Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (26 page)

While her father snored in bed, Emily sat beside a solitary candle, staring at the empty space on the floor where George’s bed had lain. He had pitched a tent somewhere in the village and asked Robert Ellis and William Wythers, two younger lads, to retrieve his bed and belongings for him, and they had abashedly obliged. Unable to sleep, she’d reread her mother’s letter three times, told her about the baby’s birth, Elyoner’s asking her to nurse, and George’s awakening.

Then, her locket squeezed tightly in her hand like a child clenches its mother’s finger, she closed her misty eyes, told her mother about George’s disquieting rant, the deep pain it had dealt her; told her of Elyoner’s gentle mothering, how she’d helped her understand, place it in perspective, and resolve to help George no matter what it took from her. But, Mother, she mused, if he
does
heal, how will I ever be able to tell him I don’t love him? What if doing so pushes him back into derangement? How could I live with that? Mother, help me know what to do.

She opened her eyes, stared into the near darkness around her. And then there’s Master Hugh. I’ve been so busy helping Elyoner and caring for George I’ve neglected him, even yelled at him today when he tried to
help me. We ladies do have peculiar tempers sometimes, don’t we? Must make amends. She felt a now-familiar warmth spread through her body as she thought of Hugh Tayler, realized she’d barely thought of him for several days, wondered how that could have been, then decided to talk to him in the morning.

I miss you, Mother. Please come to us soon. And pray for me, for all of us . . . especially our two babies. Help me know what to do. I love you.

Some ten miles into the main, twenty of the tribe that had killed George Howe gathered in council around a small fire in the bark-covered lodge of their leader, their damp torsos glistening in the skittering firelight. The Panther and two of his warriors had come to them from their land, which lay toward the setting sun from the great Chesapeake water to the north.

The lodge was hot, laden with a deep, thick, smoky smell; and the leader occasionally fanned himself with a bird wing as he stared into the depths of the fire, listening intently to each speaker, considering the merits and risks of each proposal. He’d been praised by all of his people for his wisdom and foresight in moving the village deeper into the main immediately after the killing of the white man on the island. He’d known from past depredations by these people that retaliation would be swift and violent. So against the persuasions of several young, impetuous warriors, he’d decided to move the village. Earlier when he’d spoken of the Englishmen’s foolish attack on the only tribe that remained friendly to them, many had laughed out loud at their folly, agreed that only the English could commit such a blunder; and as in previous councils, proposals for ridding the land of them had been many and varied.

When not staring into the fire, the leader surreptitiously eyed the Panther, whose people were the most powerful in the region. Their headman, Wahunsunacock, was the paramount chief of a large, growing, tribal alliance, and this fact implicitly commanded the leader’s respect and deference in all matters related to war.

The previous white men had spent time near Wahunsunacock’s territory, staying for a brief time with another tribe in the area, who were tenuous, unreliable members of the alliance. And some eight moons ago, Wahunsunacock had watched as the Panther and fifty warriors overwhelmed thirteen white men who’d paddled their canoe to his territory from their island to the south—the very island inhabited by the leader’s people before the earlier Englishmen arrived. They’d captured four of these men, taken them to the village, then given them the slow death they granted to selected brave enemies so they could demonstrate their strength as warriors. They’d ripped off their fingernails and toenails, peeled strips of skin from their stomachs and faces; allowed the tribe’s women to use mussel and oyster shells to cut off their fingers, arms, and genitals; scalped them and cut them open so their insides fell out. They’d generously given these four the opportunity to display their courage and die great warrior deaths, but they’d died poorly: screamed like women, cried like children, begged for mercy, for quick death. And the women had jeered and spit on them as they screamed. So Wahunsunacock had little respect for these pitiful creatures or their bravery. But he knew from Powhatan witnesses, including the Panther, of their depredations against other peoples; therefore, he held a keen interest in their whereabouts, wanted them as far from his territory as possible and to eventually drive them from the land altogether. To that end, he’d frequently sent his most trusted warrior, the Panther, to represent him with these other tribes, in both council and combat.

For their part, the leader’s people had an unconcealed awe for both the Panther’s prowess as a warrior and his statesmanship. When the Panther spoke in council, the leader listened attentively, knew he was hearing the mind of Wahunsunacock himself, and understood that far more was at play in the Panther’s words than what he heard.

The Panther had deferred to all of the warriors in the leader’s council— let them speak first, genuinely considered their recommendations, been careful to give no indication of his opinion on any proposal though all present knew of his deep hatred for the English and his desire to annihilate them. Some accordingly feared he might push for a mass attack that would result in excessive casualties for them, but even those with such concerns
knew that the Panther’s discipline as a strategist and tactician governed his emotions. They also knew that, like all successful hunters of both animals and men, he was painstakingly patient in the hunt; ruthless, swift, and lethal in the kill. So as the Panther rose to speak, the leader shifted his eyes from the fire to the great Powhatan warrior’s face, awaited the words he knew would become their strategy.

