by Paul Clayton
Earlier they had been discussing the fate of Governor White. Captain Stafford was convinced that the Governor’s ship had fallen victim to a vicious storm. Or, perhaps they had been captured and taken prisoner by the Spanish. Or if he had made it back to England, he had probably gotten sick there and died. Either way, they would see no more of him.
“She turns quite a few heads,” Hawkins went on. “Won’t be long before some man shall back her up against a tree.”
“I think not,” said Stafford.
“Yeh think she’s ripe for the convent, then?” said Hawkins, laughing. “I think she has already given away her key to the convent.”
Captain Stafford’s face was unmoved as he shook his head. It would be he that would have her eventually. He had wanted her since seeing her on the deck of the ship when the old white-headed fool had outbid him. Now all he had to do was wait.
“Methinks that maybe I shall follow her into the woods,” said Hawkins. “I have been told by someone who knows her well that she would not protest too much.”
Stafford turned and fixed his eyes on Hawkins. “Yeh will do nothing of the sort.”
The Lieutenant blinked and swallowed nervously. “Aye.”
Movement to the north caught Stafford’s eye and he turned away. A figure stepped out of the forest and started across the field to join the rear of the column.
“‘Tis Raleigh’s creature,” exclaimed Hawkins, spotting the man.
Stafford said nothing, watching the savage’s tiny form the way a hawk would a mouse.
“He’s got some hares for the pot!” said Hawkins. “Four, I believe.”
“Five,” said Stafford.
“Five?” said Hawkins, waiting for the savage to turn slightly so he could count the hares hanging from his belt. “Aye, five.”
They watched the savage join the column that was now passing through the gates of the fort.
“He is quite a hunter,” said Hawkins. “I’ve never spied a living thing in that woods save a few birds, yet he always manages to scare up a few hares or squirrels.”
“I do not think he limits his hunting to the island’s woods,” said Stafford. “Methinks he goes to the mainland.”
“But how?”
Stafford was silent in thought.
“They say he knows the ways of the forest creatures,” Hawkins continued, “and that is how he catches so much game.”
Stafford cleared his throat and spat, his spittle looping downward to cling viscously to the timbers. “God’s Blood! He is in league with the savages at Dasamankpeuc. And he knows the ways of the forest creatures because he is one of them. He is a creature that I shall slay when the time is right.”
Chapter 22
July 31, 1588. England
John White walked slowly toward the town of Bideford. His buttocks had finally healed and he could now sit without pain, but the wound’s toxins had moved down into the muscles of his legs. As he walked his right leg burned with fiery pain. Without Eleanor and Ananias and the maid, Maggie, around him, he felt old. The image of Maggie’s young curves under her simple frock came to him. In their short time together, just looking at her and having her close by had seemed to drop years from him until he had seemed a young man in his prime. But now --
A farmer approached in a two-wheeled cart. The man avoided looking at White, but the two ploughmen sitting in the rear stared at him like idiots as the cart rumbled on. White ignored them. They knew all about him in the town and they wore on him with their constant requests for stories about savages. Probably no one in this town had ever been beyond the hills two leagues distant. He couldn’t sit in a tavern without some ploughman or self-important merchant coming over and wanting to buy him a cup of sack in exchange for fanciful stories of tailed, man-eating savages, or the Ewaipanoma, the headless men said to live in the area of Raleigh’s El Dorado.
A pox on all of them, White thought, as he limped along. Soon he would have his ships and be gone from here and on his way back to Eleanor, little Virginia and Maggie.
In the distance, the church bell tolled someone’s passing and White tried not to think of how much time had passed since he’d left Roanoke. Today he was to meet with James Prat, the only survivor of the two Assistant Governors that had stayed behind when White and the colonists had sailed for Virginia. The other Assistant, William Fulmore, had traveled to the Azores on business for Raleigh and had been lost when his ship sank in a storm. Prat was acting as Raleigh’s agent for the Virginia endeavor, and had come all the way from Durham House in London to discuss ships.
