“How have your studies been going as of late?” The reverend’s voice drew Charlisse’s attention back to the conversation.
“Very well. Excellent, as a matter of fact.” Merrick nodded and took a bite of a biscuit. He chewed for a minute then swallowed. “His Word gives me great strength and wisdom.”
“Ah, yes, there is power in the Bible.”
Merrick glanced at Charlisse. “And I have needed it.”
Smiling, the reverend leaned back in his rickety chair. “And your prayers?”
Merrick set his cup down. “Difficult, I’m afraid.” He raked his hair, but then his eyes brightened. “But always answered in extraordinary ways.”
Charlisse listened to this last topic with curiosity. Not that Christianity meant anything to her personally. But why would such a strong man—a man who could command the respect of a devious crew, a man with such unorthodox tendencies as piracy and drink—find comfort in an invisible God?
“It warms my heart to hear it.” Reverend Buchan pounded his fist on the arm of the chair and stood, making his way toward Charlisse. Grabbing a rag, he picked up the pot of tea and offered her some more.
Charlisse held out her cup. “Thank you.” She examined him as he poured the tea, noting his calm, happy demeanor, the twinkle in his eyes—nothing at all like her uncle.
“And what of you, miss? Shipwrecked? How horrifying.” He set the pot down on the stove. “You are searching for your father? Was he on the ship as well?”
Charlisse darted a quick glance at Merrick. “No. He lives here at Port Royal.” She sipped her tea. “My mother died. He’s all the family I have left.”
Kneeling, the reverend took Charlisse’s empty hand in his and gazed up at her. “I’m so sorry. There’s nothing worse than losing someone you love.” A sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes.
With a trembling hand, Charlisse set her cup down and returned his gaze, trying to mask her confusion at his genuine concern and quell the tears rising to her own eyes.
“You have been through quite a lot for such a young lady.” Reverend Buchan rose, offering her a warm smile, and turned to face Merrick.
The captain scooted off the couch, approached her and bowed. “I will return as soon as I can.”
Charlisse eyed him with suspicion. “Then you will help me find my father?”
“As I have said.” He nodded, grabbed his hat, and walked out door.
♥♥♥
The muggy air surrounded Merrick.
He turned to face the reverend. “Take good care of her, Thomas.”
“Of course.” Thomas shut the door and moved in step beside his friend. “Who is she really?” He cast the captain an inquisitive glance.
“The daughter of Edward Bristol.”
The reverend halted, a look of astonishment on his face.
“Or so she claims,” Merrick added. “It’s what I intend to find out.”
“Tonight?”
Merrick nodded. “I saw Edward’s ship at bay. I know where he might be.”
“Where’s that?”
“At his favorite haunt, of course.”
“Are you sure you want to confront him there?” Thomas’s brow wrinkled. “He won’t be alone.”
“I have no choice.” Merrick glanced back at the cottage. “She’s desperate to find him, and unless I lock her in the hold of my ship—which may still be an option,” he said with a snort, “I fear I may not be able to stop her from venturing out tomorrow to seek him, with or without an escort.”
The reverend folded his arms across his chest. “You risk much for the lady.”
“I can take care of myself.” Merrick patted the hilt of his cutlass. “And I won’t be alone. A few of my men will be with me.”
The trill of crickets filled the air with their evening chorus as a breeze wafted in from the sea. Normally a soothing sound, tonight it grated on Merrick’s nerves.
The reverend shifted his shoes in the sand. “You love her, don’t you?”
Merrick’s gaze shifted to the window of the cottage, hoping for a glimpse of Charlisse. “Is it that obvious?”
“I know you like a son, Merrick. I can see it in your eyes.”
“She’s like no other lady I’ve known—so unpredictable. She has my head forever in a spin. I never know what she’s thinking.”
Thomas grinned. “But if you capture her father and have him hanged, she may never forgive you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Merrick turned and stepped away, staring off into the darkness. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past few days.”
