Blue Birds (13 page)

Like the becalmed winds,

I'm less anxious now.

We,

all of us,

pick through the ruins from yesterday's storm:

the reeds torn from rooftops,

doors thrown across the common,

benches piled like street rubbish,

branches strewn everywhere.

I gather wood

knowing Father and the other assistants

are talking to the Governor,

demanding he desert us so he might

direct supply ships,

ask for help moving to Chesapeake,

beg for rescue from the quick foes we've made.

George waits at the barracks

where they're sequestered,

acts as messenger

to tell us news,

but as of yet,

there is none,

only a silent building.

Then Mr. Dare

opens the door

and signals to George,

who runs from woodpile to woodpile

spreading latest word.

His freckled cheeks

are burned a deepened red.

Before he reaches me,

I know what he will say.

The men have come to an agreement.

There is no turning back.

I remind Mother of the berries

the day we came,

and she allows me to search for them,

if I stay close to the boys who are hunting.

George assures her I'll be safe.

No Indians will approach us

with his musket near.

We pass Manteo,

who shores up the wall

now further damaged

from the wind and rain.

He nods to me,

and I to him,

a reminder of the secret we share.

Once we're beyond the gate,

I send the boys on,

for they are just as anxious

to be rid of me

as I am of them.

I pretend to search nearby

until they disappear.

Footsteps fall

so close we might be seen.

I reach for Alis's hand,

pull her behind the huckleberry.

The English boys

swing their weapons side to side

as they lurch about.

No deer will approach

such movement and noise.

How serious they are,

trying on

the stern faces of men.

Hidden in the bushes,

I pretend I am one of them.

Alis bites her lips

to keep from laughing.

The boys approach.

We scramble down,

rush to fill our bowls with berries.

“Good-bye,” Alis whispers,

leaves our hiding place,

calls to the boys to wait.

Ferdinando and the Governor

will sail on the morrow.

I write to Joan,

try to describe

this remarkable world.

I do not speak of hardship,

only the sharp ocean air,

my baby Samuel,

the blue bird that makes a home here.

I cannot mention Kimi.

Fathers encourage sons

to send letters, too,

for their mothers to learn of their safety,

for a small measure of comfort.

Will they tell what happened

with Mr. Howe?

How our men mistakenly fought

our only friends?

And what of George?

Is his mother back in England,

hoping for news of their arrival?

I shudder to think of the message

he might compose,

then shake my head,

remember him marching with that musket,

anger dancing in his eyes.

Surely it is better

no one sends her word.

The Governor,

bedecked in his finest clothing,

proclaims to all

his intention to sail away,

tell of our difficulties,

send back supplies and more settlers

next spring, the earliest moment

ships can come again.

Though the assistants voted for this,

the faces of those around me

show not everyone is pleased

with his leaving.

Governor White acts

as if it's his idea to go,

he says,

come spring, the rest of us

will sail to Chesapeake,

leave Manteo behind

to rule for England.

“There is one thing

I must tell you,” the Governor says.

He hesitates and starts again.

“I can't go without your knowing.”

Like the winds that hinted at the hurricane,

whispers stir the crowd,

and all shove closer to the Governor,

whose wearied eyes

are those of an old man.

“My last time here,

we struggled with the Roanoke.

Our soldiers attacked their camp,

beheaded their leader, Wingina.”

My heart beats

wildly within me.

“In haste we sailed home,

not knowing

a new ship had left

with more soldiers to be stationed here.

I prayed we would find them safe.”

He says no more,

his shoulders hunched like one defeated.

Father strides to his side.

“Why did you

not speak of this

sooner?”

“At first, there was no reason.

We were bound for Chesapeake,

where new land, different tribes awaited,

a chance to start anew.

But when Ferdinando left us,

I did not want to frighten,

prayed for an opportunity to make peace.”

His voice quakes.

“It was a foolish hope.”

“No harm will come to us

while I am here,” Manteo says.

Father laughs.

“What power do you have,

one man against two tribes?”

“I have gone to the Croatoan,

explained our mistake.

My people won't try again to harm us

as they did that day onshore.”

“He's the Queen's man,”

the Governor says.

“Three years I've trusted him.”

“And how does that

protect us?” Father says.

The Governor strokes Virginia's cheek,

who's cradled in his daughter's arms.

“If there is any reason

for you to leave

before my homecoming,

carve where you've gone

on the trunk of a tree.

If there's any sort of danger,” he says,

quietly this time,

“include a cross in your carving.”

He knows we are not safe here,

yet he departs,

abandons us

to Roanoke.

All but the small boat

sail to deepest waters.

The men watch the village,

say the English remain.

It is a comfort knowing

my friend stays near.