Tidewater: A Novel of Pocahontas and the Jamestown Colony

by Libbie Hawker

  “Which man?” Chopoke demanded.

  It was Opechancanough who answered, the words uncoiling like a snake at the thaw of spring. “Chawnzmit.”

  Pocahontas tightened her grip on Matachanna’s hand.

  “There is more proof of Chawnzmit’s treachery,” Opechancanough said. “This morning he released a prisoner from the fort. That man is here. He will tell you all how he was treated at the hands of our brother, the good tanx-werowance Chawnzmit.”

  From among the crowd of men, Mackinoe rose on trembling legs. For once he did not grin like a fox; his face was grave and pale. He blinked repeatedly at the firelight.

  “Last night,” Mackinoe said, “I was taken before Chawnzmit to be questioned.”

  There was nothing unusual in this; enemy tribes often captured and questioned one another. It was a point of pride to resist the flaying knives and the pain of lost fingers or toes in order to protect the secrets of one’s tribe. If a man died in the questioning, then it was a brave and honorable death, especially if he did not cry out. This was a hazard all warriors accepted, part of the risk of being male.

  But Chawnzmit did not go about his questioning in the usual way.

  “The tassantassas laid me on the ground, tied my hands and feet to stakes in the mud,” Mackinoe said. “Rather than using knives, rather than presenting the opportunity to resist my death, as any proper men would do, six of them simply pointed their guns, the long ones they call musket, at my exposed body.”

  He shuddered, recalling the terror of the moment, and in spite of her personal misery, Pocahontas welled with sympathy for Mackinoe. The experience must have been horrific if its memory caused him to tremble before the eyes of the chiefs. Chawnzmit could not have done this. No—my friend was always kind to me. Until he turned away, and left her bruised in the clutch of President Ratcliffe.

  “And then what happened?” Opechancanough prompted.

  Mackinoe hung his head. “I told them what I knew.”

  The men raised their voices. Opechancanough let the sound swell for a moment, and then drew it in again with a smooth wave of one hand.

  “I told them,” Mackinoe stumbled on, “that three tribes have been plotting an attack. That Paspahegh planned to ally with Chickahominy . . . and with my own tribe, Pamunkey.”

  Powhatan grunted once, a hoarse, startled sound, the sound a buck makes when the arrow punches home. The mamanatowick turned wounded eyes on his brother. “You, Opechancanough? You plotted against the fort, knowing my designs?”

  Opechancanough made no answer, but stared steadily back into the old chief’s eyes.

  “When they had that confession from me,” Mackinoe said, shame-faced, “Chawnzmit took the rest of our men by groups off to various parts of the fort. And we heard gunfire, were led to believe that each group we could not see was being put to a dishonorable death, and the same would befall us unless we also told what we knew. In this way, through this deception, Chawnzmit confirmed the truth of the plot. And when all our warriors had confessed, we were reunited, unharmed.”

  Powhatan’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, chewing on his fury and his feebleness. His eyes roved the shadows of the longhouse. They were eyes nearly blanked by confusion and despair, but when they fell upon Pocahontas’s face, their dark stare sharpened, and a blaze kindled in their depths.

  “Amonute,” Powhatan boomed. “Come here.”

  She gasped and clung to Matachanna’s hand. She wanted to flee, run from the great house and never return, leave Werowocomoco altogether—but the mamanatowick’s command could not be disobeyed. She forced her fingers to uncurl from Matachanna’s. Her feet dragged as she made her slow, halting way into the firelight and stood with her head dropped in fear and shame.

  “The alliance with the tassantassas is well and truly broken,” Powhatan declared. The gathered werowances murmured their approval. “Chawnzmit is no brother to any Real Person—not even to you, Amonute, who saved him from death. But you will return to the fort one final time. You will go and beg for your brother’s freedom. For I will have Naukaquawis back at all costs. Am I understood?”

