by Angela Hunt
“We have been through this before,” Thomas interrupted. He reached for his Bible as if it were a weapon.
Ananias saw the gesture and shook his head. “You were not invited here, Reverend, to give an opinion or read to us from the Word of God. We know what God told the Israelites, but we are not Israelites.” He sighed. “I am not sure we are Englishmen. But we are citizens of Raleigh, and we must live according to new laws. The council has decreed, Thomas, that Indian-English marriages will be sanctioned by the civil government, whether or not you approve.”
“Civil marriage.” The minister spat the words. “‘Tis no true marriage if a man and woman live apart from the blessing of God—”
“So say you,” Ananias answered, lifting a hand. “And so we have made provision. Though John Chapman has not spoken a sermon since your illness, he is a clergyman still, and he has agreed to pronounce any willing man and woman married in the sight of God.”
The minister flushed to the roots of his hair, glared at the council for a silent moment, then stood and left the church.
Jocelyn jerked in alarm when the door slammed behind her. When she turned, she saw Thomas standing motionless in the room, his hand pressed to his forehead. “Doth your head ache?” she asked, stirring the embers of the fire so the room brightened.
“They know not what they do,” he said, taking a seat at the board. He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms to his forehead.
“What has the council done, Thomas?” Jocelyn whispered, mindful that Regina slept in the attic. “Mayhap ‘tis not as bad as you think—”
“They have cowed John Chapman into marrying Indian women and English men,” he said, his fingers knotting into his hair. “They were not content with civil marriage, but now heathen and Christian will be united alike in the holy ceremony of marriage before God—”
Jocelyn reached across the table to soothe him. “The Indians are heathens no longer. The idols are gone. They are as Christian as we are.”
“Are they?” Thomas’ eyes were bold and defiant as he looked at her. “I do not know for sure, Jocelyn, for they dance, and sing in words I cannot understand—”
“Do they understand your Latin or Greek?” Jocelyn asked. “No. They trust you, and you must trust them.” She picked up a skirt of Regina’s that she had been mending. “And ‘tis a good thing, this. Already some of our men have gone to live in the Indian village to be with the women they love, so now they can be married.”
“You would excuse their fornication?”
Jocelyn could feel his glare from across the table. “No, I’ll not excuse it,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “But even God allows a man to marry if he chooses. You have forced thirty men into celibacy, Thomas, and ‘tis not natural.”
His face was like granite as he stared at her. “Lustful thoughts can be curbed,” he finally said, speaking slowly. “Men do not require women to live.”
“You’ve proved that well enough in this house,” Jocelyn answered, turning from him to her mending, determined that he should not guess how deeply she cared. “And think on this, Thomas. Which is the greater sin—a man who loves a woman without the benefit of marriage, or a man who marries a woman and refuses to love her? Even the Bible has commanded husbands to love their wives as Christ has loved the church.”
He did not answer, and Jocelyn did not look up from her mending. After a moment, she broke her thread and lowered her voice. “I am not surprised that you are silent, for both are sin, Thomas, and both are wrong. And until you can stand honestly before God yourself, why judge your brothers so harshly?”
She stole a quick glance at him—his eyes were fixed on the leaping flames of the dying fire. “I must preach against sin,” he finally replied, his voice a toneless whisper.
“Yes, and you shall. But ‘tis the Word of God that convicts sinners, sir, not you. And if you refuse to show grace to your fellow men, soon you will drive them all to the Indian village. Who will hear your preaching then, Thomas?”
He stared at the fire without a word, and Jocelyn finished her mending, then slipped out of her bodice and kirtle and into her nightgown. As was her habit, she knelt at the side of the bed and tented her fingers as she prayed: “Father God, have mercy on us, but especially on my husband, Thomas.” Then she climbed into bed and studied the orange glow of the fire until she fell asleep.
FORTY-EIGHT
From the small house he had taken at Kilmore Quay in Ireland, John White sat at his desk and idly tapped his pen on the sheet of blank parchment before him. How could ink and parchment contain the fullness of the emotions he wanted to express?
Outside his window, the tumbling roar and release of the ocean intruded steadily upon the quiet of the night shadows. He liked the sound of the sea, for often he comforted himself with the thought that his family lay just on the other side of the water . . .
He dipped his pen into the inkwell.
John White to Richard Hakluyt, 4 February, 1593:
To the worshipful and my very friend Master Richard Hakluyt, much happiness in the Lord.
Sir, for the satisfying of your earnest request, as well as for the performance of my promise to you, I have sent you the true discourse of my last voyage into the West Indies, and parts of America called Virginia, taken in hand about the end of February, in the year of our redemption 1590. There were at the time three ships absolutely determined to go for the West Indies, but when they were fully furnished, and in readiness to make their departure, a general stay was commanded of all ships throughout England. I presently acquainted Sir Walter Raleigh, that by his endeavor it would please him to procure license for those ships to proceed on their determined voyage, that thereby the people in Virginia might speedily be comforted and relieved.
