by Lee Miller
The only way to reach Roanoke is by coaxing small vessels through the treacherous channels to skitter, butterfly-like, into the protected sounds. White eyes the shallops anxiously as they trail behind the Hopewell on his heart’s lifeline, too little attention paid them by the boatswaine’s negligence. Five days out they sink.
John White must wonder what he is doing here. After daily and continual petitions, he at last has secured passage on these privateering vessels bound for the West Indies and absolutely determined for Spanish riches. In point of fact, they are pirate ships, but for the legal distinction of bearing a license from the Queen. All three vessels are outfitted under the special charge of the celebrated John Watts of London. Master John Watts, merchant. The Spaniards know him differently. They will tell you he is the notorious John Watts, greatest pirate on the high seas.7 It is the best ride that White can get if he wishes to reach Roanoke.
Twelve days out the Hopewell encounters a London merchantman, and two shipboats are purchased to replace the loss of our shallops. The convoy must intend them to pull double duty in prizetaking; otherwise White might not have expected such good treatment. His relief must be tempered by that fact.
The West Indies
By April’s end, after a skirmish off the Canary Islands, the expedition reaches the Caribbean. The Hopewell and John Evangelist strike out alone, leaving the Little John plying off Dominica hoping to take some Spaniard outward bound to the Indies. Without her, they glide past Guadeloupe and St. Kitts. The Spaniards report many corsairs about, who are bold.8 The voyage, which has made good time crossing the Atlantic, now slows down, and down again. Tracing serpentine paths through the islands. Searching for plunder.
Past the Virgines, through the milky blue water of the Passage, the Hopewell and John Evangelist approach Puerto Rico. The Spaniards see them, and know what they see. They discerned us to be men of war. Fires glimmer across the darkened, wave-lapped shoreline as the ships pick their way alongar so their custom is, notes White, whenever warships are observed on their coasts. He is no closer to Roanoke.
Patrolling the northern end of the island, the Hopewell captures a Spanish frigate hailing from Guantanamo, Cuba, laden with hides and ginger.9 While they unload her, a man escapes. He is Pedro, a Mulatto. An evil turn. He carries with him knowledge of all our state. Whether or not he talks to the Spanish authorities hardly matters: on the southern tip of Puerto Rico the John Evangelist does.
From his headquarters, Governor Diego Menendez de Valdés composes a hurried letter to the Spanish Crown. Reporting, in blotched ink, the English ship’s presence, armament, and munitions. More importantly, he relays crucial information gathered from an unguarded word spoken by the crew. The English ship was going, the Governor noted pointedly, to Florida to take off 200 English cast away there.10
Here, at last, is tangible evidence of a permanent English settlement which the Spaniards have long suspected, and dreaded. Search parties had combed the coast for it, sending alarming reports across the Atlantic. Yet its location remained elusive. Roanoke was too well hidden. In 1588, Captain Vicente Gonzalez was dispatched to scour the eastern seaboard of North America and, though he came up empty-handed, he made a significant discovery: on the Carolina Outer Banks, he spotted a slipway for vessels, English casks sunk into the sand, debris.11 The Spaniards did not find the colony, but Gonzalez narrowed the field considerably. And now the English Governor rides off the Puerto Rican coast, a passenger in a pirate ship that shows little sign of leaving. Valdés sinks pen into ink and hurriedly notifies Spain.
As far as John White is concerned, circumstances are completely altered. If he had been anxious to reach Roanoke before, he is doubly so now. Spain will swiftly mount an investigation. With frantic urgency, he realizes they must reach the Carolina coast before the Spaniards beat them to it. Spain, aware of all our state. But Watts’s ships are in no hurry, and the futility of White’s situation is made painfully clear. If only, he said, my daily and continual petitions to keep their promise had taken any place.
