by Paul Clayton
White took the carved wooden pipe a Croatoan savage had given him from his belt and held it out. “Walter Raleigh has given us the seeds of a superior Brazilian tobacco to take back with us for planting.”
“Ah!” said the portly man, “Tobacco! I have heard of it. Do you have any to show us?”
As White reached into his pouch, a diminutive, exotic-looking man entered the cabin. Swarthy of complexion, he wore a gold ring in one ear and his cheek was etched with a deep scar. He wore a black leather doublet, gold hose, and an exaggerated, almost horizontal, black codpiece pushed out of his blue slops. A wide-brimmed blue hat sprouting a bright red feather crowned him. Simon Fernandes, the Portuguese, would serve as pilot for the expedition. Although Fernandes was one of the best pilots in the world, White distrusted him, for he was also a greed-filled privateer, with a detestable swaggering manner.
The English men glanced Fernandes’ way, then returned their attention to White. Fernandes smiled at Eleanor and swept off his hat, bowing elegantly. White cringed, noting the worried look on Ananias’s face as Fernandes strutted about like a peacock showing off its feathers.
“What else can be found at Chesapeake?” asked the young gallant.
“Sassafras for medicinal teas,” White went on, “dyewoods, and the local rivers are said to be full of pearl-bearing oysters.”
“A bounty the young lady will appreciate,” said the young gallant.
Eleanor smiled graciously.
“There is more fitting bounty for one as beautiful as her,” said a heavily accented voice.
The gentlemen turned. Fernandes approached and Ananias stepped protectively closer to Eleanor.
“What might that be, sir?” inquired the portly man.
“Spices and silks,” said Fernandes, “painted porcelains, gold, jewels.”
“Nonsense,” scoffed the portly man, “such things are not found among the savages in Virginia.”
Fernandes smiled. “Si, but such things pass within easy reach of Virginia several times a year.”
“What are you talking about, sir?”
“I’m talking about the Spanish prizes which sail up the coast to pick up the trades. Surely you have heard of the San Cristobal?”
Both gentlemen nodded.
“That was a rare catch,” said White. The captured Spanish treasure ship had had enough plunder aboard to finance the construction of fifty ships for England. “Your money is better invested in the commodities you can take from the colony on an ongoing basis,” said White. “That is why Sir Walter is sending us there, not to run down foreign vessels.”
“Of course,” said Fernandes, turning to the two men, “invest in the colony, but invest also for shares in my privateering. For after I deliver these fine people to the New World, I shall take many prizes from our Catholic cousins in Spain.”
“What if you become the prize?” said the portly man.
He and the gallant laughed.
“Never,” scoffed Fernandes. “The Spanish ships carry so much gold and plunder that they are loath to weigh themselves down with guns and cannon balls.”
“Prithee,” said the gallant, “but I don’t think this treasure is so easily gotten. I have heard that the decks of the San Cristobal were slippery with blood.”
“Si,” said Fernandes, “but fear not, for I have brought much sand to put down on my decks.”
“Well said!” cried the portly man. He and his young friend laughed and drew closer to Fernandes.
White noticed Eleanor blanching at all the talk of fighting and blood. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we must leave you.” He turned to his son-in-law, “Ananias, take Eleanor back to the town so she can get another good night’s sleep. Soon we shall all lament the loss of our comfortable beds perched upon solid ground.”
Ananias bowed to the gentlemen as he took Eleanor’s arm.
White led the way toward the stairs. Before he started up he glanced back -- the two gentlemen hanging onto Fernandes’ every word, had been joined by the other seven men in the room. White frowned. Raleigh had assured him that Fernandes would get them safely to Chesapeake before he began chasing down foreign ships. But, despite Sir Richard’s earlier angry outburst, he would have to ask him once again to remind the bold little Portuguese peacock of Raleigh’s orders.
