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

by Paul Clayton

  Maggie knew what they were thinking. ‘Twas what they all thought about now -- what a horror their lives had become. At this very moment their two husbands were working out in the sun under guard, making bricks for the monster, Stafford. Maggie felt their pain as her own, but at least they had husbands and children to worry about. She had no one but Manteo and he was gone now, dead perhaps, or, hopefully, back with his own. It was just as well. For these women would never sanction her love for Manteo. Despite that, however, she did not hate them.

  Maggie put the wooden bowls of hot gruel down on the table and called to Virginia and John to come down. Eleanor Dare said a prayer for all and they ate slowly and wordlessly. Finishing, little Virginia left the table to sit in her chair before the hearth. She held her doll tightly and stared into the fire. John sat quietly at her feet, playing with his wooden soldiers.

  Eleanor and Margary watched them sadly as Maggie collected the bowls.

  Eleanor broke the silence. “Maggie, has Lionel Fisher recovered from his whipping?”

  “Aye. He is up and around, almost healed. Alice is taking good care of him.” Alice was the name Parson Lambert had given to Lionel’s Croatoan wife, Peenay.

  “Poor thing,” Margary said, referring to Alice Peenay’s loss of her baby. Maggie thought that ‘twas probably just as well, probably God’s mercy not to have a baby born into the hell that was Roanoke. Maggie wiped the bowls out and stacked them. The other women said nothing for a while. Finally Eleanor got to her feet.

  “We had better go and feed Ananias and Robert.”

  “I have their things ready for you, mistress,” said Maggie.

  “Maggie,” said Margary, her voice sad and wary, “will you go with Eleanor? I wish to stay with the children.”

  “Aye, mistress.” Maggie knew how difficult it must be for these two women to see their gentlemen husbands brought so low by Stafford and his bunch.

  Maggie carried the pot and Eleanor the bowls and a flask of water, as they exited the garden gate and started toward the common. Maggie noticed two soldiers in the shade of a cottage watching them. Her heart sank when they approached.

  The two men blocked their path. The younger of them was obviously drunk and could barely keep his feet. The older, a bearded, balding man carried a crossbow. He had a smirk on his face.

  “Maid Maggie Hagger?”

  “Aye.” Maggie could feel her heart beginning to pound.

  “Come with me.”

  Before Maggie could find her voice Eleanor said, “We will do no such thing. We have the captain’s permission to take this food to my husband and Sir Robert Harvey.”

  The man rudely pushed Eleanor out of the way. “Aye. You go take them their food. But the captain wants to see this wench now.” He took Maggie’s sleeve and pulled at her.

  “Stop,” said Eleanor. “We will both go. And then we will both go to see my husband and Sir Robert.”

  “As you like,” said the man. “Follow me.”

  As they followed the pair of soldiers, Maggie’s fear was negated somewhat by Eleanor’s presence. They neared the big house and the two soldiers stopped and turned to them. Maggie could smell the aroma of roasting meat. They could hear soldiers around the corner of the building, laughing and making merry, but they could not see them.

  “Wait here,” said the older soldier. He turned to his comrade. “Keep an eye on them.”

  The drunken soldier grunted as the other walked off. He looked at them dumbly, then leaned against the wall and stared at the ground.

  Maggie looked back the way they had come, frantically calculating the distance to the gate. She was on the point of dropping the pot and running when Eleanor cautioned her, “Maggie, we must put our trust in God.”

  The older soldier came back around the building. “The Captain will see you now.” Grabbing the drunk by the arm, he pulled him along.

  Maggie’s mouth was as dry as a cinder as she and Eleanor rounded the building. Soldiers sat or sprawled on the ground everywhere. Most of them wore skin kirtles and had been decorated with black tattoos. A few still wore the pitiful remains of their clothing and it barely covered them. The remains of a stag hung high over a damped down fire. The soldier led them toward a group of men and Maggie noticed Stafford standing in their midst. The soldier paused and said to her, “You go on alone. The captain wishes to talk with you, is all.” He turned to Eleanor. “You wait here.”

