by Paul Clayton
Others sat down around them, merrily recounting the boat ride. Ananias and Sir George approached.
Maggie watched as Ananias knelt down beside his Eleanor and took her hand. “Are you tired, Goodwife?”
Eleanor smiled bravely. “Nay, husband. The baby so enjoyed the ride, I fear a sailor he may someday be.”
Maggie laughed heartily with the others.
“Well,” said Ananias, “rest you now. I am going off with the others to talk to the Governor at the fort. I shall return presently.”
As Maggie watched him walk off, the bright sunshine and happy chatter of the others filled her with hope. This New World would mean a new life for her, thank God!
Thomas pulled the rusty sword he had been given as he followed Governor White, Captain Stafford and the soldiers into the cottage. The cool air was quiet and heavy with menace. With the men who had been left to guard this place, obviously dead or gone, the soldiers were anxious and angry and ready for revenge. Thomas knew that any savage captured here would rue the day he was born.
The soldiers made no noise as they went into the next chamber of the cottage. Thomas followed closely behind. He was sorry Maggie had been forced to remain on the ship. He would have liked her to see him thus -- armed, and in the company of soldiers. The room was overgrown like the one they had just come from, and to Thomas’s relief, empty of humankind. But at the far wall, they spied a large stag, temporarily frozen into immobility. It slowly raised its head. Beside it, a half-eaten gourd swung slightly to and fro from its vine, still showing the creature’s teeth marks. Its large black eyes glistened with fear as it tensed to flee. Before any of the men could cry out, it leapt in Thomas’s direction, intent on its only escape route, the doorway through which they had just come. Thomas’s heart seemed to stop as the soldiers fired their muskets. The force of the lead balls stopped the stag’s advance and flipped it over backward in midair, throwing it against the far wall where it lay still. A cloud of acrid black smoke filled the room, rising to the high ceiling. Thomas’s ears stung from the echoing thunder of the muskets.
Captain Stafford winked at Thomas as he said, “Virginia be a wonderful place, men. For ye can go hunting in yer own parlor!”
Thomas and the soldiers laughed between their bouts of coughing.
Governor White bent over with a fit of coughing. His relief at meeting no resistance from the savages had turned to surprise at the sight of the stag, then mute shock at the thunder of the muskets. He straightened up as the air began to clear. “Well,” he said, “we shall all have fresh meat.”
Stafford coughed, nodding in agreement. He grabbed one of the beast’s legs, dragging it back toward the door.
Ananias Dare and George Howe rushed into the cottage with drawn swords.
“We heard shots,” said Sir George.
White shook his head in amazement as he looked at his son-in-law and George Howe. “What in God’s name are you two doing here? I gave orders that no one was to be landed!”
Sir George and Ananias exchanged questioning looks. Sir George spoke. “Master Fernandes claimed that you sent word that the colonists were to be landed for a rest. They are disembarking from the boats at this very moment.”
White’s face flushed blood red. “No such order ever left my lips!” Instinctively he looked around for Captain Stafford, wondering what role he might have had in all of this. But the captain was gone.
White turned back to Sir George. “How many have landed?”
“Just about everyone, sir. They will be coming up to the fort presently.”
White shook his head. “Come. I know not what base treachery Fernandes is up to, but I shall find out.”
White stormed out of the cottage and the others followed him. They walked quickly down to the beach where groups of colonists sat in the sand. One empty longboat was pulled up on the beach and another, full of soldiers, had cleared the channel and was making its way across the sound toward them. White walked over to the beached boat. Two sailors sat in the shade it cast.
“Who gave the order to land my people?” White demanded.
“Master Fernandes, m’Lord,” said one of the sailors as he stood and brushed the damp sand off the seat of his breeches. The other man remained sitting.
Sir George, Ananias, and Sir Robert came up to stand beside White. “‘Tis just as I thought,” White said to them.
Sir George pointed to the ships lying at anchor in the distance. “One of the sailors told me that Fernandes spied a sail headed north. They say ‘tis a Spaniard and that he will give chase in the Lion and the Comet.”