  Her eyes crept up the platform to her father’s face. It was weathered as an old moccasin, creased by uncountable lines, sagging at the jowls. She saw again the ancient wood buffalo retreating into the forest, dropping blood on the trail where his own hooves trampled it among memories of his former glory. A wave of sadness struck her, cresting over her head and pulling her beneath a dark and tumbling current. She thought she might be swept from her feet, might fall among the painted bodies of the werowances, taut with their hunger for war. Yet some miraculous intervention of the spirits kept her standing.

  She looked away from her father’s face and found the stern, red-painted brow and burning black eyes of her uncle.

  “I understand,” she said to Opechancanough.

  Pocahontas stared intently at the great wooden palisade of Jamestown, at its gate on hinges that screamed like birds, the strange peak-roofed houses, even the thick, sucking mud of the common area. She would impress every detail, every puddle and knothole, into her memory and heart. This was the final moment of her ambition; all her hopes, all her most cherished wishes would culminate this day in disappointment and stinging shame.

  With Kocoum at her side, she moved through the crowd of Englishmen. She clutched haughty dignity about her like a worn and thin-patched cloak. The tassantassas still parted for her, still called her princess. They still bowed as she passed, mindful of all the good she had done them, all the kindness she had shown. And yet these men had tormented her people, threatened honest warriors with an undignified death, used their fear to shame and manipulate them. These men had burned a village, made a ruin of precious canoes. Chawnzmit did it—all done at his command. She could not deny the truth any longer, not even within her own heart. But where sorrow had once dwelt, there remained only resolve.

  At the communal fire she found Chawnzmit waiting. He removed his stiff wool hat at her approach—another strange sign of English respect—and in the hesitant rigidity of his body, in the downcast blue eyes that never quite met her own, she read his regret and self-loathing as plainly as if he had shouted a confession into her ear. He shuffled his feet, but did not speak.

  She, too, lost all words to an unseen thief. While the tassantassas murmured around them, she watched Chawnzmit’s thick, rough hands twist the brim of his hat. At last she said, “You will ruin your hat if you keep worrying at it.”

  More footsteps—the shuffle of many men walking. She glanced up just long enough to see the line of captives; the Real Men tied in a line by their hands, with Naukaquawis at its head. She quickly dropped her eyes again, refusing to see them in their weakness and shame. She could at least spare them the dishonor of being seen by a low-blood girl-child in their deplorable captivity. She owed them at least that, after having led them all into this terrible affair.

  “Powhatan has sent his favorite daughter,” she said, choking on the words, “to seek the freedom of these warriors. The mamanatowick would have peace with you again, Chawnzmit.” It was not true—the old bull was in no state to enforce a peace even if he wanted one—but she could say no other words, not if she wanted to see Naukaquawis freed.

  “Aye, I suspected that was why you’d come.”

  She dared to steal a glance at Chawnzmit’s face. He looked stunned beneath his thick yellow hair, as if he, too, sensed the end of their friendship but could see no way to halt what he had begun.

  “May I speak to you alone?” she said.

  Kocoum was reluctant to allow them privacy, but at last agreed to remain out of earshot but within bowshot, provided Chawnzmit turned his snaphaunce over to one of his fellow Englishmen. Pocahontas led the white man who was once her brother outside the walls of Jamestown. They walked together in silence, deep into the garden. The first spindly stalks of corn had j
ust begun to sprout. She trailed her fingers along the edges of leaves, the new greenery whispering beneath her hands. Squash vines had begun to reach tendrils along the bare ground, their dark leaves still folded in tight buds. Weeds had already begun to sprout, and there was no sign that the white men had attempted to pull them.

  Pocahontas looked back toward the fort. A few tassantassas gazed curiously from the watchtower, where the sun glimmered on their steel helmets. Kocoum stalked along the edge of the field, vigilant, bow half-raised with an arrow in his free hand. Pocahontas smiled lightly at the sight of him; she was incongruously cheered by his presence.

  Chawnzmit took the smile for himself. “It is good to see you again, Pocahontas.”

