The ship should be here, yet if I recalled rightly there were four big rivers flowing into the two sounds, and a number of lesser streams. There were any number of coves and inlets in which the ship might be lying. I tried to think of all the reasons we had not found her, all that could be done, yet nothing gave me rest.
Alone I stood by the rail, looking shoreward. Restless, unable and unwilling to sleep, I had told Tilly to let the crew rest and when I. Was ready to turn in I'd awaken one of them to take my place on lookout.
Hearing a step, I turned. It was Lila. She came to the rail and stood beside me.
"Will we find her?"
"I think so. If she is here, we'll find her."
"It is a vast land. I could not imagine it so big, so empty."
"There are Indians over there ... many of them." I paused. "Not so many people as in England, of course. The way they live, mostly hunting and gathering berries, roots, and nuts, they need much land to support only a few."
"They do not plant?"
"Some of the tribes do. They plant corn, a few other things. Mostly they live by hunting, fishing, and gathering, so they move from time to time, going to new areas where they can find more game, and more food."
"Our coming will change them, I think."
"I don't know, Lila. Perhaps it will. Yes, I believe it will, and perhaps not for the better. They have a way of life that is not ours, beliefs different than ours. We will learn much from them about this country, and they will learn from us, but I am not sure whether what they learn will be good for them.
"All I know is that it is inevitable. If not us, then somebody else, and all change is difficult, all change is resisted, I think. No people can long remain in isolation, and men will go where there is land, it is their nature, as it is with animals, with plants, with all that lives.
"Since the beginning of time men have moved across the face of the world, and we like to believe this is a result of our individual will, our choice, and it may be so, but might it not be that we are moved by tides buried in our natures?
Tides we cannot resist?
"Whole nations and tribes have moved, suddenly, always with some kind of an excuse. But was not the excuse sometimes found afterward? How do we know we make these moves by our own decision?
"Men like to believe themselves free from nature, free of the drives that move animals and plants, but wherever there is open space men will come to occupy it.
"The Indian himself has moved, pushing out other Indians. I heard of this on my previous voyage ... it is inevitable."
Long after Lila went to sleep, I paced the deck, wandering from bow to stern, alert for any moving thing upon the dark water. At last I awakened one of the men, a Newfoundlander I knew only as Luke, and left him on lookout.
Yet sleep did not come for a fear was on me, a fear for what could have happened to my love, she who had given up all for me to come to this far, strange place.
How deep, how strange is the courage of women! Courage is expected of a man, he is conditioned to it from childhood, and we in our time grew up in a world of wars and pressgangs, of highwaymen and lords sometimes as high-handed as they.
We grew up to expect hardship and war. But a woman?
I'd seen them follow their men to war, seen them seeking over battlefields to find their lonely dead, or the wounded who would die but for them. I have seen a woman pick up a man and carry him off the field to a place where he might have care.
Abigail, for all her life aboard ship with her father, had given up all a girl might have for the hardship of life in a new, strange land, without comforts, without the chance of care if she came to a child-bearing time. At least, no care other than I could provide.
At last I slept, and it was full dawn before my eyes opened again, and when I came out upon deck we got under way, making our way past the tiny coves and inlets, the rivermouths and the bays.
No ship ... nothing.
Had not two colonies disappeared here? Had not the men Grenville left vanished?
Into what limbo? To what awful death?
The green and beautiful shores took on a horror with their blank, unyielding, unspeaking faces. We looked, and our eyes told us nothing, for we could not see beyond the leaves, beyond the vines.
My eyes sought the stream where lay the old hulk where once I'd taken shelter.
What brought that vessel to its end? Where were its crew? Where its cargo? To what mysterious end had it come at last, in this lonely place?
How lonely? How many eyes might peer from behind that screen of branches? How many might lie in wait for our coming ashore?
The fluyt was alone. No help would be forthcoming if grief came to our side.
There was no warship to come, no signal could bring help. Whatever might be done we must do.
"Blue," I said at last, "let's go south to the other sound. They might be awaiting us there."
"Aye," he said gloomily, and I loved him for his sadness.
All aboard were strangely silent No voice was raised in ribaldry or song, no loud hails were given out. Men walked quietly, understanding my worry and my doubt.
We edged again past Roanoke Island and into the larger sound. We saw no sail, no masthead beyond the trees. Two large rivers opened into the sound. Cautiously, we ventured into the nearest. Scarcely had we entered the mouth of this river that flowed from the west than another appeared, flowing down from the north. We held to the center of the river, taking soundings as we moved, and passed the point where the two rivers joined. We had gone past it only a short distance when suddenly, Blue, who was aloft, shouted.
"Cap'n? There's a wreck on the starb'rd beam! Burned ship, two points abaft the beam!"
I ran to the rail. It was there, lying on the western side of a small inlet or rivermouth. The current was not strong, yet there were mudbanks on either side.
"I'll go ashore," I told Blue, "and do you stay with the ship. Drop the anchor and wait, but keep a sharp lookout."
John Tilly came with me, and six good men, armed with musket and cutlass.
