Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (43 page)

Ananias ran out of his house still chewing his breakfast. A Croatoan canoe! Did the savages bring news of John White?

“Who comes?” Ananias called, shielding his eyes from the morning sun as he squinted toward the man in the tower.

“‘Tis Manteo!” the lookout called. “I’faith, ‘tis Manteo himself!”

The noise and the news brought colonists scurrying from all the houses, and when Manteo and his companions stepped onto the shore, they were caught up in joyful embraces and questions.

Manteo said nothing, however, until he stood before Ananias. “I will speak in private with the council,” Manteo said, his dark eyes grave with some secret knowledge.

A tangible hush fell over the crowd, and they parted wordlessly as Ananias gestured to the other council members and led the way to the church.

Thomas Colman was praying in the church when the group of men entered. Ananias asked him to leave.

“No,” Manteo said, putting his hand across Ananias
’ chest. “The man of God will stay.”

The council members looked at one another, then led the way to the table in the front of the room. They took seats, but Manteo stood, his stalwart companions a constant shadow behind him.

“The English men of Croatoan took wives of my people,” Manteo said, raising his eyes to the minister in a swift, keen look. “The English men of Croatoan misused the women and killed them. One woman, Chepi, had only lived fourteen summers, but she was taken by the English and killed. Chepi,” Manteo paused, suddenly a dark and vigilant presence in the room, “was my sister.”

Ananias felt the room swirl slowly around him. Thomas Colman paled visibly. “How can this be?” the minister asked, placing his hands upon the table. “We were just with the men, and they agreed not to take Croatoan wives.”

“They had been married many moons,” Manteo answered. “After you—” he pointed abruptly to Ananias and Thomas, “—came, the women were no longer wanted.”

“I talked to Richard Taverner,” Ananias said, raising his hand. “Surely something went wrong. He told me that the men had married, and agreed that the women would be returned safely to their village if the men no longer wanted their wives.”

“Taverner is dead, too,” Manteo answered, sending a chill up Ananias’ spine. “And do you not understand? If a man does not treasure a thing of great worth, he will despise it.”

Thomas Colman cleared his throat to speak: “Then he will be punished, for God will always punish the wicked.”

Manteo ignored the minister. “Alawa, Sokanon, Wikimak, Nijlon, Nattawosew, Kimi, Chepi,” he said. “Their mothers and sisters weep for them. Their fathers and brothers cry for vengeance.”

“God help us,” Ananias replied reflexively.

“Though the other Indian nations urge us to make war against our English brothers, we will not,” Manteo said, his eyes clouded with hazy sadness. “But we will not give our daughters and sisters to be married to the English.”

The other council members regarded Manteo in silent shock, but Ananias nodded slowly. “
‘Tis well done, Manteo,” he said, nodding in agreement. “We will not ask for your daughters.”

With the dignity and power of a great buck, Manteo turned silently and left the church, his companions following. The council members stared at one another for a moment, then John Sampson thrust his fist into Thomas Colman
’s face. “See what you have done! If you had said nothing, this tragedy would not have happened.”

“I am not to blame for the base impulses of evil men,” Thomas protested, holding his hands before his face. “If they had followed the Word of God, none of this would have happened. And now, despite their evil, right has been restored.”

Roger Bailie had watched the entire scene with no comment, and now he tented his fingers before his face. “In my dealings with the savages, sirs, I have learned that what they don’t say is oft more important than what we hear. Manteo said the Croatoan would not war against us, but what of the Roanoacs? Or the Chesapeakes? The Croatoans have been a voice in our favor for these many months, but the other tribes would seize upon any excuse to destroy us. In days to come, will the Croatoan support us as ardently as they have in the past?”

Ananias chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. The old man had a point. Though they had not made an enemy in this harsh action, they had lost powerful friends.
‘Twould be better to punish the erring Englishmen and restore the Croatoan’s good will than to do nothing.

“Have ten men make sail in the pinnace on the morrow,” he said, standing. “We have yet another mission to accomplish on Croatoan. And you sir—” he pointed at the minister, “this time, you shall remain here.”

The pinnace sailed easily down the coast and anchored off Croatoan, but Ananias felt his stomach churn and tighten into a knot as the shallop was lowered into the water. ‘Twas the first time no lookout had run forward to greet them.

“All ashore,” Ananias called with a confidence he did not feel.

Within ten minutes, the handful of men stood in what remained of the lookout village at Croatoan. Only smoldering ashes and blackened poles remained of the huts, and in the center clearing a heap of fly-covered bodies lay bloating in the sun.

“The savages!” John Sampson muttered under his breath. “Did Manteo lie to us?”

Ananias shook his head and pointed to a battle-axe that lay halfway buried in the back of an Englishman’s skull. “I have seen those markings before, on the day George Howe was murdered,” he said, iron in his voice. “‘Twas the Roanoacs. Manteo and his people are not to blame.”

“What do we do?” Henry Browne asked, his bright blue eyes wide with horror.

“We bury them,” Ananias said, sheathing the dagger he had automatically pulled from his belt. “And then we visit the Croatoan village. And any five of you who are willing—” he glanced at the men on the beach, “—may remain with Manteo’s people, for someone must still post a lookout for John White.”

The flashing eyes of Ananias Dare greeted the minister when Thomas opened his door. “I give you good day, Reverend,” Ananias said, stepping forward as if he would push his way into the minister
’s house. “I have a story to share with you.”

“A story?” Against his better judgment, Thomas stepped aside.