Chapter 3
Later that day John White headed for the double cabin in the forecastle that he would share with Ananias and Eleanor. He thought again of the girl whose term of indenture he had purchased. Even from a distance, it was obvious she was a beauty. No wonder Captain Stafford had been willing to spend half a year’s wages to buy her contract. She was an artist’s dream-- her hair red as rust, her eyebrows the finest cornsilk, almost invisible, her skin white as ivory and splattered with a mass of tan freckles. Although her body was girlish, slight curves were evident beneath her coarse clothing. He imagined her bathing in a stream beside one of the brown skinned native beauties of Croatoan. Oh, to paint her thus!
Upon entering the cabin, White was surprised to find Ananias there taking some of his and Eleanor’s things out of a wooden box.
Ananias looked up. “Oh! ‘Tis you. I took Eleanor back to the town, but I thought I would do more unpacking.”
“Ah,” said White, looking around the cabin, “yes, there is much to be done.” The cabin was tiny, with two double bunks separated by a sliver of a table. The bo’son had promised White a canvas curtain that could be hung between them to provide more privacy. White looked under the table and bunks but could not find it.
“Strange, is it not,” said Ananias, “that this is going back home?”
White turned, not knowing what Ananias meant. Ananias held up one of the paintings White had done on Roanoke, a watercolor of a Roanoke woman carrying her child on her back in their fashion. He had given it to Ananias when he returned to England last. White nodded. “Aye, ‘tis.” White again felt the deep loss of his other paintings when they had had to hastily evacuate Roanoke last. “Manteo, the Croatoan savage, and I, had carried all my trunks to the beach that day,” he said, “but the sailors would only allow us to load two of them into the boat.” White remembered sitting in the boat looking at the trunks stacked neatly on the sand. He had felt as if they were forcing him to leave a part of himself behind.
The sailors pushed the boat off into the surf. White got suddenly to his feet and started forward. Manteo grabbed his shoulder.
“John White, it only picture!” The young savage looked into his face. “We go back to England! England very good.”
The oarsmen turned the longboat about just as a large wave passed beneath them. White watched helplessly as it rushed toward the beach, falling upon his trunks with a fury, tumbling them like dice. One opened and White’s canvasses floated upon the white foam. The wave sucked everything back down into the sea, swallowing it up. Another trunk surfaced and floated for a moment and then it, too, was gone.
“Sir,” said Ananias, bringing White out of his thoughts, “you have told me before that the colony was hastily evacuated, but you have never said why. What happened?”
White shook his head. “The savages stole an axe.”
“Sir?” said Ananias, “a common iron axe? I don’t understand.”
White nodded. “Aye. One night while we were meeting in Governor Lane’s house, the sentry spotted a Roanoke dugout canoe near our boats. We gave chase and caught up with them. One of them, a woman, jumped out of the canoe and swam to the mainland. The other, a brave, was killed by Captain Stafford. They found an axe in the bottom of their canoe.”
Ananias nodded. “Could he have been given it?”
“Aye,” said White, “or they could have traded with one of our soldiers for it, even though that was forbidden. But Lane and Stafford were convinced the savages had stolen it. There had been other problems, you see. Our fish weir had been torn apart one night, probably by the savage lord, Powhatan, who rules a collection of tribes to the north and west. But Lane and Captain
Stafford were convinced it was the Roanokes, and they set up a meeting with them to resolve it. We were very low on corn and I expected they were going to use the incident as an excuse to demand more corn from the Roanokes as compensation. Manteo the Croatoan came along to interpret and we took our boat across the sound with several dozen soldiers in all. They wore their armor and each carried a musket.”
White shook his head, sadness etched into his face. “I had asked Captain Stafford not to put on such a threatening display if we were to make peace. But he and Governor Lane would not heed my counsel.”
Ananias looked at him questioningly.
