The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1)

by Marylu Tyndall

  Soon the ships sped side by side, not fifty yards between them. Captain Merrick fired a round toward their enemy that blasted through the midsection with a deafening roar, sending its yards and canvas crashing to the deck. Crippled, the Spanish vessel sat helpless in the water, awaiting her fate.

  Merrick ordered Kent to furl top and main sails and ready the grappling hooks in preparation to board. The thrill of the impending combat sent a mixed shiver of excitement and tension through him. With the warm wind gusting through his long hair, his pistols strapped to his shoulder belt and his cutlass in hand, he felt every bit the fierce warrior he used to be. No longer an outlaw pirate, he was now a privateer, commissioned by England, but he also had another agreement, unbeknownst to most, with the governor of Jamaica—to capture and bring to justice the most vicious pirates terrorizing the Caribbean. This arrangement appeased both Merrick’s newfound faith in God and his hunger for freedom and adventure. The ship he’d been seeking as of late belonged to first villain on the list, his ex-captain, a man whose cruelties had cost the lives of hundreds of innocent people.

  As the pirate ship closed in, the desperate Spanish sailors fired off a volley of musket shot. Scurrying into position, the pirates returned fire. Kent approached Merrick. “Captain, shall I order the swivel guns to sweep their deck and put them in their place?” His face hardened in a mixture of rage and blood-lust that concerned Merrick.

  The captain shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Master Kent. The ship is plainly ours. There’s no need for bloodshed.” He eyed his first mate curiously. “See to it the men are ready with the grapnels. On my order, we’ll spray musket shot to keep them at bay until we can heave the ships together.”

  Kent nodded, but his eyes burned with restrained defiance before he marched off to do his captain’s bidding.

  As the Redemption swept down upon its prey, the faces of the Spaniards contorted in terror. The pirates growled and hurled obscenities in their direction. Yet the sailors stood their ground, rallied on by their courageous captain who stood on the foredeck, braying orders for them to take arms and position themselves for the inevitable boarding.

  “FIRE!” Merrick bellowed. The air exploded with the crack of muskets and pistols and the thunderous shouts of the pirates as the Redemption came astern on the merchant vessel’s starboard quarter. Smoke obscured Merrick’s view and flooded his nose with the acrid sting of gunpowder.

  Six of his crew swung grappling hooks above their heads before releasing them in unison. They flew through the air and landed with a clank, gouging the deck of the Spanish vessel. The pirates tugged on the lines. In seconds, the ships crashed together with a thundering jolt. Upon Merrick’s order, his men drew their swords and scrambled over the bulwarks of the captured vessel like a flood of rats. Frantic shouting erupted, along with the clash of cutlasses, the blast of musket fire, and the agonizing screams of the injured. Yet the pirates continued their ruthless assault. Though his own skills had been sharpened under the expertise of the King’s Navy, where honor and decorum were highly esteemed, Merrick had learned to accept their cruel form of battle.

  The Spaniards fought with more tenacity than Merrick expected from common merchants, but they were clearly no match for such an unorthodox onslaught.

  A loud shriek drew his attention behind him. Kent forced a Spanish sailor to his knees at sword point. The poor man groveled for mercy, but the first mate raised his sword to strike him nonetheless.

  Merrick charged toward him to stay his hand. “We do not kill uselessly,” he shouted, grabbing Kent’s wrist.

  “But do we kill the useless?” Kent’s hard look of disdain sent an icy shiver over Merrick. Releasing his hand with an angry toss, Merrick stood between the sailor and Kent. “No one is useless.”

  The first mate scowled, then shrugged his shoulders and strode away.

  Finally, the Spanish captain called upon his men to stand down, and the fighting ceased. Merrick sheathed his sword and gulped to catch his breath. Blood trickled from a gash on his arm.

