Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

“Look there!” someone shouted. “Dead fish . . . a big, dead fish.” Half the people rushed to the ocean shore, gathered around the three-foot-long fish. Its smell said it had been dead a long while; nonetheless, William Clement and several others started tearing at the loose flesh, stuffing handfuls into their mouths. Suddenly, Clement stood, picked up a four-foot-long piece of waterlogged driftwood, held it over his right shoulder with both hands, growled, “Get your hands off my fish. I found it, and I’ll eat it. Get back . . . all of you.”

  All but George Martyn backed away from the fish.

  “I told you to get back, Martyn. Do it!” He stepped closer to the kneeling man.

  “ ’Tis not your fish. It belongs to all. Drop the club.”

  Baylye said, “Put it down, Clement.” He, Myllet, Gibbes, and several others eased toward Clement.

  Myllet slipped behind Clement, reached for the club; he was an inch from touching it when Clement swung it at Martyn’s head, slammed it into his left temple, knocking him onto his side, where he lay still, blood trickling from his nose, mouth, and ears, his startled eyes wide in a lifeless stare.

  Myllet, Gibbes, and two soldiers tackled Clement, yanked the club from his hands, held him face first to the ground, and pulled his arms behind his back. Gibbes produced a piece of rope rigging he had found on the shore, quickly wrapped it around his wrists, then tied it tight.

  Baylye felt Martyn’s pulse, stood before Clement. “Stand him up, so he can face me.”

  The men pulled Clement to his feet in front of Baylye.

  “William Clement, I charge you with the murder of George Martyn. As governor, the urgency of our circumstances permits me to sentence you to death at this moment . . . but we have no proper means of carrying out the sentence.”

  Clement sneered. “He got what he deserved.”

  “Drown him,” someone yelled.

  “Cut his throat,” another shouted.

  Baylye said, “Nay. Executions will be by hanging or the axe, and we’ve the means for neither. So we shall wait until we reach Chesapeake and let Thomas Hewet try him. With so many witnesses, the outcome is not in doubt.”

  Clement said, “Fuck the lot of you. You’d better kill me now, Baylye, for I shall find a way to get free, and I mean to kill you when I do.”

  Myllet pointed at a soldier who had a six-foot coil of rope in his belt. “Tie that rope around his neck and keep the other end tied around your wrist at every moment . . . even if you sleep. If he tries to escape, all of you kill him any way you can. And if we encounter Savages who attack us, use him as a shield, or offer him in exchange for your lives and let the Savages have their way with him.”

  Emily wished her throbbing headache, body aches, foot bruises from the sand, and cottony-dry mouth would go away . . . also, the incessant rubbing of sticky sand on the insides of her legs, which had created a painful rash, made her wish she wore pants like the men. She had tried to fold the front of her skirt and smock between her legs as she walked along, but they had slipped out after a few steps. Another female burden, she decided with a private smile. Bear it and move forward: one foot, then the next, keep moving. I’m no slower than anyone else; keep moving, Em. So hot . . . why am I not sweating? Mother, Ellie, I miss you. I want my locket, my letter. She glanced at the blazing sun hovering at its zenith, felt thirst and hunger ripping her insides to shreds like a hungry lion. She looked toward the north end of the sound and the main, noticed swampy marshlands along the banks to her left, tall clumps of grass covering the narrow banks themselves, and a half mile ahead, perhaps another half mile inland on the main, a thick forest. Her heart rippled with hope at its sight: salvation, shade, water, mayhap food. The thought of it made her empty stomach churn and rumble, but she thanked the Lord she hadn’t eaten any of the dead, rotting fish they’d found along the way. Those who’d gorged themselves had quickly vomited and been queasy ever since.

