by Paul Clayton
October 23, 1589
In the early morning darkness of his cottage, Manteo, the Croatoan, heard Captain Stafford and his soldiers coming down the path as they made their way to the gate. Their footsteps were slow, the stiffness of the morning cold still in their joints. And, given the noise of their debauch of last night, more than likely their heads were aching from the pain too much boose had left in its wake. Manteo knew that pain now too.
Manteo’s ears sniffed and tasted the sounds of the men, the clink of metal on metal, the squeak of leather. He could connect each tired laugh, each phlegmy cough, and each muttered curse, to an individual face. That was how long they had all been here together in this fort. After the sounds passed he waited a while longer before venturing outside. Finally, with his musket slung over his shoulder, he went out into the dark. He climbed the dirt embankment up to the palisade, keeping the silhouette of the guard in sight. Satisfied that the man could not see him, he let himself over the wall and dropped down. He ran to the forest and quickly made his way to his secret hiding place on the sound side of the island.
Dawn broke with a chorus of bird cries in the trees above. Manteo watched Bear Killer’s canoe take shape in the mists of the sound. He walked out of the trees and onto the beach as the canoe approached, quickly climbing aboard. He indicated a point on the mainland and the paddlers turned the canoe about. They stood and dug their paddles powerfully into the dark waters of the sound. A short while later Manteo stepped ashore. Bear Killer and his braves remained in the canoe, waiting silently.
Manteo went into the forest. He walked silently beneath the canopy of great trees until he was sure that no one had followed him. Spotting a fallen tree as big around as himself, he went to it. Grasping the stub of one of its broken branches, he rolled it slightly to one side. He found a large branch that would serve him as a digging tool and began digging a long trench, as if for a grave. Working hard and quickly, he was soon bathed in sweat. Finishing, he lovingly wrapped his musket in a deerskin he had brought for that purpose, and laid it in the hole. Mouthing a silent good-bye, he knelt and quickly covered the musket up, dropping a layer of leaves upon it. He rolled the dead tree back over on top of it.
Manteo sat down on the log. In the forest quiet, his mind echoed with voices and noises. “Who am I?” one of them said. He repeated the question to himself softly again and again. He thought of leaving the English and going back to his own people at Croatoan, but he could not. Too much had changed in his village and he had spent many, many days with the English. He loved some of them dearly. After a long while the voices left and quiet and peace settled upon him. “I am Manteo,” he said softly, “and I am alone.”
He got to his feet. He was about to start back toward Bear Killer’s canoe when he heard a voice. “Over here,” it said. For a moment he thought of Okeus, the evil forest god. No, he thought. This voice was not threatening. He heard the voice again from the direction of a hickory tree not far away. Strangely, his eyes were drawn to a stout, strong-looking curved branch. “Yes,” the voice seemed to say, as Manteo looked at the branch, “pick me.”
Manteo took the steel hatchet from his belt and went to the tree. He quickly chopped the branch off, then ran his hands along its smoothness, bent it to feel its strength. It was good. With a feeling of happiness he had not had in a long time, he walked back toward the others. He would begin making his bow today.
***
Ananias was standing in his garden, smoking his pipe when he spotted Parson Lambert headed toward the big house. He waved him over. “God give you good day, Master Lambert.”
“God give you,” said the parson, waiting for him to go on.
“Eleanor has told me that Maggie suffered a spell of madness last night. Eleanor found her cowering under the table out of her head and claiming that Captain Stafford slew her father.”
Parson Lambert’s left eyelid twitched visibly. He rubbed the eye as he answered. “I do not understand, Ananias.”
“Maggie told Eleanor that the captain slew her father many years ago when she was but a child in Ireland and he was a young soldier.”
Parson Lambert frowned. “‘Tis a serious charge. And to come out now, all of sudden…”
“Aye,” said Ananias, “perhaps ‘tis the strain of all our troubles here.”