Ananias entered and tossed his hat onto the pile of books covering the board. From the expression of disgust on his visitor’s face, Thomas knew the man had noticed the stale and dank smell of the house. The hearth fire was as cold, the dishes on the board dirty.

But Ananias said nothing about the house. “Yes, a story. Of an island where twenty-and-eight men have been buried, murdered in their sleep by the Roanoacs.”

Thomas swallowed against the unfamiliar constriction in his throat and forced a light-hearted note in his voice. “Would you joke with me, Ananias?” he said, sinking onto a stool.

“I am not joking.”

Thomas felt his hands begin to tremble against his will.

“Our destruction has begun, Thomas. The peace we have labored so mightily to protect has been compromised because you insisted that the heathen weren
’t good enough to marry—”

“I preached nothing but the Word of God!”

“You preached your own opinions! The Indian women on Croatoan were converts. They believed more in the grace of God than you do, Thomas Colman!” Ananias’ voice carried through the open windows, and from the corner of his eye Thomas saw two women outside stop and stare at the small house.

“Lower your voice!” he hissed. He
stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “I preached only what I believe to be true, and I must stand by my convictions.”

“Then tell me this, reverend. If your convictions are so pure and holy, where is your godly wife?”

Thomas felt his mouth go dry. “You know she is with the savages.”

Ananias nodded. “You forget, sir, by marriage I am a kinsman to your wife, and I know her well. I know she is a devout woman, one who knows and loves God, and yet she could not live with you. And though I know you think me nothing but a lecher and a sinner, let me tell you that at least I recognize my sin. I made a mistake once, I have an illegitimate son in England, and I am forgiven. I admit it freely now, I don
’t care if the world knows!”

The anger in him bubbled as a living thing, and he came closer, bringing his face within inches of Thomas
’. “So why, sir, am I, a sinner, happy with my wife while you, a perfect minister, drive yours away? Can you answer that question?”

Thomas blinked and pulled his face away even as Ananias
’ words rang in his head. But the man was furious, crazy with fear, mayhap, worried that the savages would attack . . .

“I think you are confused,” Thomas answered, maintaining his dignity with difficulty. “My wife has nothing to do with your sin, and you are wrong to boast of it so openly in this village—”

In three steps, Ananias turned and left the house, slamming the door as he left. The space where he had stood vibrated gently, and a remnant of his wrathful presence remained in the room, a palpable afterimage that faded only after some moments had passed.

Thomas fell weakly onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. Cold terror lay in the pit of his stomach, fear that Ananias
’ words might be true. All reason left him, and for the first time in his life he could neither pray, read, nor think. He curled into a tight ball, drawing his knees stiffly before his chest, and waited for the darkness to claim him.

Forty-one

A
board the
Hopewell
in the western ocean, John White sighed impatiently. The ship upon which he travelled had been chasing Spanish treasure ships since April, nearly losing its cargo and its crew in the process. Edward Spicer and the
Moonlight
had rendezvoused with the
Hopewell
during the early days of July, but Captain Cocke had not seemed inclined to turn toward Virginia until nearly the end of that month.

Unfortunately, as White had tried to warn the captain, July and August meant rough weather at sea, and the
Hopewell
and the
Moonlight
began to encounter the dark winds and rain of hurricane weather as they worked their way up the Florida coast. White dipped his pen into an inkwell and scratched an entry in his journal:

On the very first of August the wind scanted and from thence forward we had very foul weather with much rain, thundering and great spouts, which fell round about us nigh unto our ships.

The bad weather continued until the ninth of August, then a calm enabled the two vessels to anchor off the shores of a narrow, sandy island west of Wococon. On the morning of the twelfth, the ships found their way to the long tongue of shoals that extended outward from the barrier islands, and toward the evening of the fifteenth White was able to report that they were about three leagues off Port Ferdinando.

White stood at the rail in the twilight and squinted his failing eyes beyond the barrier islands. At least two columns of smoke rose from the direction of Roanoke Island, and White felt his heart begin to beat faster. They were alive! And they had waited for him.

Because he could not risk setting even a shallop into the treacherously shallow waters in darkness, Captain Cocke promised they would venture inland at the morning’s first light.

At sunset in the Croatoan Indian village, Manteo walked to the hut where the five Englishmen lived. Quiet and surly, in the two weeks since their arrival they had done little to ingratiate themselves with the people of his clan, and they seemed to live in fear that the Indians would yet take revenge for the deaths of the seven women.

He stood outside the doorway and the Englishmen’s fire lit him against the black night. “One of the children saw two ships on the sea this afternoon,” he announced, crossing his arms.

The Englishmen inside the hut looked at one another, then Henry Browne, their self-appointed leader, stood to face Manteo. “How do we know you are telling the truth?” he asked, his eyes glinting with the light of hostility. “What if we go to the sea and find the Roanoacs there to ambush us?”

Manteo did not blink. “Go or stay,” he said, backing away. He didn’t trust these men enough to turn his back on them. They were like the long guns of the English, loud, smelly, and apt to explode at the wrong time.

“Mayhap he speaks the truth,” another Englishman interrupted. “In truth, that
’s why we’re here. We’re supposed to be watching the sea.”

“Yes,” Browne answered. “Or mayhap Spanish ships roam the shore, and Manteo and his people want us to be taken to Spanish dungeons or serve as slaves upon one of their galleons. I
’d as lief be killed by Roanoacs than taken by the popish Spaniards.”

“But what the ships were sent by Gov
’nor White?”