Whereupon he by his good means obtained license of the Queen’s Majesty, that the owner of the three ships should transport a convenient number of passengers, with their furnitures and necessaries to be landed in Virginia. Nevertheless, that order was not observed. Commanders of the ships denied to have any passengers, or anything else transported, saving only my self and my chest, no, not so much as a boy to attend upon me.
Thus both governors, masters and sailors, regarding very smally the good of their countrymen in Virginia, determined nothing less than to touch at those places, but wholly disposed themselves to seek after purchase and spoils, spending so much time therein that summer was spent before we arrived at Virginia. And when we were come thither the season was so unfit and the weather so foul that we were constrained to forsake that coast, having not seen any of our planters, with loss of our ship-boats, and seven of our chiefest men: and also with loss of three of our anchors and cables, and most of our casks with fresh water.
I would to God it had been as prosperous to all, as noisome to the planters, and as joyful to me.
I would to God my wealth were answerable to my will.
Thus committing the relief of my discomfortable company the planters in Virginia, to the merciful help of the Almighty, whom I most humbly beseech to help and comfort them, according to his most holy will and their good desire, I take my leave from my house at Newtowne in Kylmore the fourth of February, 1593.
Your most well-wishing friend,
John White
FORTY-NINE
‘Twas a lovely green day in early May when Jocelyn and Regina were interrupted on their regular walk to the Indian village.
“Jocelyn!” The shrill scream made Jocelyn pause on the forest path and for a moment her heart stopped beating. Had something happened to Thomas?
Audrey ran up the trail, a vision of flying skirts, tumbling red hair, and crimson cheeks. When at last she reached Jocelyn, she clung to her friend’s hand and struggled to catch her breath. “Is something wrong?” Jocelyn asked, taking Audrey’s shoulders. “Is it Thomas? Or Master Bailie?”
“No,” Audrey answered, panting. She bent forward with her hands on her knees, breathing deeply, then laughed a
nd patted five-year-old Regina on the cheek. “Don’t let me affrighten you ladies, but I have good and terrible news!”
“Pray, tell us then,” Jocelyn said, more than a little irritated that Audrey had alarmed her so. “‘Pon my soul, I thought mayhap John White had appeared on the river bank—”
“I’m with child.”
Audrey stopped panting and patted her stomach while Jocelyn stared in surprise. “So you say! In truth?”
“Aye.” Audrey dimpled and took Regina’s hand as they continued their walk along the wide path to Ohanoak. “I didn’t know for sure, but it’s been two months since my last time of bleeding. Pauwau felt my stomach yesternoon and told me to expect a son in the winter.”
“A son?” Jocelyn gazed at Audrey in delight. “But how does Pauwau know?”
Audrey lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Who can say? But Master Bailie is absolutely beside himself with delight. And while I don’t know how William will handle the news—”
Jocelyn stopped and regarded her friend with a stern gaze. Mindful of Regina’s tender ears, she mouthed her next words: “Did William—”
Audrey gave her a quick, denying glance. “No! And he’ll not say so, either, for I have never given him more than a kiss, and not even that in the years Master Bailie and I have been married. ‘Tis Master Bailie’s child, in truth, and he knows it.”
“Good.” They walked in silence for a moment, then Jocelyn squeezed Audrey’s hand. “So if that’s the good news, what’s the terrible?”
“That’s me problem,” Audrey said, wringing her hands. “The news is both good and terrible. I never thought I’d have a child, so when Master Bailie dies and I’m finally free to marry William, what will I do? Proud as he is, William won’t want to raise another man’s son.”
Jocelyn patted the girl on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that now,” she said, smiling. “‘Tis time to think about your husband and your baby. The morrow will take care of itself.”
Several weeks later, William Clement and James Hynde lay face down on broad rocks overhanging a slow-running stream, their hands thrust into the cold water. A large trout moved only inches away from William’s hand, and though the frigid water had nearly numbed all sensation in his fingers, William kept his hand still and limp, like a mere extension of the sea grasses. The nosy trout moved closer and curiously nudged a finger. William held his breath, willing the animal to turn, and when the creature did, his fingers closed around the silver scales and he flipped the fish out of the water, struggling to keep it in his grasp as the fish flopped in a frantic hurry to escape.
“There’s five for me,” William said, rolling down his sleeve in a vain effort to restore warmth to his arm. “Mark me, James, you are too slow.”
“Not I,” James said, his arm floating freely beneath the surface of the water. “According to what I hear, you are the slow one.”
William turned at the sound of derision in James’ voice. “What do y’hear?”
James’ mouth tipped in a faint smile. “I hear that old Master Bailie’s gone and made himself a child. The fair Audrey will have his baby come winter.”
William felt his face burning. “E’gads, do ye believe everything you hear? ‘Tisn’t possible. Not only is the old goat past his prime, but Audrey would never—”
“Judge for your self, next time ye see her,” James answered, turning his face back to the water. “‘Tis as plain as the nose on your face. Either Master Bailie’s made himself a brat, or some other bloke—”
William gave his companion a killing look, and swallowed a hysterical surge of angry laughter. “‘Tis of no importance,” he said, again rolling up the sleeve of his jerkin.
He noisily thrust his hand into the water, and smiled in pleasure when James swore softly. “I cry ye mercy, Wills, I almost had one before ye splashed ‘im away.”
