by Paul Clayton
The voices fell silent. From where he crouched, Towaye heard the clack of metal on metal as the hammer of the musket was cocked back. This sound too, he knew, from his time spent as an English captive. He saw Wanchese’s muscles tense as he readied himself. Wanchese leapt to his feet, screaming out his war cry. Towaye saw the startled Englishman raise his long musket, saw Wanchese spin and tumble out of sight as the musket spat fire and smoke. Then the other braves were screaming their war cries as they raced forward from the opposite direction. Towaye drew back his arrow and ran forward screaming. It was over by the time he reached to the perch.
Thunder Cloud tugged and sawed away the hair of one Englishman for a trophy. Towaye looked about for Wanchese, wondering if he were dead. Then he saw him rise from between the corn, a fierce look on his face. Wanchese came over and climbed up onto the English perch. He waved his bow to signal his other braves at the edge of the field. Towaye noticed a mass of black smoke rising up and quickly moving toward them.
Wanchese climbed down from the perch and grabbed the musket from Swift Deer. Wanchese ran his hand lovingly along the dark wooden stock. He slipped the long weapon over his shoulder. Jerking the bullet bag away from one of the bodies, he looped its strap over his other shoulder and turned to the others who were still taking trophies.
“Quickly! The English will be here soon.”
Towaye watched the orange line of the corn fire moving closer. The wind blew thick, black smoke overhead. Towaye turned to go when he noticed a glint from one of the dead men’s hands. The other braves had overlooked a silver ring, the same metal as some of the English money. Towaye pulled at it, but it would not come off. He heard the crackling roar of the advancing fire. It was an angry thing now, racing to devour the corn and anything that got in its way. Towaye twisted and pulled the ring, almost pulling the body down from the perch, but the ring would not come off. Towaye spat on the hand and worked the spittle under the ring, but still it would not come off. The fire-heated air burned Towaye’s nostrils as the approaching fire roared in rage. But Towaye could not leave without his trophy. He took out his iron knife and held it against the finger. But the dead Englishman looked somehow familiar to him and he could not bring himself to do it. He looked up at the quickly approaching wall of flame. It burned his eyes, forcing him to look away. Someone was beside him. Wanchese angrily shoved him aside and took out his knife. He removed the finger with a snapping motion of his knife and handed it to Towaye. “Run, fool!” he shouted as he leapt away.
Towaye came to his senses and raced after Wanchese. Intense heat scorched his back and he looked round to see the perch erupt in flame. Like an enraged animal, the fire raced after them as they ran at an angle toward the woods. Towaye could see that the fire was gaining on them but he dared not deviate from the escape route Wanchese had chosen for them. Towaye held his hand up, afraid his hair would catch fire. Just when it seemed they would be burned up, they reached the relative safety of the forest. Towaye collapsed and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Wanchese paused in front of the bushes. After a moment Towaye became aware of the still-warm finger clenched tightly in his fist. They waited silently. The other braves soon appeared and they ran off into the darkness of the forest and headed for their rendezvous point.
***
In the darkness, Maggie climbed the earthen steps behind her friend, Elizabeth. All around them men shouted and ran along the ramparts as they prepared to defend the fort. Below, the gate creaked open and there was a rush of booted feet as men ran out of the fort. Cannon boomed at the rear of the fort, the concussions thudding in Maggie’s stomach.
Maggie saw a bright irregular line of light in the distance and realization filled her. “Look! The corn is burning!”
“‘Tis the savages,” said Elizabeth, “tryin’ to starve us out.”
Maggie frantically searched the night, wondering from where the savages would come. From within the blackness of the woods, something bright rose up quickly into the sky. It arced high overhead, then raced down at them to disappear behind one of the cottages. Several men ran along the ramparts toward Maggie and Elizabeth. Maggie recognized Sir Anthony Stewartson from Plymouth and his servant, Phillip Blount. They stopped a few paces from Maggie and Elizabeth.
“Look!” said Elizabeth, “Another one!”
