by Lisa Klein
Georgie followed the Indians, his eyes wide with interest. He did not know who they were, or that they might have killed his father, so he was fearless. His aunt dashed out from her house and pulled him roughly inside.
Governor White gave orders for the soldiers to lay aside their weapons.
One of his assistants, who had stayed at the fort, was unwilling. “You left to seek revenge and return with the enemy in tow?” he asked, his hand resting on the pistol tucked in his belt.
White looked at him sharply. “We erred in our attack,” he said. “These are friends of Manteo. They did not kill George. Leave your pistol and join us.”
The man shoved the weapon into his boot and followed the governor and the Indian men into the house.
Five women, one of them stooped with age, and two children remained outside. The women had markings that encircled their upper arms in a design so intricate it reminded me of Venetian lace. They wore deerskins over their loins like aprons, but above the waist they were naked. They did not scruple to cover their breasts with their hair, as I would have done.
“Shall we give them our shifts?” I said to Eleanor, then wondered if that would offend them.
Eleanor didn’t reply. She was busy stirring the kettle, peering into it as if she had lost a jewel in the soup.
The women’s faces looked fearful. Their eyes darted about though they held their bodies still, like deer sensing danger. A child of about four, completely naked, clung to his mother’s leg. Her hand grasped his dark hair as if she was afraid of losing him. A young woman with smooth skin had light brown eyes that reminded me of Emme’s. I smiled, and so did she.
“Cate,” I said, touching my bosom with both hands.
The young woman giggled.
The mother with the little boy touched herself with her free hand. “Takiwa,” she said.
I was beside myself with delight. I, Catherine Archer, was speaking to the Indian women! What would Sir Walter think? Why, Elizabeth herself would be pleased by my manner of greeting her newest subjects. There were so many things I wanted to say. I made the motions of feeding myself and raised my eyebrows. The women nodded and rubbed their stomachs.
“Eleanor, they are hungry,” I said.
“I can see that,” she said. “Look how thin they are.”
While the women and children ate, I smiled and nodded my encouragement. I saw Jane Pierce approach and motioned for her to join us, but she shook her head, watched for a time, then went back to her garden. Eleanor was finally able to look up from her pot and even gave some glass beads to the old woman, who divided them with the others. Not to be outdone, I took a piece of lace from my sewing basket and tied it around the arm of the young woman, whose name was Mika. She pointed to the other women’s arms and began to talk very fast. I think she was happy with my gift, and I was pleased we could understand each other, even without words.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could speak each other’s language?” I said to Eleanor. “We could learn more about them than any scholar or explorer—being only men—could ever discover. Maybe I will write a treatise, and it will be published in London.”
“Cate—,” Eleanor began. She grimaced. “It’s only the heat, I think.”
But the Indian women knew better. They pointed to Eleanor’s belly and began to speak to each other and nod. The old woman made rocking motions with her hands, and held up her forefinger.
Very soon, she seemed to say.
In John White’s house, Eleanor and her husband shared the good bedstead and the governor and I slept on small cots, the three beds all separated by curtains. I could not get used to sleeping in a room with men. It seemed improper. Moreover, they snored and passed wind all night, making the air noisome and keeping me from sleep. The arrangement afforded little privacy for dressing or washing myself. I missed the comforts of the queen’s palace, especially the water closet. Here on the island everyone used a common pit with a hut set over it. Emme and Frances would be horrified.
When I could not sleep at night, I would sit on a stool outside and gaze at the multitude of stars, feeling wonder and sadness and longing all at once. I mused about the Indians, or I thought of Emme, or I imagined Sir Walter waiting on the queen and strolling in his garden. I recalled the familar cries of hawkers in the streets, the sound of footsteps on flagstones, the smell of the queen’s favorite sachet. Sometimes I fell asleep there, lulled by the strange buzzing and clicking of a thousand invisible creatures. Then I would wake up and return to my bed feeling calmer and able to sleep despite the discomfort.
