Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (53 page)

The Panther had barely seated himself when Wahunsunacock had said, “Kills-Like-the-Panther has spoken with wisdom and concern for the people. He has spoken the words Okeus gave him, which are now in his heart . . . and in my heart.” He’d then looked at each man in the two lines, had nodded his acknowledgement as each had nodded his assent. When finished, he’d said, “This council has decided to proceed as Kills-Like-the-Panther has proposed. We will begin tomorrow.”

As the council’s war cries and howls of approval faded to the present, the Panther suddenly felt the warmth of his sleeping wife’s body flowing through his arm to his heart, her life force melding with his. He looked at her, feathered his hand slowly across her belly to feel the soft rise where their child grew, gently touched her cheek, smiled, rolled to his back; and as the tunnel of his mind narrowed toward sleep, he saw the white woman’s piercing eyes, her wild raven hair, her face tight with raw, defiant determination to live.

Bright moonlight flooded the white sand around Emily as she knelt beside Griffen Jones’ prostrate, writhing body, eased a wet cloth over his forehead. She thought of herself two years earlier doing the same for her twelve-year-old brother; remembered praying with every stroke, wishing with all her soul he’d live, knowing he wouldn’t; replayed her emotional unraveling at his painful death. She didn’t know this man, but it didn’t matter. He was a human being who needed help, and she would do her best to provide it, as her mother had taught her. Mother . . . oh, dear Mother, how I miss you . . . so tired, sore, arm hurts . . . hot, sticky sand all over me . . . thirsty, hungry, mouth dry as a ball of yarn, can’t swallow . . . stomach groaning, barefoot, bruises from the sand, so hot, so thirsty . . . my locket . . . oh, Mother, I long for my locket. Hope Ellie has
your letter. Ellie, I miss you and Virginia . . . more than I could ever have imagined, and it’s only been a week. Pray for us, Ellie, we—

Thomas Colman arrived with a rag saturated with the warm, brackish water of the sound. “Here, Em. Give me yours, and I’ll wet it again.” Hugh Tayler and Roger Baylye stood several feet behind Emily, watching her treat the man.

Emily took the rag, handed hers to her father. “He’s burning with fever, Father . . . keeps trying to vomit, but there’s nothing but blood . . . he then convulses for a few seconds and lies still.” As her father turned to walk back to the sound to wet the rag, Emily looked at Tayler. “Hugh, can you rub this across his forehead while I check on Master Burden?”

“Emily, I don’t—”

“Fie, Hugh Tayler! Come here and take this rag . . . Father, I need another wet rag for Master Burden . . . quickly.” She lifted the bottom of her skirt, tore out a large square, and handed it to him. Why did you snap at Hugh, Emily? Do not force your own afflictions on others . . . even if . . .

Tayler looked as if he’d been slapped in the face, stepped hesitantly toward her.

Emily placed the rag on Jones’ forehead, looked at Tayler, beckoned him to kneel; she rose, walked the twenty feet to John Burden, and knelt beside him to touch his cheek. “Oh, no! Master Burden, wake up.” She shook him gently, laid her palms on his cheeks, then grasped his wrist and searched for a pulse. “I think he’s gone. Master Baylye, can you . . .”

Baylye stepped to her side, knelt, checked the pulse, looked at Emily, shook his head.

Emily stared at him, moonlight sparkling on her damp eyes. “I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t know how to help him, what to do.”

Baylye grasped her hands. “ ’Tis not your fault, sweet Emily. None of us know what to do. You did the only thing you could . . . tried to make him comfortable. I’m afraid the ending was inevitable. You’re a kind, gentle soul, young mistress.”

Emily tried to force a smile but couldn’t. “What can we do for Master Jones?”

Emily and Baylye stood, walked back to Jones, where Tayler knelt, dragging the cloth back and forth across his forehead as if it were a rock. Tayler rose, handed the cloth to Emily. “I’m not very skilled at this, Emily.”

Emily looked at Jones; took a fresh, wet cloth from her father, handed him the warm one; knelt beside Jones, resumed her task. After a moment, she looked for Baylye; she saw that he, Tayler, her father, and several others were digging a grave for Burden. Jones suddenly moaned, twisted his body back and forth several times, heaved, then faded to unconsciousness. Emily shook her head. “Stay with us, Master Jones. Don’t let go. We’ll get you to water and shade in the morning.”

After twenty minutes, Baylye and the others approached Emily with gaunt, somber expressions. Baylye said, “Emily, you’ve made a valiant effort . . . but he’s slipping away . . . just as Master Burden did.”

Emily ignored him.

“We’ve discussed our situation and the best course of action for all.” He paused, blinked several times, rubbed his fingers and thumbs together. “The welfare of the entire colony is my responsibility, and I must base my decisions on its best interest.”

Emily paused, looked up at him; she glanced at her father then back at Baylye.

“We’ve decided our first responsibility is to get as many of us as possible to shade and water. Unfortunately, whether or not we stay with Master Jones will not affect his chances of survival. He’s going to die, with us or without us, and remaining with him longer may cause others to suffer the same fate. We’ve no idea what awaits us further up these banks, and we’ll likely encounter unforeseen obstacles. So, for the good of all, we must tarry no longer.”

Emily thought again of her mother’s teachings to never abandon the helpless, to care for the sick until their end. Mother, what should I do? No one spoke. She heard only the crashing of ocean waves behind her, felt as if the entire group of survivors awaited her response, as if the decision to abandon the dying man was hers alone. She stood, whispered, “Master Baylye, we cannot leave him here to die alone. ’Twould be unchristian. I
shall stay with him until he is gone if that be his fate. Then I shall bury him and make my way north behind you.” A breath of breeze ruffled her tangled hair as her eyes held steadfastly on his.

