by Jenny Barden
—The entry describing the first landfall after crossing the Atlantic, from John White’s Narrative of his 1587 Voyage to Virginia to which Richard Hakluyt the younger added a marginal note: ‘Circumspection to be used in strange places.’
St Croix, the Virgin Islands
June 1587
‘Welcome to paradise: the Island of the Sacred Cross, discovered by Columbus on his second voyage to the New World.’
Master Ferdinando held out his hand for Emme as she climbed down the rope ladder. The little boat below floated on limpid azure water above white sand and coral that she could see clearly, right down to the bottom. The bay around her was vibrant with colour, teaming with scintillating fish, dappled by sparkling sunlight in a tireless gentle dance. She looked across to the beach and saw a ribbon of silver fringed by palms. The land beyond rose in ruched folds to distant low mountains thickly cloaked in lush verdure, and as she wondered at the life within, a string of parrots flew noisily over the shore. The scent of foliage carried on the languid breeze; she could taste it on her dry tongue and savour it as she breathed: the promise of release, fresh food and clean water. Her legs felt like jelly but her spirits were soaring. She had reached the Americas. She had arrived. After more than six weeks of sailing in stinking cramped confinement she had survived to relish this: an island garden of delight. She clambered down too quickly and almost fell onto the passengers already aboard the lighter.
‘Take care, Mistress Murimuth,’ Ferdinando called after her. ‘I’ve brought you safely across the ocean and would hate to lose you to a mishap now.’
The mariners at the stern of the boat chuckled, lowered their oars and prepared to row. An excited hubbub rose from the Planters around her.
John White doffed his hat and waved it. ‘See the idyll that awaits us. Let us rejoice and enjoy God’s greeting.’
Ferdinando raised his hat too.
‘Go blithely, sir.’
Governor White cocked his grizzled head. ‘Didn’t Columbus encounter some hostility from the natives here?’
Ferdinando waved airily. ‘The Caribs are long gone, annihilated by the Spanish. You have nothing to fear. There is no one to trouble you here.’
Governor White almost smiled back at him, though that was checked to a twitch of the lips. His resentment of Ferdinando’s bullying command at sea had been obvious throughout the voyage, made worse after the flyboat had been abandoned in the Bay of Biscay, a decision that the Governor openly stated to be wrong to everyone but the crew and Ferdinando. Perhaps now the rift between them could begin to heal since the worst perils of the crossing were over; Emme hoped so. Let there be a fresh start in peace. This place was too beautiful for grievances.
‘Make way together,’ Master Kit called from the helm. ‘At my word: Pull.’
The oarsmen hauled in unison, the boat moved from the Lion, and when Emme looked at Kit he grinned at her.
‘Alleluia!’ someone cried. ‘Landfall!’ Soon all the Planters in the boat had taken up the shout, Emme included. She couldn’t wait to get ashore, and before the lighter had been beached she clambered out with the other passengers to wade, laughing and splashing, through the warm shallows to the scorching sand. She staggered and dropped to her knees, lying amongst flotsam and the soaked folds of her skirts. She picked up fistfuls of tiny bleached shells and tossed them childlike into the air, then dug her fingers in the heaps of coral fragments, shining white against the reddened backs of her hands.
Governor White gave orders that no one appeared eager to heed: directions for building cabins, collecting water and gathering food. Many of the colonists who had arrived with Emme were wandering into the undergrowth, rustling through dry leaves and around giant roots and branches. Mistress Dare flopped down in the shade and seemed ready to fall asleep, while her husband sauntered over to Maggie Lawrence who was paddling at the water’s edge with her petticoats up to her knees.
‘We will have a shelter here,’ said the Governor, dragging a broken palm frond to a washed-up tree trunk, though no one else paid much attention.
‘Look ’ere!’ a man yelled. ‘Tortoises as big as cows. Come an’ help me kill one.’
