Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (23 page)

“Would you do so much?” Fallon said, his heart overcome with pleasant surprise. “If you could, we were right to come here. Surely God hath heard my prayers when I had all but given up hope—”

“God always provides for our best,” the clergyman
answered. He stopped as Brody crossed their path, and gestured to the younger boy. “Join us, my son, and let us see what the good mistress hath prepared for supper. You shall eat, rest, and trust that all will be provided for.”

Too grateful for words, Brody and Fallon followed the vicar into the dining hall.

Father Michael finished the letter and signed his name with a flourish at the bottom of the page. He had left the boys in the midst of devouring huge helpings of the mistress’ best pottage, and unless he was sadly mistaken, they were of certain sleeping now before the fire in the hall of the rectory.

Once the boys had begun to eat, he had no trouble loosening their tongues enough to learn that they were students at the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans. Father Michael had a special desire to grant a favor for Master Delbert Crompton, for of certain ‘twould prove useful in the future to have Master Crompton in his debt.

He rang for his assistant, and when the young man arrived Father Michael handed the letter over without a word. The recipient’s name was clearly indicated on the parchment, and the vicar knew the message would be delivered within the hour.

When his assistant had gone, the clergyman leaned forward in his chair, tenting his fingers as he reflected upon the vagaries of youth and the fantastic story the boys had related while they ate. The son of savages, the redhead claimed to be, the frustrated savior of an Indian princess
and a brother sold into slavery.

Safely away from the boys’ bright eyes, he chuckled. He, too, had felt capable of conquering the world at sixteen, and Captain John Smith should be flattered to know that even boys in a school for orphans had heard of his daring exploits and risked certain punishment to meet him. ‘Twas a pity that the boys would be returned without having met their goal, but London had orphans enough roaming the streets without adding two others. And by returning them at once, Father Michael would keep these two safe from the dangers of pickpockets, pox, and prostitutes.

The minister sighed and went back to his work. In an hour, mayhap two, an emissary from the academy would arrive to pick up the boys and this little adventure would be at an end. But how pleasant it had been! ‘Twas rather like a tale from that talented playwright at the Globe Theater who wrote of runaways assuming fantastic disguises and making claims to kingdoms and identities far beyond the possibilities of reality.

What was the writer’s name? Father Michael smiled as the answer surfaced in his mind. “Indeed,” he told himself. “William Shakespeare himself would delight in Fallon Bailie’s fantastic story.”

Delbert Crompton sent four of his stoutest teachers to escort the prisoners home, and those same four men held Fallon Bailie and Brody McRyan as the headmaster administered their caning before the entire student body at dinner the next day.

Pale and trembling, Bailie and McRyan stood, gathered their breeches about their waists, then turned to face him, their judge and jury. Crompton exulted in this small but satisfying victory as he regarded the runaways. McRyan shot his friend a half-frightened look, but Fallon Bailie stared mindlessly over the assembled company as if his thoughts had wandered far away.

“As further punishment and as a fitting part of appropriate discipline, both of you have hereby forfeited the rest of your education and tenure at the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans,” Crompton said, his voice as rough as gravel. “You will be sold into indentured service immediately, to serve your masters for the maximum term of seven years while you learn a trade and seek to become useful citizens to your king and country.”

If ‘twere possible, Fallon Bailie went a shade paler.

“You, Brody McRyan,” Crompton went on, turning to the younger boy, “you will be sold to John McArdle, the blacksmith, to serve him for a full seven years beginning on the morrow. And you, Fallon Bailie—”

Crompton paused, and the entire body of boys
drew in a collective breath. “You will be sold to another master and will serve him willingly, obediently, and freely for seven full years, until you have reached twenty-three years of age.”

Fallon Bailie’s gaze finally focused upon the headmaster’s. “And who is my master?” he asked, his voice a tremulous whisper that echoed in the silence of the room.

Crompton smiled in pure pleasure. “‘Tis my greatest delight to announce,” he said, greatly enjoying the moment, “that you will remain at the school you were so anxious to leave. You, Fallon Bailie, will serve me.”

Fallon first thought that Master Crompton meant to kill him, but though the headmaster was severe, he was not murderous. He demanded that Fallon work quickly and well, running the boy without a pause during waking hours, but every night Master Crompton seated himself in his small chamber with a pile of books and a quart of ale. He then began to read and drink, and drink and read, and soon passed into a drunken stupor which left him insensible to whatever Fallon might wish to do.

In the first weeks of his service Fallon took advantage of those quiet hours to pray and sleep, but one night while he was dusting the master’s prized library he discovered a copy of
A True Relation of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Note as Hath Happened in Virginia Since the First Planting of that Colony,
a book written by Captain John Smith. The book was dated 1608, and a wonderful feeling of happiness rose inside him as Fallon read of places and people he knew. Surely God had planted this book in Crompton’s library so that he could read it and be comforted! Though he had not been able to find Smith in London, at least he had the printed page to tell him of Smith’s exploits in Virginia.

There were days when Fallon could almost convince himself that his childhood had been a dream, but when he read
News from Virginia
by Richard Rich, an English soldier who had been in Jamestown during the starving time of 1609, Fallon was secretly pleased that he and the children had survived so easily in the woods. Another work, a sermon called
Good Speed to Virginia,
had been published in London to promote colonization, and as he read it Fallon’s heart pounded with impatience to return to the land of his birth.

From reading these books, Fallon knew that the English approach to relations with the Indians would not be effective. The English were too smugly
superior
, too convinced that English ways were right and Indian ways foolish. In his lectures before his students Master Crompton represented the attitude of Englishmen who loved to compare the wonders of English civilization to the barbarism of the savages. But despite Crompton’s lofty boasting before teachers and students, Fallon knew his master would not last one day in Virginia.

