Tidewater: A Novel of Pocahontas and the Jamestown Colony

by Libbie Hawker

  But Matachanna dropped Pocahontas’s hand. She balled her fists and gripped the folds of her winter cloak. “It’s the love they show you, isn’t it? You haven’t changed a bit since you were a child, chasing power—hungry for attention.”

  Utta-ma-tomakkin laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let her speak.”

  “Matachanna, you’ve seen London with your own eyes,” Pocahontas said. “You’ve seen their ships in the river, gathered and waiting to sail for our land.” She swept her arm out across the stillness of the garden, but they all knew that she indicated what lay beyond its walls—the dark stain of stone and coal dust creeping across the land. “There is no stopping this, Matachanna. There is no going back. And I have my son to think of. What life shall I give Thomas? Shall I send him back to Tsenacomoco, to watch his people driven out of their territories? To watch children thrown from the decks of ships and shot like deer in a fire ring? At least here, Thomas can be . . .”

  “A tassantassa,” Matachanna said.

  Pocahontas shook her head. “Safe. Happy.”

  “How can you expect anyone to be happy in London? Stone walls, no trees, no fields . . . and an invisible god, a god your son can never see . . .”

  “I just want him,” Pocahontas said, eyes filling with tears, “to have a home. I want him to have a land he can always return to, no matter where he might travel . . . A home he knows will always be there, waiting for him, as it ever was.” She covered her face with her hands. The cold of winter scraped her knuckles. It bit at her skin. “We no longer have that, you and I. You know how much Tsenacomoco has changed since the white men first came. It’s not the same place it once was. We aren’t the same people we were. Look how our father was forced to slink to Orapax to avoid the English.”

  “Opechancanough isn’t in Orapax—not anymore. He’s returned to Pamunkey for good, and he holds his tribe strong in the face of the invaders.”

  “That was true when we left. But we’ve been away six months. Does Opechancanough still live? Does our father live? We can’t even know whether there’s a longhouse left standing in the forest! That uncertainty—I cannot wish it on my son.”

  “But what of you? What of your spirit? Can you truly stay here, and idle with Lady De La Warr, talking of how admirable her husband is? Can you allow yourself to be so false? Pocahontas, please. Think of what you’re saying.”

  “I can do anything for Thomas. I will do anything, to give him a future. I will endure whatever must be endured, to shelter him from the loss of all that’s dear to me.”

  Utta-ma-tomakkin took her gently by the arm. “But it is dear to you. The villages, the temples, the Okeus. The songs and chants—our ways, our land. Shouldn’t your son know these things, too?”

  Pocahontas scrubbed at her eyes with the edge of her cloak. “I’d rather he never knew our way of life at all, if he must lose it—if he must feel the loss I have felt. I would rather he be all English, and not Real at all. I would rather raise him knowing nothing but English ways, for losing the world as it was is a pain too great for any heart to bear.”

  “There may yet be a way . . .” But Utta-ma-tomakkin trailed off into silence. They all had seen the realities of London, the uncountable mass of the English. They all felt how fragile, how tenuous, their hope was now. It was a wisp of vapor. It was the thread of a spider’s web, beautiful and bright, and strained to the point of breaking.

  Matachanna’s breath was ragged and faint. “I can’t quarrel with you, Pocahontas. I love you too much to argue.” She wrapped her arms around Pocahontas’s shoulders, and Pocahontas pressed her face against Matachanna’s neck. She wept openly.

  “You are right,” Matachanna said. “Tsenacomoco may not be standing now. And if it is, it may not remain whole for long. But it is our land, our way of life. And Thomas is not only English. He is a Real Person, too. Think on that, before you decide.”

  Pocahontas glanced up, past the short fringe of Matachanna’s hair. Utta-ma-tomakkin stared into the depth of the garden, his eyes distant and pained. In his tassantassa clothing, the priest looked stunned and half-complete. It was as if the majesty he carried in the temples of Tsenacomoco had been wrenched from him like an arrowhead ripped from wounded flesh. The pale light of winter reflecting from the snow surrounded him in unaccustomed light. It beat back the shadows of the temple, the cloak of mystery that was his source of power. In the stark light of London, the powerful young priest looked as broken as an old pot discarded by the river.

