by Paul Clayton
Fernandes smiled. “Si, Senor. I will have a boat put out for you right away. You can round up the others and have your meeting.”
Robert Harvey scoffed. “In these seas we would not get fifty feet. No, we must wait till the weather clears.”
“You have my offer, gentlemen,” said Fernandes. “Now if you are not interested in a boat, then please leave me, for I have work to do.”
White noticed Howe’s hand on the hilt of his sword. He thought of his daughter, Eleanor, praying in their cabin, of the others below who were also frightened of the storm. This was not the time for a fight. All they could do now was to hope that the Portuguese was as good a sailor and navigator as it was said. He put his hand on Howe’s shoulder and shook his head imperceptibly, signaling restraint.
White said to Fernandes. “Raleigh will hear of this recklessness, Master Fernandes! Mark my word.”
The Portuguese ignored White. White again looked over at Stafford, but the man would not meet his eye.
White scowled. “Let us go,” he said.
Coming up onto the deck, they heard the clatter of the capstan as the sailors began bringing up the anchor.
“Why are they in such a fool’s hurry to get to Virginia?” said Howe.
White looked in the direction of the navigator’s cabin. “The sooner Fernandes deposits us at the Bay of Chesapeake, the sooner he can sail away to look for prizes.”
“But, to take such a risk for just a few days… ” said Howe.
“‘Tis greed,” White said, “and madness!” White left Howe and Harvey and started across the waist. Two lone figures stood at the beakhead, Manteo and Towaye, staring out at the tossing seas. The bad weather had brought them out of their cabin earlier in the day. Manteo had told White that Towaye refused to go below, convinced that the ship would sink. And so Manteo stayed with the younger brave above decks.
White believed that the savages had an uncanny ability to intuit impending catastrophe. He hoped Towaye was wrong in this. Below deck, White slowly made his way along the passageway to his and Ananias’s and Eleanor’s cabin. The door opened just before he got to it and the serving wench, Maggie, exited.
“How fares Eleanor?” White asked her.
“She is sleeping now,” said the girl.
The ship rolled over heavily and White lost his balance. The wench grabbed him, helping him keep his feet. Despite his anger and worry, White was overwhelmed by the girl’s youthful beauty and the warmth of her touch. He looked into her eyes briefly and felt as if he were looking into the eyes of his own young wife who had died over twenty years earlier while giving birth to Eleanor. Overcome, he stepped back a bit. The girl looked down demurely and hurried away. After she’d gone, White’s anger and worry returned. He went into the cabin to check on Eleanor.
Chapter 6
Virginia, the New World
Powhatan lay awake as the day slowly dawned. From outside his longhouse came the trilling call of one of the sentinels posted to guard him. The light grew and the village came to life with all its sounds -- the singing of women as they left their houses to attend to their gardens, muffled conversations as people walked past outside, the steady yapping of the dogs. Beside him, his newest wife, Little Bird, was still asleep. He pulled the bearskin from her. She lay on her stomach and he admired her smooth skin and her round bottom. She was his fairest wife, inexperienced, but very eager to please him. Her mother had spoken the truth when she had brought her to him.
The chill air awoke Little Bird and she turned her head. Knowing his desire, she rolled over and made ready to receive him. It was then that Powhatan heard the slap of an approaching runner’s footfalls. The man entered the forward part of the longhouse and waited. Powhatan shook his head at Little Bird and got to his feet. Little Bird watched him wordlessly. Turning away, he pulled his breechclout about him, cinching it at the waist with a sash embroidered with a myriad of black river-pearls. Powhatan wondered if perhaps the English Coat-Wearing People had returned to Roanoke. First the Great Spirit had blown most of them away with a few shakes of his wings, sinking many of their floating houses and flattening many of their dwellings. A handful had remained and the Roanokes had attacked these. A few managed to escape in a little windboat. Despite their many setbacks, Powhatan had always believed they would return. His kweeyusuk, or medicine man, Kiskiak, was of the same mind. Was that what the runner had come to tell him? That the powerful white tribe had returned?
