by Paul Clayton
White became aware of the roar of the surf. They had drawn ahead of the Moonlight’s boat and would go through the channel first. White could see it ahead as they crested a wave. The water boiled like a witch’s caldron as it poured through the cut in the sandy banks. A cold blade of fear tickled White’s gut. The noise seemed to double in volume and White sensed a growing tension among the sailors. Several turned their heads to get a look at what awaited them
“Eyes straight, lads,” Cocke cautioned them, “I will be your eyes.”
Gripping his seat as they drew closer, White craned his head for a look. The water ahead dipped and leapt as if a great battle were taking place beneath the surface. A moment later currents assaulted their boat, jerking it hither and fro. The sailors were grim faced as they pulled against the agitated water. Cocke’s face was void of concern as he called to them. “Steady, men. Steady. Pull hard now.”
The boat suddenly surged forward like a living thing and White’s heart raced. Then, with a sickening feeling, they began to slowly turn sideways. A large wave broke over the gunnels, soaking them and filling the boat to their ankles. While White and others bailed frantically, the sailors cursed and dug in their oars, fighting for control. The boat moved leadenly with the added weight of the water and another wave sloshed over the gunnels to foam about their feet. Cocke’s shout was lost in the roar of the surf and White was sure the boat would go down as the bank rushed dizzily by. Then, miraculously, their dizzy movement slowed and the roaring hiss began to abate. White and the others continued to bail.
“Good work, men,” Cocke called out, “we are through. Put in quickly now. We will stand by as the others come through.”
Several men smiled in relief while others angrily cursed at the sea.
Cocke stood and pointed. “Put in there. After the others pass through we will cross the sound to Roanoke.”
The boat ground on the sand and the sailors jumped out, pulling it quickly up onto the beach. They hurried across the sandy bank to watch as the Moonlight’s boat approached the channel. White picked out Spencer from the others as the boat quickly approached. The boat entered the channel and raced through, jumping and leaping like a runaway carriage. Inside, the men looked tiny and pathetic. A large wave rose up out of nowhere and White knew it would swamp them. It hit the boat broadside, turning it over in the blink of an eye. White heard the wooden clunk of an oar against the hull of the boat, a few shouts, then only the hissing roar of the sea. He seemed rooted to the sand, unable to move. The close-by shouts of the sailors brought him to. Captain Cocke and his men quickly put their boat back into the water. White ran for the beach with the other sailors. They waded quickly out into the surf up to their waists. An oar raced toward White, became stuck upon the sand, then glided back out on the surge. White had great difficulty keeping his feet on the wet, moving sand. Two men nearby shouted at him for help as they bent to grab ahold of something. He went to them and saw them pulling a man by his clothes. White grabbed hold of the man’s doublet and saw that it was Spencer. His eyes were closed and he was unconscious. His clothes had filled with the wet sand and he was the weight of three men. White and the others slowly dragged him up onto the sand. White’s foot turned and an excruciating pain exploded in his hip. He fell down in the surf as the foaming water raged around him. One of the sailors helped him up onto dry sand as four others continued to drag Spencer up onto the beach. They lay him down and ran back into the water to search for others.
White hobbled over to kneel beside Spencer. He looked down on him, wondering if he were dead. The big man’s eyes opened slowly. His hand found White’s collar and pulled him close. White could not pull away and he was amazed by the man’s strength. Spencer’s eyes closed and his mouth opened. “The girl,” he croaked, “you must take her…”
White tried to pull away but still could not.
Spencer’s eyes opened again, bulging angrily. He coughed. Then his hand relaxed and he drifted down into death. White pulled free and sat helplessly as the sailors dragged another man out of the surf. The man coughed and spat up seawater. A moment later the overturned boat washed ashore and was righted. Two more men managed to swim to shore and five more dead men washed up.
White’s hip ached as he watched the sailors line the bodies up. Others were already digging graves near the trees. White went over to them. A sailor turned to him and scowled, calling out, “Jonah! Stay away!”
White quivered with anger. How could they blame him? “I’d rather a Jonah be,” he called to them, “than a Judas.”
“Go away,” said another. He picked up a rock and threw it at White.
White fell as he dodged the missile. He pointed in the direction of Roanoke. “Fool! There are English people there who need our help. Women and children.”
“Nay,” said a young man, “they are all dead!”
White got to his feet and walked painfully over to a piece of driftwood. He sat. Captain Cocke and the ship’s carpenter went into the trees. They returned a few moments later. The carpenter handed White a walking stick he had fashioned out of a tree branch.
Later, White stood back a ways from the others as Cocke read a prayer over the neatly lined-up bodies on the sand. After the dead were buried, the men wandered off to sit under the trees and White sat alone. After a long while of inactivity he could take it no longer. He walked over to where Cocke and Chandler talked quietly together.
“What in heaven’s name are we waiting for?” he said.
“The men will go no further, Governor,” said Chandler.
White ignored Chandler and spoke directly to Cocke. “We must go on. We are only four short miles away. The women and children must be saved.”
“Aye, Governor,” said Cocke tiredly. “I will talk to the men shortly. But for now, leave them be.”
