by Mike Rhynard
He stood, walked to his chest, opened the lid, and removed a quill, an inkwell, a thin, six-inch square board, and a small piece of paper. When he’d reseated himself in front of the fire, he laid the paper on the board, placed the board across his knee, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and wrote:
My dearest Emily,
It has been an unbearable . . .
From his hiding place behind a large tree, the Panther had an unobstructed view of the white warrior’s back. This one was well within bow range; the others, who stood around the four women gathering firewood by the frozen stream, were longer shots but within easy range for his men across the clearing. He nodded at the other warriors near him, drew his bow, then stepped from behind the tree, aimed, and released.
Phffft! The arrow ripped clean through Johnny Gibbes’ neck. He fell forward into the snow, felt a warm wetness flowing down the front and back of his neck onto his chest and back. Shot . . . groggy, mind spinning, want to sleep. He heard a woman scream, then a bevy of loud, chilling cries behind him, more on the side. He heard someone crying, felt hands on his shoulders, felt himself being rolled over, prayed it wasn’t a Savage. He blinked, looked into Emme Merrimoth’s desperate eyes, heard her scream. Phffft-thunk! She screamed again, but the sound caught in her throat as she lurched forward, fell limp and silent upon him. He felt the arrow graze his cheek as she fell, her blood dripping steadily onto his face. More war cries, screams from across the clearing. He gripped Emme, rolled her over, saw the front half of an arrow sticking through her chest, just below the shoulder and inward from her armpit. He shielded her with his armored back, snapped off the point, lifted her limp torso with his left hand, and pulled the rest of the arrow out through her back. My God, she’s dead, saved me, my Emme. He jerked his helmet off, laid his ear on her chest, thought he sensed a faint pulse but couldn’t be sure, for his own heart pounded like a deep-toned drum.
Emily removed the note attached to her cottage door, stepped inside, unfolded it.
My dearest Emily,
It has been an unbearable period since that wonderful and matchless moment when we shared the deepest pleasure of each other’s company. My heart now yearns to relive the grandeur of that moment, and I pray your heart, being of like mind, will persuade you to meet me tonight at the place we’ve frequently discussed. I shall prepare a warm, hearty fire for you as I eagerly anticipate your complete pleasure and satisfaction at the time we pass together. But alas, if some unforeseen misfortune prevents your presence, be certain that I shall bear my boundless misery graciously, and in the manner I have so often described to you. With highest affection and hope, adieu until tonight.
With undying love,
Hugh
A wave of despair flooded her mind as she stared at the note quivering in her hand. What am I to do? As she walked slowly and thoughtfully toward the fireplace, she heard the rumble of a distant matchlock, then another. Chills raced through her body. “The firewood party, Emme, Johnny, under attack.” She stuffed the note in her pocket, rushed out the door, saw Myllet and Smith, five soldiers in tow, jogging out the palisades gate.
Myllet shouted at some soldiers standing in the village center, “Find Waters, take cover, prepare to defend, may be a trap!”
Gibbes looked across the clearing to where he’d heard two matchlocks discharge, saw one of his men lying face down and motionless on the ground—an arrow in his neck, one buried to the feathers in his side where his front and back armor met, and yet another in his leg. Gibbes rolled to his knees, stood. Phffft! He ducked at the sound, grabbed Emme’s hands, pulled her farther from the tree line. “Fie!” He let go of Emme, stumbled back to where he’d fallen, retrieved his matchlock, then crouched and inched back to Emme. He heard the other soldiers yelling, glanced at them. One was reloading his matchlock while the other two pumped arrows at the tree line as fast as they could nock them. Must organize fire, hold for help. “Over here, men.” He lifted Emme over his shoulder, grabbed his matchlock, plodded awkwardly to the stream; he dropped the gun then laid Emme gently on the snow-covered ice of the streambed, a foot below the banks.
Emme’s eyes slowly opened to narrow slits. “Johnny, I . . . I’m dying.”
“Don’t talk, Emme. Here.” He pulled his matchlock pistol from his waist, cocked the hammer, handed it to her, butt first. “If any come for you, wait until they’re close then point at them and pull the trigger, like I showed you. Hold it with both hands if you can, and keep your hand off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
She slowly took the weapon, smiled faintly, whispered, “Stay alive, Johnny . . . goodbye.”
“No, Emme! No! You can’t die; pretend to be dead, keep the pistol ready. He looked at her with an agonized look. “I must rally the men. Don’t die. I’ll return. Do you hear me? Don’t die!”
