by Scott O'Dell
Two weeks after we had begun the chart, a bad storm hit the island and we couldn't go out. When the storm passed, we found the bay strewn with palm fronds, seaweed, reefs of dead birds, and shoals of fish.
"It was like the storm that wrecked Sea Venture," Tom Barlow said, "but not near so bad." He was thinking of Captain Ravens and Anthony Foxcroft. "Nothing to worry about much."
"I'm not worrying, Mr. Barlow."
"But you're quiet. And when you're quiet, you worry. Otherwise, you talk a lot."
Tom Barlow was rowing fast. We were trying to reach home before nightfall. Admiral Somers was looking at the chart, holding it up to catch the last of the sun. There was a bitter smell of smoke on the wind and the beacon fire flared up. Tom stopped rowing but kept his oar down. The boat turned back in a slow circle.
At first, when he dragged it out of the water, it looked like a patch of seaweed.
"Somebody's coat," he said, holding it up. "Likely belongs to one of the conspirators Sir Thomas banished. They're living over there on that island where the fire's burning."
I took the coat from him and knew as I touched it, as I saw on the breast, stitched in gold thread, the Foxcroft coat of arms, the crossed swords and lamb's head.
"Belongs to Anthony Foxcroft," Tom said. "He lost it overboard somehow. Easy to do in a longboat, everybody moving around, the boat bobbing..."
It was dark when we reached the shore. I took the coat and hung it away. It was possible that Anthony had lost the coat somehow, as Tom had said.
In the morning we went out again, but instead of rowing to the place where we had left off the day before, we went down the island toward the governor's camp. It made me suspicious.
The sun was hot and danced off the water. The beacon fire was dead. Wisps of pale smoke rose from the ashes. Men were standing around, and one of them held up a piece of wood, waved to us, and came down the beach to the water's edge.
The wood was splintered and no longer than the man's arm, but there were letters on it, carved deep and clear enough to read, the first six letters of the longboat's name.
"Foundered in the storm," Tom Barlow said.
1 10
The admiral shook his head. "Before that—the wood's bleached white."
A small flame leaped out from the dead beacon fire. This smoke curled up from the ashes, then drifted away. Tom Barlow put the piece of wood down and took up the oars, and we went back along the island to where we had quit the night before.
Late in the morning of that day we found another piece of wreckage from Ravens' longboat. Near evening we found the boat's pointed stern.
The men no longer thought that Ravens and his crew could be alive. They had given up pretending that they were. They waited for me to say something. I glanced at the serpent ring and said nothing. I felt that at last the ring had failed me.
But later, as we silently went ashore, I remembered the king's words. He had said that the serpent ring would guard my life. My life, and no one else's life. Not even Anthony Foxcroft's life. But, and he had made this quite clear, the ring would not guard me from grief.
FOURTEEN
The building of Deliverance, the ship that was to carry us to Jamestown, had been dragging along despite the governor's best efforts. The day after the pieces of wood from the longboat were found, things quickly changed.
At dawn cannons went off at the far end of the island while we were eating breakfast. It was a summons from Sir Thomas Gates.
Drums were beating when we got to his camp. Everyone was gathered. Bugles called, and the Reverend Bucke prayed for a while. Then Sir Thomas strode out in his uniform, glittering with braid, and spoke for a short time.
I recall few of his words, except ones he kept repeating: "We owe a debt to these brave men."
Sir Thomas had a powerful voice, and his speech rang out through the camp, above the sound of the waves and the sad cries of the terns.
The governor asked us to work in the name of King James and the investors in London who had financed the voyage and to honor Captain Ravens and his brave crew who had given their lives to reach the desperate people in Jamestown. His impassioned call was heard and heeded.
None of the hewers of trees, none of those with menial tasks, remained absent. In the following two weeks alone, more was accomplished than during the two months just passed. But as the weeks passed and the bark neared completion, as the bare ribs were planked with cedar and the decks with oak salvaged from Sea Venture, workers became restless again.