Powhatan pulled his decorated deer skin robe about him and walked toward the entryway. He was an imposing man, a full head taller than most in the village, with a prominent, powerful nose as threatening as a war club. Upon seeing him, the messenger bowed his head respectfully. “Powhatan. Your braves have captured Patawomeck and his two sons. They await you in the Temple.”
Powhatan followed the young man out onto the hard-packed earthen street. The people outside stopped at the sight of Powhatan, pausing respectfully until he had passed. Reaching the Temple, Powhatan walked past the two muscled braves guarding the entrance. Inside, Kiskiak stood beside Powhatan’s pallet. Not far from him, Patawomeck and his two sons stood, flanked by a half-dozen of Powhatan’s biggest, strongest braves, all of them decorated fiercely for war. Patawomeck and his sons were bruised and dirtied from their capture, but otherwise, appeared unhurt.
Powhatan walked quietly toward his pallet, enjoying the respectful, fearful silence of his people and his warriors. He sat and turned to Kiskiak. The ancient kweeyusuk’s face was a mass of wrinkles as he nodded almost imperceptibly. Kiskiak’s powers were great. Every village kweeyusuk claimed to speak to the god, Okeus, but only the powerful Kiskiak could entreat Okeus to appear before them and give his assent for some action. Kiskiak had done this several times and Powhatan himself had witnessed it.
Powhatan looked over the assemblage and raised his hand.
The top brave, Wanchese rose. “As you have requested, Powhatan, we have brought Patawomeck to you.”
Powhatan looked at the prisoners and addressed himself to Patawomeck. “For two turnings of the skies I have entreated you to bring your people into my confederacy. Is this not so?”
Contempt darkened Patawomeck’s features as he answered. “For two turnings of the skies you have threatened us, demanding tribute. Yes, that is so.”
“And you have defied me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that I now have twenty villages under my rule?”
“I have heard that it is so.”
“If the strange white tribe returns, I will bring them and their powerful medicine under my control too.”
Patawomeck said nothing, instead staring defiantly at Powhatan.
“I have given you three chances to join with me and you have refused. Is that not so?”
Patawomeck nodded. “It is so.”
“Now,” said Powhatan, “you shall pay for your obstinacy. Choose which of your sons will die.”
Patawomeck’s face contorted in anger and disbelief. “I choose to die. Surely a chief’s life is worth more …”
“Choose!” Powhatan’s voice thundered through the Temple and several people flinched at its ferocity.
Patawomeck looked at the smaller boy, then at the tall, muscled, older son. He lay his bound hands upon the smaller boy’s head. The boy cried out plaintively to his father.
Wanchese and another brave seized the boy and dragged him away.
“No,” said Powhatan, “take the other one.”
Wanchese shoved the little boy to the ground and roughly grabbed the older boy.
“No!” shouted Patawomeck. “I have chosen the younger!”
Together with another brave, Wanchese led the muscled youth over to the sacrificial blood rock, a chunk of granite as big as a man’s torso. One brave forced the youth to his knees while another pulled him by the hair, positioning his head over the rock. The youth’s eyes were unwavering in their defiance. Wanchese raised his war club and looked at Powhatan.
“Yes,” said Powhatan. Powhatan nodded at Wanchese and he brought his club down swiftly, crushing the boy’s head to pulp.
“You will do as I say,” Powhatan continued, “always!”
Patawomeck hung his head and moaned while his youngest son fell to his hands and knees, crying out his grief. Wanchese and another brave grabbed Patawomeck by the arms and dragged him before Powhatan.
“From this time on,” said Powhatan, “you and your people will pay me a tribute of half. Half of your copper, half of your pearls, half of your fish, half of your corn, half of your game, all to be delivered to me here. You will live one day’s march from here, along the Mattaponi River. Do you understand?”
Patawomeck’s head hung limply. “Yes,” he said in a barely audible voice, “I understand.”
Powhatan waved his hand and Wanchese pushed Patawomeck toward the entryway. Another brave scooped up the boy and carried him outside. Kiskiak turned to Powhatan after the braves had left. “I want to tell you about my dream.”
