by Angela Hunt
No one interrupted or dared to ask a question as Thomas Colman opened his Bible and read the scriptures forbidding intermarriage. “Unless you want a great wave from the sea to cover this place,” the minister said, his hand trembling in awe as he pointed to the water beyond the beach, “you will live rightly before God. Unless you want the great monsters of the deep to pitch themselves forward onto this island and devour you in the middle of the darkest night, unless you want the wrath of God to be poured out in a storm unlike any you have ever seen, you will obey the Word of the Lord and restrain yourselves from this kind of immorality.”
The minister’s face was strained with fatigue, but seemed lighted from within as he held his Bible to his breast. “The council of assistants has directed Ananias and I to tell you that you may do as you think best regarding the marriage of yourselves with the heathen savages in this place. But I could not let you surrender yourselves to immorality and unholy marriage without first hearing the Word of God.”
He swept his long arm over the gathering and his voice thundered through the whisper of the ocean breeze. “Judge for yourselves, and weep over the folly of your thinking.”
When the sermon was done, the company followed the minister to the small stretch of beach where William Berde lay buried, but Richard hung back and waited for an opportunity to discreetly tug on Ananias Dare’s sleeve.
“What is it?” Ananias whispered, lingering behind.
“It’s what he said,” Richard whispered, nodding toward the spare, dark form of the minister. “In truth, Ananias, half a dozen of the men are already married. I was hoping to gain a wife myself, this very day.”
Ananias pressed his lips together. “Will the men heed the minister’s words?”
Richard nodded. “I believe they will. Not one man among us wants a wave to sweep the land, or a sea monster—”
“I see.” Ananias crossed his arms. “Richard, you’re the leader here. My advice—and the council’s—is this: say nothing to the minister about your wives. When we have departed, take up the matter among your own men, and do as you see fit. Let those who wish to marry do so, and those who wish to remain unmarried shall do so as well.”
“Aye,” Richard mumbled, not much comforted.
Ananias leaned closer and whispered in his ear: “This girl you want to marry—is she beautiful?”
Richard thought of Chepi—dark, lustrous eyes, gentle mouth, soft skin, her face like gold in the fading light of sunset. She had stolen his heart the moment he had seen her in the Croatoan village, and it had taken Richard six long months to gather the courage to even speak to her.
“Yes.” He drew a ragged breath. “She is beautiful.”
Ananias grinned. “You fortunate fool. I’d marry two of the heathen beauties had I the chance.”
He slapped Richard on the back and together they walked to hear the funeral of poor William Berde.
After the pinnace had departed, Richard called a meeting of his men to relay Ananias’ message. “So those of you who wish to remain married shall,” he said in summary as hot water-scented winds blew across the clearing where the men had gathered. “And those of you who wish to put away your wives shall not be bound by the law.”
Hugh Pattenson leapt up. “I wouldn’t want to risk calling down God’s wrath,” he said, his voice an awed, husky whisper. “I won’t keep a heathen wife. But what shall I do with her?”
“And I?” Richard Shaberdge stood, his face edged with anger. “Why didn’t you tell us, Taverner, that we shouldn’t marry infidels? I believe I never would have married had I known this would happen.”
“I’ll send my wife back,” Henry Rufoote said, leaping from his place. “Her and all her heathen things. ‘Tis only right. And who knows what sort of beauty the governor will bring me?”
“In truth, you have a point,” Charles Florrie said, standing. A blue flame of defiance burned in his eyes as he walked toward the hut where his Indian wife waited. “I’ll send my wife back to her people this very day. These savages have no idea what marriage means anyway, ‘tis no harm to put a wife away—”
Richard felt control slip from his grasp like seawater as the entire company moved toward the huts to watch what would happen. Though the air was heavy with impending rain, snatches of their conversation reached his ears:
“I’faith, the women are worthless heathens, let’s take ‘em back—”
“But not without showing ‘em a good time, eh?”
“So if she’s not your wife any more, you won’t mind me showin’ her what an Englishman’s made of—”
“Stop, stop, stop!” Richard called, but his words were snatched by the bawling winds and flung back in his face. Angry and ugly, the men ran from hut to hut, pulling out startled women, and Richard watched in helpless horror as Chepi, her eyes round with fear, was carried from his hut kicking and screaming. With no regard for her outstretched arms or pitiful pleas, her abductor threw her down upon the sand with the others.
Lightning cracked the skies apart as Richard sprinted forward. “Don’t you touch her!” he cried. He flung himself into the widening circle of men, his ears ringing with the screams of the women and the hooting of the wild, wet wind. He could feel his panic rising as all signs of decency and restraint fled from the faces of his men, then they fell upon him and the women. His arms pummeled whatever resistance he encountered, and once he felt a jawbone give way beneath his fist. Then one man held his arms and another produced a blade that shimmered and curved and finally bit into the soft flesh between his ribs.
Lightning ripped the storm cloud overhead, thunder rolled over the low island, and Richard Taverner pitched forward upon the sand where his blood mingled with the rainwater and the tears of seven women.
