by Lisa Klein
I no longer regarded the English as godlike. So they had seemed to me, gathered around their Kwin-lissa-bet. Here I saw they could be weak, foolish, and cruel, like any man. Still I was proud to be among them, for I was more esteemed than before. I translated the governor’s words. He and the weroances both relied on me to conduct their business.
When Wingina heard me speak the stranger’s tongue, his astonishment pleased me. I had montoac that even he, the great weroance, lacked.
Wingina said to me, “Wanchese will not speak their language. He does not trust them. Why do you?”
I said Ralf-lane and his men wanted to learn our ways. To trade with us, that we might both grow rich.
Wingina looked doubtful. “I have permitted them to settle on my island so I may watch them.”
“You will see they desire peace,” I said.
Wingina did not reply at first. He knew they were building a fort. He had heard about the silver cup and the destroyed village. This news had traveled throughout Ossomocomuck.
“The white man’s weapons are powerful and deadly. And we have many enemies,” he said finally. Wingina was known to be wise, and he would find a way to benefit from the English presence.
But by a mysterious fate, the English brought death to the Roanoke, though not with their feared weapons. After Ralf-lane’s first visit to Wingina, ten villagers fell ill and died. Wingina sent for me. Wanchese was with him, and they were both afraid.
“It is proved the English can kill without weapons,” said Wanchese. “As they tried to kill me in London.”
“It was your own evil thoughts about the English that made you ill. I have no such thoughts, and I am well,” I said to him, then turned to Wingina. “They will not harm their friends.”
Wingina glanced at Wanchese then settled his gaze on me. He gave the Englishmen forty baskets of openauk and a large field planted with pagatour. Then he moved his villagers to the mainland, to a place called Dasemunkepeuc.
Wingina was wise but also crafty. In the spring he paddled to the island to inform Ralf-lane that an alliance of Chowanoc planned to attack Fort Raw-lee. Ralf-lane decided to act first. With thirty men he rowed upriver and surprised the Chowanoc village, seizing their weroance, Menantonon. This time I was able to prevent the English from destroying the village. Menantonon denied that he planned to attack the fort, saying it was a trick of Wingina to get the English to destroy the Chowanoc village. After a long parley with Ralf-lane, Menantonon saw what the English desired. He described a people who possessed wassador in such abundance they decorated their homes with it. Ralf-lane’s eyes shone. He decided to go to this village, a seven-days’ journey.
I suspected Menantonon, too, was lying. Even setting a trap. But I could not persuade Ralf-lane to turn back if there was a possibility of treasure. I had no choice but to guide them. Every village we passed was deserted. No food to be had. To keep from starving, the English killed and ate their dogs. Still Ralf-lane would not give up. When we came at last to the village, it was also abandoned.
“Where are the silver and copper Menantonon promised we would see?” Ralf-lane demanded.
“They are hidden within the hills themselves,” I said. “No one knows where.”
Without tools or food, there was nothing more Ralf-lane could do. By the time we returned to the fort, our stomachs were as hollow as dried gourds. Several men were near death. And Ralf-lane was full of rage at the deceit of the weroances.
“Wingina delivered us to his own enemies, hoping they would kill us. Then he and his allies could strike at the fort!” About Menantonon he said, “He sent us on a fool’s errand, and told the people to leave their villages so we would starve.”
I tried to soften his rage with reason. “The villagers may have been away hunting, according to their custom,” I said. “What food they had, they took with them. There is hunger everywhere. For five years, the rains have been scarce.”
I counseled peace and goodwill, for that was my duty to Raw-lee and his governor. But Ralf-lane’s duty did not call for him to heed me.
Before they attack, the English do not prepare as we do. They do not paint or beat drums or dance to summon the spirits. Their leaders make plans in secret and the soldiers obey in silence. So I did not know Ralf-lane’s intent. Had he told me his plans, could I have changed his mind? Would I have warned Wingina? Would the weroance have heeded me?
I was not with the governor and his men when they crossed the bay in their wherries. But I could hear, before dawn, the firing of muskets. Faint and distant. The day was long. The night even longer. The next morning the first boat returned from Dasemunkepeuc, and I heard Wingina had been shot twice. Despite his wounds he escaped into the woods. The soldiers could not keep up with him and left the chase. But one pursued him through woods and swamps for hours before Wingina’s strength finally failed.
Ralf-lane came back to the fort in the second wherry, holding aloft the bloody head of Wingina. “Let them remember this deed, too, Manteo!” he said. He stuck the head on a pole outside the fort.
This did not call for a reply. But I thought, They will remember. And you, in turn, will remember the terrible revenge that must come.
As it happened, the English did not remain long enough for the Roanoke to take their revenge. A week after Wingina was killed, a fleet of English ships came to the outer islands. Their captain, called Francis-drake, was brought to the fort. He was tawny skinned from being so long at sea and under the sun. He spoke of such strife between the weroances of England and Spain that Ralf-lane feared no supply ship would be able to reach the island.
I could see the governor desired to return to England but was ashamed, for he had failed to find riches for his kwin. He and Francis-drake decided the captain would take away the weak and troublesome men and leave supplies to sustain the rest.
