Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (8 page)

Fallon nodded. “And the third article?”

Gilda giggled in the darkness, unable to remember, but Noshi knew the words: “I believe in God the Holy Ghost, who sanctifieth me, and all the elect people of God.”

“Who are the e-lect, Fallon?” Gilda asked.

He laced his fingers again and thought a moment. “I guess the elect are the people of Ocanahonan and all other people who follow Jesus Christ, if there be any.”

But what if there aren’t others?
A dark and cynical voice whispered in his mind.
And if there is no Ocanahonan, there remains only you three children.

“There are other elect in lands where Jesus is worshipped,” Fallon said, more to reassure himself than the children. “Mama told me of England and Ireland.”

“Will we go there?” Noshi’s voice was a childish treble in the darkness.

“Only God knows,” Fallon answered as the canoe swirled in the darkness. “Now, let’s practice again. What are your names?”

“Noshi!”

“Gilda!”

“And who hath given you these names?”

“My mother and father,” the children chorused.

“Soft,” Fallon said, laying his finger across his lips. “Not so loud. We mustn’t wake the fish.”

The English ship
Susan Constant
lay at anchor in the wind-whipped waters off the shores of Virginia, and John Smith paced her deck, unable to sleep. Cursed be Captain Christopher Newport’s fears! Despite the trials of the last two days, Smith would gladly have spent the night ashore, even with a nation of savages breathing down his neck. But Newport and his cronies were fearful, especially after a volley of arrows had met their first landing. Even though the savages had been dispersed by gunfire and had not been seen in two days, Newport would not allow his settlers or seamen to remain ashore at night.

The
Susan Constant’
s two companion ships, the
Godspeed
and the
Discovery
, were anchored off the starboard bow, and their lantern lights shone steadily across the dark waters. Smith could hear the sounds of relieved merriment from their decks, for despite their first harsh welcome, the euphoria of sighting the noble trees and unravished forests of Virginia had not yet worn off. The planters aboard fancied themselves explorers and were doubtless giddy with dreams of the riches they would send back to England.

Even the basest of them deserved a bit of self-congratulations, Smith admitted, for the journey across the great western ocean had been difficult. Thirty-nine of one hundred forty-four prospective colonists had died en route from scurvy and other diseases. After the proper prayers for burial of the dead at sea had been read from the captain’s
Book of Common Prayer
, the unfortunate ones had been hastily consigned to the sea. And so tonight, like every night since they had set sail from England, every man aboard was silently grateful that he slept not in the bowels of the deep.

The expedition had been a year in the planning. Chartered by King James in April 1606, the Virginia Company of London had been established for three purposes: to search for gold and other precious metals, explore the rivers of the New World for a possible passage to the South Sea, and look for the lost colony which had been initiated at Roanoke Island.

Those purposes were published and well known, but men were sent to Virginia for other reasons as well. The investors hoped to gather a profit through peaceful trade with the Indians of Virginia, King James desired to install a military base to effectively defend Virginia against ongoing Spanish colonization in the New World, and clergymen stressed the urgent importance of evangelizing the Indians with the gospel of Jesus Christ.

But John Smith had not crossed the great sea for God, government, or gold. He had ventured forth for glory. If he found gold and served God or his country, so much the better, but he had joined the expedition solely for the adventure of the journey. A professional soldier since the age of twenty, Smith had stood in imminent danger of losing his life at least a hundred times, but the hand of God or amazing strokes of good fortune, depending upon a man’s viewpoint, had thus far preserved his life.

Smith rubbed his beard and leaned on the ship’s rail, tasting his recollections of danger with pleasure. On account of his Protestant beliefs he had once been tossed overboard from a similar ship en route to Italy. Picked up by a passing skipper, he had joined a corps of Hungarians who lived solely to fight Turks, and while amongst them he had invented an incendiary bomb that effectively dislodged enemy positions. In a duel for his life, he beheaded three Turkish champions, but at the battle of Rotenthurn he was wounded and carried off by the Turks. He thought fortune had given him a wry smile when he was sold as a slave to an aristocratic woman, but she lent Smith to her bullying brother who delighted in humiliating servants. After killing the tyrant in self-defense, Smith escaped through Russia while wearing a slave’s iron collar about his neck.

