by Paul Clayton
A sparkling blue patch of the sound was visible between the trees and he thought about making such a long journey in such a small boat. It was daunting, but he and Sir Robert could do it. There was only the one sail and he knew how to rig it. And Sir Robert knew how to navigate.
Peenaysheesh paused in her hoeing to rub her back wearily. Lionel went to her. The child did not yet show in her belly, but despite that, he did not want her to work too hard. He ladled water out of a nearby hogshead for her and she drank it gratefully. A scream raised the hairs on the back of his neck and he instinctively crouched down, pulling Peenaysheesh with him. He heard a noise and turned to see a man clutching an arrow in his chest. The man fell to his knees as savage war cries erupted from the sound side of the island. Naked but for breechclouts, and covered with sand, four savages rushed up from the beach. They waved their clubs overhead as they screamed like demons. The muskets of the soldiers thundered in response.
Lionel pulled his sword and took Peenaysheesh’s hand, leading her toward the fort. Coming to a ditch cut by the creek, they slid down the bank. A half-dozen other common people were already hiding there, watching the edge of the bank worriedly. Lionel was wondering how they’d ever get this crop in when Peenaysheesh suddenly crouched down, her face compressed with pain. He decided he would no longer allow her to work outside the fort. It was simply too dangerous.
After a time, Lionel chanced a look over the edge of the bank. Two savages were running toward the woods. Manteo shouted after them in the language of Powhatan, then leveled his musket and fired. One savage sprawled dead and the other disappeared into the trees.
August 7, 1589. Roanoke
In spite of Manteo’s constant hunger, this day he felt strong and light on his feet as he walked to Master Dare’s cottage. Today he and Master Dare would go together to the storehouse to receive their ration of powder and shot, but that was not why Manteo felt good. It was the thought of seeing Maggie Red Hair in the cottage that made his heart light as a humming bird. He was sure she carried him in her heart as he did her in his.
Manteo passed a knot of soldiers who stared at him with suspicion. He ignored them. This was a constant in his life and no longer bothered him. Coming to the Dare cottage, he breathed in the aroma of the flowers Maggie had planted in the Dares’ garden before pushing the door open and entering.
She was seated before the hearth with little Virginia. She did not hear him enter and did not turn. Manteo studied her -- red hair like rust, scalloped and falling about her slight shoulders, the tilt of her head as she read to the girl, the gentle curves that her poor gown did not hide. He had already told the parson of his feelings for her. And Maggie now had feelings for him. He knew this. Parson Lambert had told him that she was promised to Governor White. But Governor White had not returned, and he never would return. Of this Manteo was convinced. Surely the parson would realize this too as the season passed, and allow Manteo to take Maggie for his wife. Perhaps the parson would marry them when next they went to Croatoan.
Little Virginia looked up and saw Manteo. She smiled, touching Maggie’s hand.
“Manteo!” Maggie’s surprised look turned to a smile. “Always you sneak up on us.” Maggie called up to the loft, “Master Dare!” as her smile slowly faded.
Manteo knew that the hanging of Maggie’s friend, Elizabeth, had wounded Maggie deeply. He was praying hard to Jesus that she would soon recover her girlish spirit.
A flurry of straw fell down between the floorboards as Master Dare rose from where he had been sleeping. He came down the stairs slowly, smoothing the tattered rags of his clothing about him. “God give you good day, Manteo,” he said, coughing weakly.
“God give you, Master Dare,” said Manteo. Manteo noticed how old Master Dare looked these days. He more resembled old Governor White than he did the young maker of bricks that had come to Roanoke two years earlier. Manteo’s brow furrowed slightly. Things were not good. Food stocks were dangerously low. And although it was time for planting, Wanchese’s many raids made that all but impossible, except within the limited area of the fort’s walls. Manteo continued to clandestinely deliver squirrels and hares and such to the Dares and the other families, but the hungrier everyone got, the more difficult and dangerous that kindness became.
“Lionel Fisher says that the soldiers roasted a stag a fortnight ago,” said Ananias.