A shot rang out from another direction and Emme supposed one of the Planters was firing at some game fit to eat. They ought to have a feast that night. Should she make a fire for cooking? What should she do first? Whatever the answer, she felt it didn’t much matter; everything would be well. She saw Kit walking towards her and stood happily, but his expression was not nearly as cheerful as she had expected. Behind Kit trooped his page and a few other mariners. She wished they hadn’t come too.
‘There’s a pool over there,’ he said gravely, pointing behind the next inlet where mangroves grew densely, spreading in islets out to sea. ‘But the water is foul. Don’t drink it. And don’t eat anything until I get back.’
She regarded him askance. Why shouldn’t she eat or drink without his permission? Just because he said so was a poor reason. She was desperate to slake her thirst and enjoy some unsalted food, and she was past caring where it came from.
‘I wouldn’t drink bad water whether you were with me or not. Where are you going?’
‘To find water that’s fit to drink.’
She noticed the skins slung over his shoulder.
‘I’ll leave Rob with you,’ he said.
‘There’s no need. I have enough company.’ She gestured to all the people who were milling about under the palms, a swelling number since the lighter had returned with another boatload of passengers.
‘Rob will remain here,’ Kit said firmly. ‘Stay with him until I return, and try and rest. Activity will only worsen your thirst.’
‘Relaxation is exactly what I have in mind.’ She forced a smile though she felt like snapping back. It was not his place to dictate to her, and she would be the judge of her own thirst. Gone was the respectful friendship she had hoped would grow between them once they were on land. Had the rumours made him think she was worthless? He seemed little better than Ferdinando in flaunting an assumption of authority. But in the Americas she would choose who she answered to, even if Kit Doonan did look like a Greek hero with his long fair hair and his muscles showing all too clearly under his thin loose shirt. Looks weren’t everything. She wouldn’t humble herself for him.
‘I hope your foraging is productive,’ she said, and watched him leave with his little band of mariners trailing behind.
She took a deep breath, leant back against a palm bole and half closed her eyes.
‘Mistress Murimuth, come and share a toast with me.’
She looked up to see Master Ferdinando standing over her with a straw-padded bottle in his hand and a lascivious glint to his eye. He held up the bottle. ‘You have made the crossing without causing me too much trouble. I believe you have earned the privilege.’
He ran his hand around the straw jacket and winked at her. ‘Spanish aqua vitae: a choice beverage that we might savour from that vantage point over there.’ He pointed to a rocky outcrop a few hundred feet away. ‘The place commands a fine view and an assurance of privacy. After the rigours of the voyage I would like to offer you some reward.’
She flicked at a tiny insect that was nipping at her cheek and considered his attentions no more welcome. She stood up and brushed the sand off her skirts.
‘Thank you, Master Ferdinando, but I have work to do. I should not have been resting.’ She watched one black eyebrow rise and his breezy smile give way to a knowing leer.
‘As you wish, my dear. No doubt Ananias Dare is a hard taskmaster. But I think you may be confident of your position and not fear his displeasure. You must be a very special maid.’ He eyed her beadily. ‘I have a request from Sir Francis Walsingham to bring you with me back to England.’ He cocked his head. ‘I wonder why …? I think we should become better acquainted.’
He nodded to her and strode off in the direction of Maggie Lawrence who was recumbent on the beach, airing her petticoats like a g
iant daisy.
She hoped the wench enjoyed the brandy because it would cost her a high price – one that Emme was not prepared to pay. She glanced over her shoulder and noticed Kit’s page at a distance. Rob could not have heard what Ferdinando had said, but the boy would have noticed the gentleman in conversation with her. What did Ferdinando hope to achieve? She pushed the most base possibility from her mind. His brashness had unsettled her. She had expected more circumspection from him given that Walsingham must have charged him with ensuring her safety. If he was an agent of Spain, then wouldn’t he be wary of provoking any antagonism? Tact and discretion were plainly not Ferdinando’s style. She would have to avoid him. Thank God he’d be leaving for England once he had delivered the colonists to Virginia. She chanced another peek at him and saw that he was looking her way. At once she wheeled round and beckoned to the boy.
