Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (18 page)

The wood vibrated softly with wildlife as they pressed forward along a path that pointed a curving finger through the trees.
Smith felt a thin, cold blade of foreboding slice into his heart as he led the way. Why was he nervous? He had met Opechancanough before and found him to be a pretentious fool, surely this occasion would be no different.
But
, an inner voice warned,
last time you travelled with a large company engaged in peaceful trade. Now you are determined to take this man’s corn whether by trade or force.

They traveled for the space of half an hour through the gray bones of bare trees.
The trail that had been clear at the river’s edge had vanished beneath the carpet of dead leaves that crackled beneath their tramping footsteps. Above them, the sun began her relentless slide into the west. Smith paused to consult the compass he carried in his pocket. “We must make camp soon,” he said, peering through the gathering darkness. “Any man who spies a palisade, make it known.”

“
I thought you said you’ve been here afore,” John Clemens said, frowning as he pushed past Smith. “Just where is this poxy chief’s village? Just when I thought we might get a bit of hot supper—”

Without warning, an arrow whistled through the air and lodged in Clemens
’ breast. The man fell back without a sound, his complaining stopped as if someone had turned a valve in his chest. “Take cover!” Smith yelled, flinging himself to the ground. “Find the enemy!”

While the English fumbled for their pistols and muskets, Smith cursed the falling shadows, for
‘twas impossible to see where the enemy had situated himself. While the others aimed at nothing and fired uselessly at the leafless trees, a rain of arrows fell upon them as if from nowhere. Smith knew from the muted cries of pain behind him that several of the arrows had reached their targets.

Scarcely daring to breath, Smith crouched behind a wide oak.
Arrows whistled overhead, then the sounds of struggle ceased. “Who is with me?” he whispered hoarsely over his shoulder. “Who still lives?”

The roar of absolute silence greeted him; even the wildlife had fled.
Risking a single unguarded moment, Smith turned to look behind him. All six of his companions lay dead on the ground, arrows protruding from their chests like pincushions. He swore softly. At any moment the savages would come forward to gather their trophies of English heads, and yet he still lived, albeit with a musket that would fire only one shot, and that only if he was lucky. The gunpowder in the horn at his belt was damp from the river’s humidity and probably unfit for use.

He flattened his back along the bark of the oak as he pulled his sword from its sheath.
Let the savages come. He’d take two, mayhap three, but he would not be dispatched to heaven without sending at least one of the murderous savages to hell.

A breeze whispered through the cold woods and from somewhere in the distance a bird trilled a brief song as it settled down to roost.
Smith gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering as he waited. A wild and improbable thought skittered through his brain—in the court of King James, men and women might pass this hour eating on golden plates or devouring the latest gossip, yet in His Majesty’s Virginia, this same hour would bring him face to face with savage death.

After a moment woven of eternity, a twig snapped and fallen leaves whispered under savage feet as the intruders approached.
Smith shivered with a cold that was not from the air and felt sweat bead on his forehead and under his arms. He had faced certain death thrice before, and won. If God was merciful, he would beat death again.

He waited until he could smell the ammoniac odor of sweat before he whirled to attack, and his sword cleanly cut the throat of the first surprised savage it encountered.
The second warrior, too, fell before he could even lift his battle axe, but though Smith labored mightily and fought with the skill of a fencing master, he was no match for the company of savages that surrounded him in the wood.

He reeled to face the dozen painted warriors who circled him and saw one pull a loaded bowstring to his cheek.
A sword was no match for a distant arrow, and in a flash of comprehension, Smith flung his sword away and laced his fingers atop his head.

He waited grimly.
The archer paused and the other savages studied him warily, doubtless afraid of some superior weapon on his person. Smith haltingly announced in the Algonquin tongue that he was their prisoner. Over and over he repeated the message until finally a tall brave with a stream of feathers woven into his hair stepped forward. With an expression as hard as granite, he wrenched Smith’s hands from his head and bound them firmly. Another warrior pressed a spear to Smith’s back.

Despite the language barrier, John Smith did not need to be told that his life now rested in the hands of their chief.

The village of Opechancanough teemed with life at this hour. Women and children stood around cooking fires as they prepared the evening meal, and warriors who had not been involved in the ambush sat in front of their huts, their eyes strangely veiled as John Smith was brought in to face the chief.

The conquering heroes sang and shouted in victory as they carried the heads of their vanquished enemies and prodded Smith forward into the camp.
The bizarre parade stopped at one of the grass huts and after a moment, the esteemed werowance himself came out. This brother of Powhatan stood tall and carried himself like royalty despite the lack of ornamentation upon his person. He wore only a breechcloth like his warriors and a simple mantle of fur over his shoulders. Of all the Indians who stared now at Smith, only the chief’s face was undisguised by war paint, and an aloof strength lay about his features. Unlike Powhatan, Opechancanough wore his hair long, and tied into a long hank that fell over one shoulder. A fine white scar lay upon his taut face, and the arms that emerged from under the mantle bulged with muscle and strength.

But Opechancanough
’s gaze held Smith’s attention most. The chief’s dark eyes seemed wary, mayhap haunted, and for a moment Smith thought he glimpsed a fine intelligence. Then the eyes shifted into a blank stare and Smith had the eerie feeling that he stood before a statue like one of the idols he had seen gazing impassively over the bodies of dead Indian chiefs.

Smith searched his memory for words in the Algonquin language.
He had practiced a little in England, for many terms and phrases had been published in the writings of Thomas Hariot and other explorers of Virginia, but in his desperation he could not recall a single word. ‘Twas strange. Angry, violent men he could face with unreasonable courage, but before this inscrutable chief he felt his energy and intellect atrophy . . .