They watched the bright pinpoint of light rise up out of the blackness. Despite her fear, Maggie found it a fascinating sight, rare in the still black nights of this place. Nearby, a cannon thundered ominously. She turned toward the sound and a brilliant orange tongue of fire shot out into the night. A thundering boom followed, shaking her insides. She prayed that their gentlemen and soldiers would have the strength and cunning to protect them. Where were the ships? If only the ships had come with their supplies they could have already been in Chesapeake where the savages were friendly, for she could never go back to England.
“Maggie,” said, Elizabeth. “Look! Another one comes!”
The light arced gracefully up into the black sky then arced rapidly down to land behind them, burning on the ground. Several soldiers gathered round the pool of light. One of them picked it up.
“Fire arrows!” said Sir Anthony. “Let us hope to God they have no more. They’ll burn us out.”
Another volley of cannon fire thundered in the blackness. Maggie saw another bright pinpoint of light blossom in the distance. She heard the click of Sir Anthony’s musket, followed by its thunderous explosion. Sir Anthony noticed them in the musket’s flash. “You two! Get down to the common,” he said as acrid smoke engulfed them. “‘Tis too dangerous up here. Help the others with the buckets.”
As Maggie and Elizabeth started down the earthen steps, a scream came from behind and they turned. Sir Anthony lay sprawled on the ramparts, flames seeming to lick from his mouth. Maggie and Elizabeth ran back up as Phillip Blount knelt over him. The fire arrow had evidently struck the gentleman in the mouth when he last looked up to see where it would land. “Oh, God! Oh God!” Phillip Blount cried as he frantically tried to pull the burning arrow away. Despite her revulsion, Maggie started over to help him.
Elizabeth grabbed her arm. “Come, Maggie, girl. He is dead.” They turned and continued down the stairs.
Chapter 23
Sir Robert Harvey approached the big house. The parson had asked him to help prepare for services. As he passed through a crowd of Stafford’s soldiers gathering outside, he was relieved that Margary and the other gentlewomen were not yet here, for the soldiers’ appearance disturbed him greatly. Although their clothing was frayed and worn, as was everyone’s, other aspects of their persons showed a marked decline. Their beards were unkempt, their breastplate beginning to rust. Many of them had begun adorning themselves with shell beads and feathers in the style of the savages. Mounting the stairs, his ears smarted from the soldiers’ raw, crass speech. He decided to take the matter up with Stafford later when he had time.
Inside the big house, Ananias was arranging the linen on the communion table. Robert spotted Phillip Mattingly at the other end of the great hall. Phillip called to him and they began setting out the long benches the carpenter had made for their service. After the service the benches would be removed to the rear, and the big house would once again revert to a meetinghouse for the Assistants.
Parson Lambert nodded to Margary Harvey and Eleanor Dare, pausing to allow them to mount the stairs of the big house. He followed them inside and stroked his thin beard as he surveyed the room. He thought of the sermon he had written for Anthony Stewartson and hoped that it would reassure his flock. And the recent loss of their corn crop which would exacerbate the trial of a long winter -- that would also require some soothing words of prayer.
Captain Stafford and one of his lieutenants entered the big house, followed by a noisy group of soldiers. They moved to the rear of the hall as common people began entering to sit quietly on the benches, or stand and talk softly in small groups. Lambert went across the room to get the chest c
ontaining his surplice. As he drew near the hearth he smelled an odor emanating from the hearthstones. Going closer, his nose crinkled at the unmistakable acrid stench of urine. Someone had been using the hearth to relieve themselves! He looked at the milling throng of soldiers in the rear of the room and decided that, more than likely, it was one of them, marking his territory like a tomcat. He couldn’t imagine one of the gentlemen Assistants doing such a thing.
Parson Lambert picked up the chest, carried it over to the table and set it down. Then Ananias helped him carry the communion table to the center front. Masters Harvey and Mattingly came forward and then Captain Stafford came to join them.
“Will yeh be starting soon?” Captain Stafford asked.
Parson Lambert nodded. “Captain?” he said.