Powhatan nodded over at Brown Deer, one of his fattest, prettiest wives, and she approached. “Later. I will eat now.”
“It is about the white Coat-Wearing People,” said Kiskiak.
Powhatan looked at him, then waved Brown Deer away. “Very well. Tell me.”
At sea
The soldiers’ talk and laughter was a drone in Thomas’s ears as he tried to sleep in the swaying ship. The soldiers didn’t mistreat him, but he was still nothing to them, little more than a slave or a captive. Only the captain seemed to acknowledge his presence with no more or less the usual number of curses and cuffs, as Thomas went about his duties helping the surgeon and laundering the officers’ garments.
Thomas bemoaned the fact that his new life was worse than the one he’d led on the run in England, and he would never have signed on if he had known he’d be separated from Maggie. Now he rarely saw her and she had grown distant.
A soldier laughed boisterously and his mates quieted as they leaned in to hear his bawdy tale. Thomas looked over and saw that the captain was sleeping and so he quickly left the lantern-lit great cabin. He made his way through the dark corridors. He couldn’t believe Maggie kept putting him off. After all they’d been through together. He’d protected her from her master; then, during their flight from London, they’d lain together many times. Lionel had merely led the way, finding them places to stay among the vermin he ran with. But if they had gotten into a scrape, the scrawny old fool could not have defended her. That would have fallen to him. And he would have risen to it. Surely she knew that!
Distant thunder rumbled through the timbers. The ship heeled over sharply and Thomas banged his shoulder, cursing. Maybe it was Maggie’s new position that kept her from him. Now that she was the Governor’s maid, maybe she thought herself better than him. Lionel the cutpurse did. He already saw that in his eyes. But Maggie and he were the same. Not only in station, but they were countrymen.
Thomas went carefully down a stairs and entered the sleeping area in the lower deck. A single gimbaled oil lamp was lit. It would remain so for an hour or two, casting its dim glow so that those who wanted to go up on deck to relieve themselves could do so. Thomas’s nose recoiled. The stench inside was worse than the soldiers’ quarters. He’d heard that down here the vermin now crawled about on every deck and bulkhead, and the rats had become bold, coming out from behind the boards to run about and scurry over the sleepers. Already many people were ill and two had died the night before.
Spotting her lying upon a mattress, he looked around at the dim outlines of the others. Most of them slept, but a few moaned with pain or fear, or both. Elizabeth and Ol’ Jack slept soundly against one another, Ol’ Jack’s scrawny arm flung over Elizabeth’s ample back. He walked over and knelt by Maggie’s side.
Maggie sat up. Her face was an oval of dirty yellow light and stark black shadow, reflecting the dim glow of the distant lamp. Thomas tried to smile, then realized that she could not see his face. He looked around, then put his hand on her arm.
“How fare yeh, Maggie?” he said softly.
“Better than most of these poor people, God help them,” she said.
She did not take his arm away and he found his excitement rising, his breath laboring. He laughed softly and pointed at Elizabeth and Ol’ Jack cuddled together. “These two be getting along all right, eh?”
Maggie nodded sadly. “Aye.”
“Maggie, girl,” Thomas said softly, “I care about thee.”
She frowned as she tried to focus on his face in the dim light.
Thomas curled his finger. “Come. ‘Tis a place forward we can be alone.”
Maggie remained where she was. She wrapped her arms around her knees, looking at her feet pensively.
Thomas knew that if he could only lay her down somewhere he could win her back. “I love thee, Maggie,” he pleaded. “Do yeh no longer care for me?”
Maggie looked up at him for a moment, then back at her feet. “I am too tired to talk of such things now.” Thunder rumbled above. “Just sit with me for a bit.”
Thomas felt overcome with his lust. How could she not want him after all they had been through? A sudden thought sickened him. If she no longer needed him it could be the Governor was having his way with her. Or even Lionel! Now that Maggie was a servant to one of the gentlemen, already she was putting on airs. While he, Thomas, was a lowly aide to the soldiers. Deep down he thought that perhaps when they reached the New World things would be different. He would have more opportunities to see her. But for now, he felt his anger would overcome him. Without a word, he moved off into the darkness of the corridor.
