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

by Paul Clayton

  Simon sat down across from White and lit a thick tallow candle and unrolled a scroll of paper. “I have cast your chart.”

  The text was embellished with astrological symbols, a new moon and stars.

  White could not contain himself, “What do you see? Will I go back?”

  Simon studied White’s face intently. “Aye. There will be three ships.” He looked back down at the paper before him. “There is a girl there… with red hair.”

  White could not help but lean forward. “You know?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Will I see her again?”

  Simon looked back down at the paper before him. “I see you looking straight at her.”

  White frowned. “And does she see me?”

  “Aye. She does.”

  March 13, 1589. Croatoan

  Ananias sat in the prow of the shallop looking out at the distant tree line on the mainland. The wind on the sound was steady and cold and drove the shallop at a good pace. The wind easily passed through the many holes and tears in Ananias’s clothing. There was, of course, no more cloth, or wool to weave cloth from, the last of the sheep having been shorn and slaughtered long ago. Behind Ananias, Robert, the parson, Maggie and the others sat in a group. Manteo stood aft. He would serve as interpreter as Ananias and Robert again petitioned the Croatoans for more of their corn.

  Ananias searched the land intently. The low, bare trees covered the mainland like mold on a fruit. Nowhere was it broken by the sharp, straight angles of a house or the powerful symmetry of a castle on a hill. Nowhere did the sharp, fragile spire of a church point to the heavens in praise of God. He wondered about what he knew every man, woman and child in the fort must wonder about at least once a day, and pray over, namely, where in God’s name were the ships? And where in God’s name was John White? Ever since the killing of the girl, Ananias had longed to leave this place and move to the safer lands north of Roanoke. But first John White must return. Then Ananias could begin making his tiles and bricks again. He longed to once again hear the wet, scratchy scrape of a trowel over a brick edge laden with mortar, the hollow wooden tap as he fit a brick snugly into place, the quiet talk of working men, the call of the hod carrier. Now the only chance he got to work at his craft was when Bergman, the metallurgist, needed something special for his metals lab.

  Ananias noticed a tiny speck on the water near the gray shore. It slowly grew larger and he stood to get a better look. Manteo came up beside him. “Canoe,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Ananias, “but whose?”

  Manteo was silent as Sir Robert called over. “Can Manteo identify it?”

  “Nay,” said Ananias. All eyes were on the craft, remembering the last attack on the shallop and the loss of their fishing net.

  “Very well,” said Robert. He called to the soldiers. “Prepare to repel an attack.”

  With a clatter, the soldiers quickly readied their muskets. The others warily watched the horizon for the approach of more canoes. The wind had now grown tepid and the canoe grew larger as it gained on them. After a while they could see the savages standing as they paddled, bending to dip their paddles deep in the water. There appeared to be about a dozen of them.

  Ananias went back to the stern. “Maggie, you and the others, get down on the boards on the lee side in case there is fighting.”

  Robert called to the men. “Fire at the first sign of an attack.”

  Ananias gripped the hilt of his sword as the canoe approached. No one spoke. One of the Indians was standing up full in the prow of the craft, almost, Ananias thought, like a ship’s figurehead. The man was very muscled, and tattooed in the distinctive fashion of the people in these parts. Ananias’s unprotected hands were stiff and aching from the bitter cold yet the savage’s chest and legs were bare and he seemed not to care. He wore three feathers in his hair and several loops of teeth or claws about his neck. His quiver hung from his shoulder and he held his bow with one hand. His manner did not appear hostile, but Ananias already knew of their trickery.

  “I have got ‘three feathers’ in my sights,” one of the soldiers said to his mates.

  “No shoot,” said Manteo, “they are Croatoan people.”

  “Are you certain?” said Robert.

  In reply, Manteo called out to the savage in his own language. The savage in the prow shouted a response. As the shallop continued to sail slowly toward Croatoan Island, Manteo turned his back on the canoe and it fell in behind them. A while later the savages from the canoe helped Ananias and the others pull the shallop up onto the beach.

