“I’m getting to that, young ‘un. Raleigh sent a band of about one hundred men to settle in America in a place called Virginia. They dug themselves in offshore on an island called Roanoke, but they had a mighty thin time of it.
“‘Bout a year later, they sailed back to England. More colonists came, bringing supplies and stuff to trade with the Indians. All but fifteen of them also went back, according to the story. Then another bunch came. This time there were women and children among them. The sailors dumped them on Roanoke Island, but you know what?” The old man’s eyes glistened.
“What?”
John looked at Sarah. She leaned forward, as eager to hear as the others.
“When the next batch came, there wasn’t hide nor hair of those who had stayed in America!”
“Where did they go?” a half-dozen voices cried, Sarah’s among them.
The old man shook his head. “No one knows.” “Someone has to know,” John Billington scoffed. “They don’t, and the story gets even curiouser. About a month after the group that had women and children came to Roanoke, the first English child was born in America. She was John White’s granddaughter, and they called her Virginia Dare.” John suspected the storyteller was enjoying his tale as much or more than those who listened!
“White didn’t want to leave, but the colony badly needed supplies. He sailed to England.” Excitement lighted the old man’s face. “War came with Spain. England couldn’t and wouldn’t give White supplies or a ship. He had to wait before he could sail back to America.”
“And he didn’t find anyone? Not even his granddaughter?” Sarah burst out.
“Right you are, little lady. All he and those with him found were the letters CRO carved on one tree and the word Croatan on another.”
“But that’s impossible! How could they just vanish?” John asked.
“I said it was curious, didn’t I?” The storyteller’s eyes twinkled, but a look of awe lurked in their depths. “Some say they must have been captured and carried off by unfriendly Indians. Others say that ain’t so at all. They hold that when the colonists ran out of food, they joined a friendly tribe called Croatans and left the name on the tree to show folks where they were. Still others said they must have gone away to find food.
“Like I said, there wasn’t hide nor hair of any of them, not even little Virginia Dare. No one knows and no one ever will know where those folks disappeared to after the ship sailed back to England.”
“That is so sad.” Sarah’s eyes looked like saucers. Maybe the story hadn’t been such a good idea after all, John miserably thought. He knew as long as he lived, he’d remember the Lost Colony and little Virginia Dare. He’d just bet Sarah would, too. His mouth felt dry. His eyes burned. What kind of country were they going to, that swallowed people and left no trace but a few letters and a mysterious word carved on a tree?
CHAPTER 11
What Happened to All the Food?
Sarah Smythe wearily trudged down the deck of the Mayflower. Her stomach growled. She quickly looked both ways. No one was close enough to hear except the ship’s cat. Thank goodness for that. It was so embarrassing when her complaining stomach got so loud others could hear!
“I don’t know why it should bother me,” Sarah told the cat, who lay curled on top of a coil of heavy rope. “Everyone else’s stomach is growling, too.”
The cat yawned, looking bored.
“A lot you care.” Sarah resentfully eyed the animal’s well-fed body. “You can catch your dinner. The rest of us have to put up with moldy cheese, hardtack so dried out it has to be soaked before anyone can eat it, and bad butter!” Her stomach grew queasy at the thought of the unappetizing meals.
“What’s wrong, little sister?” John said from behind her.
“I’m so hungry, I’m about ready to start in on him!” Sarah pointed at the cat and took a step toward him.
The sudden movement sent the cat into the air, fur standing straight up. He came down on all four feet, gave Sarah a baleful look, and streaked down the deck. His angry meowrrr split the calm air and brought peals of laughter from the Smythes.
“Do you think he understood me?” Sarah said, when she could get her breath.
John let out a whoop. “I don’t know, but he was taking no chances!”
“That he wasn’t,” a new voice agreed. A broadly grinning Klaus paused for a moment on his way aft. “That ol’ cat lit out’s if a banshee were atter him.”
“What’s a banshee?” Sarah wanted to know.
John wiped tears from his eyes. “A make-believe creature that wails and howls, right, Klaus?”
