Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Emily leaned her head against his chest, felt his heart pounding, as soft, compassionate tears glazed her eyes like morning dew on a crisp fall day. “George, you need not apologize. You were possessed, overcome by grief. Yes, I was hurt, but Ellie helped me understand what you were going through, and I then felt only deep frustration that I could not help you.” After a silence, she said, “You know, George, we’ve gone through a lot in our short time here, and other than our relationships with each other, and Virginia’s birth, most of it has been sad. Our courage and fortitude are about all we have left; but with God’s help, perhaps we’ll prosper at Chesapeake.”

  George pulled back slowly, looked into her eyes. “Emily, you’re so strong and courageous. Would that I had half your courage.”

  “But you do, George. Else you wouldn’t have come to my rescue and probably saved my life. For certain, another blow to the head would have killed me.”

  “That’s different, Em. ’Twas spontaneous courage . . . not the strength of character you have. But I told Father when I prayed at his grave that I’d do everything I can to help this colony succeed and prosper, no matter what the dangers, and thus it shall be. Emily”—his look hardened as his eyes probed deep into hers—“as I told you the day you awoke . . . I love you. I love you more than my own life, more than anything I can imagine in this world. I know you don’t feel that same love for me; but Emily, I will wait until you do . . . even until the last moment of my life. I shall always love you.”

  They embraced, held each other in silence. George felt her breasts pressed against him, their smooth rise and fall with her breathing. His mind swam in a sea of emotion filled with the flush of her warmth, the depth of his love and commitment, the absence of hers, his desperate hope that time would win her.

  Emily’s heart writhed with anguish as she wrestled for a response. She wanted to tell him she really did love him, but couldn’t lie; wanted to say she loved him enough to give it time to grow, but knew such faint encouragement would be unkind; considered telling him that it could never be, but refused to hurt him. In the end, she decided he already understood her feelings and reaffirming them would only worsen his pain, decided to say nothing, and responded with the firmness of her body against his.

  After a moment, George said, “ Em, I must ask you something.”

  “What is it, George?”

  “ ’Tis awkward asking you this, but . . . is it true Hugh Tayler’s courting you?”

  The Assistants had decided that when the colony arrived at Chesapeake, the women, like Savage women, would be responsible for dressing the wild game shot by the colony’s hunters, thereby allowing the hunters more time to hunt. The women’s training was to begin immediately; so when three men led by Roger Prat, the colony’s most experienced hunter, shot a pair of does and a fawn, Emily, Elyoner, and several other women began their instruction by watching Prat as he gutted the animals prior to hanging them for curing. None had seen the process before, so moans and gasps filled the air around Prat as he cut a doe’s throat to allow the blood to bleed out. He then cut out some dark, bulgy areas below the hind knees. “These are the scent glands . . . very smelly . . . ruin the meat if you don’t get rid of them.” He promptly buried them in a hole and washed his hands in a bucket of water that sat by the deer. Next he cut around the animal’s anus and cut the skin upward the length of the belly to the neck. “We’ll leave the skin on until after the animal’s cured and we’re ready to butcher and cook it, a few days before we depart. Now here’s how you gut it. Remember, you must have a very sharp knife for this.” Prat had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and seemed to be enjoying the ladies’ disgust at having to observe the process.

  He cut the belly open from in front of the anus up to the rib cage. The stench from the cavity drifted out, hit the women like a sharp slap in the face. All but Emily turned away, covered their mouths and noses. “You’ll either need a man with a knife, or a saw like this one, to cut through the chest.” He held up a short, pointed saw with fine teeth. “And always go to the side of the chest plate, or you’ll never get through it.”

  After he completed the cut, he said, “Now all of you gather in close so you can see this part.” Only Emily did as he asked. “Come, ladies, ’tis not that bad. You’ll soon be doing this yourselves, and you must do it properly, so please give me your attention.” The others reluctantly inched closer. “There are a few things to cut before you can take the innards out: two places where the lungs attach to the rib cage, this tube from the throat, and these canals that go to the heart.” He had made the cuts as he pointed out each piece. “Now I want each of you to put your hands on all of the guts so you get used to the feel of them . . . and the smell. You’ll think nothing of it after a few times. So, who’s first?”

