Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (50 page)

Colman rolled onto his side, put his arm around her. “Emily, what happened to George?”

She sobbed on.

He pushed her shoulder. “Emily, where’s George?”

“He’s dead, Father. Drowned. Dragged down with the ship . . . saving others . . . saved you and me. Gone, Father. He’s gone. Don’t you remember?”

Colman pushed himself close to her. “No, Em, I
don’t
remember. I don’t remember anything after the mast broke.”

Emily stopped crying, sat up, wiped her eyes. “George saved you, Father. You were unconscious. He brought you to that board over there.” She pointed at the six-foot plank lying on the shore behind him. “I was already there—he saved me, too. Then after he rescued you, he went back for others who were caught in the rigging . . . then everything was gone.” She looked out at the sound. “They’re all out there somewhere . . . under the water, tangled with the pinnace . . . I want to go back and find George. I can’t bear the thought of him dead out there in the water. I’m going out to find him.” She stood, walked to the plank, lifted the end, started dragging it into the water.

Colman watched for a moment with hanging jaw and dumfounded eyes, then rose, walked to her, gently put his arm around her shoulder
as he gripped the plank with his other hand. “ Em, you cannot go out there. You’ve no idea where to look, and there’s nothing to be done, even if you find something. Nay, Daughter, there’s naught you can do for George but thank God for his bravery and pray he’s in heaven.” He guided her down to the sand. “And I must thank you, my dear, brave daughter, for somehow holding me on that board all night and getting me to this shore.”

She looked at him with numb eyes, saw nothing, tried to grasp his words; leaned her head against his chest, wrapped her arms around him as she’d done as a little girl, closed her eyes; moaned softly, hid herself in the solace of his embrace. But her mind returned to George—his surprised, smiling face when she’d shoved him and run away on the pathway to the shore their first day at Roanoke, his lingering sorrow at the loss of his mother, his breathless grief at the brutal murder of his father, the adoring honesty in his eyes when he told her he loved her more than life itself. As she sobbed and pulled her father closer, she suddenly saw George tethered to the ship, floating underwater, blank eyes staring at her, begging for help. She moaned softly as she blinked the vision away.

After a long silence, Colman said, “Come, Em, we must pray for George . . . and for ourselves, I fear.” With a damp stiffness, he guided himself and Emily to their knees. They looked like out-of-place sculptures wrapped in a tight-fitting cloak of silence. He held her hand, looked skyward. “Almighty Lord, we, your children, offer you profound thanks for our deliverance from the wicked jaws of the sea. We also thank you for any others you may have spared.” He coughed. “Lord, we also commend to you the spirits of those who perished in this terrible storm . . . especially that of young George Howe, who sacrificed himself that others might live. No finer soul have you ever put upon this earth.”

Wailing and trembling, Emily sank back on her heels, lowered her face to her sandy hands.

“And may he revel in your grace in paradise. Last, Lord, please guide us as we seek our deliverance. And when we’ve been reunited with our brethren, protect us as we struggle to survive in this hostile land, so all may serve your will. Amen.”

Colman lowered his gaze to Emily, then leaned forward and touched the back of her head, glided his fingers through her hair, softly caressed the back of her neck.

When she had quieted, she took a deep breath, looked up into his eyes. “Amen, Father.” I’ve nothing left, she thought. Wonder if any others survived? How will we find them? How will we find the village, Elyoner, Virginia? How can we survive the coming winter and the Savages who would kill us? How can I live without George?

As the two sat in silence, staring out at the water, Colman looked across the sound, saw the main to the west; he followed it north to the hazy distance, where it merged with the outer banks. That’s where we must go, he thought, but ’tis more than a day’s walk. No fresh water here on the banks, only rotten fish to eat unless we catch some crabs. He wondered if the people at Chesapeake would search for them. Alas, he thought, we left Roanoke over a day early; they won’t expect us until tomorrow night. We’re alone . . . unless one or both of the shallops survived, arrived safely, told them of our ill fortune. How calm and placid the water looks now, so different from the hellish tempest of last night. He again scanned up and down the waterway, wondered how many had perished, how many bodies they’d find on the way north, how many besides themselves had survived?