FORTY
Thomas was not entirely surprised to learn upon his return that Jocelyn and Regina had left the village to live with the Indians. “I’faith, her mind is a wee bit addled,” Audrey explained to Thomas, weeping delicately into her handkerchief as she stood with her husband outside the minister’s house. “We were distressed to find her gone, but one of the savage messengers told us she had simply walked into their village, and Master Bailie sent a delegation to be sure that she hadn’t been taken against her will.”
“She is well?” Thomas asked, taking pains to keep his voice level.
“Yes,” Audrey said, wiping her eyes. “And so is the little girl, bless her heart. They are well and happy, but—”
“‘Tis enough, Mistress Bailie, we should be going,” Roger interrupted, steering his wife away from the minister’s frozen face.
As Audrey moved away, Roger Bailie regarded the minister with a curious look. “I can’t imagine why you, of all people, should be the first to fail in marriage,” he said. “But if there is anything we can do—”
“Pray do not worry yourself,” Thomas answered, lifting the latch on the door to enter his empty house. He nodded at the old gentleman with the lovely girl at his side. “I give you good day, Master Bailie.”
The house seemed strangely empty without Jocelyn’s presence. Her trunk still lay against the wall, closed and locked, and her cooking pot lay in the fire pit, scrubbed and clean. The blanket had been neatly folded across the foot of the bed; Thomas’ trunk stood unmolested, his books stacked neatly on the floor near the board.
He removed his hat and hung it on the nail by the door. The space looked strangely empty. Despite the summer heat, she had taken her cloak from the peg upon which it hung; the blue bonnet that perfectly matched her eyes was gone as well. Mayhap he would spot it in the forest, and gain a private word with her. Though he was not surprised that she had gone, still he wanted to hear his condemnation from her own mouth. Torture, after all, demanded that the guilty one suffer to the fullest possible extent.
A pain pounded behind his eyes, his skin burned from its exposure to the sea and the July sun. He lay down on the empty bed and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.
Three d
ays later, at dawn, the lookout in the tower let out a cry. “Canoe on the river,” he called, the alarm ringing over the village. “Croatoan, from the looks of it!”
Ananias ran out of his house still chewing his breakfast. A Croatoan canoe! Did the savages bring news of John White?
“Who comes?” Ananias called, shielding his eyes from the morning sun as he squinted toward the man in the tower.
“‘Tis Manteo!” the lookout called. “I’faith, ‘tis Manteo himself!”
The noise and the news brought colonists scurrying from all the houses, and when Manteo and his companions stepped onto the shore, they were caught up in joyful embraces and questions.
Manteo said nothing, however, until he stood before Ananias. “I will speak in private with the council,” Manteo said, his dark eyes grave with some secret knowledge.
A tangible hush fell over the crowd, and they parted wordlessly as Ananias gestured to the other council members and led the way to the church.
Thomas Colman was praying in the church when the group of men entered. Ananias asked him to leave.
“No,” Manteo said, putting his hand across Ananias’ chest. “The man of God will stay.”
The council members looked at one another, then led the way to the table in the front of the room. They took seats, but Manteo stood, his stalwart companions a constant shadow behind him.
“The English men of Croatoan took wives of my people,” Manteo said, raising his eyes to the minister in a swift, keen look. “The English men of Croatoan misused the women and killed them. One woman, Chepi, had only lived fourteen summers, but she was taken by the English and killed. Chepi,” Manteo paused, suddenly a dark and vigilant presence in the room, “was my sister.”
Ananias felt the room swirl slowly around him. Thomas Colman paled visibly. “How can this be?” the minister asked, placing his hands upon the table. “We were just with the men, and they agreed not to take Croatoan wives.”
“They had been married many moons,” Manteo answered. “After you—” he pointed abruptly to Ananias and Thomas, “—came, the women were no longer wanted.”
“I talked to Richard Taverner,” Ananias said, raising his hand. “Surely something went wrong. He told me that the men had married, and agreed that the women would be returned safely to their village if the men no longer wanted their wives.”
“Taverner is dead, too,” Manteo answered, sending a chill up Ananias’ spine. “And do you not understand? If a man does not treasure a thing of great worth, he will despise it.”
Thomas Colman cleared his throat to speak: “Then he will be punished, for God will always punish the wicked.”
Manteo ignored the minister. “Alawa, Sokanon, Wikimak, Nijlon, Nattawosew, Kimi, Chepi,” he said. “Their mothers and sisters weep for them. Their fathers and brothers cry for vengeance.”
“God help us,” Ananias replied reflexively.
“Though the other Indian nations urge us to make war against our English brothers, we will not,” Manteo said, his eyes clouded with hazy sadness. “But we will not give our daughters and sisters to be married to the English.”
The other council members regarded Manteo in silent shock, but Ananias nodded slowly. “‘Tis well done, Manteo,” he said, nodding in agreement. “We will not ask for your daughters.”
With the dignity and power of a great buck, Manteo turned silently and left the church, his companions following. The council members stared at one another for a moment, then John Sampson thrust his fist into Thomas Colman’s face. “See what you have done! If you had said nothing, this tragedy would not have happened.”