White could not contain his agitation. “The hour grows late, sir.” He looked at the sky. “We will need several hours to cross over to the island.”
Cocke looked at him wearily. “In due time.”
White walked off and again sat by himself. The sailors sat in a group talking quietly and occasionally casting suspicious looks at him. White scanned the horizon. Thank God the weather hadn’t grown worse, he thought. But if they sat about long enough it might. White got to his feet. With the aid of his stick, he walked painfully along the bank of the channel. He paused and looked out across the sound at Roanoke. God in heaven, help them get across, he prayed. They had come so far. What were these last few steps? He prayed briefly for Spencer’s soul and found some comfort in the death. Was it God’s punishment? It seemed too harsh a thought and he felt shameful for thinking it. But he could no longer stop the thoughts that assailed him. No matter why Spencer had died, the way was now clear. He would have the maid, Maggie. He could bring her back to England along with Eleanor, Virginia and Ananias and not worry. Now there was no one to threaten Maggie. White headed back to Cocke and the others.
White found Cocke engaged in a tense discussion with one of the helmsmen who had evidently become the spokesman for the sailors. White kept a distance. As the helmsman spoke, the sailors reinforced his words with occasional curses or bursts of laughter. Some glared sullenly at White, while others seemed now to be genuinely afraid of him, as if he had some devilish power.
White ignored them, looking instead at the sky. He estimated about seven of the clock, the day almost gone. Finally Cocke and Chandler left the men, signaling that the talk was over. The men began getting to their feet.
White suspected that they had decided to go back to the ship and try the crossing again in the morning. He walked over to Captain Cocke.
“We will go across now,” said Cocke.
“Grammercy, sir,” said White, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“I had to promise them a portion of the drowned men’s shares,” said Cocke, smiling bravely, “which will require some tricky cipher work in my books.”
White nodded but said nothing.
The waters of the sound were calm and the boats moved swiftly across, but not before the skies darkened completely. As they neared the island the helmsman spotted a light in the woods. White stood and stared at the bright pinpoint in the darkness.
“Who do you think ‘tis?” asked Cocke.
“I know not,” said White. He hailed the shore, “Halloo! Ananias Dare, is that you?”
There was no response. A moment later the light blinked out.
“That was quick,” said one of the sailors, “a torch, no doubt.”
“Aye,” said another. “There be something strange about it all.”
“Why do they not answer?” said Chandler.
“I think, mayhaps, for a number of reasons,” said White. White addressed himself to Captain Cocke. “The fort is not far. I know the way in the dark.”
Cocke paused before he answered. “I think we had better spend the night in the boats. We will go ashore at daybreak when ‘tis safer.”
“Aye,” said White, relieved that the captain had not ordered the boats back to Hatarask.
Cocke called his orders over to the other boat and White heard their anchor splash into the sound. The men behind him dropped anchor. The rope hummed as it ran out. The anchor caught and the boat swung about and came to rest in the current, its stern to the island. The men shifted about as they lay claim to their spaces to lie down for the night.
White listened to the quiet of the island. Familiar smells of chamomile and dandelion reached his nose. He stood and hailed again.
“Ananias Dare! Parson Lambert! Captain Stafford!” Silence hung heavy in the air as everyone waited for a response. None came.
The men again began talking quietly among themselves.
“Governor,” said Captain Cocke. “Perhaps a round of song will do the trick.”
White said nothing.
“Men,” said Cocke, “let us sing a few verses. That is how we will rouse them.”
“That is how we will rout them, you mean,” said Chandler.
The men laughed. Cocke started the song in the dark, “‘Twas a lover and his lass…”
The others joined in, “With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonnino…”
Cocke’s voice rang out, “That o’er the green cornfield did pass…”
White listened, hoping those on shore would hear. Why had they not come out? What in God’s name had happened?
Maggie awoke in utter blackness. She heard men singing, English men.
“Between the acres of the rye,” they sang, “with a hey, and a ho, and a…”
The singing stopped suddenly like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind. The trees towering over her creaked, the leaves rattling as they moved in a breeze. She sensed that Manteo was awake. Then she saw him silhouetted against the faint starlight which filtered through the clouds and trees. He was sitting up, listening.
The voices returned, “…when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding…lovers love the spring.”
The voices disappeared as abruptly as they had come.
“Did you hear?” said Maggie in wonder.
“Ghosts,” said Manteo in the darkness.
Maggie said nothing, straining her ears to hear more. There was no more, only the wind rushing through the trees high overhead. In a stupor, she worried about what Manteo had said -- ghosts? Then her fatigue overcame her and she fell back to sleep.
Maggie awoke to birdsong. She sat up suddenly. Manteo was gone and she was alone in the little shelter of pine boughs. She pulled the warm deerskin about her shoulders. The day was overcast and cool, the light gray and sad. She thought about the singing in the night. Had she dreamt it? She must have, she reasoned. She smiled slightly at the bawdy words to the song. A footfall came from behind and she turned. With relief she saw Manteo approach.
“Where did you go?” she asked him.
“Into the fort.”
“Did you see anything?”
Manteo shook his head. “Nay.”
