by Mike Rhynard
When she had quieted, she took a deep breath, looked up into his eyes. “Amen, Father.” I’ve nothing left, she thought. Wonder if any others survived? How will we find them? How will we find the village, Elyoner, Virginia? How can we survive the coming winter and the Savages who would kill us? How can I live without George?
As the two sat in silence, staring out at the water, Colman looked across the sound, saw the main to the west; he followed it north to the hazy distance, where it merged with the outer banks. That’s where we must go, he thought, but ’tis more than a day’s walk. No fresh water here on the banks, only rotten fish to eat unless we catch some crabs. He wondered if the people at Chesapeake would search for them. Alas, he thought, we left Roanoke over a day early; they won’t expect us until tomorrow night. We’re alone . . . unless one or both of the shallops survived, arrived safely, told them of our ill fortune. How calm and placid the water looks now, so different from the hellish tempest of last night. He again scanned up and down the waterway, wondered how many had perished, how many bodies they’d find on the way north, how many besides themselves had survived?
Emily surveyed the panorama before her; focusing on sections of water, she searched for remnants of the ships, bodies. She wondered why she’d been unable to love George as he’d loved her, succumbed to the smoldering guilt that gripped her mind like a vice—feel so alone without him, like part of me is gone, empty, dead; wish I’d perished with him, lay entombed beside him in the water. God, why did you take him, the noblest soul on earth? Why him? Why not someone else? Why? You erred, Lord. She quickly crossed herself. Forgive me, Lord . . . ’tis not for me to judge . . . please care for my George; tell him how much I miss him . . . and love him.
Her eyes drifted to the birds above and on the water. So carefree, so content, she thought. So unlike me. She watched the tiny waves glide gently ashore from the sound, run their course, slowly recede. Like the joys and sorrows of life, she mused. Will we ever feel joy again? Can we ever live in this land? I think not. I think we must leave. I think God is telling us to leave, abandon it to the Savages . . . I want to leave . . . want my locket . . . my mother, my brother. She slid her hand into her empty apron pocket. I shall leave . . . when John White returns . . . return to England . . . and a safe life . . . where people and things aren’t trying to kill me every day; where I can live without fear, like my friend Jane back home; where there’s real food, beer, wine; where I can be courted by a good man, fall in love, marry, have children . . . but there is a certain excitement and exhilaration to living perilously, narrowly escaping death. Perchance it gets in your blood . . . like the warriors of old times . . . like the Vikings. She suddenly thought of Hugh Tayler, realized her usual warming at the thought of him had been displaced by chilly indifference. She shook her head. God’s blessed will, Emily, how can you condemn the man on hearsay—albeit your best friend’s—without giving him a chance to speak for himself? Most unjust . . . but I feel what I feel, so what am I to do?
After minutes of vacant wandering, Emily’s mind replayed the disasters that had plagued them: George Howe’s brutal murder, the attack on the Croatans, White’s departure, the massacre, Manteo’s disclosure of the Powhatan threat at Chesapeake, the wreck . . . her last glimpse of George. Then for a fleeting moment, she saw the penetrating black eyes of Manteo’s Savage friend. She couldn’t remember his name but felt a sudden, new warmth spread through her body, between her thighs, a disorienting rush to her mind. Oh . . . such a stirring inside me . . . why? Forget him, Emily. You’ll never see him again . . . he’s a Savage, a heathen. You’ve nothing in common . . . but Manteo’s a Savage, and you found much in common with him . . . perchance . . .
“Emily, we must be on our way.” Colman pointed to the north, where the outer banks met the main. “We must go there, then somewhere beyond and inland. ’Tis a long walk, and we shall have no food or water until we are there . . . so we must start now. I am already famished and thirsty. How are you?”
“The same . . . so let us go, Father.” She looked out at the sound, said another prayer for George. “I want to forget this place . . . but I’ll never forget George.”
“Nor shall I, my dear.” He embraced her, kissed her cheek, gazed into her eyes, then grasped her hand and started north.
They had walked a quarter mile when Colman abruptly raised his arm, pointed ahead. “Look there!” A hundred yards up the shoreline, several bodies lay on the sand.
