Tears spilled down Charlisse’s cheeks. She stared at the shield of light, her mind still not accepting what her eyes clearly saw. “Thank you, Lord, thank you! You are my fortress and my shield. Thank you.” She continued giving thanks for several minutes until finally, she curled up in a ball and fell asleep with the praises of God on her lips and his light surrounding her.
In the early morning hours, as she was just regaining consciousness, her thoughts drifted to Merrick. Was he still alive? Or like her, was he still in his cell, dealing with rats and other vermin? She prayed that if he still lived, God was protecting him as he had so miraculously protected her. The similarity of their circumstances made her feel closer to Merrick. She had thought his love was the answer to the aching hole in her heart—that hole she had first thought could be filled only by her father—but now Merrick had been taken away from her as well. She was alone again in this world—no father, no Merrick. Yet God was still with her.
Around midday, Charlisse heard the jingle of keys followed by heavy steps on the ladder. She looked up from within her lighted circle and saw Kent, lantern in hand and familiar smirk on his face. Like an excited child, she waited for him to notice her miraculous shield, but when he turned to look at her, she detected no shock in his eyes.
He doesn’t see it. She grinned.
“Ah, do I perceive a smile on your face?” His dark eyes flashed with excitement. “Had your fill of this place? Ready to join me above, perhaps?” He jangled the keys in front of her but stopped when she did not reply. “You must be hungry by now, and thirsty, and tired of rats.”
“I assure you, sir,” Charlisse’s voice cracked from disuse, but remained firm. “I am well cared for.”
Kent’s brow creased. “Indeed? How can that be?”
“God takes care of me.”
Kent couldn’t have been more awestruck if she had broken through the bars and slapped him. He shook his head, regaining his composure. “Miss, I fear you are either delusional or have spent too much time with Merrick.” He paused. “Or perhaps one is the cause of the other.” Chuckling, he grabbed the bars. “I implore you, give up this insane pretense and accept my generous offer.”
Kent’s expression bordered on desperation, and Charlisse felt sorry for him. “If you are quite done, I need my rest.”
Fury filled his eyes. “As you wish. I leave you here to die!” He swung around, grabbed the lantern, and stormed up the stairs.
The afternoon dragged on, and Charlisse’s throat screamed for water. The surly old pirate returned with a plate of food, angry once again when he could not find entrance into her cell. After shoving the meager slop between the bars, he left without saying a word, although his parrot continued to make up for its master’s silence. With one small gulp, Charlisse downed the dirty water, and then slid the plate of food to her furry cellmates.
Back inside the protective light, she lay down and tried to sleep. Every time fear snuck into her mind to steal her peace, she peeked at the circle of light, and instantly felt comforted and protected. When the temperature cooled, she allowed the familiar swaying of the ship to rock her to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she awoke with a start to the loud thumping of someone coming down the stairs. The sound stopped abruptly for a few seconds, and Charlisse wondered if the person had changed his mind, but then it resumed. The shadow of a large man entered the room. She sat up. A twinge of fear ran down her spine. In the light of a bright lantern, Charlisse could make out the distorted face of her father.
Chapter 34: Father to the Fatherless
Edward the Terror staggered to the cell, searching for Charlisse in the darkness—the girl who had sent his life into a bilge pit for the past three days. The bars of the cage danced before him like slithering snakes. He held up the lantern and nearly toppled over. A belch erupted from his throat. He saw her, sitting toward the back of the cell, looking as innocent as her mother always had. Cursing, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to hang the lantern on its hook, but the blasted thing kept moving, and he barreled into the bars and nearly lost his footing. “Can’t those powder-brained apes keep the ship steady!” Finally, he hooked the lantern and turned to face her.
Clinging to the iron bars, he stared at her, trying to collect his fragmented thoughts. The lantern swayed back and forth in time with the creaking of the ship. A rat scampered across the cell into a dark corner. Edward watched it with interest, glad for the diversion, before returning his drunken gaze to Charlisse. She swirled like a mirage in his vision, like a dream from long ago—a vision of Helena.
