by Jenny Barden
‘We are sorry that we did not receive you properly. Your kinsmen have attacked us when they have mistaken us for enemies, therefore we are cautious.’
Stafford frowned.
‘That should not have happened.’
Alsoomse raised an arm across her breast and touched her shoulder lightly, a gesture that seemed placating.
‘It is forgiven,’ the lady said through Manteo. ‘The attack took place on the mainland where your kinsmen did not expect us.’
One of the elderly men leant over to her, his arms still under his cape. They spoke together, heads bowed, then Alsoomse looked up.
‘We will show you what they did.’
She summoned a young man with feathers in his hair and he left at speed, dodging around the crowd. When he returned it was with a woman, and between them they carried an older man on a hide-and-wicker frame. The frame was lowered in front of Stafford so he could see the man’s withered legs. Emme saw them as well, and the scar of a bullet wound when the man was turned and uncovered: the neat round entry hole in his back, and the pale puckered skin over the wide tear of its exit. He must have been shot from behind.
‘When did this happen?’ Kit asked.
There was more consultation, then the answer came.
‘Over a year ago, in the time of new growth.’
Stafford leant forwards and cupped his chin, one elbow on his knee. ‘Some recompense should be made.’
‘It must have been Lane,’ Kit whispered to Emme.
Stafford spoke again to Manteo’s mother.
‘Let this wronged man have first choice of our gifts.’
‘That is fitting,’ she said, as her son translated with a nod of approval. ‘We ask you, please, for a token so that a mistake of this kind will not happen again.’
Stafford turned to Kit and Dare. ‘The request is reasonable, but what can we give them?’
Dare shrugged his shoulders.
‘We’ve nothing spare but the gifts, and a few beads in their hair aren’t going to be much use; there must be close to a hundred of them. Whatever we offer won’t go far amongst so many.’
Emme looked round and caught sight of the standard hanging in all its glory behind the place where Dare sat. She glanced at Kit and saw him looking in the same direction. They shared a wry smile, then Kit stood and took hold of the flag.
‘No!’ said Dare before Kit had even uttered a word. ‘You cannot!’
Kit rubbed the fabric between his fingers as it hung spread between top bar and pole. The colours were magnificent in their flamboyance, quartered between the arms of the new city, Raleigh, England and the Crown. At the top left was a red cross on white with an antlered deer in the first quarter; then came the alternate red and white squares of England, four in all; below were the Queen’s three gold lions passant on a red ground; lastly were Sir Walter’s arms of lozenges argent and gules: silver diamonds on red running in a diagonal line from top left down. The emblazoning had all been sewn in silk with a trim of crimson sarcenet.
Kit smoothed it down. ‘What is the motto of our new city?’
Dare narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Concordia res parvae crescent. You should know that.’
‘Which means?’
‘Work together to accomplish more – as we are doing,’ Dare added, raising his chin.
‘Well said,’ Kit remarked. ‘I think that answers the question of what we offer. If we work together with these good people we will achieve far more than if we kill them by accident.’
Emme suppressed a smile and noticed Stafford doing the same.
Dare looked outraged.
‘We cannot destroy the standard; it represents the honour of our endeavour. The colours of England are in this silk.’
Stafford coughed. ‘Perhaps we could consider using the edging cloth. Some substitute may always be found later.’
‘An excellent suggestion, Captain.’ Kit unsheathed his knife. ‘Let’s waste no more time debating. There should be enough here to make a strip each for twenty adults. They can wear the bands around their heads whenever they venture from this island.’ He looked to Manteo. ‘Will that meet the request?’
Manteo gave a nod of agreement. ‘It will serve and be much valued. Your flag will honour us.’
‘So, to work.’ Kit cut away at the fine fabric while Dare turned aside in disgust. Once finished, Kit gave the material to Manteo for division.
Manteo placed the sarcenet reverentially beside his mother.
She stroked it and seemed well pleased.
Manteo spoke for her.
‘My mother says now we will feast. Tomorrow we will meet in council.’