  She tossed her head. Matachanna had laced white feathers into her braid for good luck and strength, and they made a slicing sound in the air. The sound filled her with a curious kind of magic, a tiny wellspring of eagle fierceness. “How did our friendship go so wrong, Chawnzmit? You were my brother, and now you have done”—she waved her hand toward the fort, unable to find adequate words in her language or in his—“this.”

  Chawnzmit lowered his gaze. He stared at the weeds for a long moment, as if he might find some acceptable answer there. At last he said, his voice halting and low, “I respect you, Pocahontas. God knows I do. I respect you and your people alike. But I mean for my people to survive. Our survival must be my highest concern. Surely you can see that.”

  Survival—wasn’t that why they had given the tassantassas this very garden? And even this gift they could not tend properly, nor did they show any gratitude for it. “I am wounded, Chawnzmit, that you cannot treat me or the Real People with greater kindness. I have shown you such goodness, been such a useful sister to you. And yet . . .”

  “You are more than useful to me, Pocahontas.” He spoke with such feeling that she stepped back a pace, startled by his sudden passion. He reached out a hand, but it closed on empty air. “In truth, you have been my only happiness here, in this miserable land. I have delighted in you, my little sister.”

  “Then why? You have been terribly cruel to us, Chawnzmit. You must return to loving me again, loving us again as a good friend, as a brother. We must have no more of these insults, burning houses, destroying canoes, tormenting men, terrorizing women . . . what good does it do?”

  A shroud of pain fell over his face, distorting his mouth with a pure and unfettered sorrow. “Oh, child,” he said, “would that my people could love yours. Don’t you see? The alternative to . . . to what I do . . . terrorizing women and children . . . is not love, but war.”

  She shook her head, a wordless denial.

  “It’s true, Pocahontas.” His hand cupped her chin. She flinched, remembering Ratcliffe’s grip, but Chawnzmit’s touch was gentle, warm with compassion. “Child—beloved sister. Your uncle Opechancanough, and more men—Wowinchopunck, others—they plot against us, even if your father does not. Opechancanough does not love us. Don’t you think I know it? Don’t you think I see? He will find ways to destroy us, sooner or later, and he will not stop until all my kind are dead.”

  She could say nothing. It was true; she had seen it in her father’s longhouse. And there was more that Chawnzmit might not yet know: Powhatan would not be Powhatan for much longer. He had at most a handful of years before death claimed him, or his weakness could no longer be concealed. When that day came, Opechancanough would take up the mantle of mamanatowick, and any small protection the tassantassas had enjoyed under the old Chief of Chiefs would vanish. She could all but see the blood glistening on Opechancanough’s horns.

  “I do not like it, any more than you do,” he said. “But if I cannot strike fear into Opechancanough’s heart now, my people will never be safe.”

  “Opechancanough is not an easy man to frighten.”

  “I know,” Chawnzmit whispered. “That is why I must do as I do.”

  “Is there no other way? Our people traded once peacefully. Perhaps we can again.”

  “Perhaps. I will not give up hope of it. I swear that to you. But you must understand, Pocahontas: I will do anything I must to ensure that my people survive. If your father were standing where I now stand, the leader of strangers in a foreign land, he would do the same. Because he is a good man, and wise.”

  She turned away. Tears tracked hot down her cheeks and fell like warm rain on her lip. She licked them away, salty as ash stick.

  “Because I will do as I must,” Chawnzmit said, “it is not safe for you here. Not anymore.” He caught up her hand, holding it tightly as Matachanna so often did. “Believe me when I say that you have been the truest and most welcome friend I have had in many a year. You are a good girl, bright and honest. You do credit to your father—to all your people.”

  “And you, Chawnzmit. You taught me many things. I also do credit to you.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I cannot agree with you there.” He released her hand, all but the first finger, which he hooked with his own. “But I promise you, once my people are secure, I shall strive to win your friendship once again. I shall strive to be worthy of you, Princess.”

  In spite of the pain swelling in her heart, she laughed. “I am not a princess. Remember?”

  “You are, and a lady, in every sense of the word. One day you will see it. One day all the world will see it.”

