The Heart's Stronghold

by Amanda Barratt

  Her cheeks warmed at the admission, and it made him chuckle.

  “Do I embarrass you, my love?” he asked.

  “You know you do.”

  He captured her mouth against his, and she leaned into him, thankful for one more day in his arms.

  Pulling away, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they stared straight ahead at the chancel. It had been made of cedar, with a cross in the center and a large pulpit off to the side.

  “President Smith might arrive back any day now,” he said to her. “And then we’ll be married.”

  “Will Captain Newport leave immediately?” she asked reluctantly.

  “I believe he will. It’s getting late in the season.”

  It was a bittersweet idea. The sooner Captain Newport returned, the sooner Anne would be a bride. But it also meant her time with John would be at an end—at least for now.

  She wouldn’t even think about the possibility that it could be the last time she’d see him.

  “Are you ready for the wedding?” he asked.

  “I am.” There was little to prepare, though she had been rationing her corn to have enough to make extra cakes for their wedding celebration.

  He rubbed her shoulder. “I will speak to President Smith and ask for the use of his quarters for our honeymoon.”

  Anne’s cheeks grew warm again at the mention of their wedding night.

  “Though I do not know how long we’ll have together before you leave,” he cautioned. “It might just be one day.”

  “Let’s not talk about me leaving.” She fought back the tears that threatened at the very thought of saying goodbye to him.

  He kissed the top of her cap. “What would you like to discuss?”

  “Anything but our separation.” She looked up at him, savoring the look in his beautiful blue eyes.

  “As you wish.” He winked at her. “Would you like to discuss our honeymoon again?”

  She buried her face against him and relished the laughter rumbling in his chest.

  A month had gone by since Anne Burras had arrived in Virginia, and John was surprised at how much his life had changed since that fateful day. He never would have believed the first time he saw her that he would be anticipating their wedding any day now.

  John worked with the energy of three men as he and a crew of fifteen others cut down the beautiful red cedar trees they used to make shingles. The trees were large but not unmanageable, and the most difficult part of their task was hauling them back to the fort with carts.

  For the first time in weeks, the sky was bright blue and the sun was shining. The air was still crisp, but it felt good against John’s hot skin. Thoughts of Anne were always close at hand, though he kept an ever-watchful eye on his surroundings.

  The men rarely spoke as they worked. John wanted them to concentrate on cutting trees and watch for trouble. Both activities, if not done diligently, could lead to someone’s demise, and John had no wish to add to their growing death toll.

  Two more men had been buried early that morning before they’d left the fort.

  John was so thankful it hadn’t been Anne.

  As the afternoon wore on, John left his crew to search for the next tree they would cut. While he walked through the woods, within shouting distance of his men, he kept a vigilant watch for signs of Indians. They hadn’t seen any for days now, but he wouldn’t let his guard down for a moment. He kept his hand on his dagger at all times but knew that if an arrow caught him unawares, he would have no need for the dagger.

  A crack behind John made his heart leap to action, and a second later a sharp blow to his head turned the world dark.

  The first thing John became aware of was the pain. It radiated from the back of his head and wrapped around the sides, making his temples feel as if they might explode.

  He moaned as he tried to move, but a hand held him down.

  “No te muevas.” A stern voice warned John not to move.

  John tried to blink open his eyes, but the light made his head pound even harder.

  The voices around him buzzed in a sharp, rapid pace. He knew some Spanish—enough to know he was in trouble.

  Again, John tried to open his eyes, and this time he was able to keep them cracked open just a bit.

  The vast blue sky yawned bright overhead while the tops of the leafless trees reached toward the heavens.

  “Vamos a matarlo,” one man said impatiently, ready to kill John.

  “No. Vamos a hacerle algunas preguntas,” said another, wanting to ask him questions instead.

  “¿Hablas usted Ingles?” The first soldier asked the other if he spoke English.

  “Si,” said the second.

  John tried to lift his head to see which of the Spaniards was speaking, but it hurt too much.

  The men moved into John’s line of vision, looking down at him with dark pointed beards. The sun reflected off their metal helmets and glinted in John’s eyes.

  “You are English?” one of them asked John, a scowl on his face.

  It would not pay to stay silent. He was at their mercy.

  “Aye,” John said on a moan.

  Two other soldiers came up behind John and lifted him under the arms, pulling him into a sitting position. The movement made his head spin, and he was afraid he might vomit.

  “What is your name?” the man asked John, squatting to look him in the eye.

  “John Layton.”

  Three men stood around John in a semicircle, with the fourth one interrogating him. Nothing looked familiar, which suggested that he was no longer near his men. He’d only endanger himself further if he tried to call for help.

  But how far had they taken him?

  “You are soldier?” the man asked.

  John was not a soldier, but he’d been trained in the militia—and the last thing he wanted was for these men to think he was unskilled in fighting. “Aye.”

  The tallest man in the group, who looked to be the leader, said something in Spanish to the one questioning John. He then produced a piece of paper, which he shoved in John’s face.