Sea Fight
Days slip into weeks. The ships lay off and on the islands, hoping to take some of the Domingo Fleet: the treasure-carrying galleons. There is sporadic action, small skirmishes. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Reports stream in to Spanish officials from all quarters of the Caribbean. English corsairs are about. The shamelessness of these English ships soon reaches the powerful Audiencia of the Council of the Indies. From Havana, it is reported that the Hopewell and her consorts have seized or chased every vessel entering or leaving the harbour. 12 And then word of depredations arrives from Jamaica: the long-awaited Santo Domingo fleet was sighted and attacked.
The English are jubilant. But who could have predicted the awful irony? The commander of the Santo Domingo fleet is none other than Vicente Gonzalez. Intelligence gathered from his crews, captured and released by the Hopewell, enables the Spanish authorities to renew the search for Roanoke with vigor. In Havana, depositions are taken. Antonio de la Mata reports the English colony to be in Florida, in a certain harbour. The Hopewell carries a civilian passenger bound for this place. Deponent Bias Lopez confirms this, testifying that they had a governor aboard, and he is to be left in the settlement they have made in Florida, whither they will go for that purpose.13
But will they? The days are fast dwindling. July fades into August. John White must be aware of the calculations. In order to recross the Atlantic for England before winter, the Hopewell must depart from the Outer Banks by August’s end. It is now almost too late to reach Roanoke. Reluctantly the Hopewell heads north as the year enters the peak hurricane season.14 The crew too wholly disposed themselves, White bitterly writes, to seek after purchase & spoils, spending so much time therein, that summer was spent before we arrived at Virginia.
The Outer Banks
August I. Foul weather amid much rain, thundering, and great spouts. The ships are buffeted by gales that last for days. Sails are hauled in and the slick, water-choked decks roll with every pitch and heave. At nightfall on the third day, the Hopewell lies north of Cape Fear approaching the southern Banks. But still the weather continued so exceeding foul that we could not come to an anchor. A week slides by.
August 10. Finally, Monday, the storm ceased. A welcome relief, but small progress is made. On the evening of the twelfth, they are forced to anchor at the northeast end of Croatoan Island on account of a breach which we perceived to lie out two or three leagues into the sea.15 The following morning, the shallops are sent out to sound over this breach. Lead casts slice through ocean swells, sinking heavily through the water; White waiting anxiously as the readings come back deepening and shallowing for the space of two miles. There is no map of the shoals to guide them; he must pray the ships will not abandon the effort. Sometimes we found 5 fathoms, and by and by 7, and within two casts with the lead 9, & then 8, next cast 5, & then 6, & then 4, & then 9 again, and deeper. In the distance waves crest over the reef out of the main sea into the inner waters.
At last the Hopewell breaks free. August 15, towards evening, the long-anticipated moment arrives. Capstans moan as the anchors unwind and grind fast. They have reached Hatorask Island.16 Ahead lies Port Ferdi-nando, a break in the barrier island chain. And through it, in the distance, White glimpses Roanoke.
Three long years have passed since White last stood here. Years of struggle, years of bitter disappointment. In his mind’s eye, he relives that awful day, the air nauseatingly warm, an image of a vividly colored dress, the hem trailing across wet sand and foam, swaying to the motion of Eleanor’s hand. White lingers on deck. His granddaughter, Virginia, will be three years old. Suddenly, he is jarred from his reverie. Heart pounding, he observes a great smoke rise on the island near the place where I left our colony in the year 1587. The Hopewell has been sighted! Which smoke put us in good hope that some of the colony were there expecting my return out of England. Three years too late.
Fires and False Hope
The next morning �
� one wonders if White has slept at all — the boats are readied and we commanded the master gunner to prepare artillery: two minions and a falcon, and to shoot them off with reasonable space between every shot, to the end that their reports might be heard to the place where we hoped to find some of our people.
Nerves jangling, White steps into a shore boat, the planking bowing under his feet. It all seems so unreal. Sailors crowd the deck above, blocking out the sun, shouting as the vessel is lowered into the sea. White steadying himself as the bottom smacks the water. In muted understatement, he says only that Captains Cocke and Spicer & their company with me pull away from the ships.