“In hell, they will,” said White. He looked down at the sailor still sitting in the sand. “Get on your feet.” He turned to the other. “Take us out to the Lion.”
The sailors moved slowly, their faces sullen. After they had pulled the shallop into the surf, White and the other gentlemen, climbed aboard. No one spoke as the sailors rowed the shallop back out through the rough surf. They hoisted the little sail and soon they drew near the Lion. The metallic clacking of the capstan could be heard as the ship’s anchor was raised.
White stood. “Get us closer.”
The sailors brought down the sail and put their oars into the sea. When the shallop drew alongside the Lion, the noise of the capstan stopped and Master Fernandes’ familiar figure appeared at the rail. A few moments later about two dozen sailors joined him. Fernandes scratched himself beneath his codpiece.
“What a grotesquerie that is,” said Sir Robert.
“Aye,” said White.
“I have heard he keeps his dinner in there,” said Sir George.
Sir Robert laughed softly.
“Governor White,” Fernandes called down, “what can I do for you?”
White steadied himself in the rocking boat, looking up at the tall ship. “You can obey the orders you were given by Sir Walter Raleigh and send the boats back in to pick up my people.”
“I am not contravening my orders from Sir Walter, Senor.”
White could not contain his anger. “Damn it, man. You were to take us to Chesapeake! That was the agreement. Now give the order.”
“You will get to Chesapeake in good time, Senor. Now your people need a rest.”
“How dare you tell me what my people need!” shouted White.
Fernandes turned and signaled. The clatter of the capstan began again. He shouted down at White. “Senor, the summer is getting on and the season of storms approaches. My crew has voted on this. They want to catch a prize now while the time is right.”
“You put our fate to a vote,” White shouted incredulously, “by the likes of them?”
Fernandes said nothing. The anchor broached the water and rose up, mud and algae sloughing off. One of Fernandes’ crew members unbuttoned his breeches and pissed over the side. Fernandes turned round to the men behind him. His voice drifted down. “Do you men want to take them to Chesapeake now and look for prizes later?”
The men laughed derisively.
“These are the fellows who are going to see to it that our precious supplies from England reach us?” said Sir Robert.
“That is the plan,” said Sir George quietly.
“God help us,” said Ananias.
White said nothing, continuing to look up angrily at Fernandes.
Fernandes turned back around and pointed to the Hound. “They will continue unloading your supplies. Then they too will be off to see what they can catch. After we have captured our share of prizes we shall return to discuss moving you and your people to Chesapeake.”
Fernandes disappeared from the rail, followed by the sailors. The calls of the sailors could be heard as they readied the sails and rigging.
“That base fellow,” said White. “I shall see him hang. I swear it!”
The men were silent as they watched the ship turn slowly to sea. White sat.
“What will we do now?” said Ananias.
“For now,” said White, “we will put the families
inside the fort in the big house since ‘tis safer. The men can sleep in tents until we get some cottages built within the walls.” White turned to the helmsman. “Take us back.”
Chapter 10
Ireland
The oarsmen pulled powerfully as Benjamin Spencer sat in the wherry with his back to the ship that had brought him to Dublin. Spencer stared at the great stone houses in the hills of that city, wondering which of them was the Coyle estate where his brother was. His brother was dead. The news had saddened him when it came, despite the fact that he had expected it. But how did his brother die? And why in the world had he gone all the way over to Ireland? Spencer felt for the letter under his doublet that had informed him that his brother’s body was here. John Spencer had been identified by his name engraved into a carving knife tied to his belt. He wondered where they had buried him and if his grave had been properly cared for.
A flock of seagulls shrieked as they followed the wherry, hoping for a meal of fish guts. Spencer watched their effortless flight and thought about his hunt for his brother’s killers. When the trail had ended at the Southwark alehouse with the wrong woman collared, he had had to abandon it there. But the thought of the killers walking about freely had preyed so heavily and constantly on his mind that he had paid the innkeeper at Honnin a second visit. The innkeeper was nonplused and stuck to his story, but the stable boy’s nervousness and surprise was apparent the moment he confronted him. After a short while alone with the boy in the barn he had found out what had happened. They were there that day! Hiding in the barn under the hay. The boy had falsely steered him back to London, allowing the girl and her gang ample time to get away. They had gone to Plymouth, and from there to the New World.