‘That is good,’ said Stafford. ‘We have questions to ask. One of our men has been brutally murdered. We wish to know who was responsible.’
Alsoomse conferred with her son who answered for her.
‘My people have heard of this.’
Alsoomse turned to the bird-man and took a pipe from his hands. She drew on it deeply until smoke streamed from her nostrils, then she spoke again and Manteo translated.
‘Your questions will be answered tomorrow.’ At that, she closed her eyes in a way that made clear that the conversation was over.
The pipe was offered to Stafford and he took it and smoked. Emme looked at the bowls and hands of the Englishmen who were already helping themselves, digging into the meat and wolfing it. Only Kit and Stafford beside her showed polite self-restraint, while she picked up a gourd and saluted Alsoomse before sipping at the water slowly. Then the old lady drank too and, when Emme began to eat, so did she, picking at hulled corn from the same large flat bowl, until gradually everyone settled to eating their fill, enjoying the taste of Indian cooking: the nut-roasted venison and sassafras-thickened stews, the broiled fish and corn pottage with berries, seeds and fruit.
The one question Emme had for Manteo, as she settled to replete contentment, was why his people had said they were short of corn when the display of bounty suggested they had plenty to spare. Their recent harvests had been poor, he explained.
‘The rains have almost failed this year as they did the last. Our watering ponds are nearly empty. The corn that has grown is small and we will have a hard winter.’
‘So why be generous like this?’ She gestured to the feast.
Manteo licked his fingers.
‘This is our way. We share what we have when we can, and set nothing aside from one year to the next. We do not hoard so there is no resentment.’
She frowned as she sucked at the tender corn from a small boiled cob, trying to understand. What he had told her seemed charitable but also foolish. Were there no grain lofts in their village?
‘But what if you have a good year and there is a surplus?’
‘Then we destroy it,’ he said, and smiled at her.
Kit leaned over, plainly having overheard.
‘The Croatans live for each day, share freely, care for one another without reservation, live simply and modestly, indulge in nothing to excess, know no jealousy and strive for harmony with the world.’ He took the baby corncob from her fingers that she’d been about to pop in her mouth and ate it while he looked at her, eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘They are savages.’
She stole a cherry-like fruit from in front of him, but he didn’t seem to mind, and she gazed at the fire which had been fuelled to blazing and was sending sparks into the darkening air. In time she hoped to better understand. They could learn much from the Indians, but what could they offer in return that would not change them forever? With metal and writing and the word of God Almighty they would be different people. But for the present she was content, and the sound of drums beating quickened her pulse, and the brandy that Stafford had brought flamed sweetly in her throat, and she settled back against Kit when the night fell completely, watching the Croatans dancing, shaking leaf wands and gourd rattles, driving their bodies to exhaustion, leaving to rest only to return and dance ever harder. Then, when her eyes b
egan to close, he led her to the largest longhouse where they had been given a platform to sleep, and he settled her against the matting that served as a wall, and lay down beside her with Stafford on his other side and the rest of the company beyond, the ones that slept at all, and there was no contact between her and Kit that night beyond the touch of their hands. Still the drums beat and the Indians sang, but what she heard in her dreams was the sound of his breathing: like rain in a drought on a field of new corn.
*
Dew cooled the dusty earth, and the shape of forms emerging in the burgeoning light were hazed blue as if misted over, though there had been no rain despite the thunder in the night. The new dawn broke cloudless with a breathless radiance like limpid amber. Emme walked close to Kit, in procession with Stafford and the rest of the company, all trooping to the place of council like a train of armoured angels in a ghostly garden of delights. Most of the Indians were already assembled, judging by the thrum which rose from the clearing, and when she rounded the last longhouse there they were, seated on mats opposite Dare’s tattered flag. Manteo and his mother sat cross-legged in the forefront, and on either side were the fur-caped priest-men along with elders of both sexes all murmuring together. She glanced round and saw Dare and Harvie take their places by the flag; the rest of the company followed, though one man arrived late. She saw him hurrying pell-mell past the tobacco plants, still buckling on his belt while hitching the caliver on his back. A young Indian woman ran after him holding his helmet in outstretched arms. He took it from her and jammed it on his head. The man was small and dishevelled and pulled a rueful smile as he joined Stafford’s party.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked Kit quietly.
