The Redemption

by Marylu Tyndall

  “This matter will be resolved quicker than the pious captain here thinks.” Edward drew his sword in a flash of glinting steel and held the tip to Merrick’s throat.

  The room burst into cheers as the reckless band of men called out of their bets, loyalties aside.

  From behind him, Merrick heard three pistols cock. Two of Edward’s men drew their blades. Yet Merrick did not flinch. Instead, he stared defiantly into Edward’s eyes. Within their depths, something sinister brewed. Edward had an unusual confidence facing a battle with a man who had bested him on more than one occasion. Merrick knew his old captain. His pride would not risk an embarrassing defeat in front of so many witnesses. Something was amiss. A shudder of foreboding hit every nerve.

  “Come now, gentlemen, lower your weapons. This is between Edward and me, eh, Edward?” Merrick glared at his enemy.

  “If that’s the way ye wants it, so be it.” Edward nodded at his men and they sheathed their swords.

  Merrick heard his own men return their pistols to their braces. “I do recall defeating you once at this game. Are you quite sure you wish to be humiliated in front of your friends?”

  The point of Edward’s sword pierced Merrick’s skin as his eyes became slits of burning coal.

  Images of the Arawak people flooded Merrick’s mind. The compassionate face of Caonabo, their cacique, or chief, smiling at him, his teeth so bright against the brown of his skin. Merrick could almost hear his laugh, the one that sprang from deep within his belly. Then he remembered what had been left of Caonabo’s body when Merrick had found him sprawled across the bloody beach—a product of Edward the Terror’s violent rampage.

  The seconds passed in slow motion. The crowd screamed, calling for a fight—demanding one, in fact, now that they had invested their coins.

  The clamor faded into the background. Edward’s fiery eyes locked upon Merrick, and a trickle of sweat formed on his brow. It sat there momentarily, glistening in the lantern light, before making its way slowly down toward his gray eyebrows.

  Merrick tore his cutlass from its scabbard and in one swift move clashed it against Edward’s, first on one side and then the other. The beefy man stumbled and tried to recover his balance, but his blade flew from his grasp and clanged to the floor.

  Merrick pressed the tip of his cutlass to Edward’s throat. Tension, fueled by rage, clamped every muscle and nerve until his thoughts throbbed with nothing but revenge. His hand shook. His body trembled. He longed to thrust Edward through. He wanted it more than anything in the world.

  “Do it, ye carp,” Edward demanded. “End me worthless life.”

  Merrick tightened his grip for the final plunge. But deep within Edward’s blue eyes, a vision of Charlisse appeared. He hesitated. Sloane reached from behind and stayed his arm.

  Merrick lowered his sword.

  Grumbles of disappointment cracked the stagnant air like the roar of thunder. But just like thunder, the rumbling drifted away, leaving in its wake a deadly silence. The look of surprised relief on Edward’s face gave way to an evil grin. The thump of heavy boots sounded behind Merrick.

  “Captain Merrick,” a commanding voice said.

  The cocking of several pistols echoed through the room. “Captain Edmund Merrick,” the voice boomed again. “Drop your sword.”

  Every instinct screamed within Merrick to slice the evil smirk from Edward’s face. This may be his last chance. But instead, he released his weapon with a clatter to the floor and turned to face the source of the intrusion.

  The barrels of six pistols greeted him from behind a British officer in full uniform, who presented an open document. Sloane, Brighton, and Jackson jumped in front of their captain, hands on the hilts of their cutlasses.

  “Tell your men to back off,” the officer ordered, “or I’ll have you shot where you stand.”

  Merrick nodded toward his crew. “Do as he says.” They lowered their hands.

  The pirates grumbled.

  The man lifted his document.

  “On order of Thomas Moodyford, his majesty’s governor of the Isle of Jamaica, said privateer, Captain Edmund Merrick, shall be seized and placed under arrest immediately on this day, the first of July in our Lord’s year sixteen hundred and sixty-five, having been accused and with much evidence therein, of the crime of piracy, having performed diverse robberies on the high seas in the West Indies, and in particular done great damage to the merchants of Great Britain, having broken signed articles with said governor to act as privateer only against the Spanish forces in the West Indies.”