  Maggie’s heart pounded as she approached the men. She felt abandoned and vulnerable. As Stafford’s eyes met hers, the now-familiar revulsion came over her and a strange paralysis along with it. She paused and the soldiers watched her expectantly, several of them smiling wolfishly. The men standing before Stafford suddenly moved away, almost as one, as if the action had been planned. Stafford turned toward her. He wore no kirtle and was painted with hideous tattoos. His tumescent pole protruded out and upward. Shock and shame froze Maggie’s limbs and she could not move. Eleanor hurried forward and took her arm, pulling her backward.

  Maggie felt in a daze as Eleanor led her along. Crude, taunting laughter followed them. Finally they were well away from the soldiers to where Ananias and Sir Robert stood before a fire built up around a mound of bricks. Eleanor walked up to them and Maggie held back, looking at her feet, feeling leaden and faint.

  Someone tugged on her hand. “Maggie,” said Eleanor, “give me the pot.”

  Maggie looked at the pot handle in her hand, a hand that seemed to belong to someone else. She gave the pot to Eleanor. Ananias looked at her strangely and again Maggie felt shame and had to look away.

  “What has happened?” said Ananias.

  “Captain Stafford exposed his privities to her,” said Eleanor.

  Maggie’s heart began pounding anew as the two men turned to look at her. Suddenly she was running, their voices calling after her. She entered the Dare garden and crouched down against the massive bulk of the palisade. The dim shade soothed her somewhat but she longed for the blackness of night so she could completely hide herself.

  “Maggie!”

  Eleanor had followed her and now stood close by.

  Maggie turned her face to the wall. The cottage door creaked on its hinges.

  “Come inside,” Eleanor said. “Come have a cool drink of water.”

  Maggie could not speak and her shame would not permit her to look at Eleanor. She heard the door close but did not look up. She fell to her knees, sobbing. The day wore on and the heat of the common enveloped her. She leaned back against the palisade wall. Someone out on the common laughed softly. A lone gull called forlornly as it sailed overhead. One of the children cried and Maggie found the sound strangely comforting. She pulled her knees to her chest as the day’s heat finally began to dissipate. Her eyes closed and she fell in and out of consciousness. A sound approached. She recognized it as the tired shuffle of Masters Dare and Harvey. She could feel their eyes upon her, but she kept her own eyes down, feeling herself disappear from view, dissolving into airy vapor. A child began crying somewhere again and she found herself remembering that horrible thing that had happened so long ago. Deep male voices bellowed angrily as a woman shrieked in grief. A pot crashed to the floor and Maggie saw again the lower portion of the soldier holding his sword. She saw the man’s missing finger; she heard the other man plead with him. Now Maggie realized sadly that that broken voice was all she remembered of her own father. That pathetic plea, not for his own life, but for her to be taken out where she would not see his death, was all she had of him. The sword came down and she cried bitterly. She crouched alone until the light was gone and then she went inside the cottage.

  June 1, 1590. The Island of Dominica in the Caribbean Sea

  John White’s dream was a vortex of thoughts and worries, broken up by swift currents of fear, stirred by eddies of sadness. As he slowly surfaced to consciousness he became aware of the sea rumbling and sighing a short distance away. He opened his eyes in the tent. The light was dim and he waited and wa
tched groggily before sitting up. Day had dawned, it seemed to him, as eternally, and infernally as the waves rushing upon the beach that was not far away. He thought of his visit to the cunning man, John Simon, back in England, and his lying prediction, and he cursed him under his breath.

  Spencer slept heavily in one of the other beds. White tried not to wake him. The night before, in the glow of the solitary candle, Spencer’s incessant questions had worn on him. He was forever asking about the colony, the savages, the storms, the cold of winter, heat of summer, the creatures of the forest. And always, the questions eventually came round to Maggie. What did she look like? Was she attractive? What sort of nature had she? Was she fragile or strong of constitution? White had feigned sleep to put an end to the conversation.

