Raleigh's Page

by Alan Armstrong

  He noticed the claw around Andrew’s neck. He leaned forward, peering. “What heathenish thing are you wearing, boy?”

  Andrew touched the claw. “A gift, sir, from one who studies their medicine,” he said in a strong voice.

  “Some gift! Some medicine!” the captain harrumphed.

  “It’s proof that we’re making friends here,” Mr. Harriot said quietly.

  “Don’t get too friendly with them,” the captain grumbled. “Remember, they’re savages!”

  Late that afternoon, while Captain Lane was clambering around the base of the fort checking foundations, a copperhead struck him deep in the calf just above his boot top. He fell hard, thrashing and bellowing.

  Andrew came running. He’d heard about the copper-headed snakes.

  “Their bite is deadly,” the exploring captains had reported. “We lost a man to snakebite—his face blotched purple as he died in agony.”

  While Mr. Harriot and Tremayne fashioned a tourniquet to keep the poison from traveling up the captain’s body to his heart, Andrew went for Sky. “The captain!” he yelled. “A snake! You must save him! Please!” Together they rushed to where the captain writhed and groaned.

  The Indian boy got close and looked at the wound, then he grabbed Andrew’s hand and ran for the woods. “White root!” he yelled. “We go for white root!” He found the plant, ripped it up, and raced back.

  Andrew translated for him. “You two,” Sky ordered, pointing to Tremayne and Mr. Harriot, “sit on the captain’s back to keep him still for me to do my work.”

  While the two men struggled to control the frantic captain, the Indian boy shut his eyes for an instant, chanted rapidly in a high singsong voice, then took a sharp-edged oyster shell from the pouch at his waist. He slashed a deep “X” over the bite with more force than Andrew imagined he had. Then he squeezed the wound hard to make it bleed and sucked it. He spat out the poisoned blood, sucked again and spat again, then chewed the white root and spat his chaw into the wound. He pointed that Andrew should tie a cloth to hold the medicine in place.

  The captain’s leg turned black. The “X” Sky cut left a white scar, and where the tourniquet had cut into the captain’s thigh he was sore for months, but he recovered. The upshot was he never objected to Sky’s staying in the fort.

  In the logbook he kept for Mr. Harriot, Andrew wrote down Sky’s description of the snakeroot and other medicine plants his friend pointed out.

  “But the plant, the root—we use it with the prayer,” Sky explained. “That’s what gives it power. Each illness, each remedy, has its prayer.”

  “Was that what you cried out before you cut Captain Lane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you teach me?” Andrew asked.

  “Only the shaman—the chief priest,” Sky replied. “I am not allowed.”

  Andrew wondered what Sir Walter would make of the idea that the shaman’s prayers gave power to their medicines.

  Sky followed Mr. Harriot close as a shadow when he wasn’t with Andrew. He asked so many questions the tall man took to calling him Why. He was curious about everything—how magnets worked, why the English cleaned their teeth, what money was, why letters had sounds.

  Of all the new strange things he saw, Sky asked for only one: a bright steel sewing needle from Mr. Harriot’s kit. He carefully worked it into the rawhide strip around his neck just above the bear claw so it gleamed like a bit of stitching.

  He showed Andrew how to find nests to raid for eggs they ate raw on the spot, the juice of the plant to smear on himself for stings, and how to chew spruce gum to get a sweet taste in the mouth. They experimented making fires with the lenses. One afternoon, as they raced to see who could get a blaze going first, the wind picked up suddenly and sent their flames roaring toward the fort. They admitted nothing as they helped the men cut brush and clear a swath to contain the fire, but Andrew could tell Mr. Harriot knew.

  Andrew and Sky drew pictures for each other to teach their words. Sky picked up English as fast as Andrew added to his Algonquin.

  They built a secret perch of limbs fastened with treenails high in an oak tree hung with grapevines. The only way to it was up the vines. No one could see them, but they could see the fort and across the sound. One afternoon, to surprise his friend, Andrew carried up Mr. Harriot’s glass for looking at a distance. The Indian boy’s mouth fell open when he put the tube to his eye. He held his breath as he lowered it, looked out across the sound, then raised it again. “Oooh!” he exclaimed. “A priest’s eye!”

