by Angela Hunt
Later that night, Jocelyn drew her shawl about her shoulders and stepped into the vast and endless plain of evening. Lights burned in several houses, and from her doorway she could see the quick, restless movements of the men Rowtag had stationed as sentries along the palisade. From one house she heard the sound of frightened weeping, from another, insistent prayer. But in her own house, all was silent.
Thomas slept as easily as did Gilda, his face as innocent and fresh as the child’s. After a time of heartfelt prayer, he had rested in Jocelyn’s arms and fallen asleep as though he had not a worry in the world.
But Jocelyn walked through the darkness and thought about the morrow. She could face death if she had to, for the foremost struggle of her life had ended days ago. At last, she and Thomas were one. And whether they shared another month or another lifetime, she knew nothing would separate them again.
But the children deserved a chance to live. Pacing in the moonlight, Jocelyn prayed for inspiration, then a voice from her past spoke again: I will give you strength when the time comes.
“The time has come,” she cried, lifting her eyes to the dark heavens. “What can I do, Father God?”
A silence, thick as wool, wrapped itself around her, then a memory ruffled through her mind like wind on water: Gilda at the river’s edge, muddy and streaked with grime because she and the boys had slipped from the village through a hole under the palisade wall—
Jocelyn hurried to Audrey’s house.
“It may be the only way,” Jocelyn said, leaning toward Audrey and Rowtag in her eagerness. “Let us send the boys and Gilda to the river. They can take a canoe, and they’re so small they can lie in the bottom, mayhap covered by a canvas or a mat, and drift downstream. When this battle is done, we will seek them among the Indians further south—”
Rowtag put his hand upon Fallon’s head. “This boy is wise already. He will know how to survive in the woods.”
“But Papa—” Fallon protested.
“Listen to your papa,” Audrey said, her voice sharper than Jocelyn had ever heard it. “Ye will take Noshi and Gilda, and hide in the canoe like Jocelyn has said. Ye will not make a sound or lift your head until the canoe is far, far away.”
She reached for the hands of her first-born son. “Fallon, everything will depend upon ye, but God will go with ye. And when this is over, we will find ye, of that ye can be certain. Ye will not be alone.”
The boy’s eyes flickered to Jocelyn. “God holds me in the palm of his hand?” he asked, his voice quavering.
“He does.” Rowtag stepped forward. Placing his broad hand again on the boy’s copper-colored hair, he managed a sober smile. “And today you have become a man, my son.”
“There is one other thing I must ask of you,” Jocelyn said, pressing her hand against her forehead as her lips reluctantly formed her request. “Gilda is the granddaughter of Powhatan, and daughter of Kitchi, his son. You must tattoo her with whatever emblems are necessary, Rowtag, so that if something happens, all the savages will know who she is—”
Rowtag paused. “You are certain of this?”
“Yes,” Jocelyn whispered. “But it must be done quickly.”
Audrey pulled Fallon to her and glanced for a moment at Noshi, who slept on a fur by the fire. “When must they go?” she whispered.
“The morning will be too late,” Jocelyn ventured.
“They must go now,” Rowtag said, stepping toward Noshi. He lifted the boy, fur blanket and all, into his arms and his steel-gray eyes gentled at the sight of the child in his arms. “It is well you are named Noshi, for you will be the father of many. Go in peace, my son, and God go with you.”
Noshi stirred and rubbed his eyes, and Jocelyn stood from her stool. “I’ll bring Gilda,” she said, stepping again into the darkness.
She woke Thomas, explained the plan, and together they dressed Gilda in a warm suede dress. Jocelyn paused when she saw her ring, still looped through the string of catgut, at the bottom of Gilda’s trunk, then she resolutely slipped it over the sleepy girl’s head. “Rowtag will tattoo you with many colors to mark you as the daughter of a great Indian chief,” she whispered to her beloved child. “But this ring will mark you as mine.”
“What, Mama?” Gilda asked, rubbing her eyes.
“You are going on an adventure trip with Fallon and Noshi,” she explained, kneeling so that she could look directly into Gilda’s startled blue eyes. “Remember how you crept through the hole under the wall of the palisade? You will do it tonight, too. Fallon and Noshi are waiting for you now.”
Gilda did not seem surprised and trustingly took Jocelyn’s hand as they started from the house. And though he had never before demonstrated any affection for her, she thrust her chubby hand toward Thomas. After taking it, the three of them moved silently through the velvet darkness to Rowtag’s house.
Audrey, Rowtag, and the two boys were waiting. Rowtag’s needle and dyes were waiting on the table in the kitchen, and Jocelyn marveled that Gilda did not protest as Rowtag deftly applied the needle and marked her as a daughter of Powhatan’s tribe.
When all was done, Fallon led the way through the village to the opening under the palisade. ‘Twas a tiny hole, much too small for an adult, but perfect for the children.
“Shall we not enlarge it so that others may escape as well?” Thomas whispered.
Rowtag shook his head. “One canoe may slip away unnoticed, but two would draw attention from Powhatan’s braves. To send others would mean certain death for all who ventured out.”
Jocelyn took Thomas’ hand, afraid for a moment that he would argue with Rowtag, but he only bent to kiss the top of Gilda’s dark head. “Go with God, little one,” he said, his voice breaking as he ran his finger lightly down the length of her nose.
Jocelyn fell to her knees and pressed the child’s body into hers, breathing deeply to absorb the scent of the little girl. She ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, held her face between her hands, and embraced her one last time. “Always remember the ring,” she whispered into Gilda’s ear. “And know that I love you. And God will go with you always.”
“I will remember,” Gilda promised, her expression solemn.
