by Paul Clayton
Maggie thought she heard something at the door. “What was that?” she said.
They listened. What sounded like a large animal brushed against the door.
“Red Hair!”
Maggie’s heart raced as the children looked up, their eyes big with fear. The rough male voice had come from just the other side of the door.
“Red Hair! What do yeh got under yer skirts?”
The man was speaking into the seam between the door and the frame and it sounded as if he were in the room with them. “Red Hair! You in there?” He scratched at the door like an animal.
Maggie cringed. Margary went over and knelt by the children. She put her finger to her lips.
The door shook violently and Virginia cried out and ran to her mother.
“Children,” said Margary, “get up in the loft.”
The children scrambled up the stairs as the door continued to shake violently.
“Red Hair! Bitch!”
Maggie looked round for a place to hide. The other women watched her in shock. There was nowhere to run or hide. Margary quietly picked up a poker from the hearth. She went to the door and spoke softly. “Who is it?”
There was no answer and Margary leaned closer to the door. Suddenly the door was assaulted so violently that Maggie saw it bulge inward on its hinges. Thumps and curses filled the little cottage. Margary backed away and went to the cupboard, removing a small dagger. She gave it to Paulina and both women watched the door anxiously. The noisy assault went on for a long time and Maggie was sure the door would give way.
The noise stopped suddenly. Margary put her finger to her lips and they waited a while longer, but nothing further happened.
Margary went back to the door, Paulina behind her. Eleanor and Maggie watched from the table as Margary put her hand on the door handle.
Maggie cried out, “Stop!”
Margary slowly drew the bolt back. She opened the door and looked out angrily. “Would you look at this?”
Maggie went to the door. The big soldier called Goliath lay sprawled face down in the garden in a stupor. Although he had thinned like everyone else, he was still massive looking.
Maggie followed Margary outside. She looked down at the soldier and had the urge to kick him. Margary stepped over him and went to the fence. “There are a dozen of them over near the ramparts.” Margary left the garden and headed for the soldiers while Maggie and the other women followed her with trepidation. The soldiers watched them approach. Some wore looks of amusement, while others looked surly and angry. A few seemed put off balance by Margary Harvey’s boldness.
Margary pointed to the garden in front of her cottage. “Since you are all standing about with nothing to do, please remove that rubbish from my garden.”
Margary turned and walked back, followed by Maggie and the others. They went inside and Margary bolted the door. The children looked down from the loft. Turning, Margary’s shoulders suddenly slumped in exhaustion. She shook her head. “We must leave this fort and this island.”
“But Sir Mortimer and the others have not yet decided what to do,” said Paulina.
“Then we shall have to help them decide,” said Margary. “But leave we must!”
“Where will we go?” said Eleanor.
“We could go to Croatoan,” said Maggie, “and live with Manteo’s people.” The thought of moving lock, stock and barrel to Croatoan held no fear for Maggie. Nothing could be worse than the hell this place had become. And, she thought fondly, Manteo would be there with them.
“But,” said Eleanor, “when a ship finally does arrive, would they know to look for us there?”
Crude laughter came from the garden as the soldiers entered to remove their unconscious mate. The men talked in low voices. Several branches or fence sticks cracked audibly, followed by the sound of a heavy load being dragged off. The nearness of the voices and sounds was oppressive, and the women said nothing until the men were gone.
Chapter 35
January 26, 1590. Roanoke
As Mortimer Reed sat at his table he felt as if the early evening’s darkness would crush his little cottage. The little bit of boose he had got from the soldiers had filled his head with the throbbing of his own blood. Sometimes upon turning his head he would think he saw his dead son. Other times he would hear Catherine’s voice calling to him. She had spent her last days rocking in her chair before the hearth, her back to him. Even after her fever forced her to bed she would not look into his eyes nor forgive him for being away when their son had died.
