Tidewater: A Novel of Pocahontas and the Jamestown Colony

by Libbie Hawker

  Reverend Whitaker beckoned. Mary helped Pocahontas kneel at the altar, and the green wool of her skirts pooled and billowed around her like an eddy on the river. She felt as if she were sinking into water, up to her pounding heart, over her head.

  “There is a woman named in the Bible,” the reverend intoned, holding a small bowl in his hands, “who left her family to travel to a land she did not know. There, in a strange place, trusting the judgment of her own heart, God blessed her, and she became the mother of two nations.

  “That woman’s name I shall give to you today.”

  He dipped two fingers in the bowl and raised them, dripping, to her forehead. The water was cool as he drew the sign of the cross on her skin.

  “Rebecca Powhatan, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  POCAHONTAS

  Season of Cattapeuk

  When the wind took the sail, the lone mast of the shallop creaked like an ancient oak in a storm. The sailors leaned against their lines, calling to one another, trimming the great white wing until its curve became as shallow as the blunt end of an eggshell, taut as a new bowstring. The breeze shifted Pocahontas’s skirts, pressing them against the backs of her legs. They flowed before her, snapping like the flag bearing St. George’s Cross rippling at the peak of the mast.

  She stood near the prow. There was no room to sit, but still it was the most comfortable place she could find, far from Captain Argall, whom she still did not trust, and far from the captive Real Men, who did not trust Pocahontas. She felt their eyes pressing at her back like the wind, bearing down upon her cold and hard. She felt the weight of their judgment—their appraisal of her tassantassa clothing, the hair she had grown long and twisted up in a knot at the nape of her neck, just like a white woman’s.

  She lifted her chin. They could not see the serene determination on her face, but their judgment made no matter. They did not understand why she did what she did—she could not expect them to understand. On the night she became Matoaka, the Okeus had made her a lone creature, a woman apart. And God had confirmed her path on the morning she became Rebecca.

  Her sacrifice seemed to have some effect. While violence against the Real People had not completely abated, English attacks had become less brutal and destructive, and almost no one had been killed. The Real Men who crouched together on the deck of the shallop, glaring at Pocahontas’s hair and dress, were proof of her success. Had she not agreed to become an Englishwoman, to take on English ways and the English god, those men would be dead, not captives.

  The Real People, too, had cooled their hostility. They still intercepted white men whenever they had the chance, but the men were allowed to live—and to send proof of their condition to the fort in the form of notes scribbled on scraps of bark, begging Lord De La Warr to trade whatever goods the Real People demanded for their freedom.

  It was not a perfect peace. Not yet. But it was better than open war.

  John Rolfe lingered on the deck, a comforting, quiet presence, standing apart but always close enough that she could catch his eye and receive his shy smile. He made her feel braced, prepared for what the day might bring—though in truth, she had no idea what to expect as the shallop made its way upriver toward Pamunkey territory. Perhaps the Real People would be hostile, even knowing that their own kind rode the shallop with the tassantassas. Perhaps the sight of her, so clearly given over to white ways, would goad them to worse anger. She could only wait. She watched the forest for signs of the Real People as she prayed.

  Just before midday the first scouts accosted them. She saw them first as streaks of brown and red speeding between the trees, keeping pace with the shallop’s progress. Then a voice called across the river in the clear tones of the Real Tongue. “What do you want, tassantassas?”

  John stepped to her side. “Come away from the rail, Rebecca. They may be dangerous to you.”

  They might indeed. She hesitated a moment longer, watching the warriors shifting among the undergrowth with a pang of regret. Ahead, a narrow point of land jutted into the river. A Real Man stood there, holding his war club high, his chest bright with puccoon. She could not make out his cries, but she felt the rising tension in the air.

  Pocahontas nodded and allowed John to lead her to the shallop’s rear. There, she sank to her knees among a few crates and barrels. John stood over her, arms crossed, watching the commotion on the shore with tense, wary eyes.