Helena. The sound of her name was still like a sweet song, an ancient song from a time long ago when Edward Bristol was a different man—when he had hopes and dreams, and love in his life.
But that man was dead now.
He had not heard that name spoken in years, although both the name and the person who bore it haunted his dreams day and night. Not a day passed that she didn’t invade his thoughts, teasing him with memories of her beauty and love. Not a day passed that he didn’t wonder what his life would have been like had she stayed with him—had she truly loved him.
Who was this girl who dared to speak the only name that could resurrect torturous feelings long since buried? It was a trick—one of Merrick’s tricks, no doubt.
He focused his blurred vision on the girl in the cell. He let out a low curse. She looks just like her. Why didn’t I notice it before? The same sweet face, the flawless ivory skin, the long golden hair. He shot her a fierce look and growled under his breath.
“What was your mother like?” he demanded.
Charlisse stood and crept toward him. “She was beautiful,” she began, “with hair the same color as mine.”
The ship lurched to larboard, and she nearly fell. Edward clutched the bars. Stale rum rose in his throat. The ship spun around him, and he feared he would pass out. He didn’t want to pass out. He wanted to look into the blue eyes of this girl who looked so much like Helena.
Even after three days in the rat-infested hold, she gazed at him with tenderness. Not anger, not hatred, as he’d expected. There was something else behind her gentle look—something that confused him.
“She was taller than me,” she continued, “more elegant and graceful.”
Edward listened, forcing his hazy thoughts to focus. Hearing about Helena stirred a part of him that was long since stagnant, a part of him that had once known happiness. But along with the joy, the pain also rose, clambering from the ashes of his charred emotions to claw at what remained of his heart. Still, he bade Charlisse continue.
“She loved painting, and music. She had the voice of an angel.”
“Aye.” Edward nodded. “She did, indeed.” A smiled curved his lips, and with it, he felt all defiance and wickedness slowly dissolve, as if the two could not inhabit his being at the same time.
“She loved you, Edward.”
The words struck him like a rapier through his gut—like a blade expertly aimed, reopening old wounds that had been cauterized but had never healed. The pain, finally released from its prison, churned within him, eating at his soul. He scowled, forcing the agony back the only way he knew—with hatred.
“I’ll not hear of that!” he stormed, and spat on the floor. “She had no love for me. She loved only her silks and lace, her jewels and fancy food.” He gave a curt wave through the air. “I was but a poor merchant sailor whom she used for her own amusement.” Heat rose up his neck as he staggered in front of the cell.
“I hardly think marriage can be considered a token,” Charlisse whispered.
He shot her an angry gaze. “Even that had no true meaning for her,” he bellowed. “Otherwise, she would have answered my letters.”
Charlisse drew closer. “She did answer your letters, I assure you. At least the ones she received.”
Edward snorted and flung his mass of hair behind him.
“She used to read me your letters when I was little—o
ver and over again.”
“Aye, I’m sure she had a great laugh at how foolish I was to believe she loved me. And the money I sent for her to join me, the money I worked my skin to the bones for, where would that be?” He raised a mocking brow and grabbed the bars to steady himself.
“I don’t know, Father, all—”
“Don’t call me that! I am not your father!” His roar echoed off the planks and bounced around the ship like angry arrows. Drawing his cutlass, he pushed it between the iron bars, pointing it straight at the impudent girl. She leapt back, a look of horror on her face. “I’ll carpse ye and tie yer body to the anchor and then drag ye o’er the ocean floor if you call me that again, missy!”
Fear skipped across her eyes, and an unfamiliar emotion flooded through him—regret. He didn’t know what to do with it. Withdrawing his weapon, he sheathed it with force. What magic does this wench weave over me?