One night, shortly after the visit by the Croatoan, I awoke to hear groaning from Eleanor’s bed. I knew what was happening. I pulled back the curtains. Eleanor lay pale and sweating, her nightgown twisted, her belly as large as any of the pumpkins ripening in the fields.
“Help me, Cate,” she pleaded.
Ananias had gone to fetch the midwife, and in the next room John White had built up the fire under a pot of water. All I could do was hold Eleanor’s hand and wait.
Alice Chapman, the midwife, bustled in and waved away the governor and Ananias. She commenced knitting, unmoved by Eleanor’s groans. In the morning as news of Eleanor’s labor spread, the women came by; Jane Pierce brought spare linens, Joan Mannering, a jug of mulled wine, and Betty Vickers, nothing but unhelpful advice.
“The first one always takes a long time,” she said. “I’ll pray for your deliverance.”
My hand was soon bruised from Eleanor’s constant gripping. By late afternoon her face was ashen, her lips raw with biting. She was so tired she could not bear down when Alice told her to.
“I’m going to die, I know it!” she wept.
“You won’t die,” I said, though I was far from certain.
“But if I do, will you take care of my baby?”
“Of course we will. Now push,” said Alice sternly.
“Not Alice; you, Cate,” Eleanor insisted, then let out a sharp cry.
I could see Alice was becoming worried. Finally she reached inside Eleanor, who screamed in pain. Moments later she withdrew a pair of feet.
“Cate, press down on her belly,” Alice said, her voice urgent.
Dear God, don’t let me kill her, I prayed silently, and put my hands on Eleanor’s tight, sweaty belly.
“Push harder!” said Alice.
I did, and something yielded within Eleanor. At last the baby slipped into Alice’s hands, its skin as pale blue as the veins under my skin. Alice bent over it, and moments later the tiny creature let out a high, thin wail. Eleanor began to weep with relief.
John White was the proudest man on Roanoke Island. The first English child born in the New World was his very own granddaughter. Ananias hid his disappointment that it was not a son. But there was such rejoicing for the deliverance of the mother and daughter that it seemed all our hopes would be rewarded, our troubles and fears banished.
At her christening, Eleanor’s baby was named Virginia.
Within a month of our coming to the island, Fort Ralegh was secure and all the houses habitable. Wells had been dug and lined with barrels to catch rainwater. Horses that had run loose on the island since Ralph Lane’s sudden departure were captured and put in new stalls. The chickens were producing eggs. Hundreds of trees had been cut to build the palisade and the sunny clearings turned into fields.
Manteo showed the farmers how to plant the seeds in small hillocks placed a few paces apart, so the beans would grow upright around the stalks of maize. Between the hillocks they planted squash and saltbush for flavoring. But the farmers spent as much time arguing as hoeing, debating whether the sandy soil would yield healthy grain and whether the crops would ripen before the winter, since they had been planted so late.
Meanwhile it rained two or three times, and pale green seedlings appeared.
In John White’s house, I slowly grew used to the different routine. Eleanor recovered her strength quickly, and though she nursed Virginia for hours on
end she still managed to do all the cooking. I swept the house clean and beat the dust out of the bedding. Sometimes I held the baby or rocked her cradle and thought about how to invest Sir Walter’s money: either in fragrant cedar for furniture or the uppowoc plant, which could be dried and shipped with less expense. Because the governor would accept no payment for my board, I became the laundress for his household instead. It was a task that would have been too menial for a queen’s maid, but I was no longer placed so high. The one job I refused to do was grubbing in the dirt with a hoe.
I also traded on the only skill that was mine alone. The village women were pleased to have their ruffs bleached and stiffened by the same hands that had fixed the queen’s ruffs. And so I worked on many a ruff in exchange for pies and jellies and small favors. But the garments made our necks perspire in the heat, and as time went on we seldom wore them. I had less neckwear to launder and starch, but the baby made up for it with an abundance of dirty linens.
