by Angela Hunt
For this Jocelyn had no answer. Until her father’s illness, she had always believed he would arrange a marriage for her with a man much like himself. Her chosen husband would have been a teacher or a writer, and after their marriage she would have lived with two men with whom she would share reading and laughter, discussions and opinions. In the course of a fortnight, however, that domestic vision had vanished and she had nothing but fear with which to replace it.
Eleanor patted Jocelyn’s hand again, then pressed her palms against her expanding stomach. “Only God knows what will become of all of us,” she said, a breath of anxiety in her own voice. “But my father says we must needs trust in God’s goodness, and in the strength of our English way of life.”
Eleanor looked up, and the niggling thread of worry fled from her voice. “You will find a husband, dear Jocelyn, a gentleman who deserves you. You will establish a home and raise children and do all the things your sainted mother would have done had she lived. In time, your grief for your father will ease, and you will find the happiness we all seek.”
“A gentleman?” Jocelyn laughed and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, dear Eleanor, but where am I to find such a man? This ship is filled with nothing but common passengers, crude seamen, and married gentlemen who do nothing but sit and dream of the riches they hope to reap from their export companies. So unless God can form a man of dust and breath yet again . . .”
Eleanor leaned forward and pinched Jocelyn’s cheek. “Trust in God, dear cousin, and keep your eyes open. There are, I’m sure, gentle folk on board who do not dress in the satin doublets and silken hose of wealthy gentlemen, nor do they speak as you do, but they are gentle all the same.”
“Would that such a one would find me,” Jocelyn breathed, leaning forward on the ship’s railing. “For I am well aware that I am the only unattached woman on this ship. There are times, cousin, especially when I must walk among the sailors, that I feel vulnerable—”
“You know my father will always act as your protector.”
“Still—” Jocelyn hesitated, not wanting to sound critical of her uncle’s efforts. She chose her words carefully. “He is very busy about the colony’s affairs. He cannot be constantly by my side, nor do we talk every day.”
“For conversation you have your maid, and me,” Eleanor replied, her brown eyes dancing. “On any day when I am not waylaid with seasickness, feel free to talk about whatever you wish. And know this—not a man aboard would dare insult or harm you, for they know you are John White’s niece. So what could possibly worry you?”
The future. Loneliness. Death. The replies sprang easily to Jocelyn’s lips, but she bit the words back. Her secure and lively cousin would not understand. So Jocelyn smiled as if she had been a mere child frantic over harmless shadows on the wall and returned Eleanor’s reassuring embrace.
On the sixth of May, the Lion and her two consorts arrived at Plymouth where White welcomed fifteen colonists from the southwest of England. The newcomers, all men, included Manteo and Towaye, two American Indians who had crossed the ocean with Ralph Lane to present themselves to Sir Walter Raleigh and other investors in the colonial venture. The two savages had traveled throughout England at Raleigh’s expense, and were now welcomed to the fleet with great pomp and ceremony. John White himself ventured off the Lion to welcome them, but they and the other newcomers were housed aboard the smaller flyboat.
Jocelyn watched the ceremony of welcome from the deck of the Lion, curiosity overcoming her grief. These were the first Indians she had ever seen, and she found them remarkably like the sketches her uncle had made in his journals. The taller of the two Indians, the one called Manteo, had a flat nose, coarse black hair, and dark brown eyes with the shining quickness of a robin’s. His companion looked much the same; indeed, they could have been brothers. Neither wore the doublet and hose of the English, but breeches of a supple leather, loosely fitting woven shirts, and cloaks. Aloofness covered both of them like a mantle.
After John White’s welcome, the Indians regally crossed the gangplank to Captain Edward Spicer’s flyboat. The other arriving colonists, heavily laden with trunks, tools, and baskets of possessions, followed the savages on board. When the Indians disappeared into the hold of the ship, Jocelyn turned from the suddenly uninteresting sight and nearly stumbled into a man standing close behind her.
“Pray excuse me,” she murmured, without looking up.