  Most of the women groaned in disgust.

  Emily knelt beside Prat. “I’ll do it.” She no longer wore her forearm bandage but had attached her long sleeves for protective padding; so she pulled up her right sleeve, ran her hand over every piece of the innards, smiled at Prat. “ ’Tis not so bad, still warm.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now pull the guts out.”

  Without hesitation, she reached inside the cavity and pulled the innards onto the ground.

  “Very good, Mistress.” He then pointed at several items in the gut pile. “This is the stomach, the bladder, the liver, and the heart. And these are the intestines—we clean and save them for making sausage.” He smiled at the looks of revulsion on their faces. “Now this is very important. You don’t want to rupture the bladder or the intestines while they’re still in the animal, for ’twill ruin the meat. Now I’m told the Savages use stomachs for water bags, and we can do the same if we become short of water buckets though you’d probably want to use a buck’s stomach because it’s larger. Also, the heart and the liver are very good to eat when properly cooked.

  Emily asked, “So how do you cut the heart and liver free?”

  “Ah, you’re a good student, Mistress Colman . . . right here.” He put his hand around the heart and pointed at the canals leading into it, handed Emily his knife. “Here, go ahead and cut it out.”

  Again without hesitation, Emily took the heart in her left hand and the knife in her right, cut the heart free, then held it up with both hands for the other women to see. “Manteo told me the Savages eat the heart and liver raw and drink some of the blood because it gives them the strength and spirit of the animal that’s sacrificed its life. I want to do it.”

  Disgusted moans again rippled through the group.

  Elyoner said, “Emily Colman, are you turning savage? Perhaps that blow to your head did more than we thought.”

  Emily laughed. “I’m serious. I want to try it.”

  Prat looked shocked. “Well, it wouldn’t be for me, Mistress . . . and I wish I could tell you to go ahead, but Governor Baylye instructed me to put all the meat together, so it can be cooked and rationed. Perhaps you’ll have your chance at Chesapeake when we’ve more game. So, if you will, pass the heart around to the other ladies, so all can feel it.” More disgusted groans. “Mistress Dare, why don’t you kneel where Mistress Colman is and touch the innards a bit. You other ladies should do the same.”

  Emily passed the heart to Jane Mannering then washed her hands in the bucket of water.

  Elyoner said, “I don’t think I can do this. I’m going to spill my own guts.”

  “Elyoner, show some courage,” said Emily. “ ’Tis really nothing—just gooey, slimy, bloody, and sticky. Don’t be a coward!”

  Elyoner frowned, knelt beside Emily, touched the guts, manipulated them a little, then stood to let the next woman do the same. “You’re right, Em. ’Tis not so bad . . . certainly no worse than dealing with a baby’s bottom.”

  Prat said, “Very good, ladies. Now the last thing is to take a rod like this”—he held up a two-foot-long iron rod—“and stick the ends between these tendons, here, and the legs—behind and just above the knees—to hang
the animal to cure. And if the ends of your rod aren’t hooked like this gambrel, to keep the rod from going all the way through, you’ll need to tie them tightly with something to keep them in place, so the legs remain spread. You can use a sturdy piece of green wood if you don’t have a rod. Next you tie a rope to the middle of the rod and call a man or another woman to help you; then throw the rope over a sturdy tree limb, hoist the animal up high so other animals can’t reach it, and tie the end securely to the tree trunk. And that’s the end of your training for today, ladies. Those of you who are still here a few days before the final voyage can help me skin, butcher, and cook these deer for our first meal at Chesapeake.”

  “Thank you, Master Prat,” said Elyoner, “for turning our stomachs. But ’twas indeed informative.”

  Emily said, “Thank you, Master Prat. I’ll help you do the skinning when ’tis time, if I may. And Elyoner, please speak only for your own stomach. Mine’s quite settled.”