  POCAHONTAS

  January 1617

  The maid drew a long steel pin from a wooden box. The pin flashed in the light of the candles, a momentary glint of silver like a fish rising to the surface of the river. Pocahontas closed her eyes as the maid bent to her work, securing the requisite hat within the high, mounded nest of black hair. She breathed deeply, seeking the smell of the river, the salty ripple and flicker of fish among the weeds. But the air of her room smelled of candles—warm, dripping tallow; oily smoke—and nothing more.

  John rapped at the door and entered when she bade him. He looked nothing like the tobacco farmer he was. His brocaded doublet was alive with embroidery, bright twists of vine and flower against dark crushed velvet. Rows of gold buttons decorated the sleeves from cuff to elbow. At his upper arm, the slashes in the fabric allowed the linen of his undershirt to peek through, a match to the wide ruff of lace that draped in triple thickness across his shoulders. It was difficult to imagine such a man hoeing and planting and, in the season of harvest, tying the fans of tobacco leaf high on the racks to dry.

  The change suits him, she told herself. He looks dashing—winning. Yet she preferred him with earth on his hands and sweat soaking through the dingy cloth of his shirt.

  We must grow used to this new life. It is best for Thomas—it is secure. There could be no growing of tobacco in London, of course. What land would they farm? And at any rate, John had learned at their parties and suppers that King James was in opposition to the stuff. The king might soon seek to outlaw it. We shall find a new livelihood.

  Or perhaps they would have no need. The benefactor who had first rescued them from the Bell Savage had continued in his kindness, sending the best of food, fine horses and a private coach, toys for Thomas, and more ornaments and fine fabrics than Pocahontas could ever hope to wear. Perhaps the mysterious stranger’s support would continue, and Thomas would grow up in ease and luxury, with no need to fear for his survival.

  The maid finished her work. Pocahontas stood, then smoothed and tucked the pleats of her skirt where they fell from the rounded point of her bodice’s stomacher. Her dress was made of brocade, as rich and red as puccoon. A stiff wire choker supported her fine lace collar, which spread below her face like wings, delicate and transparent as a spider’s web.

  “You look lovely,” John said. His voice was low, nearly sad. “I never would have guessed that half a year ago you were crushing grubs in a tobacco field.”

  “I was thinking the same of you only a moment ago.”

  “I never crushed grubs. You reserved that sport for yourself.”

  She smiled, but looked away. “John, I think . . . I think we ought to remain in London.”

  Silence filled the room. She dared to glance at him—his face was still with shock.

  At last he said, “Have you grown to love the city so well?”

  “I am only thinking of our son. He will have more opportunity here, more security. And he won’t be made to watch as his mother’s people are driven away. Or worse.”

  “But there has been peace in Virginia since you and I married.”

  “Is there still? We have been away so long. And if there is, how long can peace last? When I was a child, I thought my people were great. We were so numerous, no force in the world could stop what my father had created. We were one powerful force, made of many parts.” She gave one sad laugh that was near
er a sob. “Many. But now I know what that word truly means. There is no stopping the English migration, John. I know that now.

  “We came to London so that I might find some way to salvage our world. But now I see clearly. There is no saving it. We might only hope to delay what cannot be stopped. Perhaps it is better—not only for Thomas, but for all of us—to accept the world as it will be, rather than fight to save what is doomed to die.”

  He came to her and touched her face gently. Pocahontas closed her eyes tightly so that he could not see her tears.

  “Are you sure?” John said.

  “I can never be sure of it. My spirit cries out to me. It tells me to go home. It . . . commands. But Tsenacomoco was my home, and one day it will vanish like mist in the morning. What place can my son call home? What place calls to his spirit?”

  He kissed her hand. “Rebecca, my sweet lady—my good, brave wife. Don’t think on it now. We’ve time yet to decide.”