  The pirates erupted into a haggle of shouts and curses.

  “There’ll be no trouble here, or I’ll send the whole lot of you to the gallows!” the officer bellowed over the din.

  “On what evidence do you so accuse me?” Merrick asked.

  “On the evidence found on your ship, the Redemption,” he replied. “That is your ship, Captain?”

  Merrick nodded. “It is, sir, but of what evidence do you speak?”

  Kent snickered from the corner.

  The officer nodded to two of his men, and they grabbed Merrick on either side, rapidly disarming him. “You can take that up with the governor.”

  Chapter 24: Reformed Pirate

  “It’s getting late, don’t you think, Reverend?” Charlisse stood by the window of the cottage, peering out into the murky shadows. Grabbing a wayward curl, she twisted it around her finger. She had spent the past three hours sitting by the warm stove, drinking tea and listening to Reverend Buchan talk about his adventures in the American British Colonies.

  His stories fascinated her, and the more he spoke, the more fond she grew of him. Inner joy radiated from his eyes and the comforting peace that flowed all around him put her immediately at ease. She felt as if she’d known him all her life.

  “I wouldn’t be worrying, miss. Merrick can take care of himself.” Yet his tone belied the flicker of anxiety that passed over his face. He fidgeted in his seat and offered her more tea.

  Charlisse wondered when the good reverend would begin his God-given duty of redeeming her degenerate soul. Surely Merrick had told him when they had been whispering in front of the cottage that she had lost her faith. By now, the reverend must have devised some tactic to persuade her of the error of her ways and compel her to repent of her sins and return to the church. But she was ready for him. She would inform him just what the church of England had done for her, or rather to her. And all under the godly authority of the Bishop, her loving uncle.

  She declined the tea. “My concern is not for Captain Merrick, I assure you. My only desire is that he return to help me find my father.” Leaving the window, Charlisse sat next to the reverend. She would admit to needing the help of men for now, but she did not need the help of a God who had abandoned her long ago. “How did you come to know Merrick?”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s a most interesting story.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “I’d been settled here nigh about six months—sent by the Lord to start a church and spread the good news amidst this crowd of scandalous heathens before they took over the whole island.” He chuckled. “It was late one night, and I heard noises in the sanctuary. You see, I didn’t have this cottage back then. I lived in an upper room in the church itself. So, when I heard the sounds, I crept downstairs to see who it was. I was a bit frightened because, as I’m sure you noticed, the island’s inhabitants are not the most … respectable citizens.”

  Charlisse smiled.

  “As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, whom did I find curled up on one of the pews but Captain Edmund Merrick, drunk and bleeding from several sword wounds and a musket shot to his shoulder.”

  Charlisse’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Then I heard British troops marching in the street,” the reverend continued, “and as I looked down at the poor man, who was barely breathing, a pair of pleading eyes took hold of my conscience. I could not allow the soldiers to f
ind him, at least not then. So, I hid him in a chamber upstairs, tended to his wounds, and kept the royal authorities at bay for the next few months until he recovered.”

  “And you became friends?”

  Reverend Buchan nodded. “Aye, like father and son.” He smiled and got up to put another log into the stove. “You see, Merrick, like most young men of position and privilege, wanted for nothing as a child. Yet as he progressed into manhood, he found none of it satisfied. He had everything the world considers necessary for happiness: power, title, fortune, good looks …” He glanced toward Charlisse, flashing a sly grin. “As well you know,” he added.

  Warmth sped up her neck and she looked down momentarily.

  “A superior education,” he continued, “and every opportunity for achievement and prosperity.” He closed the stove door. “Alas, he was not happy, not fulfilled, empty inside. So casting it all away,” the reverend waved a hand through the air, “leaving everything he knew, he headed out on his own adventure in search of purpose and meaning. He had not found it within the confines of civilized society, so he sought it outside those barriers, in the lawlessness and debauchery of a class of people who followed no rules but the lusts of their flesh.”

