Chapter 5: The Encounter

The morning trade winds swirled fresh scents of the sea and the sweet spring tropics around Captain Merrick as he stood at the main deck railing, sipping his tea and thanking God for another day of glorious freedom roaming the crystalline Caribbean waters. He had found a small island in the shipping lanes, where his crew loaded the prisoners from the merchant vessel onto a cockboat and rowed them ashore. It wouldn't be long before the Spaniards were rescued.

Merrick had seen enough death for a lifetime. He only hoped his mercy wouldn't weaken him in the eyes of his crew. So far, none of them had dared challenge him on anything of importancepartly from fear, he imagined, since it was obvious to all that his skill as a swordsman far surpassed their own.

His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for an uncharted group of islands he had once seen this way in passing. The Redemption needed to be careened, and he must find a safe place in which to do it, preferably a hidden harbor. Having the ship grounded and tipped so the crew could scrape its hull of weeds and barnacles put the pirates in a precarious position should an enemy happen upon them. Nonetheless, it had to be done every few months or the wood would rot through and the ship would lose considerable speedinexcusable in the trade of piracy.

The pirates were just rousing to lumber about the deck, where several of them had passed out during the festivities the night before. The few alert enough to climb the ratlines were assisting with the sailing of the ship. Most, however, would spend the day lying about in the sun, drinking more rum to ward off their pounding headaches.

The atmosphere aboard a pirate ship always amazed Merrick. Unlike His Majesty's Royal Navy, discipline and order were strongly lacking among a crew of pirates. The men took their shifts randomly, working out schedules among themselves. Although skirmishes broke out now and then, most of the pirates were able to resolve things without bloodshed. Votes were taken on major decisions, including which ships to attack and which to leave lie, but in the heat of battle, Merrick was in supreme command.

He ran his ship a bit more iron-handedly than other pirate captains did. The articles he made his crew signwhich included the exact percentage each man would receive of the treasure captureddemanded stricter rules of decorum and propriety than normally seen among pirate crews. For instance, random and senseless killing was prohibited, as was the ravaging of innocent women found on any of the ships or ports they attacked. The pirates who chose to crew his ship were obligated to sign his articles. Although some did so begrudgingly, they still complied, most likely because Captain Merrick's skills in procuring vast amounts of treasure were well known throughout the Spanish Main.

Finally, he spotted the island he searched for. "Thirty degrees to starboard, Mr. Kent," Merrick ordered, looking for an easy inlet. The first mate repeated the command to the helmsman, and the sails shifted in the wind with a billowing snap.

Sloane came up beside him. "That be the island ye was thinkin' of, Cap'n?"

Merrick nodded, folding up his telescope. "It will do quite nicely. Wake the men, and ready the lines. We're going ashore." He smiled at his friend. "We could all use some rest on dry land, eh?"

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Sloane took off to do his captain's bidding.

Merrick gazed at the emerald-green oasis coming into view. As beautiful and enticing as it appeared, a sense of foreboding overcame hima feeling he'd only had once before, when he had stumbled, drunk and half-dead, into a small church in Port Royal. His life had changed dramatically for the better after that event. Did something equally as life-altering await him on this tiny island?

"Stop your squawking!" Charlisse bolted upright in her makeshift bed ten feet above the jungle floor. A wave of dizziness flooded her. "That stupid, irritating bird." She plopped back down and threw what was left of her filthy gown over her head. "What is he yelling about now?"

With her energy depleted and no more edible fruit on the island, she spent most of her time in her tree. When she dared attempt to drag herself to the creek for water, her limbs felt like anchors, her head pounded, and her breath came in clipped gasps. As if things weren't bad enough, the sweltering heat of the tropics consumed her … burning away, bit by bit, her will to go on.

