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

by Paul Clayton

  “Nay, sir,” said Maggie, disgust and fear rising in her as she walked on.

  “Nay?” said Stafford, “When I be ready I shall have yeh, wench.”

  “I would die first,” she called back, her heart racing.

  “Aye, ye’ll die! I’ll fuck yeh till yer little red cunt runs with blood.”

  Maggie hurried away, the laughter of the soldiers stinging her ears.

  Early the next day, Maggie cleaned the hearthstones and swept the cottage floor. Stafford’s horrid words still reverberated in her head and she longed to be away and into the forest. Soon Eleanor and Virginia awoke and Maggie’s time was taken up with them. Around noontime she grabbed a sack from the mantle and left the cottage. She saw only one soldier on the ramparts as she walked to the gate. Outside the fort in the distance, a small group of men worked at something. She walked quickly toward the woods as if she were headed for the sound to collect shellfish. Once inside the silent trees she turned north. She had not gone far when Manteo stepped out from behind a tree.

  He smiled. “Come.”

  Maggie followed him beneath the trees till they came to the sound. Manteo walked out of the trees down to the water. She followed, pausing at the water’s edge as Manteo waded into the water up to his knees.

  Maggie held back. “What are you doing?”

  “Bathing. Come.”

  She did not move. “What about my clothes?”

  “They will dry.”

  “But ‘tis cold!” she said.

  “Aye.” He smiled. “Cold good.”

  “They say it makes one sick.”

  He smiled. “Nay. ‘Tis good.” He held his hand out and she went to him. They waded out till the cold water was up to their waists. She shivered and clung to him fearfully. He lowered himself and dipped his head under the water, coming up and shaking himself like a hound. She laughed.

  “‘Tis good,” he said. “Now you.”

  Maggie immersed herself in the cool water, then shook her hair out. The bath made her feel better, as if the waters were washing away her pain and sadness.

  Manteo took her hand. “Come.” He led her up the beach. They reentered the quiet of the woods and walked back in the direction of the fort. A voice hailed them and Manteo’s Croatoan friend, Bear Killer stepped from behind the bushes. Then two other braves and a woman with tattoos on her face that Maggie recognized as Manteo’s mother.

  The braves removed several skin bags they carried over their shoulder and handed them to Manteo. Manteo’s mother gave Maggie a gourd and bade her to drink. Maggie drank down a cool fusion of fruits and tea that seemed to bring her tired limbs to life. Manteo and his people talked merrily in their language for a few moments and then they went away.

  Manteo took Maggie’s hand wordlessly, leading her to a copse of bushes. They crawled inside on hands and knees. The copse reminded Maggie of a native house, with a soft floor of pine needles. Manteo gave Maggie a hunk of pemmican from one of the sacks, which she ate slowly without talking. Finishing, she lay down and he lay beside her. They looked up at the canopy of leaves, saying nothing. Then Maggie took his hand and put it upon her breast. He turned to her and kissed her. They made love slowly. For a time Maggie forgot everyone and everything in her passion. When they finished, she cried and clung to him. He smiled at her, kissing away her tears. He raised his head, listening.

  “Wait here,” he said. He crawled out of the animal-sized entry hole of the copse. Maggie lay still, unable to move for a few moments until he returned and was once again looking down upon her. “What was it?” she said.

  “A rabbit, perhaps. Or a squirrel.”

  She reached up to caress his face. “We will die here.”

  He frowned. “Nay. We no die.”

  She shook her head. “Aye, Manteo. We will die here. But now I am not afraid.”

  “Manteo no afraid,” he said. “I take you and Dares, Harveys, Lionel and his wife, the others, the children, Croatoan people too. We go somewhere no one bother us, not Powhatan, not soldiers, no one.”

  “Where is this place?” Maggie asked, beginning to feel a stirring of hope within.

  “Where the Mangoak River falls down from the heights. A good place where there is plenty of fish and game.”

  Maggie smiled at the thought of it. Then her face darkened. “How can we all get away with the soldiers watching us?”

  “We get there.” Manteo lowered his face to kiss her and they made love again, hungrily, their excited sighs mingling with the rustle of the leaves overhead.