“Perhaps.” Parson Lambert’s frown lines deepened. “She would have been five or six at the time of the Desmond rebellion in Munster, would she not?”
Ananias nodded grimly, remembering the stories he had heard of the viciousness of that war.
“Does the captain know about this?” said Lambert.
“No,” said Ananias, “and we have instructed her to stay well away from him.”
Shouting came from the main gate. Several soldiers ran toward the earthworks. Ananias and Parson Lambert hurried after them to see what was the matter. They climbed the earthworks. A mob of soldiers stood on the ramparts, looking out. Two figures had emerged from the distant woods and were walking toward the fort. The giant soldier called Goliath hurried over, his face flushed red with anger and alarm.
“There be only two, sergeant,” a soldier said to Goliath.
Ananias and Parson Lambert peered at the figures in the distance.
“Would Stafford be coming back already?” said Lambert.
A soldier turned to them, his face pinched with wry amusement. “They are not soldiers. They are savages.”
Ananias and Lambert returned their gaze to the approaching pair. Ananias now saw the dark tint to the larger individual’s skin and several feathers hanging from his hair. Both men were unarmed and had begun waving. They wore only loincloths.
Goliath called to the only soldier among those already on the rampart who had a musket. “You! Bring your musket here.”
The man hurried over obediently and handed his musket to the giant. Goliath knelt and leveled the barrel as he took aim.
Parson Lambert pushed away the barrel of the weapon. The soldier stood to his full height and glowered down at the little parson. Lambert’s face was pinched in anger. “For God’s sake man, canst’ you see that they are unarmed? We must find out what ‘tis they want.”
A voice hailed them. “Halloo,” it said in English. “We wish to talk.”
“The savage speaks English!” said a soldier in amazement.
“That must be Wanchese,” said Parson Lambert, “the savage who lived in London.”
“By the lord!” said another soldier. “I have never e’en visited London and that savage lived there?”
“Quiet,” said Parson Lambert, as he strained to hear the distant voice.
“What did he say?” said Goliath.
“They say they are unarmed and want to parley with two unarmed Englishmen,” said Parson Lambert.
The giant frowned suspiciously. “Parley? What have they to parley for?”
“They could have food,” said Ananias as he stared at the two men through a gap in the timbers.
“Game,” said a soldier. “Game! Perhaps a stag. It be better than gold.”
“‘Tis a trade parley they want,” said Parson Lambert, “and they are alone.” He looked at Goliath. “You must send your men out.”
The redheaded giant stared at the two savages who had stopped short and now held their hands aloft showing they had no weapons. “There might be others hiding,” he said.
“Where?” said Ananias. “There is not enough foliage out there to hide a hare, let alone men.”
“Aye,” said the soldier who had given his musket to Goliath, “‘tis so. And they are nearly naked. They have no weapons on them.”
“Nay,” said Goliath. “I trust them not.”
The two savages continued to gesture for the English to come out of the fort.
“Then I will go,” said Parson Lambert. “They may have important news for us.”
“Aye,” said Ananias. “I will go with you.” They turned and started down the earthworks.
“Halt!�
�� said Goliath. Parson Lambert and Ananias turned.
The giant was red-faced with anger. “Come back. I be in charge here.” Goliath called out to his men. “Wapping! Payne! Go on out and see what they want. We will keep you covered from here.
“Shande!” bellowed Goliath, “Get the others assembled below and ready to rush out on my orders.”
“Aye,” the men called out. Wapping and Payne took off their swords and started down the earthworks to where the other soldiers were assembling. Parson Lambert and Ananias watched intently from the ramparts. A moment later the two men who had been chosen walked out from the gate. They held up their hands to show the savages that they were unarmed.
“Payne,” a soldier called down to them. “If ye bring back any more corn, yer not getting back in.”
The others laughed.
“Get us some bloody meat or to hell with ye,” shouted another.
“Aye,” said another. “Bring us meat.”
The two men smiled bravely, then turned and continued down the path toward the savages.
