by Paul Clayton
Soldiers approached. Two of them held Elizabeth by the arms. “Captain,” said one of them, “what about this wench?”
Captain Stafford turned and scowled at Elizabeth. “Take her to the gaol. We will deal with her later.”
It greatly pained Maggie to see the soldiers roughly lead Elizabeth away. Parson Lambert hurried over. He and Paulina took Maggie’s arms and led her back toward the fort. Maggie thought vaguely of the strange, frightening vision she’d had. The images and sounds began to fade as she walked, till she could remember none of it. They entered the fort.
***
Well before the sun rose from the sea, Manteo quietly walked out of the fort. He waved at the sentries on the ramparts and they returned his wave. The soldiers believed he was going hunting, and he was, but not on the island. Despite the boots he wore, Manteo made hardly a sound as he walked quickly away. Soon he came down to the sandy beach. As he looked across the still, dark waters of the sound his heart was troubled. Despite his several trips to his own village he felt no closer to his mother or any other of his people there, with the exception of Bear Killer. Manteo had known him as Cries In Sleep when they were children. He had run foot races against him, hunted squirrels and raccoons with him, fought and laughed with him. Now Bear Killer was a powerful and respected brave and a war chief of the Croatoan. And only Bear Killer remembered Manteo, or claimed him as one of the People.
In England Manteo’s days and nights had been filled with people and excitement. He thought fondly of Raleigh’s grand house, his horses, the women --. But here things were very different. He recalled the destruction of his fish trap, the attack on the shallop -- Things were not good. And now Manteo slept alone, ate alone, walked alone. With the exception of the Dares, he talked to no one. He was a good hunter and in his own village he would have had his pick of women. But here? Maggie Red Hair took his gifts, but still had not come to him. He did not understand her. He prayed to God, but He had not delivered her to him. Manteo was confused and seemed not to understand the English anymore.
Bear Killer’s canoe appeared in the distance. Manteo squatted down in the sand while he waited, his face dark with troubled thoughts, until his friend stepped out of the canoe. Then he stood and he felt lighter.
Chapter 21
April 28, 1588. England
In the town of Bideford, John White waited on the quay as his ships were readied to depart for Virginia. Above, fat little clouds sailed serenely west through a pale blue sky. How pure white they were, White mused, not easily painted. His spirits were light as he indulged his painterly analysis. This convoy would consist of only two small barks, the Brave and the Roe, thirty tons and twenty-five tons respectively. To make matters worse, they were crewed by an undisciplined gang of louts that had been impressed from the prisons and alehouses of Devon. Despite all of this, White was grateful to have them, for just about anything that would float, and all experienced sailors were being held in reserve for the defense of the country. And he was especially grateful to Spencer, for although Grenville had agreed to outfit the ships to reach the colony, he had not carried through. And it had been Spencer who had procured their supplies locally, using his connections in the area.
John White was joined by Spencer and they boarded the Brave. They talked quietly as the sailors began hoisting sail. The little Roe had already pushed off and was sailing up the river Torridge, packed with supplies and four male colonists, a carpenter and his apprentice, a brewer and a smith. Aboard the Brave, the waist and poop were crowded with four temporary cabins that had been constructed to house more colonists for Virginia. These consisted of country people -- seven yeoman, two of their wives, and two girls. The hold of the ship was packed with precious seeds, plants and grain, and hogsheads of salt meat and beer for the colony.
White and Spencer stayed out of the sailors’ way as they made the little ship ready. Captain Facy acknowledged White with a nod as he took the helm to guide the little ship up the river to the sea. Spencer, who had spent most of the previous night at one of the town’s alehouses, went below to sleep.
White was too excited to sleep. For much of the day, he leaned against the rail as the little Brave plowed through the gray chop down the coast of Cornwall. White imagined himself at Roanoke with Eleanor, Ananias and Virginia. His thoughts were bright as he anticipated their joy upon finally being reunited. He had been gone eight months now. The crossing could take two. That would make the child almost a year when he finally laid eyes upon her again. What would she look like? He thought of the maid Maggie again and the thought warmed him. She would share his bed eventually. He was sure of it.