How long had they been in this place, Mortimer wondered. His mind was dulled from the boose. Over two years now, ‘twas! He could not imagine Raleigh and his backers abandoning them here. If Raleigh had believed there was gold in this place, he would want to know if their efforts to find it had borne fruit. So what had happened? Perhaps it was time to go, as Robert and the others insisted. Mortimer thought their idea to send the shallop to the cod banks for help was too desperate. The shallop was indispensable. An overland move was wiser. Perhaps they could go south to the territory of the Spanish. He’d rather take his chances with them than the sea or the savages. At least with the Spanish there was the possibility of being released for a ransom.
Mortimer got to his feet. Despite the bitter cold, Robert had called a meeting for this night. He went outside and headed for the storehouse. The sky was a dark slab of granite weighing down upon the earth as ghostly plumes of white smoke issued anemically from the cottage chimneys. Their occupants remained inside, too hungry and sick to venture outside. Mortimer heard a shout. A soldier climbed down from the ramparts and opened the gate. Captain Stafford and his soldiers marched in slowly, lighting their way with pitch pine torches. Mortimer saw that they carried four baskets slung from poles. That would be savage corn. Another two men carried about a dozen things dangling from a pole between them. Mortimer’s mouth began salivating as he realized that they were smoked hams. Where in Hades had they found hams? Perhaps a ship had finally arrived and was now being unloaded. Praise God! He hurried forward, hoping none of the others in their cottages would see the hams before he had had his cut. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the soldiers’ tread was not the resurgent, hopeful tread of men who were now saved from slow starvation or brutal death at the hands of the savages. Instead, their walk was heavy and slow. They were sullen, and looked meaner and lower than the savages.
The baskets passed before him -- ears of purple, yellow and blue savage corn. He looked hungrily at the other pole and revulsion filled him. They were not hams, but rather the severed heads of savages, swinging from their long hair tied to the pole. Most of them had their eyes closed, but one particular one’s eyes were wide open and it seemed to be cognizant of its surroundings. Whether ‘twas a trick of the torch light or not, Mortimer could not tell, but the head appeared to have a spark of consciousness and it was looking straight at him! A surgeon friend in London who had attended many beheadings for purposes of study had once told him that it was not uncommon for a freshly lopped-off head to look around at its surroundings, blink its eyes, even smile or snarl menacingly.
Mortimer made his way to the storehouse, his heart beating rapidly. In the west the clouds glowed an angry, cherry red. He went into the storehouse. Torches burned at the far side of the building and he headed for them.
Ananias Dare, Parson Lambert, and Phillip Mattingly sat upon small kegs pulled before a crude plank table. Robert Harvey stood before them.
“Did you see the heads?” said Mortimer as he came up to them.
Robert frowned. “Nay. But we heard they had taken heads.”
“One of them seemed still to be alive,” said Mortimer in amazement. He looked at Parson Lambert. “Is that possible?”
Parson Lambert appeared deeply saddened and shook his head without comment.
“Mortimer,” said Robert patiently, “we are going to send the shallop to the cod banks for help.”
“What if a ship calls after yo
u leave?” said Mortimer.
Phillip erupted shrilly. “Mortimer! Come to your senses, man. There will be no ships. No ships, do you understand?”
Mortimer sat down heavily and sighed. “Perhaps. But Captain Stafford will never approve of the idea.”
“It no longer matters if he approves or not,” said Robert. “We are the majority now.”
“Aye,” said Phillip. “Mortimer, are you with us on this?”
Mortimer nodded grimly. “Aye.”
A noise came from the far side of the storehouse as someone entered. They waited silently for them to cross the darkened expanse of the building. Lieutenant Hawkins and the giant sergeant, Goliath, stepped into the torch-lit area. Both men were ruddy-faced from drinking boose.
“What do you men want?” said Robert.
Hawkins scowled arrogantly. “Captain Stafford will attend the meeting.”
“I see,” said Robert, “but we have already concluded the meeting.”
