The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  She found herself by the fire though she’d hardly noticed that she was walking. Not far away was the canvas shelter that Kit shared with Rob. Suddenly she knew what she would do: find Rob and tell him that his master had left with the Governor and Captain Stafford, explain their mission, then invite the boy back to the Governor’s house to help her with Mistress Dare while the men were away. The resolution stopped her tears – better to act than to mope. She bent to call the boy’s name. It would be kinder to speak to him now rather than let him wake up alone. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Rob.’

  Her voice sounded strong, but in her heart she was still weeping, sure that Kit would never love her as he had loved the mother of this young man.

  She felt her own love had died.

  *

  It was an ugly dawn for an ugly business. The first show of light glimmered sickly yellow behind a thick pall of cloud. Kit rubbed at his eyes, unable to focus on much beyond the black blur of reeds stretching to the weak shine of water. From where he lay, flat against the ground, everything was mist-hazed, low in the distance and foreshortened. The mounds of bark-covered shelters rose between him and the sound like the humps of a coiled beast, six that he could make out: a village of maybe ten families. But the only evidence of habitation was the smell of dung and drying tobacco, a thin plume of smoke, and the vague suggestion of feathered Indian heads, three of them, close to the source of the smoke. He saw one of them move.

  He kept still, hearing rustling as Stafford and his advance party crept forwards. Soon the Indians would sense them and react. He positioned his caliver ready to fire, blew softly on the match-cord and checked it was secure on the serpentine. If the savages didn’t hear Stafford’s party, they would scent the acrid smell of smouldering saltpetre. At any moment they would dive for cover and reach for their bows. If they tried to escape through the village then they wouldn’t get very far; Kit and the rear-guard had all the longhouses surrounded. In a way he hoped the savages would run. He was glad not to be leading the attack – glad not to be there with Stafford, Dare and Harvie because he knew what they would try and do: take aim on one of those unsuspecting warriors and shoot him before he had a chance to even see who they were. They were stalking the Indians as if they were game. This was not the way Drake would have done things. Sir Francis would have fired a warning volley and called for the savages to submit. This was a raid by stealth with the aim of killing in the same way that George Howe had been killed: an eye for an eye. An Indian would lose his life who probably had nothing to do with Howe’s death, just as Howe had been murdered who had nothing to do with the death of the old Indian chief, or with Lane’s depredations, whatever they were. He hoped it would end there.

  Kit tensed, waiting for the piercing crack of musket shot that would surely come. Whether the Indians broke first, or Stafford’s party fired before they were alerted, there would be at least one shot, and the shot from Stafford would bring down a savage; then Kit and the rear-guard would drive everyone from the village, and those left alive would be so terrified that they would flee to spread the word about the fearful might of the English. It was possible. It was also possible that afterwards there would be peace. Maybe the leaders of the Secotans, Wanchese, and the weroances of all the neighbouring tribes, would come to Roanoke to discuss terms by which everyone could live in harmony, English and Indian together. He had to believe it. He fingered the firing lock of his caliver and blinked to clear his eyes. It was possible that Rob might grow up free here and live a long life full of contentment. It was possible that Emme might still care for him though he had felt her coldness when they had parted. Dreams. Without dreams there could be no endurance. Sometimes it was better not to think too far.

  He was glad he was here, able to act, rather than wait back at Roanoke wondering what would happen. Action would wipe everything from his mind. He wanted to move and let impulse take over, not linger in suspense, hearing the muffled click, click as White fiddled with his firearm, and the soft sibilance of Manteo’s whispered prayers. At least those two were safe. If he did nothing else he would keep them that way. White must be preserved as the colony’s ambassador to safeguard the future with Raleigh’s support. Manteo must not be put at risk; this was not his fight, and he had played his part in guiding Stafford to Dasemonkepeuc. For the sake of the safety of the Croatans, Manteo must not be seen as one of the attackers.