Each night she prayed for death to come, and each morning, as the sun's brilliant rays stabbed her eyes, she cursed God for prolonging the agony of her life. She no longer had the energy to even swat the insects away. The torment of their stings and incessant itching of their bites was even worse than the ache of her empty stomach. Her hope of being rescued and finding her father had been obliterated by weeks of suffering and loneliness until she'd forgotten what it felt like to hope for anything, save an end to her misery.

Now, just when she thought her existence could deteriorate no further, Jack was at the foot of her tree, flapping his wings and shrieking, demanding her attention for reasons beyond her understanding.

When it became apparent he would not allow her to die in peace, she decided to make a trip to the creek to quench her burning thirst. Whether or not she had enough energy left to make the journey, she didn't know.

And didn't care.

Holding onto a nearby vine, she tried to jump down to the branch below, but her head grew light, her knees weak, and the jungle whirled around her in blurred shapes. The vine broke. She fell, missed the branch, and landed on another one farther down. Cursing, she tried to right herself, but her foot slipped again, and she toppled to the ground. Hard. Pain shot through her ankle and up her leg.

Jack squawked off toward the ocean, ruffling his feathers. Ignoring him, she grabbed her bucket and limped down the now-familiar jungle trail.

An hour later, she emerged from the green thicket with half a bucket of water and several fresh scrapes on her arms and legs. Mechanically, she put one foot in front of the other, favoring the injured ankle, which was now noticeably swollen. She wondered if she had already died and this was her own personal hell. Was she destined to wander about on this desolate speck of perdition for all eternity, enduring scorching temperatures that never cooled, swarms of bloodthirsty insects that never relented, and a hunger and thirst that were never satisfied? What did I do to deserve this?

As she approached her tree, Jack screecheda frightful scream that chilled her to the bone. Movement brought her gaze to the beach. Two men, unshaven, dirty, and armed with pistols and cutlasses darted after Jack until one of them caught him by the neck. The shock of seeing another human being sent Charlisse's emotions whirling. Was it possible she could be rescued? Could God have taken pity on her after all? Yet as she watched, one of the men held Jack's beak while the other twisted the poor bird's neck. Jack went limp.

Charlisse dove behind a nearby shrub. Her heart thumped against her ribs. The bucket tipped, spilling the precious liquid. She put her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming and crouched there, unable to move.

One of them swung poor Jack over his shoulder, and they both laughed as they headed up the beach toward an outcropping.

Even after they walked out of sight, Charlisse remained fixed to her spot, unable to move, terrified and nauseated. Several minutes passed as the sounds of her world returned to normalwaves lapping, birds chirping, insects buzzing. But there was no Jack. Those gruesome men had killed him.

Wiping perspiration from her forehead, she tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. Where had the men come from? How many were there? Did they have a ship, or were they stranded here like she was? A sliver of smoke ascended from beyond the small peninsula. Their camp was closeclose enough to sneak over and take a peek. She climbed back into her tree and waited for nightfall.

The rest of the day dragged on endlessly as the temperature soared higher. She tried to sleep, but her nerves were strung tight. Sounds of male laughter and occasional musket shots pierced the noises of the jungle.

Finally, the sun touched the western horizon, withdrawing its blistering heat. A slight breeze fluttered the leaves. Throat parched, Charlisse wished she had not spilled her water. Still she waited. When darkness overtook the island, she climbed down from her tree, making sure her grip on each branch was secure before moving to the next. Her ankle throbbed. Her heart pounded. At the bottom, she groped in the darkness, but as her eyes adjusted to the night, she quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her foot. She stubbed her toe against a rock, tripped, and groaned, hands flying to cover her mouth. Had they heard her? Fortunately, the ocean waves had picked up in ferocity, and their crashing on the shore drowned out any other sounds, even the humming of the insects. But a full moon was also rising, illuminating the landscape, forcing Charlisse to stick to dense forest and avoid open spaces.

She had never ventured out much after dark, due mostly to her fearsfear of the unknown, fear of the unseen, fear of vicious night creatures conjured in her imagination. But tonight the vicious night creatures were real. And she was heading straight toward them.

