The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  As the point of her sword etched a quivering trail across his chest, he reached for his own sword and drew it in one quick swoop. He batted hers from her hand and onto the ground with a clank that sounded muddled in the humid air.

  Faith gasped. Backing away from him, she plucked out her pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at his chest. “Please leave,” she sobbed.

  Until now he’d heard only the anger in her voice, the spite, but now he heard the pain, like a wail of anguish piercing through the air and into his heart. He had hurt her terribly, and the thought gutted him as if she had indeed run him through with her sword. “Very well. I will leave.” Turning his horse around, he faced Faith. “If it means anything at all to you, I am truly sorry.” He headed for the gate.

  She sniffed. “I suppose you’ll turn me in for piracy now.”

  “Why?” He shrugged and halted. “Nothing has changed. You will not go back on your vow to quit?”

  “No.”

  “Then I have no reason to turn you over to the authorities.” He could only pray to the Lord that she wouldn’t turn away from God, as well. “Besides, I still love you.”

  Dajon mounted his horse in one leap and grabbed the reins. He risked one more glance at the woman he’d grown to love and admire. She held the pistol out before her, leveled upon his heart. Did she really believe he would hurt her? The thought sank him to the depths of the sea. “If you need anything, you know where—”

  His words faltered on his lips.

  The owl gave his eerie hoot for a third time, announcing Dajon’s exit back into shame and regret.

  Nudging his horse, he rode off into a darkness so thick, so black that he truly believed it would never be light again.

  h

  “Why we goin’ to the ship?” Lucas asked, bringing his horse alongside Faith’s.

  “I told you. I have to clean it out. Get all of our things removed. Bring Morgan home. ’Tis not my ship anymore.” Faith adjusted her straw bonnet against the rising sun. “I must return it to Mr. Waite.”

  The thought saddened her. The Red Siren had been a faithful friend these past five years. Her ticket to the sea, to wealth, to freedom. But that was all gone now. Perhaps Mr. Waite would have allowed her to take the ship out upon the seas now and then, once she proved to him her pirating days were over—and after the name Red Siren was scraped from the hull, of course—but that was no longer an option.

  She now longed to be rid of anything associated with Mr. Waite. “I still have a hard time believin’ he let ye go like that,” Lucas said as the trail narrowed and they entered a thick patch of trees.

  Beams of glittering morning sun streamed through the forest like ribbons of hope, transforming the leaves of hickories and sweet gums into sparkling emerald and their barks into columns of amber. It appeared more like a magical forest from a fairy tale than a Carolina woodland.

  Faith huffed. Just like her short-lived romance with Mr. Waite. Destined to live only in a storybook where endings were always happy. Not in real life where they never were.

  As if mimicking her faltering mood, the air thickened around her with the earthy, pungent smell of rotting wood and dank moss. Something stung her neck, and she slapped a mosquito.

  Lucas struck his arm where another blood-sucking beast had landed. “An’ especially after ye near run ’im through with yer blade last night.” He snickered.

  Faith made no reply as the events of the night drilled through her mind for the thousandth time. So enraged at Mr. Waite’s betrayal and the revelation of his true character—or lack thereof—her only thought had been to put as much distance between the loathsome man and her sisters as she could. She hadn’t considered that he held the power to throw her in prison, not until after she’d pointed the pistol at him.

  Why had she confronted him? Perhaps deep down, despite the proof stamped upon documents now littering her drawing room floor, she hoped it wasn’t true—that Dajon. . .Mr. Waite would deny the allegations, would offer some explanation. But when he hadn’t, when he had only confirmed her biggest fears, she flew into a rage. She would rather see him dead than harm her sisters.

  “The day is young, Lucas. Mr. Waite could be alerting the authorities about us as we speak.” The daunting thought had occurred to her even before she’d opened her eyes that morning. She wanted to believe Mr. Waite would stick to their bargain, she wanted to believe he was a man of his word, but she’d been trusting a man she no longer knew. Dread consumed her. It was as if Faith, her sisters, and her father were lined up before a loaded cannon and Mr. Waite stood nearby, holding the linstock that would set off the blast.

