Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (19 page)

Two warriors stood to escort Smith from the chief’s hut, and Powhatan did not look at him again.

fourteen

G
ilda felt someone shaking her shoulder in the dim hour before dawn. “Wake up, Numees, we must hurry!”

“
Why?” Gilda murmured, sitting up. Pocahontas knelt beside her, a desperate look on her face.

“
They will kill the bearded man when the sun rises. The priests are already outside to sing the man’s death song.”

Gilda looked toward the doorway of their hut.
Life did stir outside by the central fire; drums beat softly in time to the priests’ chant.

The morning air was sharp and cold, and though Gilda wanted nothing more than to crawl back under her fur to sleep, Pocahontas would not let her rest.
“Up, Gilda, for we must see this thing! Do you think the clothed men really have the power of life and death? I have heard that they are gods, that they cannot be killed—”

“
They can be killed,” Gilda answered, certainty in her voice.

Pocahontas stared at her for a moment, then caught Gilda
’s hands and pulled her from the pile of furs and out into the clearing. The village fire beckoned warmly as it danced in the wind with whoofs and puffs and streams of sparks that whirled off into the darkness of early morning. Bleary-eyed warriors danced slowly around the fire, still dazed with sleep, but Powhatan sat with his arms resting on his knees, his eyes intent upon the dancing flames. His conjuror stood at his left hand, his eyes closed as he earnestly murmured a chant in his nasal voice, and from a nearby hut the prisoner was led forth, his pale face streaked with sweat even in the cool of December.

His gaze swept the assembled group.
For a moment Gilda thought his eyes rested upon her with a shock of surprise, but then a pair of warriors yanked on the strings that bound his arms and forced him to kneel before a large stone upon the ground. Four warriors drew near to hold the prisoner with the points of their spears while others, armed with feathered and painted war clubs, danced around the fire and awaited the conjuror’s orders.

The conjuror continued his chanting, the dancers worked themselves into an increasing frenzy, and more women and children spilled from their huts to witness the execution.
One of the chief’s wives, a broad woman, stepped in front of Pocahontas and Gilda. Agitated, Pocahontas yanked on Gilda’s arm and led her to another opening in the circle where they could see without obstruction.

Gilda watched the dancers and tugged on Pocahontas
’s leather skirt to ask a question, but the older girl had fixed her attention on the prisoner. In her soft and limpid eyes Gilda saw the same affection she had shown a wild rabbit she had freed from a snare the day before.

Sweat poured from the dancing warriors
’ nearly naked bodies as their hysteria mounted, and rivulets of water ran over their shoulders and down their faces. The red paint they had applied to their chests and shoulders glistened like blood in the firelight, and their delirium had reached a frantic pace by the time the first streaks of daylight appeared in the east.

The conjuror abruptly ceased his chant and looked toward Powhatan.
Panting with exertion and in anticipation, the warriors around the fire stopped dancing and tightened their grips around their war clubs. The Englishman who lay with his head on the stone shifted his weight slightly as his eyes closed in resignation.

Powhatan lifted his hand, and every eye turned to face the condemned prisoner.
But before the chief could lower his hand, Pocahontas broke free of Gilda’s grip and flew over the sand toward the Englishman. “Please, mighty father,” she said, throwing her arms over the bearded stranger as she knelt by his side, “for my sake, spare this man.”

The prisoner
’s eyes flew open at her touch, and a smile of intense gratitude flooded his face at the sight of the girl by his side. Powhatan frowned and stood to his feet. He beheld the prisoner and his beloved daughter for a moment and Gilda held her breath, unsure of what the chief might do. In the time she’d been at Weromacomico she had never seen Powhatan deny Pocahontas anything, but never had his daughter made such a significant request as this—

Powhatan
’s mouth gentled. “For you, Matoaka, my own Pocahontas, it shall be done,” he said, nodding slowly. “Let all know that the clothed man is hers, he is forever in her debt.”

The serpent of jealousy struck at Gilda
’s heart as she watched Pocahontas lift the condemned man to his feet. The older girl gazed adoringly at the Englishman, and Gilda knew Pocahontas had found a new pet.

After his initial amazement at the unbelievable turn of events, John Smith thanked God for yet another divine rescue and began to ingratiate himself with his Indian hosts.
‘Twas clear that the chief’s young daughter considered him some sort of living toy, and for a few days he did everything she bid him to do—he helped her carry water, allowed her to comb his hair and beard, cavorted with the other warriors around the fire for her entertainment. Indeed, he had been halfway through some strange ceremony of her choosing when he realized that she had arranged for Powhatan to make him an honorary member of the tribe. He went along with the ritual gladly, for peace with this mighty chief would be necessary if an English outpost was to survive in Virginia.

And so he drank bitter tea, ate pungent, unidentified meat, danced with the priests and warriors, and allowed them to cut his hand and mingle their blood with his own.
He shed his doublet and breeches and donned a breechcloth and fur mantle, indistinguishable from his savage hosts but for the thick hair on his face and body.

While he lived among the tribe, he studied them carefully and found their lives practical, useful, primitive, and logical.
They lived as a large family with the chief serving as the father figure, and children ran freely from one woman to another as if all filled the role of mother. Indeed, the chief alone had so many wives and children ‘twas impossible to tell which child had been birthed by which woman, but among the children there was one oddity—the little blue-eyed girl they called Numees.

Smith supposed Numees was Pocahontas
’ sister, for she lived in the older girl’s shadow and shared the sharp, clear features and delicate feminine charms of the chief’s daughter. Her skin was as golden as sunlight on an autumn day, her lashes dark half moons against her cheek, her hair plaited in the same intricate pattern as Pocahontas’. On the rare occasions when the little girl laughed, she did so in the same vocal tones as her elder sister, but from where did she inherit the blue eyes?