Some wandered off and joined our camp, where Patience, the pinnace Admiral Somers had started, was growing but at a slower pace, for the admiral himself was in no hurry to leave Bermuda. Like him, they dreaded the time, fast approaching, when they would be forced by Sir Thomas to leave the land of blue skies, sparkling seas, and abundance.
Francis Pearepoint's gentlemen left the governor's camp, one by one, so as not to cause suspicion. They went off to the west, to the last island in the chain, where they had discovered the wreck of a second Spanish galleon.
When no treasure was found, they moved to our island and made camp, not to work but to conspire. Since the conspirators outnumbered the loyalists, they came to believe that it would be possible to seize the cannons, the guns, the supplies and—at last—to murder Sir Thomas Gates. In the words of Admiral Somers, "'twas a devilish time."
If he himself was not a conspirator, the admiral still favored the cause. Pearepoint became the leader but carefully kept in the background while pushing one of his followers, Henry Paine, to the fore. The only one in our camp who stood up for the governor was Tom Barlow. But the only influence he had was on me, and I had none at all.
"Where do you stand?" he asked when the conspiracy had reached its height and Pearepoint was ready to move against the governor. "You seem not to care what happens."
"I don't."
"You're awfully anxious to get back to England."
"I am."
"Listen, Miss Lynn, remember that you put your name on a contract with the Adventurers of London. They paid your passage money to Jamestown. You owe them work and dutiful obedience."
"They took a chance, they gambled on me, and I nearly lost my life. The rest of my life, what is left of it, is mine. I owe the Adventurers nothing more."
"A lightsome way to look at a solemn promise, I must say, a contract made in good faith and duly signed."
"You talk like John Calvin, the preacher," I said angrily. "You look like him, too. You're a Calvinist, no doubt."
It was the night before the happening, and the conspirators, more than twenty of them, had eaten and gone off to hold one of their secret talks, not trusting us.
In the firelight Tom Barlow did have a Calvinistic look, at least as I pictured Calvin from my brief readings—tall, thin, a high forehead, and, almost hidden beneath heavy brows, black eyes, not cold but darkly penetrating.
He liked dried turtle meat and had a piece of it in his mouth which he was talking around. "What's more," he said, "the colony at Jamestown is named for the king. Before we left Plymouth, His Majesty sent his blessings to our fleet by messenger, wishing it Godspeed. Is your desire to return to England the proper answer? Besides a contract with the Adventurers, you have one that's far more binding, a contract with His Majesty, King James of England."
The king's name, spoken in Tom Barlow's deep voice, hung accusingly on the night wind.
"What, what will you do?" Tom Barlow said. "Where do you stand? For Governor Gates or for Admiral Somers?"
"For the king!" I said. "Of course, for King James."
"Then you stand with Gates against Somers and the conspirators."
"If he is a conspirator, why is he building a boat to help us reach Jamestown? It's nearly finished."
"A ruse. You'll see an uprising soon."
"Does Governor Gates know he's in danger?"
"He's looking for trouble at any time. Ordered his men to wear weapons during the day and to sleep with
them at night. Only a few loyalists are left, but they're better armed than the conspirators."
"You're one of the few loyalists," I said. "What are you going to do if there's trouble?"
"You'll see."
His eyes glistened in the firelight. I had a strong feeling that much of what Governor Gates knew about our camp, its secret meetings, the plan to gather arms, the talk about setting up a new colony on Bermuda with Admiral Somers as its governor, he had learned straight from Tom Barlow.
"You'll get yourself killed," I said.
His eyes still glistened. He thrust out a stubborn chin. "Perhaps. Yet a man has to be loyal to his given word. If he isn't, he might as well be dead."
In the firelight I could see the face of John Calvin, gangling Calvin, the preacher.
The following afternoon we heard cannon fire, the signal for everyone to gather at the governor's camp. The admiral, Tom Barlow, and I were in the bay, working along a reef, fishing for supper. We had caught a boatload of bass and gray snapper to smoke. Also four tunny that must have weighed six hundred pounds between them.
