by Mike Rhynard
Emily stayed with George all day, watching him, guarding him, shielding and insulating him from any word or thought that might jeopardize his fragile recovery. Hugh Tayler stopped by, visited with her father outside the cottage for a few minutes before Colman parried his request to visit Emily and led him off to work on the palisades. Emily did not speak to George, other than to ask about his well-being. The day made her feel like a wife and mother: she fed her father and George, cleaned the cottage—as well as a dwelling with a dirt floor could be cleaned—washed the few pieces of kitchenware they had, mended torn clothes, and collected their dirty clothes so they could be taken to the stream and washed. But mostly she watched George, eyeing him furtively as she went about her chores. She wondered if he’d speak, what he was thinking, feared he’d ask her about his father. She was astounded, even shocked, at how remote, tentative, seemingly afraid of her he became over the course of the day, concluded that such behavior was probably normal after such a trauma, then resolved to give him whatever he needed to find himself.
George was alert but still internalized; busied himself sharpening his two knives, checking and re-checking his father’s musket; repeatedly and obsessively rearranging their belongings, occasionally pausing to hold a lingering gaze on his father’s possessions.
After several hours of silence, Emily asked George if she could get anything for him.
Without looking at her, he shook his head, remained silent.
Emily sat herself on a stool, took advantage of the silence to again read her mother’s letter, caress her locket, and pray for George’s recovery and the colony’s salvation.
After another half hour, George suddenly stood, walked over to Emily. With a deadpan expression, he said, “Emily, where’s my father?”
A frigid chill slammed into her mind like a North Sea gale, muddled her ability to reason, panicked her. She swallowed hard, tried to think but couldn’t.
George said, “Emily, please tell me where my father is.”
Fear spread over Emily’s face like the shadow of a fast-moving cloud; sweat dampened her forehead; her breathing quickened. He’s pushed it out of his mind, too horrible to think about . . . but if I tell him, we may lose him again . . . but if I don’t . . . if I don’t . . . Christ, help me. “George . . . your father’s dead.”
George stared into her eyes, silently processing her words; he shuffled his feet, wrung his hands, lowered his gaze to the floor. “I feared such, knew in my heart ’twas so . . . saw him in my mind, lying on the ground, feared asking, wanted to . . .”
Emily rose, put her arms around him, held him tightly to her bosom. “George, please stop. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t think about it.”
“I don’t want to think about it, but I keep seeing him. My head hurts. I’m afraid . . . I should have helped him, might have saved him . . .”
“George, you could not have saved him. You weren’t there. No one was there. No one could have helped him . . . or saved him.”
“But I should have known he needed help, should have felt it.”
“No, George, that’s not possible. Sometimes—”
“ ’Twas the Savages that killed him, wasn’t it?”
Emily stared silently at him for a moment then said, “Yes.”
“I’m going to kill them, as many as I can. They’re evil . . . they must pay.”
“No, George, they’re not evil. They’re just afraid, like we are.” She felt the turmoil within him, sensed his confusion, his conflicted, anguished heart.
“Emily, do you know where he is? Will you take me to him?”
“George, are you sure? You—”
“Yes, Em. Take me there.”
Another pause. “Very well.”
Many in the village observed their procession toward the grave site, stopped their work, watched silently and nodded their respects as they passed.
They walked out to a small clearing about a hundred yards beyond the wall. George Howe’s grave mound was marked by a wooden cross with his name carved on it. George stopped twenty feet from the grave, stared at it for a moment, grew visibly agitated, then walked hesitantly to it and slowly knelt.
Emily watched from behind as he leaned forward, laid his hands on the mound, then lowered his face to the dirt. Her body tingled with raw emotion, felt like it floated on air.
After a minute, George rose to his feet, walked back to Emily, and looked into her eyes. His face contorted into an ugly sneer. “Emily, stay away from me. I don’t want to be near you anymore.”