“Remember,” White said, “I was the recording artist. My orders were to paint pretty pictures of what I saw there for Raleigh and his Virginia Company. I had no say in what was done.” White sighed and sat on the bunk. “I hoped all would be made well again. We sailed the shallop across the sound…”
The boat ground on the sand and White and the other men clambered out into the knee-deep surf. White caught a glimpse of Manteo’s inscrutable face and felt badly for him. Lane and Stafford made his lot more difficult also. The local people used to trust them, and many were the times White had gone into a village with only Manteo to talk to the people and paint them and their things. But after this latest incident, reparations would be demanded by the weroance, or native prince, who had lost his warrior. Lane would, of course, refuse and suspicion and anger would spread. It would be a long time before things calmed again.
Manteo took the head of the column and they entered the forest. The men walked noisily in their armor and an hour later they arrived without incident at the Roanoke king, Wingina’s mainland village. There was no protective palisade, but, sadly, White spotted freshly dug holes and cut logs, evidence that they would soon build one.
Several boys ran out, speaking rapidly to Manteo in their tongue. They joined him at the head of the column as it snaked around the houses of the village. People worked on skins pegged to the ground, some cooked in the open, while others stood about talking. They watched the small party of English curiously and without fear. Many smiled in friendship. Ahead, the larger meetinghouse rose above the smaller houses. It was open in the front to allow the breeze inside. White saw four weroances seated upon pallets waiting to receive them, as was their custom. Wingina sat at their head and the young runaway brave named Wanchese, who had years before been taken to England to learn English customs, sat at his side.
White increased his pace, attempting to catch up to the head of the column. A soldier clumsily blocked his path. White attempted to hurry around the man, but another soldier stepped in front of him, blocking him. White sensed something was wrong and was about to call out to Stafford to protest the rude behavior of his soldiers when Governor Lane suddenly shouted out, “Christ is King!”
At this signal, Governor Lane and Captain Stafford immediately knelt as the soldiers behind them brought their muskets up to their cheeks and fired a volley. “No!” White shouted as another volley thundered. White saw a weroance thrown backward violently as if kicked by a horse. Wingina lay face down, evidently dead, as Wanchese bent over him. The other weroance attendants ran for the safety of the forest. White struggled for words as soldiers rushed past him.
Angry shouts and painful screams pierced the pall of musket smoke. White saw the village as a living thing that had been brutally assaulted. Governor Lane drew his sword. White shouted at him, “In God’s name, sir, you must cease!”
Lane ignored him, calling to Stafford, “See if they are alive.”
As Captain Stafford approached Wingina and Wanchese, the pair leapt to their feet and raced toward the forest. A soldier knelt, his musket issuing a puff of smoke as he fired at them. The pair continued running, unscathed, disappearing into the forest. Stafford and two of his men took off in pursuit.
Throughout the village the shrill, rhythmic wailing of women filled the air. White ran into the meetinghouse as soldiers prodded the shot weroances with their booted feet. Manteo grabbed White’s shoulder. “Why?” he asked in apparent shock.
White rushed over to Lane. “Why, sir?” he said, shaking with anger, “why have you done this?”
Lane scowled. “Because a lesson had to be taught them.”
“Over an axe?” said White incredulously.
A teenage boy crept cautiously past the two Englishmen and knelt at the side of one of the dead weroances.
Lane’s face was the color of uncooked beef. He grabbed the boy by the hair, yanking him to his feet. “I could do to them what the Spaniard, de Soto, did for a similar offense… cut off the right hands of thirty of their men.” The boy struggled to get away and Lane’s powerful arm closed around his throat. “Would yeh prefer that?” Lane demanded of White.
White shook his head in incredulity. Lane shoved the boy away.
“Why did you not tell me?” said White. “I would not have come, nor would Manteo.”
“Oh, yeh would have come if I had told yeh,” said Lane, “upon my orders yeh would have come. But the plan would have been written plainly across yer face.”
Lane called to his men. “Search their hovels for any stolen English things!”
White struggled for something to say as Manteo came up to them, confusion and sorrow on his face.
Lane turned back to White. “If I had not brought ye they would have been suspicious. Now, get out of my way!” He pushed between the two men.