He needed a drink. Wobbling beyond the ladder, he cracked open a barrel and dipped in his hands, bringing the precious liquor to his mouth. Warm and sweet, it flowed through him, further numbing his senses along with the pain in his heart. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he returned to the girl.
She would not come forward. He didn’t blame her. An uncomfortable silence hung between them. He had no idea what else to say, but he didn’t want to leave.
The sweet sound of her voice broke the silence. “My grandparents died shortly after Mother returned to London. I never knew them. My uncle, Bishop Hemming, became my mother’s guardian.”
The alcohol was having its intended affect on Edward’s emotions. The tension in his shoulders released, and apathy extinguished the flames of pain and regret.
Charlisse crept from the shadows. “He was a vicious, cruel, and controlling man who used the power of the church to manipulate everyone around him.”
“Why are you telling me thisss?” Edward slurred. “I have no interest in him.”
“Because it was he who kept you and my mother apart. Completely against her wishes and without her knowledge.”
A troubled feeling brewed in Edward’s gut.
The girl’s eyes glistened and she stepped closer. “I assure you, she longed for you day and night. All she talked about was the day you would summon us to come live with you.” She paused. A tear slid down her cheek. “My uncle lied to you about me. He lied to you about my mother’s feelings toward you. And he confiscated all correspondence between the two of you until you both gave up hoping.”
Edward shook his head. Thoughts spun through his mind, and he was having trouble getting them to land. Yet something the girl said sparked a light in a very dark part of him—a light that seemed to dissipate the fog of confusion that had suffocated him for so many years. Her words made sense, but he wasn’t sure he wanted them to. For so many years, he had wondered what had happened to the incredible love he and Helena had shared. For so many years, he had not wanted to believe what her brother had told him. But years went by and the mind played tricks until Edward believed he’d been played for a fool. That no woman like Helena could ever have loved him.
That’s when anger and bitterness had overtaken him, like an insidious disease spreading from his heart throughout his soul, devouring every good thing in its path. From then on, he had spiraled down into a life of depravity and wickedness, spewing anger and hatred on everyone around him, hoping to rid himself of it. But the more he dispensed it, the more it grew inside him, becoming more and more powerful until it had made him the most feared and wicked pirate on the Caribbean. And the most miserable and empty.
If there was truth to this girl’s words, what good would it do him now? It would only make him more of a fool for abandoning Helena, leaving her to raise their child on her own. It would mean that all these years of hatred and evil had been for naught. He should throw the wench to the sharks before she burrowed any deeper into his heart. Yet he had to know more.
“How did she die?” he asked.
“She grew sick with fever one winter.” The girl’s voice cracked. “I sat at her bedside and watched her slowly dwindle away.” Tears fell freely from her eyes. “In the end, I don’t think she had the will to go on—even for me. I was only eight.” Charlisse slid down the iron bars and plopped in a heap on the floor.
Edward’s heart sank into a growing sludge of anguish. A desperate sense of loss threatened to break his heart in two. Taking a deep breath, he searched for the rum’s numbing effect that had dissipated and left him to feel such misery. Unable to find it, he raised the stone wall of bitterness and hatred he had shielded himself with for years.
“Well, it makes no difference to me. It just be a silly story ’bout some frail woman who I ’ave no recollection of.” He was Edward the Terror again—in control, vicious, and heartless. It felt good. He took a step to leave and almost fell. Turning, he gave her one last furtive glance before heading toward the ladder.
“Is that all?” The girl asked, rising. “Are you going to leave me down here?”
Edward tottered away.
“Father!” Charlisse screamed. “Please don’t leave me here.”
“I told ye not to be callin’ me that!” He turned and drew his pistol with much more swiftness and accuracy than he’d thought possible in his condition. He pointed it straight at her lovely head. The dark, ominous barrel shook in his hand. He could kill her right here and Helena’s memory with her.
She did not flinch. Her eyes carried more sorrow than fear in their blue depths. He shifted the gun back and forth, following her swaying figure. Moments passed. The ship creaked and moaned as if in protest of the impending murder.