“‘Tis my fault.” His voice was a wall of energy that lifted her eyes, and a trembling shiver raced through her when she saw that Thomas Colman stood only inches from her suddenly awkward feet. His presence was a physical force that unnerved her, yet something radiated from the dark depths of his eyes and pulled her gaze upward. She felt herself slipping toward him, losing herself in the gentle, probing expression on his face that seemed to ask, Is anything amiss?
Yes, her eyes answered, I’m desperately lonely, irrevocably alone.
Audrey’s Irish brogue cut through the spell: “Miss Jocelyn, think ye that we should go below deck now?”
Embarrassed, Jocelyn tore her eyes away and stepped back. What had she revealed to this minister? What must he think of her? Surely he gave that compassionate look to everyone, for such was his calling, but not everyone lapped up his attention as eagerly as a starving cat . . .
“Miss Jocelyn, think ye that we should go below?” Audrey repeated. The maid stopped short, surveyed the situation between her mistress and the minister in one glance, then smiled coyly. “Oh,” she said, cooing. “Pardon me. Pray excuse the interruption, Miss Jocelyn, I’ll just wait for ye on the lower deck—”
“I am coming now,” Jocelyn said in a clear voice. She gathered her skirt and led the way to the companionway, determined not to look back.
Later in the afternoon, William Clement grimaced and shifted his position on the narrow steps of the companionway as his best friend approached. “Well met, James,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He turned his eyes from the sight of James’ loaded plate. “How can ye eat that swill they’re passing off as dinner?” Compounded with the rocking of the ship, the sharp odors of the food churned his stomach.
“If a man’s hungry, ‘e’ll eat shoe leather,” James Hynde answered, propping himself on a lower step as he gnawed on a bit of ship’s biscuit. “Ye ought to get something to eat, for there won’t be more until the morrow. And while this may be swill, ‘tis only a bit below that which we got in—”
William abruptly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Aye, and let’s keep our personal ‘istory to ourselves, eh?” he said, pressing his face close to his friend’s. “In truth,” he continued, “ye and I and our masters know we came from Colchester Castle, but there’s no need for the entire ship’s company to know, is there?”
James blinked nervously. “Do y’think I’d be telling anybody that the Governor took us out of prison?” he whispered. “We served five years, William. I think five years is plenty to pay for stealing forty sheep.”
“Still, some folks think that a thief remains a thief forever, and I won’t be hung the first time a mistress mislays her silverplate,” William answered. He clutched his queasy stomach and leaned back on the stairs. “‘Tis bad enough that we’re bound to serve our gentlemen ‘till they die, but as my sainted mother used to say, there’s a bright linin’ in every cloud. Being as I’m serving old man Roger Bailie, I expect to have my freedom in a few months.”
“My man will live longer than that,” James said, struggling to chew a bit of dried beef. “Master Cooper is not much older than the Governor, and as full o’life as any man on this ship.”
“Welladay, one never knows what can happen in the wilderness,” William answered, closing his eyes in the sun. “There’s savages, and wild animals, and divers diseases . . . Say your prayers, friend James, and mayhap you’ll be free, like me, before ye expect. I believe I’ll be my own man, with my own woman, in a year’s time.”
James snickered. “A woman! And where would y
e be finding one? Are ye thinking ye’ll take a savage to wife?”
“Not a savage, but a fair rose of England. A gentle lady, too, with breeding and quality.” He opened one eye and peered at James. “Do y’laugh? I’ve already espied such a girl: Jocelyn White, the governor’s niece.”
James pretended to choke on the hard biscuit. “That girl? Why, she’d never give ye the time of day! Besides, hasn’t her maid hinted that the girl has eyes for the minister?”
“‘Tis no worry,” William answered, shifting his position uneasily as he fought his rising nausea. “The maid’s a pretty piece, and the best way to reach the lady.”
A gust of wind cracked the sails, the ship pitched forward, and James moved his legs out of the way as William lunged forward. “Great god ocean! I thought I’d given ye every offering my poor belly could provide. Where’s the bucket?”