  Her eyes on the sand five feet in front of her, she thought of her mother’s kitchen: its warmth, the sizzling kettle beside the fire, the ever-present smell of cooking food—delicious food—beer, water. She saw herself and her mother preparing a feast of pig pie, her favorite meal. They first skewered the small pig and cooked it on the spit—a hot, sweaty job for Emily, the spit turner—and when it was cooked, they removed the skin and rubbed hog’s lard over the meat. Before applying the seasoning, they looked at one another questioningly, then shrugged their shoulders, giggling as they sprinkled generous, unmeasured dashes of pepper, salt, nutmeg, and sage over the meat. She smiled as she recalled how, in spite of their guessing, it always seemed to turn out perfect. They laid slices of the seasoned meat on a bed of butter in the bottom of the pie, rubbed mace and more butter over the top of the meat, closed the top of the pie, and baked it. Emily closed her eyes, imaginatively inhaled the satisfying aroma, licked her lips, saw herself enjoying the delicious feast.

  Johnny Gibbes said, “Hello, Emily. How fare you? God was surely with you last night.”

  “He was indeed.” She smiled, crossed herself. “God and Hugh Tayler. And I see glorious forest ahead . . . with shade and water.”

  “Do not drink too fast when we find the water. Take little sips at first . . . else you’ll toss it all back up.”

  She looked at him. “Truly?”

  “Aye.” He smiled. “We learn such things in the army.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me that. I’d surely have gulped it like a fish if you hadn’t.” She tried to swallow, gagged, shook her head, then imagined herself kneeling by a stream, her cupped hands raising sips of cool, clear, delicious water to her lips. She suddenly thought of Tayler holding her by the tidal inlet. “Johnny, I . . . I don’t want to sound like I doubt you. I don’t, but I must ask . . . are you completely sure of the circumstances we spoke of?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “That I am, Mistress. And to prove it, Hugh Tayler has watched me like a spy since he saw us together . . . and he’s watching me now, so I dare not talk much until we can do so beyond his sight. I’m probably a fool for speaking to you right now.”

  Emily glanced behind, saw Tayler walking beside her father, his eyes on her and Gibbes. She nodded. “I believe you . . . the difficulty is mine, for I’ve been foolishly hoping there was some mistake, that what you told me wasn’t true, that it would go away . . . because . . . because now I must face the fact that in spite of whatever was between Hugh and me, he’s not who he appeared to be, and such invalidates our relationship, and as you say, may also endanger me. So there’s no choice to it. I must either cast him from my life now or confront him and give him a chance to defend himself.”

  “I understand, Mistress Emily. And to worsen it, he seems to care deeply for you . . . and caring for another is a quality I’ve never before seen in Hugh Tayler. Forgive me for intruding, Mistress, but do you love him?”

  She studied his eyes, again read only naked sincerity. “I do not know, Johnny. I truly do not know. I thought I might . . . until Elyoner, then you, told me your secrets. But now I truly do not know. I’m confused between my heart and my mind, and the fact that he saved my life last night worsens the confusion. If he hadn’t acted so bravely, with complete disregard for himself, I’d be decomposing in some shark’s belly right now; and that means something, Johnny. It truly means something . . . about him. But whatever’s to betide Hugh and me can’t be determined until later, for we’re in no place or clime for the parley that must occur between us.” She looked away at the sea for a moment then back at Gibbes. “Do you think people can change?”

  “I’ve not been on this earth long enough to know for certain, but I suppose they can . . . still, I’d be surprised at such from Master Hugh Tayler . . . though it could be you’ve changed him. I don’t know.” He looked into her eyes. “Mistress Emily, I can see you don’t want to let go; and perhaps he has changed; but until you’re certain, I plead with you to never allow yourself to be alone with him. Please . . . always be in sight of others and—”
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  “Hello, Emily, Johnny,” Emme Merrimoth said. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Emily smiled. “Hello, Emme.” As her expressionless, unseeing eyes watched Emme and Johnny converse, her logical, decisive mind grappled with her feelings over Hugh Tayler. Perhaps he has changed, she thought. Perhaps I should go on as if nothing has happened, see where it goes. I do care strongly for him . . . at least I did. But Johnny fears for me, says there’s much more to tell. Can I take the chance? But what if I confront him and he claims it isn’t true, as he’ll probably do. What then? I know what. I’ll have to decide who’s telling the truth. But I already know that, so why complicate it by giving him the chance to deny it? Accept the truth, Emily, the pain of having been deceived; be done with him now . . . even if it hurts.