“We still have several chests of truk to trade,” said Ananias hopefully as they watched the men approach the savages.
The two men reached the savages without incident. The parley seemed amiable and the four talked for several minutes. All four men began walking slowly back toward the fort.
“They are coming in,” said Lambert.
As they passed a clump of ankle-high brush, the savages suddenly leapt down and removed clubs and knives they had evidently hidden there during the night. The big savage immediately struck the smaller of the two soldiers on the back of the head as he tried to run, dropping him like a sack.
“My God!” exclaimed Ananias, as the soldiers around him cursed in fury.
Goliath shouted to the soldiers at the gate. “Get out there! Now!”
The soldiers poured out the gate but they were already too late. The two savages had overtaken the remaining soldier and slammed him to the ground. Blows rained down on the man and his face blossomed red with blood.
Goliath fired the musket but the ball missed its mark.
“God in heaven,” said Parson Lambert, “Why? Why?”
“Beetle-headed fools,” shouted Goliath, “that is what we have become.”
The two savages got to their feet and ran towards the woods as the soldiers drew near. The soldiers lifted the fallen men upon their shoulders and carried them back. They lay them down on the ground just inside the gate as Parson Lambert and Ananias climbed down from the ramparts. Both men were dead. One man’s skull had been opened like a melon and the other had had half his scalp cut away with a knife.
Parson Lambert and Ananias approached. The soldiers glowered angrily at them as Parson Lambert knelt to pray over the dead men. Ananias nervously bowed his head, silently fretting at having gotten involved in the soldiers’ affairs. Now two men were dead. He had never imagined something like this. He should have kept his tongue. Captain Stafford was certain to use this against them.
“It should have been you two what went out there,” a soldier called out to them.
“Aye,” several others mumbled angrily.
Ananias said nothing, not daring to look at them. Parson Lambert concluded his prayer and got to his feet. They walked back toward the cottages
At dusk Parson Lambert walked slowly toward the big house. He silently prayed for the two soldiers who had died in the field in front of the fort. Of course it had not been his and Ananias’s fault, but the soldiers did not see it that way. He could not have just let them shoot the savages down in cold blood. How could he have known they would pull such a trick?
God in heaven, he prayed, deliver us from this place. And soon!
Lambert was relieved to see that none of the soldiers were hanging about the big house as he approached. He mounted the steps tiredly, opening the doors wide to let in the dim light. The sight that greeted him almost brought him to his knees. Benches lay overturned here and there, the wooden floors tracked with mud. Shaking his head, he entered and the acrid stench of urine greeted him. Moving toward the hearth, the stink became overwhelming. He sighed and went over to the chest containing his vestments. He righted one of the benches and sat, still shaking his head in disbelief. The chest had been forced open. Inside, his white surplice lay soiled! His brain burned with an image of a soldier mumming drunkenly about in it. His eye began twitching again. The tiny insect that had taken up residence in there glided across his field of vision, then disappeared. Lambert rubbed the eye, then laid his things back in the box. He looked around sadly. There was no point in going to Stafford about this. The man either would not or could not control the soldiers anymore.
Lambert picked up the box and walked to the door. From now on the soldiers could have the big house to themselves. He would conduct his service in the Dares’ cottage. ‘Twas the biggest one of the lot and big enough to accommodate the dwindling number of believers who still came. He paused to take one last look at the big house, shook his head, and walked out.
Chapter 33
November 12, 1589. Ireland
John White’s journey from Bideford, England to Youghal, Ireland, to see Sir Walter Raleigh went swiftly. He had boarded the ship early in the morning on a cold day, with blustery winds blowing in a cloudless sky. At noon of the next day the sailors were tying the ship up at the quay. White frowned as the sailors ran to carry out the shouted orders. He thought of the hardships and duration of his last voyage to Virginia, Eleanor’s and Ananias’s first. The ease of this little crossing was the strongest evidence he’d acquired as to why most of Raleigh’s efforts were going into Ireland now, and not Virginia. But this knowledge did not lessen the feeling of betrayal White felt. If anything, it inflated it.
