by Angela Hunt
“In freedom!” he protested, pulling away. “Without God’s laws, sin will abound and ruin this place—”
“God’s laws are love,” Jocelyn corrected, holding him tight. “God is not chastising you; you are struggling under a self-imposed burden! You have labored so long and carried so much that freedom will feel strange to you . . .”
“Strange?” Thomas rolled his eyes in amused disbelief. “There is no freedom in the ministry, Jocelyn. Of all people, you should know this.”
Jocelyn put her finger across his lips. “I have known total freedom, Thomas, except where you and your rules have constrained me. And your rules are useless, for there is nothing we can do to deserve God’s grace. We can’t be good enough, pray hard enough, or keep our lives clean enough. But God has set us free. We can clothe ourselves in his goodness because he is good, not because we are.”
“‘If you were only right,” he whispered, his head falling against hers as he relaxed in her embrace. “To live just one day without fear of God’s retribution—”
“There is no fear in love,” she whispered. “If you love God, Thomas, you do not need to fear his hand.”
His strong jaw worked as he searched for words. “But I am so—unworthy.”
“What did Martin Luther preach?” she asked, lifting her head to look at him. “Salvation by grace, not by works. Luther himself said that no one can be good and do good unless God’s grace first makes him good; and no one becomes good by works.” He seemed to gobble up her words, hungry for truth. As he gave himself to her voice Jocelyn felt her heart stirring as if from a long, deep sleep.
“No one,” she whispered, “deserves grace. But in his sovereign mercy God has chosen to give great grace to imperfect, ill-deserving individuals like me, and Rowtag, and Audrey, and Regina, and Gilda.” She rested her head against his and tightened her embrace around his shoulders. “His grace flows to you, Thomas, in spite of and in greater measure than your guilt.”
A shuddering sob shook Thomas and he clung to her as he surrendered to the love of his wife and the irresistible love of God.
Two weeks later, on April twenty-fourth, an English expedition under the command of Captain Christopher Newport eased into the waters of the Chesapeake region. The Virginia Company had chartered Newport’s three ships, the Susan Constant, Godspeed, and Discovery a year earlier to establish a permanent English colony on Chesapeake Bay.
From the trees along the shores, Indian scouts spied the ships and sent runners racing to Powhatan.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Powhatan sent runners to the towns he controlled, and his allied villages began to prepare for war. The clothed people, Powhatan told his council, would bring guns of thunder, medicine stronger than any seen in the land. Within hours, a force of over eight hundred warriors journeyed to Powhatan’s village.
Proud to play a major role in the upcoming drama, the warriors wore body armor made of strong reeds. They made paints of fine clays mixed with bear grease, and strung their bows and lashed sharpened arrowheads to fresh arrows. Others brandished heavy clubs of wood spiked with the antlers of deer or the teeth of animals.
Finally, as the warriors from far-flung villages poured into the camp, Powhatan’s men hung magical feathers from their wooden shields and painted the surfaces. When each warrior was sure his shield was certain to inspire terror, he swathed it with a grass mat to keep the magical motifs’ power from leaking away.
The night before the war party was to depart, Powhatan stood in the center of his village before his men. His body, richly adorned with copper beads and brilliant strokes of red paint, gleamed from its coat of bear grease. He had shaved his head from forehead to crown, and the long hair that remained hung freely down his back so its power might be fully released. On the chief’s right hand, the old priest stood ready to superintend the war party’s relationship to the gods, and on Powhatan’s left stood the younger conjuror, the white-eyed mystic who, though blind to the things of earth, could see things of the spirit. A small green and yellow snake had been pierced and attached to the conjuror’s ear, and the reptile writhed and wrapped its tail around the blind man’s neck as Powhatan raised his arms for silence.
“The time has come!” Powhatan cried, turning slowly to face the circle of people around him. “We will prove our hearts on the field of battle! Then shall the other nations say that the Powhatan have much courage. We are not afraid of the big guns of thunder. We are not afraid of the clothed people’s strange medicine and strange god. We will approach like foxes, fight like lions, and disappear like birds. We shall show the great bear from the sea that we do not fear him and the clothed people have no place here!”
Fearsome and terrible in their fearsome paint, the warriors raised their battle clubs and let loose their war cries. Even the women and children of the village were caught up in the frenzy that followed. Drums began to beat in rhythm, and Powhatan raised his war club and danced around the post in the center of the village, striking it at will. One by one, other volunteers joined him, hitting the post with their weapons as they moved in and out of the circle, until the entire camp danced and screamed in exhilaration and anticipation of the victory to follow.
When the hysteria reached its peak, Powhatan broke off and led the warriors to a pile of leather pouches on the ground. He took a pouch, fastened it to his belt, and picked up his shield. Each man followed his example until a single line of warriors walked out of the camp, each man following in the footsteps of the man before him so that an enemy could not guess at the size of the war party.
Mumbling prayers to the gods of wind, rain, and fire, two young warriors lifted the pole on which hung the sacred medicine bundle. The bundle had to face toward the enemy at all times, could not touch the ground, and had to be hung at night between supports of forked sticks.
