The Heart's Stronghold

by Amanda Barratt

  “Goodman Layton is waiting for you,” President Smith told her as he paused. “Are you ready?”

  Anne took a deep breath and nodded. She was more than ready to become John’s wife.

  Master Caldwell walked forward and opened the door.

  Anne clung to the president’s arm as she stepped over the threshold and into the chapel. Though Master Caldwell had been a difficult man, he had been good to her, and she would forever be thankful for his taking her into his home.

  John stood waiting at the front, William Cole by his side. He turned when the door opened, and his gaze caught on Anne’s.

  He wore a handsome black suit and a matching cape, with black hose. A white linen shirt and an unstarched white collar looked vibrant against the darker hues. He wore no hat, but at his side he wore his sword. The hilt had been polished to shine, reflecting light from the overhead lanterns.

  Admiration shone bright in his eyes, and the smile on his face was as wide and beautiful as anything she’d ever seen.

  President Smith led Anne down the aisle to join her beloved, who reached for her when she drew near.

  She took his hand in hers and released President Smith, who moved to take a seat at the front of the room. Men poured into the church, quickly filling the space until there was nowhere left to sit or stand. Some had to remain outside, trying to see over the shoulders of those ahead of them.

  John continued to smile at Anne as he shook his head in amazement. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “How is it that I earned your favor, Anne Burras? You could have had anyone at James Fort, but you chose me.”

  She wanted to nuzzle into him yet knew they had an audience watching their every move. Instead, she squeezed his hand and returned his smile, looking deep into his eyes. “You and I were meant for each other,” she said. “There is no one else in this world I would rather stand with before God to pledge my life.” And she meant every word. There was not another man in all of James Fort, or all of England for that matter, who had so captured her heart and soul.

  “We gather here today to witness the marriage of Anne Burras and John Layton,” the priest called out to those in the room. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” He smiled at the couple and nodded. “Let us begin.”

  Quiet had settled upon the fort as John sat near the hearth and watched his wife put away the dishes from their evening meal. She had changed into her burgundy gown and white cap, and though he had loved seeing her in the silk and pearls, it was this version of Anne that he loved the most. This beautiful, genuine, hardworking woman he had pledged his life to that very morning.

  Firelight danced upon her features as she closed the cabinet door and let out a contented sigh. The purple flowers she had carried earlier were in the green glass vase, and the furniture John had made was lovingly arranged and polished.

  Anne turned. Her brown eyes were alive with anticipation—and a little apprehension.

  They had spent the day celebrating their union with their friends, receiving gifts for their new home. For now, John had been given the use of two rooms within the communal quarters, but come spring he would build a small cottage in the fort’s new addition.

  Instead of using President Smith’s quarters for their honeymoon, as John had originally planned when he thought they’d have only one night together, they were well situated in their own personal space. It was almost identical to the rooms Master Caldwell occupied, though these were filled with the gifts of their well-wishers.

  John smiled at Anne, still amazed that she was his bride. She stood across the room from him, a shy smile filling her lovely face.

  He extended his hand, beckoning her to join him at the table. She moved across the room and took his hand, allowing him to pull her into his arms.

  Anne sat on his lap and rested her forearms on his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his neck. John’s arms went around her waist, enjoying the privilege of holding her freely.

  “Are you happy, my love?” he asked.

  “More than ever.” She leaned forward and moved one of his curls off his forehead. “And are you happy?”

  In answer, he pulled her closer and kissed her like he’d never kissed her before.

  When he was through, she was breathless and flushed, and no longer bashful.

  “I cannot believe I was going to let you return to England.” He shook his head at his own foolishness as he gently removed her white cap and took out the pins holding her heavy hair in place. Her locks fell over her shoulders and down past her waist in a glorious curtain he couldn’t wait to explore. “It seems unfathomable to imagine what it would feel like to put you on a ship tomorrow and say goodbye for a year and a half.”

  She ran her fingers past his temples and into his hair, massaging his scalp. “So you’re not angry that I broke my promise to return to England?”

  John closed his eyes and moaned. “No. I’m angry at myself for suggesting such a thing.”

  Anne leaned her forehead to rest on his. “Let us not talk of what has gone before,” she said. “Instead, let’s focus on the future.”

  Without warning, John stood and cradled his bride in his arms to carry her over the threshold and into their bedchamber. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  No longer would they look back. From that day forward, John and Anne Layton would chart a new course and a new destiny for themselves and for all those who would follow in their footsteps.