Lieutenant Hawkins said nothing, scowling darkly instead. He and Goliath sat. Robert and the other gentlemen waited silently. The door opened and stayed open as about a dozen soldiers filed in. Several of them carried torches as they wound their way across the storehouse. The soldiers surrounded the table, standing stiffly at attention. Captain Stafford stepped before the plank table. Robert stared at him in amazed contempt. Stafford had shed his threadbare breeches for a skin kirtle, and, despite the cold, wore only a necklace of animal teeth upon his chest, a trophy evidently taken from one of the savages he had killed. His eyes were hard and evil looking.
“I am sorry I am late for the meeting,” Stafford said coldly. “Be there a vote on some issue?”
“Aye,” said Robert, “there was. We have voted to send two men on the shallop to bring back help.”
Captain Stafford shook his head slowly. “That would be a foolish waste of two men and our only boat. I vote nay.”
His men laughed softly.
“I am afraid you are outvoted, Captain,” said Robert. “We have voted unanimously to send the shallop.”
Stafford stepped closer to Robert. “Did ye now?” He glared at each of the Assistants in turn. “Well, I am rescinding yer votes. And from now on ye will address me as Governor.”
The gentlemen Assistants gasped audibly. Robert shook his head in disbelief. He turned angrily to Hawkins and the other soldiers. “You must not stand with the captain in this, men. ‘Tis mutiny!”
The men returned his look with stone-faced silence.
“Soon a ship will come,” Ananias blurted out, “and you will all hang for this!”
The men laughed and Ananias looked down in shame.
“As of this moment,” said Stafford, “this body be disbanded. We have no further need of it. Tomorrow ye’ll assemble in the storehouse for assignation of work details. There will be no more layin’ about whilst others do yer share of work. Do ye understand?”
“Aye,” said Mortimer.
The other gentlemen remained silent.
“Make ‘em to work,” muttered a soldier.
Others took up the cry. “Aye, put ‘em to work!”
“Worthless layabouts!”
Phillip Mattingly turned to Robert and the other gentlemen. “This is preposterous,” he said shrilly, “a yeoman’s son giving orders to three gentlemen!”
Stafford moved with lightning speed, striking Phillip across the face and knocking him down. He stood over Phillip as the smaller man’s nose began trickling blood.
“Captain Stafford,” said Parson Lambert, “I beg of you to stop. Now you have gone too far.”
“Shut up, Priest,” said Stafford, holding up his hand for silence while not taking his eyes off Phillip. Stafford’s voice had an edge of sharpened steel. “Get on yer knees, knave.”
Phillip looked furtively at Robert and the others before getting slowly to his knees.
Stafford pulled his sword.
Robert turned to the soldiers. “Stop this immediately! I command you in the name of Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“Raleigh?” spat Lieutenant Hawkins. “Raleigh pulls an oar in a Spanish galleus!”
“Or he be dead from the plague,” said a soldier.
“Better he be dead,” said another, laughing.
“Shut up,” said Stafford, glaring round at them, “all of ye!” He looked back down at Phillip. “If the lowliest of my men spoke to me as yeh jest have, he would have lost his head. Why should yeh be any different?”
Phillip’s lips quivered as he looked pleadingly at Robert and Parson Lambert.
“Kiss it,” said Stafford.
“Captain?” Phillip stammered.
Stafford extended his sword, holding it inches from Phillip’s face. “Kiss it and ye’ll only get a whipping. Refuse and ye’ll hang!”
Phillip closed his eyes, leaned forward and kissed the sword. The soldiers laughed and Phillip’s head dropped in shame.
“Now,” said Stafford, “on yer feet, cur, I mean sir.” More laughing ensued. Stafford turned to Lieutenant Hawkins. “Give him ten lashes.” Stafford looked at Robert and the other gentlemen. “Yeh go with him.”
Lieutenant Hawkins pulled Phillip outside the storehouse followed by half a dozen soldiers, three of them bearing torches. Robert and the other gentlemen followed. Hawkins tied Phillip’s hands to a ring set in the logs of the building and ripped his shirt down to his waist. Several soldiers had already sat down on the empty casks and barrels and a native gourd full of boose was making the rounds. One of the soldiers brought Hawkins a coiled-up whip.
