White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke

by Paul Clayton

  A convulsive ripple ran through White’s bowels, doubling him over in pain. He groaned as it subsided, then drifted back down into welcome oblivion. He tried to swallow and could not, his tongue having swelled to the size of his fist. His lips were dried and cracked, like two pieces of wood. Footsteps sounded. Was he dreaming? Nay. Solid, healthy footsteps thumped somewhere above. White followed the sound up, like a drowning man swimming for the surface.

  He listened. There it was -- someone capable of brisk, purposeful walking -- up on the decks! White forced himself to a sitting position. Several more pairs of footsteps joined the first and he thought he heard a voice. He looked over at his neighbor, Franz. Franz had been the last to come belowdecks and take to his bunk before White had lost consciousness. In a small square of dim light that filtered down from above White saw Franz move his head feebly under the blanket that covered him.

  “Franz,” he called weakly.

  The other man made no response.

  A voice hailed from above. “Haloo.”

  “Franz ...” White’s throat was constricted and he could hardly raise a whisper. “Wake up. We are saved!”

  White forced himself to his feet, dizziness washing over him. He went to Franz’s bunk and pulled the blanket back. The rat that had been gnawing on Franz’s face squeaked in fright and jumped to the deck. White grabbed a boot and threw it at the creature as it scurried away. Looking back at Franz, White recoiled from the nose-less horror that he’d become. He staggered to the stairs. Someone was coming down. The man grabbed him and helped pull him topside. Cool damp air enveloped White and he coughed weakly. He shielded his eyes from the bright light as they lowered him to the deck. Someone held something to his lips -- a cloth dipped in a cool, tangy liquid. White chewed the cloth, feeling his teeth move in their sockets. He sucked up the liquid hungrily like a babe, recognizing the fruity taste of beer. Nearby, men he didn’t know were ministering to four flyboat sailors that were still alive. White asked the men weakly where they were.

  The man had a singsong Irish accent. “Smerwick, County Kerry. They’re puttin’ up sail now and we’ll soon be in port.”

  White spent the night in an alehouse at the wharf. He slept for two days, going in and out of fever. On the third day they informed him that two more sailors had died, leaving only himself, Captain Spicer, William the bo’son and two others alive. On the fourth day White had himself carried down the wharf and put aboard a little wherry. After a few minutes of brisk rowing, he was being helped aboard an English merchantman bound for Southampton. They carried him below for the voyage. By the time the ship docked at Hampton, his health had returned somewhat. There he was informed that Fernandes and the Lion had fared just slightly better than he and the others had on the Hound. Discovered drifting in the channel, the Lion had been towed into Portsmouth three weeks earlier. By the time the little merchantman arrived at Southampton, White was able to walk off the ship unaided.

  November 20, 1587. Virginia

  A light snow fell between the tall pines as Towaye waited in front of the House of the Dead with the braves. The day before, he and others had watched from their hiding place as the English unloaded their shallop, carrying many baskets of corn up the beach to their fort. After Wanchese had tricked the English into attacking the Croatoans at the abandoned village of Roanoke, he had assured Powhatan that the Croatoans would have nothing further to do with the English. But the Croatoans were still feeding the English, despite losing two of their people to English muskets at Dasamankpeuc! Now it was doubtful the English would ever trade muskets to Powhatan for corn, for they would never be hungry enough.

  A spasm of dizziness shook Towaye as they were called to enter the House of the Dead. He staggered forward, but managed to keep his feet. Together with the other braves he had purged and danced all day, purifying himself in readiness. Now he was weak and dizzy. He was also very proud, for he was the only common brave among the ten cronoccoes, or war braves, that had been chosen to sit with Powhatan. Cronoccoes served as consultants to Powhatan. They participated in his feasts and were often awarded his castoff wives. This day they would, along with the kweeyusuk, Kiskiak, pray to the god, Okeus.

