Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (18 page)

She reached over to her apron, which lay folded beneath her clothes a few inches away, removed her black locket, held it to the candle, and read
MC
and
1587
engraved on the back. As a thin mist dampened her eyes, she squeezed the sides of the locket. A small stem popped out of one end. She rotated it a full counterclockwise turn, half a clockwise turn, then pushed it inward. The top of the locket popped open, revealing a folded lock of brown hair the size of her little finger. She removed the hair, stared at it for a moment, then held it to her lips. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she
whispered, “Mother, please come to us soon. I need you. Father needs you. I love you.” Her gaze lingered for a moment before she replaced the lock of hair, snapped the lid closed, and returned the locket to her pocket. She then placed the candle on the floor in the center of the room, lay down on her bed, and softly cried herself to sleep.

As the sun approached the treetops, Lieutenant Waters and most of his men sat near the palisades, their weapons beside them; most civilians sat immediately inside their open cottage doors, ready to assemble at a moment’s notice when the Savages arrived. Ten soldiers, muskets in hand, guarded the approaches to the village. Governor White, Manteo, and all twelve Assistants sat under a canvas tarp held seven feet in the air by four corner poles tethered by rope guide lines tied to stakes in the ground. An assortment of gifts for the Savages, including glass beads, cloth, steel knives, hammers, and hatchets, lay in neat rows beside the shelter; while a stack of six-inch-long pieces of red cloth, for Manteo’s people to tie around their wrists for identification, sat beside the gifts.

While White’s plan for meeting with all the nearby Savages had received general approval, the day brought ever-rising anxiety and disappointment; for no Savage, even of Manteo’s tribe, showed his face. At first he thought they were just late and would suddenly emerge from the forest later in the afternoon; but as the day wore on, he realized he was wrong, and a black fog of despair relentlessly crept into his mind. How could they ignore his offer, force him to take the terrible action he dreaded more than death itself, force him to repeat Lane’s atrocities, violate his sense of humanity? Did they not know they were inviting their own deaths and destruction? How could they have so little regard for sense and logic? Indeed, the attack his men would soon mount against the Savages would completely destroy any hope of peace. He felt an icy chill on his neck, a horrible, overwhelming sense of foreboding; realized, yet again, that the vast numerical advantage held by the Savages could ultimately lead to but one outcome. He stared at the rows of gifts, drank a dipper of water from the bucket near his feet, and
shook his head. While he fingered his beard, he scoured his mind for a way to avoid the attack, knew there was none.

When the Assistants began to whisper to one another, White beckoned Lieutenant Waters to join them. The civilians saw what was happening, emerged from their cottages, and gathered about ten yards outside the clump of Assistants. White knew how it would go, for Roger Baylye and the three Assistants who had supported him at yesterday’s meeting, including his son-in-law, Ananias, stood together; while Willes, Stevens, and Sampson stood with the others. The soldiers remained by the palisades.

“My friends, I know many of you are as disappointed as I am about the failure of the Savages to come here today. The fact that
none
came, even Manteo’s people, causes me to wonder if perhaps they misunderstood our proposal or the date or time at which they were expected.”

Murmurs percolated through the men near Willes and Sampson.

White raised his voice. “And if they
did
misunderstand our intentions, how could they correctly communicate them to the other tribes? Manteo’s people have always been our friends, and we’ve no reason to think they now feel otherwise.”

Willes said, “John, we know you’re against attacking George Howe’s murderers, but what are you proposing? Surely you don’t believe what you just suggested. My God, man, Manteo himself communicated the invitation.”

“ ’Tis true. But I also know something has happened to cause them not to come here today, and I think we must take every precaution to be certain of the circumstances before we resort to bloodshed.”

Both Assistants and civilians, some with anger, others with contempt, shouted their opinions at one another.

Roger Baylye raised his hands to quiet the din. “Please, please. The governor’s right. We don’t want to start a war. We want to find a way to make and preserve peace, and I agree with John. We must make a greater effort to do so before we start something we may be unable to conclude. Do you not understand that we’re alone and lack the force of Her Majesty’s army to defend us? Think, men, think!”

“Master Baylye’s right,” Hugh Tayler said. Others voiced support for Baylye’s plea but were outshouted by dissenters. White nodded his thanks to Baylye and Tayler then shook his head in despair.

William Willes raised both hands; the shouting tapered then subsided. “John, you made a promise yesterday. You told your Assistants and the entire colony that we would attack George Howe’s murderers if the Savages did not come here today. Did you not make that promise?”

“Aye, I did, William, but—”

“Then you must keep it. We must attack and punish them.”

