Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (24 page)

“Pocahontas, you are thinking deep thoughts.” Numees offered the observation without complaint.

“Yea.”

“About the English?”

“Yea. You know me too well, little sister.”

Numees did not speak again, and Pocahontas allowed her mind to curl lovingly around the thought of the men at Jamestown, fair, bearded men with hair in varying shades of gold and eyes of blue and green. And ‘twas not only their physical aspect that delighted her, for they were wise, and inventive, and dangerously clever. But contemplation of her marriage to one of them would be anathema in her father’s eyes, for while he talked of peace with the Englishmen, he did not trust them.

“Look ahead, my sister.”

Pocahontas lifted her eyes from the trail and saw that the gates of the village stood open. The beat of her heart quickened when she saw that bearded men moved in the clearing beyond. Englishmen!

“Hurry,” Pocahontas snapped, quickening her pace.

Behind her, Numees laughed.

Aranck had ordered a great feast, for Captain Samuel Argall, one of the masters of the mighty ships that offered goods for trade up and down the great river, sat at his left hand. Argall and his men had already brought forth great amounts of beads and copper, and Aranck had his eye on one especially bright copper kettle of enormous size.

Argall dipped his hand into a platter of venison that passed by and took a generous hunk of the savory meat. He looked like a little wet bird as he sat at dinner, for he and his men had bathed in the river before reentering the village for the feast. But there was no denying that this creature with a wet beard and slicked-back hair could bring riches to the tribe if Aranck traded wisely.

“Who, mighty chief, is that girl?” Argall asked, pointing across the fire toward a group of maidens who served the visitors seated around the fire pit. “The pretty one wearing many beads?”

“That is Matoaka,” Aranck answered, unable to keep a note of pride from his voice. “The daughter of our great chief Powhatan. She comes here to find a husband.”

“Matoaka,” Argall repeated, a thoughtful expression on his weather-beaten face. Suddenly the Captain straightened and the light of understanding dawned in his eyes. “Surely ‘tis not Pocahontas?”

“Yea,” Aranck answered, nodding. “Such is she called.”

Argall ate his meat and said nothing more as the maidens continued to serve the guests. When all had eaten and the warriors’ dancing had begun, Aranck wondered if the English captain would speak again of trading and the copper kettle.

He did not. After the dancing, when warriors retired to their places and scattered fires dotted the darkness of the village, the chief escorted the Englishmen to the hut in which they would sleep. Before Argall could disappear into the hut, Aranck reached out and touched the captain’s arm. “Do you still wish to trade?” he asked, trying not to let his eagerness show on his face. “We have many furs, antlers, and much corn.”

“You have an even greater prize that you know not of,” Argall answered, turning from the firelight so that his face was thrown into shadow. With an abrupt gesture, the captain pulled the chief into the darkness with him. “What is the one thing, mighty chief, that you desire most from among my treasures?”

Aranck’s eyes shone as he thought of the copper pot with the gleam of fire. ‘Twas more copper than any other chief owned, and the pot more skillfully beaten than any upon the river.

“The great pot,” he said, blinking slowly before the English captain.

“Ah, and ‘tis a most valuable kettle,” Argall answered. “But it can be yours, great chief, for one small favor.”

“Say it.”

“Give me Pocahontas, the daughter of Powhatan. I will carry her safely to Jamestown, where her father hath many friends.”

Aranck pulled away, frowning, but the captain kept talking. “Do not fear for her, for I will treat her well. This will work to the good for both the Powhatan and the English, for as long as she is in my care, her father will not attack the fort at Jamestown. The peace we both desire will be preserved.”

Aranck did not answer, but stared past the fire into his own thoughts. Powhatan would not take kindly to Aranck’s surrender of his beloved daughter, but the English captain spoke wisely. And how was Powhatan to know Pocahontas did not join the English freely? Of course such an action would mean that Matwau would not marry the girl, but in the two months she had been in his village she had not proven amenable to the idea of marriage . . .

