by Mike Rhynard
Tayler said, “Well, Emily, it looks as if our salvation has arrived. May I carry your bag for you?”
Emily was now convinced that Tayler had a past—one that could threaten their relationship, that now made it impossible for her to be at ease around him, and that instilled an instinctively cold formality to her disposition toward him. “If you wish, Hugh.”
They walked silently for a minute before Tayler said with an edgy voice, “Emily, something bothers you. What is it? Can I help?”
Emily wanted to confront him but realized she wasn’t ready. “No, Hugh. I don’t think so, but . . . but . . . Hugh, someone told me something I must ask you about.” She stopped, faced him.
Tayler looked at her with an intense, challenging look. “And what might that be, Emily?”
“When you were back in England, did you—”
“Emily! Emily!” Thomas Colman shouted as he ran toward his daughter.
Tayler and Emily turned toward him, saw an urgent flurry of activity in the village behind him.
“What is it, Father?”
“Manteo’s arrived with terrifying news. The ship at the inlet is not an English supply ship. ’Tis a Spanish man-of-war; he saw the cannon ports and flag. He also watched for a good while but saw no one leave the ship, probably because of the late hour. But certain danger awaits us in the morning. So come. We’ve little time.” He tugged her toward the gathering place. “We’ve decided on a course of action, and Roger wants all to hear it; for as you can see, chaos has already descended upon us.”
As her father pulled her toward the village center, Emily glanced back at Tayler without expression, read a new, tense, anxious look in his eyes. In her heart, she wanted Elyoner to be wrong, wanted Tayler to be the gentle, honest man she’d known, but she now feared it would not be so.
Roger Baylye said, “My good people, at this moment, we face the gravest peril of our lives. A Spanish warship lies just outside the inlet through the outer banks to our south. Either the men aboard her already know of our presence and will soon attack, or they’ll discover us on the morrow to the same end.”
Whispers, then protests, buzzed through the crowd. Worried faces looked toward the inlet, glanced at other anxious faces.
“Therefore, I fear we’ve but one choice, and that choice is to depart Roanoke under cover of darkness—tonight.”
“What do you mean, Baylye?” a man asked. “We can’t sail out of here in the dark.”
“We should stay and fight,” shouted another.
Yet another said, “Why didn’t the governor warn us about Spaniards?”
Baylye raised his hands for quiet, spoke softly, urgently. “Please! Please! Don’t shout! The Spaniards have ears. ’Tis not that far to the outer banks, and sound travels a great distance. They may not have detected us yet, and we daren’t hurry that moment.” Like eager schoolchildren who’d spoken out of turn, they fell silent. “We’ve no time for discussion or argument, so please listen to me. Since the Spaniards block the only passage through the outer banks to the sea, we’re now trapped in the sound and cannot sail to Chesapeake on the open sea. Thus instead of an easy, familiar voyage up the coast, we now face a shorter but far more perilous sail up the shallow sound.”
Suddenly gaunt, fearful faces watched Baylye in silence as the realities of their plight seeped into their minds like water into sand.
“Darkness will greatly heighten our risk; and ’twill take a full day’s overland journey after the voyage, to reach our destination. But if we can—”
“Why don’t we stay here and fight?” a man said. “We’ve palisades and weapons, and mayhap they won’t discover us or even come here.” Several agreed.