Emily felt a knife-like jab in her heart, felt light-headed, about to faint. “But, George . . .” She extended her hands to him.
His face twisted in pain; he grasped his head with both hands like he was trying to hold something inside, glared wildly at her, shouted, “Emily, I said stay away! I don’t ever want to see you again!” He batted her arms away then ran into the forest.
Emily stood stunned, watched him go, her mind numb, emotions disheveled, as if pummeled by a huge wave. She dropped to her knees, sat back on her heels, then lowered her face to her trembling hands, moaning softly as tears trickled between her fingers, onto her lap.
For five minutes, her mind tumbled, turned, twisted, grasped, tumbled again, tried to comprehend what had happened, but the thoughts vanished as quickly as they came. Oblivious to everything around her, she finally ordered herself to act. She rubbed her eyes, dried them on her sleeve, stood, and brushed her skirt with her hands. After glancing quickly at the forest where George had run, she turned and walked back inside the palisades toward her cottage.
People inside had heard George yell but had been unable to discern his words; they stood dumfounded, wondered what had happened, feared to ask. Now they watched as Emily made her resolute way to the cottage. When Hugh Tayler saw her, he read her distress, hurried to her side.
“Emily, what’s wrong? What is it?”
“Go away, Hugh! I can’t talk now.” She didn’t look at him, kept a rigid forward gaze, a steady pace toward the cottage.
“But Emily, I—”
“Go away! Leave me alone!” She knew she was on the verge of hysteria, knew she dare not stop, look at anyone, or talk.
Elyoner had seen her the same time Tayler did, had come running as fast as her weakened condition allowed. “Em, what’s happened? Tell me, Dear.”
Tayler said, “She won’t—”
“Shh! Can’t you see she doesn’t want you here right now? Go away . . . I’m sorry. Please find Ananias for me and tell him to watch the baby.” Elyoner didn’t like Tayler; something in his manner rubbed her wrong, made her uneasy. She wondered if it was because he fancied Emily and was so much older than she. But that was not uncommon, she admitted, then decided she was being too motherly and protective of her young friend. “Thank you, Master Tayler.”
“I . . . I . . . very well, Mistress.” Tayler headed off to find Ananias. Weeping women and angry women unnerved him, rattled his brain. He decided he was glad he’d been sent away. Finding Ananias was something he could manage, though he marveled that Elyoner would leave her newborn baby alone, even to help a friend. Must care very deeply for Emily, he concluded. His heart warmed at the thought of Emily; he looked back to see how she fared, wondered what had happened to her, saw that she and Elyoner were nearly to Emily’s cottage, quickened his pace toward the palisade section where Ananias was working. Probably something to do with the Howe lad, he thought. He felt sorry for George but still resented his close friendship with Emily, hadn’t convinced himself they were just friends.
Elyoner and Emily did not speak while walking to the cottage. Once inside, Elyoner hooked the tie string on the door so no one would enter then stepped to Emily, who stood staring at the wall. Holding her by the shoulders, Elyoner looked into her eyes. “Em, what happened? Was it George?”
Emily hesitated for a moment then wrapped her arms around Elyoner, buried her face on her chest, sobbed. “ Elyoner, hold me.”
“L
et it loose, Em. Let it out. Cry to your heart’s will. I’m with you.” After five minutes, Emily’s tears and moans subsided. The two sat and held hands in silence for a moment before Emily told her what had happened, how George’s words had stunned and wounded her, slashed her confidence to its core, ripped her feelings like a torn piece of dry parchment.
Elyoner listened with a gentle, sympathetic expression, occasionally nodded or spoke an empathetic word.
When Emily finished, she looked depleted, haggard. She sat silently, staring at the floor, entombed in a cloud of shock.
While listening, Elyoner had delved deep into her own mind to explore and understand the possible context and explanations for George’s actions, had begun crafting the words she would speak to her friend. Finally, she said, “ Em, I know you don’t wish to discuss this now, mayhap not for days, but I’m worried about you and believe what I have to say to you will help you.”
