Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  George’s eyes glassed over; he looked ready to take her in his arms, roll her onto the ground, kiss her, more, but he simply stared into her eyes. “Emily Colman, you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever known. I . . . I love you.”

  Emily awoke from an anxious sleep—anxious because her mind had never relaxed; it had churned with thoughts of her mother, her secret fears over the colony’s prospects, and then the words young George had spoken to her. She lay fully clothed on her side, on a doubled-over wool blanket spread on the ground, her knees together and tucked up toward her stomach. Ground’s not fit for a woman’s body, she mused. No dips or hollows in the right places. The heat and humidity aggravated her discomfort. She wished she’d been able to take off her heavy wool skirt and top, strip down to her linen smock, but that would have been improper with the Howes sharing the cottage. But just the thought of it seemed to cool her perspiring body. She sat up, looked around the room. The three men lay scattered around the dirt floor, each in a different repose, all soundly asleep. Her father lay on his back, snoring with each breath. Though she’d suffered his snoring for nineteen years, she’d never gotten used to it, never learned to block it out so she could enjoy a quiet, uninterrupted sleep. She’d even heard it from three rooms away in their house in England. A candle burned by the doorway but had only an hour or so left before it would expire. Emily rose, stepped quietly to one of her bags on the other side of the one-room cottage, and felt inside. She removed a folded piece of paper that looked like it had been folded and unfolded many times before, carried it to the doorway, then carefully unfolded it, lay down on her side, and held it beneath the candle flame.

  My Dearest Emily,

  When you read this, you’ll probably be at sea, probably sick, and probably missing me and your brother as much as we already miss you. My dear, you are the joy of my life, and being parted from you is the most painful and difficult thing I’ve experienced, even more so than giving birth to you and your brothers. I love you, Emily, and I miss your willing, helpful hand, your cheerfulness, your humor, your intelligence, your loyalty, your honesty, your kindness. I haven’t told you often enough how much I love you, but I tell you now that I count the moments until I’m with you and your father again. No separation can dim the love I feel for you, and I pray you thrive and continue to be the fine young woman you’ve become.

  I do not know what lies ahead for you in that new world, but I know you have the mind, the values, and the perseverance to conquer every challenge you face. I know you will survive, no matter what. Please remember everything I taught you about dealing with your father. You’ll need each other to survive and prosper. And in spite of how he sometimes affects you, remember that he loves you deeply. Second, I want you to remember that your chastity is your most wonderful possession. Nothing in your life is more important. It is the very essence of you, and should be given only to the one you love more than life itself: your husband, none other. I know you understand this. Now, dear Emily, I must go. I pray that God watches over you and protects you and that our family will soon be together again. Godspeed.

  I love you,

  Mother

  Emily dabbed her sleeve on the tears that flowed like tiny waterfalls down her cheeks to her chin, onto the letter. She started crying, then sobbed, cupping her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake the men. When she’d settled, she reverently folded the letter, kissed it, put it in her pocket. She then removed her locket and held it to her cheek, wiped her eyes with her other hand, and stared into the flickering flames. Mother, I miss you so. A sudden whiff of breeze drifted through the cottage door, seemed to deposit an image of her mother in the flames. Oh, Mother, how I miss you. Yes, I shall keep faith with my principles, with all you’ve taught me. I love you, Mother. She closed her eyes, heard the sizzling of the steaming water kettle in her mother’s kitchen, smelled the aroma of boiled mussels and cake that always seemed to dwell there.

  A hand touch her shoulder; she sucked a loud cry into her throat. The elder George Howe said, “Emily, forgive me. Here we are with Savages about, and I’m surprising people in the dark.”

  “No matter, Master Howe. I was just missing my mother and feeling sorry for myself.” She slid her locket into her pocket, held her index finger to her lips, then pointed toward the doorway. Outside she glanced up at the stars that covered the moonless sky like grains of salt sprinkled on a huge, black blanket.