  They made a game of swinging out on the vines over the red clay gully below—each daring the other to push off harder and swing higher, until Andrew crashed when the vine he swung on broke. He lay like dead until Sky revived him with the juice of skunkweed.

  One hot, idle afternoon, Andrew asked Sky, “Do you do acting with masks?”

  “The priests do,” said Sky, “to call for rain and healing and victory over our enemies. We have medicine masks, masks for war, masks for dancing.”

  “Do you put on plays with them to entertain the people?”

  “Sometimes, to show how stupid our enemies are and give courage to our warriors.”

  “My favorite story is about a boy named Galahad,” said Andrew. “There’s a test. He does something no one else can do.”

  “How?” Sky asked. “Was he the bravest?”

  “No. He had the truest heart.”

  Sky nodded. “Our warriors and apprentice priests face such a test going into manhood. I will face such a test.” He paused. He would not say more.

  “Shall we make masks and act the story for the company?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes.”

  They spent days working out their parts and making the masks. Sky played Galahad. The explorers all knew the story and applauded. Mr. Harriot proposed they do it for the children in Pemisapan’s village.

  “No,” said Sky. “It’s too much like the trial our young men go through. They will think we mock them.”

  At last Captain Lane was ready to go to the priests’ cave. With supplies for a week and tools to gather samples of rock, the survey team paddled across the channel. Salt and Sky rode with Andrew in Tremayne’s boat.

  Again Mr. Harriot asked Pemisapan about the cave.

  “You cannot go there,” the chief said in his slow deep voice. “Only the priests.”

  “We go as priests,” said Mr. Harriot quietly. “Summon yours. I will show you once more I am one of them.”

  A priest of science, Andrew thought. A priest like Doctor Dee. Not a church priest.

  When the chief’s priests came, Mr. Harriot took a packet of iron filings from his pocket and emptied it on the ground. As he waved his magnetized blade over the pieces of metal, he drew them up.

  He then pulled out his compass and showed its blue needle pointing north. With his blade he made it point to him. As he backed away, it aimed north again.

  The Indians stared like stones and said nothing.

  Mr. Harriot put more iron filings on the ground and held out the compass to Chief Pemisapan. “Let your priests raise the grains and move the needle,” he said.

  No one moved.

  After a long silence, Pemisapan nodded. He motioned to two of his allegiance men. “Lead them to the priests’ cave,” he ordered.

  As the company set out, Sky walked beside Andrew. One of the allegiance men stopped and ordered the Indian boy back.

  “No,” said Manteo. “He is of my tribe, not yours. He goes with me.”

  They marched all that day and much of the next. The land was smooth as it sloped upward through groves of trees and open meadows.

  “This land will make wonderful farms,” Andrew told Mr. Harriot as he wrote in the journal that night.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is smooth, there are no rocks, the loamy soil.”

  Mr. Harriot looked up. “The soil?” he asked. “What’s special about the soil?”

  “The bla
ck in it,” Andrew explained. “And its sweetness. The color shows its richness. I dug where we stopped for dinner—the black goes down more than a foot. The thick grasses show there’s limestone underneath. That makes it sweet.

  “It’s like the long slope from Exeter down to Plymouth,” the boy continued. “It would take nothing to run cattle here. Pigs would grow fat in the woods.”

  Mr. Harriot was a city man. Andrew was a farmer’s son. He showed Mr. Harriot Virginia through a farmer’s eyes.

  The following day, Captain Lane was in good spirits as they approached the steep hills where the cave was.

  “This is what we came for!” he exclaimed. “Gold!”

  The path was well-worn, then rougher and rougher over broken stone. At last the allegiance men pointed out the cave’s opening between cracks of an overhanging ledge. Then they turned and left.

  “What will we burn for light?” the captain asked.

  Manteo pointed to a tall pine. “The hard pitch wood at the center burns long.”