Admiral Somers kept on fishing when the cannon went off. But Tom Barlow pulled in his line, took up the oars, and began to row toward the governor's camp. The admiral kept his line in the water and acted as if the only thing on his mind was fishing. I knew better.
Close to dusk, after a hard row, two boats from our camp edged up on shore some distance from the governor's camp. The weapons Pearepoint had managed to bring were hidden under a blanket of palmetto leaves, and the boats were put in the charge of one of his men.
Governor Gates was waiting for us in front of the stocks he had ordered on the day we came to the island. In the stocks, his hands and his bushy head thrust out through the holes, languished Henry Paine. Paine, one of the stalwart young gentlemen, was the governor's trusted guard. But unknown to the governor he was in league with Francis Pearepoint. Apparently he had been in the stocks the previous night and kept awake since, for his eyes were red and half-closed.
The governor gave our party a searching glance to make sure, no doubt, that none of our men was armed. He then turned to Henry Paine.
"Is it true," he shouted, "that last night when called upon to take your watch, you hurled insults upon the captain of the guards, struck him on the head with your fist, and took yourself off, scoffing at the double watch I had ordered?"
Henry Paine opened his eyes but did not answer.
"Furthermore, when told that if word of your behavior ever reached my ears it might mean your life, you brazenly replied, 'The governor has no authority to justify upon anyone an action of that nature. Therefore, let the governor kiss ...' 'kiss my ...' 'my foot.' Or some such insulting remark."
Henry Paine was obviously surprised at the governor's violent tone. "I don't recall such words. I never intended.... There must be a mistake."
"The mistake is yours, Mr. Paine. And for it you shall pay."
"But, sir, I have paid enough already," Paine said.
He glanced at Pearepoint. I was sure that the two had made a pact, that Paine had deliberately provoked a fight with the governor, and at this moment, armed with an excuse and according to plan, Pearepoint and his men were to attack Sir Thomas and set up their own government.
Pearepoint coldly returned his glance. He did not move. Why I am not sure. Was it because the governor, suspecting a plot, had placed two of his cannons and four of his cannoneers on either side of the stocks, and stood with a solid wall of cedar trees at his back? Surprised by this, had Pearepoint decided to put off his attack until a more favorable time? It seemed likely.
"You shall pay dearly," the governor said. "You shall pay with your life."
A cry went up from Mistress Horton and others, for Henry Paine was well liked in the camp. But the governor called for a ladder, which was set up under a tree.
Paine tried to squirm out of the holes that held him. Failing this, he leveled his gaze upon Pearepoint, saw no hope there, and began to talk to the governor, admitting his guilt and asking for mercy.
The governor turned his back. He ordered a noose and saw that it was attended properly, with a double bend and a sailor's knot, to a stout branch.
Paine studied the noose, which was moving about in the evening wind, frowned, and said, "Since I am a gentleman, I own the privileges thereof and demand that I be shot instead of hanged like a commoner."
"Your demand is granted," the governor said. "And may God forgive you, as I willingly do."
The sun went down as these words were spoken. Our group left and climbed into the boats. We had not gone far when I heard two shots. Wisps of smoke drifted up through the palmetto trees.
Pearepoint shook a fist at tie camp, at the settlers who were now cheering the governor. "We'll return and soon," he said.
Admiral Somers was silent. He put out his fishing line and told Tom Barlow to row toward a reef where a school of yellowtails roiled the water. Tom bent his back and rowed hard. He kept glancing at me, trying to make out how I felt about the governor and what he had done.
Finally he said, "The governor has taken a lot from Paine and the rest. I don't blame him, do you?"
"I question what will happen at Jamestown. Will he shoot everyone who acts up or disagrees? Now that he's shot one, it may get to be a habit."
"We'll put a halter on him with obedience and love."
"You may do so, but not I."
"You'll change your mind once you gaze upon the wonders of the New World."
"No," I said. "It's idle to think so."
Tom set his jaw and rowed even harder toward the school of leaping fish.