Baylye blinked, said nothing.

Johnny Gibbes said, “I shall help her, Governor.”

Hugh Tayler gazed at Gibbes. “I, as well.”

Thomas Colman shook his head, frowned. “Em, you
cannot
do this . . . ’tis not . . .” He hesitated, knew he’d again bungled his choice of words.

She glared at him, snapped, “Father, I
can
do this . . . and I
will
do this.” She walked toward him, looking ready to spit in his face, held her teary eyes on his for a moment; suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist, pulled him close; laid her head against his chest, sobbed. “You’re right, Father. I cannot. ’Twould endanger others . . . but it pains me so to . . . to . . .”

“Emily, my dear Emily. You’re such a good, kind soul.”

As suddenly as she had embraced him, she pushed back, composed herself. She looked down at Jones then at Baylye. “Master Baylye, I’m ready to go. But first we must pray for Master Jones.”

Baylye nodded, looked at the others, said a brief prayer for God to exert his will quickly, then turned and started north. “Come, friends. We’ve a long way to go.”

Emily started after the line following Baylye, looked back at Jones. As the darkness swallowed him, she saw him squirm in the sand, heard him quietly plead for help. She stopped, closed her eyes, whispered, “Forgive me, Master Jones; forgive me, Lord,” then walked on.

The group of fifteen huddled together against the chill of a steady rain. Most men had temporarily removed their shirts to hold them over their heads as shelter and to soak up drinking water, which they wrung from the cloth into their mouths. Emily and Emme Merrimoth, the young woman who sat beside her, had done the same; and when Emily tilted her head back to catch the water, her soaked smock pressed against her chest, revealing the curves of her breasts in unimaginative detail.

Hugh Tayler stared at her, breathless, lips agape, realized the sight had aroused him. Wild, ragged, beautiful, exciting—the thoughts circulated through his mind like the relentless turning of a waterwheel. I must have her, he thought, but it must be because she loves me. She owns my soul and my mind; she’s my salvation from myself; she must be mine. I must . . .

William Clement of the latest group of survivors said, “Baylye, why don’t we try to build a fire before we all get the shakes and die?”

Baylye looked at him. “Because we don’t know where we are, and a fire might attract Savages if any are about.”

Clement, who was larger than most of the men, had a permanent, intimidating sneer on his face that guaranteed no one would befriend him. He spit on the sand, uttered a sarcastic grunt. “In this?” He looked up at the rain. “Are you daft, man?”

“No, Master Clement. I am not daft, merely cautious. We cannot take the chance. The wood’s probably too wet anyway.”

“Well, I think you’re a fool, Baylye. I’m building a fire.”

“No, Clement, you’re not. I order you to stand down.”

“To hell with you. I’ll do as I please.” He stood, sneered at Baylye. “ ’Tis you who put us in this situation. We should’ve stayed at Roanoke, taken our chances with the Spanish. You’re the reason so many are dead and our boats underwater. Fool!”

Myllet said, “Sit down, Clement. Your time in prison must have shrunk your brain. Do as the governor says.”

“I’ll not. And just what will you do about it?”

Myllet stood and walked toward Clement. Gibbes and two other soldiers rose, stood beside Myllet.

Clement leaped at Myllet, tackled him to the ground, and reached for his neck.

Myllet slammed his fist into the side of Clement’s head as the three soldiers pulled him off and held him fast. Myllet climbed to his feet, stood before Clement, who teetered groggily. “You keep your mind to yourself, Clement. We’ve no time or tolerance for fools here. Now sit down and shut your mouth.”

Clement sneered, sat down, rubbing the spot where Myllet’s fist had hit him, then pulled the tail of his shirt over his head.

Baylye stepped closer to Myllet and whispered, “Thank you, Sergeant Myllet,” then glanced around the group before continuing. “I think we’ve rested enough and should move on. The labor of it will warm us and dissipate tempers. What think you?”

“Aye, Governor. I’m for it.”

As the grumbling people stood and started north, Emily’s mind drifted back to George and his father. Only death and strife, she mused . . . but it
will
get better . . . it
must
get better. This is the low point. We
will
survive.
I
will survive . . . even if no one else does. She noticed Tayler watching her as she trudged along holding her father’s hand, noticed Emme Merrimoth talking to Johnny Gibbes. She’s pretty, short like me, trim and pleasing to look at—lovely blond hair and haunting brown eyes, always smiling and bouncy—seems very pleasant; I must get to know her better. She definitely likes Johnny . . . he seems to fancy her, as well. I like them both . . . especially together. She glanced at Tayler, resisted the temptation to smile at him, then leaned her head back and opened her mouth to catch a few drops of rainwater. ’Twould be so perfect if—

A loud cry came from the front of the line. Emily and the others rushed forward, saw Roger Baylye being swept away by a rushing stream of water that flowed swiftly from the sound to the sea, blocking their pathway up the outer banks. Myllet and Gibbes sprinted at full speed along the side of the channel until they were slightly ahead of Baylye, clasped each other’s arms as Myllet leaned out over the water, seized Baylye’s flailing hand, and pulled him ashore.

“Taking a swim, eh, Gov’nor?”

Baylye trembled, shook his head. “Whew! Thank you again, Michael Myllet . . . ’twas a complete surprise. Stepped off that bank right into deep water . . . never saw it. When we sailed up here on the sea side, there were no gaps in the banks.” He thought for a moment. “But there
were
some low valleys between the dunes . . . must be a tidal inlet, and the tide’s on its way out . . . damn strong current. How the hell are we going to get all these people across?”