Virginia had seemed a logical choice for a willing adventurer, but there was no doubt that he and trouble could not be separated for long. Mayhap he had voiced his opinion too forcefully on an occasion or two aboard ship, but that cursed Captain Newport was touchy beyond reason! And a man shouldn’t be chained below deck simply for questioning the wisdom of lolling around in the ocean when there was work to be done. That pompous aristocrat Edward Wingfield, however, was more intent upon Smith’s demise than Newport. On the Caribbean island of Nevis, Wingfield had actually dared to construct a gallows with a noose intended for Smith’s neck. But Smith had faced his disgruntled accusers and blithely remarked that they were handsome gallows, but he could not be persuaded to use them.

Oh, the frustration on Newport’s and Wingfield’s faces! Only the diplomacy of Reverend Robert Hunt could calm them enough to call the men aboard ship so the voyage could begin its final journey. And Smith had climbed the gangplank with poise, his hands still shackled behind him, his confidence unwavering.

“To overcome,” Smith whispered at the ship’s rail, smiling as he watched the waves strive to reach the stars, “is to live.”

Yea, throughout his twenty-and-seven years, only two things had moved John Smith: a mild interest in money and an unshakable passion for adventure.

Surrounded by animal sounds and the stirring of dark river waters, the children’s canoe drifted throughout the night. Fallon woke to see dawn brightening the sky above, and lifted a corner of the grass mat to peer out. Several Indian canoes lined a clearing on the riverbank ahead, and in the moist, chill air Fallon could smell cook fires. The delicious aroma made his stomach cramp with sudden hunger.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping children, Fallon put his hands in the water and quietly guided the canoe to the shore. He slid noiselessly from the boat into the water, beached the canoe firmly in the sand, then flung the dew-heavy mat back over the sleeping children.

Twenty feet downstream he saw a trail leading away from the water, and as he crouched down and crept nearer, the tall timbers of a palisade rose in the distance. He closed his eyes, trying to remember which Indian villages lay south on the Chowan River. Was this Tandaquomuc? Metackwem?

His heart went into sudden shock when a painted warrior stepped out of the gloom, the tip of his spear gleaming white in the semi-darkness. Fallon uttered a quick greeting, knowing his life depended upon the ease with which he spoke in the Algonquin tongue, and the Indian indicated the trail with a jerk of his head. Fallon stepped forward, his heart in his throat, but he had no choice but to follow the path before him and face the village chief, the
werowance.

The warrior called to his fellows as he escorted Fallon into the village. A crowd followed in their wake, and the werowance came out of his hut to greet the visitor. They met near the center of the village, and Fallon could feel the eyes of the tribe upon him as they remarked upon his pale skin and red hair.

The warrior pointed to the chief and told Fallon that he stood before Gepanocon. He was an aging chief whose skin as well as his hair had grayed over the years. The man’s head had been shaved from the crown to the eyebrows, but coarse hair hung long down his back. He wore an animal skin at his waist, and an embroidered mantle over his shoulders. His chest had been painted with an intricate picture of a rattlesnake, complete with beaded rattles and sharp fangs.

Fallon lifted his eyes from the harrowing picture and met the chief’s stern gaze. “Why do you come to Ritanoe?” the
chief asked, and Fallon recognized the name of the village. Warriors had often come from Ritanoe to Ocanahonan to trade.

The quick question needed a thoughtful answer. Drawing himself to his full height, Fallon answered in the tongue of the Algonquin tribes. Speaking slowly, he explained that two days ago an enemy, probably the Powhatan, had surrounded Ocanahonan to destroy it. He and two children had escaped in the night.