  White stood and took his knife from his belt. He cut another notch into the tent pole nearest him. He counted them. Fifty-six days earlier they had anchored here off the island of Dominica in the Caribbean Sea. Then they constructed a crude, hidden fort, and stayed. The other ships, the John Evangelist, the Little John, and the Moonlight had never shown, having either sank in a storm, gotten lost, or returned home. They had only been here a week when the first Spanish ship had been spied. Cocke and his men had run it down, sending it and its cargo of gold, jewels, cochineal, peppers, and sugar home with a skeletal crew of English sailors. The passengers of the ship had been brought ashore for a while until Cocke arranged for their ransom.

  Just about every day White had been here he had left the others to walk the white beaches of this paradisiacal island where no men, but them, evidently lived. Like a shipwrecked soul he would pause as he stared out to sea. And in a crazy reversal, he would pray to God that no sail would be spied this day. Days, weeks, would go by, and when it seemed as if his prayers had been answered and Cocke’s wild men were growing bored and tired, lo and behold a cry of “Sail ahoy!” would ring out from one of the several hidden lookouts built up in the tallest palms. Then, like a nest of stirred ants, the men would begin rushing about to make ready to attack.

  The Spanish ships they’d taken had been woefully under-manned, many of them crewed by native and mix blood sailors who knew not how to rig a ship for outrunning marauders. And they had been poorly armed as well, most with less than half a dozen, rusting, oftentimes, inoperative cannon. The Spanish, it seemed, used most of their military assets to guarantee the safe passage of their treasure fleet, leaving all other ships to fend for themselves. And so, the English had done well, chasing down the unfortunate loners and hauling away everything those aboard owned, sometimes even including their very clothing.

  White dipped his cup into an opened hogshead of beer, bringing the now-sour liquid to his lips. He found a piece of bread to breakfast on and sat again. The bread was so hard he could hear his chewing in his head. Another sound tickled his ear. He stopped his chewing, listening carefully, but it went away. He went back to his meal.

  Spencer stirred on his bed, muttering unintelligibly. He smacked his lips, perhaps remembering some past feast in his dreams. Turning his head, his eyes opened suddenly and he saw White. He sat up.

  “What day is it?”

  “What does it matter?” said White.

  Spencer rubbed his eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them. “I dreamed we sailed today.”

  White frowned. “Every night I dream we sail. And when I awake I know we will not. There are too many Spanish ships still sailing about. Perhaps when the storms arrive.”

  Spencer looked at him with concern. “We will sail soon, I say.”

  White said nothing, his eyes focused on the canvas of the tent wall as if he saw scenes upon it.

  “Margaret Hagger is a hardy sort, I will wager,” said Spencer.

  White almost smiled in amusement. Spencer talked of her as if she were a fat, dull farm girl. White remembered her girlish figure, her freckles and red hair, the sparkle in her bright, intelligent eyes. He frowned at Spencer. “Bother me no more with such questions.”

  Spencer laughed. “In sooth, it matters not anyway.”

  White looked at him suspiciously, wondering what the man meant. Then he heard a cry outside. He thought he had heard it earlier, but this time he was certain. He got to his feet.

  “What is it?” said Spencer.

  White ignored him. It was the unmistakable cry of a child. The Spaniards and their families had been ransomed and shipped off weeks ago. But perhaps one of the children had managed to run away and hide in the jungle and was out there now. White went outside.

  The gang of men came out of the temporary fort and started toward the beach. Despite the heavy loads they carried -- four casks of water suspended from poles, coils of rope and bundles of sail cloth, wooden boxes of fruit -- their talk was raucous and jaunty, for their shares on this trip were fat, and likely to grow even fatter when the next Spaniard was spotted, and there was always another. As they neared the shallop they spied the white-haired governor probing the bushes at the edge of the jungle with a stick. The men grew quiet as they drew near him.

  “What are you doing, Governor?” said their helmsman.

  “I heard a child in there.”

  Several men laughed softly.

  “There are birds on the island,” said the helmsman, “that make a noise like a child’s cry.”

  “Nay,” said White. “I distinctly heard a child’s cry.”

