirates were able to resolve things without bloodshed. Votes were taken on major decisions, including which ships to attack and which to leave lie, but in the heat of battle, Merrick was in supreme command.

  He ran his ship a bit more iron-handedly than other pirate captains did. The articles he made his crew sign—which included the exact percentage each man would receive of the treasure captured—demanded stricter rules of decorum and propriety than normally seen among pirate crews. For instance, random and senseless killing was prohibited, as was the ravaging of innocent women found on any of the ships or ports they attacked. The pirates who chose to crew his ship were obligated to sign his articles. Although some did so begrudgingly, they still complied, most likely because Captain Merrick’s skills in procuring vast amounts of treasure were well known throughout the Spanish Main.

  Finally, he spotted the island he searched for. “Thirty degrees to starboard, Mr. Kent,” Merrick ordered, looking for an easy inlet. The first mate repeated the command to the helmsman, and the sails shifted in the wind with a billowing snap.

  Sloane came up beside him. “That be the island ye was thinkin’ of, Cap’n?”

  Merrick nodded, folding up his telescope. “It will do quite nicely. Wake the men, and ready the lines. We’re going ashore.” He smiled at his friend. “We could all use some rest on dry land, eh?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Sloane took off to do his captain’s bidding.

  Merrick gazed at the emerald-green oasis coming into view. As beautiful and enticing as it appeared, a sense of foreboding overcame him—a feeling he’d only had once before, when he had stumbled, drunk and half-dead, into a small church in Port Royal. His life had changed dramatically for the better after that event. Did something equally as life-altering await him on this tiny island?

  ♥♥♥

  “Stop your squawking!” Charlisse bolted upright in her makeshift bed ten feet above the jungle floor. A wave of dizziness flooded her. “That stupid, irritating bird.” She plopped back down and threw what was left of her filthy gown over her head. “What is he yelling about now?”

  With her energy depleted and no more edible fruit on the island, she spent most of her time in her tree. When she dared attempt to drag herself to the creek for water, her limbs felt like anchors, her head pounded, and her breath came in clipped gasps. As if things weren’t bad enough, the sweltering heat of the tropics consumed her … burning away, bit by bit, her will to go on.

  Each night she prayed for death to come, and each morning, as the sun’s brilliant rays stabbed her eyes, she cursed God for prolonging the agony of her life. She no longer had the energy to even swat the insects away. The torment of their stings and incessant itching of their bites was even worse than the ache of her empty stomach. Her hope of being rescued and finding her father had been obliterated by weeks of suffering and loneliness until she’d forgotten what it felt like to hope for anything, save an end to her misery.

  Now, just when she thought her existence could deteriorate no further, Jack was at the foot of her tree, flapping his wings and shrieking, demanding her attention for reasons beyond her understanding.

  When it became apparent he would not allow her to die in peace, she decided to make a trip to the creek to quench her burning thirst. Whether or not she had enough energy left to make the journey, she didn’t know.

  And didn’t care.

  Holding onto a nearby vine, she tried to jump down to the branch below, but her head grew light, her knees weak, and the jungle whirled around her in blurred shapes. The vine broke. She fell, missed the branch, and landed on another one farther down. Cursing, she tried to right herself, but her foot slipped again, and she toppled to the ground. Hard. Pain shot through her ankle and up her leg.

  Jack squawked off toward the ocean, ruffling his feathers. Ignoring him, she grabbed her bucket and limped down the now-familiar jungle trail.

  An hour later, she emerged from the
green thicket with half a bucket of water and several fresh scrapes on her arms and legs. Mechanically, she put one foot in front of the other, favoring the injured ankle, which was now noticeably swollen. She wondered if she had already died and this was her own personal hell. Was she destined to wander about on this desolate speck of perdition for all eternity, enduring scorching temperatures that never cooled, swarms of bloodthirsty insects that never relented, and a hunger and thirst that were never satisfied? What did I do to deserve this?

  As she approached her tree, Jack screeched—a frightful scream that chilled her to the bone. Movement brought her gaze to the beach. Two men, unshaven, dirty, and armed with pistols and cutlasses darted after Jack until one of them caught him by the neck. The shock of seeing another human being sent Charlisse’s emotions whirling. Was it possible she could be rescued? Could God have taken pity on her after all? Yet as she watched, one of the men held Jack’s beak while the other twisted the poor bird’s neck. Jack went limp.

  Charlisse dove behind a nearby shrub. Her heart thumped against her ribs. The bucket tipped, spilling the precious liquid. She put her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming and crouched there, unable to move.

  One of them swung poor Jack over his shoulder, and they both laughed as they headed up the beach toward an outcropping.

  Even after they walked out of sight, Charlisse remained fixed to her spot, unable to move, terrified and nauseated. Several minutes passed as the sounds of her world returned to normal—waves lapping, birds chirping, insects buzzing. But there was no Jack. Those gruesome men had killed him.

  Wiping perspiration from her forehead, she tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. Where had the men come from? How many were there? Did they have a ship, or were they stranded here like she was? A sliver of smoke ascended from beyond the small peninsula. Their camp was close—close enough to sneak over and take a peek. She climbed back into her tree and waited for nightfall.