  Ever since Humphrey had died, Lionel felt adrift. He never forgot his chores for Sir Robert. But he’d also taken to buying drink from the soldiers when they made it available. He had not wanted to make this trip to Croatoan, but the parson had insisted and had told Sir Robert that he needed the help of his servant. Lionel was surprised and pleased to see that the great bulk of Croatoans held no grudge against the English for their mistaken attack on their people on the mainland. Lionel marveled at the spectacle that greeted their arrival in the village of Croatoan -- the cacophony of savage speech, the bands of children milling about and underfoot, the non-heeded orders of the soldiers, the barking of dogs. As Lionel and the others carried the chests full of truk to be bartered, the noisome crowd grew, carrying their tobacco, corn, clay pots and wooden pipes to trade for bright little glass beads, hawks bells, and polished plates of brass.

  Lionel searched the crowd, hoping to find the woman he’d picked berries with the last time among them. She was not there and he turned to look for Parson Lambert. He wanted to ask him if he could find out the name of the woman who had been killed in the raid on Roanoke. But the parson had already gone off somewhere. Lionel frowned as a few flakes of snow drifted past his face. The air was biting cold. Tonight the fires would roar, the soup pots would boil and bubble, the meat would spatter and sizzle over the coals. But such visions did not warm Lionel’s heart. He walked along the now-deserted streets of the village, the shouts of the gathering by the square ground growing dim. Turning a corner he noticed someone sitting and working at something in one of the savage dwellings. It was she -- scraping a skin with a shell. She smiled as if she’d been expecting him and made a motion with her hand for him to join her. He walked closer.

  She wrapped a skin shawl about her and came to him.

  “My son,” he said, “he is gone now.”

  She looked at him closely and the gaiety went out of her eyes. He frowned, inwardly cursing the barrier their different languages imposed. He gave her the little bundle he’d brought. She opened it, her eyes sparkling at sight of the little polished bell he’d strung on a string of red yarn. She put it around her neck and started walking toward the woods. He followed, the crusted snow crunching under his boots.

  The trees were bare, their trunks gray; the ground was white, mottled with brown leaves. She came to the little clearing where they had picked berries. Leaves had been heaped up into a mound and she lay her shawl down upon it. She lay back, her breasts blushing red from the cold. She pulled her skin gown up around her waist. He knelt before her and dropped his breeches, pulling his coat and shirt off. The winter air attacked his bare skin like an invisible cloud of mosquitoes. Sensation brought him out of his painful thoughts, magnifying his desire a thousand-fold. He mounted her and her hands raked his back. All thought, all despair, ceased. When they finished, she pulled the cloak around to cover him. “Li-nel,” she said, “Li-nel.”

  He shuddered and breathed deeply. “Peenaysheesh! You will be my sail, pushing me away from all this sorrow. Let us get dressed and find the parson. Today I will make you my wife”

  Manteo walked up to the village to find his mother. He saw her leave her house and hurry toward the Council. He had been far enough away that perhaps she hadn’t seen him, he thought. But there was something about her gait and her posture as she hurried off that suggested otherwise. As a boy, every morning he would have to take up the little bow
and shoot arrows at targets she had placed around the longhouse. He would either hit them or she would not feed him. Many a time he had gone without breakfast and she had hurried away from him, showing him her back in disdain. He had worked hard and become the best shot with the bow in his village. Then the English came and took him away. The last he saw of her was her back as she hurried up the beach away from the English longboats.

  The heft of the shooting stick in Manteo’s arms seemed to call to him, bringing him back up from such heavy memories. He gripped the smooth wooden stock and glanced briefly at the dark gleam of the barrel. The other men of his village, no matter how many forest spirits they prayed and offered to, could never bring in as much game as he could with this. He was the best hunter because his prayers reached Jesus’ ears and he had this wonderful German thunderstick. This was so and everyone knew it.