She smiled weakly, closed her eyes, slowly laid the pistol at her side. “Farewell, Johnny, I love you.”
Gibbes stared at her for a second, prayed she’d live, then crept toward the three men further down the stream bank. He realized the Savages had stopped shooting. “Getting ready to come again, men; spread out, make low, small targets. You women, hide on the ice in the stream, get below the bank, scream if they come for you. Archers, slow your fire, save arrows, don’t shoot unless you have a good target. We’re at the limit of their range; they must cross the clearing to get to us. Keep checking behind for flankers.”
Six Savages emerged from their trees with blood-chilling cries, drew their bows on the soldiers. The other musketeer lifted his matchlock, aimed, pulled the trigger as Gibbes yelled, “No! No! Hold fire. ’Tis a ruse.”
The Savages leaped back behind cover, waited until the shot whistled past them into the trees.
“Damn it. Reload quickly. Archers, be ready, they’re coming. Don’t shoot until they’re in the open and coming toward us, then shoot fast.”
Screams from the streambed. Gibbes turned, saw a Savage standing over Emme, a stone hatchet in his hand. He lifted his gun, aimed at the man’s chest, began to squeeze the trigger but saw Emme lift the pistol, fire into his gut. The man lurched backward, lay motionless on the ground, blood spurting from his wound. Gibbes noticed a circle of red snow around Emme. Bleeding badly, must help her. More screams from the streambed. He fired at a Savage dragging a woman by her arms, saw him fall sideways, then climb to his feet, stagger toward the far tree line. “Berrye, put arrows on those Savages.” He pointed at the streambed. “Only clear shots. Toppan, Johnson, cover the front.” As he dropped the butt of his matchlock to the ground, he heard a chorus of war cries from the front but kept his eyes on the women. He blindly poured a charge of powder down the barrel, dropped a ball behind it. Just as he yanked the ramrod from beneath the barrel and jammed it inside, he saw a Savage disappear into the far tree line with a shrieking, flailing woman over his shoulder.
“Help me! Help me!”
“God damn it!” Gibbes pumped the ramrod twice, jerked it from the barrel, saw another Savage dragging a frantic woman from the streambed. She twisted, squirmed, pulled free an instant before Berrye’s arrow ripped into his stomach. He lurched backward, spun around, dropped to his knees, grasped the shaft that stuck from his stomach, fell forward and still.
Phffft! Phffft! Phffft! Gibbes glanced toward the front, saw six Savages running toward them. He glanced back at the streambed, saw another Savage reach the far tree line with a young woman on his shoulder, watched him stumble when Berrye’s arrow slashed into the back of his thigh and lodged in the bone. He dropped the girl, tugged on the arrow but couldn’t remove it, then bent down and grabbed the hysterical girl by her wrist, drug her several steps toward the trees before releasing her and limping into the forest.
“Good shot, Berrye!” He heard Toppan’s matchlock rumble, turned toward the front, raised his own, and fired at the closest Savage. The man kept coming but suddenly stopped, aimed and fired an arrow at Johnson, who was releasing an arrow at another Savage.
&nbs
p; “Ahhhh!” Johnson dropped his bow, yanked the arrow from his shoulder where it had hit bone; he picked up his bow, resumed firing.
Suddenly a fierce-looking Savage in the middle of the clearing stopped, calmly raised his hand while he glared at the soldiers. He then turned slowly, walked indifferently back to the tree line, the other Savages following behind. At the tree line, he stopped, faced the soldiers, raised his bow, shook it defiantly as he and the others shrieked their cries then turned and vanished like ghosts into the forest.
Gibbes panted, stared after the Savages, winced as he touched his neck where the arrow had entered and exited a half inch from his throat. He stared for a moment at his blood-soaked hand, felt a wave of dizziness numb his mind. As he wrapped a scarf around his neck to stem the blood flow, he looked at his men, saw only Toppan and Johnson, their eyes locked on something behind him. He heard a thudding, crunching sound, turned, saw Berrye pounding the butt of a matchlock, again and again, into the skull of the Savage he’d killed by the streambed. Each blow splattered blood and brains on the snow, his breeches, and his tall socks; the two wide-eyed women watched in frozen horror from the streambed, their hands cupped over their mouths. Gibbes looked at Toppan and Johnson. “Stop him, then help the women.” He turned, saw Emme lying motionless in the snow. “ Emme!” He dropped his matchlock, ran toward her.