“If there is a brat,” William said, breathing deeply so he could relax long enough to catch a fish, “When old Bailie dies, I’ll send the kid to live with the savages. Or mayhap I’ll make him a servant, since Bailie’s made one of me all these years.”
His smile deepened as he thought of it.
“Ye wouldn’t do it,” James said, lowering his voice for the sake of a five-pound trout that nosed his way up the stream. “Oh, you are a fine one with the ladies, my friend William, but you’ve been talking for years about doing away with old Master Bailie while the man grows younger every day and makes a child to prove it! And yet ye talk, and fret, and fume, and do nothing—”
“Ye want me to do something?” William said, pulling his arm out of the water. He sat up and drew the back of his wet hand across his sweaty brow. “I’ll do something, or my name isn’t William Clement.” He crossed his legs and searched the woods as if for an idea. “It might be a hunting accident, a drowning, or the misfire of a musket,” he said softly, leaning back upon his elbows. “But mark my words, James, Master Bailie will never live to see the birth of his brat.”
Roger Bailie paused from his work in the fields to wipe his brow. The sun was uncommonly hot and the corn plants withered, and he knew he ought to be worried about drought. But since the weeks since Audrey’s incredible news, he hadn’t had the inclination to allow a single sorrowful thought to cross his mind.
Several of the other planters approached to ask his opinion about where to place the large kegs which would water the fields, and Roger answered them pleasantly, but breathed a sigh of relief when they moved on. Lately he had found himself torn between an hysterical urge to laugh and the desire to sit and thoughtfully prepare for the months and years ahead.
Strange that a man of sixty and six years would want to think about the future. Last winter they had buried Master Prat, who had lived to the ripe old age of sixty-and-two, and the Indians spoke of a hundred-year-old werowance who lived in the mountains. In his younger days Roger had thought he would be well satisfied to live sixty years, or mayhap sixty and five, but now he felt as if he could endure to be a hundred and still yearn for more life.
‘Twas Audrey that had brought him new life; the babe was only a symbol of his happiness. He had admired the girl’s spirit since the first time he had seen her aboard the Lion, and like a stern father he had witnessed her dangerous flirtations with William Clement. Ofttimes he had slipped into alcoves aboard the ship or hidden behind the houses of the village to watch the two of them together, and ‘twas only of necessity to save the girl from certain heartache that he had proposed the ridiculous marriage arrangement.
He had not really planned to love her—he wanted to keep her on a shelf, safe and protected from the ruffians of the world. But she had inched her way into his heart as surely as an ant finds the honey jar, and nothing in the world could compare to the way she made him feel when she snuggled on his shoulder.
And now she would bear him a son! True, he had little faith in the Indian woman’s prophecy and knew the child could be a daughter, but what harm lay in imagining that a new, young Roger Bailie would pick up the thread of life after he had been called to heaven?
William Clement finally decided upon his plan. For three weeks he had considered various options: a hunting accident was improbable because Master Bailie rarely hunted. Likewise, an accidental drowning would not be believed, for Master Bailie did not swim for pleasure and hated fishing. He spent his days overseeing the cornfields, and what harm could come to a man in a field of corn?
But harm could lie in other, more innocent pastimes, and after careful consideration William Clement decided to poison Roger Bailie.
One night he visited the hut of Pauwau, the old Indian priestess, and asked for an herb that could make a man sleep. She regarded him impassively with the unblinking black eyes of a shark, then her gnarled finger drew in the sand. “The red fruit of this tree will make a man sleep forever,” she said, drawing the likeness of a tree with needle-covered branches, “but the wood bark, leaves, and seeds will make a man sleep deeply for the space of a night. A woman
who drinks of the juice from the berries will lose an unborn child.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked up from the ground. “How long do you want to sleep, William Clement?”
He gave her an impenitent grin. “Not long, old woman,” he said, rising . “Not long at all.”
As he walked home that night, William congratulated himself. He would find that tree and brew two cups of tea, one for Audrey and one for his master, and rid himself of both complications in one evening.
“A fine meal, my wife,” Master Bailie said, placing his hand over Audrey’s. Audrey felt herself blushing, but she didn’t pull away. Her blooming belly and her husband’s open affection had been growing in sync with each other, and she did not know how to discourage Master Bailie without hurting his feelings.
“I am happy you liked it,” she said, pushing her chair away from the board. She removed their plates and stacked them on the ground, then attempted to turn the heavy board against the wall. Her husband leapt up to help her, and when the board had been eased out of the way, she timidly smiled her thanks.
“You are looking very well,” Master Bailie said, taking a seat on the bench near the fire. Audrey looked down. She wore one of her old bodices, newly dyed bright blue in an Indian dye pot and refitted to cover her expanding shape, and a wrap skirt of the softest suede. Her dainty ankles peeped forth at the bottom of the garment, and she caught her husband peeking at the bit of leg that showed between the edge of her skirt and the top of her moccasins. Let the minister rave about the evils of Indian clothing, she thought, watching her husband light the pipe he had been given by one of the men. I find savage garments quite comfortable.