Gepanocon’s eyes narrowed as the tale unfolded, and when Fallon had finished speaking, the aged leader held out his hands as a sign of welcome. “We will send men to search Ocanahonan for survivors,” he said, nodding gravely. “You and the children with you will make a home in our village. Our women will be their mothers; our men will be their fathers.”

The chief nodded as if the matter were settled, then he cast a searching look toward Fallon. “Know you how to beat copper into weapons?”

Fallon shook his head. “I have not learned a trade,” he said, for the first time ashamed of his youth. “I followed in the footsteps of my father Rowtag and how to hunt and fish.”

“Those are good lessons,” Gepanocon said, nodding. “But we will see if others yet live. Go now and bring those with you into this village.” With an abrupt gesture, Gepanocon signaled to two women, who ran to Fallon’s side for the walk back to the river.

His mind hummed with questions as he led the women to the river. Gepanocon had acted kindly in allowing Fallon and the children to remain in the safety of camp. The question about copper, however, troubled him. Why did the chief care so much about a mere metal when lives were at stake?

The canoe was waiting on the sand where Fallon had left it, and when he lifted the grass mat he could see that neither Gilda nor Noshi had moved. With their arms tossed around each other in comfort, they slept still, their dark heads nestled together as one. Without a word, the two Indian women reached into the boat and each lifted a child, nestling their gentle burdens into the soft curves of their bodies as they followed the trail back to the village.

Fallon followed. He knew he ought to feel relieved that the children had been properly delivered to safety. ‘Tis what his parents wanted, after all, and he had done his duty. But his heart twisted at the sound of the women’s gentle crooning, and he wondered if he would ever regard Gilda and Noshi in the same way. He had been their protector ever since they were weaned; what would he do now that the watchful eyes of an entire Indian village stood ready to guard and shelter them?

Gepanocon sent out a scouting party immediately. At sunset of the second day the scouts returned from the city that had been Ocanahonan with six wounded men. Fallon sat outside in the evening shadows as the tribal elders gathered around the chief to hear the scouts’ report, and he flinched when the warriors stated flatly that Ocanahonan, the great city of the clothed people, was no more. “All were dead save these six, four English and two Indians,” one of the scouts said, gesturing to the wounded on the ground. “Only the gods know which of these will survive.”

Fallon stood and peered over the shoulders of the assembled crowd for a glance at the wounded men, hoping that his stepfather would lie before him. But though he recognized the four Englishmen, they were not of his family, and the two Indians were marked with the tattoos and painted designs of the Powhatan. Fallon closed his eyes against the storm of hate in his heart. If God was just, those two would die!

Whether from God’s hand or their wounds, the two Powhatan warriors did die before sunrise. The four Englishmen lay in the chief’s own hut where the women cleaned their wounds and the conjuror chanted prayers. After three days, Gepanocon lifted his hands in victory and announced that the four Englishmen would survive and teach them how to hammer copper into weapons. The village celebrated with a great feast and dancing around the fire, and Fallon drew close to Noshi and Gilda, who stood apart and watched the scene with fascination.

Despite his knowledge of Indian ways and his fluency in their tongue, Fallon felt that he had mistakenly stepped into another world. Ocanahonan, with its mixture of English and Indian cultures, had been a thoroughly civilized city founded on Christian principles and governed by an enlightened code of law. Women had worn modest clothing, hands were washed and faces scrubbed, men carried themselves in dignity and honor. The guiding principles behind the laws, customs, and every day civility were the codes and morals found in God’s holy Bible, and Indian and Englishman alike had revered it.

How different was this primitive place! The women wore long skirts of leather with no clothing at all on their upper bodies; men danced in breechcloths around a roaring fire while their heavily tattooed chests gleamed with coats of bear grease. The werowance’s priests and conjuror screamed and clawed the air near the fire, begging aid from unseen spirits and gods of the night, and Fallon felt his skin crawl with revulsion.