Audrey and Rowtag drew their boys to them one last time, then the four adults stood without speaking while Fallon slipped through the hole. Noshi followed, his brow furrowed, and Gilda paused at the wall and flashed Jocelyn a bright smile. “I’ll see you again, Mama,” she called, stepping into the hole. She giggled. “Fallon’s got my feet.”
“Go with him, darling,” Jocelyn called, and Gilda clenched and unclenched her hand in a childish wave, then slipped from sight.
Rowtag pressed his ear to the wall of the palisade. “They are running toward the canoes,” he said, his voice low. “They will be all right.”
Jocelyn and Audrey embraced, then both couples turned toward their homes to wait for the attack that would come in the morning.
“Will we find the children again?” Jocelyn asked as she walked beside Thomas. Her voice trembled in the darkness. “Will we know them . . . when we see them again?”
“Of course we will know them,” Thomas answered, slipping his arm about her waist. “We will know everyone in that place. And when we arrive, I beg you to set aside a bit of eternity for me.”
“Why?” she asked, looking up at him.
Bending down, he lightly pressed his lips to hers. “I want to get to know you all over again.”
SIXTY
Running across the dark sand of the riverbank, Gilda felt the ring thump rhythmically against her chest. ‘Twas a strange game for the middle of the night, but the wind playfully caught her hair and tiny glimmers of moonlight upon the river blinked at her like a thousand friendly eyes.
Fallon had already slid a canoe into the water when she caught up with the boys, and she clambered into the boat and lay flat on the floor as Fallon instructed. Noshi climbed in beside her, pressing his slender frame against hers, and Fallon climbed in
beside Noshi, drawing a grass mat over them.
Gilda could feel the current tug at the boat, and after a few moments of resistance, the current soundlessly pulled the canoe into the river. Gilda dared to whisper: “Why are we covered with the mat?” and Fallon whispered back: “We are playing a hiding game. No one must know where we are.”
After a long time of being very still, Gilda yawned and closed her eyes as the gentle river current rocked the children and gurgled a soothing lullaby.
. . . at Ritanoe the werowance Eyanoco preserved seven of the English alive, four men, two boys and one young maid, who escaped and fled up the river of Choanoke . . .
—From a 1610 report from a friendly Indian to William Strachey
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Much has been written about the lost colonists of 1587, and I am indebted to the work of David Beers Quinn, perhaps the definitive authority on the Roanoke voyages; David Stick; William S. Powell; Karen Ordahl Kupperman; and of course, the journals of John White himself. I owe a special thanks to the helpful present-day inhabitants of Roanoke Island, who have done their best to ensure that the lost colonists will never be forgotten.
My readers often want to know how much of a book is fiction and how much is fact. Be assured that I have tried my best not to contradict the extensive historical record. And while no one knows exactly what happened to the lost colonists of Roanoke—at one time or another, their disappearance has been attributed to such unlikely culprits as tidal waves, sea monsters, and plagues—there is strong anecdotal and historical evidence to support the premise and conclusion of the story as presented in these pages.
The people of this book are a very real part of American history. John White’s trials at sea were documented in his journals, and the exploits of Ralph Lane’s soldiers have been preserved for us through other publications and letters.
From White’s list of colonists we know the names of the people who set out for Roanoke, but names do not tell us as much as we’d like to know, and I have had to invent characters and qualities to enlarge upon the slight historical evidence we can glean about these individuals. We do know that they were devout and courageous people. We know they were determined to take the Gospel of Christ to an unexplored land. And we know that they were willing to pledge their lives in an uncertain and risky venture.
All in all, they were people well prepared to make their homes in a wild, untamed world.
OTHER BOOKS BY ANGELA HUNT
Roanoke (Keepers of the Ring, book 1)
Jamestown (Keepers of the Ring, book 2)
Hartford (Keepers of the Ring, book 3)
Rehoboth (Keepers of the Ring, book 4)
Charles Towne (Keepers of the ring, book 5)
Magdalene
The Novelist
Uncharted
The Awakening
The Debt
The Elevator
The Face
Let Darkness Come
Unspoken
The Justice
The Note
The Immortal
The Truth Teller
The Silver Sword
The Golden Cross
The Velvet Shadow
The Emerald Isle
Dreamers
Brothers
Journey
Doesn’t She Look Natural?
She Always Wore Red
She’s In a Better Place
Five Miles South of Peculiar
The Fine Art of Insincerity
The Offering
Web page: www.angelahuntbooks.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christy-Award winner Angela Hunt writes for readers who expect the unexpected in novels. With nearly five million copies of her books sold worldwide, she is the best-selling author of more than 125 works ranging from picture books (The Tale of Three Trees) to novels.
Now that her two children have reached their twenties, Angela and her husband live in Florida with Very Big Dogs (a direct result of watching Turner and Hooch and Sandlot too many times). This affinity for mastiffs has not been without its rewards—one of their dogs was featured on Live with Regis and Kelly as the second-largest canine in America. Their dog received this dubious honor after an all-expenses-paid trip to Manhattan for the dog and the Hunts, complete with VIP air travel and a stretch limo in which they toured New York City.
Afterward, the dog gave out pawtographs at the airport.
Angela admits to being fascinated by animals, medicine, unexplained phenomena, and “just about everything” except sports. Books, she says, have always shaped her life— in the fifth grade she learned how to flirt from reading Gone with the Wind.
When she’s not home writing, Angela often travels to teach writing workshops at schools and writers’ conferences. And to talk about her dogs, of course.
Readers may visit her web site at www.angelahuntbooks.com.
Table of Contents
Copyright
One
Two
Three
four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
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Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
forty
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forty-two
forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine‘
fifty
fifty-one
Fifty-two
fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
sixty
Author’s Note
Other Books by Angela HuntRoanoke
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