“I am not to blame for the base impulses of evil men,” Thomas protested, holding his hands before his face. “If they had followed the Word of God, none of this would have happened. And now, despite their evil, right has been restored.”
Roger Bailie had watched the entire scene with no comment, and now he tented his fingers before his face. “In my dealings with the savages, sirs, I have learned that what they don’t say is oft more important than what we hear. Manteo said the Croatoan would not war against us, but what of the Roanoacs? Or the Chesapeakes? The Croatoans have been a voice in our favor for these many months, but the other tribes would seize upon any excuse to destroy us. In days to come, will the Croatoan support us as ardently as they have in the past?”
Ananias chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. The old man had a point. Though they had not made an enemy in this harsh action, they had lost powerful friends. ‘Twould be better to punish the erring Englishmen and restore the Croatoan’s good will than to do nothing.
“Have ten men make sail in the pinnace on the morrow,” he said, standing. “We have yet another mission to accomplish on Croatoan. And you sir—” he pointed at the minister, “this time, you shall remain here.”
The pinnace sailed easily down the coast and anchored off Croatoan, but Ananias felt his stomach churn and tighten into a knot as the shallop was lowered into the water. ‘Twas the first time no lookout had run forward to greet them.
“All ashore,” Ananias called with a confidence he did not feel.
Within ten minutes, the handful of men stood in what remained of the lookout village at Croatoan. Only smoldering ashes and blackened poles remained of the huts, and in the center clearing a heap of fly-covered bodies lay bloating in the sun.
“The savages!” John Sampson muttered under his breath. “Did Manteo lie to us?”
Ananias shook his head and pointed to a battle-axe that lay halfway buried in the back of an Englishman’s skull. “I have seen those markings before, on the day George Howe was murdered,” he said, iron in his voice. “‘Twas the Roanoacs. Manteo and his people are not to blame.”
“What do we do?” Henry Browne asked, his bright blue eyes wide with horror.
“We bury them,” Ananias said, sheathing the dagger he had automatically pulled from his belt. “And then we visit the Croatoan village. And any five of you who are willing—” he glanced at the men on the beach, “—may remain with Manteo’s people, for someone must still post a lookout for John White.”
The flashing eyes of Ananias Dare greeted the minister when Thomas opened his door. “I give you good day, Reverend,” Ananias said, stepping forward as if he would push his way into the minister’s house. “I have a story to share with you.”
“A story?” Against his better judgment, Thomas stepped aside.
Ananias entered and tossed his hat onto the pile of books covering the board. From the expression of disgust on his visitor’s face, Thomas knew the man had noticed the stale and dank smell of the house. The hearth fire was as cold, the dishes on the board dirty.
But Ananias said nothing about the house. “Yes, a story. Of an island where twenty-and-eight men have been buried, murdered in their sleep by the Roanoacs.”
Thomas swallowed against the unfamiliar constriction in his throat and forced a light-hearted note in his voice. “Would you joke with me, Ananias?” he said, sinking onto a stool.
“I am not joking.”
Thomas felt his hands begin to tremble against his will.
“Our destruction has begun, Thomas. The peace we have labored so mightily to protect has been compromised because you insisted that the heathen weren’t good enough to marry—”
“I preached nothing but the Word of God!”
“You preached your own opinions! The Indian women on Croatoan were converts. They believed more in the grace of God than you do, Thomas Colman!” Ananias’ voice carried through the open windows, and from the corner of his eye Thomas saw two women outside stop and stare at the small house.
“Lower your voice!” he hissed. He stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “I preached only what I believe to be true, and I must stand by my convictions.”
“Then tell me this, reverend. If your convictions are so pure and holy, where is your godly wife?”
Thomas felt his mouth go dry. “You know she is with the savages.”
Ananias nodded. “You forget, sir, by marriage I am a kinsman to your wife, and I know her well. I know she is a devout woman, one who knows and loves God, and yet she could not live with you. And though I know you think me nothing but a lecher and a sinner, let me tell you that at least I recognize my sin. I made a mistake once, I have an illegitimate son in England, and I am forgiven. I admit it freely now, I don’t care if the world knows!”
The anger in him bubbled as a living thing, and he came closer, bringing his face within inches of Thomas’. “So why, sir, am I, a sinner, happy with my wife while you, a perfect minister, drive yours away? Can you answer that question?”
Thomas blinked and pulled his face away even as Ananias’ words rang in his head. But the man was furious, crazy with fear, mayhap, worried that the savages would attack . . .
“I think you are confused,” Thomas answered, maintaining his dignity with difficulty. “My wife has nothing to do with your sin, and you are wrong to boast of it so openly in this village—”
In three steps, Ananias turned and left the house, slamming the door as he left. The space where he had stood vibrated gently, and a remnant of his wrathful presence remained in the room, a palpable afterimage that faded only after some moments had passed.
Thomas fell weakly onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. Cold terror lay in the pit of his stomach, fear that Ananias’ words might be true. All reason left him, and for the first time in his life he could neither pray, read, nor think. He curled into a tight ball, drawing his knees stiffly before his chest, and waited for the darkness to claim him.