Silence stretched between them. A gust of wind struck the palm tree overhead, sending its fronds fluttering like giddy children in the warm breeze, mocking Merrick’s predicament.
“What will you do, then?”
Merrick raked his hair. “Pray, Thomas. Pray that Edward has changed—that he is not the vicious monster he was a year ago. If I see any remorse in him at all, I may stay my hand—for Charlisse’s sake.”
“And if not?”
“He must be stopped.” Merrick sighed. “You know as well as I do what he did to the Arawak village.”
Thomas nodded, concern creasing his face. “I know they were your friends.”
“And they suffered dearly for that friendship.”
“Do you still believe he butchered them simply because they knew you?”
“Why else, Thomas? They had nothing he wanted.” Hatred burned within Merrick at the memories.
Thick clouds crawled in overhead, obscuring the moonlight. Merrick turned to leave.
“God be with you.” Thomas placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“Let’s pray so.” Merrick said. “For I dare not face Edward the Terror without him.”
Chapter 23: The Arrest
Merrick rounded a corner and entered a dark alleyway. Up ahead, the shadowy outlines of three men huddled together around the post of a lamp-lit porch. As he approached, they straightened. Merrick continued walking. Sloane fell in step beside him while the other men followed.
“He’s there, Cap’n.”
Merrick nodded.
“Are ye sure ye be knowin’ what yer doin’?” Sloane asked.
Merrick glanced at his friend.
Sloane scratched his thick beard. “I mean, the Dead Reckoning? Methinks Edward be havin’ lots o’ friends at that vermin-infested tavern.”
“And enemies too, knowing him.”
Merrick marched on, picking up the pace. They turned onto a wider road, lit at intervals by lanterns perched atop wooden posts—casting eerie silhouettes over the closed shops lining the street. “Don’t worry, I know Edward. His pride will forbid him to fight without honor in front of so many witnesses. If fate thrusts it upon me, and I must challenge him, he’ll have to adhere to the rules of a fair duel.”
“And ye think ye can take ’im ?”
The corner of Merrick’s mouth curved upward. “Of course. Where’s your faith, man?”
Sloane chuckled. “In yer abilities, to be sure, Cap’n, but not in yer ruthlessness.”
The sounds of drunken revelry reached Merrick’s ears. “I made a pledge to God to bring the odious mongrel to justice, and as much as I would prefer to run him through with my sword and be done with it, I intend to honor my promise.”
Of course, exactly how he was going to perform such a feat, he hadn’t a clue. Somehow, he must capture Edward and deliver him to the governor without any of Edward’s crew protesting. What Merrick needed was a miracle.
But it just so happened he knew someone in that business.
Was it possible Edward had changed? Merrick had every reason to believe people, even the most vile and wicked, could give up their evil ways. But deep inside, he doubted Edward ever would, and if he hadn’t changed, Merrick must never allow him near Charlisse.
The Dead Reckoning came into view. Merrick signaled and his men stopped. He rechecked his weapons—the knife str
apped to his thigh, the other one on his belt, the two pistols on his baldric, and his cutlass secured in its scabbard. Taking a deep breath, he prayed he wouldn’t need them tonight.
“No one makes a move, save on my command.” He glanced at Brighton and Jackson behind him.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Then swerving his gaze to Sloane, a determined look passed between them before he set his face staunchly toward the Dead Reckoning and marched onward.
It was a large building, as taverns went, hammered together from the wooden planks of aged ships—pirate ships that had long since died and given up their worn and crusty parts for new iniquitous purposes. The rotting, salt-encrusted wood gave the place a feeling of foreboding, of death and decay and wickedness. Parts of a mainmast formed the posts on the front porch, and a rusty anchor guarded the captain’s door that served as an entrance. It now stood open, vomiting debased humanity from its gut. Through the windows, shadowy figures flowed like the waves of a tempestuous sea. Hideous screams and curses shot through the humid air.
Draped over the railings on the top and bottom floors like colorful rugs set out to dry, harlots brazenly displayed themselves, luring men to trade their fortunes for the passing pleasures they offered.
