Saint Antony's Fire

by Steve White

  "But Thomas, won't the wind be with us now, sailing southward?" asked Walsingham.

  "It should be—but I'm not relying on that, in these disturbed seas. We'll have to stay close to Hatorask Island, lest those same winds blow us beyond Croatoan so that we'd have to fight our way back northward against contrary winds. That will mean risking the shoals as we try to work our way past the point of land south of Kenricks Mounts."

  White's eyes pleaded with him. "Captain, my daughter and granddaughter and all the others are there. We've come so far, and are now so close!"

  "I know. And with all my heart I want to risk this venture. But I cannot forget the fact that Heron is alone on this treacherous coast. And I cannot ignore what she is carrying . . ." Winslow's gaze strayed to the head of the table, where the Queen sat in silence.

  "Captain Winslow," she said quietly, "are we agreed that my faithful subjects are on Croatoan Island, awaiting succor?"

  "Such seems to be the case, Your Majesty."

  "And you would have me abandon them out of fear for my own safety?" Elizabeth shook her head. "Sovereignty is more than power and privilege, Captain. It carries a burden as well. For most monarchs, most of the time, the trappings of power and privilege hold the burden so far at bay that it can easily be forgotten. But it is always there. And now fate has stripped me of those trappings and left me here off this wild weather-beaten coast, all alone with the burden. Those few score English subjects on Croatoan are my kingdom now—all the kingdom I have left." She rose to her feet, and the others perforce rose with her. "I do not wish to go before my Maker knowing that I failed, out of fear, to bear the burden to which I was born."

  "Also," Dee put in with uncharacteristic diffidence, "they may have discovered that which the Gray Monks are seeking. For all we know, that was why they removed to Croatoan. As long as that possibility exists, we must pursue it."

  "Very well," sighed Winslow. "We'll make the attempt."

  They lost two anchors off the Kenricks Mounts point, as the ship plunged in the swells and Winslow fought to keep it from running aground on the bar. By sheer instinct, he steered Heron along a deep channel between the shoals until they were past Hatorask. There was a lull in the weather as they brought Croatoan in sight—although not a lull Winslow liked, for it was the sort that portended a storm. Nor did he like the fact that he had only two anchors remaining, in hurricane season. He dropped one of them and was about to order the firing of a signal gun when a lookout cried, "Sail ho!" and pointed southward.

  Squinting into the distance, Winslow made out a flag with the cross of St. George. So had others, for cheers rang out. It was Greyhound.

  The lull continued long enough for Captain Jonas Halleck to be rowed across to Heron. Winslow had only met him briefly before they had departed Plymouth. He was a stocky man in his early forties with a thick salt-and-pepper beard framing a weathered face. Winslow recognized him as a member of a vanishing breed of sea captain: illiterate, tough as brine-soaked leather, full of growling disdain for the rutters and the other new printed navigational aids that he couldn't read. But he knew how to estimate latitude, using the cross-staff, to within thirty miles on a good day.

  "After the storm eased, we raised the coast well to the south," he rumbled, still averting his eyes from the exalted company in Heron's cabin. The crowded meeting also included Gorham, whom Winslow had decided it would be well to invite, and who was practically digging his toes into the deck in his embarrassment at his social inferiority. There was barely room for the steward who kept their wine goblets full. "I feared we would encounter the Dons, in those latitudes. And indeed, we sighted one of their sails. But he was on a south-southwest course, running before the wind, and already astern of us."

  "Still," Walsingham muttered, "it means they're patrolling this coast. And if you sighted them, it's possible that they sighted you as well. So it's also possible that, as soon as that captain makes his report, they'll know we're here."

  "I doubt if it will affect matters much," said Dee. "If my sources of information are to be trusted, they'll be coming to this coast in force anyway."

  "I assume that is meant to reassure me," said Walsingham dryly.

  "At all events," Halleck resumed, "by God's grace we worked our way up the coast and rounded Cape Fear safely, despite the riptides. But one thing I must tell you. Looking astern as we came up from the south . . . Well, I have feel for these things. And I swear that there's a hurricane brewing down there. I can smell it."

  A hurricane, with the Spaniards maybe coming behind it, Winslow brooded.

  "Your Majesty, my lords," he said somberly, "if a hurricane catches us off this coast we'll be blown God knows where, and may very well not be able to return this season. If we are to attempt a landing on Croatoan, it must be now."

  "Yes," said Walsingham with a decisive nod. "And this time, Thomas, I will accompany the landing party."

  "And I," Dee put in hastily. "If whatever uncanny thing the Gray Monks seek is on Croatoan, I will be the most likely to recognize it for what it is."

  "And I will also go, Captain," stated the Queen. She held up a hand to silence any protest. "I wish to feel solid land under my feet again. And if I understand Captain Halleck, those who go ashore may well be in better case than those who remain aboard ship, waiting for the hurricane."

  Winslow started to open his mouth, but then closed it . . . and not just to avoid lèse majesté. The fact was that the Queen, besides being the Queen, was absolutely right. She would stand a better chance ashore—always assuming that White was correct about the friendliness of the local Indians. And he doubted that Walsingham would survive a hurricane aboard ship, even on the large assumption that the ship itself survived.