“Nay!” Baylye said. “The Spaniards are a trained fighting force, probably four or five times our size. We’d be slaughtered like swine. No! We must make a silent escape tonight and avoid discovery and contact at all costs. We cannot win a fight; so I ask you, would you rather try to escape or be a Spanish slave for the rest of your life? Forsooth, we”—he paused for a moment as a sudden, grim silence, such as occurs in the second after the headsman’s axe falls, descended upon the gathering—“forsooth, we enjoy a nearly full moon; and with fair winds and luck, we can make the north end of the sound before sunrise. Further, our pilots are well used to sailing the sound and know her shallows and sandbars, as well as how to hold a compass course.” He cleared his throat, swallowed hard. “However, we will have to leave many belongings behind lest we overload the ships and create too much draft for the shallow waters. The pinnace has a six-and-a-half-foot draft, fully loaded, and that’s too deep for some places in the sound. She’ll strike bottom. On the other hand, the shallops have only a two-foot draft, so we’ll put all of the remaining baggage and equipment on the shallops. But to be safe, we’ll leave the spare lead, cannon, extra shot, iron bars, and Governor White’s three chests behind; and we will bury these items in concealed locations, so the Spaniards and Savages cannot find them. We can then return and retrieve everything after the Spaniards depart. Now, to further lighten the pinnace load, all women and their men will go on the pinnace. Soldiers will be assigned to vessels by Sergeant Myllet. Next all single civilians, including me, will draw from this bundle of sticks to determine who goes on which vessel.” He pointed at a bundle of twigs held by Sergeant Myllet; it was wrapped in a cloth to conceal their lengths. “We’ve calculated the maximum number of men that can fit on the two shallops, and there are exactly that number of short sticks in the bundle. So if you draw a short stick, you’re on a shallop, and a long stick puts you on the pinnace. Last, my friends, there must be no fires or noise. We must accomplish everything in candlelight and silence, and as rapidly as possible.”
All the single men then drew a stick from the bundle. George and Baylye drew the pinnace, and Tayler a shallop. Tayler threw his stick to the ground, glared at Baylye, then looked distraughtly at Emily.
Baylye said, “One last thing. We must dismantle our dwellings to deceive the Spaniards into thinking we abandoned Roanoke and returned to England some time ago; and hopefully, this ruse will discourage them from searching elsewhere for us. We will also cast all of our fireplace ashes into the sound and conceal the latrines.”
Thomas Colman said, “A good plan, Roger.” Others nodded assent.
Baylye nodded at Colman, took a deep breath, scanned the crowd. “Friends, as your leader, ’tis my duty to tell you that navigating the sound is challenging in daylight. ’Twill be far more so in darkness, and few of us are skilled sailors, but we will do it. My friends, we’ve only an hour until dark, so let us now pray for our deliverance and then prepare to meet our fate.”
All but Tayler and one other dropped silently to their knees, held each other’s hands, prayed silently, then together, that the Almighty would guide them through the night and see them safely to Chesapeake and a reunion with their comrades. After a moment’s hesitation, people began to rise, scurry about, dismantle cottages, carry belongings to Sergeant Gibbes at the marshaling point, while the soldiers quickly dispersed and started burying the items that would be left behind.
Roger Baylye beckoned to Robert Ellis, who jogged over to him. “Robert, did you finish carving CROATOAN on that big tree on the pathway?”
“Oh! Beg your pardon, Sir. I’m afraid not. I was working on it when the salt crew returned with news of the ship, and I was so excited I followed them back here to celebrate.”
“Well, I understand your excitement, lad, but how much did you complete?”
“The first three letters, Sir. The carving says CRO instead of CROATOAN, but—”
“That’s good enough, Robert. Governor White will understand it.” Baylye suddenly wondered if the Spaniards might understand it, as well— particularly CROATOAN on the palisades post—and go to the island and seize the three English colonists, torture them into disclosing the colony’s whereabouts. Too late now, he concluded. Too late for everything. We shall have to take our chances . . . God be
with us. He shook off an icy chill as he started for his cottage, saw Hugh Tayler approaching, stopped, faced him. “Hello, Master Tayler. You look as if you’ve something on your mind.”
“I want to go on the pinnace.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I’m courting Mistress Colman, and I want to be with her in case . . . in case there are problems.”
“Well, Hugh, we haven’t the time to negotiate changes. The draw is done, and we must all abide by its results; so I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” He turned, walked toward his cottage.
Tayler glared at Baylye’s back as he walked away. Devil take you, you foolish ass. I’ll even this score someday, and you won’t like it when I do. He started toward his cottage, saw Emily approaching hers, jogged as fast as his limp allowed to her side. “Emily, I must speak with you.”