Then Helena appeared in the cell. She stood with arms outstretched, smiling. Edward closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone, but the product of her love for him remained.
Edward swore, lowered the gun, and stormed away.
♥♥♥
Sobbing, Charlisse crawled back to her circle and curled up in a ball. Would that her father had simply killed her. Why God allowed this endless torture, she could not fathom. As her tears rolled over the bridge of her nose and dropped onto the soggy wood beneath her, she gazed at the circle of light and realized God wanted her alive for some reason. For what purpose, she could not imagine. What did she have to offer an all-powerful God? Yet in this dark, smelly, rat-infested prison, she could not deny his presence. With that comforting thought filling her mind, she drifted off to sleep.
It must be Friday. The realization froze her heart as she slowly regained consciousness from her fitful sleep. Had three nights passed in this horrifying cell or only two? It seemed like a hundred to her aching body and frenzied mind. Weak from lack of food and water, it took every ounce of her strength to rise and kneel within her circle and lift up a fervent prayer for Merrick. Today was the day of his execution, and if he was still alive, God was the only one who could save him.
Chapter 35: Prison Break
His eyes watering, Merrick blinked under the brilliance of the sun. He had not been outside for a week, and as the Caribbean breeze caressed his face, he took a deep breath of it, smiling. The salty air carried the lure of freedom, but the irons clamped around his wrists spoke otherwise. He was being led, along with two other prisoners, through a formation of well-armed British soldiers toward a horse-drawn wagon.
To be hanged within the hour.
Regardless of his looming demise, he was elated to be out of that dark, damp cell. ’Twas a wonder he retained a fraction of his sanity—a condition he attributed to the grace of God. It had only been a week, after all. A week that had seemed like an eternity—an eternity in hell—as Merrick had wrestled with the demon of self-reliance, battling against the realization that he couldn’t save Charlisse, much less himself. For six days, he’d fought for the control he knew was only God’s, until finally, broken and weary, Merrick fell to his knees, released his clasp on the demon, and submitted himself to the Almighty.
Now, with the feel of the earth beneath h
is feet, the warmth of the sun on his cheeks, he felt at peace, knowing everything was in God’s hands. Above him, palm trees fluttered in the wind as the chatter of birds accompanied the distant, roaring surf. A suitable serenade for his death march.
The guards shoved him into the wagon. He stared at his fellow prisoners, who did not seem to be sharing his joy. One old fellow appeared to be naught but a poor beggar, who must have stolen from the wrong person to receive such a harsh punishment. The other, by his clothing and mannerisms, was a pirate, and Merrick gave him a quick smile.
“Ye are Cap’n Merrick, aren’t ye?” the man asked.
Merrick nodded.
“I’ve heard of ye. By the powers, I ne’er thought to be seein’ ye caught and forced to a pirate’s death.” He was a skinny young fellow with red hair and lively blue eyes. His fair skin had been sunburned so many times it remained a hardened, rusty color, making him look much older than Merrick was sure he was.
“It was not a part of my plans either, my friend.” Merrick cast him a sly grin. “But we aren’t at the gallows yet, now, are we?”
Four of the soldiers mounted horses and formed an armed escort around the prisoners. The other two sat in the front of the wagon, one now flicking the reins that sent the wobbly cart on its way.
The heat of the day rose as they passed through the main gate of the fort. The soldiers gave their formal salute to the men who stood guard. Rusty—as Merrick decided to call him—glanced at him with a look of understanding, mingled with respect. Whether it was because Merrick appeared to have no fear of death, or whether the young pirate hoped for a sudden rescue, Merrick did not know.
Passing over the crest of a hill, the wagon meandered down a narrow road. A strong, salty breeze wafted over them from the bay, fed by the sparkling turquoise waters of the sea Merrick loved so much. Would he ever sail free over the crystal Caribbean again?
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 25