Two of them slinked up to Merrick, whispering lewd suggestions. Brushing past them, he took the steps up to the front door, amazed that their seductions held no attraction for him anymore. Instead, he felt pity and sorrow, and a deep sense of remorse for having ever partaken of their defiled fruit.
Halting at the top of the stairs, Merrick took a deep breath and said a silent prayer before pushing his way through the drunken mob that cluttered the doorway. Sloane, Brighton, and Jackson followed on his heels. Instantly, the stench of tobacco, body odor, stale rum, and urine assailed him, and he nearly choked at the wave of torrid memories the scents evoked. Not much had changed since he had made this squalid tavern his haunt not two years past. How astounding that a place he had once considered a second home could send such waves of repulsion through him.
The same bar he remembered—made up of the bulwark of a ship—stood in the center of the room where libations poured freely for all who had coin to pay, lubricating the tongues and inebriating the minds of those who gulped down the vile liquid.
Tables of all shapes and sizes, made from the capstans of ships, filled the bulk of the room. A mass of human forms, male and female, sprawled across them, spilling onto the stools and crates surrounding them.
Toward the back, a stairway rose from the shadows, littered with harlots enticing their victims to the rooms above.
Candlelit chandeliers and oil lanterns hung from rafters, showering a ghostly gloom over the whole wretched scene.
Merrick took a step forward, prying his foot from the sticky floor splattered with vomit and bird droppings. A sailor bumped into him, mumbled, and then fell against Sloane. The old pirate pushed him aside, cursing, and the man lunged out the door, holding his hand to his mouth.
Maintaining a calm air of authority, Merrick scanned the room looking for the familiar face of Edward the Terror. His men came up beside him.
He took another confident step forward, and several pairs of eyes shifted his way. “Why ’tis Cap’n Merrick,” one stocky man yelled.
“Aye,” a lanky lad bellowed. “Come join us fer a drink, Cap’n.” Barely able to stand, he pointed toward Merrick with his sloshing mug of ale as he clung to the back of a chair. Four grisly-looking men played cards on the table beside him amidst fly-infested food and spilt drink that dripped onto the floor.
“Captain.” A stylish-looking man on his right nodded as he passed.
Merrick squinted through the smoke-filled tavern, ignoring the greetings tossed his way, and searched the darkened corners where Edward usually hid—like the rat he was. Then, he saw him, sitting at a table in the left rear corner, the ominous light of a dim lantern revealing his debased features.
At the sound of boots approaching, Edward looked up. A sinister smile crept over his lips. His expression harbored not a trace of the surprise Merrick had expected. Instead, to his astonishment, a familiar face appeared next to Edward’s, the arrogant leer of Master Kent, whom Merrick had released in good faith not three hours earlier.
The demeanor of his former first mate, which had been humble and apologetic when Merrick had last seen him, now carried an abrasive insolence as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.
“Curse me mother’s grave, if it don’t be Captain Merrick,” Edward said with a jeering smile and smoldering eyes. “I see ye’ve brought yer littl’ minions with ye.” He nodded toward the three men behind Merrick. “Take a seat, have a drink. Tell me what mischief ye’ve been up to since ye stole me ship and left me to die on that godforsaken spit of land.”
He poured rum into a mug and motioned Merrick to join him. Two men emerged from the shadows and took their places on either side of Edward.
Alarms sounded within Merrick as his gaze passed from the two men to Kent and back to Edward.
They had been expecting him.
“I have since come to regret my folly.” Merrick offered a contemptuous bow. “I should have strapped a cannon ball to your legs instead and thrown you off the plank for the sharks.”
Edward’s face reddened. The veins in his neck bulged. He shoved to his feet, toppling his chair behind him. One of his men brashly drew his sword.
Merrick fixed the man with a cold stare and gestured for him to sheath his weapon. “I have come neither to drink, nor to fight.”
“Aye, I heard ye found religion.” Edward cackled and those around him joined in. “No longer a partaker of the vices of rum or the pleasure of a good fight, Captain?” he said, spitting in contempt on the table. “Lost your stomach for it?”