Emily stopped, stared ahead with an anxious look. Perchance ’tis George, she thought . . . mayhap he . . . she raced ahead. What if . . . what if . . . oh, God. She stopped. “Father, do you recognize anyone?”
Colman shook his head.
Emily walked slowly ahead. George’s shirt . . . looks like his shirt. “Father, I think I see George!” She quickened her pace.
Thirty feet from the bodies, she stopped, looked out at the sound.
Colman caught up, paused, then walked forward as he covered his nose and mouth with his hand. Flies and small crabs covered the bodies. One corpse was a woman who lay face up, her eyes already devoured, her body naked and bloated. The other two were men lying face down. One, indeed, looked like George. Colman hesitated, then stooped, rolled the body over, looked at Emily without expression, shook his head. “Come, Daughter, we’ve a duty.”
Two hours later, Emily and her father patted the sand on the last of the three graves. The burials had been difficult, for they’d had only their hands and driftwood sticks to dig with. Depleted, hot, desperately thirsty, they sat on the sand, stared at the graves and emptiness around them. Only the lapping water of the sound, the periodic crash of an ocean wave, and the cry of an occasional gull violated the silence.
Finally, Colman said, “They came so far, Em, but for what? For this? To be buried on an empty shore in a hostile land? Why, I ask? Why?”
“At least they’re buried, Father. I can’t say that for George. He died for us . . . I feel so guilty . . . wish I’d died with him.” She closed her eyes, crossed her hands over her chest.
“Don’t talk like that, Em. You’re alive because God has a plan for you. Life seldom proceeds the way we expect, but ’tis God’s plan, nonetheless.”
She opened her eyes, looked at him.
“Em, our burial of these good souls has made me think . . . made me realize what a fool I was to bring us here. I’d hoped to better myself, achieve a lifelong dream . . . but all I’ve done is put us at risk, perhaps doom us to certain death. You know, my dear, sometimes God tells us what his plan is, and I think He’s telling us now that it doesn’t include us living here.”
“Father, you—”
“I was truly selfish to leave your mother and brother, and risk you, my only daughter, for selfish ambition. I see that now.”
“Father!”
“I should’ve been happy with what I had in England, been content as a schoolmaster. My self-indulgence has almost cost you your life twice; and now we may never see your mother and brother again, and they’ll never know our fate.”
Emily thought of her lost locket; her fingers instinctively explored her apron pocket. Elyoner, pray thee protect Mother’s letter.
“Emily, I will also tell you I’m a total failure at expressing my feelings to those I love. I’m clumsy and awkward, and cannot easily say to you that I love you more than anything in this world, but I do. I cannot say to you that your safety is my obsession, but it is . . . and here we sit.”
She grasped his hand.
“We’ve no chance for survival here. We’re more alone than any civilized people have ever been. The Savages and this dangerous land will overwhelm us in time, and I cannot allow that to happen.” He looked into her eyes. “After the massacre, I decided that when John White returns, we shall board the ship and return to England with your mother and brother if they’re aboard. And if another ship finds us before he returns, we’ll leave with them.”
“No, Father! I thought the same earlier today, but now
I see ’twas wrong. What of the sacrifices made by George and his father, and those who died at the massacre and in the storm, and those who’ve survived? We’ll desecrate it all if we run away. No, Father! We cannot leave! We will not leave. I refuse to leave! We must stand and rely on God and ourselves to overcome whatever lies ahead. We must, Father!”
Colman stared at the ground with empty eyes, shook his head. “Emily, you are the bravest of girls, but—”
“What’s that?” Emily looked south, sudden alarm in her eyes, put a finger to her lips, then rolled flat onto her stomach, motioned her father to do the same. “There it is again.”
“What? What is it?”
“Voices. I heard voices.”
The two lay flat. Emily’s heart pounded against the sand; her mind spun with fear. Two heads appeared over the top of a sand dune a hundred feet to the south.
A voice said, “There they are. Looks to be Master Colman and his daughter. Hello! Are you alright?”