  It was a drawing of James Fort, complete with the three bulwarks and a cross in the center, which he imagined represented the church.

  “How many men are in fort?” the interrogator asked.

  All four men watched John carefully. He had heard that Spain had a network of spies keeping an eye on the progress at James Fort, but he had not realized they had come so close—at least, close enough to draw an accurate map.

  He had no intention of telling them anything that might put the fort in danger—including how many men—or women—were inside.

  “I do not know,” John said.

  The interrogator spoke quickly in Spanish to the others. Whatever he said seemed to anger the leader, who shook the map in John’s face.

  “What weapons are inside fort?” the soldier tried again.

  John kept his mouth shut. The weapons inside James Fort were an abomination. Most were antiquated, and those that were more modern were cast-offs from the British military, many of them damaged from the Nine Years’ War.

  Without warning, the leader struck John across the head. He fell, hitting the ground hard. His breath rushed out of his lungs and he gasped, trying to breathe. The pain in his head was nearly unbearable.

  Dust filled his nostrils as he finally managed to take in a lungful of air.

  The Spaniards argued around him, and John could only surmise that they were having a disagreement about what should be done with him.

  As the interrogator pummeled him with questions that he would not answer, John knew he was digging his own grave. If he was not useful to them, they would have no trouble killing him. But he could not put the fort—or Anne—in danger just to save his own life.

  The pain was so intense, John felt numb from shock. He no longer understood the questions nor knew what he was saying as he groaned and mumbled his hatred at the men torturing him. They continued to beat him each time h
e refused to answer.

  Suddenly sweet, pain-free darkness engulfed him and he no longer worried about the fort, or the Spaniards or the Powhatans. He didn’t think about President Smith’s absence or Edward Caldwell’s selfishness. He wasn’t concerned about starving or freezing or wretched disease.

  All John could think about was Anne and how much he would miss her.

  Chapter 8

  By day, Anne braced herself with the hope that John was alive, keeping her fears masked behind a stalwart face. But at night, when no one was watching and darkness swelled around her like crashing waves in a storm, she wept bitterly.

  Though the weather had turned frigid and the sky had filled with menacing clouds, Anne spent many hours outdoors, watching the gates for signs of John. Three days had passed since his men had entered the fort with news that he’d gone missing.

  Three days since they’d found traces of blood and signs of a struggle.

  Speculation had run rampant among the men. It had not been an Indian attack. From the clues left at the scene, the men suspected that the attackers were Spaniards. But why had they taken John, if in fact, they had? But if they hadn’t, where was he?

  With two active enemies, Master Caldwell had finally ordered the men to stay within the confines of the fort and wait for reinforcements. Anne had begged him to send out a search party, but he refused, saying it was too dangerous. Several men had been abducted and gone unaccounted for in the years they’d been in Virginia.

  What was one more?

  As Anne knelt on the hard wooden floor of the church, beseeching God to return her beloved to James Fort, she kept one ear attuned to the sounds of the colony. Any little noise that was out of the ordinary made her sit up straighter, her heart racing with hope that John had come home.

  The morning dragged on as she remained in the church, and when she felt she might go mad from uncertainty and fear, she heard a commotion. It was quiet at first, and then it built until several men were cheering.

  With aching legs, Anne rose to her feet, her pulse racing.

  Had John finally returned?

  She stepped into the fort yard, casting her eyes to the east, but it was to the west and the river that everyone was moving.

  Turning in that direction, she finally saw what had caused the stir.

  Captain Newport and President Smith were securing their barge to the wooden pier on the banks of the James River.

  Anne’s excitement quickly turned to disappointment, but then it was replaced with hope once again. Perhaps now that President Smith was back, he’d send someone to search for John.

  She longed to run to the river to make her request but waited as patiently as possible for Captain Newport and President Smith to enter the fort. Over a hundred men disembarked, a festive air surrounding them.

  But Anne did not enjoy their celebration. Her only thought was for John. If he had been in the fort, he would be speaking with the priest now about a wedding ceremony, and he’d be asking President Smith about the use of his quarters.

  Instead, Anne was waiting to speak to them about finding her fiancé.

  The moment the men entered the western gate, Anne approached them.

  “Anne Burras,” Captain Newport said with a smile. “How have you fared in James Fort?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” Anne had been shy and hesitant to speak to Captain Newport on the voyage over, but now she stood before him with confidence and desperation born of love. “John Layton has been missing for three days.”

  “What’s this?” President Smith asked, overhearing her statement. “Layton is missing?”

  “He was cutting trees to the east,” William Cole said as he approached the men. “And we believe he was overtaken by Spaniards. It was the fourth attack by our enemies since you departed, so Master Caldwell has ordered that we remain within the palisade. No one has gone looking for him.”

  Master Caldwell’s door opened and the man in question appeared.

  “I want ten of our best men sent out immediately,” President Smith ordered, “to search for Goodman Layton.” He nodded at Master Caldwell and William Cole. “And I’d like to see you two in my quarters to hear all the news.”