Spencer would be there also, thought White. Although Spencer had fought at White’s side aboard the Brave and had since been a great help to him, there was still something about the man that made White uneasy. White realized suddenly that the church bell had never stopped its tolling. Intrigued, he increased his pace as much as his aching limbs allowed. Spencer came running up the road to meet him. Over the tolling of the bell he shouted, “The Armada has been defeated! Drake has triumphed. England is saved!”
“Thank God,” White bellowed. With the Spanish now driven from the seas there should be no reason why he could not get his ships. “Where is Prat?”
“We are to meet him in the tavern,” said Spencer.
The din inside the tavern was double its usual volume, punctuated here and there by the bark of manly laughter or the bright trill of a wench’s laugh. Groups of men from every rank of life sat around the tables, talking excitedly as serving wenches made their way between them, setting down their beer and sack. White spotted Prat waving at them from a table in one of the back rooms.
“You’ve heard the good news?” Prat beamed as they came up.
“Aye,” said White. Spencer nodded proudly.
They sat.
“James,” said White, “surely now they can procure ships for us.”
Prat shook his head. “Not yet, John. There is still too much danger. We know not what else the Spaniard may have out there. ‘Tis too early to discuss ships.”
“But the season of storms approaches,” said White. “If we do not depart within… ”
White was drowned out by cries of “Here! Here!” as someone across the room stood and raised his tankard. The din receded as the men got to their feet. “To Drake, to Howard, and to their sharp-eyed gunners!”
The roaring din resumed full bore as a serving wench appeared before them, filling their tankards. White looked around the room, feeling the hope run out of him like the beer from the maid’s flagon.
August 25, 1588. Roanoke
In the Dares’ garden, Maggie dug up and pulled the carrots from the ground. Her clothes clung to her in the thick heat. Shaking the earth from the orange roots, she placed them in the basket. With the heat had come the season of storms and it was now too dangerous for a ship to attempt the crossing. Maggie had a vision of a heavy door closing. They were on their own here. Would their supplies last them through the winter? She prayed they would, for their little gardens were not enough to keep them alive. When she had asked Master Dare about supplies, he had been vague and found some excuse to leave the cottage.
Sighing from her worries, Maggie decided to take some of the carrots to her friend, Elizabeth. She worried about Elizabeth often now, ever since Elizabeth hailed the little Spanish boat. At her hearing, most of the gentlemen had believed her protestations of innocence and she had been spared a more serious punishment, instead spending seven days in the gaol. Upon her release, Elizabeth had spat out a curse upon Captain Stafford, and vowed to Maggie that she would return to England on the first ship that called. Elizabeth’s vow had filled Maggie with sadness. She couldn’t imagine staying in this place without her.
Maggie put the basket of carrots on the Dare’s steps. She took a half dozen out and put them in her apron and headed for Master Duncan’s cottage. She noticed two soldiers on the ramparts peering down at her and she ignored them, walking on. She saw no one else outside, although she heard childr
en playing in the shade out behind the cottages. Something bright blue streaked by, then disappeared into the Condewell’s garden. Another jay lit on the fence, then leapt down into the stalks of corn to chase its partner. Maggie smiled as the birds’ excited chatter filled the hot air. She turned in at Sir James’ cottage and tried the door. Strangely, it was bolted from inside. She knocked.
A gruff voice said something incomprehensible.
“‘Tis maid Maggie to see Elizabeth,” she said.
She heard the voice again, louder, the tone demanding, and she realized it was not addressing her. She heard Elizabeth say something incomprehensible in a cowed, teary-sounding voice.
“‘Twas swill, whore!” Sir James’ voice raged.
Elizabeth pleaded, almost inaudibly and Maggie heard the sound of a fist striking flesh. Her heart raced as fear filled her. She knocked again and heard the crash of a pot inside, then silence and a soft sobbing. She left the vegetables on the stoop and walked back to the Dares’.
Eleanor stood at the table, chopping the carrots and greens Maggie had dropped off earlier. Little Virginia lay in her cradle nearby. Ananias was at the hearth, his back to them, staring pensively at the kettle which bubbled and steamed.
Eleanor looked up. “Maggie, what is it?”