  He sat back down and took a sip of tea. “What I found, huddled on my church pew, was the outcome of such a quest. And though he had been quite a successful pirate and had made a well-known and much-feared name for himself on the Caribbean, he was even more miserable than he had been before: so hopeless that no amount of drinking or—pardon my crudeness—philandering could fill the aching hole in his spirit. Though he did try.” He chuckled.

  Charlisse flinched, remembering the woman who had slithered up to Merrick earlier that evening. The thought of her, or any woman, being so close to Merrick caused an ache in Charlisse’s stomach that was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “You speak of Merrick’s position and fortune. He never spoke to me of his family back in England. Who are they?”

  “Ah.” Reverend Buchan’s eyebrows rose. He got up from his chair. “So, he didn’t mention his family to you. Well, no wonder.” He walked to the window, gazing into the darkness. He seemed troubled, and Charlisse wondered if it was Merrick’s long absence that caused it.

  “All his life he’s been forced to live in the shadow of his family name,” the reverend said. “I suppose he wanted to make a name for himself.”

  “He hails from nobility?”

  “Indeed.” He turned to face her, crossing arms over his chest. “Have you heard of Edward Hyde?” he asked.

  “Of course, who hasn’t?”

  Reverend Buchan remained quiet, a coy smile playing on his lips.

  Charlisse waited for him to respond, the growing silence sparking her curiosity. “No,” she finally said, widening her eyes. “Edward Hyde, the Earl of Clarendon is Merrick’s father?”

  Reverend Buchan nodded. “His real name is Edmund Merrick Hyde.”

  Charlisse glanced down, gathering her thoughts. She didn’t know much about the earl except that he had followed King Charles II into exile and then became one of his chief advisors. He was appointed Earl of Clarendon upon Charles’s reinstatement to the throne in 1660. If Merrick was his son, then he was a very important and powerful man. Suddenly, his mannerisms, his education, his skill with a sword, and his arrogance all made sense.

  “Edward Hyde pushed Merrick to excel in everything he did,” Reverend Buchan continued. “He sent him to the best schools, provided the best military training, introduced him to the most powerful and influential nobles in London—including the King himself. But he confined Merrick to a rigid, regimented lifestyle, told him what to do, where to go, who to talk to, and even what to eat.” The reverend shook his head. “There was no love, no fatherly affection or approval, and Merrick’s spirit soon withered.”

  “Truly, I cannot envision him at court.” Charlisse sighed, feeling her brow furrow.

  “Apparently, neither could he. He hated the confines of London nobility, the pretensions and decadence. He even became disillusioned with the Church of England, which seemed more preoccupied with power, wealth, and politics than with feeding the poor and hungry and spreading the gospel.” The reverend walked back to the stove and held his hands to its warmth. He looked at Charlisse. “So, he turned his back on God, on country, and on his family, and sailed to the Caribbean.” He smiled. “Where he used his intelligence and skill to become one of the most feared pirates on the Spanish Main.”

  Charlisse sat back, musing over the tale—much like one from a storybook—the rich, young prince changing his identity and leaving all he had to become a commoner. True, Merrick was no real prince, but with Edward Hyde as his father, he was as close to one as a man could get. And the story had taken a fascinating turn, for not only had the prince become a commoner, but a thief, a villain, and a pirate!

  Charlisse, also, had left a life of wealth and comfort—granted, for completely different reasons—but she could understand how someone could reach a point where all the money, power, and position in the world could not overcome the pain and emptiness in one’s soul.

  She looked up at the reverend, still standing by the stove.

  “Yet Merrick is no longer a brutal pirate,” she said. “Were you the one who changed him?”

  The reverend glanced at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “Me?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I have no power to change anyone, miss. ’Tis Merrick’s relationship with God, through his Son, Jesus, that has changed him.”