  The day was overcast. The burning glass wouldn’t work, so Manteo made fire the Indian way, twisting a dry stick into the slack cord of a short bow, then pushing one end of the stick into a shallow hole in a bit of dry wood with shavings piled around. As he sawed the bow back and forth, the stick spun and the rubbing end got hot. Soon the stuff around it was on fire.

  They crawled into the cave on their bellies. It was dark and close. Andrew fought back his sick feeling about being in tight places. The farther in they went, the darker it got. Then there was a turn and the last daylight was gone! He forced himself to keep up.

  The cave went deep, shafts dividing off like tree branches. The way was low and narrow. At every turning, Manteo kept to the left. They stooped and crawled. At some turnings the flares burned brighter and they breathed fresher air. It was damp. They stopped often to chip off pieces of rock.

  Suddenly the tunnel opened out to where a man could almost stand. Cool air poured in, the torches flared. There were drawings of hunters, animals, and strange shapes like large insects scratched in the stone. The hunters carried spears and bows. The insects, large as men, held drums, rattles, and reed pipes. In the torches’ flickerings, the shapes glowed white and seemed to move, the hunters lunging toward their prey as the insect musicians played and danced.

  They heard what sounded like organ music. Andrew looked at Sky. He gave a quick nod.

  Mr. Harriot signaled that he heard it too. “The wind,” he said.

  Manteo stared at the images like one in prayer. “The drawings are from long ago,” he said finally. “This big one is our god Okeus.” He pointed.

  It was a large-headed figure with huge eyes and the features of man and woman. It looked like the idol he and Wanchese had prayed to on board the ship.

  In front of the drawings there was a large earthenware dish filled with bones, seashells, and a few small pieces of copper bearing the image of Okeus.

  Captain Lane kicked over the dish and picked out the pieces of copper.

  “No!” Manteo exclaimed. “Those things were given to the god!”

  “You do not give me orders!” the captain snarled as he pocketed the medals.

  Andrew was ashamed. From what he’d heard, that was the way Spaniards behaved.

  On the return, they kept to the right. By the time they should have reached the entrance, their torches were almost spent. Somewhere they’d missed a turn. They were lost! Andrew’s stomach twisted.

  The captain swore as he grabbed one of the torches and started back. It was just a few paces to where the cave divided and then divided again. He stopped. “Which way did we come?” he yelled. No one answered.

  Andrew was panting. This was worse than being in the well.

  “Ask him,” Sky whispered, pointing to the dog.

  “Back, Salt!” Andrew ordered. “Go back!”

  Sniffing carefully, the dog led them. Then the last torch guttered out, and they found themselves in utter darkness. It felt like being buried alive in crow feathers.

  Andrew reached for the dog’s tail. “Take hands,” he called.

  Sky took his.

  “Go, Salt!”

  At last, after what seemed like hours of crawling and sweating, they saw daylight. The dry fresh air was the sweetest Andrew had ever breathed.

  At the cave mouth, Mr. Harriot sorted the chips of rock he’d taken.

  “Is there gold?” the captain asked.

  “Limestone,” Mr. Harriot said, pointing to one pile. “Good for mortar. And here, rag—good building stone. And this one, iron.”

  “Is there ore?” the captain asked again, louder.

  “Iron, yes,” said Mr. Harriot, looking up at him without expression. “Gold, no.”

  32

  FROM THE FORT

  24 August, 1585

  Dear Family and Rebecca,

  The Tyger sails for England tomorrow. I set the leg of the sailor who brings this. He does not limp! He will tell you how it is with us. I am well. We’ve had little illness, and none of the company has died. Food is short, though; no one grows fat.

  I think Virginia could feed all England. Without plow or manure, the Indian women get good crops. When a field wears out, the men clear forest to make new.

  We want to buy a worn-out field to experiment, but no one understands what we mean by “buying.” Manteo, our Indian friend, says no one owns land. He says you can only own a thing you can carry, like the earring he got from the Queen.

  Mornings, I work as apprentice to the carpenters. The men say Father taught me well. We build boats and wagons and improve the fort. Parts of it wash away in every gale. Our captain says Virginia storms do us worse than Spanish cannon ever could. The Indians do not know wheels. Men drag their loads on long poles.