He stifled a chuckle. ‘One of our Irish soldiers by the name of James Lacy. I think he’s been reunited with someone he’s been looking for.’
‘Ah.’ She watched the woman who had followed settle with her own people, not far away; her eyes never left the soldier, and his eyes never left her.
Emme’s attention moved to Alsoomse and the rest of the Croatans gathered round: the heads of families, the old and the young; some of the women had babies with them or stocky infants clinging to their backs. The bird-man was there again, waving his hands over a steaming bowl and muttering some kind of incantation, standing still as a heron until, with a cry, he tossed in a substance which dissolved in white smoke. At that, he clapped his hands, then whispered to Alsoomse while the little black bird swung over his ears. A moment later he sat and Alsoomse spread her arms. Manteo translated for her.
‘Win-gan-a-coa, Captain Stafford. Welcome to our council, people of England. We are here to answer your questions.’
Stafford stood and bowed.
‘We thank you for your kindness, weroanca Alsoomse, great lady of the Croatans. We thank you for the feast you have given us, and your loyalty to England.’ He looked to Harvie who gave a nod. ‘You know that one of our company has been murdered. It happened within a week of our arrival. Our man was killed in cold blood. He was struck by Indian arrows and so viciously beaten that we only knew him by what he wore. Can you tell us who did this?’
Alsoomse listened to Manteo’s interpretation, beckoned to a young man and sat back.
‘Achak will tell you,’ Manteo said.
The youth was barely above a boy, probably only a year or two older than Rob, but he stood proudly with a feather in his roach. A tracing of tattooed lines emphasised the thrust of his rounded chin. His voice began low but ended high and quavering, the voice of a boy eager for approval, excited but fearful of losing face. Manteo spoke for him.
‘He says he heard some of the Roanokes say they had seen the white man’s scalp. Wanchese has it now. His people killed the white man.’
Dare and Harvie muttered together and Emme saw that Harvie was shaking with anger. Dare pounded his fist against the ground.
‘Enough!’ Dare shouted. ‘We should attack right now.’
Stafford raised his hand to silence them.
‘Where did you hear this?’ he asked the youth.
‘When he was fishing near Roanoke,’ Manteo answered. ‘He was hailed by men from Dasemonkepeuc. They were watching the Englishmen on the island, hidden in the reeds in their canoes. They boasted of the killing. “Your friends will soon be gone,” they said. “The white men have lost their power.”’
Stafford turned to the old lady. ‘Are you sure that Wanchese was behind this?’
‘Kupi,’ she said, and Manteo nodded, putting her next words into English. ‘Wanchese now leads the people of Dasemonkepeuc, those who once lived on Roanoke. He became their weroance after your kinsmen killed Wingina.’ She took a puff from a pipe that the bird-man offered her. ‘Perhaps the spirit of Wingina will now rest.’
Dare grabbed the hilt of his sword and Harvie rose to his feet.
‘This is preposterous!’ Harvie called out. ‘There was no justice in Howe’s killing. What had Howe to do with that savage’s death? He was innocent and defenceless. His murder must be punished. I say we do that now.’
‘Settle down, Dyonis.’ Stafford motioned for him to sit, and, slowly, Harvie sank back to his mat. Stafford spoke so that only those nearest him would hear. ‘Remember the Croatans are our friends and not responsible for Howe’s death. Let us find out as much as we can before rushing to do anything.’
He smiled at Alsoomse and gave a nod to Manteo.
‘We thank our friends, the Croatans, for this news and would like to know more. Can anyone tell us what has happened to the Englishmen who came to Roanoke after I left with Governor Lane? Fifteen were garrisoned at the fort a year ago, yet we can find no trace of them.’