Emily didn’t reply, stared at the floor.
“Em, I think George’s injury was far deeper than we imagined, and I’d wager a shilling that his mental state, even though he’s no longer in a stupor, remains disturbed. I’d wager another shilling that in his disturbed state, he associates you with his horrible experience because you, his closest friend, had the misfortune to be with him when it occurred—it being the moment he saw his father lying there bloodied, mutilated, and dead—and being near you now reminds him, brings it all painfully back to him. ’Tis not fair to you, but ’tis also beyond his control.”
Emily looked at Elyoner with a blank expression.
“Lord knows, I’m only guessing, but you”—she paused for a few seconds, studied Emily’s face to gauge her temperament—“more than any other, know that George is a kind and generous young man and that you are his truest friend in this world. You also know he loves you.”
After a short silence, Emily said, “I am indeed his friend, Ellie, and as you say, probably his best friend. And ’tis also true that he loves me, though ’tis not something I wished for or share toward him to the same degree.”
“I know, Em. But I mention it because I think George was not George when he spoke those angry words to you. ’Twas some other person—one in a temporary state of disturbance—who spoke those words. And if so, with your and God’s help, he’ll eventually become himself again . . . but heaven knows if or when that might be.”
Emily nodded, sniffled twice. “I think—actually, I know—you’re right Ellie. ’Tis just that . . . ’twas so violent . . . so unlike him . . . so shocking. I’ve never hurt like this before . . . never knew I could be so vulnerable, especially with someone I’m not even in love with.”
“We’re all vulnerable, Em, though we often don’t realize it until something like this happens.”
Emily reached out, took Elyoner’s hands in hers, and stared into her eyes with a sad half smile. “Ellie, you’re a wonderful friend . . . a wonderful mother to me . . . and I need a mother today. Thank you for being with me. I will stand by George and try to help him. Yes, my feelings are injured, and I know not for how long. Nor do I know if George will ever speak to me again, but it doesn’t matter. I’m his friend, whether or not he perceives it, and I must help him no matter what . . . and I shall.”
While her father snored in bed, Emily sat beside a solitary candle, staring at the empty space on the floor where George’s bed had lain. He had pitched a tent somewhere in the village and asked Robert Ellis and William Wythers, two younger lads, to retrieve his bed and belongings for him, and they had abashedly obliged. Unable to sleep, she’d reread her mother’s letter three times, told her about the baby’s birth, Elyoner’s asking her to nurse, and George’s awakening.
Then, her locket squeezed tightly in her hand like a child clenches its mother’s finger, she closed her misty eyes, told her mother about George’s disquieting rant, the deep pain it had dealt her; told her of Elyoner’s gentle mothering, how she’d helped her understand, place it in perspective, and resolve to help George no matter what it took from her. But, Mother, she mused, if he does heal, how will I ever be able to tell him I don’t love him? What if doing so pushes him back into derangement? How could I live with that? Mother, help me know what to do.
She opened her eyes, stared into the near darkness around her. And then there’s Master Hugh. I’ve been so busy helping Elyoner and caring for George I’ve neglected him, even yelled at him today when he tried to help me. We ladies do have peculiar tempers sometimes, don’t we? Must make amends. She felt a now-familiar warmth spread through her body as she thought of Hugh Tayler, realized she’d barely thought of him for several days, wondered how that could have been, then decided to talk to him in the morning.
I miss you, Mother. Please come to us soon. And pray for me, for all of us . . . especially our two babies. Help me know what to do. I love you.
Some ten miles into the main, twenty of the tribe that had killed George Howe gathered in council around a small fire in the bark-covered lodge of their leader, their damp torsos glistening in the skittering firelight. The Panther and two of his warriors had come to them from their land, which lay toward the setting sun from the great Chesapeake water to the north.