  Kit nosed the muzzle of his caliver further between the stalks of long grass. What would he do when the shot came? Move forwards to shield White and Manteo then try to protect the Planters from any counterattack – sacrifice his life without hesitation if that would be of any use; there no longer seemed much point in worrying about his own preservation. Ever since he’d been a prisoner of the Spanish, sure that any moment he was going to die, he had ceased to much care about clinging onto life.

  But he’d never been less concerned about his own survival than now. He had done as much as he could and disappointed those who meant most to him. He had failed Rob as a father; the boy did not even know who he was. Emme was right: he should have told Rob the truth before. Perhaps he had always been chary of facing up to Rob’s reaction. What if the boy hated him for taking him away? Rob had cause to resent the fact that he had only accepted him as a page, never acknowledged him as a son – never openly shown him a father’s love. Rob might well loathe him for keeping secret the fate of his mother. Why had he done that? The boy would want to know. Rob could blame him for abandoning them both. He had failed Emme too: upset her so much that he had felt her recoil. He had shocked her, he could tell. In her eyes he was shamed. He had fathered a bastard by a blackamoor and hidden his passion for a slave, a passion he still felt, though, in a different way, he loved Emme even more. Now he had lost her affection as well as her respect. She was a good woman who would do as he had asked her out of kindness. He could trust her to care for Rob in his absence and keep him with her if he died; at least he was sure of that. But he could no longer hope for her love without reservation. She was a lady who should have been on her way to England, away from danger, back to the Queen. Ferdinando was not fit to protect her, but Emme could yet sail back with Stafford and Spicer in the flyboat and come to no harm. Once this business was over, he would make sure she did – and he would tell Rob the truth.

  He raised his head slowly to see more. The rustling had stopped. Stafford must be in position. Lacy and Wright would be ready, poised to advance at his signal and flush out any savages left in the village. Most of the veterans were in the rear-guard, hidden in the marsh-grass behind the shelters. The Planters with Stafford would have the glory of the attack. This would be the vengeance Dare and Harvie had wanted. May it be quick.

  The black reeds did not move under their blanket of mist and umber cloud. All was shadows and dark mire, a bleak insect-ridden wilderness. He supposed that if he had felt constrained to abandon a home on Roanoke for this miserable slough then he would have been resentful, maybe to the point of laying down his life to drive the intruders away. But the Planters had nowhere else to go. Roanoke had been deserted when they arrived, and if the mainland was as vast as the reports of earlier explorers suggested then surely there would be room for Indian and English to live side by side.

  There was no going back. He would not abandon the colonists to please the Secotans or anyone else. If he had to kill to preserve the City of Raleigh then he would.

  He took aim at one of the heads. Even from where he was, about two hundred paces away, he could have toppled one of those Indians. But he held fire. Let someone else do it. He levelled his caliver and kept his aim. The light spread like water soaked up by the grey rags of cloud. The Indians were eating; the man he had fixed on raised something to his mouth. No one else emerged from the longhouses, though Kit had expected to see more of an assembly as the sun seeped over the horizon. There was only a suggestion of other people in grey forms beyond the fire: shapes that moved beneath a pale sheet of mist. He waited, read
y to do what he had to.

  He felt the smooth stock of the caliver against his cheek and thought of Emme. His lips brushed the warmth of the wood under his hand and he remembered kissing her, the times when she had yielded and accepted his touch, when they had melded together and she had seemed to be offering her love. A tiny wisp of smoke rose from his firing lock, and he saw the sway of her walk in its drifting motion, her back turned, fading away from him. She was with him even now, though he did not wish her to be. He heard the shot he had been expecting and still it made him jump. It was as loud and sudden as a thunderclap, setting a flock of birds rising in raucous frenzy. He saw one of the Indians fall, thrown to one side, crumpling as he hit the ground. The others who had been eating sprang to their feet and ran off like foxes, twisting and turning as they plunged into the reeds. Someone screamed loud and high, more a woman’s scream than a man’s, but there was no time for reflection. Shots followed in an explosion of sound. Crack, crack: the blasts reverberated over the water and bounced back deadened from the cloud.