  “Shanks, Royce, stay with me,” he ordered his men. “Jackson, get Brighton and see to the injured.” Most of the pirates had already gone below deck to seek out the cargo. “The rest of you, search the ship and make sure there are no sailors hiding.” Three of the men grabbed their pistols and headed down the hold.

  “Don’t kill them,” Merrick shouted after them. “Bring them to me alive.” With grunts of disappointment, the men disappeared below.

  Merrick sauntered past the Spanish sailors, who had relinquished their weapons and were gathered in a small trembling group on the deck. He motioned their captain to step forward and spoke to him in fluent Castilian, informing him his crew would not be harmed. The man bowed, a wave of relief softening the fear that creased his face, and thanked Merrick for the assurance.

  Masters in the art of pillage, the pirates scoured the ship searching for treasure in a much more orderly fashion than they did their fighting. The merchant sailors could do naught but watch as the thieves hoisted their precious cargo up from the hold and brought it on deck. Merrick soon realized why their captain had dared to attempt such a hopeless fight. The fortune stored below far exceeded his expectations: Spanish Doubloons, Pieces of Eight, spices, silver, and pearls.

  Yet Merrick cared nothing for the treasure—not since he had realized there was more to life than wealth. Turning his attention to the wounded, he made sure they were tended to as quickly as possible while he searched for any of his own men in need of assistance, careful to avoid the slippery blood splattered across the deck.

  A solemn shape lay near the helm, a dark red pool stained the deck beneath him. Merrick’s heart sank as he slowly turned the body over. It was Reeves, his bosun, a pistol-shot through the head. The boy was only fifteen. Merrick bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. Stomach convulsing, he said a prayer for the boy’s family.

  Chapter 3: Lost and Alone

  The raging waves of the Caribbean had subsided into a rhythmic swaying that lulled Charlisse into a much-needed sleep. Her knuckles, white from the intense grip she had maintained for hours, cramped as she loosened her hold on the bulky slab of wood. Nauseated, cold, and wet, not even the warm glow of the rising sun on her eyelids could dispel the gloom from her heart. She was afraid to open her eyes—afraid to find out she was all alone in the middle of a vast ocean. So she lay still, taking in the sounds and smells that told her what she feared was true.

  Somehow, she had survived the night. Was it good fortune, or the curse of a wrathful God? Her conscience determined it must be the latter, since it would have been better to drown than to die slowly of thirst and exposure. Still clinging to the iron bar, too weary to move, she listened to the sounds around her—the lapping of waves, creaking of the wood beneath her, the distant chirping of birds. She sighed, giving in to the exhaustion and pain that consumed her body, and silently wished for death to come.

  Wait. Birds chirping?

  She raised her head, ignoring the pain etching down her back, and scanned her surroundings. A green mound appeared in the distance. Land. Like an oasis in a desert, it beckoned her. Hope renewed her strength, and she began paddling toward it, using both hands and feet to move the slab of wood inch by inch across the blue expanse. After hours of struggle, aided by surf and waves, she finally crawled up on the shore and crumpled onto the sand.

  Sometime later, she woke, disoriented, and struggled to sit. Calm, crystal-blue waves caressed the shore and outlined ragged shapes in white foam on the glistening sand. Dark clouds retreated on the horizon, the only remnant of the storm that had violently altered the course of her life. It had done its damage and seemed to be laughing at her as it departed.

  She sat for a long while, numb. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the heat of its sharp rays jarred her from her state of shock. She tried to get up, but a wave of dizziness forced her to her knees. One more attempt, and she finally stood on wobbly legs.

  Wreckage from
the ship—a broken mast, pieces of a torn sail, a bucket—dotted the shore in both directions. Behind her, the sand ended abruptly in a mass of tangled green, from which an orchestra of tropical birds performed. Each waft of the breeze carried upon it the sweet smell of flowers in bloom, coupled with the earthy scent of moist vegetation.