  Historical Note

  The story of Anne Burras, as I have written it within this novella, is as accurate as I could make it. Little is known about Anne, but what we do know is that she came to James Fort as a maid to Mistress Forest in 1608 and was the only European woman in the fort when her mistress died shortly after arriving. We also know that Anne was just fourteen! (I took the liberty of making her a tad bit older in my story.) Anne married Goodman John Layton, a carpenter at James Fort who built the chapel and was among the first to arrive in Virginia in 1607. Their wedding took place about two months after Anne arrived, and they went on to have a long, prosperous life together, though they endured unthinkable hardships, including the Starving Time of 1609–10 and the Indian Massacre of 1622. Their oldest daughter, Virginia Layton, was the first child born in Jamestown. After Virginia, they had three more daughters, Alice, Katherine, and Margaret. Eventually they helped to colonize Elizabeth City, which is present-day Newport News, Virginia. Though I do not know Anne and John’s true love story, I hope that the one I have presented here has done it justice. Amid their story, I have also included as much accurate history of early James Fort as I could find in my research and my visit to the archaeological dig in Virginia. It’s truly a fascinating piece of American history.

  Personal Note

  For years I knew I had early American ancestors, but it wasn’t until I was contracted to write this novella that I began to dig a little deeper into my genealogy to find them. What I discovered were dozens of men and women in my family tree who came to America during the Great Puritan Migration between 1620 and 1640. I also discovered I have at least six ancestors who came directly to Jamestown, Virginia.

  The earliest ancestor I found was a man named William Powell who came to James Fort in 1609 with the third supply mission led by Captain Newport. On February 9, 1610, the acting governor sent William and another man to capture or kill, if necessary, Wochinchopunck, the chief of the Paspahegh, a tributary tribe of the Powhatan. The chief had been harassing and killing colonists, even attempting to kill Captain John Smith the previous year. When William and his companion found it impossible to capture the strong Paspahegh chief, William struck him down with his sword. Shortly thereafter, William was appointed a captain and put in charge of the Jamestown defenses and its blockhouses. He was further appointed lieutenant governor of the Virginia colony in 1617. He went on to be a burgess in the Virginia House and was responsible for warning, and thereby saving the lives of, hundreds during the Indian Massacre in 1622. It’s believed
he died late in 1622 or early 1623 from wounds he received in a retaliation attack on the Powhatan. William is just one of many ancestors I found connected to Jamestown, and though I didn’t include him in this novella, his memory resides within the story I have written.

  Gabrielle Meyer lives in central Minnesota on the banks of the Mississippi River with her husband and four young children. As an employee of the Minnesota Historical Society, she fell in love with the rich history of her state and enjoys writing fictional stories inspired by real people and events. Gabrielle can be found at www.gabriellemeyer.com, where she writes about her passion for history, Minnesota, and her faith.

  Embers of Hope

  by Kimberley Woodhouse

  Dedication

  To my beautiful friend, Cathy Castillo.

  You have been a source of great encouragement to me, and I miss you more than I can say. You are truly beautiful on the inside and out.

  For all the smiles, laughter, hugs, Bible studies, shoebox packing, joy-filled moments, bell practices, and everything in between—thank you. For being my friend. For praying. For loving on me.

  Dear Reader,

  Superstitions ran high in the 1600s. The era would usher in more levelheaded thought based on facts, but it took a good deal of time to get to that point. Even those who were believers in Christ struggled with the prevalent culture of superstition. This is a compelling dynamic in Esther’s story. And it really made me think … How would I handle a situation in which people’s fears and superstitions ruled their decisions and actions?

  The history behind America’s forts is fascinating. In fact, it interested me so much that I even bought a used library copy of a massive tome titled Encyclopedia of Historic Forts. I know, I know. I’m a history geek. But it was so interesting, and since there’s not a lot of documented writings about this period, it was an invaluable resource for this story.

  The Castle was the first fortification on Castle Island, dating all the way back to 1634 (but it even had a battery there as early as 1632). That’s only twelve to fourteen years after the Mayflower! By 1692 it had been replaced by multiple structures and renamed Castle William. Then in 1797 it gained the prestigious name of Fort Independence. It is the oldest military installation in the United States.

  Castle Island is actually no longer an island and is attached to the mainland via land reclamation for the port and a narrow strip of land. It is open to visitors.

  If you have read my novel The Mayflower Bride, you know the true story of John Howland and his infamous trip overboard. It truly was a miracle that the man survived, and he now has more descendants in the United States than any other Mayflower passenger. By more than double. So I chose to have our heroine here in Embers of Hope be his descendant. For more fascinating information about John Howland and his descendants, I recommend you read The Mayflower Bride, also from Barbour Publishing.

  While I based this story on the true history and timeline of the fort, all of the characters and events are fictitious. Join me as we head to Castle Island and the early stages of our nation in Embers of Hope.

  Enjoy the journey,

  Kimberley

  Chapter 1

  Castle Island off the shores of Boston

  March 21, 1673

  Fire!” The cry echoed across the night sky.

  “Fire!” Captain Christopher Latham repeated the shout that had come from the tower guard. Not that it was even a tower, but it was the platform built at the point of the island. Racing up the hill, Christopher felt his heart pound in his chest. The colonel had left for Boston, and that meant Christopher was in charge. If anything disastrous happened, he was responsible.

  Shouting the cry again, he lengthened his stride, hoping that all the men had heard and would rally to help quench the blaze. A fire on their small island could be devastating. He prayed it wasn’t bad.