  Towaye felt awe as he looked up at the high-ceilinged temple. The interior was sparse and clean; the reed mat-covered floor was bereft of the usual assortment of pots, baskets and tools that cluttered ordinary dwellings. Towaye noted that Wanchese and the other cronoccoes were also in awe of their surroundings, for this was also Okeus’s sanctum. Okeus was a powerful, frightening god who struck down with sickness or lameness, and sometimes death, any who failed to show him proper respect. As they filed toward the front of the building, Towaye recalled the crippled woman his mother had pointed out to him as a child. The foolish woman had neglected to make an offering to Okeus when she came upon him in the forests. The next day she was stricken with a fever and lost the use of her legs.

  Towaye sat on a woven mat next to Wanchese. Powhatan sat just before them, facing the eastern wall of the longhouse. The sacred fire burned a short distance away. Beyond that, Okeus’s sanctum, veiled off with a mat of woven reeds, took up the rest of the longhouse. On a bier over top of the sanctum, the bodies of the most noble ancestors reposed. Tonight Kiskiak would implore Okeus for guidance for the Mamanatowick, Powhatan, in his dealings with the English.

  After a period of waiting, Kiskiak entered, followed by four of his acolytes. As the old kweeyusuk began the ceremony, Towaye watched with fascination and some fear. But also, deep down inside him, there was a tiny spark of suspicion. This spark had been struck by the English parsons who had told him over and over that his people’s stories of forest gods and demons were false. They had said that the English God was the only true god. Towaye had seen evidence of the English God’s power, but he resented what they said about his own gods. Now he would get to see the power of his people’s gods himself, for Kiskiak had great power and could summon them. Everyone attested to that.

  Kiskiak cast expressions of humility and reverence in the direction of Okeus. He then threw tobacco, red birch bark and other herbs into the sacred fire, filling the air with fragrant smoke. Kiskiak bowed in the direction of Okeus’s sanctum, then took a sack full of sacred corn meal and slowly and solemnly made a large circle around the participants and observers. After that he began singing sacred songs, his verses echoed by the other kweeyusuks. The wailing tones of the kweeyusuks washed over Towaye and the other braves, but they knew not what the kweeyusuks were singing, for the songs were all in the ancient language which only kweeyusuks knew. Towaye’s head hung lower and lower as the chorus of voices rose and fell and the air became thick with smoke. The singing went on for a long, long time and Towaye knew not whether it was one day or one moon. He heard pain and joy and everything in between expressed in the shrill voices. Round and round went the wheel of pain and joy as the voices carried Towaye along. Fear and euphoria washed over him in waves, dizziness spun him round. Suddenly the earth seemed to drop out from beneath him and he opened his eyes. He floated in a black void, looking down upon a sea of stars! A lone, pleading voice rent the darkness.

  Fear paralyzed Towaye. A hideous face appeared behind the veil of reeds on the other side of the abyss. Skin as black as night, a haughty slit of a mouth and terrible eyes that shone like stars. It was the god, Okeus, and he was staring straight at Towaye! Towaye’s heart pounded in his chest but he dared not look away. Okeus put a pipe to his lips. The tip glowed an angry red. Okeus withdrew the pipe and expelled a stream of smoke. Then, slowly he raised his hand to signal concurrence. Sweat poured down Towaye’s head, burning into his eyes. He blinked to clear them. And Okeus was gone!

  Suddenly only Kiskiak was visible, standing before a brightly-burning torch. Okeus’s sanctum was dark and nothing was visible behind the veil of reeds. Kiskiak bowed slightly and addressed himself to Powhatan. “The god Okeus commends Powhatan for his wisdom. If Powhatan continues his course with the English, they will give him the m
uskets he desires. It is good.”

  ***

  Despite Sir Robert Harvey’s exhaustion he could not sleep. The cold gray light of dawn filtered in through the many chinks in the walls as he lay in his bed in the loft, shivering uncontrollably. His wife, Margary, and son, John, lay on the next bed, both sick with ague and flux. Despite Robert’s concern for them he had not the strength to go to them. He turned his head weakly and saw his man, Lionel, at the table below. Lionel held a cup of tea in his hands as he stared into the fire which blazed merrily. Robert knew the fire’s heat would rise, but he felt none of it. Instead, he felt as if he were lying naked out in the snow.