“I heard Sir James strike Elizabeth.” Maggie sat down and wiped the sweat from her brow.
“Maggie,” said Eleanor, “I hope you are not hanging about their door.”
“Nay, mistress. I went to take them some things from the garden and I heard him strike her.”
“She is headstrong and impertinent,” said Ananias without turning, “but I do not think he would strike her.”
“But, Master,” said Maggie, “the other serving girls say he beats her so hard he leaves marks upon her.”
“I’ve never seen a bruise upon her,” said Eleanor. “I think your friends tell you wrong.”
“He hits her where the bruises will not show, mistress.”
“Have you seen these bruises, Maggie?” said Ananias sadly, as if disappointed in her.
“Nay, Master. She would not show me. But others say they have seen them.”
Eleanor put down the knife. “Maggie, what if some others wanted to slander us and said that we beat you where the marks would not show? See what a lie that would be?”
“Aye, mistress.” Maggie began to feel a wee bit foolish. But she could not get the sound of the blow, if that is what it was, out of her head. Then she imagined Sir James slamming his fist down upon the table. She realized that that action might account for the sound coming from behind the door and a bit of her melancholy slowly lifted. She got to her feet.
“Such talk will spoil this special day, Maggie,” said Eleanor, picking up the knife again.
Maggie suddenly remembered that this evening they were to celebrate Virginia’s first birthday. As Eleanor and Ananias discussed something, Maggie turned and looked at the child. Her thoughts brightened. The birthday also signaled the approach of the one-year anniversary of Governor White’s departure on the ship. Maggie thought of the stories that people were bandying about to explain the Governor’s absence. One had him chained to an oar on a Spanish Mediterranean galley, another claimed that he had made it back to England but had died or been murdered there.
Maggie believed none of it. She knew the Governor’s ship would appear one day. But not until the long winter before them had passed. God help them!
Eleanor said softly to Ananias, “I didn’t hear him enter and you can imagine my surprise when I came down from the loft and saw it.
Maggie wondered who they were talking about when Eleanor extended the pink carcass of a skinned hare to her. “Manteo left it upon the table as a gift. You shall have the honor of preparing it.”
Maggie smiled as she took the hare. She would try to be happy and festive. “Perhaps ‘twas not Manteo who left it here,” she said, smiling down at little Virginia, “perhaps ‘twas the fairies.”
Eleanor laughed.
“A fairy with a feather in his hair, no doubt,” added Ananias with no jollity in his voice, and without turning round.
“I wonder if he will return to sup with us?” Eleanor said pensively.
Ananias said nothing further, evidently lost again in his thoughts as he stared into the bubbling pot. Maggie had noticed a slow change in Ananias since the raid on Dasamankpeuc. He’d grown quiet and introspective.
“Perhaps Manteo is off in the woods again, mistress,” said Maggie. Maggie was cheered by the talk of Manteo. She still remembered looking into his eyes in the woods that winter day when he’d given her the squirrels. Time had seemed to stop then, and the others around them, to disappear. Despite the strangeness of him, he was a handsome man. His dark eyes expressed manliness, but there was also vulnerability there, a little boy’s longing for acceptance. She had sensed then that to not accept his gift would be to wound him deeply. For a brief period afterward she had avoided him, worried that someone might misinterpret her Christian feelings for him as something else. Now she knew her feelings were something else, a deep affection.
Ananias sighed loudly and turned away from the hearth. He knelt down before Virginia’s cradle. Maggie watched as he searched his daughter’s face as if looking for answers there. “Won’t my little girl have a nice birthday dinner?” he asked sadly.
Virginia cooed at the sound of his voice, reaching for his nose.
“If only Father were here to celebrate it with us,” said Eleanor. Her eyes grew moist and she lifted Virginia from her cradle, holding her tightly.
Ananias stood and turned again to the fire.
“Worry not, mistress,” said Maggie, “I’m sure he will be with us for the next one.”
“Aye,” said Eleanor, “and when he comes we shall go up to Chesapeake.” She looked at Ananias. “The savages are friendlier there and there are fewer of them. Isn’t that so, Ananias?”