  She thought of George—again wished she could have fallen in love with him—conjured her fading hope that he might somehow have survived. We would’ve been quite good together. Love would’ve come to me eventually; for no more honest, caring man ever lived on the earth. Still, I never felt the raw passion and delirious love I expect to feel for the man I marry; and while I felt considerably more for Hugh, ’twas still short of my expectations. So perhaps as Master Howe told me that night on Roanoke, our situation has played tricks on us, made us feel things we wouldn’t otherwise feel. Lord, please guide my heart and mind to the right decision. A sudden image of Manteo’s friend, whom she’d met at Roanoke, raced through her mind, spread an unexpected warm glow through her body and mind. I wonder if I’ll see him at Chesapeake.

  As they reached the main and headed west toward the forest, Emily took a last glimpse of the sound, envisioned George and his father smiling at her, then Elyoner and Ananias anxiously awaiting her arrival. She shuddered as she thought of the Savage who’d nearly killed her, then thought of the storm, the wreck, the ordeal on the outer banks.

  A half hour later, they entered a forest as dense as that at Roanoke and soon after came to a gentle stream about twenty feet wide.

  Baylye, who was in front, yelled, “Water!”

  They raced to the stream, plunged wholesale into the cool current, lay or knelt on the side, buried their faces in it. Emily knelt on the bank, a little off from the others, leaned over, took a sip as Gibbes had suggested, then another, and another, then abruptly plunged face first into the water, rolled to her back, kicked her legs up and down to wash the sand from between them and sooth her rash. Blessed Lord, this is heavenly. She rolled onto her knees, hands on the bottom, dipped her face into the water again and again as she sipped with each plunge; swooshed the water through her hair; stood to remove her shirt and the remnants of her skirt, then fell back into the water; lay on her back with her legs spread upstream, reveled in the refreshing coolness that flowed to the tops of her thighs; laid her head back, swallowed water as it flowed over her face. When she finally stood again, oblivious to the presence of others, she let out a loud whoop, extended her arms, twisted her torso back and forth, then splashed up and down with the jubilance of a child on Christmas morning.

  Suddenly she felt eyes upon her and stopped. Glancing down at her front, she saw that her wet smock clung like a second skin to every curve and indentation of her body, revealing her firm, round breasts, her nipples erect from the cool water, the small mound between her legs. She felt her tiny waist, the small, tight curves of her bum and hips. “God’s blessed mother,” she whispered, “I’m as good as naked.” She plopped back down into the stream, looked around giggling, slipped back into her outer garments, then sat in the water, smiling a mischievous smile to herself. A rather bawdy display, Mistress Colman . . . but how delightful . . . like a little girl again. Pray Father didn’t see. She laughed out loud. He’d surely die of embarrassment. She looked around, ensured no one was watching; laid back, leaned her head on a smooth rock, closed her eyes; softly eased her hands over her breasts then across the insides of her thighs, suddenly thought again of Manteo’s friend, and again felt unfamiliar warmth permeate her. She shook her head. Lord, prithee someday give me a true, loving man with a gentle touch, to summon forth, and then drown himself in, the passions hidden within me.

  Her inner voice broke her trance. “Emily! You daydreaming twit! Gather your wits. Quit thinking like a hussy.” She thought of her mother. Yes, Mother, ’tis our ordeal . . . lost my good sense for a moment. Fear not. I remain chaste . . . the fair young woman you raised, and—

  “Friends,” Roger Baylye said, “thank the Lord for your deliverance, then rest yourselves. We’ll remain here until morning and use the remaining light to search for food. Sergeant Myllet, would you see to the prisoner? Then post some sentries, including civilians, around us. Every man shall stand a shift . . . no matter how tired we are.”

  “Aye, sir.” Myllet and two other soldiers shoved Clement rudely to his knees, pushed his face into the water, and held it there until he began to squirm and try to raise his head for air. Myllet pulled his head up by his hair, let him gasp twice, said, “We ought to drown you now, Clement, save the judge the trouble of hanging you. They used to do that, you know.” He stuffed Clement’s face back into the water, held it until he again squirmed for air.