Manteo translated and Alsoomse bent her head to speak with her priests and elders, then she spoke to her son and he addressed the whole assembly. In time a man stood up. He looked like a hunter with well-muscled limbs and a quiver on his back. He wore his hair in a spiked roach and had a necklace of curved teeth.
‘Come forward, Nootau,’ Manteo said.
The hunter walked into the centre of the circle.
‘This man saw what happened,’ Manteo told Stafford. He gestured for the man to proceed.
The hunter pulled a hide and a metal knife from his belt which he held up like trophies. Manteo translated as he began his account.
‘Nootau used to trade skins for blades with the white men at the fort. He was there last year when Wanchese drove them away.’
‘So they are alive?’ Stafford asked eagerly.
‘Some of them may be, but he is not sure. He saw two of them killed and many others wounded.’
‘How did he see this?’
‘He hid when the Secotans came, and he watched from the trees.’
‘Did the Secotans attack the fort?’
‘Yes,’ said Manteo as the hunter began to mime out the action of shooting with bow and arrow. ‘The warriors of Secotan and Dasemonkepeuc attacked together; about thirty of them. They were led by Wanchese.’
‘That’s it!’ Dare jumped up and seized the standard, brandishing it in one hand and drawing his sword with the other. ‘This Wanchese must be stopped. He’s probably spying on our city right now, preparing to strike while we’re away.’
Kit sprang to his feet and took hold of the standard with both hands. He pushed the shaft down then held it against the ground. ‘Sit down, Ananias,’ he said softly. ‘Hear the man out.’
Kit exchanged a glance with Manteo who spoke to the hunter in his own language. The man resumed talking and Manteo carried on interpreting.
‘The Secotans used trickery. Two approached the fort at first and asked for a parley.’ Manteo turned to Stafford. ‘Nootau thinks that Wanchese was one of them. This man was big, with cheek tattoos like arrow heads, and he had a gap here.’ The hunter pointed to his front teeth and Manteo did the same, pushing his thumb nail between them.
The elders nodded and murmurs rose. Manteo added his own verdict. ‘This is Wanchese.’
The hunte
r carried on speaking, acting out the action of his story as he described it.
‘These two men appeared unarmed,’ Manteo said. ‘But they had weapons concealed under their cloaks. The rest of their warriors were hiding in the woods. Two Englishmen came out to speak, and the Secotans looked as if they wished to embrace.’ The hunter held out his arms. ‘But when the first soldier was received then Wanchese drew his sword and smote him a death blow to the head.’ The hunter whipped out his arm and slashed it down and next clutched the back of his head and dropped heavily to the ground. ‘As soon as the first Englishman was struck then all the Secotans rushed out in ambush. The soldier left standing fled back to the fort, and those at the fort ran into the strong-house where all the weapons and food were stored, but the Secotans set this place ablaze, and the soldiers were forced to abandon the fort taking only what they held in their hands.’
The hunter enacted an intense sequence of running and firing, miming the shooting of bows and the loading of muskets, the ferocity of the fire, which must have been fuelled by the gunpowder in store, and the panic of escape in total disorder. Throughout it all, the bird-man cavorted in a manic frenzy.
Stafford leant over to Kit and spoke under his breath. ‘Well, at least that clears up another mystery – it accounts for the fire damage to the strong-house.’
‘Yes,’ Kit murmured. ‘What we’ve found is beginning to make more sense.’
Manteo turned back to the hunter as he described the battle that followed.
‘The fight went on: first this way, then that. One of the Englishmen died after being struck in the mouth by an arrow. A flaming wildfire bolt killed one of the Secotans. Many were wounded, but the English were hurt most. The Secotans could hide behind the trees and shoot with their bows, but the English could not hit back with their muskets. Their power was fading. Their … mantóac left them.’
‘Mantóac?’ Stafford eyed Manteo keenly. ‘What is that?’
‘It is that which is beyond man,’ Manteo tried to explain, his hands moving erratically. ‘It is the wisdom of the gods.’