So why in Hades had his brother come all the way here to Dublin when the girl, a beauty by all reports, had run off to Raleigh’s Virginia colony? Spencer stared at his feet sadly. Perhaps if he had been more clever he could have saved John. Perhaps John had even been at the Honnin Inn the very day and hour he had been there. If so, they must have had him bound and hidden away.
The wherry bumped into the stone quay and one of the oarsmen rose to help Spencer to his feet. Spencer felt old and weary as he stood in the rocking boat. He allowed the man to take his arm and help him onto the stone steps. At least he would soon know the fate of his poor brother. Then he could concentrate on the next phase of his task, finding the girl and her accomplices and bringing them to justice.
Spencer saw a heavy, black-painted coach at the end of the quay and walked toward it. The driver spotted him and quickly climbed down, hurrying over to take his bag. “Yeh must be Benjamin Spencer.”
Spencer nodded gravely and the man opened the wooden door to the coach and helped him in. Spencer sat pensively during the ride. He paid scant attention to the shops and houses, but leaned out the window to stare at a cemetery they passed. Soon he stood at the door of a great stone house. A maid servant opened it and Spencer followed her into the parlor. The lady of the house, a Madam Byrd, rose from her chair before the fireplace and came over to him.
Spencer bowed slightly in greeting.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” she said.
Spencer nodded grimly. “How did my brother die, m’lady?”
Madam Byrd seemed to flinch. “Come,” she said. “We must go downstairs.”
Before Spencer could reply, she led him and the coachman down a winding staircase. At the end of a long corridor, she paused before a heavy, barred door.
“How did he die, m’lady?” Spencer asked again.
Madam Byrd looked at him sadly. “I know not, sir.”
“Do you know why he came here?”
“He did not come here,” said Madam Byrd somberly.
“My God,” said Spencer, unable to control his frustration. “Yeh know not how he died. Yeh say he did not come here. I do not understand yeh!”
Madam Byrd’s eyes were red-rimmed. She turned away from Spencer to the coachman. “Take him inside. I will await upstairs.”
The coachman unlocked the door with a rattle of his keys and he and Spencer entered a vast, dank room. Dozens of barrels lined the walls and a large tun cask, a head taller than Spencer, sat in the middle of the room. A platform of steps had been built alongside. They approached it, the clap of their boot heels echoing off the stone walls. The coachman climbed up and knelt at the top, waiting for Spencer to join him. Spencer climbed the steps. The coachman grabbed a rope affixed to the side of the cask. He hauled it up, hand over hand. A shape appeared and the coachman stuck his arm in the dark red wine up to his shoulder. He pulled up John Spencer by the hair. Benjamin Spencer cried out in shock, tears coming to his eyes. His brother was wild-eyed in death. His throat had been cut deeply and there were many raw cuts on his head and face. The coachman released the body and it drifted away.
Spencer turned away, his anger and grief so great it threatened to burst him. He shouted at the coachman, “God in heaven, man, why haven’t you taken him out of there?”
The little man looked hurt, his anger held in check by his low station. “Sorry, m’Lord. The surgeon said that to do so would make it necessary to bury him before you could get here.”
Spencer continued to stare into the man’s eyes. “Well, send for him now, damn it! And have him ready my brother for a decent burial.”
“He’s already been sent for, m’Lord.”
Spencer stared blankly at his feet, grief and shock taking his voice away. The coachman took this opportunity to make his way around him and back down the steps.
Spencer looked back at the tun cask. A tuft of his brother’s hair broke the dark red surface of the wine. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “God in Heaven,” he said quietly. “Who found him?”
The coachman’s voice grew animated. “The taste was off, m’Lord. M’lady knows her claret, and she knew something wasn’t right.”