The lodge was hot, laden with a deep, thick, smoky smell; and the leader occasionally fanned himself with a bird wing as he stared into the depths of the fire, listening intently to each speaker, considering the merits and risks of each proposal. He’d been praised by all of his people for his wisdom and foresight in moving the village deeper into the main immediately after the killing of the white man on the island. He’d known from past depredations by these people that retaliation would be swift and violent. So against the persuasions of several young, impetuous warriors, he’d decided to move the village. Earlier when he’d spoken of the Englishmen’s foolish attack on the only tribe that remained friendly to them, many had laughed out loud at their folly, agreed that only the English could commit such a blunder; and as in previous councils, proposals for ridding the land of them had been many and varied.
When not staring into the fire, the leader surreptitiously eyed the Panther, whose people were the most powerful in the region. Their headman, Wahunsunacock, was the paramount chief of a large, growing, tribal alliance, and this fact implicitly commanded the leader’s respect and deference in all matters related to war.
The previous white men had spent time near Wahunsunacock’s territory, staying for a brief time with another tribe in the area, who were tenuous, unreliable members of the alliance. And some eight moons ago, Wahunsunacock had watched as the Panther and fifty warriors overwhelmed thirteen white men who’d paddled their canoe to his territory from their island to the south—the very island inhabited by the leader’s people before the earlier Englishmen arrived. They’d captured four of these men, taken them to the village, then given them the slow death they granted to selected brave enemies so they could demonstrate their strength as warriors. They’d ripped off their fingernails and toenails, peeled strips of skin from their stomachs and faces; allowed the tribe’s women to use mussel and oyster shells to cut off their fingers, arms, and genitals; scalped them and cut them open so their insides fell out. They’d generously given these four the opportunity to display their courage and die great warrior deaths, but they’d died poorly: screamed like women, cried like children, begged for mercy, for quick death. And the women had jeered and spit on them as they screamed. So Wahunsunacock had little respect for these pitiful creatures or their bravery. But he knew from Powhatan witnesses, including the Panther, of their depredations against other peoples; therefore, he held a keen interest in their whereabouts, wanted them as far from his territory as possible and to eventually drive them from the land altogether. To that end, he’d frequently sent his most trusted warrior, the Panther, to represent him with these other tribes, in both council and combat.
For their part, the leader’s people had an unconcealed awe for both the Panther’s prowess as a warrior and his statesmanship. When the
Panther spoke in council, the leader listened attentively, knew he was hearing the mind of Wahunsunacock himself, and understood that far more was at play in the Panther’s words than what he heard.
The Panther had deferred to all of the warriors in the leader’s council— let them speak first, genuinely considered their recommendations, been careful to give no indication of his opinion on any proposal though all present knew of his deep hatred for the English and his desire to annihilate them. Some accordingly feared he might push for a mass attack that would result in excessive casualties for them, but even those with such concerns knew that the Panther’s discipline as a strategist and tactician governed his emotions. They also knew that, like all successful hunters of both animals and men, he was painstakingly patient in the hunt; ruthless, swift, and lethal in the kill. So as the Panther rose to speak, the leader shifted his eyes from the fire to the great Powhatan warrior’s face, awaited the words he knew would become their strategy.
Before he spoke, the Panther looked, for a dramatic instant, into each man’s eyes then thanked the leader for allowing him to speak. “My friends, as you know, Wahunsunacock knows of the presence of these white men in your territory. He also knows of their stupidity, but he respects the strength of their numbers and the power and range of their big sticks that bark. As you also know, he would like them to leave our lands and go back to their own land across the Big-Water-That-Cannot-Be-Drunk. But he also knows that even though their fort is not yet complete, watchers guard their camp day and night, and that without gathering many more warriors, we lack the strength for the large direct attack on them we would all like to mount. Even with the long time it takes them to load new stones into their big sticks, our casualties would be great—far greater than you or Wahunsunacock wish to bear.”