  ***

  Thomas knelt with Lieutenant Hawkins as they peered into the smoke over the burnt out remains of a savage longhouse. Captain Stafford crouched behind them. Thomas was ready to pass out and most of the other men were in similar straits. The savages had burned their own houses rather than surrender them, and half the village lay in smoldering ash heaps. But Captain Stafford cared not about their hovels. It was their granary he was trying to secure and they were damned close. Thomas realized they desperately needed whatever food they might find inside or they might not have the strength to make it back to the fort. After two days of almost no rations, they were dangerously weak. He doubted they could do any sustained fighting.

  Thomas lifted his head higher and an arrow whispered close by like an angry bird. Captain Stafford motioned to the men on his left to move and they did, but sluggishly. Thomas flinched as one caught an arrow in the belly, grunting dumbly before sitting down in the open where three more savage arrows quickly found him. Then the captain turned to Thomas and Hawkins.

  “On yer feet. Rush them.”

  For a moment, Thomas did not move. Then the captain kicked him in the buttocks. “On yer feet, Tommy boy!”

  They ran forward in a crouch as more arrows flew past. They jumped down behind the safety of another pile of rubble and Thomas saw the granary longhouse about fifty feet ahead. He peered round the edge of the rubble heap, hoping to see the other men, but they had not come up yet. Searching the clearing behind, he spotted the men hiding behind the collapsed heap of a house, their advance thwarted by the expertly aimed arrows of the savages. Captain Stafford also saw them and spat in disgust. “Craven cowards,” he called out, before turning back to watch the granary.

  “Look,” said Thomas. Four savage women carried baskets out of the granary, hurrying away. “They are moving the corn out!” Thomas shouted.

  Captain Stafford forced himself to his feet. They had to attack. “Let’s go!” he shouted. He had just taken a step when three savages rushed into the clearing, screaming like devils. He closed with the first, a wild-eyed boy, parrying the forceful blows of his wooden club. Behind, he heard Hawkins curse as he fought another. Stafford sidestepped the young savage’s rapid thrusts and swings but soon found his strength and speed being sapped. He felt as if his limbs were made of lead, his lungs on fire. The boy landed a blow on him like the kick of a mule, sending his sword flying and knocking him to the ground. The boy’s eyes lit up as he moved in for the kill. Stafford pulled the pistol from his belt and fired at the boy’s belly, knocking him backward into a heap. Stafford got to his feet as quickly as he could, retrieving his sword. He turned to see Hawkins thrusting his sword into a savage. Ten feet away he saw Thomas wrestling on the ground with another, his sword lying in the dirt. The savage struck Thomas a blow, stunning him, then straddled him, preparing to bash his brains out. Stafford ran the savage through from behind, kicking him off of the boy. Stafford extended his hand to Thomas, helping him to his feet. Hawkins came over, his breath whistling heavily through his few remaining teeth.

  Stafford looked round the clearing. “Over there,” he said hoarsely, “round up the others and let’s go before they take all the corn.”

  Before they could move they heard the hungry crackling of a fresh fire. Flames quickly licked up the woven cane wall of the granary.

  “Hedge-born devils!” Stafford cursed. He inched around to the right, ready to make a dash, but another
flurry of arrows drove him back. “Bastards!” Long red flames hungrily consumed the flimsy dwelling, sending black smoky tendrils racing skyward. Stafford turned to Hawkins. “Come on.”

  They rushed out, but this time there were no arrows to drive them back, only the searing heat of the fire. Stafford hurried forward, low to the ground. He knelt to rest behind a broad tree stump. The walls of the granary were already gone and the poles of the foundation burned furiously. The lashings gave out and the entire structure crashed inward in a heap. Stafford ran to the next tree stump, getting closer. Again, no arrows assailed them. He scanned the remaining area of the fire-blackened clearing that had recently been a village and saw no evidence of savages. He stepped boldly out from behind the stump and approached the now smoldering remains of the granary. Hawkins and Thomas came up cautiously behind him.

  “It’s all burned up,” Thomas cried.

  “What the scabbed devils couldn’t carry off,” said Hawkins.

