The supper bell was soon ringing, though I dared not leave the cabin unless Marcus felt it was safe to do so. Would he bring me a meal again? I waited, but there was no sign of him.
I had finishedGulliver’s Travels, so I put it back on the shelf and lit the lamp before perusing the other titles. I was surprised to find a Holy Bible among them.
I pulled the book from the shelf, curious to discover it was well worn. Marcus’s mention of God had stayed with me, creating more questions about him and his past.
As I thumbed through the Bible, I thought about the countless sermons I’d heard my father preach. I believed the things he taught, believed the Bible was the Holy Word of God. I just didn’t know whether God wanted anything to do with me. No matter how good I was, or how many times I asked forgiveness for the sins I committed, I was still bound to two lives. I prayed daily that God would release me from the curse—because it wasthe only thing I knew to call it—yet, He had not taken the burden from me.
My heart felt heavy as I flipped to the front cover where someone had listed births, deaths, and baptismal records with dates that went back to the mid-1600s. But who were these people? The surname at the top of the list was MacDougal. Scottish.
Was this Marcus’s family Bible?
The final name entered was Maxwell MacDougal, December 27, 1700.
There was a light knock, and then the door opened before I could put the Bible back on the shelf.
Marcus stood in the doorway, balancing two plates in one hand and two mugs in the other. His gaze slipped over me again, though this time I looked as I had before my bath, only cleaner.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said as I quickly closed the Bible and put it back on the shelf.
He entered the cabin and closed the door with his foot before setting the plates on the table. “Nay. I said to read whichever you prefer. Come and eat.”
I joined him at the table, realizing this would be the first time we ate together.
“Did your father think it strange that you didn’t eat with him?” I asked.
“If so, he didn’t seem to care.”
There was beef, stewed peas, fresh bread, and ale. The same as usual, but it was tasty and filling, so I didn’t mind.
We began to eat and discussGulliver’s Travels.
Our conversation was lively and enjoyable. Marcus asked me what I thought was the deeper meaning of Jonathan Swift’s novel and the four adventures of Gulliver. Our discussion shifted between politics, religion, and philosophy, both agreeing and disagreeing with some of Gulliver’s conclusions. However, we agreed that the book should have had a different ending and that Gulliver had not truly learned his lessons.
When the conversation came to its natural end, I finally askedMarcus the question that had been burning in the back of my mind all evening. “Was the Bible your mother’s?”
“Aye.” He continued to eat, though I noticed a shift in his countenance as he moved his food around the plate with his fork. “You’ve told me about your past,” he said, as if considering his words carefully. “Mayhap I should tell you about mine.”
I waited, silent, not wanting to give him any reason to keep this information to himself. I longed to understand this pirate before me. He was a study in contrasts, both light and darkness, good and bad, stormy and calm—and I needed to know why.
“I was born in Scotland, as you might have guessed,” he began. “My father was a hard man, angry and bitter because he was the third-born son of the laird. My mam had delivered two stillborn sons before I was born, and no others after me, so my father had high expectations for my life. His family members were Jacobites and supported the Stuart king, but my father supported King George and the House of Hanover. It became increasingly dangerous for Father to stay in Scotland, so he left for the Americas when I was only ten years old.”
I watched him as he spoke and could see that retelling his story filled him with anguish.
“My father was a mean, cold, unfeeling man,” Marcus continued, “and those two years that he left my mam and me with his clan were the happiest of my life. When he sent for us to go to America, I was afraid and unhappy. I didn’t want to rejoin him and suffer at his angry hands.”
My heart constricted for Marcus, yet I sat perfectly still as I listened.
He finally looked up at me, sadness and regret in the depths of his eyes. “When we were on our way to Massachusetts, our ship was overtaken by pirates. As I watched them seize the plunder and force several of the sailors into service, I knew this was my one and only chance to change my future. To take hold of my own life. As my mam watched, I offered myself up for service to the pirate captain.”
My lips parted as I shook my head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Edward Zale is not my father, Caroline. He’s the pirate I gave my life to fifteen years ago, when I was only twelve years old. Before I understood what I was doing.” He lowered his voice, as if afraid someone might hear. “I didn’t want anyone to ever find me again, so I changed my name from Maxwell MacDougal to Marcus Zale. In those days, we were active and busy, and our crew changed many times over the years. Eventually, people began to think I was Captain Zale’s son. I didn’t correct them—and neither did he.”
I was speechless as I stared at him, my mind spinning with questions, though there was only one pressing for an answer. “You said the Bible was your mother’s.”
He ran his hands over his face as I waited. When he was finally ready to talk, he said, “I’ll never forget the way she cried out in horror as I left her side to join Edward Zale. She wept and begged, but I turned a cold heart to her, despising my father more than I loved my mam.”
“That can’t be true.”