  A bird the color of a turquoise sky flitted across their path, chirping a cheerful tune, followed by several of his friends. Faith envied their carefree life.

  “Mr. Waite’ll not be turnin’ ye in.” Lucas loosened his neckerchief then used it to dab the back of his thick neck, revealing the pink tip of a scar beneath his shirt. Faith cringed. She had never gotten used to seeing the molten stripes marring her friend’s back. Yet even after being nearly whipped to death as a boy, Lucas now allowed God to give him hope for the future.

  “The man loves ye; any fool can see that,” he said.

  “The only fool here is me.” Faith dipped her head beneath an over-hanging branch. “For I believed Mr. Waite was the God-fearing man he claimed to be. A man like him is incapable of love.”

  They rode side by side in silence. Only the clump of their horses’ hooves over the sandy trail and the orchestra of birds and buzzing insects accompanied them.

  The faint snort of a horse sounded, and Faith grabbed her pistol. Lucas did the same. They both scanned the thicket of trees then shot a glance behind them. Nothing. Not many people dared to venture into the backwoods surrounding Charles Towne, especially with all the Indian attacks recently. Most likely a trapper or a lone Indian, neither of which would be a threat to them.

  Returning her pistol to her baldric, Faith tugged on the leather straps, hoping for a breeze to ease inside her cotton gown and cool her searing skin.

  Lucas shifted in the saddle and stretched his broad back. “I’s praying fer you, mistress. An’ fer Mr. Waite.”

  “You need not bother, Lucas,” she retorted. “Mr. Waite was a man of prayer, a man of faith, but he turned out to be naught but a scoundrel who preys on the affections of innocent women.” Faith’s heart shriveled even as she said the words. “Just like all men.” Then she bit her lip and glanced at Lucas. “Yourself excluded, of course.”

  Lucas flashed a set of pearly teeth that matched the whites of his eyes. “Why, thank ye, mistress. But whate’er Mr. Waite done, ’twas a long time ago, eh?”

  “Aye.”

  “Thanks be to God that He not only forgives but forgets the sins o’ our pasts.”

  “Only if we repent of them.” Faith slapped another mosquito and wondered for the first time if Mr. Waite had been sorry for his actions.

  Not that it would matter to Faith.

  Lucas scratched his hair. “Seems to me Mr. Waite ain’t nothin’ like this man you done heard about.”

  True. Mr. Waite had proven himself to be naught but an honorable, God-fearing man these past few weeks. A clump of moss hanging from an almond pine grazed over Faith’s shoulder as she tried to brush away thoughts of the man’s admirable character. He was a swindler. That was all.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she said. “But I cannot forget the abuse of an innocent woman. Not after what has happened to Charity and to Hope.”

  “God changes people. He already be changin’ me, mistress.”

  Faith studied her first mate, groomsman, and longtime friend, unable to deny the new lightness in his bearing and hope in his eyes. “I must forbid you to spend any more time with Molly—or Miss Grace, for that matter.” She gave him a playful grin. “I find I prefer the old nefarious Lucas”—she deepened her voice—“first mate on the pirate ship Red Siren, than this charitable, high-spirited optimist.” They bot
h laughed.

  Lucas grew serious. “I just hoping ye don’t lay blame fer Mr. Waite’s failings on God.” Concern warmed his dark eyes.

  Did she? No. She knew that would be pure foolishness, for that would thrust her right back where she started, blaming God for everything wrong in the world and in her life. Truth be told, God had never left her or her sisters. He had more than proven that with His miraculous rescue of Hope. Then what Faith had felt in the cabin of her ship when Dajon had confronted her, what she had felt in her chamber—the very presence of God, the love, the hope, the forgiveness that had blanketed her—was more real than anything she had known. In fact, it seemed to be the only reality she could count on anymore.

  “No, Lucas. I fear that I, too, have been forever changed.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, battling the insects and the heat, and finally emerged onto the lagoon where the Red Siren floated in the midst of a glassy pool fringed in green moss and algae. The bare masts of the ship thrust into the sky, blending with the myriad trees surrounding them. No one would see the ship unless he happened to emerge right at this spot, and even then the anchor chain was bolted by a hefty lock that would forbid it to be raised. So far, the ship had remained safe.