Emily stopped, regarded him with a blank look; she wanted to confront him, hear his response, so they could either end or resume their relationship, but knew George would arrive in a moment to take her for a last visit to his father’s grave. She spoke in a dry, curt tone. “I’m sorry, Hugh. I’d like to, but I’ve too much to do before we depart. ’Twill have to wait until Chesapeake . . . when we’ve more time. We’ve none now.” She stared into his eyes with her most penetrating look, noticed him blinking repeatedly, and thought he seemed different, less confident. “Fare thee well, Hugh. I hope you—all of us—have a safe voyage. See you on the shore in the morning.” She turned away, walked the twenty feet to her cottage, which her father had already begun dismantling, stopped for a moment to visualize the good and bad times they’d had there, then realized that in spite of all, it had been their home for two months.
As he watched her walk away, Tayler wondered what she’d heard. Whatever it was, if it was true, it was past, a part of the old Hugh Tayler, nothing to do with the new Hugh Tayler—the Hugh Tayler who deeply loved this fair young woman who’d taken his heart and soul, meant everything to him. She will be mine, someday, somehow. May whatever gods exist protect her this night since I cannot.
Emily and George stood hand in hand at George Howe’s grave. They stared in silence for several minutes before George turned, pulled Emily into an embrace and held her to him, felt her breasts, the warmth of her body, the soft texture of her cheek against his. “Emily, I miss him so, and I fear this will be the last time I stand beside him.”
“No, George. When we’re at Chesapeake, you can return when they come to pick up the things we leave behind. Perhaps there will be other trips, as well. We can’t know those things, but we can know and remember that your father was a wonderful man and that he’ll live in our memories and hearts until we ourselves join him.”
He sighed. “You’re right, Em. You always see things clearly. I promised him I’d give my all to help this colony succeed, and I shall. And, Emily”— he held her by the shoulders and looked longingly into her eyes—“I still love you more than anything on earth, and I shall forever. I must also tell you that I pray every day for you to love me in the same way. Em, I’ll do anything for you.” He spoke slowly, clearly. “I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you.”
Emily again embraced him, laid her head against his chest; prayed that it would someday be as he wished, wanted with all her heart to love him. Someday . . . someday I shall. She kissed him on the cheek, looked up at him. “George, we must go.”
Thomas Colman saw Emily approaching from the other side of the village, called to her with an urgent voice. “Em, where have you been? Come quickly. I need your help.”
“I’m coming, Father. I was with George at his father’s grave. I’ll be—”
“Emily!” said an accented voice behind her. She turned around, saw a Savage, instinctively pulled back in fear, then realized it was Manteo. “Whew! Manteo. You startled me. I haven’t seen a . . .”
He held her hands. “Emily, my friend. I heard of the Roanokes’ attack . . . I’m glad you escaped . . . I do not know why they kill women. I came to see you twice while you were asleep. You must hate them very much for what they did to you.”
“I want to hate them, Manteo . . . I should hate them. But truly, I can’t, for they act as we would if we were threatened . . . and as you know, Lane gave them many reasons to feel threatened.”
Manteo nodded. “Emily, your wisdom is great. I’m honored to be your friend, and I’m sorry we must part.”
“Part? Are you not coming with us?”
“I cannot. It would endanger my people.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve heard from my friend”—he motioned toward a different-looking Savage beside him, whom Emily ignored—“ that the Powhatans, who live inland from the Chesapeakes, were with the Roanokes when they attacked George Howe and you. They wear their hair on one side, pulled back over the shoulder, and some—their greatest warriors—wear feathers in their hair to commemorate their great deeds. Did you see any such people?”
Emily’s eyes widened; she saw again the vicious, painted face, the hair and feathers as Manteo described. “I saw one of them, Manteo . . . the one who tried to kill me . . . he had several feathers.” She shook the image from her mind. “But, Manteo, your people—”
“The Powhatans hate your people and will kill anyone who helps you. They know we Croatans, and the Chesapeakes, are friendly to you; and that puts all of us in danger, for the Powhatan chiefdom is strong and has eyes in many places. So you see, I cannot go without endangering my own people. We’re already at risk with your three people on our island . . . we hid them today in case soldiers from the Spanish ship come looking for you.” His face stiffened. “Emily, you may find more danger at Chesapeake than you escape here; I’ve told your leaders this, but they do not listen.”