  Captain Argall knew a few words of Real Tongue—gleaned, no doubt, from his interactions with Japazaws. The captain called out to them. “We come to trade.”

  “No trade!”

  “We have your men. Unharmed.”

  A pause while the shallop drifted nearer the spit and the painted warrior who waited for them. Argall cried again to the man, “We have your men. They are whole. We seek Powhatan. Where is he?”

  The man on the spit gave a whoop of laughter. “Powhatan!”

  “We have his daughter.”

  Pocahontas peered between two kegs. They were nearly broadside with the warrior now. He strutted and tossed his club lightly. The flat paddle-like end flickered in the sunlight as it spun. “Who doesn’t have a daughter of Powhatan?” the man mocked.

  Argall shook his head. “Can’t understand the devil,” he muttered in English.

  The hard wood of the deck dug into Pocahontas’s knees, even through the thick padding of her skirts. A barb dug into her heart that was no less painful. They mock my father openly now. Has his power fled so fast? How it would shame him, to know what this warrior says!

  She stood carefully. John put out a hand to stop her, but she stayed him with a gentle touch. “Please, Captain Argall,” she said, “tell them you seek a man called Opechancanough, not Powhatan.”

  Argall glanced at her skeptically, but turned back to the warrior as the shallop slid past. “Opechancanough. We come to speak with Opechancanough.”

  “Better for you if you didn’t.”

  “I have Pocahontas aboard.”

  The laughter and shouts in the forest ceased abruptly. The man on the spit tossed his club one more time, and then waved them on. “Go, then. Opechancanough waits at his capital. Pamunkey gives you safe passage.”

  When the shallop anchored at the shore of Pamunkey-town, John Rolfe would not agree to remain aboard. He stood over Pocahontas like a bear over her cubs, all but roaring at the other men, and went down the ladder into the landing boat first so that he might help her in. He guided her feet with his hands, which made him blush and scowl. But it was well for Pocahontas, for she could not see the rungs of the rope ladder past her voluminous, deep-blue skirts.

  “Thank you,” she said with a tight smile as they settled onto the plank seat.

  John nodded. He looked as anxious as she felt. A tinge of sickly green showed around his pale mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she told him quietly, so the sailors at the oars could not hear and shame him later for his weakness. “It’s quite safe.” She hoped it was the truth.

  As she suspected it would, word had sprinted through the woods faster than the shallop could sail. A group of men waited for them on the shore. As the landing boat drew nearer, she could see the crossed bows of Pamunkey tattooed on their chests and arms. She felt her own tattoos, hidden by her long sleeves, itch at the sight of them.

  The men eyed her in wary disbelief as John helped her from the boat. He alone would go ashore with Pocahontas to face the werowance of Pamunkey. The mud of the riverbank was slick and treacherous beneath her rigid shoes. She lifted her skirts high and stepped slowly.

  “Take me to Opechancanough,” she said.

  Words in the Real Tongue seemed to jar them out of their reverie. One of them jerked his head; the shells and bird claws adorning his knot clattered as he turned to lead her into the heart of Pamunkey.

  Pocah
ontas swept through the lanes of the village on the heels of her warrior guide. The man’s strides were too long and fast—too angry—for her to easily keep pace in her heavy skirts and shoes. She was obliged to take quick, short steps, nearly running. She would not ask the man to slow to accommodate her white woman’s clothing. Her breath strained against the tight laces of her bodice, and sweat trickled from her armpits down the insides of her sleeves.

  Women crowded out of their longhouses to stare in unconcealed confusion as she made her way past. Children exclaimed and dropped their chores. They ran to throng the lanes, naked and giggling.

  John Rolfe remained close at her side, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his short sword. She had begged him to leave his gun on the shallop, and was relieved when he relented. She knew the sight of her in English garb was already more than Pamunkey could bear. When her uncle looked upon her, his anger was sure to ignite, and Pocahontas wanted no shots fired from musket or bow.