Manteo shook his head. “No, Master Dare.”
“But Lionel swears he smelt it. And his wife too… ”
Manteo shook his head vigorously. “Smell dog, Master Dare.”
Ananias looked at him in puzzlement.
“No stag, Master Dare. Captain Stafford feed only two dogs now.”
Ananias frowned as he realized what this meant. “Oh,” he said slowly.
“How be goodwife Dare?” inquired Manteo.
Ananias cast a quick look up at the loft and then quietly pulled Manteo toward the door. “Eleanor is improving,” said Ananias once they were outside, “but she is still weak.” Ananias warmed at the loyal Croatoan’s concern. “We would not be walking on God’s green earth if not for the game you ...” Ananias’s voice faded away as a cluster of soldiers passed nearby. “Come. Let us go get our powder and shot.”
They walked across the common in the sultry heat. Ananias saw thunderheads in the west. They’d get some cooling relief soon enough and rain water in the barrels.
They came to the storehouse and went inside. Soldiers congregated in loose groups, enjoying the coolness. Ananias was amazed at how wild and brazen they now appeared. Most of them had discarded their tattered doublets and shirts and lay about bare-chested. Their breeches were torn and ragged. A few of them had taken to patching them with the skins of small animals, like Eleanor had for Ananias, and Margary had for Sir Robert, but most did not. Although the soldiers wore swords, they no longer wore helmets nor breastplate and backplate, and most had let their barbering fall by the wayside, giving them, in total, a barbaric look. And where was John White? It now looked as though they would have to spend another winter here without resupply. Could they survive another winter? The thought was too distressing and he let it go.
As Ananias and Manteo wove through the soldiers Ananias realized that now Captain Stafford and his soldiers hardly ever drilled in the fields surrounding the fort as they had when they had first arrived.
Ananias stepped gingerly over a sleeping soldier to join the queue. Manteo stood behind him. Captain Stafford and his Lieutenant entered. The Lieutenant had two mastiffs on their leashes.
Ananias called out to him, “Captain, where is your other dog?”
“Quirinus ran away, sir,” said the captain without breaking stride.
Ananias and Manteo waited quietly and soon reached the front of the line. Captain Stafford’s straw-headed lieutenant nodded slightly to Ananias as he leaned into the chest and removed a dozen lead balls and two bags of powder. Ananias placed them in his bullet bag and stepped aside. Manteo stood before the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant reached down into the chest.
“Hold it!” barked Captain Stafford’s commanding voice.
Lieutenant Hawkins set the lead balls down before him as Stafford walked up.
“He’ll get no shot nor powder,” said Stafford.
Manteo stood firm and stalwart as he replied. “Manteo always get shot and powder. Raleigh always give shot and powder to Manteo.”
Captain Stafford would not look at Manteo and addressed himself instead to the Lieutenant. “Nothing for him.”
“And why not?” demanded Ananias. His anger cost him a fit of coughing.
“We are almost out, sir,” said Stafford, “and I’ll not be giving any of what we got left to savages.”
Many of the soldiers had stopped their work or card playing and watched, amusement on their faces.
“Captain Stafford,” said Ananias, “Sir Walter Raleigh himself gave Manteo that musket. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge him shot and powder for it?”
“I
care not what Raleigh would do,” said Stafford. “Raleigh is far away in England and I am here, in charge of stores.”
“‘Tis not as if he wastes it shooting at nothing in the night,” said Ananias. “And he brings more game into this fort than any ten of your men.”
“Sir,” said Stafford tiredly, “I have already decided.”
“Then I shall take it up with the other Assistants,” said Ananias.
“Very good, sir, as I have no more time to discuss it. I have work to do.”
Ananias’s pulse pounded in his temple. The man was growing more rebellious by the day. He turned to Manteo. The savage’s face was inscrutable, his eyes two hard, gray flints.
“Manteo,” said Ananias softly, “I will bring it up with the Assistants. We will countermand this and get you your… ”
Manteo turned and walked out of the storehouse.