  After dismounting, Faith assisted Lucas in uncovering a nearby canoe, and then together they paddled out to the ship and gathered her flag, Morgan, some of her books and charts, a small chest of doubloons and rubies, and the silver swept-hilt rapier she’d captured from a French privateer. By the time they made it back to shore, the heat rose like steam off the tepid swamp.

  As she and Lucas silently loaded her things into packs they had slung over their horses, Faith swallowed down the sorrow clogging her throat and avoided gazing at her ship. This might be the last time she would ever see it and definitely the last time she would call it hers, the last time she would march across its decks as they rose and fell over the tumultuous waves, the last time she would be in command. She didn’t regret her change of heart. She knew now that what she had done was wrong, but it didn’t seem to dull the pain of loss she felt—not only the loss of her ship but the loss of Mr. Waite.

  A harsh scuffle sounded behind her, followed by a thud and a gurgle.

  “Avast! Head for the shoals! Head for the shoals!” Morgan squawked from his perch on the saddle horn.

  Gripping the handle of her pistol, Faith swerved around to see a beefy man, his thick arm clamped around Lucas’s neck, pointing a knife at his throat. Her first mate’s pistol lay useless on the dirt by his feet, and the fear flickering in his eyes seemed more for her than for himself. The beast of a man behind him slowly widened his mouth into a grimy, yellow-toothed grin.

  In an instant, Faith had her pistol cocked and pointed at the intruder, but before she could utter her ultimatum, the sound of footsteps scraped across her ears. She spun her weapon in the other direction. The gun nearly fell from her hand when Sir Wilhelm Carteret emerged into the clearing. His periwig perched atop his egg-shaped head, slanted precariously as if at any minute it would slide off. Powder-muddied sweat oozed from beneath it onto his forehead and down his bloated, reddened cheeks.

  “Load the guns! Load the guns!” Morgan screeched, and the flap of his wings filled the air as he, no doubt, headed for the safety of the trees.

  Coward.

  “Well, well.” Sir Wilhelm placed one hand on his hip and the other in midair. “I daresay, what a surprise, my dear.” His pretentious gaze combed over the Red Siren.

  “You followed me,” Faith spat as she tried to surmount her shock and plot her next step.

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you that you would pay for your refusal and your insolent behavior. Did I not?”

  “I will shoot you where you stand.” Faith’s finger itched over the trigger, longing to put an end to this miserable man’s life, while at the same time knowing she could not take another’s life, even when her freedom and her very life were at stake.

  “Nonsense. You will do no such thing.” He smirked and gestured toward Lucas with a nod of his head. “Not unless you wish to see your slave here die.” He loosened his cravat from his neck and flapped it through the air, trying to banish the swarm of gnats enamored with his wig.

  Faith dared a glance at Lucas. A line of blood marred his bronze neck, but his eyes carried more annoyance than fear.

  “He is not my slave. He is my friend.”

  “No matter.” Sir Wilhelm waved a hand of dismissal toward Lucas. “You will put down your weapon, or I will order my man to slit his throat.”

  Faith studied Sir Wilhelm’s icy gaze and knew he meant it. He would kill Lucas and get away with it. Lucas was a Negro and a pirate, after all. Releasing the cock, Faith tossed the pistol to the ground.

  Sir Wilhelm’s thin lips broke into a malicious grin. “So—you are indeed the notorious Red Siren? I am all astonishment.” He nearly giggled with glee. “This is most fortuitous.” His normally dull eyes blazed with a hard, calculated look.

  Ignoring the fear and nausea spinning in her stomach, Faith planted her fists on her waist. “What is it you want?”

  “Hmm.” Approaching her, he took her hand and rubbed his clammy, cold fingers over hers. “You know what I want.” He leaned toward her, inundating her with the stench of snuff and starch. “You will marry me.”

  Yanking her hand from his, Faith retreated. “I will not.”

  “Then I shall be forced to turn you in for piracy.”