“Aye, lad. But I dunno ‘bout the make-b’lieve part.” His shaggy eyebrows met over his eyes.
“Have you ever seen a banshee?”
Klaus shook his head. “Naw, but I kin hear ‘em howlin’ in the wind.” He went on his way, leaving John and Sarah staring after him, then at each other.
“There aren’t really banshees, are there?” Sarah pulled her warm cloak closer around her shivering body.
“No. They’re something somebody made up, perhaps to frighten children.” John grinned at her.
Sarah’s stomach growled again, louder this time.
John’s eyes opened wide. He threw one hand against his heart in mock fear. “Is that a banshee I hear? Maybe Klaus is right, after all!”
John’s laughter brought stinging tears to Sarah’s eyes. Her usual good nature disappeared. “Can’t you ever be serious about anything?” she cried. Red flags of color waved in her thin cheeks. “John Smythe, your own sister is so hungry she’s jealous of a ship’s cat, and you stand there laughing!”
“I can’t help it,” John choked out. “You don’t want rats or mice for dinner, do you? They wouldn’t be cooked, of course—”
Sarah’s already churning stomach couldn’t stand the thought of eating rodents. In spite of Klaus and his warnings, she headed for the ship’s rail.
“Sarah, I’m sorry!” John sounded miserable. He hung onto his sister until what little food she had in her came up then led her to a deserted spot that was sheltered a bit from the wind. “I was only trying to make you laugh.”
Sarah ducked her head and stared at the deck. “I know.” She wiped tears from her face with the back of her none-too-clean hand. “It’s just that we go on and on and seem to get nowhere. The food is almost gone. What will we do if we run out of things to eat before we get to America?”
The question hung heavy in the air. John finally said without much conviction, “Well, God sent manna to the children of Israel. He could do it again, I s’pose.”
His weak attempt to make Sarah feel better brought a half-smile. She closed her eyes and said, “Remember all the food that got loaded into the hold of the Mayflower?”
“How could I forget?” John snorted. “We laughed and told each other there was enough food to take us all around the world, not just to America.”
“Where did it all go?” Sarah wondered. She opened her eyes. “I can still see the crates and crates of vegetables, lemons, and limes.” Her mouth watered. “How I’d like to have some of them now!”
“So would I.” John joined in the game. “It seems impossible we could eat so many sacks of flour, potatoes, dried beans, and peas. Or that all the barrels of salted-down pork and beef, the slabs of bacon, and jars of oil are nearly used up.
“Too bad we don’t have a barrel of grain and a small bottle of oil like the widow who fed Elijah.” Sarah sighed and fell silent, thinking of the story from the Bible. “John, if you were like the widow and only had enough meal and oil to make one little cake for us, would you give it to a stranger who asked for food? Even though it meant we would starve?”
John cocked his head to one side. Sarah could see how seriously he took her question. After a few moments he said, “It would depend on the stranger. Elijah was so close to God, it must have shown in the way he acted. Remember, Elijah told the woman not to be afraid. He also promised if sh
e would make him a little cake, the food would never run out until the Lord sent rain and the crops would grow.”
Sarah felt her heart beat faster. “Do you think the widow knew Elijah was a prophet of God?”
“She must have had faith in him, or she wouldn’t have given away the food her son needed. I might give away my own food, but I’m not sure I’d give away yours or Father’s or Mother’s.”
“It’s a good thing the widow believed what Elijah said,” Sarah soberly told her brother. “She always had enough to feed her son, herself, and the prophet.” Sarah’s empty stomach grumbled again. “Oh, dear! How can I wait until it’s time for the next meal?”
John leaped up the same way the ship’s cat had done earlier. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can get you something.”
Sarah watched him head aft, racing along at top speed. What did he have in mind? With the food supply almost gone, how could he find anything for her poor stomach? There simply was not enough food on board for people to eat between meals.