  Howe whispered, “Well, it was clumsy of me. I awoke and saw you by the candle, thought I’d pass the moment with another restless soul . . . it must be very difficult for you and your father. You’ve left two people behind. George and I have left nothing, no person or thing. You and your father, on the other hand, have left your whole lives behind. You risk much.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife. George misses her so. I can see he still grieves. I know you do, as well.”

  He looked away for a moment then back at Emily. “You see much for your years, Emily Colman. Yes, we still grieve . . . but the past is something we’ve left behind. This is our life now, and we’re determined to succeed here.” He snickered. “Of course, most of the citizens of England consider us daft for being here, for leaving civilization for the wilderness, for risking our lives. But a man must push himself, strive for what he wants out of life. Success is not free, not even cheap.” He looked away into the darkness for a moment as if he expected it to tell him the right words to express his thoughts. “Emily, I don’t know how young George truly feels about being here, but I know he’s glad he met you. I’m sure you know he’s quite fond of you—”

  “And I of him. My close friend, he is.”

  “I see that. And we’ll need close, trusted friends to survive here . . . yet I sense that his feelings for you go beyond friendship.”

  A warm flush worked its way up Emily’s neck to her cheeks.

  “I sense that those feelings are more romantic than yours for him . . . which I understand—you being two years older, and young ladies being more mature than young men. Truly, I don’t mean to embarrass you, Emily. On the contrary, I don’t want you to ever feel pressured by our circumstances to feel more for George than you would if you were back in England. Stress can play tricks on the mind and emotions, and . . . and you’re a young woman unequaled by any I’ve ever seen. Why, if I were younger . . .”

  “Master Howe, you flatter me. George is my dear friend. We share thoughts and dreams as friends do, and you’re right. He does feel more than simple friendship for me. A lass knows these things. Yet there have been times when I wondered if it might be different, wondered if we could someday be more than friends. As you say, our circumstances make it more difficult to know reality from imagination. For now—”

  “Emily Colman, fate and you will determine your future, but I have a feeling it will be you more than fate. So follow your mind . . . and your heart . . . and, Emily, never doubt your father’s love. ’Tis true and deep.”

  The seething, torrid sun had not yet crested the horizon when John White and his twelve Assistants, guarded by four soldiers who waited out of earshot in the trees, arrived at the meeting place on the shore. White had anticipated a blunt, emotional, and perhaps even raucous discussion but nothing like what ensued. Lord, he hated confrontation, couldn’t think under the pressure of it, never knew what to say, what to do. The colonists were rightly incensed by the events of the last two days—not only incensed but afraid, some even terrified. He understood the relationship between the two; and knowing there was no greater stimulant of irrational behavior than fear, he hoped to preclude its contagion in the colony.

  William Willes shouted, “Christ Almighty, John, why did you hide these truths from us? You breached our trust, man.” If there had been a table on the shore, he would have pounded it with his fist, kicked it over, stomped it into small pieces of kindling. “How can we believe anything you say now? You’ve squandered your credibility. ’Tis gone, man, gone!”

  White’s shoulders sagged as
he stared at the ground. He looked like a young boy who had been caught stealing pennies from his father. What to do. What to say. “William, I . . . I acted in what I thought was the best interest of the colony.”

  “Bosh! I challenge that,” shouted Willes.

  “I, as well,” grumbled John Sampson. “ ’Tis simply untrue. You lied, Governor—lied to entice us here, and you’re lying now to keep us here. Deceived us, you did. You even—”

  Thomas Stevens interrupted, threw his walking stick on the ground. “You connived with that bastard, Fernandez, to maroon us here . . . so you could claim our land in the Chesapeake. We ought to storm the ship and hang Fernandez.”

  “Thomas, I resent that intimation. I’ve done—”

  Sampson cut in. “So, Governor, why did you deceive us?”