As she neared the men's camp, the noise of revelry grewlaughter, curses, shouts, the crackle of a huge fire. A pistol shot thundered the night sky. Charlisse jumped. Wavering in her resolve, she stood motionless. Perhaps it would be better to retreat quietly and die alone in her tree. These men did not sound friendly. Yet curiosity drove her forward, along with a resurging hope that somehow she might be delivered from this hellish island.

Crouching behind a bush, she made out the shapes of men sitting on the beach. She crawled as close as she dared to the edge of the jungle, her heart pounding so furiously, she feared it would betray her presence. Even in the cool night air, perspiration moistened her body, pulling her petticoat in a tight embrace. Something crawled on her hand. She shook it off without making a sound. Had she become so accustomed to the heat and monstrous insects that they no longer bothered her?

So many men! Forty at least. But were there others she could not see? Perhaps they were skulking about the jungle behind her. Turning her head, she listened for any unusual movement before returning her attention to the camp. The men sprawled around the fire, passing jugs back and forth while chomping on some kind of meat.

Food. The smell of it was intoxicating! Her mouth watered, and she wondered where her body found the moisture. She shook uncontrollably, whether from hunger or fear, she didn't know.

Some of the men stood and pushed each other in heated arguments. Others staggered in the sand, cursing. The dark outline of a ship loomed offshore, tipped in the shallow water and tied with ropes to sturdy trees that lined the beach. A welcome sight, indeed. But from the looks of her crew, it might as well be full of holes for all the good it would do Charlisse.

Several minutes passed. As she watched the men, she realized what they were. Many a story had made its way back to England about the bands of sea-roving thieves that haunted these watersviolent, depraved ruffians who attacked ships without provocation and ravished innocent women.

Pirates.

Better to die a painful death alone than at the hands of these savages. Charlisse turned to leave, but the smell of roasting meat drew her back, her hunger proving stronger than her fears.

The laughter and shouting eventually died as the pirates, overcome with rum, began to pass out in the sand. If she waited long enough, she might be able to enter their camp unnoticed. Cowering behind the bushes, not ten yards from the fire, she waited for the remaining men to drink themselves into an unconscious stupor.

Finally the camp was silent. Arrested by terror, she remained in place, her stomach cramping in ravenous expectation. The crackling of the fire subsided. The flames reduced to glowing embers, casting ghostly shadows on the tree trunks that surrounded the camp. Waves splashed onto shore, spewing their moonlit foam as far as they could before retreating.

From her hidden shelter, she looked down and selected a round stone the size of her palm. She held it in her hand, assessing its weight, then tested her ankle for a possible flight. Standing, she cast the stone into the middle of the camp and waited, breathless, ready to flee should the pirates awake. No one stirred.

Nauseated and dizzy, she crept from her hiding place and inched forward, keeping a watchful eye on everything around her. Each noise seemed amplified, especially her footstepssounding more like an elephant stomping over loose shale, than a thin, frightened girl creeping across the sand. Still, no one moved.

As she came closer, she heard the men snoring and grunting. She stood in the midst of them now, her eyes fixated on one thingthe black pot sitting near the fire. Licking her lips, she stepped over the sleeping forms, careful not to touch any part of them.

A loud thump and a groan sounded from her right. She froze, barely breathing, then slowly turned toward the noise. A jug of rum lay on its side, gulping its contents onto the sand next to the twitching form of a burly pirate muttering in his sleep. Fighting a wave of dizziness, she closed her eyes and stood still. Her mind engaged in an intense debate with her stomach whether to turn and run as fast as she could or keep going and satisfy the needs of her flesh. Her stomach won. She continued onward.

When she came to the fire, she stooped and reached inside the black kettle. Something rustled behind her. Fingers poised over the chunk of meat in the still-warm pot, she froze. Waited. Heard nothing but the snoring pirates and the crashing surf. Gingerly, she closed her hand around the food.

"Well, well," a deep voice said, "do we have a little thief in our midst?"