by Scott O'Dell
"You can, sir. It's about Anthony Foxcroft."
"Yes, I know how brutally he's been treated. You and I talked about it once during the voyage. I again regret that I was not able to be of help in the matter. But things have changed. There's a ray of hope fluttering on the horizon."
"More than a ray," said one of the young gentlemen, Richard Knowles, I believe. "And more than fluttering. It's the sun itself coming up."
"We have an interesting thought," Francis Pearepoint said. "It comes from Hopkins, who, as you know, is well versed in the Scriptures. He believes, and we join him in believing, that it's no breach of honesty or religion to refuse to follow the rules Governor Gates has laid down. From the moment we were wrecked, the governor's authority ceased, Hopkins maintains. We are now free men, he says, absolutely free to conduct ourselves as we deem fit. Here we enjoy nature's richest bounties. To leave an earthly paradise for Jamestown, where people starve, die from the plague and arrows, is the sheerest folly."
"You and your friends and Stephen Hopkins may believe this, but you're only a part of the camp," I said.
"But an armed and determined part," Pearepoint said.
It was hopeful news, the best of news. A revolt against the governor, if it succeeded, would free Anthony Foxcroft.
TWELVE
The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to make my way through the dense growth of palmetto trees, I set off to tell Anthony Foxcroft the news I had heard from Francis Pearepoint.
The moon, a ghost in a cloudless sky, shed no light. But I had taken the path each day since we came to the island and knew it well. The trees that huddled together, the quick shadows of dawn, the lingering shadows of dusk, the deep red sand that left no tracks, the many turnings—I knew them all.
Yet on this morning, as I hurried along, everything seemed different—the twisting path, the huddled trees, the far-off sound of waves on the beach. At last and for the very first time in all my visits, I carried wonderful news.
A fire burned in the clearing. A guard sat beside it, sleeping with one eye open. He had eaten something from a bowl, and a forest animal was nibbling at what he had left. The guard nodded when I spoke to him and uttered three words, words he always used as a greeting, whatever time of day it happened to be. "Good morning, miss," he said, and closed the eye that was open.
Anthony was in his hut, asleep. He had a hammock brought from the wreck, but he preferred sleeping on the sand and used the hammock for a pillow. Usually if I found him asleep, I returned to camp, leaving the gift I had brought—something special to eat from the settlers' table or a piece of clothing I had sewn, like a shirt made from a tattered sail. This morning I roused him with a kiss.
He raised his hands, shielding his eyes from the sun that suddenly bore down upon him through the trees. "You caused me an awful night," he said. "The lobster mixed with something that tasted like spoiled turnips gave me a vast ache in my belly." He stared up at me. "What did you bring today? Nothing to eat, I hope."
"I bring wonderful, cheering news."
He sat up and rested his manacled hands against his knees. "A ship has just arrived from England, bringing a pardon from the king? At this moment the ship waits off the coast to take me back to England? I'm to return in triumph, to the discomfort of Robert Carr, who is no longer the king's favorite?" He paused and wrinkled his brow. "Or Sir Thomas Gates has died from the turnip concoction that nearly caused my death last night?"
"You ate hearts of palm, not turnips, and they were delicious. Everyone said so, even Sir Thomas. I helped to make the dish myself."
He got up and began to pace. I let him pace. Finally he walked over and gave me a shake. "What?" he said. "What is the wonderful news?"
"Stephen Hopkins, the one who helps the Reverend Bucke at the meetings, who quotes the Scriptures," I began, and I told him the story that Francis Pearepoint had told me. "Pearepoint and his gentlemen are prepared to join Hopkins and depose the governor."
Anthony brightened. He had lost the awful ship's pallor. The island sun had bronzed his skin. He had gained strength. He was as handsome as he had been before, even handsomer, because the brutal treatment suffered on the voyage had left a look in his eyes I had never seen before. As if he now viewed the world not as a heedless youth but as a man.
"Heartening news," he said, planting a kiss on my brow. "Bring me more when you come again."
"Tonight, perhaps, or tomorrow."