As the warriors filed out of the chief’s village, the torches were extinguished and the singing silenced. Under the cover of darkness the war party proceeded, each man carrying nothing but his weapon and his shield. A bow and quiver hung across each man’s back, and at his waist hung a leather pouch of parched maize flour that had been pulverized and combined with dried berries and maple sugar. When mixed with water, a single handful could sustain a warrior for an entire day, and Powhatan and his party carried enough maize to last more than a week.
Three days later, Powhatan and his war party spied the high wooden palisade around Ocanahonan, the village of the clothed men. Moving like shadows in the woods, Powhatan’s warriors spread themselves around the camp, surrounding it on all sides. For most of the day they hid themselves in trees, in the brush, and along the riverbank to learn as much as possible about the enemy before striking.
What Powhatan saw did not impress him. The clothed people, most of whom were Indians, lived with little caution, moving easily in and out of their walled palisade with no apparent concern. They did not scan the treetops or listen for unusual sounds. When they walked through the woods, they tramped casually and made so much noise that Powhatan and his people did not worry about being heard themselves. One of the clothed men, walking outside in the heat of the day, passed so closely that Powhatan could have slit his throat with one swift slice of a stone dagger, but the chief restrained himself. He favored night assaults and dawn attacks, when the medicine of the gods was strongest.
Powhatan saw no sign of the long guns of which he had heard much. Two large iron guns, stouter than a man, sat poised on the riverbank, but vines had partially covered one and the other was coated in a dull coat of orange rust.
Audrey peered out the window of her house and saw Rowtag standing in the courtyard, his hands alert at his side and a troubled look upon his brow.
“Rowtag,” she called, a teasing note in her voice. “Why stand you lonely out there? The children are playing elsewhere; ‘tis our time to be alone.”
Rowtag held a finger to his lips, then turned and seemed to study the trees. Audrey sighed and slipped out of her apron. If the
mountain would not come to her, she would have to go to the mountain.
She crept out of the house, stopping the door with her palm so that it made no noise, and purposely planted her feet heel-toe, heel-toe so that she moved soundlessly over the sandy ground. With her husband’s broad back to her and no one else in sight, she waited until she caught the wonderful earthy scent of him, then threw her arms around his chest.
“Caught you!” she squealed.
He turned sharply, and drew back his hand as if he would strike her. Audrey blanched, and pulled away as Rowtag paled. “Do not startle me,” he said, an apologetic frown on his face. “I could have hurt you.”
“I was teasing,” Audrey mumbled. She felt herself blushing like a scolded child.
“Something—” Rowtag said, scanning the treetops outside the palisade again. “Something is not right.”
“Did ye hear something?” Audrey asked, her stomach tightening as fear brushed the edge of her mind.
“‘Tis what I don’t hear,” Rowtag answered. He stood for a moment more, his muscles tense, and Audrey couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Come home with me,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him toward the house. “What ye don’t hear is the sound of two busy little boys, and we must take advantage of the silence, me husband.”
The sun dipped gradually into the west, and Powhatan slowly uncrossed his arms and legs. Around him, imperceptibly, other warriors readied themselves for the assault.
Of all the hours in the day, Thomas Colman liked dusk best. He fervently believed that ‘twas the duty of each Christian to walk with God in the twilight hour to review the day’s deeds and words to see if anything could be improved. And this day, he reflected, smiling, could not have been bettered in a single respect. He had awakened in Jocelyn’s arms, kissed her passionately as she woke, and clung to her for a long minute before dressing. He felt foolish, as silly as an adolescent schoolboy, and wondered that such feelings could still reside in the heart of a man his age. For the first time in his life, he felt free to love his wife with every ounce of his emotion, mind, and body.
“Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse,” he quoted, willing for the first time to believe that the Song of Solomon had anything to do with the literal expression of love, “thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! And the smell of your perfume than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb . . .”
He smiled, thinking of the woman who had brought his world to life. She was stubborn, rebellious, independent, and beautiful, so why hadn’t he discovered her sooner? His eyes had followed her for so many years, the very sound of her breath was as familiar to him as his own, and yet he had not really understood her vulnerability until he took her into his arms. When they had finally become one as God intended, Thomas realized the mystery of marriage, the depths of love and sacrifice that bound two souls together.
The snap of a twig broke his concentration, and Thomas turned to see the aged John Chapman approaching, rocking on his hips as if they were stiff. “Hallo, Thomas!” John called, waving his hands. “Your wife sent me to fetch you in. She told me to tell you—” the old man’s eyes twinkled, “—she wants you.”
Thomas grinned shamelessly. Had the entire town seen the change in their relationship? He lifted his hand to wave a response, but he stepped back when an arrow hissed from nowhere and pierced John Chapman’s forehead. Thomas stared in hypnotized horror as the old man fell into a patch of engulfing vines without even blinking. From where had the arrow come? What enemy lurked in the woods?
Instinctively, he ducked, his hands lifting to cover his head, and another arrow thunked into the tree behind him. His heart slamming against his ribs, Thomas raced for the gates of the palisade, screaming his wife’s name in a frantic warning.