Emily surveyed the panorama before her; focusing on sections of water, she searched for remnants of the ships, bodies. She wondered why she’d been unable to love George as he’d loved her, succumbed to the smoldering guilt that gripped her mind like a vice—feel so alone without him, like part of me is gone, empty, dead; wish I’d perished with him, lay entombed beside him in the water. God, why did you take him, the noblest soul on earth? Why him? Why not someone else? Why? You erred, Lord. She quickly crossed herself. Forgive me, Lord . . . ’tis not for me to judge . . . please care for my George; tell him how much I miss him . . . and love him.

Her eyes drifted to the birds above and on the water. So carefree, so content, she thought. So unlike me. She watched the tiny waves glide gently ashore from the sound, run their course, slowly recede. Like the joys and sorrows of life, she mused. Will we ever feel joy again? Can we ever live in
this land? I think not. I think we must leave. I think God is
telling
us to leave, abandon it to the Savages . . . I
want
to leave . . . want my locket . . . my mother, my brother. She slid her hand into her empty apron pocket. I
shall
leave . . . when John White returns . . . return to England . . . and a safe life . . . where people and things aren’t trying to kill me every day; where I can live without fear, like my friend Jane back home; where there’s real food, beer, wine; where I can be courted by a good man, fall in love, marry, have children . . . but there
is
a certain excitement and exhilaration to living perilously, narrowly escaping death. Perchance it gets in your blood . . . like the warriors of old times . . . like the Vikings. She suddenly thought of Hugh Tayler, realized her usual warming at the thought of him had been displaced by chilly indifference. She shook her head. God’s blessed will, Emily, how can you condemn the man on hearsay—albeit your best friend’s—without giving him a chance to speak for himself? Most unjust . . . but I feel what I feel, so what am I to do?

After minutes of vacant wandering, Emily’s mind replayed the disasters that had plagued them: George Howe’s brutal murder, the attack on the Croatans, White’s departure, the massacre, Manteo’s disclosure of the Powhatan threat at Chesapeake, the wreck . . . her last glimpse of George. Then for a fleeting moment, she saw the penetrating black eyes of Manteo’s Savage friend. She couldn’t remember his name but felt a sudden, new warmth spread through her body, between her thighs, a disorienting rush to her mind. Oh . . . such a stirring inside me . . . why? Forget him, Emily. You’ll never see him again . . . he’s a Savage, a heathen. You’ve nothing in common . . . but Manteo’s a Savage, and you found much in common with
him
. . . perchance . . .

“Emily, we must be on our way.” Colman pointed to the north, where the outer banks met the main. “We must go there, then somewhere beyond and inland. ’Tis a long walk, and we shall have no food or water until we are there . . . so we must start now. I am already famished and thirsty. How are you?”

“The same . . . so let us go, Father.” She looked out at the sound, said another prayer for George. “I want to forget this place . . . but I’ll never forget George.”

“Nor shall I, my dear.” He embraced her, kissed her cheek, gazed into her eyes, then grasped her hand and started north.

They had walked a quarter mile when Colman abruptly raised his arm, pointed ahead. “Look there!” A hundred yards up the shoreline, several bodies lay on the sand.

Emily stopped, stared ahead with an anxious look. Perchance ’tis George, she thought . . . mayhap he . . . she raced ahead. What if . . . what if . . . oh, God. She stopped. “Father, do you recognize anyone?”

Colman shook his head.

Emily walked slowly ahead. George’s shirt . . . looks like his shirt. “Father, I think I see George!” She quickened her pace.

Thirty feet from the bodies, she stopped, looked out at the sound.

Colman caught up, paused, then walked forward as he covered his nose and mouth with his hand. Flies and small crabs covered the bodies. One corpse was a woman who lay face up, her eyes already devoured, her body naked and bloated. The other two were men lying face down. One, indeed, looked like George. Colman hesitated, then stooped, rolled the body over, looked at Emily without expression, shook his head. “Come, Daughter, we’ve a duty.”