  But as they boarded the coach, as they made their way down the hill and through the brightly lit theater district of Southwark, Pocahontas stared beyond the Thames to London. Dim lights flickered amid the dense blackness, an unbearably wide swath of them. The lights were too many to count, as numerous as seeds spilled from a basket, as numerous as stars.

  There is no time, she thought, and turned away from the sight of London to take John’s hand.

  The king’s Twelfth Night Masque was to be the grandest affair of the season. It was held at the royal banqueting house of Whitehall, a lush structure of white stone two stories high. It glowed in the winter moonlight. Pocahontas and John were shown at once to their seats—the finest in the house, save for the royal seats, the steward assured her. She sank into her chair, cushioned with deep-blue velvet, and stared.

  Even through her troubled fog, the banqueting house impressed her. It was a long hall with a smooth, dark floor, so well polished that the rows of marble pillars along its edges reflected like birch trunks mirrored in a still forest pool. A railed balcony stretched high along the walls. Ladies in bright gowns clustered there, swaying and nodding like a field of wildflowers, whispering behind the rays of their fans. High above her, the soaring ceiling was a glory of gold leaf and carving and paintings of Christian heroes and saints. Pocahontas gazed in wonder at the ceiling’s pinnacle, where a great oval of gold ringed a gathering of angels, painted as if they stood upon a pane of glass and gazed past their bare toes at the people crowded in the hall below.

  At one end of the hall was a stage, layered with lush drapings and set-piece panels. Their seats were very near the stage, and Pocahontas watched it eagerly for signs that the masque would soon begin. In her time in Southwark, Pocahontas had come to appreciate plays and other theater performances. At first, they had confused and frustrated her. She couldn’t understand why the people on the stage did not simply tell their stories in the proper way, rather than being deceitful and acting as if they lived in the world of legend. But with time she understood that this was simply the English manner of storytelling, and she was soon caught up in the tales of treacherous kings and conquering heroes, of weeping maids and scheming wives.

  “And so,” a rather high and casual voice called, “I see our Virginia savage has joined us.”

  John was already rising to his feet before the man stopped speaking. He helped Pocahontas out of her seat and led her by the hand, a few short steps away to where a slight figure sat poised on an ornately carved chair. The man had a long, thin nose that was as flushed and ruddy as his bony cheeks. His sharp, daring eyes were deep sunk. As he raised a hand to stroke a pointed chestnut beard, a few pale crumbs fell onto his doublet.

  John bowed deeply and Pocahontas, following his lead, sank into a curtsey.

  “Your Grace,” John said.

  Pocahontas stole a second glance at the slender man: King James, the mamanatowick of England.

  Beside the king’s chair sat a low table on which rested a silver tray with an array of delicacies and an enameled decanter of dark-red wine. On the other side of the table, Pocahontas caught the glimmer of thread-of-gold embroidery against lush ivory silk. She lifted her gaze a fraction more and saw the skirt and bodice of an exceptionally well-dressed woman. Above the woman’s winged lace collar was a serene face. Queen Anne’s once-golden hair was dulled by gray, but her skin was still smooth and fine. She caught Pocahontas’s eye and smiled graciously before Pocahontas gasped and dropped her stare to the floor, face burning as red as her bodice.

  “John Rolfe,” said King James, “fresh from the colony.”

  “Not so fresh, I think, my king,” the queen said quietly. Her voice was musical and gentle. “They have been in London half a year.”

  King James selected a small cake from his tray, which he ate before continuing. It left a smear of honey on his beard. “And Lady Rebecca, the wild princess of the forest.”

  Queen Anne looked pointedly away from her royal husband. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Rebecca.” The queen extended her hand. Pocahontas took it and curtseyed over it as she had been taught.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said as John bent to offer his courtesies to the queen.

  “You must come to court, Lady Rebecca, and share with me all your stories. I so long to see Virginia with my own eyes. Is it very beautiful?”

  “We haven’t anything in Virginia as fine as this hall,” Pocahontas said, “but the land itself is unrivaled in beauty. It is as rich as any tapestry, Your Grace.”