‘Rob, could you walk with me? Master Kit spoke of a pool nearby; I would like to see it. He said it was over there.’
She pointed to the mangroves and began pushing through the vegetation without waiting for the boy to answer. The pool didn’t interest her but it was somewhere to go to that was not in the vicinity of the outcrop of rock where Ferdinando and Mistress Lawrence would be admiring the view. She ploughed on, becoming increasingly hot, thirsty and exasperated. The vegetation was almost impenetrable and she had no way of cutting through it, the sand soon gave way to swamp and the ground became a monstrous tangle of roots arching waist-high into the air. Mosquitoes tormented her and her underclothes stuck to her skin. Her dress felt so heavy she longed to rip it off, except that then the insects would be all over her. She had thought she would be alone but she could hear other colonists not far away, crashing through the underwood just like she was, calling to one another in loud voices.
‘We should move away from here,’ said the boy.
‘But where?’
‘Come this way, if you please, Mistress.’
The spindly-limbed youth veered up a slope that was even more thickly covered in a labyrinth of foliage, but then the brush began to thin out and Rob helped her up out of the trees to a shallow plateau covered in dry grass and cacti. Towards the centre was a natural basin in which shone the blue of still water, and already drawn to it were a few colonists, squatting and dipping in their hands, drinking and filling their hats, pouring water over their heads and calling for others to join them. The cool sheen of the pool could not have been more inviting; she hurried closer.
‘Wait, mistress!’ Rob cried after her, running to get in front, though she reached the water first.
She knelt on a coral rock shelf as close to the edge as she could get, rested her hands on the rough stone and peered over to look down. She was on the point of plunging in her face when something stopped her.
The pool had the inky darkness of great depth, and to begin with all she saw in it was a gleaming mirror of the sky, as if seen through sooted glass, with puffy clouds and dazzling sun, and a small reflection of her head at the rim, like an egg on a jagged wall. Then her focus shifted to the floating world below that seemed to emerge as if rising up from a pit. She couldn’t see any fish, no turtles or other creatures, but there were strange forms that suggested life: trailing fronds that hung like loose hair, amorphous spongy matter in rich lichen shades of green and orange, and translucent globules in a stringy mesh around splintered pale sticks. Or were they bones? She lowered her head to peer more closely; then jerked back on hands and knees, catching a whiff of an evil miasma that hung just above the surface. She shuffled away, not daring to stand. Her throat flooded with bile and the smell of corruption.
The boy was still calling, ‘No!’
Suddenly she heard him.
‘Master Kit said you shouldn’t drink here,’ the boy cried out, putting himself between her and the pool.
‘I won’t,’ she said, standing up and feeling dizzy. Then she looked across to the other colonists by the water, several of whom were coughing and rubbing their faces.
‘Don’t drink any more!’ she called out to them, and pointed at the pool where she’d seen what was submerged. ‘I think there’s something dead down there.’
She turned and walked away, making for the turquoise blue of the sea by a route that did not involve wading through mangroves, doing her best to warn everyone she saw that the water in the pool was not potable. But her words seemed to fall on deaf ears, and perhaps the curiosity of those she met only heightened their determination to judge for themselves; most of them carried on towards the plateau. Where was Governor White? He should have been taking charge. She trusted that the Planters she had left by the pool would alert those who arrived to the danger. That water should at least be boiled before it was drunk, and even boiling would not induce her to swallow it. As soon as Kit returned she would get him to set up a guard. She wished he was back. How much longer would he be? Her temples throbbed painfully and her thirst was greater than ever. She even considered going back to the ship and begging for some stale barrelled water, but if she did there was a chance she might encounter Ferdinando on her own. She wouldn’t risk that. Trudging on, head down, she made for a low ridge of bare rock that seemed to offer the easiest descent to the beach. At the summit were coral boulders, and, where a gap lay between them, she noticed a blackening as if made by fire. She walked closer and stared. At her feet were spiny blade-leaved plants and beyond them, near the rock, were fragments of smooth clay. She picked one up. It was unmistakably a piece from a pot, shaped and crudely patterned. She searched around and found more: the evidence of people, but who and from how long ago? She looked round, half expecting to see the strangers and noticed Rob hovering close. She showed him what she had found.