Two hours later, Emily and her father patted the sand on the last of the three graves. The burials had been difficult, for they’d had only their hands and driftwood sticks to dig with. Depleted, hot, desperately thirsty, they sat on the sand, stared at the graves and emptiness around them. Only the lapping water of the sound, the periodic crash of an ocean wave, and the cry of an occasional gull violated the silence.

Finally, Colman said, “They came so far, Em, but for what? For this? To be buried on an empty shore in a hostile land? Why, I ask? Why?”

“At least they’re buried, Father. I can’t say that for George. He died for us . . . I feel so guilty . . . wish I’d died with him.” She closed her eyes, crossed her hands over her chest.

“Don’t talk like that, Em. You’re alive because God has a plan for you. Life seldom proceeds the way we expect, but ’tis God’s plan, nonetheless.”

She opened her eyes, looked at him.

“Em, our burial of these good souls has made me think . . . made me realize what a fool I was to bring us here. I’d hoped to better myself, achieve a lifelong dream . . . but all I’ve done is put us at risk, perhaps doom us to certain death. You know, my dear, sometimes God tells us what his plan is, and I think He’s telling us now that it doesn’t include us living here.”

“Father, you—”

“I was truly selfish to leave your mother and brother, and risk you, my only daughter, for selfish ambition. I see that now.”

“Father!”

“I should’ve been happy with what I had in England, been content as a schoolmaster. My self-indulgence has almost cost you your life twice; and now we may never see your mother and brother again, and they’ll never know our fate.”

Emily thought of her lost locket; her fingers instinctively explored her apron pocket. Elyoner, pray thee protect Mother’s letter.

“Emily, I will also tell you I’m a total failure at expressing my feelings to those I love. I’m clumsy and awkward, and cannot easily say to you that I love you more than anything in this world, but I do. I cannot say to you that your safety is my obsession, but it is . . . and here we sit.”

She grasped his hand.

“We’ve no chance for survival here. We’re more alone than any civilized people have ever been. The Savages and this dangerous land will overwhelm us in time, and I cannot allow that to happen.” He looked into her eyes. “After the massacre, I decided that when John White returns, we shall board the ship and return to England with your mother and brother if they’re aboard. And if another ship finds us before he returns, we’ll leave with
them
.”

“No, Father! I thought the same earlier today, but now I see ’twas wrong. What of the sacrifices made by George and his father, and those who died at the massacre and in the storm, and those who’ve survived?
We’ll desecrate it all if we run away. No, Father! We
cannot
leave! We
will not
leave. I
refuse
to leave! We must stand and rely on God and ourselves to overcome whatever lies ahead. We must, Father!”

Colman stared at the ground with empty eyes, shook his head. “Emily, you are the bravest of girls, but—”

“What’s that?” Emily looked south, sudden alarm in her eyes, put a finger to her lips, then rolled flat onto her stomach, motioned her father to do the same. “There it is again.”

“What? What is it?”

“Voices. I heard voices.”

The two lay flat. Emily’s heart pounded against the sand; her mind spun with fear. Two heads appeared over the top of a sand dune a hundred feet to the south.

A voice said, “There they are. Looks to be Master Colman and his daughter. Hello! Are you alright?”

“Father, ’tis Sergeant Gibbes and Roger Baylye.” Emily and her father looked at each other, sighed, smiled; they climbed slowly to their feet and held hands.

“Praise God! That we are,” Colman said, brushing the sand from his clothes. “Have you seen any others?”

“Not alive,” Baylye said. “And you?”

“Nay.” He pointed at the three grave mounds.

Baylye and Gibbes hurried to the Colmans; all four hesitated, stared awkwardly for a moment, then embraced. Baylye said, “Good to see you alive, Thomas, and you, Emily.
Very
good to see you alive.” He looked at the graves. “Could you identify them?”