Maggie looked up. Thomas was gone, having walked off without a word. The ship tilted forward, then seemed to fall from a great height. Maggie’s stomach threatened to disgorge what little food she’d managed to get down earlier. The ship bottomed out, then leaned well over as if it would founder. Maggie made the sign of the cross and said a quick prayer. Dear God! It had been two weeks since they had departed and still the weather raged. Would it ever abate? How much of this could the ship take, she wondered, before it broke apart and went down? She wished there were a priest to hear her confession. She thought sadly that there would be no more priests, only Parson Edward Lambert, the frail, mousy-looking Protestant priest. He wasn’t a bad sort, and was very kindly, and close to the Dares, but it was not the same. She would never again hear the Latin mass nor make the sign of the cross publicly. Dear God, forgive her.
Maggie looked up to see Humphrey’s idiot face, bathed in the pale lamplight, staring at her. His little lips were parted in a smile. He was thrilling in the tortured movement of the ship, Maggie realized, enjoying it like a babe in his cradle. The ship righted itself but Maggie’s fear did not leave her. Despite it, however, she believed that getting on this ship and leaving England had been the right thing to do. After all, God would not have taken her this far only to send her to the bottom of the sea, would he? She remembered Thomas and herself standing over Master Spencer’s unconscious form. Had he been badly hurt? She prayed not. And where had he gone? Dear God, help them! They had only been defending themselves, and for that they had had to run away. Assaulting one’s master guaranteed one a stay at Newgate prison.
One of the sailors came cursing down the dim passageway. He blew the lamp out and went off. The hellhound howled, chilling Maggie’s soul. The beast howled again and was then joined by another, and another still. They were the captain’s mastiffs. He had three and they were kept down below in the forward part of the ship.
The ship leaned over sharply and the timbers groaned like beasts. “God save us all!” a frightened voice cried in the blackness. Maggie’s fear suddenly overwhelmed her. Her heart pounded as her breath left her. Perhaps God had allowed her and Thomas to escape, had taken them all the way out upon this horrible, frightening sea -- to punish them! Tears welled in her clenched eye
s. All was blackness. Were they now at the very bottom of the sea, the black waters about to crush them? She began crying softly.
Someone patted her hand. “Sleep child,” came Elizabeth’s kindly voice. “The world seems a terrible place sometimes, but remember, ‘tis God’s world. He has His plan, and who are we to question it?”
Maggie drew comfort from the older woman’s words, enough comfort to lay back and allow herself to fall asleep.
***
In the shade cast by a canvas stretched from the rail, Manteo the Croatoan sat cross-legged next to Towaye, their heads leaning back against the rail. High above, the sails hung limply. The wind had disappeared five days earlier, leaving the ship to sit, almost motionless upon the azure sea. The heat was like a spirit force, sucking the breath from the people, drying them out like strips of venison hung on racks. Manteo and Towaye watched the English people through the quivering waves of heated air. The English fared poorly in the heat, and came up from the inside of the ship only to relieve themselves over the side. Sometimes the soldiers came up to throw the dead overboard, followed by the little parson who prayed over the bodies. Such a group of English now stood around, heads bowed. Two bodies lay at their feet, one female, and the other male, both gray-headed with age. The black-suited parson prayed as the English listened. Finishing, the parson stood back as the soldiers lay the woman in a shroud with a large stone taken from the belly of the ship. Then they tied the bundle up and slid it over the side.
The sound of the splash floated up on the dry, still air. “They are sacrificing their dead to the great thunder bird,” said Towaye. “They are hoping he will hear their prayers and flap his wings.”
Manteo smiled. “No, Towaye. They are burying their dead.”
“In the bottom of the sea?”
“Yes,” said Manteo. They watched the soldiers lay the male on a shroud.
“Why do they not wait and bury them at Roanoke when we stop there?”
“They believe that the dead will make others sick if they are not buried quickly.”