With trembling hands and a pain-twisted face, John Chapman pleaded with a quavering, cracking voice, “Roger, we’re losing time. We must move quickly, muster a rescue force, pursue them. They’ve already got several hours’ start. I beseech you.” He shook his hands up and down in frustration. “My Alis . . . my dear Alis . . . out there with those heathens. Damn it, Roger! Hear me, please pursue them. Have you no feelings? She’s one of our own. How can you abandon her?”
Baylye’s eyes glowed with misty compassion, but his thin features were taut as old shoe leather. He shook his head slowly, put his hands on Chapman’s shoulders. “Please, John . . . try to understand . . . we must consider the safety of the entire colony. Forsooth, I know how you feel. I—”
“No. You can’t know how I feel, Roger. You can’t! She’s my wife, my love, the mother of our children. My God, do you know what they’ll do to her?” His body trembled. “What will I tell the children? That we abandoned their mother to Savages who ravished her to her death? No, Roger. I cannot do that. I must try to save her, even if I go alone.” He started for the door.
Baylye tightened his grip. “John. Wait.” He stared at him, sighed. “Lieutenant Waters will be here any minute. I shall ask if he can spare a detachment to pursue. But understand, he lacks the forces to do any more than deal with—”
A sharp knock. Waters entered, saw Chapman. He bowed his head, shook it slowly. “John, terrible about Alis. I’m so sorry. Sergeant Gibbes is most distraught, blames himself.”
Chapman shook his head. “No, no. ’Tis not his fault. He and your men mounted a valiant defense, gave sound measure of themselves.”
“They did indeed. But Gibbes takes Alis’ loss personally, and—”
“William,” Baylye said, “can we spare enough men to pursue the raiding party and attempt to rescue Alis? Perhaps they’ll stop somewhere for the night and allow us time to catch them.”
Chapman’s tenuous composure crumbled; he stared at Waters, whimpered softly, “My Alis, my love . . . pleeeease, Lieutenant, I beseech you. Find her before ’tis too late, I beg you.”
Waters grimaced as he glanced at Baylye then Chapman. “Master Chapman—John, my friend—my heart grieves with you.” He again glanced at Baylye, swallowed hard, parted his lips as if to speak but silently shook his head, his eyes dull, cloudy with frustration. He looked back at Chapman. “Sir, our military situation is dire, and our fighting force perilously small, even if we count all the civilians.” He sighed. “If we withdraw a sizeable portion of it from the village, for any purpose, the colony will be dangerously vulnerable; and as you know, most civilians know nothing of warfare or military practices. Even if we were to pursue, we do not know where the Powhatan village is or therefore the route taken by the Savages to return to it. We are not skilled forest trackers, and they move swiftly . . . far more swiftly than we. Nor do we know their territory.”
Baylye said, “William, the Chesapeakes know the Powhatans’ territory and where their village is.”
“Aye, they do, Governor, but they won’t tell us for fear of retribution by the Powhatans. And even if we found their village, the Powhatans and their allies would outnumber us at least twenty to one. We’d have no chance against them and would be overwhelmed, leaving the colony defenseless— a situation the Powhatans would promptly exploit to a disastrous conclusion. Believe me, Sir, were it not for our partial palisades, with most of our force always within and at the ready, they’d have attacked and overwhelmed us long ago. Make no mistake—either of you—we’ve but one hope of surviving, and that is to hold out here until Governor White returns with reinforcements.”
Baylye sighed, clasped his hands behind his back, studied the floor for a moment before looking at Waters. “I agree, William, and I appreciate your clear understanding of your duty and our situation. But what if you did no more than pursue the raiding party with enough force to defeat it and rescue Alis? Gibbes estimated that only eight or nine Savages remain.”
“I do not believe we can catch them, Governor; and the farther we go from here, the deeper we’ll move into their territory, with the ever-increasing likelihood that they’ll discover and ambush us, with the result I just described.” He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, lowered his gaze to the floor, then looked at Chapman. “John, my commission from Sir Walter Raleigh and Governor White is to protect the colony, and I would be negligent in that duty if I ordered a blind pursuit of a superior force and put the colony at greater risk. So, though my heart and soul beseech me to pursue and try to save Alis, who I know to be a most kind and gracious lady, the weight of my duty forbids it. I’m gravely sorry, Sir, for were it my choice alone, I would instantly and gladly risk my life to save her.” He turned away, twice brushed his sleeve across his eyes, cleared his throat.
