Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (2 page)

He turned to a soldier at his elbow. “Sergeant, collect your men. There’s no more to be done here; let us be away.” Impulsively glancing at the patch of darkening sky above the clearing, he noticed the lofty treetops swaying in the risen wind and thought how they looked like death’s gnarled fingers warning him away from the place. A sudden chill raced from his head to his shoulders, then down his back. “To the boats, men. Quickly! This storm’s caught us by surprise. Leave the trunks. If the sky looks this angry at the ship, the captain will certainly put out to sea to weather the storm—with us or without us. We’ll have to pull hard to reach them in time.” He stepped onto the pathway to the shore. “We’ll return for the trunks and go to the
other island to find our people after the storm, perhaps on the morrow. Now quickly, men! To the boats!”

After the short jog to the shore, they stepped hesitantly from the relative calm of the forest into a bludgeoning gale, which caused them to bend sharply into the wind to advance. At the shore, they quickly pushed the boats into the water, scrambled frantically aboard, and pulled on their oars with the desperate strength that only fear instills. The rain started—a light sprinkle at first, then a pummeling downpour that, with the wind and anguished water, tossed the boats like tiny sticks in a churning cauldron. The leader yelled, “Pull hard, men! Pull!” He clutched the prow of his boat. “Stay close! Pull, pull!”

Chapter 1

THREE YEARS EARLIER

H
ugh Tayler sat on the ground, used a short stick to scratch a crude image of a person in the sand. The figure wore a dress. He tried to keep his eyes on his work, but every few seconds his gaze drifted back to a petite young woman who sat ten yards away in the fog that enveloped him and the other forty or so people, many of them soldiers, waiting uneasily on the narrow shore. The girl listened intently to her father, Thomas Colman, and his friend, George Howe. Howe’s son, also George, a young man of seventeen, sat with them, staring at Tayler’s girl with admiring brown eyes, oblivious to the presence of other souls on the shore.

Tayler was more discreet than the lad, but even a blind man could see God’s finest work in Emily Colman’s face and, with little imagination, in what lay concealed beneath her bulky red skirt and blue shirt. And when she occasionally glanced at him and smiled, his brain flushed, sent a warm glow sweeping through his body like a hot summer wind. No woman in England—and there had been many—had affected him that way, and he had no idea how to react. What was it that aroused him? Maybe the stunning visage of her blue eyes, long dark hair, full lips, rosy complexion, and beguiling smile; or perhaps the subtle, sensuous bounce of her step; or the way her every movement celebrated life. Probably the entire persona, he decided, but whatever it was, all of it accented her piercing eyes—eyes that at once melted his confidence, seemed to read his soul. He’d noticed she had the same effect on others, especially young Howe, who couldn’t take his eyes off her, and yes; whatever it was, it made women envious and men want to do what men do.

He glanced at Emily again, wished young Howe, who was two years too young for her, would look elsewhere. Tayler had spoken with her several times on the ship from England, but never for long, and never in a manner that could develop the relationship he envisioned for the two of them. Her father had always been present, so he’d kept things on a formal level, which frustrated him immensely though her father believed him to be a man of means and substance, which would work in his favor in time. With 119 passengers, ship’s crew, small herds of goats and pigs, and a few chickens, milling around the deck or crammed into the hold, it was difficult to have a real conversation with anyone. The damned goats—Lord, how he hated their smell—reminded him of his unhappy youth. Even pigs were better, and if the goats all fell overboard or died quickly at the colony, he’d be a happy man. One day when no one was watching, he’d come close to throwing one overboard to feed the sharks that always trailed the vessel, but at the last second had thought better of it.

He thought the fog had a spooky, foreboding feel to it, like the moors in southern England. He’d learned about those moors as a youth when he and a friend had wandered into their sinister grasp. Terrified of the evil he felt around him, he’d panicked; abandoned the younger lad; run blindly, aimlessly, erratically; saved himself. At the lad’s funeral, he’d lied to the parents, telling them he’d searched for their son for hours. Though he’d detested his actions, his cowardice had stuck with him like dried sap on a hairy arm ever since; but with the exception of a few people in England who only suspected the truth, it was
his
secret. Now, as he observed the uneasy eyes of those around him, most staring fearfully at the west side of the clearing where a murky, ghostlike wall of trees marked the edge of the decidedly intimidating forest, he realized he was not alone in his assessment of the fog. And the few who dared speak whispered so softly he couldn’t hear them, though seated but a few feet away.

As Tayler ventured yet another glance at Emily, the sound of snapping branches ripped through the breathless fog like a musket shot, sent hands reaching for weapons, people to their feet; they huddled close together, faced the sound. As eerie as an apparition, four soldiers lunged from the mist, wearing ridged metal helmets and chest armor, swords at their sides,
and muskets held diagonally across their chests. After halting and bending over to catch their breath, they stepped to an anxious but dignified-looking man with slightly gray, shoulder-length hair and a short, pointed beard. He wore a white, collared shirt and a tight-fitting gray jacket that constrained his modest paunch and matched his blousy pants, which covered the territory between his waist and thighs. Tall leather boots rose above his knees, and his left hand held a round-brimmed hat with a tall, circular crown. With an air of importance, he glanced around the group of colonists, then walked deeper into the fog to the edge of the forest, stopped, faced the four soldiers who’d followed him. Though barely visible to the people who watched from the clearing, he beckoned to a dark-skinned man, with black, shoulder-length hair, sitting with the civilians. “Manteo.” Manteo had the brown skin, dark eyes, and high cheekbones of a Savage but wore English clothing, which he meticulously brushed off as he rose, approached the important man, who immediately turned to one of the soldiers, whispered, “Pray tell, Lieutenant Waters, what did you find? Were they there?”