I did not mind washing them, foul though they were. I was simply glad for little Virginia’s presence. She was the treasure of our entire village. She had struggled into life and was flourishing, despite hardships beyond her infant awareness.
Chapter 23
A Sudden Departure
A month had passed, then five weeks, and Simon Fernandes still had not left Hatorask. The Lion, though anchored out of sight, cast an invisible shadow over the colony. In the hands of the mutinous pilot, the ship was a sign of John White’s failure. It reminded us we had not reached our destination of Chesapeake, and getting there was now beyond our means. Yet while the ship stayed, there was the possibility of escaping the strangeness, hardship, and danger of the New World and returning to what was familiar. Once she sailed, we would be truly alone. And it would no longer be possible to send a letter to Sir Walter.
I still had written no reply to the letter I received aboard the Lion. Now I had little time for shaping fine phrases to convey feelings I was not even sure of. I still yearned for him, so I believed. Maybe I only yearned for what was familiar and comfortable simply because it was now lost to me. My thoughts were too confused for words. However, I did write to Emme that I was well, leaving unsaid almost everything that mattered in this new place, because it was simply too much for a single letter. I gave the letter to the boatswain, who promised to deliver it when he reached London.
Fernandes may have been ready to sail away in pursuit of treasure, but both the Lion and the flyboat required caulking and repairs. Fernandes also needed wood for fuel and fresh water for the return voyage. But John White would not allow his men to assist the pilot, and the seamen were not welcome at the fort. Whenever they came to the island to cut timber or gather pine resin, fights broke out. Nearly every day malefactors were put in the stocks.
Finally the governor called a meeting of all the colonists. His house being too small, the meeting was held outdoors. He sat at a table with his seven assistants flanking him. There had been nine, but George Howe was dead, and Fernandes was excluded. Manteo, now a lord, was away on some embassy.
The men sat on stools or stood with their arms crossed, the women behind them. Eleanor cradled the sleeping Virginia. Georgie Howe sat on the ground, rocking from side to side in silence.
“What is that cursed ship still doing here?” Ambrose Vickers burst out. “If Fernandes won’t take us to Chesapeake, he should be on his way.”
Ananias nodded and turned to the governor. “Truly, that ship is a beacon to any vessel plying the coast. Fernandes could lead the Spaniards right into this bay.”
John White raised his voice over the grumblers. “Fernandes and I are in disagreement, but he is not a traitor, I’ll warrant you.”
“We might try again to persuade him,” said Roger Bailey. “With arms if necessary.” He looked around to measure his support.
I shook my head in disagreement. The time for taking back the ship had been the moment Fernandes first defied the governor. Now it was too late.
“There will be no bloodshed,” said White firmly. “Going to Chesapeake was always a risk. We would not have had time to prepare for winter. We are here now and must make the best of it.”
“Since Ralegh expected us to settle at Chesapeake, he will send his supply ships there,” said Ananias. “Then what shall we do here?”
White thought for a moment and said, “We have much to accomplish in the next months, but with time we shall be self-sufficient.”
He had not answered Ananias’s question. Several of the men stirred with dissatisfaction.
“We have less than you think, Governor,” said Roger Bailey. “Much of the grain rotted on the voyage, and we have used more of the building materials than we expected. I have been an army quartermaster, and I can tell you our stores will hardly last the winter.”
“How many of us will die then?” asked Ambrose Vickers. “I know I’ll not let my wife and son starve.”
“Or be slain by savages,” said one John Chapman. He was Alice’s husband and an armorer by trade. “I am not the only one who does not trust Manteo. Lord of Roanoke indeed! When he returns it will no doubt be at the head of an army of Indians.”
Alice glared at her husband and I could see there would be an argument between them later.
“The Indians. They came and slew my papa. I saw the arrows in his chest. Oh, my poor papa!” wailed Georgie, his big frame shaking. “They will come back for me next.”