Shots rocket out from the Hopewell, cracking the air with their report, startling seabirds into flight. Before White is halfway to shore, we saw another great smoke to the southwest of Kindrikers Mounts. Was it a signal?17 Discussion follows. Kenricks Mounts lay on the island of Hatorask, in the opposite direction from Roanoke.18 Yet if someone has heard their report, if the shallops have truly been seen, then far better to go to that second smoke first. A detour. The boats are beached on the island and the men work their way south on foot through sand and scrub, the way proving much farther than they think. Hopelessly so. A wafting mirage tantalizingly out of reach. Each step an eternity, so that we were very sore tired before — at last — we came to the smoke. But when they came abreast of it, that which grieved us more was the utter disappointment of finding … absolutely nothing. Only a smoldering fire; we found no man nor sign that any had been there lately. And, worse still, nor yet any fresh water in all this way to drink.
In his haste, White has been understandably careless. In addition to carrying no water he has lost another valuable day. The men retrace their steps to the boats only to find the sailors lugging empty water casks ashore. The operation has just begun: the crew will not stop midway. Thus, wearied, the party has little choice but to head back to the Hopewell, and so we deferred our going to Roanoke until the next morning.
Unfortunate Accident
The following morning, already being the 17 of August, the company is prepared again to go up to Roanoke. But then another complication, another needless delay. Captain Spicer* has chosen this moment to send his boat ashore for fresh water, tying up both time and vessel, by means whereof it was ten of the clock aforenoon before we put from our ships. Stinging disappointment gives way to frustration. Half the morning spent and White still powerless; only this time, cruelly, within very sight of Roanoke. His anxiety is apparent after Spicer’s return when, rather than wait any longer, he impatiently strikes out alone. His party halfway toward the shore before Captain Spicer put off from his ship.19
As they near Port Ferdinando, the breach is clearly visible. Water rushes over shoals, forming a churning, sand-choked course. Too much water. And now White sees that the morning’s delay was costly, for the tide is high; the channel transformed into a tumbling cauldron. To make matters worse, a stiff wind blows from the northeast direct into the harbour so great a gale, that the sea break extremely on the bar. High seas crash one into another and the tide went very forceably at the entrance.
There is nothing to be done but brave it. White’s boat surges headlong into the breach, not without some danger of sinking. A sea crests over it, which filled us half full of water. They frantically pull on the oars, the boat reeling, nearly capsizing. The captain wrenches the vessel around before the next wave. A wild ride; but they are spared, thank Heaven, by the will of God and the careful steering of Captain Cocke. The shallop grinds against the sand on Hatorask Island and is hauled ashore, safe; though clothing, food, and shot are much wet and spoiled. Another lengthy delay; most of our things are taken out to dry.
From the security of the shore, White’s company watches as Captain Spicer’s boat makes its approach into the breach. And then a mistake. They have entered it wrongly, leaving the mast standing up. Utter silence as the men watch tensely. The boat is still negotiating well. They are halfway across and have almost made it when suddenly, by the rash and indiscreet steerage of Ralph Skinner his master’s mate, the boat warps broadside into a swell. Rocked off balance, a very dangerous sea break into their boat and overset them quite. A shocking accident; horrible to witness. Sailors cling to the boat, some hanging on it, but the next sea bludgeons it hard onto the bar, forcing them to release their hold. Some stagger to their feet, hoping to wade ashore, but the sea beat them down, so that they could neither stand nor swim, and the boat twice or thrice was turned keel upward. The hull arcs into the air, Captain Spicer and his mate Skinner dangling helplessly from it until they sunk and are seen no more. Like many sailors, they cannot swim.
Captain Cocke, as soon as he saw their oversetting, stripped himself, and four others that could swim very well reached them, & saved four. But no more. There is a somber accounting of the dead. Those swallowed by the breach were 11 in all, & 7 of the chiefest were drowned, whose names were Edward Spicer, Ralph Skinner, Edward Kelley, Thomas Bevis, Hance the Surgeon, Edward Kelborne, Robert Coleman.