When White stepped off the ship onto the quay, a great weariness bore down upon him. Despite it, however, he was more determined than ever to have his audience with the great gentleman and secure relief for his people. His old wounds grew stiff from the cold as he made his way into the town. He quickly found lodging for the night and made arrangement to be picked up in the morning by carriage and taken to Raleigh’s estate. Then he slept.
Morning dawned cold with a thick dampness in the air. After he had breakfasted on brown bread and warm beer, the carriage arrived. White felt an ache deep in his bones as the carriage swayed and squeaked along the stone road to Sir Walter’s estate. He noted the ominous clouds gathering in the distance. There was rain on the way. He had the carriage leave him at the gate and he walked the path up to the heavy door. He rapped on the door with his cane. A few moments later, a servant woman, her sharp face red with exertion, opened the door.
“Good day, mother,” said White, “I’ve come to speak to Sir Walter.”
The woman looked at him with suspicion. “Alas, sir, Sir Walter is not in the house.”
White had expected as much. Raleigh was here; his contacts had assured him of that. If he wasn’t in the house, he was in the town. White had already decided that he wasn’t leaving until he had had his audience. “Well, mother, I will wait for him to return.”
A few heavy drops of rain rattled down behind White and both he and the woman took note of them.
“As you like, sir,” said the woman. She closed the door.
White turned to watch the approaching storm. Its leading edge was passing overhead and moving quickly to obscure the blue skies to the east. He walked to one of the two trees flanking the path coming off the road. The rain came down as soon as he was underneath. He shivered slightly at the cold it brought and pulled his cape close around him. Soon the rain had formed a skin over the earth and the road and the large drops threw up little spouts as they landed. He looked up at the thick branches overhead, bare of leaves, wondering how long it would be till the rain worked its way through and began falling on him.
Inside the house, Mary Moyle peered out the window at the glass-distorted image of the old gentleman under the tree. Behind her another woman worked
at turning a mattress on a stripped down bed.
“What did the master say?” said the other woman.
“Only to ‘turn him away’. He did not say why.”
“Has this gentleman’s carriage come? ‘Tis raining hard now.”
“Nay. He sent his carriage away. He will not leave and he is standing under the tree.”
“Prithee,” said the other woman, “is he daft? In this weather he’ll catch his death.” She came over to look out. “A strange old bird, eh?”
“Aye,” said Mary slowly. She could feel the cold through the glass and felt badly for the gentleman. “Well, I must see to dinner.” She walked out of the room.
The cold rain dripped down steadily on White. His head was wet and cold and the rain wicked down his hair and beard onto his chest and back, causing spasms of shivering. He tried to withdraw turtle-like, into the folds of his clothing, but it did not warm him. Thunder rumbled forebodingly in the distance as he stared at the gray stones of Raleigh’s house. He could still feel the swaying of the carriage that had brought him here. The weather in Virginia would be as miserable, he realized sadly, maybe more so. He grew very tired. Eleanor’s face appeared before him from time to time. He felt little Virginia writhing in his arms. Warmth suffused him suddenly and he imagined putting his arms about Maggie’s naked form as they lay in bed in the cottage. He would have her. He knew he would have her. Soon. Then the rhythmic clop-clop of a horse’s hoofs reverberated in his head. He swayed on his feet dizzily. He heard Maggie’s voice. “Come to bed,” she said. His shoulder cracked painfully into the cold hard mass of the tree behind him and the horse and carriage sounds went away to be replaced by the steady splash of rain and the distant rumblings of thunder. He coughed, noticing the pale orange glow of lamps and fires behind the windows in the great house.
At eight of the clock, Mary Moyle and two of Raleigh’s manservants left the house. One of the men carried a lamp as they quickly made their way to the tree in the cold rain. In the lamplight they saw the man sitting against the tree with his eyes closed. The manservants stared as Mary knelt down to him.