  Chapter 31

  Faith plopped down onto the moist floor, laid her head against the rough brick wall, and brought her knees to her chest. In this far corner of her cell, tucked in among the shadows, she could escape the licentious gazes of the other prisoners. Their ogling had begun to grate on her nerves like acid on an open wound. Grasping a handful of straw, she shoved it beneath her bottom, both to soften her seat and to shield her from the damp stones. An archway of bricks formed the ceiling above her, upon which hung a lantern whose flame was often extinguished, enshrouding her in the nightmarish gloom of the Watch House dungeon.

  The dismal cage had been her home for a week, and she could no longer smell the human waste, fear, and death that thickened the air around her. That was not a good sign. She wondered if she would also grow accustomed to being imprisoned within these dank walls, but if her fellow inmates—who had obviously been here longer than she—provided any clue by their constant complaining and cursing, she would never get used to losing her freedom.

  Her only joy was the remembrance of Sir Wilhelm’s face when she’d informed him that she’d rather hang for piracy than become his wife. He had bent over so violently that she thought he was going to choke on his own vile spit. His periwig flew to the ground, leaving naught on his head but a bald, heat-prickled scalp.

  After he had composed himself and covered his fury with a veneer of unruffled arrogance, Faith had convinced him that she would go with him peaceably if he would release Lucas unharmed. She had watched his beady gaze flicker between her and Lucas—who was still being restrained by Sir Wilhelm’s henchman—and knew he realized what she already had. That Wilhelm was not man enough to contain her without his man’s help.

  After the henchman had withdrawn the knife from Lucas’s throat, Faith had ordered her reluctant first mate back home with the admonition that he send for her father and take care of her sisters until the admiral returned. The assurance of her faithful friend’s loyalty had been the only beam of light in the otherwise dark, hopeless void that continued to close in around her with each passing minute.

  Thoughts of her sisters and their precarious futures bombarded Faith in her loneliest hours. With her imminent demise and their father returning from overseas, they would no doubt find themselves married off to the first suitors who would accept them before further scandal racked the family. A sob rose to her throat, but she refused to release it. She deserved her fate. Her sisters did not deserve theirs. She longed to see them one last time, if only to
apologize for her foolish actions. Why hadn’t they come to see her? Perhaps ladies were not permitted in the dungeon of the Watch House. And as she listened to the depraved conversations and fiendish threats of the men around her, Faith could understand why.

  But no word, either?

  Nothing from Lucas or Edwin—or Dajon. Not that she expected to see the captain after the malicious way she had thrown him from their home.

  Much to her deep chagrin, the only visitor she’d had was Sir Wilhelm, who had come to call upon her twice with the same proposition. If she married him, she would be released and exonerated of all charges, and he would take care of her and her sisters for the rest of their lives. All her problems would be solved with one simple yes. Just one yes seeping through her lips but, oh, the bitter taste.

  She had begun to pray—to plead with an invisible God, to humble herself before His power and majesty and ask for guidance. It felt odd, even scary at first, asking for help, relying on someone else, trusting someone else, but the more she prayed, the more she relished the companionship of her heavenly Father.

  And she had felt God telling her to trust Him—that He had another plan, a better plan, and for once, she resisted taking charge of her own life. Only now as her faith dwindled along with her strength, she wondered if she had made the right choice.

  I know You forgive me, Lord. I’m trying to do the right thing now. Is it too late for me? Is it too late for my sisters? Please do not punish them for my sins. Please protect them and provide godly men to be their husbands who will love them and cherish them.

  She swiped away a tear before it slid down her cheek. No more crying. Perhaps she had strayed too far into the wickedness of this world, done too many bad things to be redeemed. But surely it was not too late for her sisters.

  She heard the jailer before she saw him. The scrape of his bare, impotent foot over the stones had become an omen of bad tidings. Soon he emerged from the shadows carrying a bucket that seethed with the odor of animal fat and rotten eggs. Sweat gleamed atop his head, which was as big as a melon, while greasy strands clinging loosely to its sides swayed with each step. Halting, he gaped at her with the permanent grin of a hungry alligator.