“Leave the copper pot outside my hut at first light,” Aranck said, folding his arms. “I will send Pocahontas to your ship before the sun stands overhead on the morrow. If she does not want to go with you, you must let her return. I will tell Powhatan that she joined the English freely.”

“So be it,” Argall answered, his mouth tipped in a faint smile.

“The chief must have given many furs for such a pot,” Pocahontas remarked, looking wistfully at Aranck’s new copper kettle, yet another proof of the Englishmen’s ultimate superiority. Already his wives had filled it with hominy and were boiling the mixture over the fire. Aranck stood nearby, his hands folded across his chest, a victorious smile upon his face.

“Matoaka,” the chief called, and Pocahontas left the circle of women and hurried to his side. Numees, she noticed, followed reluctantly.

“Yes, uncle?” she said, looking at the chief with new respect.

“The English Captain Argall hath asked that I send someone with our peace offering before the sun rises overhead today,” he said, unfolding his arms. “I would send one of the warriors, but they are preparing to hunt—”

“No, uncle, send me!” Pocahontas said, exultation filling her chest until she thought it would burst. “I am swift, I know
my way to the river, I can carry ever so many furs and Numees will help me—”

“Your little sister can remain behind,” Aranck said, his eyes darting toward the girl who stood behind Pocahontas.

“She will not want to miss this,” Pocahontas answered, knowing at once she had spoken too quickly. She had made no secret of her great love for the English, but experience had taught her that her father would not approve of her feelings. A year earlier she had made her way through the dark to warn a settlement of Englishmen that her father planned to raid their farms and plantations. His resulting anger at the raid’s failure was such that she no longer doubted that he would kill even his favorite daughter if he knew she had managed to thwart his plans.

“I beg you, uncle, let Numees go with me,” Pocahontas asked, bowing her head in humble submission. “We will not be gone long.”

“So be it,” Aranck answered. He retreated into his dwelling, then returned and placed a surprisingly small bundle into her arms.

Pocahontas stared at the parcel in surprise. “So little a gift for such a big kettle?”

“It is what the English wanted,” the chief answered cryptically. He folded his arms again, and a shiver ran through her as fury blazed from his eyes. “Before you go, tell me, Matoaka: will you take my son as your husband?”

Pocahontas felt her cheeks flood with color. She bowed her head, knowing full well that she would insult her host by refusing. But she would not be false to herself. “No, uncle. I will not marry him or any warrior from this tribe.”

A mantle of aloofness fell upon the chief, and he unfolded his arms again. “Then away with you to the English ship. Do not keep the captain waiting.”

Pocahontas took a moment to rebraid her hair, slip on her most decorated tunic, and wash her face before setting out on the trail to the river. Behind her, Numees performed a half-hearted imitation of the older girl’s ministrations, and sighed when Pocahontas took a leather cloak from a bundle on the floor of their hut. “Must we wear our best clothes?” Numees complained, kicking a clod of dirt onto a sleeping mat. “We will only be gone a little while.”

“We are visiting the English, and they are most particular about their dress,” Pocahontas replied, smoothing her hair. She turned to chuck Numees under the chin. “When you are older, little sister, you will understand.”

“We must come back soon,” Numees insisted. “The sick squirrel needs me. I must feed him when the sun is high today—”

“We’ll feed him,” Pocahontas answered, exasperated. Numees had of late taken to the healing arts, and though the conjuror would not let her attend to sick people, she had worked her special magic of healing on several animals.

They left the village walking side-by-side, and Pocahontas kept up a steady stream of chatter until they reached the clearing where the shallop from Captain Argall’s ship lay beached upon the sand. The ship itself waited at anchor in the river, and a score of red-coated Englishmen walked upon its decks. Two men lounged in the grass on the shore, and sat up as the Indian girls approached.