  Perhaps she was not alone. Maybe other survivors from the merchant ship had ended up on this island. She headed down the shoreline, calling out greetings as she went, hoping beyond hope that at the very least Captain Hathaway had survived. He had been so caring and kind to her ever since she had first stepped aboard his merchant vessel, The Calling, in London.

  “Ye remind me o’ my sweet daughter back home,” he commented as they dined together one night. “And I’ll not have any of the crew treating ye any different than as if ye were.” He kept to his word. All of his sailors had behaved like gentlemen in her presence, and judging by their appearance, that had been no easy task. She had never known a man like Captain Hathaway—a man who had not wanted something from her other than friendship.

  As the afternoon progressed, the salt in her dress dried into a coarse grain that chafed her skin, making every move an agonizing ordeal. The sand became a pile of sizzling pellets, and she kept to the water’s edge to avoid burning her feet. Unaccustomed to the hot humidity of the tropics, Charlisse stopped repeatedly to catch her breath and blot the perspiration from her brow with a torn piece of her gown. Yet she plodded onward through the endless sand and crashing waves for hours, stumbling over driftwood and seashells, only to find herself, after a long, tortuous afternoon, back on the very beach on which she had first landed. Dropping to the sand, she burst into sobs as shadows slowly overtook the tiny island.

  A half-moon scattered shimmering diamonds across the black sea, illuminating clusters of tiny crabs that skittered to and fro over the sand. They approached Charlisse, but at the slightest move of her foot or a wave of her hand, they scurried away. Lying back on the sand, she stared at the distant glowing orb, hoping the rhythmic sound of the waves would lull her to sleep, but slumber eluded her. Charlisse couldn’t say whether it was the insects, the sand, or her thirst that kept her awake. Perhaps all three, plus the gnawing fear that she would soon be dead.

  She had no fear of death itself—only the torturous journey she would have to endure before its peace overtook her. Regardless, she would still be better off than if she had stayed in the comforts of London in her uncle’s manor. What would he say if he knew she preferred starvation on a deserted island to living with him? A tiny smile curved her lips as she envisioned his expression when he realized he no longer had her under his control.

  Charlisse’s thoughts drifted to happier memories of her youth when her mother was still alive—the hours she’d passed sitting in her mother’s lap in front of a blazing fire, listening to story after story about her father. Her mother had spoken fondly of his character, his faithfulness and love, even his exploits at sea—which he had relayed to her during their courtship.

  Charlisse would never forget the sparkle in her mother’s eyes when she spoke of him, the laughter and the tears of joy that had flowed down her face.

  In those cherished moments, Charlisse learned her father was a merchant sailor, a captain, a man of good breeding and education. He couldn’t be with them because he was working to purchase an estate in the colonies for their family. Soon, her mother had told her, he would send for them. But three days after Charlisse turned eight, those dreams died and were buried along with her mother. No word ever came from her father, no condolences, no letters of love, no invitations to join him. Even if they had, she feared her uncle had destroyed them.

  Yet she couldn’t help but dream of the moment she would see her father for the first time. His handsome face would light up at the sight of her, and he would fling his arms open wide. Charlisse would run into his strong embrace and sink against his chest. Tears of joy would spill down both their faces. Then he would tell her how he’d been searching for her for years, how he’d thought of nothing else, and how much he loved her—had always loved her. And she would finally be safe and loved.

  And be home.

  Behind her, strange noises emanated from the jungle. Curling into a ball, she hugged herself. Maybe it wouldn’t be starvation that brought about her demise, after all, but an attack by a ferocious animal or perhaps a poisonous snake, or maybe some giant sea creature would crawl up on shore and drag her back into the ocean. She didn’t want to die. Closing her eyes, she swallowed the burst of terror rising to consume her. No. She must survive. Hugging herself more tightly, she strengthened her resolve and finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the father she never knew.