Manteo went back to his cottage and left his musket and bullet bag there. He went outside and walked toward the rear of the fort, his head abuzz with angry voices. He saw not where he went, watching only the pictures in his head. He did not understand the captain. Manteo was not a savage. Manteo was a Christian! Everyone here had attended his christening. And Sir Walter Raleigh himself had given Manteo his musket. The captain knew that, yet he refused to give Manteo powder and shot. If John White were here he would send the captain away and give Manteo his powder and shot. But John White would never return to Roanoke. Manteo thought of what the woman at the gate had told him the night before about the great war she and others believed had taken place, and how the English had been rubbed out by their Spanish enemies.
Manteo’s nostrils flared at a terrible odor. He realized it was the necessary house and veered away, heading toward the south end of the fort. As he passed the little building in which Bergman, the metal man, worked, he saw two soldiers sitting inside. They seemed in good cheer, one sitting on the floor, the other standing before him, singing a song. One of the soldiers called Manteo’s name. He beckoned Manteo to come into the metals cottage. Manteo went inside.
“We have somethin’ good for you,” said the man on the floor.
Manteo was suspicious. He believed these men must have been drinking wine. Once Manteo had drank much wine. Raleigh had grown very angry with him, accusing him of running the servants off and attacking a painting on the wall with his sword. Manteo remembered none of that, only waking from a long, troubled sleep. Since then, Raleigh had forbidden Manteo to drink beer or wine. Manteo looked at this man carefully. The man was smiling like a madman.
“What you have?” said Manteo.
“Somethin’ good to drink,” said the standing man.
“Manteo no drink wine.” Manteo turned to go out.
The standing soldier grabbed Manteo’s garment. “Wait. ‘Tis not wine. ‘Tis strong medicine. The best.”
“What medicine?”
“Yeh ever hear of Dragon’s blood?” said the man on the floor, his eyes hooding over in seriousness.
Manteo shook his head. “Where?”
The sitting man produced a bottle from behind him. “It makes a beggar a gentleman, a gentleman a king.” He waved the bottle at Manteo, just out of reach.
“Aye,” said the standing soldier, “it makes a king a god! Give him some medicine.”
The man extended the bottle to Manteo. Manteo put it to his lips. The liquid went down easily, but afterward his mouth and throat felt afire. Nothing happened. “It not work,” he said.
Both men looked at one another and laughed. “Take another swaller,” said the man on the floor, “a big one.”
Manteo drank. Again the liquid went through him like fire. This time he felt warmth flowing into his arms and legs, then his head. His anger and worry began to leave him, as if he were pissing it away. He took another drink and the soldier on the floor told him to stop. The standing soldier took the bottle from him.
“That be enough,” said the standing soldier. “Yeh drank enough to put an ox on his knees.”
Both soldiers watched Manteo with interest.
“How do yeh feel?” said the soldier on the floor.
Manteo’s legs grew weak. He felt feverish and his head swayed. He sat and the room began to spin. “Manteo no savage,” he announced to the man sitting beside him. “Manteo is Christian. Manteo is lord of Roanoke and Dasamankpeuc.”
Manteo could no longer see the man but he heard him and the other laughing. Many visions unfolded in Manteo’s head. He saw the body of his father lying on a pallet, saw a boy standing beside it, crying. The laughter of the soldiers intruded on his vision. Angered, he got to his feet and staggered outside. He saw his mother walking in the distance. He hurried after her and she turned and saw him. She ran away. He saw only her back, her head angled forward as she closed her ears to his cries. He ran after her but she outdistanced him and was gone. Dizzy, he stopped to lean against the big house. The sun had swollen to twice its size and blazed down at him painfully. A helmeted face suddenly appeared in front of him.
“Who am I?” Manteo said.
“Yer Raleigh’s monster, that’s who yeh be.”
