Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (17 page)

Fallon lay back on the soiled pillow and clasped his hands behind his head.
“I intend to learn. And y’are wrong about nobody ever coming back—John Smith hath promised to come back for me as soon as he’s able.”

“
Nobody comes, didn’t I just say so?” Brody answered, hugging the side of his bed. “Who are you going to believe, some man a thousand miles away or me? I’ve been here six years, Bailie, and truth to tell, y’are lost to the world. Don’t count on nobody coming for you, or nobody making things a wee bit easier for you. As sure as my name is Brody McRyan, ‘tisn’t going to happen.”

“
Is there aught else I should know?” Fallon asked, staring at the underside of Brody’s dark mattress.

“
One more thing,” the answer came from above. “Watch out for Master Crompton. Don’t do aught to make yourself stand out. If he notices you, y’are bound to have trouble.”

Delbert Crompton dined alone at his grand table in front of his boys.
He didn’t mind being the cynosure of fifty pairs of eyes, in fact he ofttimes explained to visitors that the boys received lessons in gentle etiquette and deportment by watching him eat at a proper table. In truth, he ate before his students to remind them that they had their place, and he had his. Though he was not quite top-drawer gentry, he was as close to the clergy as a man could be without donning the cloth and memorizing the Bible. His lofty status required a certain measure of their respect, and eating at a grand table, wearing fine clothing, and entertaining the gentry were but a few of the ways he had devised to make certain he acquired it.

He also enjoyed eating in the center of the dining hall because with a simple swivel of his eyes he could apprehend any of his fifty boys in an unguarded state.
Many times he had caught certain ungrateful looks or expressions of derision aimed at the bowls of cold pottage, but these downcast countenances were promptly corrected when he removed the offending dinner altogether. Now his boys ate with careful manners and thoroughly expressionless faces. He would have staked his life on the certainty that any of his students, from the youngest to the oldest, could have dined at the king’s table without cracking a smile or uttering an untoward word.

Except, mayhap, Fallon Bailie.
For seven days Crompton had watched Bailie’s slender form at school and mealtimes. He found the boy oddly competent in all that he undertook. He was much too intellectually advanced to remain in the remedial reading and mathematics classes, but the headmaster was determined that Fallon should finish out the year with the younger students lest he stir up trouble among the older boys. Something about Fallon Bailie unsettled him. The lad possessed an air of propriety and knowledge, a quality like that of good breeding. But how had an illegitimate brat come by such an attitude?

‘
Twas strange to see such assurance in a mere boy, especially since ‘twas accompanied by many virtues. Bailie was persistent in his work, sympathetic to those who could not work as quickly or as ably as he did, and patient as he helped the younger children accomplish their tasks. He proved himself dependable, never sluggish in bed or less than diligent in his studies, and seemed to fancy himself a protector of the young boys with whom he studied.

On sunny days when the boys trooped through the damp autumn foliage to take their daily dose of
“air,” Bailie chose either to walk alone at the end of the queue or at the beginning, where he could shepherd the younger ones along the garden path. ‘Twas in the yard, Crompton noted, that Bailie never failed to elicit a reprimand. Even in the cold of autumn the boy had a penchant for removing his shoes, and no matter how stringently the tutors tried to maintain a straight line of marching boys, Fallon Bailie always seemed to slink rather than step through the autumn shadows.

Yea, Fallon Bailie was different, and Delbert Crompton did not like him.
Without striving to, he had become a sort of leader among the boys, setting a rigorous pace by example and by example proving himself to be worthy of emulation. And if those pale blue eyes should even once flash in rebellion at dinner or in the schoolroom, Crompton knew the others would follow and he would face a full-scale revolt.

Bailie would have to be dealt with, and the sooner the better.

Twelve

T
he perfect opportunity for Bailie’s humiliation arose that afternoon when the boys assembled in the dining hall for their supper of bread and cheese. Crompton watched Fallon closely, and had to bite his lip to keep from shouting in jubilation when he realized he had found an infraction. Fallon Bailie had neglected to button his shirt cuffs as ordered. The faintest edge of his cursed tattoos showed dark against the pale skin at his wrists.

“
Halt!” Crompton roared from behind the serving table just as the scullery maid was about to place a slice of bread in Fallon’s hand. “What is that upon your wrist, young man?”

Bailie
’s gaze lifted to Crompton’s.
You know what it is
, his eyes said in silent accusation.

Crompton stepped forward and grasped the boy
’s thin wrist in a grip of iron. With one hand he held Fallon’s arm aloft, and with the other he pushed the boy’s sleeve down until the tattooed marks were clearly visible, even in the dim rush light of the room.

“
These are the marks of heathen devil-worshippers,” Crompton proclaimed, turning to display the arm to the younger boys who stood in a single file against the wall. Their mouths were filled with bread, but they were too startled and frightened to swallow.

Fallon Bailie still did not speak, but Crompton wasn
’t surprised. He turned the boy’s wrist in the other direction so that the boys behind him might have a glimpse of the devilish tattoos. “See here, students, what marks one who worships Satan.”

“
He does not worship the devil!” A high and resonant protest filled the hall, and Crompton turned in amazement to see that Brody McRyan had stepped from his place to defend the newcomer.

“
And what would you be knowing of this?” Crompton asked, his bushy brows lifting the question.

“
His father was an Indian chief in Virginia,” Brody exclaimed as the other boys gaped in silence. “Fallon was raised up with Indians, and those are the marks of his father’s tribe. He is the son of a great chief; he’s like a prince among the Indians—”

“
Does this boy look like an Indian prince to you?” Crompton interrupted, his heavy voice drowning out Brody’s protesting whine. “Red hair, freckles, pale skin—” He snickered, and after a pensive moment, the older boys began to laugh with him. Their pealing laughter ricocheted off the high ceiling; even the dour face of the scullery maid cracked into a smirk.