As the boat drew nearer we could see the ship's bow was firmly wedged into the mudbank. Either she had come in under some sail, driving hard on the mud, or else there had been a good deal of a pile-up after she struck.
Only the hulk remained, burned near to the waterline with the charred butt of a mast overside and some broken spars about Tilly pointed. "She was under fire, Captain. See the hole?"
There was a hole in the hull, right at the waterline, and I could see the top of another just below the water's edge. She had been hard hit, probably aflame before she struck.
"They drove her in a-purpose," Luke said suddenly. "They were wishful of getting ashore, I'm thinkin'."
Suddenly, I had a rush of hope. We edged in close and made fast to the hull, then Tilly, Luke, and I climbed over the wreckage to the shore. There had been a hard rain, and what tracks had been left, if any, had been washed away.
Slowly, we wandered about. Nothing ... no single sign of anything that might have lived beyond the wreck, beyond the fire. Yet, the fact remained. Somebody could have made it ashore. There had been a daring lot aboard. For fearlessness in the face of danger, for ingenuity at survival, for skill in hand-to-hand combat, I could have wished Abigail in no better hands than those who sailed with her ... if they had lived long enough to help.
"Go back to the boat, Tilly," I said. "We have come too late."
"It was your ship then?"
"Aye, and a fine lot of men aboard, and the girl who was to be my wife, and her father, a good man, a fine man. All gone."
"They might still live, Barnabas."
It was the only time he'd ever used my given name, and I looked up at him, seeing the sympathy in the man.
Luke had started back to the wreck. Now he called out, "Cap'n ... look!"
I turned at his outstretched arm and pointing finger.
They stood there, a small and haggard band, on the edge of the fore
st. Some were still within the trees, but Jeremy Ring was there, and Sakim, and Black Tom Watkins, and--
She came from the forest and walked through the small group and stood there, staring toward me, a shabby, soiled, woebegone little figure.
Abigail ...
Chapter 15
Her face was burned by the sun, her nose was peeling, she was scratched and torn, and her dress was in tatters. She stood quietly looking at me, surrounded by her ragged, half-naked band ... all armed.
"I knew you'd come," she said simply. "I told them you'd come."
I went to her then across the sand, and took her in my arms, and so we stood for several minutes while the others filed past us, not looking, not speaking.
How many there were or who they were I did not know until later. At that moment I could think only of Abigail. Yet one question I did ask, and feared for the answer.
"Your father?"
"He is dead. He was killed in the attack. He told me to run her aground, to get away, and to wait for you. He told me that you'd come. He had great faith in you, Barnabas."
"I should have been here before, but so much has happened."
"Was it so very bad ... in Newgate?"
"Nothing. Nothing to this, to what you have been through."
We turned then and walked to the boat, hand in hand.
For the first time I looked around. Pim was there, a wicked scar across his face now, and Sakim, looking no different than I saw him last, only a little thinner.
And there, too, was Jublain, the companion of my first venture from the fens.
"We shall go aboard now," I said.
Hours later, when Abigail had bathed and changed to fresh clothing we found aboard (for there was much loot in the hold), the story was told.
Their voyage had been smooth, easy. They had crossed the Atlantic in sixty-five days, making their first landfall far to the north, and seeing no other sails until close in to the coast of Raleigh's land when they saw topm'sts over the horizon that soon disappeared.
Knowing that if I did join them it might be many weeks, they had looked about for a location for a trading post, aware that such was my intent. They found several, one of them on a creek just a little farther along the river from where we were now anchored.
It was a few square miles of solid earth among the swamps that lay all about, with thick forests of cypress, bays, and myrtles, laden with Spanish moss and tropical vines. It was a place with a good breeze down the river, easy of access by boat or canoe.
They had run some lines off to a couple of huge old cypresses, and going ashore, had begun felling logs and clearing land.
They had been so occupied when Nick Bardle and his men appeared. They had left the Jolly Jack anchored out of sight in a small bay, and had slipped through winding waterways to the river above the ship, crossing the river at night and concealing themselves under overhanging cypresses. Just before daylight they pushed off and drifted down upon the silent ship.
Unknown to Bardle, Jublain and seven others had slept ashore to be prepared for an early start, trimming logs for the fort they were to build. When the attack began they had already gone into the woods to select trees for felling.
With only an instant's warning, Tempany cut his lines and attempted to get away downstream, hoisting canvas, and trying to deflect his guns to bring them to bear on the boats. Yet this Bardle had expected, and suddenly the Jolly Jack appeared in the rivermouth, cutting off any retreat. A broadside toppled the mainm'st and holed the ship in three places. With water rushing in, no chance of escape, with her father badly wounded, Abigail had herself ordered the ship run aground.
Her father died within those last minutes, and as the ship struck, what was left of the crew jumped to the mudflat and headed for the surrounding jungle.
Sakim, one of the last aboard, touched off two guns aimed at the Jolly Jack, then helped Abigail to escape from the ship. Fleeing into the woods, they joined forces with Jublain and his hastily gathered men, but there was nothing to be done. Their ship was in flames, Tempany was dead, and escape into the swamp was their only chance.