Smith paused one night to ask Powhatan about the child, but the chief murmured only that the girl was Kitchi
’s daughter and Pocahontas’ niece. And though Smith strongly suspected that the child had English blood in her veins, he was not certain of the fact until the night when he happened to warn the child away from the fire.

‘
Twas the twenty-fifth of December, Christmas, and a bitterly cold night. Oblivious to the Christian holiday, after supper the savage children had danced in a frenzied effort around the fire as much to keep warm, Smith supposed, as to celebrate the coming of winter. Young Numees did not seem to know the dances as well as the other children, and she had difficulty knowing when to cut in and out of the circle, so ‘twas no wonder that she wandered too close to the fire and accidently ignited the long streamers of the cornhusk doll she carried in her hands. Instinctively, Smith yelled, “Fire!” The child dropped the doll immediately and her face flushed as if she had done something wrong.

A thread of suspicion wound itself around Smith
’s imagination in that moment, and he edged into the lines of dancing children until he was close enough to reach out and grab Numees’ arm.

She jerked in alarm at his touch, but said nothing when he knelt down to talk to her.
“Are you all right?” he asked in English. He stared into those icy blue eyes. “Were you burned?”

She stood like a deer transfixed by torchlight, but gave no sign of understanding him.
Sighing, John Smith drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “‘Tis Christmas, you know,” he said, lowering his voice so that only Numees could hear him. “Oh, how I remember the songs of Christmas. Do you know them? There’s one I favor—”

He cleared his throat and began to sing:
“Good Christian men, rejoice with heart and soul and voice—” He paused. The little girl’s eyes had half-closed, and she hummed along with him as he finished the verse. “Give ye heed to what we say: news, news, Jesus Christ is born today. Ox and ass before him bow and—”

He paused and let her finish.
“He is in the manger now . . .”

Her eyes flew open as if she had betrayed a secret, but Smith smiled and reached for her hands.
“Do not fear, child,” he whispered. “So you do know how to speak English?”

Stiff with fear, she shook her head.

He smiled. “Ah, so you don’t understand a word of what I’m saying. Came you from the English village of Roanoke?”

She shook her head again.

“Ah, ‘tis no matter,” he said, warming her cold hands in his. “Your mama and papa, are they near this place?”

Again, the wordless head shaking.

“Dead, then?”

She nodded slowly.

“And y’are alone here?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and, afraid she would cry out, Smith smiled in an effort to calm her.
“I see you have a friend in Pocahontas. She is my friend, too, Numees, and I will not hurt you. For we are alike, you see, we both speak English, and we both have blue eyes, though mine are not so pretty as yours.”

For a moment, she smiled, then the guarded expression fell over her face again.
Smith glanced across the fire and saw that Powhatan watched them carefully.

He dropped her hands.
“You must stay close to Pocahontas, Numees, because the chief loves her very much and she loves you. And if I come again to visit, you and I will talk in English, but you should not speak it to anyone else in this place. Do you understand?”

She stared at the ground as if she hadn
’t heard him.

“
Do you understand, Numees?” he repeated.

“
My name is Gilda,” she said in startlingly clear English. “My mama and papa gave me that name.”

And before he could question her further, she flew away to join the other dancing children.

Gilda. The memory hit him with the force of lighting. The boy, Fallon, had told him of a girl with blue eyes who had escaped with him from Ocanahonan. This, then, was the child the boy had been so anxious to protect.

Smith shifted uneasily as he recalled his promise that he would find the girl and send her to join Fallon in England.
He had never dreamed he’d actually find the girl’ he had only made the promise to get the boy safely away as soon as possible. ‘Twas a promise he could not keep. Removing the girl from Powhatan’s camp would of certain be seen as an act of treachery. He would be fortunate to depart with his own life.

Better to leave the child in Powhatan
’s care. She behaved like a savage, why should she not spend her life as one? And if by some quirk of fate he should ever happen to encounter Fallon Bailie again, ‘twould be an easy enough matter to reply that searching for one girl in the wilderness was well nigh equivalent to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

When John Smith sensed that his young guardian had begun to tire of his company, he approached her father and asked for permission to return to his home at Jamestown.

The chief’s eyes shone bright and bemused over the low fire in his hut. “We had wondered how long you would remain,” the interpreter explained. “A grown man is not a proper companion for a young girl, even one as playful as our Pocahontas.”

“
She is a delight, and y’are a lucky father,” Smith answered, bowing gravely to the chief. “And God hath used her to make peace betwixt our peoples. But I must return to my fort, for my friends have need of me. And of course, for your hospitality and the gifts you have given me—” he pointed to the fur mantle on his back, “—I will arrange to have gifts sent to you, great chief. What can I send from our city?”

Powhatan smiled in pleasure when he understood the translated message, and after a moment of thought, the chief relayed his wishes.
The interpreter turned to Smith. “The chief wishes for a grindstone and two cannons,” he said. “Those gifts, and no others, will do. We do not want beads or copper pots or axe heads.”

“
Very well.” Smith smiled and nodded. “It shall be as you say. But there is one mystery, great chief, my people want to understand. It concerns a colony of clothed people like myself, who once lived at Roanoke. Have you knowledge of them?”

Something stirred in the chief
’s dark eyes, then a veil passed before them and Smith automatically braced himself for the lie that would follow. ‘Twas obvious enough that the chief had been responsible for the murder of the English at Ocanahonan. The boy, Fallon, had told the story in irrefutable details, and the blue-eyed child bore mute testimony to the existence of English in these parts. In addition, in Powhatan’s village Smith had seen copper tools and broken bits of ironwork that could never have come from an Indian forge, for the English were far advanced above the savages in metallurgy.