“Aye,” said Stafford.
“Would you come with me please?”
“Aye.”
Stafford and his lieutenant followed Lambert to the hearth.
Lambert pointed into the hearth. “Do you smell it?” he asked.
“Smell what, Master Lambert?” said Stafford in seemingly genuine befuddlement. “I smell nothing.”
Lambert blinked his eyes rapidly. “There is an odor in the hearth.”
“Aye,” said Stafford, offering nothing further.
Lambert looked over nervously at the other gentlemen.
“Captain, you must talk to your soldiers. One of them has been using the hearth as a chamber pot.”
Stafford scowled. “Are yeh sure ‘twas one of my men, Master Lambert? It could be anyone.”
Lambert’s face reddened. He looked over at Dare and the others. These gentlemen would never do such a thing. “Captain,” he continued, “please speak to your men about it.”
“Aye,” said Stafford, frowning darkly, “I will give them a talk.”
As Stafford walked off with his lieutenant, Lambert heard his gruff voice clearly, “Our corn has been burnt to the ground, our captured Spanish boat burned, Stewartson be dead with an arrow in his mouth, and he wants me to catch the one’s pissin’ in the hearth!”
Captain Stafford and the lieutenant melded into the crowd of soldiers at the rear of the room.
Lambert went to the front of the room and turned to face the congregation. Those still standing took their seats. Lambert waited for the noise to die down. “Let us pray,” he intoned solemnly, “for our recently-departed, Anthony Stewartson. Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting… ”
Finishing his prayer, Lambert raised his eyes momentarily to the rafters. They had lost so much these past few days. And now the long cold winter stretched before them. There would be no ships until spring. He brought his eyes down and looked at the faces of the people. He noted the sadness in Ananias Dare’s eyes. Despite having a fine wife and a healthy child, the young man seemed to be losing his spirit. Worry clouded Maggie Hagger’s pretty features. Her friend, Elizabeth, James Duncan’s maid, sat next to her. He’d heard tell that Sir James beat Elizabeth a little bit too much and too often. He tried to read the serving woman’s face but saw nothing there. Next to her sat the maid, Paulina. She and two other serving girls were drawing attention from the ladies for cavorting with the soldiers. He would have to speak to them. And he must speak to the captain again, something he did not relish. Perhaps he better bring it up at the next meeting of the Assistants. Lambert’s heart felt heavy. It would be a long, long winter. And where in God’s name was Governor White with their resupply? “Let us pray,” he intoned solemnly.
December 11, 1588. England
John White and Benjamin Spencer sat atop the packed carriage as it wound along the road in the pale light of early morning on the way to Westminster. White huddled inside his cape to try and escape the biting cold. The trees were skeletal, the sky bleak. Their carriage came upon a flock of magpies that blackened the road as they fluttered about and fought over a pool of grain spilled from a farmer’s cart. At the last possible moment, before being crushed beneath the hooves of the horses, the birds took flight. They rose up into a beautiful tear-shaped cloud, then, shrieking malevolently, shape-shifted into what, for an instant, resembled a huge, dark, menacing face. The sight startled White and his thoughts and feelings shifted wildly for the rest of the carriage ride.
Arriving at Westminster, White and Spencer took their seats in the reception hall and watched an endless stream of supplicants and officials come and go. After an hour a man threw a fit of temper at the ruling of his case and had to be dragged out by the guards. As the supper hour slowly drew near, the hall grew empty. The Sergeant at Arms was changed, the new man keeping a stern, watchful eye on the dwindling number of people. The day wore on, although not intolerably, given the amusements provided by many of the litigants. Towards one of the clock, White’s impatience got the better of him and he walked over to the Sergeant at Arms. The man had his back to White. White tapped the floor with his cane and the man turned round.
“When will we be called for our audience with Sir Walter Raleigh?” White inquired.
The man looked at White with annoyance. “Sir Walter is unavailable today.”
“Unavailable!” protested White. “How can that be? We are scheduled to have an audience with him.”