  “He is mad,” said one of the men anonymously.

  White looked at them angrily, trying to determine who had insulted him. Giving up, he turned back to continue probing the underbrush. The men continued to watch him, several quietly speculating about his motives and his sanity. He confronted them angrily. “Have you no Spanish women and children to terrorize today?”

  “Not yet,” said a sailor, “but the day is young.”

  Bold guffaws erupted from the others. “Come along, men,” the helmsman called, “we’ve work to do.”

  The men moved off, laughing among themselves.

  White called after them angrily, “Scour the beaches, perhaps you’ll find a terrapin upon its back, helpless and ready for your ministrations, or perhaps a bug inside the jungle which can give up its legs for your merriment.”

  White cursed them until they disappeared down the beach. He then resumed his search. Finding nothing, he walked the beach in the other direction. As he looked out at the pretty blue sea, he prayed that no ships would be spied today.

  Chapter 41

  June 17, 1590. Roanoke

  Parson Lambert sat at the Dares’ table with Ananias and Robert Harvey. He looked up into the darkness of the loft from where Virginia’s cries emanated. Why did not Eleanor nor Maid Maggie go to the child? Instead, both women stared aimlessly into the embers of the fire. Lambert thought of what Ananias Dare had told him about Maggie going into the woods with Manteo. Had she gone mad? But they all seemed half-mad now. Captain Stafford was an evil shepherd who had stolen his flock away from him. Powhatan’s savages lurked behind the rocks and bushes like wolves, culling off the weak. Now the colonists were moving toward the cliffs where all would soon fall onto the rocks, bashing their brains out.

  Eleanor Dare set down some tea before Lambert. He looked up at one of the pine knot torches as the spider glided across the inside of his eye. He blinked it away. From outside came a mock wolf’s howl, followed by shrieks of laughter. Maggie looked at the door worriedly, then went up to the loft.

  Lambert got to his feet and paced nervously. “Will they never stop carrying on?” he said.

  “Let them enjoy their boose and mummery,” said Robert, “for it keeps them busy and away from us.”

  “Aye,” said Ananias. He shook his head worriedly. “But where do they get the strength? They seem to thrive here now.”

  “They brought in another game animal last night,” said Lambert, “a stag, perhaps.” Lambert remembered the smell of it wafting from behind the big house. He shook his head in anger and sat.

  “I think perhaps we shall get
rain tomorrow,” said Ananias.

  None of the others said anything.

  Up in the loft Virginia continued crying.

  Ananias looked over at Eleanor who had again sat down before the hearth to stare into the embers. “Can you please go to your child and comfort her?” he asked

  Eleanor seemed not to hear him and said nothing.

  “One of the soldiers claims to have spotted Manteo in the woods at the south end of the island,” said Parson Lambert.

  The others said nothing. Up in the loft Virginia finally stopped crying. Her spastic sputtering filled the cottage.

  “Someone must kill the captain,” said Eleanor softly.

  The men turned to her in surprise.

  “Eleanor!” Ananias was red-faced. “You must not say such a thing.”

  “Nay, Husband,” said Eleanor. Her voice grew hard and loud. “It must be said. ‘Tis what is in everyone’s hearts.”

  “Eleanor,” said Ananias softly, “even if one of us were a match for him, an armed man could never get close enough to kill him.”

  Eleanor came over to the table. She took the dagger Ananias had given her out of her bodice. “With this you can get close.” She stabbed it into the wood of the table with a loud, cracking sound, then turned away and climbed the stairs to the loft.

  For a long moment none of the men said anything.

  Parson Lambert stared at the dagger in shock. Made of blackened steel, only slightly longer than his hand, its shape was thin and needle-like. Made to be easily concealed, it could almost have passed for a clasp on a cape or shawl, except for its length, for it was long enough to reach through the ribs and into the heart. “Killing Stafford would be a grievous sin,” he said finally.

  “Something that size could easily be hidden under one’s shirt,” said Robert, ignoring him. He looked at Ananias. “But no one of us could get close enough to him without being searched.”