  Gratefulness overwhelmed Anne, and her knees became weak. She had no guarantee they would find John, or that he would be alive if they did, but at least they would search for him.

  “Powhatans approaching from the north!” one of the guards called out from the bulwark.

  “Arm yourself, men!” President Smith called as he rushed toward the bulwark and spied over the palisade wall.

  Anne’s heart raced as she stood motionless, unsure what to do. Should she rush to her room? Stay and fight? Drop to her knees and pray again?

  A horrified minute passed while commotion and chaos ensued, and then President Smith lifted his hand. “Stand down,” he called to his men. “They come in peace.”

  Anne’s heart began to settle, but she remained where she’d been standing, clutching her apron.

  “Pocahontas approaches,” President Smith said as he leapt down from the bulwark and went to the gate. Pulling it open, he bowed to Pocahontas as she led a group of four men into the fort.

  In their arms, they held John.

  Crying out in both fear and sweet relief, Anne raced to John’s side.

  “Take him to my quarters,” President Smith called to the men.

  “John,” Anne cried. “John, can you hear me?” He did not stir, and Anne looked up at Pocahontas, whose eyes were filled with sadness. “Is he dead?” she asked.

  Pocahontas shook her head, but she did not look hopeful.

  Anne walked alongside John as he was carried to the president’s quarters. She took his hand. “John?”

  He was motionless, his face swollen and bruised, almost beyond recognition. Who had done this to him, and why?

  William ran ahead and opened the door to President Smith’s home. He led the Powhatan men to a room in the back where they laid John on a four-poster bed.

  He did not stir or make a sound as he lay there.

  “Thank you,” Anne said to the men, though she didn’t know if they understood.

  Pocahontas had stayed outside, as had the others. When the Indians left, it was just Anne and William.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  “I need hot water and rags.” Desperation made her voice sound tight. “Please have someone make him broth as well.”

  William nodded and ran out of the room.

  “Hurry!” Anne called after him.

  She took John’s hand in her own and pressed it to her cheek, as he’d done with her when she was sick. “John, my beloved. Wake up.”

  He was motionless, lying on the grand bed, life seeping from his body. The pulse in his neck was weak and the rise and fall of his chest was so shallow, she feared each breath would be his last. Dark blood matted his hair, dried and crusted. A deep wound on his forehead would need to be stitched, and he was in want of a good wash.

  “Do not die,” she pleaded. “The priest has returned and he will marry us, just as we planned.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please wake up.”

  Doctor Prescott entered the room, his small eyes hidden behind round spectacles. He had made the crossing with them on the Mary Margaret, seeing to Mistress Forest during her illness. He was an older gentleman with white hair and a long, thin face.

  The doctor took in the scene without a word and went to the table on the other side of the bed to set down his medicine box.

  “Will he live?” Anne asked.

  “Only time will tell, my dear.” The doctor opened his medicine chest and removed a dark vial of liquid. “After we’ve cleaned his wounds, I’ll stitch those that are gaping and we’ll apply some ointment to help them heal.”

  “And then he’ll be well?”

  The doctor lowered his chin and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “I believe his internal wounds are probably more dangerous than his external o
nes. I can only treat those I can see.” He turned back to his box and removed a needle and thread. “The Lord will have to treat those I cannot.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asked, desperate to do something—to feel as if she could control the outcome.

  He looked back at her, compassion and understanding in his kind face. “You can pray—and love him—just as you’re doing.”

  With President Smith’s return to James Fort, things began to change immediately, though Anne took little notice as she spent every waking moment by John’s side. The noise outside the president’s quarters had increased with the additional men, yet so had the sickness that had invaded the fort—even with the doctor’s presence. The second day, Daniel came to tell Anne that three more men had died and another five were ill.

  When John’s unconsciousness was compounded by a fever and delirium, she feared that he had also contracted the disease in his weakened state. Doctor Prescott confirmed her suspicions when he came to examine John later that evening.

  Anne had thought John’s disappearance was the hardest thing she’d ever faced—yet the uncertainty in the days following his return were even worse. The man who had stood taller and stronger than anyone else in all of Virginia was now as weak and vulnerable as a newborn babe.

  “Would you like me to sit with him?” Daniel asked as he came into President Smith’s bedchamber on the third morning.

  Anne lifted her head off her chest, embarrassed that she had fallen asleep in the rocking chair by John’s bedside. Standing, she went to him and laid her hand on his brow. It was still burning and coated in a sheen of sweat.

  “I could use fresh water,” she said to the boy. The water he had brought to her the night before was now tepid.

  Outside, the sun shone once again, and the air was unseasonably warm. Perhaps she should get some fresh air. It wouldn’t do for her to become sick again.

  Daniel reached for the pail of old water, but Anne grabbed it before him. “I’ll go,” she said gently, “if you would like to sit with John.”

  Nodding, Daniel took the seat Anne had just occupied. Life had made the boy older than his years, and Anne was so thankful for his kindness.