  The warrior who led them came to an abrupt stop outside a massive longhouse. It could only be the great house of a chief—of a mamanatowick, though she suspected no one yet called Opechancanough by that title, nor would they while Powhatan still lived. But the luxury in which Opechancanough lived spoke louder than any title could. Pocahontas hesitated, eyeing the door flap, struggling to catch her breath before entering. Her feet burned from the pain of her rapid march.

  “Thank you,” she said to the warrior, the Real Tongue still coming easily to her lips. She lowered her face like a proper low-blood Real Woman.

  He grunted and pulled the flap aside.

  Pocahontas bundled her skirts about her knees as she ducked through the narrow door. The odors of the longhouse struck her such a fierce, sharp blow that she gasped, still half-crouched in the deep shadows. She was not prepared for her heart’s response to the scent. She tugged at the neck of her bodice, struggling to draw in deeper and deeper breaths of this rich, earthy smell—the smell of home.

  John straightened as he came through the door, and bumped against her. “Pardon,” he murmured.

  Pocahontas dashed the tears from her eyes before John could see them.

  A resonant voice called from the end of the great house, where the heart fire glowed red and hot. “Is that my niece? Come, Matoaka.”

  Pocahontas shared an uneasy glance with John. His face was dim in the umber hues of the longhouse, but there was no mistaking his fear. She forced a smile and led the way down the row of bedsteads and hanging furs, past stacks of baskets and gourds to where Opechancanough waited.

  The heart fire’s ring of light seemed to grow as she walked, reaching its red arms wide. Light from the roof’s hole stabbed downward, a white spear of sun and smoke thrust into the earth.

  Pocahontas took one shallow, shivering breath, and revealed herself in the firelight. A thick silence fell. It seemed to muffle even the sound of the logs popping and sparking. Opechancanough’s shock at her appearance was no greater than her own surprise. The tableau spread before her was a scene she had viewed many times before around the heart fire of her father’s yehakin. The handful of men ranged in a circle, the fire flickering between them, the peace pipe, already smoked, lying on its square of rabbit skin. She glanced at the women crouched against the walls, ready with food and water, their eyes fastened to her in stark disbelief. And Opechancanough himself, perched upon the largest bedstead, leaning forward, the fire lighting his features from below. He is the very image of my father. He has already taken over, in all but name.

  Opechancanough shook his head slowly, and she half-expected to see long silver hair spill over his shoulder like a strip of wolf’s pelt.

  No one spoke.

  Pocahontas drew the deepest breath her bodice would allow. “I have come on behalf of the tassantassas, seeking a trade. Their captives for yours.”

  “I can see you do come on behalf of the tassantassas.”

  She did not miss the barb in her uncle’s voice. Pocahontas lowered her eyes, and realized with a start that one of the chiefs who stared up at her from his place by the fire was her half brother Naukaquawis. She slid her eyes quickly from his face, too.

  “What do you mean by coming to my yehakin, to my territory, dressed like a tassantassa woman?”

  “I mean no ill, werowance. I have only come to negotiate . . .”

  “I do not negotiate with tassantassas.” His words were not spiteful, not even heated. They were a simple dismissal. He had brushed her from his life, from the very reality of his world, with no more thought than a child brushes gnats from his skin.

  Pocahontas clutched her skirts in hard fists. To think of what I have lost, what I have sacrificed for the Real People, and he dismisses all I have given with the wave of a fly whisk? Her sharp, dimpled chin lifted. In that moment, Rebecca the baptized Englishwoman had never existed, and even Matoaka, anointing herself beside the lone fire of her womanhood, fell away. Amonute, the fearless, insufferably bold girl-child, strode from the shadows of the past and stood unashamed before the Great Chief.

  “Perhaps I will become a tassantassa,” she said, “since neither you nor my father ever saw fit to exchange me. No, far better to allow a daughter and niece to languish in captivity than to part with a few precious bits of stolen steel. How brave our chiefs are! How willing to sacrifice young women to the mercies of our worst enemies!”