  They made their way back to the fort. Kocoum fell dutifully in step beside her, wary as a lone wolf. She turned to him with a reassuring smile. “It will be well,” she whispered, but Kocoum squinted past her shoulder at Chawnzmit, who restored his well-crushed hat to his head.

  Back in the presence of Naukaquawis and his fellow prisoners, Pocahontas kept her eyes on the ground, but she felt them shift expectantly as she and Chawnzmit approached.

  “Ratcliffe,” Chawnzmit called into the crowd. “Bring the naturals’ bows and knives. The princess has moved my heart with her pleas for mercy. I am returning the prisoners to her tender and worthy care.”

  As the bonds were cut from the warriors’ hands one by one, Chawnzmit bent his head close to Pocahontas’s ear. “You must not return, Princess. I cannot guarantee your safety—cannot say with honesty that you would not be taken a prisoner, too, and used to sway your father to English whims. Promise me you will stay well away from Jamestown.”

  Kocoum paced a vigilant circle around them while she considered his words for a long moment. At last she turned to him with a hand pressed to her heart, and said only, “Wingapoh, Chawnzmit.”

  SMITH

  September 1608

  When the Susan Constant landed for the third time at Jamestown, nosing against the slow, deep currents of the James River, the men stood aside and allowed John Smith the honor of being the first to greet Captain Newport. Of course, they were not without their muttered curses or hateful looks. There were still many among the colony who had little love for Smith. They had not forgotten his coarse tongue, his arguments, or the overconfident mien, so unexpected in a common man. It was that natural swagger which had caused Edward-Maria Wingfield to declare Smith mutinous, and none of the luster had scuffed away from Smith’s boldness. If anything, the events of that fearfully hot and dry summer had polished his arrogance to a slick, high sheen.

  Throughout the long months of the season, Smith had maintained his assertive stand against the naturals, unwilling to yield a foot of ground lest Opechancanough perceive a chink in English armor, the weakness for which the cunning warrior was ever vigilant. It soon became clear that no naturals—not even armed men—would approach the fort to trade. The garden built by Pocahontas and her women scarcely produced three bushels of corn and beans at the season’s first harvest, and whatever they did put by was quickly half-eaten by the rats that had accompanied them from England. Jamestown felt the specter of winter privation loom once more, an oppressive, all-penetrating fear that seemed to tower over the palisade walls like a gallows. Smith
had taken to the shallop and visited every Indian village within a few days’ trek, extracting trade goods by any means necessary.

  Most of the time, the tribes were willing enough to part with some of their stores; copper and beads—and, when they were especially tight-fisted, the occasional steel blade—were of even greater value now that Chief Powhatan had forbidden his subjects to visit Jamestown. Smith, however, did not fail to note the tight-eyed, wary glances of those men who agreed to sink into the customary trading crouch. Powhatan had most certainly declared harsh penalties for those caught giving food to the English. He thinks to starve us out, Smith had confided to Matthew Scrivener one day, but by God, I will not be starved again.

  When villages flatly refused him, or fired arrows at his shallop to drive him away, Smith retaliated with arrows of his own: arrows dipped in fire. Their canoes, he had learned, were especially vulnerable. A single dugout took many weeks to create, and represented the concerted labors of several women and men. Assaults on canoes yielded the fastest results, although the threat of capturing and enslaving women or children was useful with especially adamant tribes. When the naturals perceived that they had no strength to refuse, with guns and fire arrows trained on their people and their shelters, their women would lift the covers to their secret stores—and weeping, speaking in fear of the dry summer, the poor harvest to come, the children who would go hungry through the bitter winter, they would yield baskets of preserved food to the English.

  Smith could have hated himself for those moments, for the weeping women and the hungry little ones, but for Opechancanough, who was always there, stalking his thoughts, silent and malevolent as a cougar in the woods.

  In spite of his success at securing food, a large faction of the colonists still despised him. For most, it was the same oft-sung melody: John Smith was no gentleman, and had no business as a leader of men. For others, it was the memory of George Classen’s grisly death. For still others, it was simply Smith himself: his brashness, his haughtiness, his pervasive certainty that he was right, always so blasted right.