Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (6 page)

Under a canopy of silent oaks on the trail, Opechancanough killed the missionary monks, burned their bodies, and scattered their clothing. Moving on to the mission, he identified himself as Don Luis and called a greeting. After being admitted through the gates, he and his warriors massacred the remainder of the Spaniards. In the quick skirmish fueled by murderous anger, Opechancanough received a cut across his left cheek, the only wound ever to mar his strong body. The cut eventually healed, leaving a smooth white scar, but the hate in Opechancanough’s heart did not.

That bloody day was February fourth, 1571, and since that time Opechancanough chose to hate all things Spanish and all things having to do with Christ and the clothed men’s God. With hatred and bitterness to guide him, Opechancanough dealt with his younger brother Powhatan as one deals with a simple and uncomprehending child. ‘Twas under Opechancanough’s guidance that the simple chief Powhatan put together an empire which grew from six original tribes to more than thirty-two. Their system of autocratic control was more complex than any other of the Algonquin Indians, and there was no doubt that the tribes of the Powhatan had become the mightiest in the land.

Frightened by news and ideas from across the great ocean, Powhatan had no concept of the power of the enemy, so through the years Opechancanough invented prophecies and dreams that appealed to Powhatan and effectively guided the great chief’s dealings with the clothed men.

But the English were not Spaniards, Opechancanough mused, watching the red-haired boy struggle up a hilly path with the two children at his side. In his dealings with the English at Ocanahonan, Opechancanough had felt strangely ill at ease. These men did not speak Spanish, so he was unable to spy on them, nor did they pray at the feet of statues and require priests to beg heaven for aid. But the English talked of God and his son the Christ, and they, too, carried long guns of thunder and sharp swords.

But they did not know that he would not underestimate them, nor would he behave like other unsophisticated savages. In that lay his advantage.

six

W
eromacomico, the village of the chief of the Powhatan, lay nestled against the edge of a mighty eastward-flowing river. Ringed with the tallest timber palisade Fallon had ever seen, such a mighty wall surely meant that the chief inside had mighty enemies.

No gauntlet of torture waited outside the village, for the chief expected no captives from this war party. But double lines of jubilant women and children lined the path inside the village, and their shouts of victory nearly deafened Fallon’s ears as he was pushed forward between the lines. Curious hands reached out to touch his clothing and hair as he stumbled along, and he endured the probing without complaint until a gnarled warrior knelt and reached out for Gilda.

Anger rose in Fallon’s chest like bile, and he swung an elbow into the old man’s face. The brave toppled and fell over in the dust, and Fallon was certain he had sealed his doom with that reckless move. But the other Indians laughed at the man’s discomfiture and the warriors behind Fallon urged him forward.

The three children of Ocanahonan were taken to the center of the camp and tied with leather straps to a tall pole. Inquisitive villagers quickly surrounded them, jabbering in a babble of confusion as they pointed at the captives with wide eyes and superior smiles. Fallon was able to pick out certain phrases through the din:

“The girl has sky eyes.”

“The boys are scratched with the mark of the Mangoak tribe, long ago defeated by the Powhatan.”

“The one with red hair has hot blood.”

For the first time that day, Gilda began to whimper, and
Fallon spoke to her in English: “Fear not, Gilda, for God is surely with us. Do not cry, for they will see tears as a sign of weakness.”

For an answer, she rested her head under his arm.

“Did you find the men who make copper arrows?”

Powhatan wasted no time in seeking his answers, and Opechancanough eased himself onto a grass mat on the floor and arranged his blanket about his shoulders before speaking. “No. The clothed men who beat the copper were gone. Gepanocon has hidden them.”

“And the village?”

“The women and children are slaughtered. The village elders are dead. Ritanoe will not trouble the Powhatan for vengeance, for her power is gone.”

Powhatan grunted in satisfaction, then folded his arms and looked at his brother. “You have brought three children.”