  A storm of vicious shouting erupted, pummeled White like summer hail. “Please gentlemen. Please, I beg you. Let me explain.” The violent carping drowned him out, but he was actually glad of it because he didn’t know what to say, had no idea what to do, how to answer such aggressive but honest anger. He wanted to run away; hide in the forest; leave the colony’s governance to someone with the temperament, mind, and leadership to actually do the job—someone who could save them from the impending disaster only he knew was coming. Damn Fernandez. Everything would have been fine if the lowly bastard hadn’t dumped us here.

  George Howe spoke above the din. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is wrong. We’re condemning the wrong man. We must calm ourselves, think with reason not emotion. Fernandez deceived us, not the governor.”

  Several men stopped grousing, looked at Howe.

  Roger Baylye said, “Master Howe is right. This anger accomplishes nothing; it only makes our task more difficult. Please, let us show some respect for one another . . . and the governor.” Baylye looked about forty years old, had a mousey look about him, magnified by a nearly nonexistent chin, permanently sad and unconfident look, and slight stature draped over a taller-than-average frame. He looked like a worrier, but had an unexpectedly deep voice that caught people by surprise and commanded their immediate attention. “You shall all have your chance to speak, but first we must act like the leaders we were chosen to be.” The grousing tapered to silence. “Like it or not, we lack the luxury of choices and endless whining. As Assistants, we’ve naught but the obligation to advise the governor to the best of our ability. Damn it! We cannot stand here all day yelling at one another. We’ve work to do if this colony is to have even a meager chance of survival, much to plan and organize. We must assign tasks, create rules for governance and labor, inventory our supplies, organize hunting and fishing parties. Do you realize we’ve barely enough food to feed the colony for three weeks unless we supplement with other foodstuffs? But we have none. How many of you know how to hunt deer or turkey, or fish these waters? Then we’ve palisade construction and cottage building to plan, and much more we haven’t even thought of. Have you forgotten that we’ll be doing no planting or raising of crops this year? Even if it wasn’t the end of July and too late to plant, how many of us have an inkling of how to plant here? The Savages know, but they hate us and won’t teach us. Winter will soon be upon us, and we must be prepared or perish. How will we do that? Come to your senses, men. You’re all intelligent, honest sorts. So cease whining and concentrate on planning the means of survival. Our situation is desperate . . . and the people don’t yet realize it.” He spoke quietly, with resignation, finality. “ ’Tis our responsibility to guide and lead them, plan for their protection.”

  The ensuing silence encouraged him. “Now, I agree with George Howe. Our situation was not the governor’s making. He may not have told us everything he knew, but I believe him innocent of willful deceit. The problems we face are related to our present location, but not at all to our intended location. Master White is our governor, appointed by Sir Walter Raleigh, and not removable by us. We are thus obliged to give him the opportunity to explain himself and lead us. So let us hear him and then proceed with the tasks before us. John?”

  Would that Baylye were governor instead of me, White thought. Perhaps I shall propose it later. He took a deep breath, toyed with the end of his mustache. “Friends . . . I call you ‘friends’ because I hold you in that regard. I personally chose you to be my Assistants because of the leadership traits I saw in you. I myself have, sadly, failed to exhibit those same traits in fair measure. I have been less than forthcoming with you, and with all of the people, about the events that transpired here in 1585 and 1586. For that I am sorry. But I withheld that information with fair intentions because I had no suspicion that we would now be trying to exist here rather than in the Chesapeake. I thought general knowledge of those violent happenings would only create unnecessary anxiety and fear among the people but, in the end, have no effect on us, or our success, in the Chesapeake. So why mention them? Yes, Lane committed atrocities against the Savages. I witnessed and abhorred those atrocities. Yes, he enflamed their passions against us. His actions were arrogant and stupid; his men murdered, raped, burned, laid waste, brought fatal disease. But evil as they were, his actions would have had no impact upon us had the blackguard, Fernandez, not forced us from the vessel and refused us passage to our intended destination, the destination granted us by Sir Walter Raleigh and the Queen herself.” He took a long breath, again toyed with his mustache.