  He ran after his mother. He was no longer a boy and she could no longer outrun him. Tookemay turned and smiled at him, but she did not break her stride. As Manteo walked by her side he wished she would relent and allow Parson Lambert to baptize her and pray with them. “I saw my father in a dream,” he said.

  She stopped. “How did he look?”

  “He looked well. He asked about you and I told him you were well and that I would see you today.”

  Tookemay nodded, then continued walking toward the Council House. “Are the English with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Whitehead has returned?”

  “No,” said Manteo.

  “That is strange.”

  “Yes. I have brought others. Our priest wants to tell you about Jesus. Will you listen to him later?”

  Tookemay said nothing, indicating her disinterest.

  Manteo continued. “Whitehead’s second, Sir Robert, is here. He and the others have come in the hopes that you will trade corn to them. Our animals are long gone and we have little corn left to eat. I hunt and bring in game but it is nowhere near enough. The English also hunt but catch nothing. Sir Robert and the others will be here any moment to speak to you and the Council about their problems.”

  Tookemay stopped before the dark square of the Council House entrance. She glanced in the direction from which they had come. The English and three of their soldiers were approaching.

  “They want me to speak for them,” said Manteo.

  “No,” said Tookemay. “The Old Men still see you as an outsider. Give them time. You have already told me what the English want so I will speak for them.”

  Robert and Ananias nodded a greeting to Tookemay as they came up. The soldiers stood back a few feet, eyeing the dark interior of the hut suspiciously.

  “Did you tell your mother I wanted you to interpret for us?” Robert asked Manteo.

  “Aye,” said Manteo. “But she not want me inside. She say she speak for you, not Manteo.”

  Tookemay motioned for Sir Robert and the others to follow her inside. She then turned to Manteo. “Go back and tell Corn Woman to have the others begin preparing food. We will feast tonight.” Tookemay disappeared inside.

  Later, Manteo’s heart felt warmed by a summer sun as he walked back from Corn Woman’s house. He felt like winter that has changed into spring and it was good. He saw a cluster of soldiers standing in the square ground, but he did not see Sir Robert, Lionel, Parson Lambert or the others. Bear Killer came out of a house and beckoned him.

  In the Council House, Tookemay sat before the Old Men and motioned Sir Robert, Ananias, and the soldiers to sit beside her. The Old Men sat on raised pallets of bear skins with their war trophies and bows affixed to the wall behind them. A young woman brought Tookemay, Robert and the other English men conch shells filled with tea. Tookemay took a sip and addressed the Old Men.

  “The English want corn.”

  “They always want corn,” said War Hunter. The old man’s face was molded into a perpetual scowl, which in his younger days had deterred many a potential adversary.

  “They are close to starving,” said Tookemay. “They will not survive the winter.”

  “Aieyee!” said War Hunter. “Their attack at Dasamankpeuc and the deaths there have earned them no help!”

  “War Hunter,” said Tookemay patiently, “you know that Wanchese tricked them into attacking our people.”

  “Could they be exaggerating their situation?” said Corn Planter. Tall and thin as a corpse, Corn Planter was the Council member most supportive of Tookemay. He was brother to her deceased father.

  “No. My son has told me this himself.” Tookemay looked over at Sir Robert and the soldiers who were watching the discussion suspiciously.

  “There are shellfish to gather,” said War Hunter, “clams to dig up, fish to trap, deer to hunt… yet they always want our corn.”

  Tookemay smiled inwardly. War Hunter would push and growl to the very end, giving no quarter. “You know that Powhatan’s braves burned their corn and tore up their fish traps,” she said. “They attack them when they fish from their wind canoe. And the English ships have not returned with more food.”

  Black Hawk scoffed. “We lost much corn to drought, yet we prosper.” He shook his head. “They don’t know how to live off the land.”