He nodded gravely. ‘Someone else was here.’
‘Yes. Perhaps they’re still here now.’
With one of the potsherds in her hand, she stumbled down from the ridge, her feet sliding in loose sand and snagged by prickly scrub. She had never before really appreciated how important paths were to traversing land. Whoever had been here before had not left trails of any kind. Did that mean they had been gone for a long time? She thought of the word ‘Canibales’ as she had once seen it written on a map in the library at Greenwich Palace. Had there been cannibals on the island? She was glad they would not be staying for long, though she began to meet more colonists as she drew closer to the shore and most of them were abuzz with excitement. They fooled around like children chasing after any new wonder that caught their fancy: giant grasshoppers, bobbing honey-breasted birds and scurrying lizards with long harlequin ringed tails. The flowers and fruits they found drew shrieks of amazement.
‘See the size of this!’ a man shouted out. ‘Big as a feckin’ dog prick!’ He held up an unappetising brown husk like a roasted giant bean pod.
Margery Harvie showed off another find: ‘Apples! Green apples.’
As the wife of one of the senior Assistants, she commanded respect enough for the Planters to listen to her. She was also heavily pregnant, and Emme wondered at her wisdom in biting into the fruit, even though she declared it to be ‘crisp and sweet as any pippin’.
The response from the colonists was beyond control. They rushed to the tree that Mistress Harvie pointed out, began tearing at its glossy branches and gorging on the white flesh of its fruits which did indeed resemble cooking apples, not that Emme was tempted to try any. What if the fruits concealed evil like the pool? With a sigh of relief she noticed Governor White approaching, and ran up to him at once brandishing the potsherd for him to see.
‘I think there are people here, sir, and they have poisoned the pool we have found. The Planters should be cautioned …’
‘What’s this?’ he took the shard and turned it over in his hands. ‘Ah, interesting.’ He traced the lines and pits of the geometric design scratched over the surface. ‘See, the Caribs were not all brutish. There is even evidence of colouring …’
‘If you please, sir,’ she interrupted him, hearing cri
es of distress and sounds of choking from those gathered around the tree. She turned and gestured to it, seeing Mistress Harvie bent over, spitting out pith and retching.
‘My mouth!’ the lady cried, gasping. ‘It’s burning. Give me water.’
‘Over here!’ someone shouted, and beckoned for her to go the way Emme had come.
‘No!’ Emme rushed to stop her. ‘You can’t drink that water.’
‘Get away.’ Mistress Harvie barged her aside. ‘I must have water. Mush …’
Her speech was becoming slurred. Emme looked on aghast at the size of her lips. Her face was swelling like dough in an oven.
‘Zounds!’ a man moaned. ‘My tongue.’ His mouth opened wide and his tongue lolled out, thick as a small cucumber and bright mulberry red. He pelted past her.
‘Stop!’ Governor White held up his hands, but everyone who had sampled the fruit ran round him towards the plateau. He turned to Emme and spoke curtly, tossing the shard at her feet before turning to follow. ‘You should have stopped them.’
‘I …?’ Her jaw dropped. How could he shift the blame to her? How could she have stopped them? No one would listen when she tried to warn them about the pool. What would happen to them now if they drank there? A horrific vision swamped her mind, of colonists driven wild by the burning in their mouths drinking recklessly from the pool and dying in agony. She must prevent it. She turned to Rob.
‘Stay here and tell anyone who comes not to eat that fruit.’
Then she hurried towards the pool, cursing the island with every panic-driven step. It was more hell than paradise; she wished they had never set foot in the place. Would Virginia be like this? She ploughed on, not looking back until she heard crashing vegetation and the rip of someone running hard behind her: Kit. There was his voice.
‘Emme! Mistress Emme …’
He came racing towards her, back bent under the weight of the full waterskins on his shoulders.
‘Are you all right?’