“Yes, my brother. They—interested me. The oldest boy is of the English. He speaks the English tongue and the Algonquin; he commands the two young ones. Both he and the younger boy are marked with the sign of the Mangoak tribe.”

“The Mangoak are dead.”

“Yes.” Opechancanough nodded, mindful of the other elders’ listening ears. “The mighty Powhatan have devoured the Mangoak. But it is said that some of the Mangoak escaped to live with the clothed men at Ocanahonan. They wore the clothes of the English and worshipped the Christ.”

Powhatan said nothing, but stared straight ahead.

Opechancanough went on. “The girl is Indian, but she has the blue eyes of the English. She is marked, too.”

“What tribe?”

“The Powhatan.”

Powhatan stiffened, then turned slowly to stare at his brother. “How can this be?” he asked, unfolding his arms. “No Powhatan lived at Ocanahonan.”

“No,” Opechancanough answered, feeling his way carefully. He suspected that he knew the girl’s origin, but his answer might insult the chief.

He picked up a stick and began to write in the dirt, an act that never failed to inspire awe in the others. “Do you remember, mighty Powhatan, five winters past, when your son Kitchi hunted in the woods near Ocanahonan? The deer were plenteous that year.”

Powhatan nodded, and Opechancanough went on writing and speaking. “A man of Ocanahonan had promised me a life in exchange for one of our captives. I took a young girl from that place. That night I gave her to Kitchi.”

Powhatan tilted his head slightly, listening.

Opechancanough wrote in the sand silently, then put down the stick as if he had just written a message of great significance. “Later that night, the girl escaped, but not before we tortured the Englishman who had come to rescue her. But it is my belief that the English girl gave birth to the child who waits outside, for no other Powhatan has had any dealings with the women of that place.”

Powhatan leaned forward and peered out the doorway of his hut as if he would judge the resemblance of the child to his son, but the press of people prevented him from looking outward. He settled back and crossed his arms again.

“Her mark is genuine,” Opechancanough went on, guessing his brother’s unspoken thoughts. “For what Indian would betray his clan?”

Powhatan picked up his pipe and inhaled deeply for several minutes, then passed the pipe to his brother. “Let the boy with copper hair be killed,” he pronounced, his voice rumbling through the stillness of the hut, “for he is old enough to desire vengeance. Let the Mangoak boy be sold into slavery to the Tripanick tribe.”

“And the girl?” Opechancanough questioned gently.

Powhatan’s dark eyes seemed to gentle. “Let her be given to my daughter, Matoaka. Time will tell if Kitchi will claim her as his daughter. If he does not, she shall grow up as a sister to my own Pocahontas.”

Fallon knew that their lives were under discussion in the hut into which the war chief had disappeared, but whether the discussion would take minutes, hours, or days, he could not guess. He knew nothing of the Powhatan but their reputation for cruelty, and if they did by some miracle choose to show mercy, he was not certain he wanted to live within the tribe who had killed his family and destroyed a civilization far greater than they could possibly realize.

The burning sun of hot June set the fair skin on his nose to sizzling, and he heard hot, dry coughs from both of the younger children. So it had come to this! He had been entrusted with their lives and had done the best he could, only to lose them to the murderous enemy who had killed their parents. They had fled, suffered, hungered, and thirsted only to be mown down by a rain of arrows. Or mayhap they were to be tortured before they died . . .

Fallon herded his fearful thoughts together and offered them in a wordless prayer as the dignified war chief he knew as Opechancanough stooped through the low doorway of the chief’s hut and came to stand before the three children. No longer afraid, Fallon raised his eyes to meet his adversary’s and what he saw there startled him. The chief’s dark eyes stirred with intelligence, cunning, and undisguised hatred.