  Roger Prat smiled, nodded at Emily, then dragged the deer to a tree and hung it to cure. The women then dispersed to other activities. As Emily and Elyoner neared Elyoner’s cottage, Hugh Tayler approached, nodded, tipped the brim of his hat. “Good morning, ladies. Only seven days until the final voyage. Doesn’t the very thought of it raise your spirits?”

  Emily said, “Hello, Hugh.”

  Elyoner nodded. “Indeed it does, Master Tayler.” She looked at Emily. “Time to feed Virginia and Henry. We’ll talk later, Em.”

  Emily nodded then faced Tayler, who said, “Emily, you’ve been very difficult to locate these last few days. Seems like a year since we talked.”

  Emily had avoided Tayler since George asked her if he was courting her. Something about the word courting was wrong—perhaps the feel of it, the newness, or the implied commitment and surrender of freedom. Regardless, the sound of the word gave her a strange, uncomfortable sensation, like a pair of shoes that doesn’t fit. She’d wanted more time to think, to decide if courtship was what she truly wanted, to crystallize and confront the disquieting uncertainty that hovered in the back of her mind like a bad memory. “Sorry, Hugh. I’ve been busy preparing for the voyage . . . and learning how to gut deer.” She held up her hands, which still had specks of blood on them. “I’ve also been a bit upset at your telling people we’re courting. I realize ’tis not a secret, but I thought ’twas between the two of us.”

  “I’m sorry, Emily. I was quite excited . . . mayhap too excited. I only told a few people, but ’twas apparently big news and spread quickly. And you’re right. It is between you and me. Can you walk with me awhile?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  As they walked toward the most uninhabited part of the village, he took her hand in his, immediately felt the familiar, warm rush to his head and loin; he marveled that she still affected him so, like the first time they’d touched, wondered what would happen when they were truly alone together. “Did you and Elyoner find your locket?” He felt Emily’s hand tense.

  “No. We looked everywhere, crawled around on our hands and knees where . . . where the Savage threw me to the ground and hit me. Not there. Not anywhere around the . . . the massacre site. We could still see Joyce and Audrey’s blood on the grass where they fell.” A knot of nausea grew in the pit of her stomach, started to rise as she visualized the two lying dead on the ground. But an empty void displaced the nausea, and an ache squeezed her heart like an overzealous handshake when she thought of her locket, gone forever.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Emily. Will you look for it again before we leave? I’d be happy to help.”

  “Perhaps. It has to be there somewhere . . . but our search was very thorough . . . to the point of pushing blades of grass back and forth. But yes, I would like to search one last time. And thank you for offering, Hugh. If they can spare the soldiers to guard us, we’ll try again.”

  “At your service, Milady. And did your father tell you what he and I talked about outside that night?” He frowned as he spoke the words.

  “Indeed, he did, and I’m sorry ’twas bad news . . . also sorry I was so rude to Father . . . and in front of you, as well.”

  He chuckled. “I knew what you were thinking, so I wasn’t surprised you reacted that way. And as far as the election, I was angry about it at first, but I’ve swallowed my disappointment. Lieutenant Waters is a fine young officer, and all respect him. So I’ve no complaint about the choice.”

  His concession surprised Emily. She’d expected anger, resentment, wondered why there was none. “No offense, but I have to agree. ’Twould be difficult to argue against the choice.”

  He nodded. In truth, it piqued him that they’d considered Waters superior to him, though he painfully acknowledged it was true. But I’ll be an Assistant in time, he thought. Something will happen to one of them—a resignation, an untimely death. Whatever it is, I’ll be there.

  They had reached the palisades behind a solitary cottage at the south end of the village. Tayler faced her, held her hands, smiled. “Shall we sit and talk, Milady?”

  “Certainly, kind sir,” she said with mock formality.

  When he had guided her to the grass and seated himself, he said, “Emily, have you ever been in love?”

  He’d surprised her again. “Well . . . I think so, but I was quite young, and it may have been infatuation.” She again visualized her risky escapade with the young lad she’d lain with in the warm, soft moonlight of a summer night—flushed with desire and curiosity, kissing, exploring each other’s bodies, heart and breath racing, risking her virginity in a moment of steamy passion. Yes, she well knew how quickly the best of judgment, the most heartfelt of moral commitments, could melt away in the frenzy of passion.