  “That is so,” said Corn Planter. “We are better hunters and fishers than them. But also we have not been constantly harassed by Powhatan’s braves.”

  Black Hawk said nothing.

  “The English are two-leggeds,” continued Corn Planter, “and so we must help them.”

  “Yes,” said Black Hawk. “We will help them. And Powhatan will be angry. He has forbidden it.”

  “Powhatan does not rule here,” said Tookemay. “I do.”

  “With our counsel and consent,” said War Hunter.

  Black Hawk and Corn Planter nodded.

  “Powhatan will attack,” said Black Hawk.

  “Then we will fight,” growled War Hunter.

  “He will not attack,” said Tookemay. “We are too far from his village.”

  “So you say,” said Black Hawk. “But we take a chance… ”

  “We have defied Powhatan before,” said War Hunter. “It is important that we continue to stand up to him. Or else one day he will be here dictating terms.”

  “Aieyee!” said Black Hawk. “That is so.”

  All three men were silent as they pondered the possible scenarios.

  “Yes,” said Tookemay after a few moments, “it is so.” She smiled inwardly. They were coming along. “And remember,” she said, “now it is not only soldiers living at the fort, but women and children also.”

  The Old Men remained silent.

  Tookemay said, “I will get them their corn.” She turned and nodded to the Englishmen. They got to their feet and followed her outside.

  Chapter 26

  Maggie and Elizabeth sat on a mat inside a Croatoan house. Maggie could see the gray light of day through the many holes in the walls and thought how it resembled an English arbor. But the house was warm, although smoky.

  Maggie ate quickly, staring at the tiny cracks of light. The food was heavenly -- succulent roasted deer meat in a gruel of corn, native gourds and greens. Maggie ate so heartily that she forgot about her friend. The others had gone off and now it was just the two of them. Maggie looked over at Elizabeth. She had hardly eaten any of the food. Maggie’s appetite started to leave her as she thought of what had become of Elizabeth. Her cheerfulness and sharp tongue had given way to a quiet melancholia, punctuated by sudden, but infrequent, outbursts of fearful musings. And Elizabeth had stopped caring about her appearance. Everyone was thinner, their clothes becoming ragged and frayed, but Elizabeth made no efforts to try to keep herself looking presentable.

  “He is lucky to be away from here,” said Elizabeth.

  “Who?” said Maggie worriedly.

  “Ol’ Jack! He is very happy now. He told me so last night.”

  “Did you see where Master Dare and the others went?” Maggie asked, trying to get her friend’s thou
ghts off of her loss.

  “Nay,” said Elizabeth. She held the wooden bowl up to her mouth as if to drink, then seemed to forget it was there.

  Two old savage women wearing long skin gowns entered the house. They sat and watched Maggie and Elizabeth intently, talking quietly.

  Maggie got to her feet and Elizabeth followed suit. Outside, Maggie saw the familiar figure of Manteo talking with another savage near one of the little houses. Manteo waved Maggie over and she went to him. Elizabeth followed a few paces behind.

  “Lionel want you,” said Manteo. “He say, ‘Maggie Red Hair come.’” He pointed to Elizabeth. “She come too.”

  Before Maggie could ask where they were going and why, Manteo and the other savage began walking out of the village. Not wanting to be left behind, Maggie followed, with Elizabeth at her side. They trod a path though a field of reeds, crossing a little stream before entering the woods. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as they walked between skeletal trees. Maggie looked up at their bare branches, stretching toward the gray sky like bony fingers. She turned round and realized that she would not be able to find her way back to the village if she had to. She wanted to ask Manteo where the others were, but he and the other man moved at such a fast pace she could not. Maggie glanced behind. Elizabeth walked with her face down, not seeming to care where she was, nor where she was going.

  Manteo and his friend stopped to inspect something behind a tree. They conferred in their language as Maggie and Elizabeth waited in the quiet woods.

  “They’re up to no good,” said Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth’s words frightened Maggie but she said nothing.