FIFTEEN
No one in either of the two camps had expected Sir Thomas Gates to act so suddenly and with such cold fury. He had mildly punished other traitors by sending them off to another island. He had intended to hang Stephen Hopkins but had been persuaded not to.
The death of Henry Paine, therefore, came as a shock to everyone, to those who, though loyal to the governor, had accused him of being soft-hearted. And a lesson to Francis Pearepoint and his gentlemen, who had grandly thought to depose him.
It encouraged the loyalists to take a stand behind Sir Thomas. It cautioned the dissenters to mend their ways lest they, too, should join the late Henry Paine. And it spread calm upon troubled waters.
Hitherto Admiral Somers held prayers on Sunday morning, himself preaching a short sermon and Tom Barlow rendering a song or two in his resounding voice. Now we rowed to the main camp and listened to the Reverend Bucke while Sir Thomas stood by with a sharp eye, smiling kindly.
Months passed, and the coming of spring coincided with some happy events. Elizabeth Persons, maid to Mistress Horton, was married to Thomas Powell, Sir George's cook. Elizabeth was tall and plain and Thomas was tall and handsome, which was not a good combination, as time would prove. I lent Elizabeth my pretty palmetto fan, adorned with pearls that Tom Barlow had gathered on the shore and given me. The wedding took place beneath a bower of pink roses, with wild bursts of musketry.
Then Mistress and John Rolfe's daughter was baptized and given a name. Mistress Horton, who, next to Emma Swinton, had the prevailing voice among our women, suggested three names for the baby—Mary, Celeste, and Ruth. But none of these was chosen. Governor Gates liked the name Bermuda, so this was the name she was called.
Sir George and Sir Thomas met often and discussed the barks they were building separately. After a spring storm tossed Deliverance about on her beam-ends and the governor decided to put up a bulkhead to protect her, the admiral sent men into the hills to bring rocks and timber.
When Deliverance, the big ship built to carry most of the people, and Patience, the small pinnace built for the rest, were launched, both camps turned out and happily feasted upon palmetto hearts, mussels, clams and lobster, turtle stew and roast pig. Tom Barlow played his viola and sang.
During the following two weeks everyone helped to gather food. Terns were not so plentiful as th
ey had been the day we came to the island, but we managed to fill a barrel with their eggs. Turtles were coming ashore, scooping out deep holes and laying their eggs—as many as five hundred at a time—and covering them with sand for the sun to hatch. Of these, over six thousand were gathered and set down in brine. Fish of all kinds still swarmed the blue waters. Admiral Somers, Tom Barlow, and I caught more than a ton one afternoon, which were smoked and stored away for the voyage.
Deliverance and Patience rode at anchor five days, waiting for a westerly wind to take them through the narrow channel into the sea. On the tenth of May the wind shifted from the east. Admiral Somers and Captain Newport went off to buoy the way, the only way we could sail.
Governor Gates set up in the admiral's garden a mnemosynon, a fair memorial of our experience on the island of Bermuda. It was made from the timber of our ruined ship in the figure of a cross and was fastened to a mighty cedar. In the center of the cross the governor placed a silver twelvepence, which bore the picture of King James.
The Reverend Bucke spoke a short prayer, drums beat, horns blew, from the Deliverance came two loud cannon shots. But not everyone was glad to be sailing off to Jamestown. I dare say that if a vote had been taken, more than half of the settlers would have voted to remain among the palmetto trees and the blue waters.
By ten o'clock the next morning everyone was aboard. Tom Barlow and I were on the Patience with Admiral Somers and all of the gentlemen. The rest were aboard Deliverance.
The wind was light now, and the big ship had to be towed with a longboat. Even then, the channel was so narrow and twisting that she struck on the starboard side, fortunately not hard enough to split her planking. With shallow water on one side and jagged rocks on the other, we followed in her wake under a single sail into the open sea.
The wind served us well that day, so easily that, unlike my departure from Plymouth, I never felt a seasick moment. It held fair, though sometimes scarce and often contrary, during which we twice lost sight of the Deliverance.