  As he crested the man-made hill they used as a fortification, his heart raced and then plummeted with a thud in his chest.

  Flames licked at the fifty-foot-long west and south walls of ten-foot-thick pine that surrounded the square-shaped compound. And they were spreading. Fast. Pretty soon the entire structure would be engulfed if they couldn’t get the fire under control. The center, a three-story structure which they’d named The Castle, held the nine mounted ordnances. But the brittle bricks it was made out of would burn quickly if the fire made it there. The artillery and gunpowder were stored at the top. The potential explosion of the armaments caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

  Men scrambled around, wooden buckets swinging, as they made a chain to the shore.

  Christopher shouted orders. “Remove the powder! Keep the fire from The Castle!”

  Water sloshed as the buckets traveled up the line of men to douse the fire. Again and again. But the blaze only grew.

  Within minutes flames seemed to almost touch the sky as they ate hungrily at the decaying wooden structure. The fiery beasts roared as they licked at their fuel. The men closest to the flames were pushed back by the scorching heat.

  Another row of men headed to the blaze. But Christopher held up his hand to halt them. They could do no more without risking the loss of soldiers to the ferocious flames. He turned to the men he’d ordered to remove the powder, “Did you retrieve it all?”

  “Yes, sir.” The younger one, out of breath and skinny as a pole, lifted his chin. “But not the ordnance.”

  Nothing could be done. The fire had already reached the brick structure and devoured it. “Stand back!” All they could do now was watch it burn. He turned to his head lieutenant. “Have you accounted for all the souls on the island?”

  “Aye, sir.” John’s head bobbed up and down. “All except for the washerwoman. No one seems to know where she went.”

  Christopher placed his hands on his hips and looked around. Maybe she ran when she saw the fire? The men had been neglectful of the old woman from the moment she arrived. Since she wasn’t young and beautiful, the soldiers didn’t care for her—just threw their laundry her way. Of course, it didn’t help that Colonel Brown was a superstitious man and believed that every time there was a mishap, it was because a female was present. She’d only been there a few days, and she’d been blamed many a time.

  No matter how much Christopher tried, the rumors that it was bad luck to have a woman at the fort couldn’t be stopped. As captain, Christopher had hoped to keep his men from being so irrational, but he couldn’t control the gossip any more than he could control an outbreak of disease. With a glance around, he walked through the crowd. No sign of the woman. The men were covered in soot and grime, their faces and hair black and singed. It didn’t help that they looked skinny and worn out.

  Nothing like a disaster to help him see the reality of the state of his troops.

  Ever since a warship had come into the harbor decades ago, they’d kept at least fifty men posted on the island to man the guns and cannons. To be a formidable presence. At least in the eyeglass of an enemy ship’s captain. The soldiers trained on their weapons daily and sent out watch parties. Never again did they want to give the notion that they weren’t ready to defend their new colony. The first fort back in 1634 had been a sad structure made out of mud walls and oyster shell lime. But when that French ship arrived in ’44, it scared them into building a better fort out of timber. But now that was gone.

  Of course it could always be rebuilt—this time out of something even sturdier and preferably not so ready to burn. What mattered was that all of his men were accounted for. But where was the old woman?

  As he walked through the men whose gazes were fastened on the glowing destruction before them, Christopher looked at each soot-covered face. Maybe she was hiding?

  “ ’Twas her, I tell ya.” A young soldier’s voice made Christopher turn. The man swiped at his trousers as he talked to some of the others. “Just like the colonel said. Bad luck for us all.”

  The words brought Christopher to a halt.

 
; “I saw her stoking her fire under the washin’ pot. The old hag tripped over her own feet and fell into the fire, knocking wood and flames every which way.”

  “She fell into the fire?” Christopher stomped toward them. A dozen or so new men had arrived last week, and he wasn’t sure of the integrity of any of them.

  The soldiers straightened. “Yes, Cap’n.” The one who’d been telling the story lifted his chin. “I saw it with my own two eyes. ’Tis her fault the fire started.”

  “Did you help her up?” His ire rose along with his voice.

  “Uh … no, sir.”

  “Are you telling me that you just left her there?”

  The young soldier’s eyes widened.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, Cap’n.”

  Christopher pointed a finger in the young man’s face. “That conduct is unacceptable. Not only for a soldier, but for a man of honor.” He couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. “Report to me tomorrow. We will discuss this then.” Storming off, he headed to what was left of the west wall. The place where the woman—Martha?—had been doing laundry the past few days.

  It didn’t take him long to find the black cauldron she heated and stirred the wash in. It lay on its side, a mass of burned ash inside and out.

  As Christopher moved closer, he swallowed the bile that threatened to choke him. Amid the ash he saw them. Ivory and gray.

  Bones.

  He swiped a hand down his face and tried to remove the grim picture from his mind. The men would resound the cries of bad luck as their superstitions were refueled.

  Would any of them realize what this woman had sacrificed, coming to this island to toil day and night for them? Amid their scorn and gossip?