  The air seized around her. Shocked tension seemed to spill from the chiefs, catching her in a web tighter than the laces of any bodice. Now he will spring up and strike me, she thought in a panic, and John will leap to defend me, and he will be killed.

  But Opechancanough rumbled with sudden laughter. “Is that little Amonute I see before me?”

  The werowances around the fire relaxed slightly; there was a fractional easing of tension, like a bow lowered but still nocked and drawn.

  Pocahontas lowered her lashes, but not her chin. She caught Naukaquawis’s eye, and pleaded with him silently, praying to the Okeus, if the Okeus still cared for her at all, that Naukaquawis would understand.

  The spirits were merciful. Naukaquawis raised a palm, and then stood slowly. “Uncle, you know my sister has always been hotheaded. Allow me to speak to her for a moment. It has been long since I have seen her. We have much to say to one another.”

  Opechancanough jerked his head, a silent dismissal.

  Naukaquawis brushed past Pocahontas, avoiding the reach of her skirts, and led the way down the dark hall to the fresh air outside.

  “What’s going on?” John whispered.

  Pocahontas felt a shriek of hysterical laughter building in her chest. She pushed it down. “I don’t know.”

  Naukaquawis led them to the garden near Opechancanough’s longhouse. It was prepared for planting, with new mounds of black earth heaped at neat intervals across the clearing, the proliferation of springtime weeds pulled and waiting in pale, dried heaps to be gathered up and burned. A group of children crowded on the platform of the crow tower, jostling and whispering as they stared down at Pocahontas and John Rolfe. Naukaquawis hissed and threatened them until they scampered down the scaffolding and ran for their homes.

  When they were alone, their voices covered by the wind in the forest canopy, Naukaquawis turned to her with a look of concern in his keen dark eyes.

  “What is all this, Pocahontas? Tell me truthfully.”

  “It is exactly what I told Opechancanough. I will be staying with the tassantassas.”

  “But why?” He glanced past her shoulder at John Rolfe, who hovered around her like a mother fox fretting over her kits. “And who is the white dog who follows you?”

  “My guard.”

  Naukaquawis squinted at John, his face twisting with skepticism. “Listen, Sister. I know there has been tension between us in the past, but I don’t wish to see you harmed.”

  “The white men will not harm me.”


  “But look at you, dressed in tassantassa clothes, barely able to walk . . . It’s an insult to your dignity as a Real Woman.”

  Pocahontas sighed. “Please, Naukaquawis, understand what I do. I am making a sacrifice—I am a sacrifice, for the good of our people.”

  She took a deep breath, and then continued, “You have seen how their numbers grow season by season. Even when the white men were at their weakest, when they starved and had no food but the flesh of their own dead . . . even then, we could not defeat them. They are a force we cannot stop. I have lived with them for a year now. Believe me—I know better than anybody does.”

  “Opechancanough won’t like to hear that. It is better if you don’t say those words to him. He still dreams of running them out, finding their weakness, some means of destroying them, or driving them back across the sea.”

  “He might as well dream of commanding the tides to ebb and flow at his whim.”

  Naukaquawis hung his head. “I know. At least, I have suspected as much for many months now, and you have confirmed my worries.” He looked up at her. A sad smile curled his lip. “I have wondered, all this time, whether you still lived, and whether they were treating you well. Father was distraught, you know, when we heard you’d been taken.”

  “But he never tried to free me.”

  “He has no power anymore,” Naukaquawis said, shaking his head. “Okeus preserve me from such a fate. Fading into uselessness—wasting away. Take me in battle, Okeus, or in the hunt. Not like that.”

  “Where is Father now?”

  “In Orapax. Still in Orapax.”

  “And yet so many of the Real People are here.”

  “Opechancanough is here,” Naukaquawis said, arching one brow.

  “And Winganuske?”