"I'll be here," he said, smiling, rattling his chains.
The camp was astir and breakfast fires were burning bright when I got back. The Reverend Bucke rang his bell. Stephen Hopkins called the roll. Two men were missing and their names were duly noted. The Reverend Bucke gave a short talk about how important it was for everyone to pitch in and repair the habitations, huts made of cedar boughs and thatched with palmetto leaves, that the storm had blown apart.
"God has given us a stint of halcyon nights and sunny days," he said, "but Satan squirms at God's gift. Expect him to send another rain and a spiteful wind upon us. Therefore work hard, this threat in mind, I pray you, and do not stop the day until everyone is properly sheltered."
Stephen Hopkins climbed onto the sandy mound that served as a pulpit. He prayed for a moment or two, then spoke about the limits of earthly power, freely quoting the Bible.
"Sir Thomas Gates," he said in a quiet voice. "Once in Jamestown he'll rule with a gentle hand, no doubt, according to the king's instructions. But here he feels all-powerful, the king himself, privileged to treat us as he chooses. We are not his slaves to be driven from one harsh task to another. Instead, we are free men, free to do as we see fit."
The Puritans and others of strong religious leanings, those who felt they had a covenant with God and the London Company, were silent as these words hung in the air. The rest of the camp muttered encouragement and urged him to go on.
"'Can two walk together,'" he said, quoting Amos, the herdsman, "'except they be agreed? Shall a trumpet be blown in the city and the people not be afraid?' Sir Thomas walks one way and many of us walk the other. The trumpet has sounded and I am letting it be known that we're afraid."
Before an hour had passed, Sir Thomas, who had not attended the morning sermon, heard the exact words Stephen Hopkins had spoken as he stood before the camp, repeated to him by a pair of Puritans, husband and wife. Hopkins was immediately summoned, and witnesses were called who testified against him. At nightfall he was sentenced to death.
Hopkins was treacherous, of course, guilty of outright rebellion, yet early the next morning two thirds of the camp hurried to his rescue. Led by Francis Pearepoint, Sir George Somers, and Captain Newport, they descended upon the governor, overpowered him with protests, and forced him to revoke the sentence. What's more, and it came quickly as I was about to call out Anthony's name, Francis Pearepoint raised his voice above the tumult.
"Foxcroft!" he shouted. "Foxcroft!"
His young gentlemen, who ranged behind him with their hands on the hilts of their swords, took up the name. Governor Gates stood with his back against a tree, squinting in the rising sun, covering his ears against the chant of "Foxcroft, Foxcroft."
Sir Thomas grew pale. His page put a hand out to steady him. The governor pushed it away and glanced about the crowd until he made out the stiff figure of the king's guard.
"Do you hold the key, Captain Fitzhugh?" he asked.
Fitzhugh hesitated and was silent. He was pushed forward by rough hands to where the governor stood against the tree.
"Give it over," the governor said.
Francis Pearepoint and his band rattled their swords and began to chant, "The key, the key, the key." Reluctantly, Fitzhugh reached in his jerkin and took out a key. But before he could hand it over, Pearepoint grabbed it and disappeared with his band.
I followed them along the path to the clearing and watched while they removed the manacles. I held my breath as they raised Anthony to their shoulders. I wept as they bore him off in tri
umph, like a hero.
The following day, having thought about what he had been forced to do and perhaps regretting it, the governor spoke to the camp. He seemed aware that the incident was clear warning of worse things to come.
"Our friends," he said, "are waiting to hear from us—those of our fleet who, I fervently pray, have arrived in Jamestown. Therefore I am sending a message to them that we are safe."
He called out our carpenters and set them to work on one of the longboats. Using hatches from the Sea Venture, they decked it over tightly, fashioned a short mast and a set of sails and oars, and provisioned it with food and water to last the many weeks that were necessary for the voyage to Virginia, hundreds of miles away.
The task was completed by the next morning. At breakfast Sir Thomas asked for six volunteers to man the longboat. Henry Ravens, mate of Sea Venture, came forward at once, as did Whittingham the purser, and two others.