A sense of alarm spread through the crowd as if a hornet buzzed in our midst. Eleanor’s arms tightened around baby Virginia, who awoke and began to cry.
I could barely restrain myself from speaking aloud and murmured to Eleanor, “The governor should stand up to Chapman and Bailey and forbid such talk.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “It is not a woman’s place to judge a man.”
“Governor, what are you going to do to about the Indians?” Chapman demanded.
“This meeting is adjourned. Go to your houses,” Bailey ordered, though he did not have the authority to do so.
“If there is any trouble, the offender will be arrested,” said the governor. His voice did not carry over the din.
That evening John White consumed his supper in a dismal silence no one in the household dared to break. Afterward he placed his portable desk on his knees and drew a picture of his granddaughter while she slept. He would not even look at Ananias, who remained seated at the table. I took my needle and thread to a ripped seam, wishing I were a man and could speak about government. Hadn’t the queen once said I would make a good councilor? I glanced at Eleanor, hoping she would speak to her father, but she kept her head bent over her own sewing.
I took a deep breath. What did I have to lose by speaking up? “Governor, it pained me today to hear how the men spoke against you and Manteo. Would you not be justified in punishing their sedition?”
I heard Ananias’s cup hit the table.
“Cate!” The loud whisper of warning came from Eleanor.
Only John White did not seem surprised. “Everything is new to them, and they are uncertain and afraid,” he said, continuing to draw.
“Then you must reassure them,” I said. “All of us look to you to keep us united in our purpose.”
To my surprise, Eleanor said, “It is Roger Bailey and Ambrose Vickers who lead the malcontents.”
“Silence, wife!” said Ananias.
Eleanor stood up, her needlework falling from her lap. “I would chain them to the bilboes if I were you, Father!” Then she sat back down and began to rock Virginia’s cradle rapidly.
“You might remind them of what you encountered before, and the negotiations that brought you safely through danger,” I suggested.
He seemed to consider my words. “There are new difficulties I did not expect or even imagine,” he said with a sigh. “The native inhabitants have changed toward us.” He closed his drawing table and stood up, signaling that the conversation was ended.
At least he did not chastise me fo
r speaking.
The next day the seven assistants called on the governor. Ananias came down from the roof he was tiling to join them. I retreated outside, lingering by the open window so I could overhear them, as I had often listened at the queen’s door.
Roger Bailey was their spokesman. “Fernandes informs me that he is now prepared to sail,” he said. “One of us must return to England with him to ensure sufficient supplies are dispatched here, not to Chesapeake, before winter.”
“Excellent,” White said. “I will draft a letter to that purpose for Fernandes to carry.”
“You misunderstand, Governor,” said Bailey.
There was a long pause. Then White replied, “Indeed, perhaps we should not trust Fernandes. Roger, you must be the one to convey the letter.”
“John, we have already decided you should undertake this business,” said another of the assistants.
“But I am the governor here!” White’s voice rose. “I am charged with protecting the queen’s subjects. Choose another among yourselves.”
“We have considered the others,” said Bailey. He cleared his throat. “You are the only one who can be trusted to return here.”
I understood the plan. The assistants knew how much the governor loved this New World, almost as much as he loved his daughter and granddaughter. So they would use Eleanor and Virginia as hostages to ensure that he would bring the goods to sustain us all. Moreover, while appearing to entrust a vital task to him, they were in fact ousting him.
“Is it so desolate and disagreeable here that none of you would return?” said White in disbelief. Then his tone became scornful. “I thought my men were made of stronger stuff. Or are you all afraid of Fernandes?”
There was silence. Were the men ashamed? Was even Ananias against his father-in-law?
“You are my councilors only. You may advise me on a course of action, but you may not command me. This decision is mine!” White’s voice was trembling with rage. “I will render it tomorrow. Now I dismiss you all.”