  Stafford’s men gave chase. Kit saw their helmets and shoulders bobbing black above the reeds. They were charging towards the sun: shadows against the first rays of light. They splashed into the shallows, firing as fast as they could load.

  Kit turned to White and Manteo.

  ‘Stay here until it’s over.’

  They both nodded. This was what had been agreed.

  ‘Now!’ Kit shouted, baring his teeth as he ran to the first longhouse, knowing that Lacy and the others would be following, swarming into the village. He stormed the doorway, but all he found inside was darkness, a moment of fearful blindness in which he attuned to the silence, and the mouldering damp of a place lived in and left. He ran outside and looked back towards the gunfire. Stafford’s party was invisible behind the billowing smoke from their matchlocks lit by streaks of flame before each new discharge. His ears rang with the noise.

  ‘Empty,’ Wright called from the next shelter.

  ‘All’s well,’ Lacy confirmed. ‘There’s no one here.’

  His men spilled into the space between the dwellings. There was no trace of the Indians beyond the remains of their early meal: the smoking fire, scattered bowls, and soup soaking into the dirt which a few chickens were already pecking at, and a dark pool of blood. The man who had been shot must have crawled into the reeds. No one was left. Kit had only seen three Indians for certain, so where were the rest? Had they spotted the pinnace and fled in the dark? He looked from the village to the shore and the thickening blanket of smoke. They could be waiting in the mist. He waved his men on.

  ‘Run. Stafford could be heading into an ambush.’

  Ahead lay a trail to the water through cord grass and rushes. He loped as fast as he could, weighed down by his weapons, feet sinking into mud. The sulphurous smoke swirled around him. Shouts became louder: voices he struggled to recognise, distorted by tension.

  ‘After them!’

  ‘Over there!’

  Figures moved in the cloud: grey shapes, running into sight and as quickly disappearing in the haze. An Indian sprang up before him and darted away like the wind, naked but for an apron of hide. He raised his caliver and took aim, firing pan open, fingers curled around the trigger, but something held him. He froze watching the Indian receding, back bent almost double under a writhing burden. He could hear screaming like a mewling infant’s. Then he realised why. The Indian was a woman and her burden was a child.

  ‘Stop! Hold fire!’ he called, as an Indian began yelling hysterically. The man’s language was unintelligible but one word was clear: ‘Stafford.’ How did he know Stafford’s name?

  The man yelled again: ‘Sta-ford.’ He carried on gabbling, edging forwards, arms waving in supplication, legs bent in terror. He was cowering and pleading, plainly unarmed.

  Stafford held up his pistols then lowered his hands to his sides, pointing his weapons to the ground.

  ‘Come forwards slowly. No one will shoot you.’

  Another report exploded in the depths of the cloud and the man started wailing again, sinking to his knees.

  Kit called out. ‘Stop the attack! There are women and children here. Look at the band round this man’s head; I think these are Croatans.’

  Stafford groaned. ‘Oh Christ.’

  ‘I’ll fetch Manteo,’ Kit said, already turning to dash back. He’d noticed the material circling the man’s roached scalp: a ragged strip – woven cloth, not rawhide or twine. It was too dark to discern colour, but he guessed it would be red: the crimson of the sarcenet from the City of Raleigh’s flag. But if the Indians were Croatans, what were they doing at Dasemonkepeuc? He raced through the empty village, calling for the Governor and Manteo, leading them back when they answered and explaining to them on the way.

  ‘There’s been a mistake. Come. We need you.’

  ‘What mistake?’

  ‘A savage has been shot. He may be a Croatan. We have another savage who called Stafford by name. There.’ Kit pointed as they approached.

  Manteo ran to the man, arms outstretched.

  ‘Enato!’

  As they embraced they talked and wept.