A long silence followed. Wind had sprung up in the night. The sky was heavily overcast and waves were pounding the wrecked ship. Almost every day had been fair since we landed on the island. We had forgotten about the hurricane. The lowering sky and crashing waves brought it to mind.
Governor Gates broke the silence. "It's a hazardous voyage to Jamestown," he said. "It's one I wouldn't choose to make myself, so I do not blame those who hesitate."
Samuel Sharpe jumped to his feet, moved by the words. His wife, who had a child in her lap, reached out and pulled him back.
"I'll not take men with wives or children, but thank you, Mr. Sharpe," the governor said, fixing his eye on Henry Shelly, a strapping young bachelor. Shelly raised his hand.
The governor said, "We now have five brave men. We need one more, but no one who is married."
His gaze moved over the silent ranks. I knew before it happened, before he stood up, a half-boyish, half-arrogant smile on his face, that Anthony would wait until all the men avoided each other's eyes and all were silent.
"Foxcroft," Anthony said, lifting his hand. "Anthony Foxcroft wishes to join the crew of the longboat bound for Jamestown and the New World."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Sir Thomas Gates caught his breath. It began to rain, and though he held his sugar-loaf hat against his chest, he didn't think to put it on.
Anthony said, "And I suggest, Governor Gates, since it's your concern for the rest of our fleet that prompts the voyage to Jamestown, the boat be christened Gates' Gift, in your honor."
The compliment brought a flush to the governor's cheeks. He stood with his sugar-loaf hat still clutched to his chest, the rain pouring down upon his head.
A voice came out of the crowd. "You don't dare to send my prisoner to Jamestown," Captain John Fitzhugh shouted above the roar of the wind.
The governor roused himself. He put on his hat and said, "I dare to do what I wish. I wish to send Foxcroft to Jamestown. And since you are so attached to him, I send you also."
The crowd cheered. Fitzhugh shouted again, but a burst of wind whipped his words away. Captain Ravens called out, asking his men to gather, and Anthony hastened to join them.
The governor spoke to Henry Ravens. "As first mate on the Sea Venture you served me heroically," he said. "Now as captain of Gates' Gift, though she be little more than a cockleshell, you will again serve me heroically. Godspeed, and do not forget this when you are safe in Jamestown: Make every effort to find the princess Pocahontas and persuade her to grace the colony with her presence once more. Captain Newport has already spoken of her. I speak of this again because it is of the utmost importance."
"The first task, sir, I will set myself," Henry Ravens replied. "Though I fear it more difficult than getting our cockleshell across the western sea."
On his way through the cheering crowd, Anthony sought me out. Impulsively, my heart stopping, then starting up again, I grasped his hand to hold him back, as Samuel Sharpe's wife had held him back.
"You're crying," he said.
"It's not tears," I said. "It's rain."
"Let me see." He kissed my cheek. "The rain is salty," he said, and held my hand tight in his. "The sooner we reach Jamestown, the sooner this awful mess will end. And one day, much sooner than you think, we'll return to England, for the king has a short memory and a merciful heart. And Robert Carr, with his preening self-importance, may well be dead. We'll both be back at Foxcroft by the River Dane at another masque, a more peaceful one, I am certain."
He went on with this pretty speech while I clung to him. Then, suddenly he was gone, and his footsteps were lost in the sound of the rain and the wind threshing in the palmetto trees.
THIRTEEN
Gates' Gift slipped away before dawn two days later under the light of a moon in a cloudless sky. From the reef where the Sea Venture lay I watched the pinnace disappear.
That day Governor Gates began the building of a ship, which he named Deliverance. He called men together, including Francis Pearepoint's gentlemen, and explained how necessary it was for them, no matter how lacking their skills, to put a mighty effort into the building.
"We do not know if our fleet has arrived in Jamestown," he said, "and if it has, how many are fit for another voyage. We can't rely on Jamestown for any help at all. Without a ship we could be here for years, forever, stranded, helpless, forsaken."
Even more of the men wished to stay on the island than had in the beginning. The thought of starving in Jamestown or being scalped by Indians was less appealing than ever.