But Fallon Bailie neither laughed nor smiled.
His face flushed as red as his hair and his arm tightened in Crompton’s grip until the sinews felt like steel. “You will not laugh at my father,” he whispered, the intensity of his glare lifting the hairs on Crompton’s neck.

Abruptly, the headmaster dropped the boy
’s arm and the room grew silent. “I will laugh at aught I choose,” Crompton replied, smoothing his voice. “Y’are an imaginative boy, Fallon Bailie, but I must caution you not to let your imagination run away with your senses. I don’t know where you came from, and I don’t care, but y’are an orphan, an Irish runt, probably, just like young Brody McRyan here. And if either of you say one more word about Indians and princes and kingdoms in Virginia, I’ll send you to the asylum for the insane where you can spin your tales until y’are weary of telling them. And any of you—” his stubby finger swept the room, “—who associate with these two stand in danger of a caning that’ll leave you unable to sit for a week.”

He paused and glowered at Bailie and McRyan.
The room stilled, even the autumnal wind outside seemed to hold its breath. “Do you understand me, boys?” he said, his words hanging in the stillness.

Brody nodded, but Fallon Bailie held Crompton
’s gaze steadily. “I understand completely,” Fallon said, his grip smashing the slice of bread in his outstretched hand. “And I will never, ever forget what you have said.”

thirteen

T
he bright December morning was wind-whipped and bitter cold as John Smith directed the loading of a shallop with supplies. Another foraging expedition had to be organized, for the colony was down to its last stores of food and winter pressed hard upon them. The humid mists which had hovered over the marshy peninsula all summer had dissipated, but now claws of winter wind slashed from the sea as frigid and vicious as a knife.

“
So y’are determined to go, then.” John Ratcliffe stood beside Smith, one hand cocked upon the pistol at his belt.

Smith turned slowly from the shallop.
‘Twas difficult to be respectful to Ratcliffe, even though the man was president of the colony. Two months ago even Smith had thought that Ratcliffe might make a good leader, but time and trial had proven him wrong.

“
If we would eat, we must go,” Smith said, making an effort to keep the edge of defensiveness from his voice. “The crops we planted did not produce. Too many men that should be hunting lie ill in the fort. And unless you have a better idea, sir—” He lifted a brow and waited for Ratcliffe’s answer.

“
Well, I, ah, nay,” Ratcliffe stammered. “‘Tis just that we are only forty men here now, and forty men cannot hope to hold the fort in case of an Indian attack. Small numbers have never done well in Virginia; did not John White report that the fifteen left upon Roanoke Island were massacred? If they come against us while you are gone with six men—”

“
You will die only a little more quickly than if you had forty and six men in the fort,” Smith finished. “Your strength, John, will lie in prayer and readiness, not in numbers. Did not Gideon rout a numberless company of the enemy with only three hundred? Surely you can hold one fort with forty men who trust in the God of Gideon.”

Ratcliffe
’s eyes fell dejectedly, and Smith clapped him on the shoulder. “If we do not go, we will all die of starvation. ‘Tis our only hope, this voyage, and I pray you will not keep us from it.”

Ratcliffe stepped back and rubbed his hands on his arms.
“Where will you go?”

It wasn
’t a question, ‘twas an inquiry from a nosy, troublesome worrier, and Smith propped one leg on a tree trunk and scratched his beard, taking his time before answering. “I have met a chief on the Pamunkey River, Opechancanough, who is apparently gifted with rare foresight. ‘Tis said that he has stored provisions enough to last through two winters. If this chief is as vain as I think he is, I will bring back much grain for the price of a few trinkets.”

Ratcliffe sniffed in apparent satisfaction and thrust his hands behind his back.
“Well then, Smith, take care. And bring back every man alive, do you hear?”

“
Mark me, John, I shall do my best,” Smith said, grinning. “And I pray you hold the fort tight until we return.”

Ratcliffe waved in farewell, and Smith climbed into the shallop where his men waited.
He nodded to the oarsmen, who set the shallop on its way eastward toward the sea. The York and the James Rivers, known to the Indians as the Pamunkey and the Powhatan, ran nearly parallel to each other until they both flowed into Chesapeake Bay. To reach the esteemed Opechancanough, Smith would take his men to the bay, then row northward to the mouth of the Pamunkey.

A chill pearl-colored mist hung in the air as the cold air moved over the warmer water, and wildlife stirred in the verdant woods as the shallop slipped past.
There was no sound save the soft lap of the oars pulling against calm water and the hum of insects in the woods.

Smith hummed a hymn to fill the quiet as his eyes scanned for movements in the forest ahead.
In Virginia, where life and death daily hung in the balance, a man did not take peace and safety for granted.

They had travelled two days up the Pamunkey River when Smith spied a sandy clearing where several Indian canoes had been beached.
He sighed in relief at the sight, for only about an hour of daylight remained and he did not want to keep his men on the water overnight.

“
We will land here,” Smith called to the oarsmen as he pointed toward the spot. “Opechancanough’s village is not far from the water. So pray, good fellows, that we find the village before night falls. I’d rather spend the night by the chief’s hospitable fire than on the damp ground.”

The men shouted their agreement and splashed out of the shallop.
After gathering what provisions they could carry on their backs, they thrust pistols into their belts and each man shouldered his musket. When all were ready, Smith proceeded to move down the trail that led away from the water.