Hawkins uncoiled the whip and struck the first blow. Phillip screamed shrilly. He jerked about, trying to break his cords as Hawkins delivered another blow. By the fifth, the little gentleman hung motionless in a dead faint.
“Halt!” Stafford’s voice rang out. “He feels nothing now. Priest. Take him out of here.”
Parson Lambert and a soldier carried Phillip off into the darkness. Stafford took a torch from one of the soldiers and approached Robert and the others. Robert noticed that Lieutenant Hawkins carried a mattock and two hoes. His heart began to pound.
“Follow me,” said Stafford. He turned to the soldiers. “Off yer arses. There be work to do.”
Robert, Ananias, and Mortimer followed Stafford, as Hawkins and the mob of soldiers brought up the rear. Robert’s heart beat like a drum as they headed toward the darkness between the big house and the palisade wall. What in God’s name had Stafford planned? Surely he would not be so bold as to -- Robert could not complete the thought.
When they rounded the building, Stafford paused. He brought the torch close to their faces. Robert knew they were going to die.
Stafford said to Ananias. “Yeh helped Governor White bury his chests, did yeh not?”
Ananias nodded, swallowing hard.
Robert felt some relief as he recalled John White having a dozen or so holes dug one hot summer’s night so as to confuse anyone who might try and steal his chests.
“Where do they be?” demanded Stafford.
Ananias pointed. “I will show you.” He paced off from the back of the big house and scratched a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He went to the palisade wall and paced off to the big house, pointing to where the lines intersected. “There, in a line toward the palisade.”
Stafford grabbed a hoe from Lieutenant Hawkins and threw it at Ananias. “Start digging.”
Stafford gave the mattock to Robert and the other hoe to Mortimer. “Be quick about it,” he said as he stood back with Hawkins.
As Robert broke the ground up with his mattock, Ananias and Mortimer pulled the loose earth up out of the hole. Stafford and the soldiers watched them closely, drinking and talking quietly. Soon Robert was breathing hard and the trench was at least two feet deep. He hoped that Ananias had not miscalculated. As if reading his thoughts, Stafford came forward with the torch to look into the hole and glare at them. Ananias hurriedly pulled the wet earth out of the hole. Finally his
hoe struck the wood of a chest hollowly.
“Here is one.”
Stafford pushed Ananias aside and took his hoe. He handed him the torch. “Hold this!
“Hawkins! Give me a hand here.”
Both men quickly uncovered the first chest and pulled it clear of the earth.
“Bring that light closer,” Stafford growled. As he knelt, he called around to the soldiers. “Get busy. Bring the other chests up now.”
The soldiers took the digging tools from Robert and Mortimer. Robert watched in disgust and fear as the soldiers pushed and shoved drunkenly, laughing and fighting as they dug. Soon the other chests were on the ground, the soldiers attacking them with swords and poleaxes to break them open. A moment later Governor White’s things were scattered all over the muddy ground. Shirts and breeches were ripped and torn as drunken soldiers fought over them. Brass surveyor’s tools were inspected curiously, then tossed aside. The chest containing White’s armor was broken into and soon several soldiers strutted about wearing pieces of it. Next, the chests containing White’s books and charts were opened and the soldiers grew angry at not finding more useful things. They cursed as they ripped the pages from the books and flung them in the air. Robert could not stop himself from picking up a chart of Santa Cruz Island that lay on the ground. A short toothless soldier took it from him. The man glared at him as he ripped it to pieces and threw them at his feet. Robert’s disgust was exceeded only by his fear. These men were no longer soldiers. They were not civilized men. They were ignorant, brutal savages. As Robert looked around at the rubble and trash that represented years of Governor White’s patient, detailed surveying, description and analysis, he was heartsick. The whole business seemed to confirm his belief that White was dead, for it seemed as if he was witnessing a grave robbing. Stafford opened a box and carefully lifted out White’s big, Petronel pistol and bags of shot and powder. “Ah!” he said with satisfaction, “here be something useful to me!”
“Aye,” said Hawkins, “good.” He lifted several of White’s sketches and watercolors out. The sketch of a tattooed man lay on top of the stack.