Manteo staggered away. His anger grew. He was no savage. He was Raleigh’s Croatoan Prince. He was Lord of Roanoke and Dasamankpeuc. He was Christian. He called Captain Stafford’s name as he staggered through the fort. Something slammed hard into him, knocking him to the ground. He got to his knees to the roar of laughter. All around him was a blur of faces. “Who am I?” he screamed at them. “Manteo no English! Manteo no savage! Who am I?”
“Yer Raleigh’s freak!” a voice spat.
“Raleigh’s prating savage,” shrieked another.
A figure loomed over Manteo. He reached out and someone struck him a blow to his head. He fell backward as the voices roared in laughter. Maggie Red Hair appeared, spinning at her wheel. He stared at the wheel, felt it beckoning him, pulling him close. He crawled toward it, vomiting violently, and the vision disappeared.
Later Manteo woke and got to his feet. It was quiet and cool. He staggered forward, guided by unseen spirits. Soon he found himself leaning against the rail fence to the Dares’ garden. A spray of red and blue flowers on the other side of the fence drew his eye. But, strangely, he could not smell their sweet fragrance. He leaned down closer to the flowers and the fence gave way under him. He collapsed onto the black earth.
Something light lit on his head. Maggie Red Hair was staring down at him.
“I am Manteo,” he said. “I am Christian.”
Maggie Red Hair’s eyes grew large. She turned away. “Mistress! Come quickly.” Maggie reached out to touch Manteo gently on the face. “What have they done to you?”
He reached for her and the very earth opened up beneath him and he fell down and away.
Chapter 30
England
John White sat before the fire, staring into the flames. He tilted the bottle back, shuddering as the wine ran down his throat. A large log issued a bluish plume of gas with a hiss like the sigh of a dying man. White’s hands and smock were splattered with colors and he was exhausted. He had finished his painting. He had recreated them and now they were here. He smiled in triumph. Then the image of Spencer’s peasant face pushed into his consciousness and he laughed aloud. He hadn’t seen the man in quite some time, evidently gone on to torture someone else with his infernal questions and talk. Thank God.
White enjoyed the heat of the fire as it penetrated to his bones, warming them. How long had it been since he’d seen Spencer? Strangely, his mind would not give him the answer. He was too tired. Was it weeks? Months? Had the man given up? He’d been as persistent as a London beggar, calling on White constantly, following him, wanting to help him get to Roanoke so he could tell the girl of her inheritance and reap his fee. So had he given up? White couldn’t believe it. He was not like that. He would not just give up.
White pulled absently at his beard. “Spencer would not give up,” a tiny voice in White’s head repeated. The tiny voic
e laughed. “Not give up like John White,” said the voice. A terrible realization began to assail John White, sickening him. Perhaps Spencer had gone on without him! While he, John White, had been locked up in here with his painting, perhaps Spencer had managed to find a ship. Perhaps he was now sailing to Virginia. The thought began to burn hotly inside White. “Impossible!” he railed drunkenly. He had done everything humanly possible to get ships. ‘Twas impossible! “No,” he shouted. “It could not be.”
He got to his feet. Pulling the curtains quickly aside, he stared at the painting. It was all there, the great forests towering behind and above them. The shallop gliding across the sound, bearing some of his people to Croatoan for a visit. A tall lookout tower that hadn’t been there when White had left, now rose from the palisade. Women held plump babies to their breasts. Savages stared out from tiny glades. And she waited for him in the garden of his cottage.
The painting had taken on a life of its own. Day and night he had worked on it. Days he had spent studying it, nights worshipping it. Now he saw what had happened. It had become a false god, fooling him, taking him down the wrong road. And now -- . Now!
He turned and threw the bottle into the hearth. The flames flared. He had been a fool. He went over to the painting. It covered the entire wall. They were all there, looking at him, smiling at him. But they were not. They were all over there. Waiting for him. Counting on him. And he had been wasting time here, deluding himself like a fool. God forgive him!
He grabbed at the painting, tearing a strip of it away. “Damn it to hell!” he shouted, throwing it into the hearth. Flames licked the images hungrily. The figures blackened and shrank, disappearing.