  The rest of the men came up slowly, sitting down dejectedly in the dirt and blackened rubble.

  Stafford staggered from the heat of the fires as black soot burned into his nostrils and pores. Exhaustion weighed him down like a millstone, an exhaustion he’d never experienced the likes of before, not even in Munster. He wanted nothing more in the world than to sit. But he’d be damned if he would squat down in the dirt like some beaten Irish rebel.

  He picked up a cane pole and poked exploratively through the rubble, finding a half-burned basket of corn. “Hawkins!” He coughed and spat black phlegm. “Gimme a hand with this!”

  They dragged the basket out of the rubble that had been the granary. Stafford squatted beside it. He scraped off the top layer of still-smoldering burned grains, revealing the bulk of corn, parched by the heat, but unburned and edible. He stood, looking down at Hawkins who had again flopped down dejectedly on the sooty earth.

  “Divide it up. See that every man gets his share. It’s all we’ll have till we get back to the fort.”

  “Aye,” said Hawkins sullenly. But he did not move.

  Stafford looked around at his men. They sat on the blackened ground, staring at their feet.

  “Yer all goin’ to die on me now, are ye?” said Stafford. “Is that it?”

  Some of the men looked at him, while most kept their eyes down.

  Stafford pointed to a man who lay dying, panting noisily.

  “See him! He be ready to die.” Stafford turned to Thomas. “And lad, are yeh ready?”

  Thomas scowled. “Nay, Captain.” He got slowly to his feet.

  “Good lad. All of ye! On yer feet!”

  Several more men grudgingly got to their feet. The others remained sprawled in the dirt. Stafford put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Any of ye still on the ground when this sword comes out will die on the ground!” He began slowly pulling his sword from its scabbard.

  The men got slowly to their feet, glowering darkly.

  “That’s it, lads,” Stafford said. Turning, he spotted a body in the twisted mess of poles and thatch. He went over to it. In death, the savage appeared to be attempting to pull the crossbow bolt out of his chest. He lay on the red-hot coals of burned palmetto thatch and the odor of his burnt flesh tickled Stafford’s nose. Stafford quickly hacked the head from the body and tied it by its hair to his belt. Nodding at the others who watched him, he said, “Go back there and take the other heads.” He called to Hawkins. “Give every man his share of corn and let’s be goin’.”

  After the sun set Stafford and his men wearily hauled the shallop up onto the beach at Roanoke. As they started back toward the fort Stafford heard none of the usual ribald jokes and soldierly banter from his men. Instead they walked slowly without speaking, like the condemned on their way to the gallows. He knew they could not go on like this much longer. They would begin dying within days if they did not get meat. But how? What could he do? How could he provide meat where there was none? He walked in silence, recalling the battle and its aftermath. A thought suddenly struck him. He called Lieutenant Hawkins over and ordered the column to halt. They spoke quietly out of earshot of the others.

  ***

  As Manteo and Maggie walked silently through the woods on their way back to the fort, they could see the blue of the sound through the gaps in the trees. The sun had already set and the western sky was turning pink. Manteo put a warning hand on Maggie’s shoulder and they crouched down behind the bushes.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Manteo pointed between the trees and Maggie saw the shallop in the surf. The soldiers were pulling it up onto the sand.

  “We wait,” said Manteo.

  They watched the distant figures as they secured the shallop. The light began to grey, the shadows to deepen. Most of the soldiers left the shallop and two stayed behind to guard it. Manteo and Maggie stayed hidden for a while and then again started in the direction of the fort. After they had gone half a mile, Manteo again motioned Maggie to crouch down. They crept forward, peering out from the edge of the woods. In the growing dimness, Maggie saw soldiers digging in the dirt, while others piled wood onto a pyre. They removed something long and heavy from the earth and lay it flat. A soldier brought his poleax down on it several times and they threw something on the fire.

  “What is it?” said Maggie.

  “Wanchese’s brave,” said Manteo. “Manteo saw the gentlemen bury him there. Now the soldiers are eating him.”