While the ships were being unladen, a fierce storm broke. Winds roared and demons stirred up waterspouts that reached to the sky. The demons threw men from the decks into the sea. Tore down the hills near the shore and flung up new ones. Smashed ships against the shoals and sent them under the waves. Men and women with skin as black as charred wood washed onto the sand. They were slaves taken by the captain in a far land. The storm lasted three days.
Ralf-lane decided to leave the island. Everything useful was brought to the remaining ships when the angry winds rose again. John-white’s drawings flew into the waves. Also the basket of pearls for Kwin-lissa-bet. I was aboard the Francis when the spirits spewed it from the tempest onto a calm sea. There were men who never made it to the ships and were left behind.
The captain studied his maps to determine where the winds had come from. But I already knew. Wingina’s powerful conjurors had raised the storms that drove away the English. In this manner they avenged the death of their weroance. I began to wonder if the montoac of the natives was stronger than that of the English after all.
Was it a mistake for me to have befriended the English? Would I be punished for it? At least the gods had allowed me to survive. For now.
Chapter 12
From the Papers of Sir Walter Ralegh
A Letter from Lady Catherine
Sir Walter, I have made a poem for Her Majesty, which I copy here for your eyes also. (It is not the one you composed, but one that befits my humbler state.) It is crammed with fine praise, and I am pleased with the rhyme. Thus:
As that new domain, the VIRGIN land,
One part of your kingdom, submits to you;
So I, one maid, from mine own hand
Submit this praise that is your due:
All desire but few deserve
A place in your affection.
All I seek is but to serve
You, joying in my election.
My life I trust you to preserve
By granting your protection.
And when from pleasing you I swerve,
I beg for your correction.
A poem is a powerful thing, I find. What my
tears and pleas did not accomplish, my verses did. She calls me her Cat again! I purr! I am content, save for one thing I lack: your love.
Alas I, too, find it is easier to write my feelings than to speak them.
Your affectionate
Cat. Archer
What does she mean by that last sentence? Does she accuse me? Why should one speak words, when actions will do more? Is writing not an action?
My Catherine pretends humility, yet is proud of her verses. They are indeed passable. Amazing, that a maid should show a poet’s wit! I like her even better.
Memorandum
30 July 1586. Sir Francis Drake has docked in Plymouth with half his fleet, some cargo pillaged from Spanish colonies in Florida, and all my colonists.
Damn Ralph Lane. I never gave permission for him to leave the island, or his pack of sorry dogs, slinking home with their tails between their legs. What fears did Drake, that dandified pirate, arouse to make him abandon all our efforts there? Lane protested he had been abandoned without supplies. But on the first of May I dispatched Grenville with a relief ship. Damn him, too, for sailing around robbing Spanish frigates for his own profit! The delay has cost me my colony.
The queen is angry with Grenville and with Lane, whom she has dismissed from her service. The fool Tarleton, drawn like a vulture to carnage, mocked their failure in Virginia—and my own. “They are no men, if a hundred of them cannot subdue a single virgin, but run away when she throws a tempest.”
10 August 1586
Dear brother Carew,
By now you have no doubt heard of my setback. Reassure our investors they have not been defrauded. Do not heed the malicious reports of those disgruntled men who magnify the dangers of Virginia. No worthwhile enterprise is without risk, and those who take chances most deserve to be rewarded.
Thomas Harriot still has a favorable view of our prospects for success, citing the many resources, including the healthful uppowoc (which the Spanish call tobacco). He has no doubt that in time even greater riches will be discovered—if not by us, then by Spain.
He is writing a treatise and John White works on his drawings. Those that survived the storm strike the mind with their strangeness, yet convey our common humanity. My favorite is the depiction of a dancing conjuror, who but for his nakedness resembles Dick Tarleton. When published, Harriot’s report and White’s drawings will induce more men to try their fortunes in that land of wonders.
For true it is that the appetite for newness is never sated. Fashions change with the wind, and anything exotic is desired by all the moment it appears. Thus I may yet hope that my Virginia, a blushing maid dressed all in feathers and furs, will attract many suitors.
Your brother, Walter
…
Memorandum
Concerning Manteo. I did not expect to find such worthiness in one of the savages of Virginia, but Manteo daily surprises me with his excellent judgment and quick mind. His command of our tongue is better than a Frenchman’s, and happily he lacks their affectation of speaking through the nose.
Concerning the Indians and the best means of governing them, he concedes they are divided by long-standing grudges and their alliances shift constantly.
“Do they understand their prosperity depends on their submission to the English queen and her deputies?” I asked.
Manteo hesitated. “We understand laws that are just. We understand the English are very powerful.”
I said I was angry at Lane for the killing of Wingina and asked if he thought it had been justified.
Manteo thought before replying, for it was his nature to be circumspect.
“It is better to be feared than loved, so I have heard.”
I was astonished to hear him quoting Machiavelli like a statesman. Harriot’s lessons have been wide-ranging indeed.