A shout disturbed White’s reveries. Captain Facy and his mate talked and gestured excitedly at the helmsman’s canopy. The ship’s course changed slightly. Not long afterward, White saw why. Three small cogs came into view, sailing ahead off the starboard. Spencer came up and pointed at Facy. “What is he doing?”
“He’s going after them,” said White.
Spencer strained his eyes. “Little coasters like that? What would they have that he’d want?”
White shook his head. “God only knows.”
The two men fell silent as the drama unfolded. The Brave quickly gained on the smaller ships, Facy picking out one of them and coming alongside. The cog was a Scotsman. The Captain and his mate, looking to be father and son, scowled at Facy resignedly as Facy indicated they should drop their sails. Soon afterward Facy’s men were climbing down the lines, going through the ship in search of valuables, as the crew stood around staring at them sullenly. The little ship had already unloaded its cargo of hides at its last port-of-call, and all they had aboard was the dung they’d been packed in, and flies. One of Facy’s men managed to find a small chest which he opened on deck with a flourish. Finding only an inkpot, quill and vellum inside, he threw it angrily on the deck, stomping it to splinters before climbing back up to the Brave. White watched the spectacle with disgust, but said nothing. The cog was cut loose and she sailed on. Facy’s men laughed and jeered at the frowns of the men aboard the little ship.
The next day was full of the same bullying and thievery and even Spencer seemed surprised at what they witnessed. In the morning Facy and his men boarded a small ship from Brittany and again they found little and treated the crew of the boarded vessel poorly. As Facy’s men climbed back aboard the Brave with the personal belongings of the other ship’s occupants in their arms, a young man followed, demanding the return of his things. The poor bit of jewelry they had taken belonged to his mother, he explained, and the five pounds it would bring at a shop represented all the family’s hard-earned fortunes. White, Spencer and the colonists watched from the poop, along with Captain Facy, who appeared unmoved by it all.
When the man started across the waist of the Brave the sailors quickly surrounded him and one struck him viciously, knocking him down.
White could not contain himself and walked over to Facy. Spencer followed. “I doubt very much,” said White in exasperation, “the court now issues letters of reprisal against our own countrymen.”
Facy was unmoved by White’s anger and irony. “We only have their word that they hail from Brittany. They may very well be lying.”
“But surely there must be papers on board they can produce,” said White.
Facy said nothing, continuing to watch the spectacle below. The young man was flat on his back, his hands in front of his face as he attempted to repel the blows from the larger man who straddled him.
“You must stop this,” said White.
Facy turned to him and smiled, but said nothing.
White stared at him, then turned and walked back to the rail. Spencer joined him, watching the spectacle silently. After a while White turned away in disgust, staring off at the horizon.
“Soon,” said Spencer, “we will be well away at sea and we will no longer come upon any more helpless little ships. Then we shall make up for lost time.”
May 10, 1588. At sea
John White and Benjamin Spencer leaned against the ship’s rail, looking out over the sea apprehensively. A sail had appeared off their starboard, well beyond where one of the other ships in their convoy, the Roe, trailed them, and Captain Facy had reduced sail to allow it to catch up. The colonists watched nervously, voicing their concerns in low whispers out of earshot of the sailors.
“Do yeh think he’ll go for her?” Spencer asked.
“He would go after the Roe if he thought he could get away with it,” said White.
By afternoon the ship had come alongside, a heavily armed French man-of-war, no prize for the little Brave. After hailing them, the Frenchman announced their destination as the Azores. She fired a friendly salute and fell astern. When the sun set she was seen trailing them at a league’s distance. At first light she began coming up on them again.
White watched as the men of the Brave began rushing about in preparation for a fight. Sail was struck, sand thrown about on the decks. Men carried bales, boxes and hogsheads up from the hold, stacking them along the rails. With horror White realized that most of them were his own supplies.