Emily chilled at his words, flashed the frightened eyes of a child expecting a night of terrifying nightmares. Will we ever be safe? she wondered.
“But I shall miss you, Emily, for no white person knows and respects our ways better than you.” He again motioned toward the different-looking Savage at his side. “And I’ve told my friend about you.”
Once more, Emily ignored the man. “Manteo, you flatter me.”
He shook his head. “No, Emily. I taught you much on the ship, and you learned well, especially your hand signs . . . Oh!” He looked at the other Savage again, then at Emily. With hand signs, he said, “Practice your signs with my friend.” Then he said out loud, “His name is Isna.” It sounded like eee-shnah. “He’s here to trade with us and the Chesapeakes, and he and his three tribesmen will live with the Chesapeakes until spring.”
Emily glanced at Isna, started to look back at Manteo; jerked her gaze back to Isna, stared intensely into hypnotic ebony eyes; lingered, felt as if warm water were pouring down the back of her head and shoulders.
Except for a thin braid on either side of his well-proportioned face, Isna’s full-headed black hair hung down his bare back to his waist, while five large eagle feathers, arranged like a fan, protruded to the right from behind his head. He had a smaller, straighter nose and less-prominent cheekbones than any Savage she’d seen; and his lean, muscular body, clad only in a leather loin cloth and moccasins, had the tight, explosive look of a predator about to attack its prey.
“Man . . . Manteo . . . wh . . . why does he trade here?” His eyes . . . so deep, dark . . . can’t look away . . . searching my soul. Blushing, she turned her face slightly toward Manteo but held her eyes and mind on Isna.
“His people are called Lakota, and he and his men trade the furs of big-horned animals that live in their land many weeks to the north, near the headwaters of the Mother-of-All-Rivers. They trade for shells we gather from the sea and the red rocks we get from the mountain people.” Manteo held up the red stone that hung on a thong around his neck, but Emily’s eyes remained fixed on Isna. “He came with me today so he could see what a white man looks like. He’s never seen one before but says the grandfath
ers of his people tell stories told by their grandfathers, and their grandfathers’ grandfathers, of tall white men with long, light colored hair, who came to their people from a great freshwater sea where they then lived—a different place from where they now live. He says these men came in ships with tall wolf heads in front, and they wore hard hats, like your soldiers, but of a different shape . . . and their blood is in his veins.
”Emily looked at Manteo, her face enlivened with excitement. My dreams, she thought. The Vikings. “When did—”
Thomas Colman walked up and put his arm on Emily’s shoulder. He nodded at Manteo. “Come, Emily, you must help me. We cannot leave until all the cottages are down, so please come now.” He pulled her toward the cottage.
“Fie, Father!” She twisted free, glared at him with daggery eyes. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
He stared at her for a moment, shook his head, walked away.
Emily turned back to Manteo, hugged him. “Thank you for being my friend, Manteo. Tell Isna I shall see him at the Chesapeake camp.”
“You should tell him yourself, Emily.”
I dare not look at him, she thought as she impulsively stared into the depths of his eyes, then spoke with her hands. “I shall see you up north . . . soon.”
“And I, you,” he signed with a wry little smile.
Emily’s heart flamed with unfamiliar, breathtaking passion; she stared into Isna’s eyes but spoke to Manteo. “I shall miss you, Manteo.” She sniffed the air. “Rain coming.”
Manteo’s thin smile faded to a frown as he glanced at the small clouds building to the west. “May the spirit above, the one you call God, go with you tonight. The sound is no place to be in a storm. He looked back at Emily, whose eyes were still locked on Isna’s, smiled. “I shall miss you too, Emily, my friend. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”
Emily forced her gaze to the sky then Manteo, as a sudden breeze swept the stagnant air, whipped her hair like fine thread. “Goodbye, Manteo.” She waved slowly then walked away; told herself not to look back at Isna’s piercing black eyes, stopped, looked over her shoulder at him anyway; wondered if Lot’s wife had suffered the same compulsion. His eyes awaited hers; chills raced through her body; she felt a damp warmth between her thighs, a dizzying fog in her mind. His eyes . . . his eyes.