EIGHT
John White would have liked to depart Plymouth the hour after they had received the last colonists, but Simon Fernandes seemed determined to take the devil’s own sweet time. Fresh water and meat had to be put on board, Fernandes told White, for the colony had depleted a week’s stores in the journey to Cowes and back. And since White had complained that many of the seamen were “coarse and unruly,” Fernandes had released a dozen of them at Portsmouth and was scouring the docks of Plymouth for able-bodied replacements. On May seventh, as White fretted over each hour they wasted in port, only four men had signed on for the voyage and Fernandes refused to sail without a full complement.
‘Twas bad enough that Fernandes recruited scoundrels, but the way he engaged them guaranteed that his ships were filled with the lowest sort of creature. White frowned in disapproval when he heard Fernandes enlisting sailors from a group of seamen lounging on the docks. No wages were given or guaranteed, but Fernandes made it clear that any booty plucked from Spanish ships was to be divided among the ships’ crew upon their return to England. Such rewards could be great, Fernandes promised, and the privations of sea life were greatly worth the risk of treasure.
That evening White accosted Fernandes in his cabin. “We should be planting our crops now,” White blustered, bringing his fist down on the captain’s desk with as much anger as he dared display. “And yet, we sit here in the harbor! ‘Tis not you who will go hungry this winter, Fernandes, ‘tis my daughter and the other women and children aboard this ship. Make sail, I say, and do it tomorrow!”
Fernandes remained silent and smiled in his dark fashion, but the next day, May eighth, another ten seamen were persuaded to cast their lots with the voyage for Virginia. White gave the order to depart as soon as the ten were on board, but Fernandes ignored the command and set his men to checking and rechecking the ships’ masts, sails, and caulking. Finally, as the heat of the sun bore fully upon them, Fernandes turned and casually shrugged toward White. “Now we will weigh anchor, bosun,” he called to his mate, folding his arms. A smile crawled to his lips and underscored the silent message that his orders, not White’s, were to be obeyed.
Fernandes’ boatswain, the foreman of the deck crew, yelled “Weigh anchor! Make sail!” and the energetic summons drew the passengers to the cannon ports of the lower decks. Men, women, and boys piled round the cannon or jostled for position on the quarterdecks of the three ships and watched with wide eyes as England slid away.
From the foredeck, White felt his heart pound with pride as he looked over the brave souls who had agreed to accompany him to Virginia. They were not enough to make a long-lived colony, but they were certainly enough to begin one. Fine, strong men and women they were, with hearts of steely courage, and fearless children who would grow up in a world unlike anything their parents had ever known. God had brought each of them to this place, White had no doubt, and God would honor their efforts and labors in the City of Raleigh.
As the last pleats and tucks of the quilted English landscape faded into mist, Thomas Colman felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. Freedom! No more England to shadow his days, no congregation, questions, recriminations, protesting glances, secretive whispers, or public accusations. No bony fingers pointed in his direction, no need to prepare an ever-ready defense. No prophesyings where a man could be called out and accused openly of secret sin. No sermons to prepare. No nosy clergy members to question his role or duties.
He was alone, thank God, and out of the church. “A fish out of water,” he muttered to himself. The sound of his voice startled a small red-haired boy at the railing who turned to stare, and Thomas felt himself smiling. “But a very happy fish,” he added, and chuckled when the bewildered child tugged urgently on his mother’s skirt.
Thomas left the stern with its view of the mists over England and climbed down from the quarterdeck to move toward the bow. Forward, ‘twas the only place to be. Even if moving forward meant serving John White for fifteen years; serving White in Virginia would certainly be better than slaving for God in England.
Behind him, the sailors sang their shanty and glared at Thomas as he crossed the deck. Simon Fernandes had made it clear that passengers were to remain below deck as much as possible, and even though the sailors’ song was lively, their glances were murderous.
“Oh, a-sailing on the ocean, every live long day,
‘Tis a mariner’s devotion for to go that way.
Oh the captain is a gentleman of rank and sway,
The sea will prove his fortune should her go his way.”
Thomas pressed his hands on the ship’s railing and obediently moved aside for a singing seaman who wrestled with a load of heavy rope. Mayhap, in time, he could leave off these somber clothes and work half-naked like the seamen, or fashion an outfit of animal skins like those the savages wore. There would be no rigid dress code in Virginia, no social system to gauge a man by the starch in his ruff and the pounds in his purse, no superficial means of evaluating a man and finding him lacking.