“I have a package for Captain Argall,” Pocahontas explained gravely in the Algonquin tongue. She was not certain how much the two Englishmen understood, but they glanced at one another and smiled, then stood and waved the girls toward the shallop.

“Will you go aboard the great ship?” Numees asked, her voice quietly uncertain.

Pocahontas’s blood raced, but she confidently tossed her head. She had never been aboard an English ship, and the prospect was tantalizing. The men before her behaved as though they escorted Indian maidens every day, and besides, the captain waited on board . . .

“We will go aboard,” Pocahontas said, stepping forward. She turned to Numees and held out her hand. “Do not fear, Numees, Aranck knows where we are. We are safe. Captain Argall is our friend, and we are bringing him something of great worth.”

Clutching the leather-wrapped bundle to her, she held tight to Numees’ hand and climbed into the wooden shallop.

Captain Argall smiled broadly at the sight of the two girls in his cabin. “Ah, Pocahontas and Numees,” he said, pronouncing their names carefully. “Welcome aboard the
Treasurer
.” The girls looked quite pretty, and he thought Pocahontas might even be dressed in her best clothes. How had the chief managed that?

He greeted them in the Algonquin tongue: “How good it is to see you.”

“The werowance Aranck bids us bring you this,” Pocahontas said, pulling the bundle from under her mantle. “It is a gift in exchange for the great copper pot.”

Argall nodded, pretending to understand exactly what she meant. While the girls waited and watched, he unrolled the covering of leather and found that it contained a small hominy cake.

“I will enjoy it,” he said, holding it to his nose in a gesture of appreciation.

Pocahontas blinked in amazement, and he understood in a moment that the old chief had tricked her. She had doubtless thought she carried something of rare value, of some import, and was as stunned as he to discover that the great trade involved naught but common hominy.

Abruptly, he called out to his bosun in English: “Raise the anchor!” Then he turned to the two girls, who appeared to visibly shrink before his presence. “You will be my guests for some time,” he said, forcing a smile upon his face. “We will not hurt you. Do not fear. You will sleep below, in your own cabin.”

He paused for a moment before the youngest girl, whose fear-widened eyes were startlingly blue. Where had this lost child come from? Was she truly Pocahontas’s sister?

“My father will not like this,” Pocahontas said, her eyes flashing as she lifted her chin.

“Many weeks will pass before your father knows that you are with us,” Argall replied smoothly, extending his hand to escort the girls from his cabin. “And while you remain with us, Pocahontas, the peace will remain intact. So go below, girls, and enjoy your stay.”

He waited until the bosun had led the girls down the companionway, then in a blizzard of his curt orders the
Treasurer
made sail and moved away.

Nineteen

T
he afternoon air shimmered with the warmth of June as John Rolfe stood at the dock outside Henrico. Hot, water-scented winds blew across the dark surface of the river as Rolfe nervously stroked his beard. His tobacco, the product of many months of work, waited in stout barrels, ready for shipment to England.

“Is this your cargo, then?” the bosun called from the deck. “Yea,” Rolfe answered, squinting up at the sailor. “And care should be taken that the barrels remain dry, so put them on an upper deck, will you?”

“Don’t worry, Master Rolfe,” the bosun said, grinning toothlessly as he came down the gangplank. “We’ll take care of ye just like we always ‘ave.”

The bosun directed seamen to roll the heavy barrels up the gangplank, and John stepped back and closed his eyes, afraid one of the barrels might fall into the water. For over a year he had been experimenting with tobacco in hopes that he might find a strain mild enough for the refined tastes of the English. The native weed so beloved by the Indians,
Nicotiana rustica
, had too harsh a bite for European standards. Through his friendship with a sea captain who regularly sailed to the Caribbean, Rolfe had obtained seeds of a broader leaf tobacco plant,
Nicotiana tabacum
. Using techniques of cross-pollination, Rolfe had blended the two plants into a new strain that, he hoped, would combine the robust toughness of the native plant with the golden taste and texture of the Caribbean native.