  April 16, 1590. Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea

  On the high poopdeck of the Hopewell, John White and Benjamin Spencer leaned against the rail and stared down at the waist of the ship. The wind was slack and the sun burned down on the ship mercilessly. They had been at sea for over a month and had lost sight of the other two ships a week earlier. They said nothing as they watched the sailors at their chores below. White watched one gang of men strutting and displaying their muscles the way a cock does his feathers in a barnyard. Another work gang laughed and taunted them. An argument erupted between the two groups and the two crew leaders confronted each other. The younger man, squat, broad and bearded, with a ring in his ear, stepped on the leathery-faced, older man’s boot, pinning him. A quick blow to the face knocked the hapless man to the deck with a thud and the other men exploded in angry shouts and cheers of encouragement. They rushed forward as the two men rolled on the deck. The younger man quickly overpowered and straddled his opponent, pummeling his face and chest.

  “Hold!” came the First Mate’s call and the din died. “There’s work to be done, lads.”

  The older man picked himself up and rubbed away the blood streaming from his nose. With muffled curses and laughter, both crews went back to their work.

  “They are a hardy lot,” said Spencer admiringly, “with no poverty of strength. The bloody Spaniards certainly found that out.”

  White scoffed. “They have a poverty of manners and brains, and a surfeit of vanity and cruelty.”

  “They may be ignorant,” said Spencer, “but they are still Englishmen, God-fearing and loyal to our Queen.”

  “Rubbish,” said White. “How can you say that after all that has happened? Without a Hawkins or a Drake to control them they’d all have had their final dance at the end of a rope by now.”

  “Sir!” Shock colored Spencer’s voice. “Surely you do not mean to speak so cruelly of your fellow countrymen?”

  White’s face was red as he nodded. “Aye. I do. I mean every word of it. And the lot we have in Virginia is not much better.”

  “Yeh have an excellent officer in charge. From all the reports I’ve received, Captain Stafford is a top-notch man. He will keep things in top order.”

  White said nothing, his brow furrowing into deeply etched lines.

  “Tell me that is not so?” said Spencer.

  White didn’t answer. Instead he stared intently at the horizon as if straining to see all the way to his city in Virginia.

  Chapter 39

  April 23, 1590. Roanoker />
  Maggie stared into the flames of the hearth as she thought of the evil thing that Stafford and his men had done the night before. Her mind twisted back and forth between disbelief and horror. She herself would rather starve than -- She could not take the thought further. Up in the loft, Eleanor talked softly to Virginia as she got her ready for bed. A few feet away, Ananias, Sir Robert, and Lionel Fisher sat around the table, each lost in his thoughts as they smoked silently. Maggie watched a large moth fly into one of the two pitch-pine torches and burn up with a pop. Tonight Master Harvey and Lionel would attempt to steal the shallop and sail away to find help. Despite all they risked for themselves and their families, all she could do for them was pray that they would make it safely and bring a ship back here to take everyone home. If they were successful, she wondered, would she go aboard? Or would she remain here with Manteo? ‘Twas more likely she would be dead by then anyway.

  Maggie stirred the embers and threw a small log on the flames. The Dares and the other gentlefolk now knew all about her and Manteo. And although they were fond of Manteo, they did not approve. Maggie was, of course, under contract to the Dares, and they could forbid her to see him. But she knew they would not. They knew she would not obey, and she and Manteo were the least of their worries now. Of course all that could change if a ship suddenly appeared.

  Lionel sat at the plank table in the Dares’ cottage thinking of their impending escape, as the wind moaned outside. The night was black, with no moon, nor stars. Paulina had already informed them that the soldiers had brewed up a new batch of boose. They were already up at the big house drinking. At some point they would pass out and then Paulina and a couple other women would entice her man, Rogers, and his mates down off the wall and get them drunk. Then Masters Harvey and Dare, and he, would go out and climb over the palisade. When they were safely outside and well away from the walls of the fort, Manteo would start a fire, drawing away the men guarding the shallop. If all went well, in two hours of the clock, Ananias and Manteo would help them put the little shallop in the water, then push it into the sound with himself and Sir Robert aboard. They would then sail the little boat out to sea. The plan was desperate and dangerous, but they had no other course than to do nothing and slowly starve or go mad. And Peenay was again carrying his child. That very fact dictated that he must do something.