  "Your Majesty's wishes are my command," he said smoothly. "But I cannot be responsible for the comfort or dignity or safety of your ladies-in-waiting. They must remain aboard ship." He gave the boatswain a significant look. Gorham returned it. No words were necessary. The ladies-in-waiting would be left alone in the Queen's absence.

  For an instant, Elizabeth seemed about to take exception to the word must. But then she subsided and nodded shortly. "Yes. You are right, Captain. But my guards shall accompany me, for the sake of the royal dignity."

  And the squad of soldiers, commanded by a young but competent-seeming lieutenant named Fenton, might well come in handy, Winslow reflected. "Of course, Your Majesty. All shall be as you command. And at any rate, there'll be little use for any men but experienced mariners aboard the ship in the storm." He held out his goblet for a refill. As he did, he noticed the identity of the steward: Shakespeare, performing one of the tasks Gorham had decided he could probably manage. Moved by a sudden, obscure impulse, he added, "For the same reason, we'll take Master Shakespeare ashore. I suspect an actor would be even less use in a storm than soldiers." There were chuckles around the table.

  "Captain Halleck," Winslow resumed, "while I am ashore with the landing party, you will be in command of the fleet." He forced himself not to smile at the word fleet. "If a hurricane does indeed strike, you will endeavor to ride it out. But if the survival of the ships is at stake, you will run before it. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Aye," Halleck rumbled, meeting Winslow's eyes. They both knew that might well mean that the landing party, including the Queen, would be out of reach of succor for a year—not that any help was likely to come from conquered England next year, or ever. But neither saw any need to mention it.

  "Very well," said Winslow. "We'll go ashore in the morning. Boatswain, see to the preparations. And fire the signal guns."

  But, as at Roanoke, there was no answering fire ashore.

  It was the rising sea that let Winslow know, with sickening certainty, that they were in for it. He knew that feeling, that coiling, tightening tension. Beneath the sullen surface, nature was gathering its forces and mustering its malevolence, building up to an explosive release. When it came, he knew it would be sudden.

  They
were barely ashore on Croatoan when the wind shifted with an abruptness that even the landlubbers among them noticed. The Queen turned to Winslow with a look of concern. She pointed at the forest beyond the beach.

  "Should we take shelter under the trees, Captain?"

  "No, Your Majesty. There's going to be much lightning. We must stay here in the open." He turned to the sailors. "You know what to do. Lieutenant Fenton, I'll be obliged if your men lend a hand."

  The sailors needed no further instructions, for they knew what was coming. With the clumsy but willing help of the soldiers, who could sense the imminence of danger, they upended the boats and stretched a sailcloth between them, creating a large, crude tent. Despite the waxing wind, they were all slick with sweat in the damp tropic air that wind was bringing with it from the womb of hurricanes.

  "Your Majesty," said Winslow, indicating the cramped space in the shelter, too low to stand up, "I regret the indignity, but—"

  "Faugh!" The Queen scrambled under the canvas awning. She had barely done so when the whistling sigh of the wind abruptly rose to a roar, and the sailors assigned to hold the ropes at the sail's corners barely managed to hold on.

  The hurricane was like an elemental principle of malicious fury as it came blasting up the coast. The howling, shrieking roar of the wind rose still higher, but it was drowned out by a continuous cannonade of thunder. Lightning stabbed with insensate violence, and rain fell in sheets that periodically drenched them despite the muscle-straining efforts of relays of men to hold the ropes down. For what seemed an eternity of misery, they huddled under the canvas. During a lull in the din, Winslow heard Shakespeare, close beside him, mutter, "I will shroud here till the dregs of the storm be past." Even at this moment, the young actor gave his quick brow-furrowing nod, like a clerk filing something in its proper place.

  Finally the storm passed, leaving in its wake an eerie combination of damp air and clear sky. The hot afternoon sun shone down on a beach littered with the detritus of the storm. Aside from themselves, the island seemed empty of humanity.

  They stumbled to their feet as the sailors drew back the canvas and began to fold it, letting the sun warm their shivering bodies and dry their wet clothes. With a dead lack of hope, Winslow looked seaward. He was not disappointed in his pessimistic assumptions. Not a sail was to be seen on the horizon. Heron and Greyhound were wherever the storm had taken them. He dared to hope that place was not the bottom of the ocean.

  "Well, Master White," he said heavily, "it seems we must go in search of your colonists. Dr. Dee, perhaps you should come too. Lieutenant Fenton, you and your men will remain here on the beach and guard Her Majesty and the Principal Secretary."

  "You would leave us here while you go adventuring, Captain?" the Queen inquired archly. "I believe I've had quite enough of this beach for the present."

  "Very good, Your Majesty. But please follow well behind us with your guards and listen for any cries of alarm from us up ahead."

  "What dangers do you anticipate, Captain, on an island inhabited by friendly Indians and our own loyal subjects?"

  "Hopefully none, Your Majesty. But I cannot forget that there was no reply to our signal gun."