Of a sudden he remembered the Indians
’ fascination with trinkets. He held his bound hands aloft, his eyes begging for assistance, and the chief shifted his gaze to a warrior and nodded almost imperceptibly. A sharpened stone rent the bonds in a forceful stroke, and Smith nodded his thanks to the chief. If bravery and force would not save his life here, mayhap a silver tongue and sleight of hand could . . .

In a quicksilver gesture, he pulled his pocket compass from his doublet and held it aloft on his palm.
The warriors of the circle leaned forward, fascination shining on their faces; only Opechancanough remained impassive.

“
The arrow points always to the north,” Smith said, smiling as he indicated north with his arm. He turned toward the setting sun. “West—sunset, but yet the needle points north. East—sunrise, but the needle—” he tapped the glass covering of the compass, “—’twill always point north.”

He held the compass up again and knelt on one knee before the chief.
“‘Tis my gift to you, Opechancanough.”

He waited for what seemed an interminable moment as the chief stared downward at him.
Finally Opechancanough lifted the compass from Smith’s hand and gave it to a warrior. Muttering a brief command, he pointed toward the gate in the palisade. The circle of warriors closed in upon Smith, bound his hands with fresh ties, and a spear once again pressed against his back. The warriors led Smith out of the village, but whether to freedom or to death he could not tell.

Opechancanough watched the procession leave with mixed feelings.
He should have killed the Englishman for displaying a compass as if a silly toy would fascinate a chief into submission. Did all clothed men think the Indians stupid? That young Englishman had never considered that he might be facing a superior man, one who had lived more years and discovered more knowledge than the Englishman dreamed possible.

As Don Luis of the Spanish, Opechancanough had worked with compasses, sextants, and ships
’ maps. He knew how to find his way in any circumstance, how to plot the oceans, how to traverse the wilderness. He knew about the English and the Spanish and the enmity betwixt both nations, and ‘twas only because he devoutly hated the Spanish that he had allowed this Englishman to live at all.

But Powhatan, naive king of the tribe, would be fascinated by this intrepid fool.
He would delight in the compass, exclaim over the Englishman’s bright uniform, and marvel at the man’s curly beard. And then, because the Englishman had killed two warriors in the woods, Powhatan would order the man’s execution. And if other Englishmen later objected, the blame would rest firmly on Powhatan’s head.

Opechancanough was not willing to risk the future on one solitary, brash Englishman.

Scouts brought news of the stranger’s approach long before Opechancanough’s warriors thrust him through the gate of Powhatan’s village at Weromacomico. The warriors had marched the English stranger through the night, and though the Indian warriors were as stern as stone, the clothed man’s face was stained with fatigue.

Gilda reached up for Pocahontas
’ comforting hand when the pale stranger was thrust forward to kneel at Powhatan’s feet. When he rose before Powhatan, he seemed a remote, majestic figure in the most splendid boots Gilda had ever seen. The stranger wore a red coat and breeches of a matching fabric, and an empty sword belt hung from his slender waist. His face and head were covered in thick, curly hair the color of a fox’s fur, and a memory stirred in Gilda’s heart. Fallon’s hair had been nearly that color; her mama and papa had been as pale as this man.

“
Who is he, Pocahontas?” Gilda whispered, but the older girl’s eyes were transfixed on the scene and she did not respond. Powhatan demanded answers from the warriors who had brought the stranger; they answered abruptly with violent gestures. “He has killed two of my uncle’s warriors,” Pocahontas whispered, inclining her head toward Gilda. “Opechancanough says he must die.”

The pale man then brought forth a round, shiny object from his coat and proceeded to demonstrate its uses to the great chief.
Powhatan watched with undisguised interest, then took the object from the stranger’s hand. And because no Indian ever accepted a gift without giving something in return, Gilda heard the great chief order that the prisoner was to be fed, washed, and warmed.

The chief and the stranger disappeared into the chief
’s hut, and Pocahontas squeezed Gilda’s hand. “Isn’t it exciting?” she asked, bending down to Gilda’s level. “A clothed man here in our village!”

“
They have come before,” Gilda answered, remembering the parties of men who had come in previous months to trade with the chief.

“
Yea, but this one comes alone,” Pocahontas answered, her eyes dancing. “And this one is young and handsome. Have you ever seen a man with curled hair on his face?”

Gilda was about to answer that yea, she had, but Pocahontas sped away toward her father
’s hut, lost in a world of her own imagining.

In the great chief
’s hut John Smith ate the best meal he had tasted in months and nodded gratefully as one of the chief’s wives draped him in a heavy mantle of furs. An interpreter had been found, a savage who had spent some months in the company of Englishmen, though he would not say where, and Powhatan asked searching and pointed questions about the presence and intention of the English in the land between the two rivers, the territory of the Powhatan.

Fearing the chief’s anger and future intent, Smith hurriedly fabricated a series of lies. Through the interpreter he told Powhatan that he had wandered into Powhatan territory solely to flee Spanish pursuers, but from the darkly suspicious squint of Powhatan’s eyes he knew the chief did not believe the unfolding story. A plague on those infernal Indian scouts! Like eyes in the trees, they saw everything that went on in the forest. Their ears were tuned to catch even whispers on the wind, and they reported all to their chiefs.

When Smith had finished his ridiculous tale, Powhatan folded his arms.
His eyes, stirred slightly to anger, regarded his prisoner briefly, then he turned to his conjuror and gave an abrupt order.

The interpreter smiled at Smith.
“The chief says you will die when the sun rises on the morrow,” he said, nodding as pleasantly as if the chief had ordered a cup of tea.