‘Twas a blessedly free Garden of Eden, this Virginia, where any man, if he had a mind to, could be Adam . . .
John White held the railing of the foredeck with both hands and boldly addressed the milling crowd below: “People of the City of Raleigh, in Her Majesty’s Fair Province, Virginia!”
The crowd surged toward him. Children scampered up from the companionways, women shifted from the stern and tucked tear-stained handkerchiefs into their sleeves. A score of men who had been gathered below deck moved, a little reluctantly, to the center of the ship to hear their governor’s address. After the shuffling had subsided, no sound disturbed the stillness except an occasional crack of the square canvas sails as they tussled with the blessed ocean breeze.
“Dear people and fellow travelers,” White paused to smile down upon his colonists. “We embark today upon a journey that will test the character and courage of each man and woman among us. We go into a dark country with the light of the Gospel; we will enter a primitive land with the spirit of civilization; we will make our homes in a rich country where trees still grow tall and the land is yet fertile and abundant. As we go, I would like to call upon the Reverend Colman to ask God’s blessing on our journey and voyage.”
Thomas Colman lifted a brow in wordless surprise, but stepped forward as the crowd parted to let him through. Climbing slowly up to the foredeck, he surveyed the gathering from the lofty perspective, then bowed his head. As his voice rang out over the assembled passengers and seamen, John White nodded in silent satisfaction. ‘Twas a voice filled with the authority of one who knew God, a jolt of energy that bent every head down and commanded every spirit to rise toward heaven. With such a man in control of the spiritual lives of his people, God could do great things . . . He had been wise to select Thomas Colman as a fellow traveler.
“Dear God, our Sovereign Master,” Colman prayed, gripping the rail of the foredeck so tightly that White could see the man’s knuckles whiten. “We set forth today into the great unknown, where few have gone but many have dreamed of going. We follow not the sun, nor the winds, but your divine will and
your plan for our lives. We know that you are a severe and righteous judge, Eternal God, who sees all and knows all and punishes those who trespass against you. So keep us pure in thought and deed, Eternal Master, so we may bring an unblemished, pure light into the dark world before us. Keep before us the reality of Hell and the certainty of death so that our lives and hearts may be refined and purified by your love. Keep us from sin, and keep sin from this ship. In the name of your righteous son we pray, Amen.”
The solemnity of the moment passed as the minister left the raised platform. Caps and hats removed for prayer flew into the air as men were overcome with the joy of the journey. A great cheer rang across all three ships, and John White smiled indulgently at his people and lifted his arms high in celebration.
Audrey stamped her small foot impatiently as she and Jocelyn waited in the afternoon line for their meal of biscuit and dried beef. “I’faith, the minister’s prayer was a wee bit severe, don’t ye think?” Audrey whispered to her mistress. “All that talk about hell and sin? I’ll be wanting to leave this ship if ‘tis loaded with sinners as bad as he said.”
“We ought not to criticize him,” Jocelyn answered, lowering her voice. “I think he’s a Puritan. Such are naturally more severe than Anglicans.”
“But all that talk about hell.” Audrey shivered. “I thought ‘twas creepy, that’s all, with us about to undertake a journey to the end of the earth. Besides, me sainted father always said that anyone who prays much about the flames of hell has a genuine fear of goin’ there.”
Jocelyn did not laugh, but smiled politely at the pale face of the young below-decks sailor who ladled murky brown water from a barrel. Audrey could not smile at him—the pale, pinched faces of the young “bilge rats” who were not allowed on the upper deck reminded her too much of herself. Just as living below deck was a sort of purgatory, so was living as a servant with no hope for the future. She supposed ‘twas meet for her to be a servant, since she was an Irish orphan with no social standing or property to her name, but Audrey knew she was pretty, skilled, and tolerably bright. So apart from a person’s conception, which Audrey allowed was accomplished the same way in poor families as in rich, what invisible quality did ladies possess that common women lacked?