  Taking heart from a rare prolonged silence, he felt he’d regained a foothold. “But even after my lengthy pleading, and then threatening, I cannot say I know Fernandez’s reason for this irrational, mutinous act. Indeed, it was most frustrating to me, for we went round in circles the entire day with him providing no explanation for deserting us here. In truth, all I can surmise is that he’s been bribed by one of Raleigh’s enemies, of which there are several; or as he swears, he may truly need a full month here to replenish water, food, and firewood before he departs for England, hopefully ahead of the winter gales. He says this urgent priority does not allow time for him to take us to Chesapeake; but in fact, doing so would cost him merely a day. So, I believe him to be lying to cover his intent to privateer and take Spanish prizes on his way back to England . . . certainly a more profitable venture than delivering us to Chesapeake. But whatever his true reason, ’tis irresponsible and criminal to abandon one hundred nineteen people in a hostile environment where their survival is in doubt. Unfortunately, and to my own disappointment, I believe further imploring of the man to do us justice is futile and will yield no change in his position; therefore, since we have not the means to attack the ship, we must find the resources and resolve to survive here and await the arrival of English authorities of sufficient rank to prosecute him . . . even if he’s long since departed. As it stands today, he intends to abandon us here and depart with the large ship and the flyboat before the end of August.”

  The absence of protest gave White a surge in confidence, a parcel of gratitude that they had listened, given him another chance. “The only good fortune to come from this debacle is Fernandez’s promise to leave the pinnace and two shallops here with us. If he’s true to his word, this will provide us the opportunity to transport ourselves to Chesapeake, or perhaps up the broad river, to the west where it narrows, and thence overland into the main. Both options are preferable to remaining here.”

  The Assistants looked numb, depleted; none spoke, none contested. White mentally thanked Baylye for saving him, giving him the chance to compose himself and regain what little confidence he had. But he’d now confirmed their worst fears: they were in a dangerous, untenable position; the one who was to blame was untouchable and protected from retribution; and they were soon to be abandoned to their own devices. He watched their faces as they slowly regarded one another; read their concern, their fear, but also hints of embryonic determination.

  As the extended silence grew awkward, Baylye cleared his throat and removed a piece of paper from his coat. “John, while you were on the ship yesterday, I took the liberty of conducting an inve
ntory of our supplies.”

  White nodded. “A most urgent action. Thank you for the foresight.”

  “The results are not comforting. We’ve wine for a month, but the beer will be exhausted within the week. We have ingredients to make our own, and I suggest we assign that task to someone tomorrow. For foodstuffs, we have four to six weeks of hardtack, salt beef, oatmeal, rice, honey, and butter; but the cheese, currants, raisins, prunes, olives, salad oil and vinegar, turnip and parsnip seed, onions, garlic, thyme, mustard, fennel, and anise will be gone in three weeks.”

  A despondent shadow spread over the men’s faces like the sudden smoke of a new fire.

  “So, as you can see, the situation is not promising, which has led me to the conclusion that we must do two things immediately. First, we must extend the life of our existing supplies by supplementing them with fresh fish and venison. This will require hunters and fishermen, and we should begin these efforts this very afternoon. Second, we must develop and implement a system for rationing the supplies among the people so all receive their fair share. Master Howe, I’m told you’ve some experience with crabbing, might even qualify as an expert at it?”

  George Howe flashed a proud smile. “I do indeed. A man must know how to acquire his favorite food if he’s to enjoy it now and then. And if you’re asking me to spend the rest of the day crabbing and call it work, I enthusiastically accept.”

  Hearty laughter rippled around the circle of men, fracturing the stiff tension that had gripped the assembly.

  “Thank you, Sir. I’d hoped for that response. Perhaps you could choose six or eight men to accompany you and teach them the art. We’ll need a bountiful harvest to satisfy the hunger of so many . . . I assume you’ll instruct us in the proper preparation and cooking of these creatures, as well?”