Impassioned shouting exploded. White stared at the ground as if looking elsewhere would silence the tumult. He felt himself a traitor to his principles, but knowing he had no way out, finally raised his hands for silence. “We
will
attack, but ’twould be folly to simply charge off and do so without first conceiving a sensible military plan. Such planning is Lieutenant Waters’ responsibility, and we should hear what he proposes.” He nodded at Waters.

“The governor is correct. To attack haphazardly is to invite confusion and disaster. I will develop an attack plan and present it an hour after dark to Governor White and whoever he chooses.”

All, including Willes, Stevens, and Sampson nodded agreement.

White said, “Very well, Lieutenant. We shall expect you in my cottage an hour after dark. Now, I suggest we end this gathering and proceed with our evening’s affairs. It promises to be a long night.”

Emily sat beside Elyoner, held her hand as she lay on her back panting. Her knees were bent up and outward, her legs spread apart, hair pulled back, face and smock soaked with sweat. She suddenly tensed, moaned, her features taut and pained; then slowly relaxed to a fearful, uncertain look, waited for the next contraction. Two buckets of water and a pile of rags sat nearby; and Jane Pierce and Agnes Sampson, whom Emily had summoned an hour before, stood several feet away watching, whispering to one another.

Agnes said, “They’re getting closer. Won’t be long now.”

“I agree,” Jane said as she walked over to Elyoner, lifted her smock, and looked beneath it. “ Elyoner, you’re nearly there. Perhaps an hour, perhaps a little less. Be strong, dear.”

Elyoner tensed with another contraction. “ Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Ahhhh!” Her blanched fingers tightened on Emily’s hand.

Emily shot a tense, worried look at Agnes.

“She’s doing fine, lass. Doing fine . . . you, as well, Emily. Don’t worry. Hold her tight; won’t be long.”

The shallop, carrying twenty-six men, cast off from the shore, glided into the darkness. As the rowers began pulling toward the main, White whispered, “Gently, men. Make no sound. We’ve plenty of time.”

Manteo tapped White on the shoulder, pointed slightly left of the bow.

White nodded, then whispered to the helmsman, “Steer fifteen degrees left.”

The man nodded as he eased the rudder to the new position.

White looked up at the stars that flooded the black sky, rehashed the evening meeting in his cottage: Manteo’s reluctant agreement to guide them to the village; Waters’ sound attack plan, his moral objections to executing it, followed by his dour acknowledgement that it was his duty to do so; Baylye’s refusal to be part of it; Willes’ and Stevens’ eagerness to do the opposite; and his own persistent wish to be extricated from it altogether. As the water gently lapped at the sides of the boat, he thought of his daughter, envisioned her as a baby then as a child, was stunned that at that very moment she was giving birth to her own child. As he said a quick prayer, it struck him—the complete irony of a new birth occurring at the very moment other life would be taken away. He shook his head in frustration and shame as he recalled when Lane had killed the leader of the people they were about to attack, beheaded him with his sword, placed the head on a pole in the center of the village. Not a night passed that, in his dreams, he
didn’t see Wingina’s decomposing face, its half smile and questioning look that seemed to ask why he’d been treated so.

As the face faded, White’s thoughts drifted to Lane’s Chowanoc attack several months before he’d killed Wingina. Staring into the darkness, he saw the soldiers rushing from their boats, screaming at the Savages, firing their weapons, shooting arrows, swinging swords, killing at will. He again saw the three soldiers throw the beautiful woman to the ground, rip her clothes from her body, hold her down while each raped her in turn; saw one of them crush her head with the butt of his musket when they’d finished with her, then join others in killing her two children who lay but a few feet from her body. His stomach churned; he wanted to lean over the side and vomit but settled for squeezing the sides of the boat with both hands until they were numb.

Manteo tapped his shoulder, awakened him to his present anguish, pointed at dim firelight directly ahead, a little into the trees from the shore, and motioned to him to turn back to the right.

The helmsman saw Manteo’s direction, immediately guided the boat to the new course. The attack plan called for approaching the Savages through the forest so they would be trapped with their backs to the water. The new course would take them to exactly the right spot to execute the plan.

Fifty miles to the north, the Panther lay beside his new wife, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling of his lodge. He’d just awakened from the dream that tormented him every night, soaked him in sweat as he again saw himself lying helpless and wounded on the ground, unable to move, watching the three soldiers rape his wife, kill her with a brutal blow to the head, then kill his sons before rushing off to kill others and torch the village. His hands clenched in unspoken rage; deliberate hate seethed in his heart; he promised his dead wife that before he left the earth he would do to a white woman what had been done to her. He rolled onto his side and gently caressed his sleeping wife’s neck until he fell asleep.