The vast and dismal swamp covered over two thousand square miles, a dense forest of black gum, cypress, and juniper, tangled with Virginia creeper, honeysuckle, and reeds. Much of it was deep, dark water, threatening and still. Sunlight filtered through the boughs overhead, and only here and there was there solid ground.
A ship's boat had been taken into the swamp for use on some of the winding waterways in hauling logs to the building site. Into this they climbed, slowly gathering up a few stragglers, then escaping into the depths of the swamp.
The only food they had was a little brought ashore for the men working on the fort.
Yet there were many deer, occasional bears, and many kinds of birds. Using much ingenuity they had somehow managed to exist.
Bardle, after putting out the fires, had looted the ship, then set fire to what was left and finished the burning. He had hunted for them, but a few well-placed shots from the swamp itself had dissuaded him. After a while, he had sailed away.
"You have not seen him since?"
"No," Abigail said, "and we kept a good watch because we were expecting you. We did not know how you would come, or when, but we all believed in you."
"He will come back then," I said, "and we must prepare for that."
Long we talked that night, over the table and after, and I told her of my escape from England, and the part Lila played, but adding little about the difficulties on the island or my dealings with pirates. Yet as I spoke there came a little hint of warning: I had another enemy now in Duval ... and Hanberry, too, when it came to that.
"For me," I said at last, "there can be no question of returning. All that is behind me, and from this moment we must build a new life in this land."
With sadness, I looked at her. "Abigail, I thought of none of this when you agreed to come with me. I had no idea I would forever cut off from all we know of home, so I want to say now you are free to go. The fluyt is here. We've a good crew. Tilly is a most able sailing-master and he can return you to England."
She filled my glass with ale. "You talk foolishness. I am no child to want only the glitter and the glory. There are enough women in England for that, and for all else, and good people they be, but I made my commitment to you long ago. If you stay, I stay ... and I want to stay.
"Bad as it was out there in the swamp, I came to love it, although I, too, long for your blue mountains."
"But you must realize that I must avoid contact with other Englishmen. The order for my arrest will remain in force, and any ship that comes might bring those who would take me back. From now on we are not only exiles from England, but from Englishmen."
"So be it, then. I am content."
The night was filled with small rain. We had dropped down the river a bit and anchored out of the current in the sound. Because of the darkness and the rain I kept two men on watch, wary of what might befall.
Long I lay awake, considering what must be done. With Abigail to consider, I had also to think of ways to divert her, to keep her content with our life, and I thought of several. The first and most obvious I did not think of at all. Lila did.
At daybreak I was in the cabin, charts spread out upon the great table, studying the courses of the rivers. The place Tempany had chosen I liked full well, but it was a place known to Bardle, a place where we might soon expect trouble, hence it was in my thoughts to move.
Once again we set sail and returned to the northern sound.
We were seeking out a river of which I had some small acquaintance on my previous voyage when Lila came to me with John Tilly.
"Here he is," she said.
"I see ... and a good man, too."
"Of course he is a good man. He is a man of God."
"Aren't we all?" I said gently.
"I mean," she said severely, "that John Tilly is a minister of God."
Startled, I looked at him again. "Is
this true, Tilly? I had no idea."
"You had no reason to suspect it. You found me upon a ship of pirates. I was a prisoner there until they discovered I was a capable seaman."
"Well, we can always use a man of God. Nice to have you aboard, Tilly."
"Captain Sackett," Lila said severely, "you do not seem to understand. John Tilly is a minister of God. As such he is empowered to perform marriages."
I do not think I am unusually dense, yet the thought that sprang immediately to mind was the wrong one. "Lila! You don't mean to tell me! You've found a man?"
She flushed. "That is not what I mean. I am thinking of you and Miss Tempany."
Well! For a moment I just stood there looking stupid, and then I said, "Of course ... of course, Lila. I was thinking of other things, I-"
"You had better go ask her," she said gently, then.
"The Reverend and I will discuss what is to be done."
I looked around at the grinning sailors. Jeremy, who was chuckling, Jublain with his mocking smile, and Pim Burke. "Don't look so damned superior!" I said irritably. "That's why she came out here. It is just what we've planned."
"She's down in the waist," Pim said, grinning like a pleased ape. "Tell her about it."
Abruptly, I turned my back upon the lot of them and went down the ladder to where she stood alone near the rigging, watching the riverbanks not so far off.
She looked up as I drew near. "You know he loved you very much," she said.
"Who?"
"Father. He spoke to me of it many times."
"He was a good man, a strong, kindly man."
We stood by the rail looking shoreward. A heron flew up from the swamp back of the trees and banked away on slowly flapping wings.
"I want to build a stockade," I said, "with the buildings all inside, a place on a hill with a good field of fire all around. It will have to be close to the river so ships and boats can come in close.
"Then I want to get a vegetable garden and some grain growing, and to plant a small orchard."
"I'd like that."
"By the way, there's a man up on the afterdeck you should know, a very special kind of man."
She turned and looked at me. "You mean there's somebody I haven't met?"
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