Before he spoke, the Panther looked, for a dramatic instant, into each man’s eyes then thanked the leader for allowing him to speak. “My friends, as you know, Wahunsunacock knows of the presence of these white men in your territory. He also knows of their stupidity, but he respects the strength of their numbers and the power and range of their big sticks that bark. As you also know, he would like them to leave our lands and go back to their own land across the Big-Water-That-Cannot-Be-Drunk. But he also knows that even though their fort is not yet complete, watchers guard their camp day and night, and that without gathering many more warriors, we lack the strength for the large direct attack on them we would all like to mount. Even with the long time it takes them to load new stones into their big sticks, our casualties would be great—far greater than you or Wahunsunacock wish to bear.”

The leader relaxed his taut expression, breathed a mental sigh of relief. His people were already decimated from earlier encounters with these intruders, and they were many winters from having the number of warriors they’d counted just four winters before. So the Panther’s acknowledgement of the folly of a large frontal attack greatly raised his hopes for the future of his people.

“Our attack on the lone white man was successful because we were more in number, and he was unwary and unprepared to fight. These people now have warriors watching wherever they go, but their minds are not on their task. Their eyes search for things other than us and often linger on the women they protect; and when nothing scares them for a few days, they become lazy and overconfident, think they are safe, relax their vigilance. So we must combine this knowledge with patience and make small attacks, again and again, each time reducing their numbers and terrifying them a little more. We must also spread our attacks in time, so they may again
become lazy and complacent before the next. And if any planned attack, even up to the moment of the first war cry, looks like it may not be a complete success, we must have the discipline to leave and attack them another day. If we do these things, then perhaps in the winter, when they’re cold, starving, and weak, and we’ve reduced their numbers, we will attack their fort with fire arrows, burn it to the ground, and kill all who cower inside.” He looked at the leader. “Many days have passed since we killed the white man on the island.” He once more drifted his gaze across each man’s face then looked back at the leader. “The enemy has again become complacent, and the Panther believes that now is the right time for our next attack.”

Most had nodded agreement as he spoke; none objected. After a pause, the Panther sat. The leader then stood, looked at each member of his council. “The Panther has spoken wisely . . . we shall do as he proposes.”

Governor White sat alone in his cottage, immersed in thought. Fernandez had announced that the resupply of fresh water and wood had been completed, that the large ships would depart within a day or two. He had asked White to provide him a supply list to deliver to Raleigh, also offered to carry any posts the colonists had for their friends and relatives in England. At least he’s respectable in those regards, White thought, even though he’s a blackguard for deserting us here. I’ll yet see him in shackles in the Tower.

Though near noon, the light in the cottage was too dim for White to see well enough to read or write; so he lit a candle, leaned his head close to it to read the draft list Roger Baylye had made of necessaries for Raleigh’s anticipated resupply voyage. He hesitated for a moment, recalled the times Baylye had rescued him, kept things on an even keel. He shook his head. Such an unlikely looking leader but a natural: thinks of everything, persuasive, honest, smart headed . . . save for his proposal that I return to England. Yes, I shall make him my deputy at tomorrow’s meeting. As he looked back at the list, he compared it to his mental estimates of required supplies and skills, saw the need for but a few additions. Not enough barley for the beer we’ll need, he thought. He increased the amount of barley by fifty percent. Salt
beef—never have enough salt beef. He added more. And flour—need much more flour . . . oh yes, and more slow-spoiling vegetables, especially beans. He raised his head, thought, Roger’s gotten a good start on this, but because he hasn’t spent a year here as I have, he doesn’t yet realize that supplies of everything deplete far faster than expected.

So what additional skills do we need? He looked studiously at the wall, mentally ticked off the colony’s needed skills, noting existing shortfalls. We cannot yet depend on young Howe to fill his father’s shoes, don’t know if he’ll ever come ’round, so we must have someone to set up and operate a small foundry. And medical supplies—need three times what we now have. He thought of John Wyles. Poor miserable fellow: leg’s gangrenous; Jones can’t help him, never cut off a leg before; and Fernandez won’t take him. He’ll surely die soon, and painfully . . . a good man. He hit the table with his fist. Not a just end for him, but what can I do? . . . I know what I must do: convince Fernandez to take him and hope he gets him to England in time. He pondered the idea for a moment then shook his head. No, Fernandez won’t do it. John’s a dead man unless Jones can do a successful amputation . . . with nothing to temper the pain. God, pray let him die quickly. But perhaps we can find a root or a berry that will dull his senses. Must ask Manteo. He said a prayer for Wyles, prayed that Manteo could help.

He again looked at the list, identified a few more missing skills. Fishermen who know how to fish, and farmers. Perhaps if we leave this place, some other Savages will show us how they farm . . . pity we never farmed with Lane . . . expected the Savages to feed us—the root of all our troubles, even now. Didn’t foresee this problem. He checked the list one more time, added ammunition then bulk lead for making shot. Without a foundry to make large quantities, we’ll have to make our own . . . we’ve plenty of molds, just not enough lead. Must have far more than we think we need . . . oh my God, and powder. He re-checked the list. Oh, there it is, plenty of powder. He doubled the order of seed stock, then tripled it. No Englishman has ever planted here; don’t know what we’ll need, how much won’t germinate . . . very little left from initial stocks. Be safe, John. We can make bread of it if we don’t plant it. He sat back, stared at the wall. I think that’s all. Hope Raleigh doesn’t choke on the price of it all.