Spencer came up and White continued. “We were summoned here specifically to see him this day!”
“What has happened?” said Spencer.
White was red-faced. “He says Sir Walter is unavailable.”
“Impossible,” said Spencer. He stepped closer to the Sergeant at Arms. “Governor John White had an appointment. I demand you find out where Sir Walter is!”
The Sergeant’s face grew livid. “You will demand nothing, sir. Now go, before I have the two of you arrested for disturbing the peace.”
Afterward in the tavern, White sat opposite Spencer as they waited for the carriage that would take them back to Bideford.
“Did you request another appointment?” Spencer asked.
White nodded morosely. “It may be months before one is available.” White’s thoughts went back to the colonists at Roanoke. They could probably count on Manteo’s people to help victual them, White calculated, but their powder and shot would not last forever.
Spencer brought his tankard toward his lips, stopping midway as he spotted someone across the room. “There he is!”
White turned, recognizing the Sergeant at Arms from the morning. He got to his feet, Spencer following. They walked over to the man. The man was red-faced, and well into his cups.
“What happened?” demanded White. “We had an audience with Sir Walter!”
The big man leaned his beef-red face closer and White recoiled at the man’s beery breath. The man squinted, then appeared to recognize them. “Sir Walter’s movements are not public knowledge, sir. But I will tell you this. Someone summoned Sir Walter away at dinner time.”
“On a moment’s notice,” said White, “Leaving me and all those others waiting? I believe it not.”
The Sergeant shrugged. “Believe what you will. Sir Walter was summoned away.”
“By whom,” demanded Spencer, pushing closer, “the Queen?”
The Sergeant smiled drunkenly. “Nay, sir, not the Queen. But I hear tell ‘twas someone wearing pretty skirts.”
Spencer grew indignant. “Someone should have notified us, instead of having us wait all the day long.”
The Sergeant glared at Spencer and straightened up to his full height. “Now I have already explained to you, sir…” White pulled Spencer backward. “Leave it be! ‘Twas not his doing.”
White headed toward the door, Spencer hurrying after him.
Outside the sky was bright, but a deep chill hung in the air. The coach was waiting and they climbed in. The journey back to Bideford took two days. White’s disappointment sapped him of all his strength and he slept in the carriage, having little to say to Spencer. When the carriage finally pulled up outside of White�
��s house, White climbed out and paid the driver.
Spencer exited the coach after White. “We should talk, sir,” he said. “There must be some way to get Raleigh’s ear.”
White opened his door. “You had better get back in the coach.”
“I’ll walk to town.” Spencer waved to the coachman. The man cracked his whip and the coach clattered and squeaked down the road.
“Suit yourself,” said White. He moved to close the door.
Spencer peered in at him. “What of our plans, sir?”
White felt his earlier disappointment as a crushing weight. He very much needed to be alone. “Leave me,” he said, closing the door, “I will talk to you another day.”
White sat in the chair before the hearth. His head felt empty, a burnt-out cinder, incapable of thought or feeling. He heard a half-hearted knock at the door and realized that Spencer was still hanging about. Go away, White thought, not having the strength for speech. He hoped the cold would soon reach Spencer’s bones and send him on his way. Talk, talk. That was all the man wanted to do. But all their talk had changed nothing and Roanoke was still a world away.
White’s mind slowly quieted, his breathing becoming regular and shallow. The housekeeper had left not long before, and the coals in the hearth still radiated heat. He could hear the metal grate of the fireplace ticking as it cooled. Behind him he was conscious of the soft rustle of mice slipping about as they searched for a meal. He stared at the mantle. A spot of rust caught and held his eye. He stared at it for an indeterminable length of time, its color tickling some spot deep in his brains. He got suddenly to his feet and pushed the table back. Kicking the chairs out of the way, he pulled the roll of German paper from the corner where he had stored it so long ago. From outside he thought he heard a voice calling his name. Spencer? White ignored it as he stared at the rust. He quickly pulled the paper across the width of the room, then nailed it to the wall. At the top he boldly printed the letters, ROA.