Ananias turned to her. Maggie saw the struggle within him as he strove for strength and faith. A rattle came from up in the roof before he could answer. “Ah,” Ananias said, seemingly grateful for the distraction, “a breeze has come up. It will cool us tonight.”
Maggie gathered up the chopped vegetables in her apron. She carried them over to the kettle and dumped them in. She came back to the table and turned the hare over. She cut at the leg trying to separate it from the bone, but it would not come loose. She sawed at it to no avail. Finally she positioned the heavy knife upon it and struck it with the heel of her hand sharply, cleaving it away with a snap. She looked up to see Master Dare rubbing his breeches. He inspected his hand, pain and shock on his face, and she realized with embarrassment that she had splattered blood on him.
Maggie immediately picked up her cloth and rushed over.
He turned away from her. “‘Tis no matter, Maggie. These breeches are falling apart anyway.”
“I am so sorry, Master Dare, I did not mean to soil your garment.”
Eleanor looked over. “Worry not, Maggie. When our ship comes in I shall make Ananias several pairs of breeches.”
“Aye,” said Ananias, “when our ship comes in.” He smiled bravely. “Now we must not let anything spoil the day. Let us say our prayer.”
Maggie bowed her head as Ananias recited, “Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope.”
Maggie felt a warm presence and the hairs on her neck and arms stood straight up. She opened her eyes. Manteo, the Croatoan, stood beside her, his own head bowed in prayer. A deep desire to put her head to his chest came over her and she again closed her eyes.
***
The sun had just set behind the trees as a native dugout canoe ground softly up onto the sandy beach on the other side of the island. Wanchese and twelve braves quickly leapt out and hauled the dugout up, hiding it in the trees. Several of the men held pinewood torches aloft. The pitch-fed, almost-invisible flames whipped about
audibly in the stiff offshore wind, issuing thin plumes of smoke. Overhead, the tall trees swayed in seeming excited anticipation. The men crouched attentively in a half circle as they faced Wanchese.
Wanchese’s painted face was fierce as he pointed to the small wind boat that the English had taken from their Spanish enemies and hidden in the bushes. “When you hear the thundersticks, set the wind boat afire.” Four braves nodded and crept off. Wanchese looked at the remaining men. “After I provoke the soldiers into shooting off their thundersticks, they will be harmless and you will attack. Do you understand?”
Wanchese saw doubt in the face of one of the younger braves and he grew angry. “The English thundersticks speak only once and then are silent. Wanchese has lived among the English and knows these things.”
Wanchese glared at the brave a moment longer, then stood.
As they waited, the braves crouched like runners before a race. Wanchese waited while the others made their way to the boat. He looked at the slowly darkening sky. After a while he stabbed his bow toward the east and his men began trotting off toward the biggest of the English cornfields.
“Towaye,” said Wanchese, freezing the young man in his tracks. “You will come with me.”
Towaye ran along behind Wanchese. After a while, Wanchese stopped and pushed into the bushes. Towaye followed and they peered out. Towaye spotted the tall, stick-like perch rising out of the English cornfield. He estimated its distance as two times the length of an arrow’s flight. Two men sat in it now. Towaye could see that one wore breastplate and a comb helmet. The man’s hand appeared to be resting on a long object that Towaye, from his time in England, knew was a musket. The other Englishman was not wearing armor and appeared not to have a musket. Wanchese backed away and they crouched, waiting silently. Wanchese grunted when he was ready and they again crept forward.
Towaye’s body and head was camouflaged with tan and green corn stalks as he crawled slowly and silently between the orderly rows. The wind blew powerfully and steadily overhead, moving the corn and making a great clatter. Like Wanchese, Towaye clenched two arrows tightly in his teeth and had one nocked in his bow. Wanchese signaled a halt. As they waited, Towaye heard the Englishmen speaking. He couldn’t make out their words, but the sound of their voices unleashed a storm of feelings inside him, some bad and some good. One of the Englishmen laughed loudly at something and the other attempted to talk over the laughter, as if he had something he must tell the other at once. It was then that Wanchese rose to his knees and hurled a stone at the perch.