  A fierce shaking consumed Robert, then passed. He lay spent. He heard something. The sound enveloped him and started his soul to spinning like a wheel. The sound grew in volume, intriguing him with its power. Puzzled, he strained his ears as he tried to decipher it, finally recognizing it as the tramp of booted feet. Closer and closer it came and he was suddenly jarred by a harsh voice, cursing and braying out orders. Robert realized ‘twas Captain Stafford exercising his troops out in the weather. In Sir Robert’s present state of weakness, the thought amazed him. Here he lay, weak as a new-born babe, whilst outside, the captain and the other men he’d always considered his lessers, marched about in the snow beating a rhythm into the very earth! But worse than that was the voice. Captain Stafford’s barking, braying voice added anger and power. The stable master’s boy was thriving in this cursed place, whilst Robert was withering away to nothing!

  The realization astounded and inflamed Robert and he felt something begin moving through him. Drawing upon his last bit of strength, he called out to Lionel as the spasm shook him. Then he collapsed back into unconsciousness.

  Later, strong hands pulled him to a sitting position. Robert opened his eyes.

  Lionel looked down at him. “You called, m’Lord.”

  For a moment Robert knew not what Lionel meant. Then the memory of Stafford’s brash, vigorous voice came back to him. Damned if he was going to die in bed a helpless old man! He felt a jab of pain as his insides twisted into knots. “Take me to the necessary house,” he said in a whisper.

  With a nod, Lionel helped him to the door of the cottage and they went out into the iron-cold air and dim light. Wind-driven snow clung to Sir Robert’s face by the time they reached the small cottage that served as the repository for the colony’s effluvium.

  Robert was so weakened that he needed Lionel’s help to sit and relieve himself. Afterward he felt even more decrepit and feeble but he refused to go back to his bed. Robert sat at the table, shivering violently as Lionel put another log on the fire. Robert looked up at his wife and son and sadness and fear filled him at their plight. Shame overcame him suddenly, paling his pain and fear. He was not protecting and caring for them, his own family! If not for Lionel they would have died in their beds. He attempted to get to his feet to go see to them and he passed again into unconsciousness.

  Later that night Sir Robert awoke in his bed. He was no longer damp nor shaking and he knew that the fever had turned and that he would now begin to recover. He looked down to see Lionel and his son at the table, eating corn gruel.

  “How fare Margary and John?” he called down weakly.

  Lionel climbed up the stairs and leaned down to him. “She sleeps. The boy sleeps. They have already eaten and have managed to keep it down. They are rallying and so are you, it seems. Thank God!”

  Sir Robert nodded and let his head fall back.

  “Are you well enough to sit up and take some nourishment, m’Lord?” Lionel asked.

  Sir Robert attempted to sit, grabbing Lionel by the coat to pull himself up. “Yes, man. I think I am able.” He held onto Lionel’s coat.

  Lionel helped him down the stairs to the table. As Sir Robert sat, he followed his servant’s movements jealously and prayed for his own speedy recovery. “Thank you, Lionel,” he said, “for all you have done.”

  Lionel nodded solemnly. “I will ready you some gruel.”

  November 26, 1587. England

  Finally, after a wait of thirty-five days, John White was to have an audience with Sir Walter Raleigh. Never before in his long life had White seen such a collection of humanity as he did at the Great Hall at Whitehall. He was ushered from one antechamber to another, while his name went forward to be discussed and cleared. Every hall, every chamber, every hallway and broom closet in that magnificent structure contained a collection of people -- princely gentlemen, simple gentlemen, soldiers, lawyers, yeomanry, disgusting courtiers, broad-shouldered plowboys. All waited eagerly or fearfully to plead their case for this or that favor, to protest a tax or boundary, to accuse or deny a crime or abuse, to inveigh against this or that enemy, or simply to sit in the balcony or stand in the crowd and stare at wealth and power as the conduct of the Queen’s and England’s business was carried on.