  Charlisse fixed him with a cold eye. “I know all about God,” she sneered, “and my associations with Him have caused me nothing but grief.”

  “Is that so? I would seriously question whether your association with God was with the loving God of the Bible, or with the impersonal god of organized religion. The latter I have no doubt disappointed you.”

  “What is the difference? Isn’t there only one God?”

  “Aye, to be sure. One God, and one way to approach Him—through Christ, His Son.” Excitement sparked across his face. “Might it be possible that you know of God, but you do not truly know Him?”

  “With all due respect, Reverend, isn’t God supposed to communicate with us, guide and teach us through his representatives here on earth?” The reverend began to answer, but Charlisse continued, her face hot, her blood boiling. “I had an encounter with one of your God’s representatives, and if he is anything like God, I’m quite content to remain on my own.”

  “Indeed.” The reverend wore look of genuine concern. “Tell me more.”

  Charlisse studied Reverend Buchan with suspicion. Was his apparent regard for her real? Or was he like so many other “men of God” she had met, pulling her into his trap by feigning concern, only to pounce on her after she had bared her soul. She didn’t trust him, no matter how genuine he seemed. “My uncle is the Bishop of Loxford,” she began, her voice quivering. “Have you heard of him?”

  “Why yes, Bishop Hemming. I know of him—by reputation only.”

  “Then you know he is highly revered and respected in the Church of England, governing over one of the richest dioceses in the country.” She looked away, feeling a spirit of despondency overshadow her. Moments passed. She fought back tears shoving their way into her eyes. “What does it matter?” she whispered, resigned. “If he was God’s representative and God allowed him to do what he did, then I want no part of your God.”

  The reverend sat, staring silently at the floor, his hands folded before him.

  Charlisse wondered if her words had been too harsh. Had she insulted him? Made him angry? The silence grew uncomfortable, and she stirred in her seat. His eyes were closed and his lips moved slightly. When he looked up at Charlisse, his expression reflected so much compassion, it nearly melted her on the spot.

  “I am truly sorry for what your uncle or anyone else has done to you in the name of God. I don’t know what you have gone through, but I can see it must have been something horrendou
s to have evoked such an ardent response at even the mention of your uncle’s name. I have no explanation except to say that your uncle and others like him are not true men of God. They are counterfeits, seeking only wealth, power, and pleasure. They prey on innocents in the name of the Lord, but they do not know, nor do they serve, the one true and living God.” He hesitated.

  Charlisse felt his gaze upon her, but she did not look up. Did not want to hear his defense of men like her uncle.

  “As to why our good Lord allows things like this to happen, I can only say that undeserved, unfortunate, and often painful things happen to good people for reasons only God knows, and those reasons are always for the ultimate good—though it is difficult to fathom at the time.”

  Charlisse stood and began to pace across the room, her anger simmering, her sorrow threatening to undo her. “I cannot accept that. I do not believe that if there is a God who loves his creation, he would allow such horrible things to happen. Where was he when I was alone and oppressed? Where was he when I cried out to him in the night?”

  “He was right there with you, crying alongside you.”

  “Hmm.” Charlisse peered through the window into the darkness, a thick blackness that matched the anger and bitterness in her soul. She didn’t want to think about this right now. She only wanted to think about one thing. Finding her father.

  “So am I to believe that God transformed Merrick from a scandalous, blood-thirsty pirate into a moral, kind-hearted gentleman?” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

  “Absolutely!” Reverend Buchan’s face lit up. “That’s the power of the cross. No power on earth can truly change the nature of man, except Jesus. As soon as Merrick believed and accepted the sacrifice of Christ, the Spirit of the living God came and dwelt within him, transforming him into the man God intended him to be. It’s a relationship, not a set of rituals and rules.”

  Charlisse had never heard anyone speak of God like this before, not in all her uncle’s eloquent speeches, nor all the hundreds of sermons she had heard at church. “You’re not from the Anglican church, are you?”