  The squawking of a large bird with an odd pouch-shaped mouth startled Charlisse from her restless sleep. He stood less than ten feet from her, flapping his wings and making a hideous commotion. Apparently, he was as unhappy with her presence on the beach as she was at being there. She sat and waved her hands to scare him off, but he remained steadfast, staring at her with tiny black eyes. He pranced back and forth, like some vain courtier, stopping only to assail her with defiant shrieks. His resemblance to Milford, her cousin, brought a scowl to her lips. She had no more inclination to deal with this bird than she had with her pretentious relative. Struggling to rise, she waved her arms, shouting at him until he finally waddled down the beach, scolding her as he went.

  Her head pounded, her throat ached, and her legs and arms stung with bites. The sun was just rising over a calm, glassy sea. She licked her cracked lips at the sight of the saltwater, undrinkable though it was. She must find fresh water. Grabbing the empty bucket left from the ship’s wreckage, she plunged into the tangled mass of green that bordered the beach.

  Hours later, her feet throbbed, one of her toes bled, and red scratches covered her arms and face—scars from her battle against vines and branches determined to guard their territory from all intruders. She defied them with a persistence brought on by excruciating thirst. A thirst that kept her plodding forward, musing as she went over the irony of her present circumstance compared to that of her past. Just three weeks ago, she had left a life abundant in jewels, beautiful gowns, servants, food, and, yes, water. Plenty of water. Charlisse Bristol, daughter of Lady Helena Bristol, granddaughter of Lord and Lady William Rochester of Hampstead, raised in the luxury of London nobility, yet for all her noble blood and courtly training, she had no idea how to survive on her own. Still, she felt no regret for leaving, and therefore resigned herself to accept whatever consequences fate had in store for her.

  Both insects and shrubbery grew thicker with each step, and Charlisse felt as though she were being eaten alive. Would she ever emerge from this green nightmare? Or would she be sucked in and slowly devoured, leaving only a dry heap of bones for some unfortunate explorer to find? Oh, God, help me find water. Her prayer instantly reminded her of the last time she had called out to God, beneath the stormy waters of the sea, about to drown. Had he heard her then? She had survived, but for what purpose—only to die a more hideous death? No, perhaps she’d been spared so she could find her father. What was she saying? There was no God—at least none that cared about her.

  Dabbing the perspiration on her forehead, she took in her surroundings. The jungle teemed with life. Colorful birds chirped in a canopy of trees that reached for the sky like giant sentinels. A multitude of buzzing insects swarmed around her, zipping in and out of the ferns and thick shrubs that held her captive.

  Charlisse heard a familiar, bubbly sound. She turned in that direction and moved forward. Could it be? Thrusting branches aside, she emerged into a tiny clearing where a small creek, no wider than two feet, flowed from under a huge boulder and split a sparkling trail across the forest floor.

  Dropping face down, she brought handful after handful of the sweet nectar to her parched mouth. Was there anything in the world that had ever tasted so wonderful? After splashing the cool water onto her face, she sat up refreshed, feel
ing the first glimmer of hope stir within her since she had landed on this wretched island.

  The creek seemed to pour from within a huge boulder upstream, reminding her of a story from the Bible about people who were dying of thirst in a desert and a man named Moses who prayed to God and struck a rock, from whence sprung a fountain of fresh water. She remembered her silent prayer from a few minutes ago, but quickly shook it from her mind. Pure coincidence.

  Charlisse dangled her sore feet in the water and splashed the precious liquid onto her skin and hair in an attempt to wash off the dirt and salt and soothe her itching bites. Her dress was filthy and torn, her petticoat in no better condition, and her long golden tresses—once the envy of London—were matted and encrusted with salt. But for now, her thirst was quenched, and that was all that mattered. She sat for hours, unwilling to leave her oasis, despite the rising heat and the increasing flood of insects. But soon the setting sun drew its light from the trees and she knew she would be safer on the beach.

  After filling the bucket, she struggled to her feet and plunged back into the tangled web of green, unwilling to give in to her fears, unwilling to give up the hope that she would someday find her father.

  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.