The death of Robert Coleman must grieve White greatly. A hook thrust into the pit of his stomach. For Robert Coleman is a civilian passenger. Not a sailor. Like White, he has come because his family is here. A Thomas Colman and wife were among the colonists of 1587.20 To find them, Robert Coleman put up a valiant fight.
The accident triggers an unforeseen reaction among the sailors. This mischance, the death of Spicer’s crew, did so much discomfort the sailors, that they were all of one mind not to go any farther to seek the planters. Another blow to White. He desperately informs them that they must and will go. Roanoke, he points, is just over there. They gape at him, these rough and burly sailors, wild with fear, and then at the wind-chopped surface of the broad sound. Roanoke lies within view, White shouts. The breach has been crossed, they must and will go! In the end and after the loss of much precious time, by the commandment and persuasion of me and Captain Cook [Captain Abraham Cocke], they prepared the boats. But not without misgiving. Until, seeing the Captain and me so resolute, they seemed much more willing. There is no turning back.
Roanoke
The day is quickly fading. Spicer’s boat is righted and, with19 persons in both boats, they push into the water as the sun begins its descent, coloring the trees a rich, golden hue. Progress is slow, the water confronting the bow like cement. An hour passes. And another. The sun dips lower. Eventually the whisper of dusk calms the chop as the wind dies away. Imparting a tranquillity to the shore, a softening of edges. Seabirds alight on the glassy water and nestle in, sleepily regarding the boats as they pass. In all this way, the crew has seen no one.
At last, Roanoke looms ahead, dark and forbidding. Night grips the island in a smothering hold. Drawing the boats toward the northern shore along a rim of gloomy foliage, the men make another mistake; for it had grown so exceeding dark, that we overshot the place a quarter of a mile. They have gone too far.
Like thieves, they steal back along the shoreline. The night air breathing warm and damp. They have barely turned around when a light glimmers across the water in the direction they had just been, toward the north end of the island. Again they reverse course and immediately row toward it, perceiving it to be a great fire through the woods. Wafting the pungent aroma of loblolly pine. Adrift in the warm sound, the men stop and listen. And are met with profound silence. Droplets trickle from the oars, spreading quiet ripples across water ruddy from the glow. Receding into darkness. Rivulets pool into the boat down the length of the wood.
Noise. White springs into action. They need noise. Someone on shore must be made to hear them! We sounded with a trumpet, a call. He quickly commands them to sing, anything; sing anything! Sea chanties, folk songs, ballads. And they do, chortling many familiar English tunes of songs. There is only silence. White shouts into the night. The crew joins him, a chorus of voices, and called to them friendly. Darkness all around. Disappointment rings in White’s voice: we had no answer. With sinking spirits, the men give u
p and hunker down in the boats for the night.
Message from the Colonists
August 18. A red sun emerges from the sound in a bleeding mist, piercing the treetops. In the shallops, White’s company is already awake. Stumbling ashore, they press through the woods to a smoking clearing, the fire of the previous night now smothered except for patches of grass and sundry rotten trees burning about the place. But nothing else. No people. No encampment. Like Hatorask, no sign of life anywhere. Another illusion.
Reeling from this disappointment, White plunges back through the brush to the shore, advancing around the north end of the island, until we came to the place where I left our colony. Three years ago. The entire route by the water side littered with footprints of 2 or 3 sorts, trodden that night. Disconcerting proof that at least someone in the darkness — several people — had been watching. Who hadn’t come forward in friendship. White pushes ahead, the sailors following. Out of their element.
Scrambling up a sandy bank, White cries out. He has found something, an astounding discovery. Cut into a tree, in the very brow thereof were curiously carved these fair Roman letters: CRO.
None of the company knows what it means. Nor can anyone be sure when it was written. The inscription, says White, was well considered. To all appearances, CRO spells nothing. No decipherable word. No hidden meaning. The message, indeed, remains obscure; but curiously, amid the excitement, White alone shows no surprise. He alone knows why it is here. The colonists carved the mysterious message into the tree because he had instructed them to do so.