  “What happened?”

  “He went with his family to another part of England, and that was the end of it. And you, Hugh Tayler?”

  He looked away from her, stared at the ground. “We were deeply in love, were to be married in several months, but . . . but she caught a strange sickness and died in a week’s time. I was heartbroken for more than a year, unable to do anything but think of her, dream of what might have been. ’Twas painful, Emily.” He saw the girl in his mind, felt a twinge of guilt for the way he’d treated her, repressed it, telling himself that had been the old Hugh Tayler, that the new Hugh Tayler was a different man. He also pushed away the nagging fear that upon his death, he might be held accountable for his sins, and it was this nagging uncertainty that made him desperately afraid of death, for though he didn’t believe in God—or at least told himself so—the possibility that he could be wrong ate at his soul like a slow cancer consuming a life.

  Emily shook her head. “Hugh, I continue to ask you things that bring back horrible memories and hurt you to talk about. Your life seems to have been one painful moment after another. Tell me something good that’s happened to you.”

  He turned slowly toward her, his face suddenly sharp and alive with sincerity. “Emily, the best thing that’s ever happened to me was meeting you, and I’m deeply in love with you, uncontrollably so, unable to be without you.”

  Emily maintained a steady, expressionless gaze. “Hugh . . .”

  “Emily, ’tis true. When you were wounded, I was destroyed, ready to die, ready to kill myself if you died. I . . . I’ve made no secret of my plans for our future together here in Virginia, and I—”

  “Hugh . . . you mustn’t speak so. I . . . I don’t mean to sound like I don’t feel strongly for you . . . I do, but . . . but ’tis just too fast for me. I haven’t discovered my true feelings yet, and I . . .” Emily felt trapped, enclosed in a box with all six sides closing in. It was too much, too soon; she wasn’t ready for such declarations nor for the reply she’d have to give. It had been difficult with George, but this was worse because she was strongly attracted to him.

  “I understand, Emily, and I don’t know why I blurted out the truth like that . . . except that I’m an impatient sort. A mature man should be coy and aloof . . . an
d I usually am, but I simply can’t be that way with you. You strip away every facade I ever had, make me feel like a bumbling young schoolboy.”

  “Now you’ve embarrassed me again, Hugh Tayler.”

  “I’m sorry, Em. But I had to say it, and I understand your hesitation. You are much younger than I, and this has been quick . . . too quick for you to know where your heart stands. Truly, I do understand; but Emily, I will wait for you to know your heart . . . as long as it takes. And I know in my own heart that one day, you and I will be man and wife.”

  The fishermen had fished the sound with limited success, and to their disquietude, the crew on the shallop had twice seen Savages watching them, both from dugout canoes and from the mainland. They had found the Savages’ presence unnerving and thus rowed around to the east side of Roanoke Island, fishing north and south up and down the sound rather than in the sound at the mouth of the river to the island’s north. On a third occasion, three dugouts had followed the shallop into the sound and approached to within fifty yards before stopping. The Savages had raised their bows and taunted the colonists, further unnerving them because they had only a single longbow onboard. After that every fishing sortie carried at least three longbows, a healthy supply of arrows, and one matchlock. Then the day before the second voyage, two dugouts approached to thirty yards, suddenly turned broadside, and sent a swarm of arrows flying at the shallop, two of which found their marks—one hitting Richard Kemme in the chest, just inside the shoulder, and the other grazing Martyn Sutton’s neck. The dugouts immediately turned away and paddled for the mainland.

  While Kemme screamed and Sutton groaned, John Cheven, the helmsman, turned the shallop broadside to the fleeing Savages and said, “Nock your arrows men, and let ’em fly before the bastards are out of range.” The three longbowmen loosed two quick volleys of arrows at the narrow dugouts, which were separating rapidly from the shallop; and though the distance had widened to fifty yards, the powerful longbows imparted enough energy for the arrows to strike with lethal impact, hitting one Savage in the neck, throwing him overboard, and two others in the back.