White found Facy among the many men rushing about on the waist. “What are you doing with my goods?”
Facy glanced at him. “The men need ramparts to fight behind.”
“But my goods will be ruined!”
Facy called back as he ran off, “So will we all if we can not repel them.”
White turned and saw the colonists watching him. He went over to them. “Go below! There will be fighting.”
Two of the men rushed off to herd their families to the belowdecks. Three of the men stubbornly remained, wanting to be on deck to see what would happen.
White stared helplessly as the French ship loomed larger. Spencer came over to stand beside him. White said nothing, cursing his luck. He had come so far!
When the Frenchman was within hailing distance Facy waved a greeting. In response the French Captain snarled and raised his cutlass. The Frenchman struck sail as she maneuvered close to board. “Now ‘tis our turn,” said Spencer.
The big ship closed with them. White saw French sailors climbing into the rigging, their muskets slung over their shoulders. A fat Frenchman raised his fist defiantly, turning to exhort others hidden beneath the ship’s rail. The Brave’s cannon erupted like close-by thunder, reverberating in White’s gut and the fat man’s arm disappeared, his shoulder spouting blood. The man fell into a tangle of broken spars and torn canvas. Before the two ships closed completely Facy fired one more broadside from the little Brave’s four port guns. White watched in fascination as the balls punched through cabin walls, rigging, and canvas like invisible fists. Then a broadside from the Frenchman exploded over them, shearing off the Brave’s mainmast and demolishing two of the colonists’ cabins on the poop. White and Spencer crouched down as broken spars and rigging fell about them. White felt a blow to his head as musket shot from the French sailors rattled down onto the Brave’s deck like hail. He and Spencer ducked down again as the ships ground together, groaning in their embrace. The Brave leaned over dizzily from the weight of the bigger ship as the French threw grappling hooks, ensuring no escape.
Curses and shouts erupted as Frenchmen climbed down onto the Brave. From behind the rampart of hogsheads and bales, the English sailors fired a volley. The Frenchmen answered in kind and something wet splattered on White’s face. He wiped at it, thinking that it must be meat from one of his precious hogsheads. A sailor in front of them got to his feet, leaving his musket on the deck. The man’s arm was missing just below his shoulder. Blood coursed thickly from it and the bone was splintered like a green limb twisted from a tree. The man staggered away and collapsed.
White wiped his hand across his head, coming away with a smear of blood. Spencer leaned close to inspect it. “Yer wounded, sir. Here!” Spencer tied a kerchief around White’s head. With a cry, the Frenchmen charged. White and Spencer got to their feet and drew their swords as several Frenchmen rushed them. White raised his sword, deflecting a Frenchman’s pike. At the same moment, Spencer thrust his sword into the man’s stomach and he collapsed. Three more Frenchmen ran toward them and they retreated down the stairs to the waist. There, the bulk of the English were making their defense, the more numerous Frenchmen having already seized the high ground of the fo’castle and the poop. The battle settled into a slower pitch, with periodic rushes by the French against the English, who were entrenched behind makeshift barriers of rubble. White was wounded again in the final assault, this time by a pike thrust from between the spars. The point caught him in the buttocks and he fell onto his side in pain as the enraged French tore apart the barricades to get at them.
Rough hands seized White, dragging him to the rail. Dread filled him. He was certain that he and the others would be killed and thrown overboard. He saw Captain Facy, Spencer, and a small crowd of English sailors, all unarmed and standing sullenly, surrounded by cutlass-wielding Frenchmen. The French Captain called off his men. What followed broke White’s heart. The Frenchmen began carrying up from the hold, box after box of tools, ammunition, truk, bales of cotton and kersey cloth, none of it Facy’s, all of it White’s, for his people. Slowly, methodically, the Frenchmen removed it all, lock, stock, and barrel. The furious Frenchmen then removed the Brave’s cannons and food stocks. They departed with spat curses and jeers, leaving the Brave rolling helplessly in the swells.