Fallon involuntarily stiffened when the chief pulled a knife from his belt, but Opechancanough only cut Noshi free from the pole. He gestured to a warrior who waited a respectful distance away, then handed the warrior the lengths of leather strips that bound Noshi’s wrists. As the warrior pulled Noshi through the crowd, the war chief folded his arms and spoke to Fallon in the Algonquin tongue. “You will die,” he said simply, smiling in satisfaction as he stared at Fallon. “The younger boy will be sold to the Tripanicks. They are old enemies of the Mangoaks, so it is fitting, is it not?”

Fallon lifted his shoulder in an indifferent shrug even as his hands itched to cover his ears and block out the sound of Noshi’s frantic cries. His mind raced for a solution to their dilemma, but there were no answers, no way out. “And the girl?” he asked, trying desperately to keep any trace of fear from his voice.

Opechancanough’s smile turned nasty as his dagger slipped under the leather strap that held Gilda to the pole. “According to her mark, she is Powhatan,” he said. “She will remain here.” He turned and motioned toward a woman who waited near a hut, then murmured in something in her ear when she approached. Nodding in respect, the woman smiled at Gilda and tugged on the leather leash that bound her hands. Gilda hesitated a moment and glanced back at Fallon with wide, frightened eyes.

“You swear by your gods you will not harm her?” Fallon said, surrendering to the overwhelming flood of emotion that forced him to beg for mercy. He stared after her small form as if he could permanently imprint her image on his mind.

The war chief smiled again, and the white scar on his cheek gleamed in the afternoon sun. “Why would I harm one of my own people?”

Fallon ignored the disquieting thought that Gilda might in any way be related to the monster before him. He forced a smile to his face. “Go in peace,” he called to Gilda, straining uselessly against the bonds that held him tight. “And God will go with you.”

The Indian woman put her hands on Gilda’s shoulders and led her firmly away even as the girl began to cry and reach back for Fallon. “Go,” Fallon cried, feeling as if whole sections of his body were being torn away. “And forgive me, Gilda!”

He hung his head, ashamed to lift his eyes. He had been given a charge, and he had failed miserably.

Once Gilda and Noshi were out of sight, Opechancanough’s mood changed in the flash of an instant. He leaned forward, his rank breath blowing across Fallon’s face. “Tell me,” he demanded harshly, his eyes narrowing to twin slits of hate. “You are from Ocanahonan?”

Fallon hesitated, and the war chief grinned, understanding. “You are. Then know this, boy, before you die.” He pulled a knife from its leather sheath on his thigh and Fallon felt the sharpened blade bite into the tender flesh of his neck. “The girl, whom your people have marked with the cross of God, will remain with us. She will be taught to love the people who destroyed your city. She will come to revere Powhatan, she will worship his gods and not Jesus the Christ, and when her time comes, she will marry one of Powhatan’s warriors. And if the English come to avenge the deaths of those at Ocanahonan, that girl will die with the warriors of the Powhatan.”

Each word was like another log upon the fire of self-guilt in Fallon’s heart, and he cringed before the verbal lashing. Opechancanough finished his prophecy with a swift, light swipe of his knife across Fallon’s throat, and Fallon’s knees buckled under him. He slumped to the ground, supported only by the leather thongs that held his arms to the pole behind him.

Opechancanough smiled in victory. “Take this coward away,” he called to a warrior standing outside the chief’s hut. “Take him outside the village and properly cut his throat. He does not deserve to die like an Indian, and we will let the animals have his bones.”

The warrior’s spear pricked through the fabric of Fallon’s shirt with every step, and Fallon heard his escort laugh as a sticky trickle of blood began to seep down his back. They were walking downhill to a clearing, and Fallon knew once they reached it he would either be speared in the back and left as carrion, or the warrior would turn him around and slit his throat as Opechancanough had suggested.

He walked with heavy, defeated steps. Had Rowtag and the others felt this same overwhelming loss as they waited in Ocanahonan for the rising sun and the renewal of the battle? Had their arms and legs ached from sheer hopeless frustration as the fateful encounter approached?