“Huh?” said Spencer, turning. His grief had numbed his brain and he felt in a fog.
“One night she had me me take her here and open it up. I almost dropped my torch when I saw him. Scared both m’lady and myself half to death, it did.”
Spencer started down the stairs.
“M’lady hasn’t slept well since, m’Lord,” went on the coachman. “She’s sworn off all spirits now, poor thing. She used to like her sip after a meal, you know.”
Spencer held up his hand. “Enough, man. Enough. Show me to my room and then I’ll make the arrangements with the parson.”
“Very well, m’Lord.”
Later, Spencer climbed into the carriage for the ride to the rectory. As the carriage took a broad curve in the road, he saw the little three-masted ship that had brought him here anchored in the harbor. He felt cold and heavy, almost dead. But a tiny fire had begun to burn within him. He would see to the funeral and burial within two days. Then he would return on the merchantman to Plymouth. That stupid pair, the apprentice and the girl! Didn’t they know that Raleigh and his investors had put a great deal of money into their Virginia plantation venture. There would be ships coming and going on a regular basis. Did they really believe they could hide themselves away there? Spencer felt his pulse rising, his breath coming fast. They would pay for this. One day he would set foot in the New World and collar this plowboy and his red-haired whore and drag them to the ship himself. Spencer’s right hand clenched reflexively. He could see fear and pain blossoming on the pretty little face that he already imagined. The rabble would have a treat that day. Instead of the usual batch of pox-riddled rogues and wizened, dirty old hags, they’d get a strapping young plowboy, his bowel’s final issue bulging out his breeches, and a pretty Irish harlot choking on her tongue. No matter how long it took, it would be worth the wait!
Virginia
Wanchese’s wide face was dark with fierce determination as he led his ten warriors at a trot toward their village. Although he was only twenty Returns-Of-The-Leafs, he was very powerful and feared by every man in the village with the except
ion of Powhatan and his kweeyusuk, Kiskiak. Wanchese’s column passed through one of Powhatan’s fields in which women sang as they watered tall corn plants and the bean vines that wrapped around them. Despite their fatigue, the warriors straightened up as they ran past shade trees under which people rested and talked quietly. As the column of braves wound between the rectangular, half-barrel-roofed longhouses situated here and there among the trees, they seemed to grow even taller and more fierce-looking. Most of the longhouses had their woven-reed mat fronts rolled up to admit more air now that early summer had arrived. In the dim recesses, people sat on their sleeping shelves which were built into the wall of the structure and watched the column of powerful young men with interest.
Only when Wanchese came in sight of Powhatan’s longhouse did he slow to a walk. His men fell in step behind him. Powhatan’s Longhouse was two times as wide as all the others, and three times as long. A small crowd was gathered in the bright sunlight outside for the redistribution. Held every third moon, this was when Powhatan received the tribute he exacted from the villages under his dominion. A portion of the tribute was “given” back to the subject, hence the name. Tribute consisted of luxury goods such as pearls and copper, shell beads, and when the Coat-Wearing People were nearby, iron axes and glass beads. Powhatan had established a monopoly on all copper and it could only be distributed through him. The people of the Tidewater were fond of this metal for the gorgets worn around the neck and also for necklaces and bracelets. Powhatan used this metal to reward his most fierce braves and also to pay for extra warriors when needed in battle. The Redistribution usually lasted all day and was not to be interrupted. But Wanchese knew that the Mamanatowick, or great king, Powhatan would want to know what he had to tell him.
Wanchese pushed through the crowd and entered the longhouse. He slowly made his way through the many chambers and apartments of the fifty-yard longhouse, past visiting leaders from all the villages in Powhatan’s domain, standing in groups beside their baskets of tribute. Upon reaching the reception area of Powhatan’s chamber, Wanchese found it empty except for one of Powhatan’s older wives. Wanchese asked her to announce him. The woman wordlessly entered the great chief’s chamber and returned a moment later. She bowed and gestured for Wanchese to enter.