The people clustered in angry, frightened groups in front of the meetinghouse. Stafford and his soldiers came out of the forest and approached. Stafford held Wingina’s severed head aloft, waving it about so all could see it. Many people covered their eyes and the wailing doubled in volume.
Governor Lane called to Manteo. “Tell them that this is what happens when they plot against English men.”
Manteo was transfixed by the sight of Wingina’s head, and for a moment he said nothing.
“Tell them!” Stafford bellowed, breaking the spell.
Manteo’s face was dark with pain. He relayed the Englishman’s words to the crowd as the people poured out their anger and grief.
A loud thud from the above decks brought White back to the present. He stood and looked over at Ananias. “I must find the bo’son and get that canvas curtain.” Pausing at the door, White said, “both Governor Lane and Captain Stafford had fought in the Irish campaign before coming to Virginia and it has made them hard and fearless. That was why Raleigh chose them. But Stafford had been in Ireland twice as long as Lane and it has warped his judgment and made him cruel and dangerous. I told Raleigh as much, to no avail.
At any rate, worry not. We shall not be disembarking at Roanoke, but rather the village of Skicoak, near the Bay of Chesapeake. The savages there are still friendly toward us Englishmen.
I will return shortly.”
Chapter 4
Sir Robert Harvey placed his hand protectively on his wife Margary’s elbow as the line of people moved closer to the gangway to the Lion. Margary’s condition was still not obvious to others, but there was a child growing inside of her and Sir Robert kept a watchful eye that none of the workmen rushing about, or the lower sort, milling and gawking at the ship, jostled her. The sun burned down like fire but a cool breeze came off the river and gave them a little relief.
“This could well be our last look at the sun shining o’er our homeland,” said Margary.
“Aye,” said Sir Robert. The sadness in his wife’s voice bothered him but they had to make this change. He looked about at the chattering crowds and the men bringing up supplies to be loaded. Once the winds were right they would cast off lines and sail away to a new life. Margary had not wanted to go. Sir Robert frowned uneasily. He worried about what he did not know about this New World they were going to -- about savages and roving Spanish warships, about how Margary would fare on this voyage in her delicate condition. But they had talked about all of this many times long into the night and she had finally agreed that for one such as
he, it was a good thing to be going. His dear father, a Catholic, had had his lands confiscated and been put to death for his refusal to swear fealty to the Queen’s Protestant religion. Robert himself had embraced Protestantism before all of that happened, but at home he was still looked upon with suspicion. But not by Sir John White, the Governor of Sir Walter’s new colony. It would be a new beginning for them.
The line moved forward and they crossed the gangway onto the ship. Robert stopped a passing sailor to ask which stairway to take to their cabin. The man pointed and rushed off. Robert turned back to Margary. She frowned as she looked at the many men rushing about in their preparations.
He regretted bringing her. He should have waited in the inn until they received word to board. “Do you still want to look about, goodwife?” he asked her.
“Do you think they are aboard now,” she said.
“Who, goodwife, the Governor and his daughter and son-in-law?”
“Nay, husband. The savages. I would like to see them.”
Sir Robert smiled with relief as he took Margary’s arm. “Ah! The savages. I know not. Let us go and see our sleeping quarters. While you wait there I will find out where they are. Then I shall take you to lay eyes upon them. Come.” They headed for the stairs.
Maggie climbed down from the trunks. Thomas pulled her close to talk over the excited chatter of the crowd. “Come with me,” he said, “I have something to discuss.”
Maggie looked around. She had gotten to know Thomas well over the last year and the knowledge gave her pause. She had been lucky to have never missed her terms and she wanted to keep it that way. It would not do to go making babies with the likes of him. “Tell me on the morrow,” she said, “for I am tired and must rest.”
“‘Tis about him,” said Thomas, looking around furtively, “my former master’s brother.”
Maggie grew frightened. The ship would soon get under way. Some said today. What had changed? She followed Thomas away from the crowd, out of the lower deck area. They went back into the passageway a bit and Thomas sat on a bale of cloth lying on its side in the dimness.