Fallon began to look forward to his master’s periods of
inebriation, for while the master snored drunkenly, his servant had the perfect opportunity to learn all he could about the colonization effort. As soon as the quart of ale had been drunk and the master’s rheumy eyes closed in heaviness, Fallon took himself to the library to pour over Crompton’s growing collection of books and pamphlets about Virginia.

Time passed. The days of Fallon’s service melted into weeks and weeks into months. During morning hours Fallon scrubbed floors in the decrepit academy building, emptied chamber pots and wash basins, and peeled vegetables for the cooks in the dining hall. After a quick dinner of whatever had been left over from feeding the academy’s students, Fallon spent his time attending to Master Crompton’s personal affairs: shining the master’s shoes, airing the master’s doublets, breeches, and cloaks, and freshening the master’s bed linens. Never did Crompton ask him to run an errand, doubtless afraid Fallon would try to escape, and never did the guardedly private headmaster ask Fallon to read or transcribe a letter.

Ofttimes Fallon struggled with pride as he emptied the filthy chamber pots and cleaned up after sick students. He was the son of Roger Bailie, an English aristocrat, and the stepson of Rowtag, a Mangoak chief. As a boy he had swum in freezing rivers and stood upon anthills to prove his courage and toughen his spirit. He had seen battle and bloodshed, and had faced an enemy and won. He had been entrusted with the future, the lives of a young boy and girl in whom the spirit of Ocanahonan would live. Only in that duty had he failed.

But he had not finished. Fallon prayed daily that he would be allowed to complete his task, that he would find Noshi and Gilda and marry them each to the other. He would send them into the world as the best blend of Indian and English, redeemed children of Christ who could demonstrate God’s ways to the savages of the New World.

When John Smith’s
A Map of Virginia
was published, Fallon poured over the text to learn everything he could about the land, commodities, people, government, and religion of the fledgling colony into which he’d wandered so many years before. Not a word could he find of Ocanahonan, Gilda, or Noshi, but he read much of Powhatan and Jamestown. With every sentence Fallon became more convinced that Gilda and Noshi still lived somewhere in Virginia.

One night, as Master Crompton snored in his chair, Fallon slipped behind the master’s desk and took a pen and a sheet of parchment. Carefully uncorking the inkwell so as not to
disturb his sleeping master, Fallon penned a letter:

To Captain John Smith, London

From Fallon Bailie, formerly of Virginia

Sir:

I have hopes that you will remember me, and that you will recall serving as my sponsor to the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans in London. I have served my time there and have tried many times to discover a way to reach you.

I must know, sir, of what became of your promise to me. I have read in your book that you had occasion to meet with chief Powhatan. Did you, then, find the girl called Gilda of whom I told you? And in your travels, did you happen to find the boy called Noshi, my brother? Both children are noticeably English in the color of their eyes, and I do not think you could mistake them.

If you should happen to venture to Virginia again, please consider purchasing my contract of service from Master Delbert Crompton, the headmaster of the school. I am bound to him for several more years, but would serve you for a lifetime if I can fulfill my promise to help these two I have sworn to protect.

I am, your servant, Fallon Bailie.

After sealing the letter with a featureless smear of wax, Fallon slipped it into the pocket of his worn doublet and carefully put the writing utensils away. He did not know how or when he might find someone to deliver the letter, but if God had truly called him to this venture, of certain he would provide a way to contact John Smith.

eighteen

C
ome, Numees, lift your end,” Pocahontas fussed as the two girls struggled to carry a dead doe through the greening woods of spring. The hunters had disemboweled the creature, but ‘twas the duty of women to bring the game home, dress it, and preserve the meat. For a moment Pocahontas wished she had asked an older, stronger girl to help.

Numees struggled to lift the two spindly back legs of the doe, but blood made them slippery. “Wait,” she called, dropping the carcass on the ground long enough to wipe her hands on the wide green leaves of a nearby shrub. Pocahontas rolled her eyes in exasperation. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Numees was only ten, little more than a child.

Numees gripped the bony legs in her hands again and lifted. “I don’t know why you are in such a hurry to get back to the village,” she said, walking with shortened steps to avoid bumping into the bloody carcass. “When you know Aranck has invited us only so you will marry his son.”

“I will not marry Matwau,” Pocahontas protested, carefully leading the way through the woods. “For well is he named, ‘enemy.’ I heard him brag that he has killed five of the English.”

“Five English? That is not so many. Makkapitew has killed more.”

Pocahontas sighed. She knew her father had sent her to Aranck’s village because he wanted her to marry. At eighteen, she should have taken a husband at least two years before. Thus far Pocahontas had been able to stall her father by insisting that none of the men in her own village appealed to her and that Numees needed a big sister, but Powhatan had solved both problems by announcing that Numees could go with Pocahontas wherever she wished and that Aranck, a
lesser werowance of an affiliated tribe, would be honored to offer any of the sons of his village to be Pocahontas’s husband.

A brilliant cardinal flew from branch to branch overhead, scolding the girls for disturbing his mate on the nest, and Pocahontas would have shaken her fist at him had her hands been free. It was possible her father knew the real reason for her refusal to marry, for it had been some months since he had allowed her to visit the English fort. He probably thought that if he kept the Englishmen from her eyes and mind, the longing in her heart would lessen. But ever since the day she had thrown herself beneath the war club to protect John Smith, she had known she would never love an Indian the way she could love one of the clothed men.