  White was finally shown to a large, empty courtroom. A bank of high windows let in the afternoon light. The light reflected off the polished stone floor, illuminating the huge tapestries of bygone battles and stag hunts that hung from the walls. Three tiers of dark wooden benches, their seats polished to a sheen by the breeches and dresses of supplicants and hopeful young braggadocios, enclosed the court like a picture frame. Two soldiers armed with pikes guarded the only entrance into the chamber.

  White sat alone as he waited. Sir Walter was meeting with the Privy Council and as soon as that meeting concluded, he would send for White. Across the cool cavernous room from White, a family huddled together, speaking in hushed, nervous tones. White nervously fingered the vellum contract the Assistant Governors had drawn up for him as he rehearsed his explanation about how the majority of assistants had insisted that he return to ensure the continued and timely resupply of the colony. But despite the signed document in his hand, he was appalled at having to do this business. But do it he must, and soon, so he could begin planning the resupply.

  A man entered and looked around, fixing his eyes on White. The man was middle-aged and larger than White, with the barrel-chested bearing of a military man or a sheriff. He had a close-cropped beard that came all the way up to his cheekbones. White presumed the man had been sent to fetch him for Sir Walter. White got to his feet, but remained where he was.

  The man walked in White’s direction and something about his expression made White uneasy. White wondered if the man had a connection to Fernandes. Fernandes had limped into port aboard the Lion a fortnight before White had arrived, and undoubtedly had already been in audience with Sir Walter. Had this stranger been a part of that? And, White wondered, what had he heard?

  The man came up. “Good day, sir. Be you John White?”

  White nodded. “Are you here to escort me to Sir Walter’s chambers?”

  The man shook his head. “Nay, Governor. I am not from Sir Walter’s chamber, and please pardon my intrusion. My name is Benjamin Spencer. I understand that you have had a difficult journey from Virginia.”

  White’s suspicions grew. The man had to have a connection to Fernandes, perhaps a trusted crewman or bodyguard for the traitorous Portuguese, or someone connected to the Virginia enterprise. White looked nervously over at the two guards. If the man were some kind of assassin for Fernandes, they were too far away to protect him. White stood tall, preparing to defend himself if need be. “State your business, sir,” he said, “for I shall be summoned in to Sir Walter at any moment.”

  “There is a young woman among the colonists by the name of Margaret Hagger. ‘Maggie’ she is called. Do you know her?”

  White suppressed his surprise. What was this man to Maggie? Then he remembered the story Maggie had told him of the household she had worked in and the master who had abused her. This one certainly looked crude enough to do as much. “What is your interest in the girl?”

  Before Spencer could reply, a boy entered the chamber and approached. He looked from White to Spencer in confusion. “Sir John White?” he said.

  “Aye,�
�� said White.

  “Please follow me, sir,” said the boy. “Sir Walter is ready to receive you.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said White to the stranger, hoping that this would be the last he saw of him.

  Spencer called out, “I await your return, sir, for I have important business to discuss.”

  White said nothing as he followed the boy out of the courtroom.

  Sir Walter was alone in the courtroom when White and the boy entered. Raleigh sat at a table cluttered with vellum scrolls and quill-filled ink pots. A large silver candelabra sat in the center of the table. Sir Walter puffed meditatively on a white clay pipe. The boy bowed and backed away. White remained standing as Sir Walter tapped the pipe stem against his teeth, staring at him.

  White started nervously. “Sir Walter, things have not gone as planned. That is why I stand before you now.” White extended the letter. “I bring this letter from the Board of Assistants to explain what has happened.”

  Sir Walter broke the seal and read the letter quietly. Finishing, he fixed his deep blue eyes on White. “Senor Fernandes told me you had returned on the Hound and that I would soon be seeing you.”