  ‘This is my friend,’ Manteo declared, face wild with anger. ‘You have attacked his wife and child.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’ Stafford demanded, wiping at the sweat running down his face. His expression was sombre. The wounded Indian had been found dead and was dragged out from the water’s edge near Stafford’s feet. He had been shot in the back.

  Manteo called out in his own language and more Indians crept from the reeds. He turned to Stafford.

  ‘They were here collecting food.’

  The reproach in Manteo’s voice was plain to hear. He put his arm around his friend, Enato.

  ‘This man knew you from the council meeting. He was there. He thought you wanted peace.’

  Stafford looked mortified but said nothing. He offered his water-flask to Enato’s child: the girl that Kit had almost killed. White wrung his hands. He seemed dumbstruck by the enormity of what had happened and paced around the Croatans, observing them and their injuries, shaking his head.

  Manteo moved amongst his people, taking them into his arms one by one. A young woman was amongst them, a maiden bleeding from a bullet graze across her shoulder. When Lacy saw her he leapt to her side.

  ‘No! Sweet Jesus, Alawa. What have we done?’

  His eyes were wide with shock. As he pulled Alawa towards him, her blood smeared his hands. The Croatans tried to push him away, but Lacy would not let go of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alawa, so sorry.’

  She murmured and fell against him, then spoke softly to her people, and what she said must have been enough to calm them, for they left her in Lacy’s care and let him use his shirt to bandage her.

  Stafford clasped Lacy’s arm. ‘It’s just a flesh wound, Jim. She’ll live.’

  He looked at Manteo. ‘Have any others been badly hurt?’

  ‘No,’ was Manteo’s answer after he had conferred with the Croatans. ‘But my people are afraid. They came to Dasemonkepeuc because they had heard that Wanchese had left after the Englishman’s murder to escape your revenge. At Croatoan there is little food, so they came here to collect what the deer and birds would have eaten. Now they wish they had not. A good man is dead: a man not yet a father. His mother’s tears will never dry.’

  Stafford put his pistols in his belt and spread his hands.

  ‘Tell your people that we will make recompense to the dead man’s family. We will gather all the crops we can find here and share everything amongst your people. We invite everyone back to Roanoke to rest and receive proofs of our friendship. Our remorse is heartfelt.’

  He stepped towards Manteo, arms wide, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Manteo received his embrace.

  Manteo took a step back and raised his chin. ‘It is done. Had my people come to Roanoke as you asked then they would have known better; this would not have happen
ed.’

  Manteo turned to leave and Kit moved closer to touch his shoulder.

  ‘Generously said, Manteo. We value your loyalty.’

  Manteo shook his head and pulled away. ‘You English put me on an arrow tip. Whichever way I turn, it is sharp.’

  Kit watched him go to join his own people and help carry away the body of the man who had been killed. They tied him curled over like an unborn, and placed him in a canoe ready for his last voyage. Another canoe was filled with all the food in the fields and shelters, everything ripe that could be garnered: corn, tobacco, pumpkins and peas. When they finally left Dasemonkepeuc it was together, Englishmen and Croatans sitting side by side in the pinnace. The canoes were towed behind.

  As Kit rowed he looked at the dugouts jouncing over the wind-ruffled water and thought of what they held: the body of a friend and the food of their enemies. Death and life; the colony had brought both – little boats bearing the remains of so much hope. It was a sorry return for the Planters’ desire for vengeance and a show of might. The Croatans had been given yet more reason to be wary of the English, and the Secotans had been shown no cause to be fearful. What prospect was there now for the colony’s future? The Secotans had driven away Englishmen before. Why should they hold back from driving them away again? Wanchese had shown himself to be ruthless. Sooner or later there would be war. To survive at Roanoke, the colony needed protection. Raleigh should send soldiers: a garrison of at least the size that Lane had commanded. There had to be enough strength of arms to secure the peace, enough to deter any prospect of attack. A messenger should be sent to petition for help: someone whom Raleigh would listen to, maybe even someone who would have the ear of the Queen.