Legacy of the King's Pirates

Chapter 4: To the Rescue

Exhausted, Merrick slumped into a chair in his cabin, allowing the ship's cook and doctor, Brighton, to patch up the sword wound on his arm. Oblivious to the pain, he was thankful to the Almighty that the wound was not deep. Others had not fared as well. He had lost one of his crew, and four Spaniards had died. The sight of blood and the smell of death lingered in his memory. It repulsed him.

Oh, how he had changed. There was a time, not long ago, when he had been as bloodthirsty a pirate as the rest of them. Death and torture were necessary means to an end, and that end was always the treasure and the power that came with it. What was the value of a man's life, anyway? he had once thought. Most lives were filled with pain and suffering. Why, he was actually doing them a favor by setting them free from the burden of living.

But now he knew the value of a man's soulmade in the image of his Creatorand 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 blooda gaping hole in his headwould 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."

h

During the next three weeks, Charlisse traveled twice around the island's perimeter and found two different types of fruitone 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 everywhere 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 fatherher fatherwas 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 eyesnot in one big flash, but in jumbled chunks of mixed reflectionsforcing 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.