  I go everywhere with Mr. Harriot. At night I write the day’s journal as he directs. I tend the apples and the English seeds we planted. The apples have taken and most of the seeds thrive too, but we arrived too late to get any crop.

  No one is idle. We muster to trumpet calls at dawn and drill to fight Spaniards and natives. To Captain Lane, both are enemy and we are troops. So far he’s kept us safe and in order with promise of the lash and worse for those who would disobey. “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings” is his rule. Sir Walter would deal kinder with the Indians, I think.

  An Indian boy my age teaches me medicine plants and how to track, trap, and weave with grass. I am learning the Algonquin tongue. They have no writing. When a snake struck the captain, Sky saved him with a root.

  Some of the chiefs wear pearls. This small one is for Rebecca. Manteo found it in an oyster. The Indians weave the cloth it comes in from silk grass colored with the juice of a blood-colored root the Indians call puccoon. We’ve found no pearls in all the oysters we’ve opened. I am sick of oysters. We eat them roasted, raw, and boiled as we have no fat for frying. The best fat here is bear’s, sweeter than any English butter. To bite into a bad oyster is awful. We have opened and eaten so many, our paths in the fort are paved with oyster shells.

  I miss you very much, and the dogs. The Indians have dogs, but they are not pets. Sometimes they eat them.

  Andrew

  33

  MR. HARRIOT IS SICK

  Virginia’s fall color was brighter than England’s—vivid oranges, yellows, reds, and purples. The autumn rain was soft and fragrant. In the damp, the fallen leaves made a sweet smell like malting ale. Flights of white geese came over and rested on the marsh, raucousing day and night. For a week the explorers and Indians fattened on roast goose.

  It got dark earlier and the sun rose later now. Some mornings there was frost. The men wore wool caps to bed. Andrew slept in his cap for America.

  He was spending all his free time with Sky now. The boys spoke English and Algonquin together, each teaching the other. Andrew’s world was as strange to Sky as Sky’s was to Andrew. Andrew had come to feel closer to Sky than he had to his best friend at school, because each
protected the other.

  Mr. Harriot’s illness began with a cough and sore throat, then turned to a raging fever as he choked on his phlegm.

  Captain Lane advised bleeding. He avoided the patient.

  Andrew’s stomach heaved when Tremayne cut a vein in Mr. Harriot’s wrist to release a cup of hot blood. The boy gave him purges to empty his bowels. The patient turned gray. By the hour he wasted away as they watched.

  “He’s dying,” Andrew said, choking back tears. “We need help.” He clenched his fists and said a private prayer.

  Tremayne asked Manteo and Sky what to do. That afternoon, the two Indians rowed over to the mainland. They returned after supper, saying Mr. Harriot should go to the priests.

  He was now delirious.

  “Shall we take you to the Indians?” Tremayne asked.

  Mr. Harriot’s eyelids fluttered. He made no sound. Then his lips formed what looked like “Yes.”

  Tremayne went to the captain. “Sir, he wishes to go to the Indians.”

  “Madness!” Captain Lane exclaimed. “Bleed him again! Purge him! Sweat him! In all events, keep him from the savages! In his weakness he’ll reveal our secrets.”

  “What secrets?” Tremayne wondered aloud. “That we’re hungry? Who doesn’t know that?”

  The captain was readying a group to hunt on the mainland. They would be gone for days. Manteo and Wanchese were to lead as scouts.

  Manteo couldn’t be found when the hunting party gathered at the boats, so they left without him. When the hunters were well across the channel, he appeared.

  As Andrew and Tremayne gently rolled Mr. Harriot onto a litter, the tall man groaned. They carried him to the shore. He was surprisingly light. Manteo had a boat the Indians had made by hollowing out a large log with fire and scraping. Sky stood in the water to push them off, then vaulted himself in.

  They paddled to a small village Andrew had never seen. The priests were gathered around their sacred fire pit. The one who led them wore a short cloak of bright blue feathers sewed thick together. He gave Manteo a look and nodded at Andrew.

  Andrew whispered to Manteo, “What is his name?”