A dull ache settled in her middle. She watched the rolling waves. “Father, thank You they aren’t so high now,” she prayed in a whisper. She mustn’t get sick again. Mother had enough to do caring for those who were already sick. Shame filled Sarah’s heart. “I’m sorry to complain, God. Please, help us get to America safely.”
She thought of the wonderful stories of the New World. Fruit and nut trees. Deer in the forests and no king to say hungry people must not kill and eat them. Fish—so many all one had to do was put in a net and bring in a great haul.
Still thinking of the good things to eat they would have in America, Sarah grew drowsy. A hand shaking her shoulder roused her from the daydream that had changed into a dream of summer skies, ripe fruit, and laughing children.
“Wake up, Sarah,” someone whispered.
She opened her eyes.
John huddled on the deck before her, his back to some passengers who had come topside to take advantage of the calmer weather. “Shh. Don’t let anyone see,” he warned.
Sarah stared at the small piece of dried beef in her brother’s hand. Her mind whirled. Alarm rose inside her. “John, where did you get this? You didn’t steal it, did you?”
“Don’t be a goose,” he scornfully told her. “Besides being wrong, stealing food when supplies are so low would bring a terrible punishment.”
He handed the meat to Sarah. She saw the hunger in his eyes but knew he hadn’t taken one morsel. “Do you have a knife?”
John licked his lips but shook his head. “You need it worse than I do.” No amount of persuasion could talk him into sharing the meat.
Her mouth filled with the hard stuff, Sarah said between chewing, “You still haven’t told me how and where you got it.”
John shrugged, but his eyes sparkled. “What would you say if I said I told Klaus you were so hungry you’d considered eating the ship’s cat?”
“You didn’t!” Sarah gasped. A little stream of juice trickled from her lips. “You know I wasn’t serious. What will he think of me? John, how could you?”
“Shh,” John warned again. He quickly wiped the telltale drops away. “I didn’t say I told him.” His mischievous brown eyes glowed with the excitement of fooling his sister. “I just asked—”
“I know what you asked.” She clutched the tiny remaining piece of beef in one hand and glared at him. “Did you or did you not tell him?”
“I didn’t.” When Sarah drooped with relief, John added, “I only said you were most awf’ly hungry.”
Curiosity overcame even hunger. “What did he do?”
“He ordered me to stay on deck.” John’s eyes flashed with admiration. “A few minutes later he came back with the dried beef.”
“What did he say?” Visions of the punishment John had mentioned danced in Sarah’s head. “Oh dear, I hope Klaus didn’t steal it!”
John hunched closer. His eyes darkened to the color of the ocean when storm clouds raced above. “He didn’t. He has been hoarding the piece of meat for himself. But don’t try to thank him. I already told him you would be grateful, and it’s best to make sure no one knows about this.”
“Even Father and Mother?” Sarah felt guilty already. Yet was it wrong to protect someone who had been kind?
“The more persons who know about it, the greater the chance that Klaus will get into trouble. People might assume that he’d stolen the meat,” John reminded her.
Sarah swallowed the last salty bite. “At least my stomach has stopped growling.”
“Good thing.” John became his usual self. “There for a while I was afraid Captain Jones might think someone set off a cannon!”
This time his teasing didn’t bother her. Sarah giggled. “Or that a thunderstorm is coming close.” She saw by John’s grin how relieved he felt that her own storm had passed, at least for now.
“I know something fun to do.” John sprang to his feet. “Let’s go look at the chests of things going to the New World. It will help us forget being hungry.”
“Why?” Sarah asked. “What’s the fun of looking at chests so tightly closed we can’t open them—and wouldn’t dare, if we could!”
“We can thump on them,” John suggested. “We can try to guess all the things inside of them.” His hair blew in the wind that had started to rise.
“All right.” Sarah got up and followed him to where the chests holding everything imaginable sat fastened down so securely that not even the wildest waves could snatch and hurl them into the stormy ocean depths.
CHAPTER 12
Mischief on the Mayflower
John, Sarah, and a few other children, including the trouble-making Billington boys, daringly thumped on the top of the chests.