The business of diplomacy had made me crave a pipe, so I asked Manteo if he had some of that uppowoc. Smiling, he produced two pipes and placed some shredded leaves into their bowls. We lit them and drank in the fragrant smoke. I could feel the ill humors being purged from my body. Assuredly my next voyage will meet with more success.
A dream. I saw my Catherine with the stem of a pipe in her mouth. The pipe became my fingers touching her puckered lips as we breathed together the ambrosial smoke. Like the Indian women in John White’s drawings, she wore an apron of deerskin at her waist and nothing more. Her long black hair fell forward, hiding nature’s twin delights. I started up in my bed and the vision fled. Dismayed, I arose and wrote her a passionate letter, for I could not confine my thoughts within a verse.
1 September 1586. Another plot to kill Elizabeth has been uncovered by Walsingham’s network of spies. The king of Spain and the Jesuits promoted it and Anthony Babington—a known papist—was to carry out the deed. Fourteen others stand accused of treason. An intercepted letter proves that Queen Mary endorsed the plot. At last she will be tried for her treason. As for Babington, he lies in the Tower awaiting his due: hanging and disembowelment.
10 September 1586. Now some whisper the evidence against Mary was forged and Babington framed. Indeed, why would Babington turn traitor? He has too much to lose: lands, title, all his wealth—which the queen will now certainly give to Walsingham.
15 September 1586
To John White
Painter-Stainers Guildhouse, London
I request your attendance at Durham House to discuss your role in a proposed third voyage to Virginia. You know Grenville landed at Roanoke just after your departure in the hurricane and left fifteen men to defend the fort. Their numbers must be reinforced at the earliest opportunity.
Thomas Harriot and the savage Manteo affirm you are a man more disposed to peaceful understanding of the natives than to violence against them. As well, they testify to your love for Virginia, which favorably distinguishes you from those malcontents who complain about the hardships there.
The queen requires my service in her lawless counties of southern Ireland. Thus while my own ambitions tend toward Virginia, I must obey Her Majesty, on whom all our lives and fortunes depend. May God continue to preserve her.
Yours sincerely,
Sir Walter Ralegh
Chapter 13
Bold Dreams
Sir Walter’s amorous letter set my cheeks on fire. I cannot imagine wearing a deerskin about my waist. What gives men such thoughts?
I hid the letter among the others tied in the wrinkled handkerchief. I had stopped thinking of it as the queen’s handkerchief, or even Ralegh’s. It was mine, a token of his love. The queen had Sir Walter’s loyalty, but his heart was given to me. Mine was the memory of his kiss, his hands touching my hair and face. And mine was the knowledge of his secret ambition to rule Virginia himself.
How hard it was to keep this all within me! Not to betray, by a slipped word or letter carelessly laid, that I loved Sir Walter. No doubt everyone thought my happiness resulted from being in the queen’s graces again. Anne, however, was still out of favor and aggrieved because of it.
“It’s not fair that Elizabeth should forgive you and not me,” she complained one day as we sat in the gallery with our embroidery. “I have served her longer, and we are cousins.” She stabbed at the cloth with her needle.
“But she is the queen’s Cat,” Frances said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Don’t you know you can throw a cat from a wall and she will always land on her feet?”
“What are you jealous of, Frances?” Emme said. “You have the queen’s ear.”
“Yes, and I’ll wager you have shared more confidences than any of Walsingham’s spies,” I said. “Whatever you disapprove of, you cannot help but reveal.”
Anne turned to Frances. “Was it you who turned the queen against Thomas Graham?” she accused.
Frances did not even look up from her needlework. “Why do you blame me? Do you think she didn’t know about you and Graham already? Anyone with eyes could see you were in love with him.”
“Just be warned,” said Anne,
her eyes flashing. “If either of you dares to take a lover, I will tell the queen and see that you suffer as I do!”
“Catherine is the one you ought to watch,” said Frances coolly. “She is often distracted, and I have heard her reciting poetry when she is alone. She must be thinking of a secret love.”
I felt my pulse quicken. Again I wondered what Frances knew about Sir Walter and me. But I would not bear her smug teasing.
“Don’t bother to watch Frances,” I said to Anne. “No man will ever fall in love with her.” I tossed aside my needlework and left the gallery.
Later I complained to Emme, “I am weary of these games we play with each other.”
“You could endure them before you fell in love with Sir Walter,” she said.
“Hush! I am not in love with him,” I lied. “He only helped me write some verses for the queen.”
Emme shook her head. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, to a friend who knows you well.”
“Do Frances and Anne suspect?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” Emme said. “But you must be more discreet and hide your feelings. Sir Walter is the queen’s favorite, and she would be most angry to learn of your love.”
“But it is so unfair!” I burst out. “He is half her age. She will never marry him or anyone else. Why shouldn’t I be free to love whom I will? Why shouldn’t Anne marry Graham? Are you content to let the queen rule your feelings?”
Emme shrugged. “That is the way of our world.”
“When you are in love, you will not be so sanguine.”
“I have thought about this,” said Emme. “I will let the queen choose my husband, and then I will choose whom to love. It may be my husband, or it may be another. For once a woman is married, the queen can no longer rule her heart.”