“Father, ’tis Sergeant Gibbes and Roger Baylye.” Emily and her father looked at each other, sighed, smiled; they climbed slowly to their feet and held hands.
“Praise God! That we are,” Colman said, brushing the sand from his clothes. “Have you seen any others?”
“Not alive,” Baylye said. “And you?”
“Nay.” He pointed at the three grave mounds.
Baylye and Gibbes hurried to the Colmans; all four hesitated, stared awkwardly for a moment, then embraced. Baylye said, “Good to see you alive, Thomas, and you, Emily. Very good to see you alive.” He looked at the graves. “Could you identify them?”
Colman said, “Richard Arthur, Thomas Scot, and Margaret Lawrence.”
Baylye nodded. “Since we’ve nothing to write with, all of you must help me remember the names of those who’ve perished. Sergeant Gibbes and I buried Morris Allen and William Sole. There were also five others, four men and a woman, we couldn’t identify. We’ll have to determine who remains when we reach Chesapeake and check the manifest.” He shook his head. “It has been a long, tiring day, Thomas, and—”
“Excuse me, Sir,” Emily said, “were any of those you found dressed like George Howe? He rescued Father and me . . . and others. He was wearing a—”
Baylye and Gibbes looked at one another, shook their heads. “I’m afraid not, Emily. I saw him helping others, as well. A courageous lad. He would have made you—”
Emily covered her face, turned away.
“I’m sorry, Emily. Please forgive me.”
By the time the sun sat two hours above the western horizon, they had advanced but two miles, buried eight more people, found five alive. Two of the dead had been with Gibbes on the shallop that had sailed to the right of the pinnace, closest to the outer banks, while the remaining dead and the survivors, three men and two women, had been on the pinnace. As the nine made their way slowly up the shore, they scanned the sound and the banks for more bodies and survivors, searched for debris that might reveal the fate of the second shallop. Most had lost their hats, shoes, jackets, and weapons in the storm; and though the early fall sun was slightly cooler than the debilitating August sun, it remained hot enough to burn exposed skin and gravely aggravated their thirst. So Emily and the other woman had torn their aprons and part of their skirts into sections of cloth for themselves and the others to drape over their heads and necks for a measure of shade.
Wary of surprise by Savages, Baylye had cautioned all to watch the banks, sound, and sea, both north and south, for Savages on foot or in canoes; for without weapons or cover to hide themselves, they were nakedly vulnerable to discovery and attack, their only hope being to spot an enemy before being seen and lie flat on the opposite side of the small rise that formed the spine of the outer banks. Although they had seen nothing but small pieces of debris on the shore and in the sound, they had discovered six sets of footprints heading north, including a set made by shoes.
As he walked with Thomas Colman, Baylye said, “Thomas, I think ’twould be wise to walk through the night and try to reach the main by morning . . . we must have water. Another day in this sun will shrivel our chances of survival like spit on a hot rock.”
“Aye, Roger; and remember, Lieutenant Waters won’t consider us overdue until tomorrow night. So we’ve no choice but to go on . . . Emily and I had planned to do so.”
Baylye nodded, scanned the sound for a few moments, then looked back at Colman. “Thomas, I’ve been fretting all day over how many critical skills we might have lost in the storm and what we’ll have to work with at Chesapeake. Physician Jones will be irreplaceable, and—”
“Our three sailors, as well . . . but with nothing left to sail . . .” His voice trailed off, then he flashed a hopeful look. “Actually, Roger, we don’t yet know the fate of the second shallop, and ’tis not impossible that they survived and are looking for us.”
“I suppose there’s a chance, but ’twould indeed be a miracle if ’twas so.”
Emily and Johnny Gibbes walked thirty feet behind Baylye and Colman. She had told him of George’s heroism, her hope they would yet find him alive. “I suppose you felt the same when you heard about Audrey after the massacre. ’Tis natural to keep on hoping, even when you know there’s no reason to it.” She studied him with empathetic eyes.
“Aye, Mistress, I did . . . but fortunately, there’s much to think about now: survival and starting a new village.” They walked silently for a few moments before he said, “I imagine you’re in no mind to hear about Master Tayler . . .”