Spencer walked over to White as Facy and his men attempted to rig a small sail forward. Spencer knelt beside White and inspected his wound. “You had better let the ship’s surgeon dress it.”
White nodded as he silently took stock. He grew heartsick at the thought of how much this would set him back.
Spencer helped White to his feet as two sailors dragged a piece of canvas past them. “Now we must go back,” said Spencer.
“No matter,” said White, not quite believing his own words, “we will try again soon.”
June, 1588. Roanoke
The sun was directly overhead as Captain Stafford stood upon the fort’s ramparts. The height made him reflective and he forgot the man beside him as he looked down into the fort. In the shed behind the big house, the smith worked busily, the steady clang of his hammer ringing clear. Not far away, Goliath formed up a mob of common men and soldiers into a ragged column. None of the men cast a shadow upon the dusty earth. Hoes resting upon their shoulders, the men shifted uncomfortably as they waited to be led out to labor in the fields. The bright sun starkly lighted the work crew. Occasionally a button or carving knife caught the light and reflected it blindingly. From the cottages lined up neatly against the palisade walls, bluish wood smoke issued from the chimneys, moving sluggishly off to the west in thin, wispy plumes. Wash hung on lines strung between the cottages and several maids and gentlewomen worked or talked in the small gardens that adjoined each cottage. Stafford breathed in a deep draught of air, his ears and eyes comforted by the activity. The fort was a transplant, a fragile clipping of civilized English society, which, when White returned and they moved to Chesapeake, was supposed to take root in the riotous New World forests of Spanish and native savagery. Of that he had grave doubts.
He was playing his part in all of this, pretending that they could make a go of it in this God-forsaken place. And Fernandes had played out his part, stranding them here for a spell so they could search out the suspected gold fields. The gentlemen backers in London and Raleigh’s Devonshire gentlemen, Bane and the others, were all convinced there was gold here. But they had dug in four separate locations, bringing back hundreds of samples for Bergman to assay, and none of the ores had contained gold. It was more than likely the savages had been lying. Always, they swore that the gold was over the next set of hills, always ‘twas just a little further west. A pox on them!
Stafford turned his eyes to the field fronting the fort. Half a dozen of his men worked at cutting the grass with scythes down to the level of their ankles. He had so ordered it. A smile almo
st formed on his lips as he took in the orderly, manicured greenness. Any savages attempting to crawl toward the fort would pay with their dirty hides.
“Captain,” said Lieutenant Hawkins, “the harvesters are coming back.”
Captain Stafford nodded and scanned the horizon. The first of their cornfields was ready to harvest and today they had begun bringing in the crop. Stafford and Hawkins watched the long, string-like column of soldiers and servants approach, carrying tall baskets full of freshly harvested corn. He spotted the Governor’s redheaded cookmaid from afar and his eyes never left her. As usual, she walked with the fat Irish wench at her side. Stafford spat. Despite the blindness of the gentlemen, he was convinced that the fat cow had deliberately signaled the Spanish shallop that day. The gentlemen were fools and fops and could not see these things, but he could.
Gentlemen. Supposed to be his betters. Stafford felt his bile rising and spat again. He recalled the indignity he suffered at the storehouse when Robert Harvey had abused him so condescendingly. Despite their gentlemanly manners toward him, he knew they loathed him. Not a one of them would have allowed his father, a good yeoman, near their horses, let alone in their houses. But, here where the savages lurked in the bushes and trees like snakes. Here the gentlemen’s stature shrank and they needed him to protect them like little children. If not for him and his men the gentlemen would not last a day before they were turning on a spit over some savage’s fire. He knew it and they knew it also!
Gentle men -- Business men -- They might excel at separating country bumpkins from their hard-earned pence, but here they were soft and useless. They did no work and spent all their time cooling their heels in the big house, drinking beer and sucking at their pipes.
Stafford silently watched the redhead maid and her fat, traitorous friend pass below.
“The fact that the Governor has left such a pretty thing behind,” said Hawkins as he looked down at the redheaded beauty, “is the proof I offer that he shall return.”