  On that somewhat dampening note, they struck out into the forest of loblolly and live oak, heavy with the scent of wild muscadine grapes. Presently they ascended the top of a sandy ridge. All at once, White could stand it no longer. "Hallo!" he shouted. "It is I, Governor White, father of Eleanor Dare, and I have returned as I promised. Come out!"

  And, slowly, figures that had been invisible because of their motionlessness began to emerge from the surviving woods.

  The sailors clutched their weapons and formed a defensive crescent as the Indians silently approached. They looked like John White's paintings come to life: nearly naked brown-skinned men whose black hair was shaven on the sides, leaving a crest on top. Their black eyes, squeezed into slits by their high cheekbones, peered out from elaborately tattooed faces. They were armed with bows which didn't look very powerful to Winslow's eye but which, he imagined, would do well enough at this range.

  For a moment, the tableau held. Then the Indians parted, making way for an individual who had the same racial characteristics as the rest of them, including the tattoos, but who differed from them in two important ways. First, he was smiling. Secondly, he was wearing the remains of an English taffeta blouse covered by a doublet that had quite obviously never been washed in its entire not-inconsiderable lifespan.

  Winslow and his sailors could only stare at this apparition. But John White, after an incredulous instant, bounded forward with a joyous whoop and embraced the Indian, who burst into an English-sounding laugh and returned the hug, repeatedly exclaiming, "Old friend, old friend!" Then White cleared his throat, assumed a pose of formality, and turned back to his nonplussed companions.

  "Captain, Dr. Dee, I crave pardon for so forgetting myself in the excitement of the moment. We are in the presence of nobility. Allow me to present you to Lord Manteo of Roanoke and Dasemunkepeuc."

  After the barest hesitation, Winslow bowed. Dee and the sailors followed suit. Manteo inclined his head with a gracious dignity that would have done credit to Hampton Court.

  "And will you not introduce us as well, Master White?" came the Queen's voice from behind them as she stepped forward. Lieutenant Fenton and his soldiers, not knowing what to make of the scene but knowing bows and arrows when they saw them, started to raise their weapons. The Queen halted them with a peremptory gesture and stood before her feudal vassal.

  Manteo stared intently at the bedraggled woman in the still-damp riding outfit, so different from the elaborately gowned and made-up figure to whom he had once been presented at court. Then his eyes widened with dawning recognition and he fell to his knees.

  "Weroanza Elizabeth!" he cried. Then he turned, still kneeling, to his fellow tribesmen. "Weroanza Elizabeth!" They all dropped their bows and practically fell on their faces.

  "What is he saying, Master White?" Walsingham wanted to know.

  "It is their title for Her Majesty, Mr. Secretary." White seemed embarrassed.

  "Yes, but what does it signify, exactly?"

  "Well, er . . . it means 'Big Chief Elizabeth.' "

  For an instant Winslow thought the Queen was going to explode with the effort of holding back a delighted guffaw. "Well," she finally gasped, smoothing out her features and taking a deep breath, "on my return to England I shall assuredly ask Parliament to add that to the list of my official titles." She looked down into the beaming, tattooed brown face and bestowed a smile that could have won the heart of a Puritan. "Arise, Lord Manteo. It gladdens us to greet our loyal subjects of Virginia. And know this: while you have had wiser and mightier Big Chiefs, you have had none who loved you better."

  Manteo, his face transfigured, rose. He turned to his fellow tribesmen and translated. They leaped to their feet, waving their bows and shouting "Weroanza Elizabeth," although the name was barely recognizable on their tongues. Winslow could barely hear Shakespeare muttering behind him, but he caught the words most royal.

  "But," the Queen continued when she could make herself heard, "we would also greet our loyal English subjects on this island, where we have been given to believe that they sought refuge among you."

  "That's right!" John White, in his eagerness, came close to committing the inconceivable solecism of interrupting the Queen. "We saw the word 'Croatoan' carved on a tree on Roanoke, to let us know they had come here. Where are they? My daughter Eleanor Dare and granddaughter Virginia Dare, and all the rest?"

  Manteo's face fell, and he spoke in his careful but very good English. "Some of them came here, yes. Your daughter and her infant were among them. But now they are gone."

  "Gone?" White's features froze. "You mean dead?"

  "No. I mean . . . gone." Manteo looked deeply troubled. "What happened to them was a wrongness. Something that should not happen, for it violated God's laws."

  "The Gray Mon
ks!" gasped John Dee. He stepped forward eagerly. "Tell us! Describe what happened."

  Manteo's eyes slid away. "One of the Englishmen remains here, in our village. You should ask him. Perhaps he understands. As for me . . . well, you know I am a good Christian."

  "Of course, Manteo," White soothed. "Did I not preside over your baptism last year?"

  "Then you know I do not speak lightly when I say it was like something out of the old, dark, stupid ways before you brought the true faith to us. It was like something that God—the God of this world—never meant to allow."

  "I fear he may be right," Dee murmured.

  Manteo's village was as John White remembered: a fence-like palisade surrounding almost twenty longhouses roughly constructed of poles and draped with rush mats that could be rolled up to admit light.