“This one sounds empty,” Francis Billington complained, thumping away on the top.
“It prob’ly just had blankets and clothes. People took ‘em out to keep from freezing,” his brother John said.
John Billington thumped on another chest. “Wonder which ones have the trinkets?” He tried to shake the heavy trunk but couldn’t budge it. “We hadta haul all this stuff from England just to trade with the stupid Indians.”
“How do you know Indians are stupid?” John Smythe demanded.
“They must be, to want a bunch of glass beads, mirrors, cloth, and junk like that.” Francis Billington stuck out his tongue and made an awful face.
“You can trade an iron pot for furs,” John reminded him.
“I’ll bet I could get a lot more furs from trading a musket than an old iron pot,” Francis bragged. “All they have are bows and arrows. Bang. Bang, bang!” He raised an imaginary gun to his shoulder and pretended to squint along its barrel. “I’m gonna kill me a hundred Indians, maybe a thousand. I’m gonna be the greatest Indian-killer in the world.”
“No, you aren’t. I am!” John Billington pitched into Francis and they fell to the deck.
“Are not!” Francis squealed, arms waving wildly.
“Am, too!” John howled when his brother’s fist hit his eye.
“Stop that fighting this instant,” a stern voice commanded. Captain Jones yanked the Billingtons up by the scruff of their necks and shook them hard. “Now get below, all of you!”
Sarah saw her brother’s mouth open to protest. She grabbed his arm and hurried him away. The glint in the captain’s steely eyes meant trouble.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” John protested.
“The Billingtons were, and we were with them,” Sarah answered.
“They are always doing something wrong,” John grumbled.
“I know.” She felt a smile creep over her face. “At least they got caught this time and couldn’t put the blame on someone else, the way they usually do.”
“I can tell you what will happen,” John said. “One of these times the Billingtons are going to do something so bad the captain will whale the living daylights out of them. They deserve it.”
“John Smythe, watch what you say. Father
will punish you if he hears you talking like that!” Sarah cried.
John stubbornly planted his feet on the deck and declared in imitation of Klaus, “Mark my words. You’ll see what happens.”
“You act like you want them to get in trouble.” Sarah stared at her brother. “Would you like for people to feel that way about you?”
John didn’t give an inch. “I only do funny things and play tricks. I don’t do things that are dangerous or could hurt people.”
“I know, but you worry Father and Mother and me. Not so much anymore,” she loyally added. “It’s probably because you’re almost a man. You must have grown an inch since we left Leiden.”
“You think so?” John looked pleased, and the subject of the Billingtons was dropped—but not for long. Within a few days, a terrible thing happened.
John and Sarah had just come on deck when they saw Francis Billington standing near some barrels of gunpowder.
“What’s he doing?” Sarah whispered, craning her neck to see better.
“Probably nothing good.” John’s complaint turned to horror. “He has a musket. Sarah, get down!”
She fell to the deck, her terrified gaze fastened on Francis Billington.
“Stop that right now!” John roared, racing toward the eight-year-old boy.
Francis glanced around. A stubborn look settled on his face. “You can’t tell me what to do.” He pulled the trigger of the musket.
Boom!
The bitter smell of powder hung in the air. Men, women, and children came running. Sarah scrambled to her feet and raced toward the haze of smoke. “John, are you all right?” she asked. “Yes, but—”
Klaus reached Francis Billington first. He caught him up in a grip of iron. “What were you thinking!” he roared. “Shootin’ off a musket wi’ kegs o’ gunpowder near? Ain’t there a brain in yer head? One spark coulda blown us t’ bits! You should be fed t’ the fishes, an’ that brother o’ yourn, too!” He dangled Francis above the deck and made as if to throw him overboard.
Francis, who had grinned broadly when the musket fired and people came running, tried to escape. His kicking legs only hit empty air. He tried to squirm free, fear written all over his dirty face—not for nearly blowing up the ship and all aboard including himself, but because of Klaus’s scowling face and strong grip. Klaus marched closer and closer to the ship’s rail.
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