Emily stiffened, looked at him in fearful anticipation. I so dread this . . . the end for Hugh and me . . . but why should I fear it? If Johnny can affirm Elyoner, why wouldn’t I want to know it, and why would I ever want to see Hugh Tayler again? And if he can’t affirm her, then I’ll know that truth . . . and be able to go on with my life and my relationship with Hugh. So what do you fear, Emily Colman? Forsooth, I fear knowing I was deceived and must face my deceiver and confront him . . . and hear him deny what’s been said . . . and then face a dreadful dilemma: my own uncertainty, the possibility of my own indecision . . . and the difficulty and pain of doing whatever I must do. So the problem is mine . . . mine alone, and I must face it and resolve it. But by Christ’s suffering death, I do dread facing Hugh Tayler if ’tis true . . . wonder if he’s alive. “I suppose he could be dead.”
“He may be dead, but in case he isn’t . . . and because you’re in danger if he isn’t . . . I feel a duty to tell you the truth about him before ’tis too late.”
Emily squeezed her lips together, looked at him with tight eyes. Hear him, Em . . . hear with your heart but react with your mind. “Very well.” She gazed up the shoreline.
“I know much about him, Mistress, but I should start with whatever your friend told you.”
She glanced at him. “How do you know so much?”
“Because we grew up together in the same place, his father’s estate. My father was a tenant farmer there; and though Tayler’s a bit older than I, I grew up hearing of, and witnessing, his deeds. So if it be your will, Mistress, I shall tell you all I know . . . and ’twill be God’s own truth.”
A wave of apprehension burst into Emily’s mind like flood waters through a broken dike. She felt like a child alone in a dark forest on a stormy night. With a quaver in her voice, she said, “My friend heard something about him forcing himself on a young maiden.”
Gibbes flashed an angry look, then one of sadness. “He did indeed, Mistress, and more than once. But the occasion your friend likely spoke of was when he seduced a young lass of fifteen, made her pregnant, then abandoned her, left her alone when she was in labor . . . she bled to death with no one to help her. The baby died, as well . . . and Tayler denied even knowing her.”
Emily’s heart tightened like a hangman’s noose as grim acceptance chewed its way into her exhausted mind. “Forgive me again, but how did you or anyone else come to know such private matters?”
With a look beyond
painful, he said, “Mistress, the young lass was my sister.”
Emily gasped, cupped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no! How horrible, how . . .” Her eyes misted with tears.
“Do not be concerned, Mistress. ’Twas long ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You must hear the rest. There’s much more.”
She took a deep breath, nodded, felt a surge of anger, then embarrassment that she’d been deceived by a womanizing bounder. She imagined the girl writhing in agony, screaming for help on her blood-soaked bed, suddenly saw herself in the girl’s place, felt the agony, the abandonment, despair, life seeping from her body. “Can you tell me what happened at the estate?”
“His father was a firm, fair man, but they never got on well. Nonetheless, his father respected tradition and, while he was still alive, placed Master Tayler in charge of the estate, even though both of his younger brothers were, and still are, far better beings than he.”
“He told me he was the youngest of the brothers and that the older brothers ran the estate . . . ran it into the ground . . . and he had to step in to save it.”
“On the contrary, Mistress Emily. Hugh Tayler was successful only at drinking and womanizing; and ’twas he who ran the estate into the ground . . . to the point that his father threw him out and disowned him on his deathbed, gave the estate to the brothers . . . and that is when he joined the army . . . as an officer, of course . . . and that is yet another story.”
Emily shook her head. A fool, I am. “I want to hear about the army, but first, what of his mother? He told me she died when he was very young.”
“No, Mistress. His mother was always on the border of insanity; and though I believe he loved her, he’d no wish to have her survive his father and meddle in the estate; wanted everything for himself, he did. And this part I cannot verify, but ’twas said he encouraged her to take her own life; and being of unsound mind, she did as he suggested, hanged herself from a ceiling beam. Strangely, I believe his grief was genuine, though I don’t know if it was because he feared going to hell or because he loved her and truly regretted what he did.”