  “Rich,” the king grunted sourly. “That it is not. Though the good Lord knows how the Virginia Company have tried to convince me otherwise.”

  Pocahontas stood with hands clasped at her waist while John answered the king’s queries about Virginia—its soil, its crops, its distressing lack of gold, and its unsettling ability to nurture the tobacco that King James so abhorred, and which he feared would make its way across the Atlantic in ever greater quantities to swamp his Godly kingdom with vice.

  She surreptitiously watched the king: his curt gestures, his pinched red face, the crumbs speckling his doublet and beard. His manner was short and ungracious toward John, dismissive and nearly mocking toward Pocahontas herself, though his wife did what she could to soften the king’s verbal blows. A queasy sensation built beneath her heart as the king spoke on. This is your mamanatowick now, the man to whom you must always be loyal and true. She thought of her father in his younger days. Even in old age he possessed a regal strength. She thought of Opechancanough, fierce-tempered but wise, made to lead men and lead them well.

  Pocahontas turned her face away from the king.

  The crowd swelled—a mass of whirling skirts and glinting doublets, of ruffs bouncing on shoulders and goblets rising in the sun-gold light of hundreds of candles. Musicians took their places beside the stage, and the tentative chords of tuning harps and violins wafted about the hall, chased by the assertive, reedy voice of the curtal. Here and there, Pocahontas gleaned bits of conversation, as she had done at so many parties before, sifting through the stray words for any secret she might carry home to Powhatan.

  “How is your husband, Lady Grace?”

  “He has been most unwell, I am sorry to say.”

  “It isn’t the flux, is it? I’ve heard it has made its way back into the city.”

  “Christ protect us, let us hope not.”

  A flicker caught Pocahontas’s eye—a flash between the shoulders of two laughing men. Her spirit filled with the prickling sensation of recognition. She peered more sharply into the crowd, but whatever specter had taunted her memory was gone.

  The tuning orchestra fell silent. King James dismissed them to their seats and turned eagerly toward the stage. As she dropped once more into a curtsey, a figure moved at the periphery of Pocahontas’s vision—stocky, strong, with a dark-golden beard and a characteristic swagger. She looked about anxiously as she and Jo
hn found their seats once more.

  “What is it?” John said.

  “I thought I saw . . .” But she hushed, for candles throughout the hall extinguished. The branches of light surrounding the stage seemed to leap and flare.

  With a burst of music, the stage came to life. Curtains and sets dragged apart, revealing not the actors Pocahontas was used to seeing but strange creatures in gaudy costume, with heads of bright, bobbing plumes and trailing fabric tails. They chanted and sang of the delights of the garden. But the sets that grew up around them were grotesque parodies of fields—tall and spindly stalks, flowers that shouted in rhyme, leaves that unrolled across the stage like long green parchment scrolls. Masked figures stepped from hidden doors and uncovered their faces to reveal yet more masks beneath. And on and on the chants went, praising beauty while all about her an excess of color and sound clamored in a show of vulgarity that made Pocahontas shrink into the velvet cushions of her seat.

  This was not the English storytelling she had come to know and love. There was no clear story here, no moral message, not even a single character whose tale she could follow. It was nothing more than a parade of riches, crude in its ostentation.

  When the time came for the traditional comic reprieve, the antimasque performers came tumbling from behind their doors, crowing and waggling their overstuffed codpieces. They made coarse jokes, cavorting through the rows of onlookers, trailing glittering silk as they ran. While her wary eyes watched them, the stage was reset, and she turned back to find that nothing looked as it did before. Pocahontas usually enjoyed the respite of the antimasque, the relief from the masque’s heavy themes—but now she gripped her husband’s hand as a new onslaught of garish visions overwhelmed her.

  At last, three hours later, the final scene came to a close. The actors froze in a tableau as a great length of painted black silk unrolled from the ceiling, covering the stage in a blanket of stars, the Chariot of Night flying like a brilliant moon across the banner. Pocahontas tried to steady her breathing as the audience applauded.