  In spite of Baylye’s and Myllet’s misgivings, they built a fire to cook the frogs they caught. They also killed three of the animals that hung from trees by their rat-like tails and were bigger than a large, plump tomcat. Then three soldiers who had hiked back to the marshes at the north end of the sound returned, their shirts laden with frogs and oysters. They had also encountered a large, aggressive snake with a big, triangular head and a thick, yellowish body with black-edged, triangular bands over its entire length. It had struck at one of the men as they walked beside a swamp, but its fangs had gotten caught in his baggy pants; one of the others had quickly grabbed it by the tail and torn it free, flung it away, then killed it with a heavy branch and a big rock. They had cut its head off, pried its mouth open with their knives and found it to be cottony white on the inside, with a pair of long, curved fangs; they decided it was poisonous like the adders of England. When it had stopped writhing, they had skinned it and brought it to the camp to be roasted along with the other meat; even those who were squeamish about eating frog and snake were hungry enough to relish the savory meal.

  Immediately after the meager feast, most scattered around the clearing, stretched out on the ground, and fell asleep. But as darkness encroached, another chilly rain began to fall. Many retreated to the shelter of large trees and resumed their exhausted sleep; while others remained by the fire, added wood to grow the flames and dry their clothing, even as the rain dampened it, until they, too, fell asleep, oblivious to the steady downpour upon them.

  Roger Baylye stood under a tree with Myllet, Gibbes, Thomas Colman, and Christopher Cooper; all wiped rain from their foreheads and faces. Baylye said, “When I went to Chesapeake for the initial meeting, we sailed around a horn into the south part of the bay, and along the south shore past two large estuaries with a small one in between. We then sailed a mile or two south into the westernmost estuary and landed near the Chesapeake village. I’ll recognize that estuary if we walk back to the coast, follow north, and go around that horn to the west. But I fear the first estuary will be impassable on foot, which will force us to march back south to a favorable crossing point and waste much time.” He brushed the rain from his forehead with his forearm. “Still, ’tis the only way we’ll know our bearings for certain, and ’twill be far less risky than searching our way through an unknown forest without a compass, with the possibility of encountering hostile Savages—especially with no weapons to defend ourselves. But on the other side, following the coast, while safer, will take several days longer than going straight through the forest . . . if we can keep our bearings in there.” He surveyed their faces, read no opinions. “But remember, Lieutenant Waters and the others don’t know we came up the sound or that we were wrecked by the storm; so when they finally decide we’re overdue—probably not before tomorrow mornin
g—they’ll search for us along the coast with canoes, not in the forest. If we can capture their attention with a fire or some other means when they pass, I think we’ll have a good chance of being rescued before we walk too far. Considering all factors, I therefore believe the coastal route to be our safest choice, as well as the one that offers the only chance of rescue.

  Myllet sleeved the rainwater from his brow. “I see your logic, Gov’nor, but in addition to being a much shorter distance, won’t the forest offer us more drinking water, shelter, and food?”

  “Aye. There’s no question about it.” Baylye squeezed his lips together, nodded several times, studied the ground for a moment, then looked up. “So perhaps there’s another approach: send two or three back to the coast to prepare a signal fire and wait for the rescue party’s appearance to light it, while the rest of us remain here in the shelter and shade of the forest and periodically resupply or replace the three on the coast.” He saw doubt in their eyes then the light of an idea on Myllet’s face. “What are you thinking Michael?”

  “Well, Sir, I’m thinking we might be smart to do two things. I agree they’ll search for us along the coast; but instead of the main body waiting here, what if we proceed through the forest . . . the village can’t be more than a day away, if that far. Meanwhile, the three on the coast can do as you propose, taking turns resupplying each other from the forest. If and when they’re rescued, they can tell the lieutenant to send searchers into the forest to find the rest of us . . . if we haven’t yet found them. That way, if the search party along the coast is delayed or misses the three, the rest of us will be ever closer to the village. Verily, we’ve no perfect choice, but I think most would rather take their chances in the forest than suffer more days on that bloody hot shoreline without shelter from the sun.”

  Baylye nodded, glanced at Colman and Cooper. “Thomas . . . Christopher . . . your thoughts?”