“Was there any evidence of the English having returned in our absence?”
“Nay. Nothing.”
“I want to go into the fort one more time.”
“Nay,” he said angrily, “‘tis dangerous.”
“You said ‘twas not. You said that there were none of Powhatan’s men about.”
He looked at her sadly. “I go back to the dugout. Nothing here anymore. Only ghosts.”
“You will not take me to the fort?”
He would not look at her, looking instead off into the trees toward the sound. “I wait for you at the dugout.”
She paused, not sure what to say. Then he turned and walked off, disappearing into the trees.
Chapter 47
A dull thump reverberated through the wooden frame of the boat, waking White. He raised himself up. Every bone in his body ached as if he’d been beaten from head to foot by a mob of cudgel-wielding privateers. The sailors sat with their backs to him, their wool capes pulled tightly about them, as Captain Cocke talked with them quietly. On Roanoke the trees moved to a freshening wind, while the sea looked as if the storm was getting ready to pummel them again. Someone coughed. The men in the other boat stirred noisily. White looked back at the sailors.
Captain Cocke called to him. “Governor, are you ready to go in?”
White nodded as the sailors watched him.
“Take us in,” Cocke said to the helmsman.
The sailors unshipped their oars and began pulling for the shore. No one spoke as they beached the boats and walked into the woods. White led the way through the trees. The palisade came into view as they came out of the trees and he paused, running his eyes hungrily over the timber uprights and the ramparts. The fort appeared to be deserted. He had prayed while they were walking to finally see English faces staring back at him, but strangely, he knew he would not. There was nothing, only the gate moving in the wind.
“It is deserted,” said Captain Cocke.
White said nothing as his mind grappled with the implications.
“Chandler,” Cocke called back, “get all the musketeers up here.”
White wondered where his people had gone. Perhaps Chesapeake. He must find a clue. Otherwise, the sailors would be loath to move on, wanting instead to return to England and spend their shares of prize money.
The musket-bearing sailors led the way through the gate, peering about warily as they walked. The cottages were in bad shape, the doors hanging off of many. Two had burned to the ground. The common was overgrown with grass and weeds as high as a man’s waist. The sailors fanned out in groups of two or three to poke about in the cottages. White led Cocke and Chandler up onto the ramparts for a better look. The cannon there lay in the dirt, pulled out of its carriage. Iron and lead shot lay scattered about in the weeds. White said nothing, his thoughts dark.
Something blue flashed by. A jaybird alighted on the palisade twenty feet away. Then another. The birds eyed the men below, then flew off. White looked across the field to the woods. Below them, three sailors guarded the approaches to the gate.
Chandler knelt to inspect the cannon. “Why would they not take this piece with them?” he said.
“Perhaps they were in a big hurry to get out of here,” said Cocke.
“Perhaps,” said White. “But if they had no powder for it they would leave it also.”
Neither Cocke nor Chandler said anything as they pondered the mystery.
“I buried my things before I left,” said White. “I would like to retrieve them.”
White started down, the other two men following him. Rounding the big house, he saw the scattered remains of his things -- broken frames, canvases rotted away, his books torn to shreds, clothing, torn and lying in the mud.
Cocke surveyed the scene. “Savages dug it up, no doubt.”
“Aye,” said White.
A sailor came running up to them. “We have found something!” he said.
“What is it?” said Cocke.
“Fresh footprints from a lone savage. And something else just outside the gate.” He ran off.
A few minutes later White stood beside Cocke looking up at the tree. White ran his hand over the carved letters, CRO. “That is where we shall find them,” he said, “Croatoan Island.”
“Then that is where we shall go,” said Cocke.
“Well, we shall have to move quickly,” said Chandler.
“What?” said Cocke.
Chandler pointed to the northeast. The sky had grown ominously dark.
“Aye,” said Cocke. “The weather is changing fast.”
White was about to reply when he heard a child crying. The sound was forlorn. First it came from behind him, then from the other side of the tree, seemingly chased hither and thither by the gusts of wind now tugging at their clothing. He looked around, then poked his walking stick into a thicket of berries and ferns. Finding nothing, he looked at the woods in the distance but decided that the sound could not be coming from there. It was too far. The crying continued, raising his pulse.
***
Maggie walked in the direction of the fort. She would take a quick look and then hurry back to Manteo. He was right to be angry with her for this foolishness. They were all alone now. No one would come here. England was quite possibly under the heel of Spain or perhaps wiped out by a plague. She wondered vaguely how such a disaster might affect her own countrymen, deciding that their lot would not change much. Aye, she concluded, she and the others here were, perhaps by some strange twist of fate, better off than their fellow countrymen.
The trail turned in the direction of the sea side of the island and broadened. As Maggie neared the point where it left the woods, she spied the timber uprights of the palisade and froze. Near the cluster of trees just south of the gate, eight or nine men milled about. Englishmen! Off from them a stone’s throw, she saw an old man poking in the weeds with a walking stick. With his long white hair and beard, he appeared to be a cunning man or conjurer. She was too far away to be seen, and in the shadows of the forest, when the old man turned and looked in her direction. She realized with a shock that she was looking at Governor White.