The governor now fully regretted the softness he had shown to Hopkins. He displayed his regret in the way he bit off his words and fixed a contemptuous eye upon Francis Pearepoint, whom he regarded as the one most dedicated to his destruction.
He put Richard Frobisher, one of the ship's carpenters, in charge of the new ship.
Frobisher sent out a crew to dismantle the wreck and bring ashore every timber that could be used. He sent men into the woods to saw up the best cedars and shape them into planking. Others were set to work on the salvaged sails. After two days, the keel was laid and the Deliverance took shape, a bark half the size of the lost Sea Venture.
Then a lone sail was sighted far in the west. Admiral Somers, who was out exploring the numerous islands, reported that it belonged to the pinnace, that Captain Ravens had not been able to pass through the tangled chain of reefs.
On the third afternoon, he told us that Ravens had made his way at last through the maze of reefs and was headed off into the western sea.
Although it would take two weeks or more for the pinnace to reach Jamestown and as long for a rescue ship to return, the Puritans and the others who were impatient to leave built a beacon fire on a mount they called St. David's Hill. The beacon was lit every night as a symbol of devotion.
The building of Deliverance went fast for a few days. Then the work slowed down. Sir Thomas thought the men were bone-lazy. To set an example, when the bell rang for work he was at the ship in his old clothes, tools in hand, eager to undertake any task however menial.
His efforts failed. Those he thought shiftless were, in truth, a secret band of conspirators bent on delaying the work and destroying the ship if possible.
The day he learned of the conspiracy, he rounded up the ringleaders, six of them, who under duress admitted that they had planned to leave the camp and take one of the other islands for themselves. To grant their wish, the governor banished them to the farthest of the islands, all except the blacksmith and the shipwright, men whom he kept and put to work under threat of death.
It was a bad, disruptive time. The Reverend Bucke, whom everyone respected, got us together on the beach. It was a warm night, with a west wind, but black clouds and a tilted moon cast weird shadows on the gathering. A storm was in the offing. It seemed to suit our mood and the occasion.
After a short service, to which we responded in halting voices, the Reverend Bucke introduced Captain Newport, captain of the Sea Venture.
"We have reached the point," the captain said, "where nei
ghbor quarrels with neighbor, where turmoil exists instead of peace. How, I ask, if this parlous state continues, can we ever reach Jamestown? And if by God's good grace we ever do, how can we be of help? I was there at Jamestown two years ago. First hand, I have seen its problems. They cannot be solved by this quarrelsome brood, be it one hundred fifty or one thousand fifty."
Lightning streaked the sky and rain poured down upon us. The Reverend Bucke shouted "Amen!" and we thoughtfully filed away.
Yet at this time, despite Newport's warnings, the governor and the admiral came to a falling out. They'd had small differences since the day we left Falmouth, more since the wreck. Now everything led to a lengthy argument and a parting.
Admiral Somers moved to the far end of the island and took with him twenty good workers, among them the square-jawed, square-wristed Tom Barlow, the young man I had talked to the night of St. Elmo's fire. Since I had taken notes and written letters for the admiral during the voyage, he asked me to join them.
The new camp was located on a pretty bay with a yellow cliff at one end and a stretch of white sand at the other end. Between them stretched a crescent of blue water so transparent that it seemed like air.
From my hut I looked across the bay to a small island covered with cedar trees not far from shore. To the east I could see the beacon fire they kept burning for Captain Ravens and his crew, for Anthony Foxcroft.
Admiral Somers had brought a boat with him, a small one taken from the wreck. He decided to make a chart of all the islands and the reefs, as well as a list of the trees, flowers, and wildlife he encountered. Tom Barlow would help with the boat, and I would come along with pen and paper to put down things he told me to, in the bold handwriting he admired.
Starting in the northeast on the point where Sea Venture was wrecked, we went west and south around the crescent, a great fishhook of land. Admiral Somers counted a chain of nearly a hundred islands and islets, took careful sightings, and had me write everything down. We didn't go ashore to explore any of the islands; that would come later, he said, when the chart was finished.