The enemy poured out of the woods without warning. At least a dozen of Powhatan’s warriors managed to enter the village before Thomas had roused the guards to close and bar the gates, and furious hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Totally unprepared, the Englishmen and Indians who had been strolling through the courtyard fell like Christians before the lions, and families rose in panicked confusion from their supper tables as the roofs of their homes were set ablaze. The men of the city scrambled for their swords and pikes, for not a single musket was useable. The gunpowder had long been gone, and the twenty-year-old guns had rusted from the humidity.
Jocelyn was sitting on the bed with Gilda in her arms when Thomas burst into the house. “In the name of God, tell me what has happened!” Jocelyn whispered, cold terror pulsing through her veins. “Are we to die tonight?”
“Not if we can help it,” Thomas said, throwing open his old trunk. Flinging books onto the bed, he lifted a leather scabbard from under a stack of parchments and pulled from it an eight-inch dagger.
“Thomas!” Jocelyn exclaimed, amazed. She had never known him to carry a weapon, and had never dreamed he owned one.
“They have killed John Chapman,” Thomas said, opening the door. He cast a backward glance toward her and gave her a fleeting smile. “They will not get far.”
Alarmed at the fear in their voices, Gilda began to cry, and Jocelyn drew the child closer. Thomas left the house promising that God would watch over them.
The battle raged inside the compound for an hour. The men of Ocanahonan were quick to defend their families once the danger was fully apparent, and the dozen of Powhatan’s warriors who had invaded the city were finally subdued. As a rain of burning arrows continued to fly over the rim of the palisade into the village, members of the council dodged the missiles and ran to the church. Afraid to be alone in the house, Jocelyn crept with Gilda into the back of the chapel.
“It is Powhatan, then,” Thomas was saying, his eyes darkly intent upon Rowtag. “You are sure?”
Rowtag nodded. “I am. Two of the dead bear the mark of his tribe. The woods are full of his men, for the birds were silent today. Without a doubt, we are surrounded.”
“How do we fight them?” John Sampson asked, his long nose pinched with fear. “We have posted a guard around the palisade to prevent them from scaling it—”
“They will scale it, in time, or they will burn it,” Rowtag answered, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“We have no guns,” Thomas pointed out. “The gunpowder’s gone, the cannons are useless—”
“A lot of good they’ve done us,” Sampson snapped. “Cannon to blow away Spanish ships that never came.”
“What will Powhatan do next?” John Prat leaned forward toward Rowtag. “You know how he fights; tell us what we should do.”
Jocelyn could feel her heart knocking as Rowtag gravely regarded his companions. She knew he had anticipated this attack; by all rights he should have muttered “I told you so” and stalked from the room. But he didn’t.
“He will wait until morning,” Rowtag said, looking carefully at each man, one by one. “His warriors will breach the palisade. They will burn our houses, kill, and take captives. They will plunder our storehouses and carry away whatever they desire.”
“Could we slip away in the darkness?” John Sampson asked. “Mayhap dig a tunnel, and canoe down the river to another place—”
“We don’t have canoes enough for everyone,” Thomas pointed out. “How then, would you choose to divide those who will live from those who will die?”
Jocelyn felt her frightened heart stir with pride when Thomas stood and placed his hands upon the table. “We have lived here for twenty years, and I say we stand and die here, if God leads us to do so. And if, perchance, God chooses to spare us, the victory and glory will be his. And if he chooses to take us to heaven, are we not ready to go?”
For a brief second, Thomas’ eyes sought Jocelyn’s, then he turned again to the council. “Let each family draw together tonight for prayer. Let each man fight on the morrow for his life.
And let us be confident that in this, as in all things, God’s will must be done.”
John Sampson pressed his tented fingers to his lips, John Prat drummed the table top with his fingers, and Rowtag nodded gravely and spoke for all of them: “So be it.”
FIFTY-NINE
With Gilda on her hip, Jocelyn followed Thomas back to their house as the other council members went home to be with their families. Though smoke still drifted over the camp, the burning houses had been extinguished, and for the moment the deluge of arrows had stopped. But Jocelyn knew from the eerie calm of the night that Powhatan and his men were still outside the walls. Powhatan was but resting, reserving his armament for the coming morning.
Thomas took Gilda from her as she entered the house, and as she mechanically went about tidying up the supper dishes he sang a soft, funny lullaby to the child until she slept. When Gilda was safely asleep, Jocelyn turned to Thomas and patted her apron helplessly. “What do we do now?” she asked, tears blurring her sight.
“Ah, my dear,” he said, standing to enfold her in his arms. “First we pray, and then we hold each other. I shall tell you again how much I love you, and you shall tell me what a rascal I am—”
Despite the tremor of fear that shook her heart, she laughed and tilted her head up toward him. “My darling rascal,” she whispered, winding her arms about his neck. “My heart is right with God, so kiss me first. We have all night ahead of us.”
“You’re right,” he answered, bending down. His breath was warm in her ear. “And we have years of lost time to redeem.”
His hands spanned her waist and drew her to him. With a soft sigh he settled his mouth on hers and with exquisite tenderness he lifted her from the floor. A small sound of wonder came from his throat as she gave herself freely to the man she had loved for twenty years.