Waters, a handsome, green-eyed, astute-looking young man with a sturdy build and fair hair hesitated, looked dubiously at his men, then spoke haltingly between rapid breaths. “Nay, Governor White . . . they were not.” White raised an index finger to his lips, looked at the people to make sure no one heard, then nodded at Waters to continue. Barely audible, Waters breathed his words. “We found but one; and . . . and . . . Sir, he was dead, long dead, in fact—nothing left but bones and armor . . . and a few strips of rotten flesh. Eight Savage arrows lay with his bones, and the skull was crushed into too many pieces to count, so . . . ”

“Could you identify him? I have the names.” White bit his lower lip, squinted his eyes into a hard, expectant look. He’d feared something like this. A year was too long to leave so small a contingent in this place, this swirling nest of angry Savages. He assumed a despondent, defeated look and stared at the ground, as if expecting to find solace, perhaps even answers.

“No, Sir.”

“And no sign of the others?”

All four shook their heads.

“What of the structures, and the palisades?”

“Cottages standing, Sir, but palisades mostly burned to the ground. They’ll be of little use to us . . . at least not until we do some major repair work and a lot of new construction.”

White looked away, surveyed the people again. They’d congregated in small groups, spoke in hushed tones, while occasionally glancing his way. Already it begins. They’re waiting for me to tell them what we’ve found, what we’ll do next. What
can
I tell them? What
must
I tell them? Why did I persuade Raleigh to make me Governor? I’m no leader, only an artist. A fool I was . . . thought I could do better than Lane, right the wrongs . . . No, Raleigh was the fool . . . for believing me. Yes, ’twas Raleigh’s fault.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Waters touched White’s shoulder. White flinched then looked blankly, silently at him, seemed unaware of his presence. “Sir, what would you have us do?”

White heard nothing; his spacey stare saw only the desperate churning of his own mind. Then, as if waking from a dream, he shook his head, motioned the soldiers and Manteo closer—so close they could feel each other’s breath. “You must keep this dead man to yourselves. If the people discover what the Savages have done, they’ll panic.” He looked into each man’s eyes. “I need not tell you what that would mean. Lieutenant Waters, how far is the dead man from the village?”

“At least 200 yards. And the spot is well concealed by shrubs and trees. We found him only by accident. Sir, there may be others we didn’t find.”

White looked into the forest; his mind swirled desperately for a course of action. Finally he said, “Go back to the site; bury the man and the arrows deep. Conceal the grave so none will discover it. I will speak to the people and tell them the fifteen soldiers have gone elsewhere or perchance been rescued by a passing ship. Again, you men must keep your silence on this. As you know, six of our women are wives or fiancées of these men, come to meet them. It will not go well if they think them dead. There’s nothing more unsettling than a weeping, shrieking woman. So off with you now. We’ll follow shortly. Be quick with your task.”

Waters nodded. “Come, men.” The four turned, lifted their muskets, and trotted back into the forest.

As White and Manteo stepped toward the people, Emily Colman whispered to young George Howe, “Well, George, it looks as if we’re about to know our fate.” George smiled, savored the rush he always felt when she looked at or spoke to him.

As White raised his hands for silence, he wondered how he could explain the unexplainable, deceive those he was obliged to lead and protect? Like trusting children, eyes full of hope, they gathered around, six of them desperate to hear their loved ones were but a short walk away. “Friends, I have news. As you know, an English military colony, of which I was a member, inhabited this island from 1585 to 1586 under command of a soldier named Lane. And as many of you also know, shortly after the army contingent abandoned the island about a year ago, fifteen soldiers were left here by a passing English ship to hold the colony for Her Majesty. Retrieving these men was the sole purpose of our landing here. Unfortunately, our scouts searched the village for these men but were unable to find them. The village is long deserted.”

Several women collapsed into tearful moans, their hands hiding their faces. White raised his voice; people glanced at one another, shadows of fear in their eyes. “I’ve dispatched the scouts to another part of the island to continue the search, and I’m most confident we’ll find them or . . . or learn where they’ve gone. I do not believe them to be in danger.” As the lie slid off his lips, his heart began to thump like an execution drum a second before the headsman’s axe falls.

“Your Honor,” said a plain-looking woman, choking on stifled sobs, “I came here to be with my husband. I
must
find him. Pray, tell me how?” She began to wail, covered her face with her hands, and spun away from him.

“We’ll find them, Madame. I promise—”

“Governor White,” said a plump, unkempt man, “as we disembarked, the ship’s pilot told his seamen not to return us to the ship. Why?
This
is not our destination. What does he intend for us to do here? We were to settle in the Chesapeake, where you and Sir Walter Raleigh promised us each 500 acres . . . not here.”

“I do not know why, Sir, but I shall—”

“How do we know,” a finely dressed man said, “that the Savages didn’t murder those men and hide the bodies?”

Sweat poured off White’s brow. “We . . . we
don’t
know . . . but . . . but I’m certain the men are—”

“When will those who remain on the ship join us?” the unkempt man asked. “And what of our possessions? We’ve little food, no shelter, the day is late.” Grumbling spread like flames through a haystack.

“I . . . I don’t know . . . I must return to the ship on the morrow and consult with Fernandez, understand his intent, persuade him.” Why did the bastard do this? We can’t survive here; he knows it, willfully condemns us. White slowed his racing mind, nurtured a maturing thought. Perchance he’s been bribed. . . . Yes, yes. Raleigh has enemies, and perhaps they . . . no, whatever the reason, we
cannot
remain here, must go on to Chesapeake, only sixteen leagues, an easy day’s sail. But where are the missing men? If only my love were alive, she’d know what to do. Damn Fernandez! “On the morrow, I shall talk to the pilot. . . . I must also confer with my Assistants when all are ashore. We will—”