A stiff, pregnant silence hovered in the room like a musty smell. Chapman silently lowered his gaze to the floor; tears fell from his cheeks; he whispered, “I understand, Lieutenant, but I cannot abide my own inaction.” He quickly spun about, bolted out the door.
Baylye yelled, “John, wait!” He glanced at Waters, who was on his way to the door. “Hurry, William!”
Johnny Gibbes turned his head stiffly toward Emily. “Thank you, Mistress Colman. You are indeed an angel.”
Emily smiled meekly, finished wrapping a long strip of cloth around his neck, secured it with a knot, then stepped back to judge her work. “How does it feel?”
He mustered a tepid smile. “ ’Twould be a lie to say it doesn’t hurt, but you’ve greatly eased the pain.”
“Well, you’re quite fortunate, Johnny Gibbes. A stick’s width closer to your throat and you’d not be here talking to me.”
“ ’Tis true,” Elyoner said. She stood beside Johnson, the other wounded soldier, wrapped a strip of cloth around his shoulder as Shines watched attentively.
“Aye, I know.” He touched his neck, smiled at Emily, then grasped her hand, held it to his lips. “Thank you again, Emily. I should be healing in a few days.” He glanced at Emme, who lay sleeping beneath a blanket on Thomas Colman’s bed. “Do you think she’ll prevail?”
Emily smiled. “I’m certain of it. While you were tending to your men, she delivered endless bawdy exclamations over her condition then fell promptly and soundly asleep. She’s definitely retained her spunk, but ’twas most fortunate the point went cleanly through her chest, else we’d have had to push it through . . . horribly painful. ’Twas also fortunate it went where it did; a little further inward and it might have passed completely through her ribs into her heart, or something else, and been impossible to remove . . . if she wasn’t instantly dead. But as it
was, she bled a lot, and she hurts, but ’tis under control, and she now needs a long rest. I shall keep her here with me for a few days, so I can treat the wound and watch her.”
Gibbes nodded, stood to take his leave, beckoned at Johnson. “Well, she’s in good hands with you, Milady, and I am deeply grateful. Could not have forgiven myself if she’d died helping me.” He looked suddenly forlorn. “And I shall never forgive myself for the loss of Mistress Chapman.”
Emily replied quickly, curtly, “Johnny Gibbes, do not blame yourself; you did everything you could to protect her, and what happened was not your fault.”
Gibbes shook his head abashedly. “Would that it were so.” He sighed, bowed, took his leave.
Johnson followed but stopped at the door, faced Elyoner. “Many thanks, Mistress Dare. You, too, are an angel.”
Elyoner smiled, nodded, then led Shines to the fireplace and a large pot of bayberries immersed in boiling water, began skimming berry wax from the water’s surface with a thin, rectangular piece of wood the length of a woman’s shoe. After several swipes, she held the board over a smaller pot, also on the fire, used a knife to scrape the accumulated wax from the board into it, then motioned Shines to repeat the process.
Emily rolled her stump over to Emme, knelt beside her, touched her forehead, then watched the rhythmic rise and fall of the blanket covering her chest. Satisfied, she walked to her own bed where Virginia lay squirming and rooting, preparing to demand a meal. She picked up the grass doll Shines had brought Virginia, held it in front of her, watched her eyes glow, her hands animate excitedly, then grasp it and thrust it into her mouth. “No, no, little one. We don’t eat our dolls . . . especially this clever, beautiful one Auntie Shines made for you.” The doll was three inches wide, eight inches long, and crafted from a doubled-over tuft of grass bound by a tight piece of sinew at the neck to make the head. She had small tufts of grass—bunched together, cut to proper lengths, and bound—at her sides and bottom for arms and legs; her eyes and nose were small pebbles held in place by dried sap, as were her smiling lips which had been fashioned from a curved twig. She wore a soft doeskin dress and moccasins and had a neat tuft of long, black hair tied in a tail behind her head. Emily stared at her for a moment, felt a twinge in her heart as she thought of her own doeskin dress, which she’d started to burn after the rape but had instead folded and placed in her chest. She turned, smiled at Shines, who watched with a wide grin, then nodded and lifted Virginia from the crib. “Come, baby, time to eat.” She carried her to the stump stool beside Emme, sat; unbuttoned her shirt, lowered it and her smock over her shoulders; offered a breast, which Virginia ravenously accepted. Emily pulsed with excitement as she felt the warm, flowing sensation in her breast, smiled at Elyoner. “Ellie, my milk’s returned. You’ve no idea how I’ve missed this.”