Edward the Terror was indeed an imposing man, tall and brawny, thick and strong as a bull. A long braid of gray hair ran down his back, matched by a scraggly beard that framed his ruddy face. He wore a captain’s hat decorated with a plume of ostrich feathers, proudly displayed as a symbol of his self-imposed importance. Fully armed and brazen, he had the air of a commander and the arrogance of a man who had not lost many battles. He took a swig of rum, piercing his enemy with an icy blue gaze—eyes the same color as Charlisse’s.
Flashing images bombarded Merrick’s mind—headless, battered bodies; ravished women whose insides had been torn asunder; lifeless children who died clinging to what was left of their parents; the smoking, blackened remains of a village that had once been full of life and laughter. A fire ignited in Merrick’s gut, burning away all decency, like the fires that had destroyed the Arawak town.
“But I heard ye have not given up women.” Edward’s taunting voice broke Merrick’s trance. “Kent has informed me of the rare young flower ye’ve been plucking aboard yer ship.”
An uneasy hush fell on the usually boisterous crowd.
“You did know Master Kent here is me nephew, didn’t you?” Edward’s thick eyebrows lifted. Chuckling, he slammed his mug on the table, splashing liquor over its brim, and strutted over to where Merrick stood.
Jackson made a move forward, but Merrick held up his hand.
“Humph.” Edward scowled at Jackson before returning his gaze to Merrick. “I sent him to yer ship to be a spy, and ye obligingly made him yer first mate. I thank ye for that.” A low rumble of laughter passed over the crowded room.
Merrick remained stoic, taking in this new bit of information. He thrashed it about with the myriad of exchanges that had occurred between him and Kent. Things finally began to make sense, and he silently cursed his stupidity.
“What would you say if I told you I made the acquaintance of a girl who claims to be your daughter?” Merrick knew full well the answer he would receive. But for Charlisse’s sake, he must know with all certainty before he made his next move. Perhaps he was wrong. Would the news of a daughter find its way to a speck of tenderness buried in Edward’s soul? Or would not even this h
appy discovery be able to penetrate the crust of hatred surrounding his heart?
“I would say she’s one of many fortunate offspring I have sired all over the Caribbean!” The room again broke into laughter. Edward glanced around, glowing under the attention.
Merrick fingered the hilt of his cutlass and stared at his enemy with cold contempt. Sloane nudged him from behind, and Merrick could sense the tension in his friend winding up like a taut bow ready to fire.
Edward stood, legs spread apart, with arms folded over his barrel chest. He cocked his head. “And just what would this girl want with me?” he asked.
“Only to know her father.”
Edward tugged at his beard and looked around the room. “Bring the lass to me, then. If she’s pretty enough, I’ll have no trouble complying with her wishes.”
The room exploded with howls. Merrick’s temper rose like a bubbling pool of lava.
Edward continued chuckling.
Even the man’s own flesh and blood was not sacred to him. Merrick could endure insults to himself, but he would not have this licentious slug talk about Charlisse as if she were a cheap strumpet.
“Why, ye swaggering dawcock!” Sloane bellowed, lunging forward.
Merrick halted his friend’s advance and instead, pulled his own hand back and hard-fisted Edward in the jaw, sending the powerful man tumbling backwards into the arms of two of his crew.
“I see the years have only further added to the darkness in your soul.” With difficulty Merrick contained himself from beating the man senseless. Jerking from his crew, Edward staggered back to his feet, rubbing his chin.
The mob roared. Kent jumped up, swaying and muttering something unintelligible. He pointed his pistol at Merrick.
Jackson and Brighton drew their weapons. The crowd backed up.
Merrick glanced at his former first mate. “Beware, Kent. Twice we have fought, and twice I have bested you. If you make it a third time, it may be your last.”
“Sit down, boy!” Edward bellowed. “I can fight me own battles.” He pushed his nephew aside, jaw flexing with irritation.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 16
