Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (45 page)

“God bless the Virgin Queen and John White!” another man said, grinning toothlessly. He lifted his mug in Manteo
’s direction. “And we’ll be thanking ye for your hospitality, Manteo, but we’re on our way home.”

Manteo turned and left them to their celebration.

The fierce and insistent wind pulled at the ships and strained the cables through the night. White sat in the captain’s cabin and watched Cocke’s face, afraid that at any minute the captain would give the order to set out to sea, where they could better weather the storm. When the bosun shouted that an anchor had broken loose in the storm, White steeled himself for the inevitable bad news, but Abraham Cocke looked at him with a glance of mingled understanding and pity.

“We have two other anchors, Governor,” the captain said, idly fingering the compass on his table. “The wind should die down on the morrow.”

No man aboard ship slept that night, and the winds did calm in the morning. Cocke sent a message to the
Moonlight
, now commanded by her master, John Bedford, that the ships would raise anchor and sail south to go ashore at Croatoan, where John White was certain he’d find his colonists living with Manteo.

But as the seamen on the
Hopewell
raised her anchor, the cable wound round the capstan broke. With only one anchor to hold her, the ship lay at the mercy of the waves. Watching the surf relentlessly propel his vessel toward the treacherous shallows, Captain Cocke shouted furious orders while John White prayed for help. As the ship drifted past Kenricks Mounts toward the dangerous underwater shoals, all hands on deck braced themselves for the inevitable wreck. But at the last moment, Cocke recognized the dark color of deep water and skillfully steered the ship into a channel. From there he raised the sails and managed, through the grace of God, to take the ship out to sea.

Henry Browne and his four companions lay low in the sea grass on the northernmost beach and listened for the rumble of cannon. Sounds from the sea should have carried easily to them, for the wind blew strong in their faces, but all they heard was distant thunder from the heaven full of gray scud.

“I think that savage was lying,” Robert Little muttered, turning to recline on his elbows in the sand. “And one of us ought to be watchin’ our backs. What if the Roanoacs come? Can we be forgettin’ the sight of those other men? I believe I’ll never forget—”

“There it is!” Browne cried, leaping up. A blessed, glorious sight passed before their eyes, a magnificent English galleon cutting through the waters off shore, the bright British flag flying from her foremast. “Ahoy!” Browne screamed, his voice muffled by the strong wind.

“Light the fire,” Little called, scrambling toward the brush they had piled against a sand dune. Frantically the men struck the flint over the brush, but the wind snuffed every spark as it hooted and jeered at their efforts.

“Hurry!” Michael Bishop called to his companions, waving his arms uselessly as he jumped up and down on the beach. “She
’s moving southward. She’s not stopping!”

The other four men made a wall with their bodies and breathlessly coaxed one spark into a tiny tongue of fire. When at last it rose from a sprig of straw to lick a dried leaf, the men stood back as the wind caught the blaze and set the brush to burning in earnest. But when they turned in triumph toward the sea, the English galleon had disappeared.

With only one anchor and no supplies of fresh water, the
Hopewell
was forced to head south to pick up stores. Captain Bedford, speaking for the
Moonlight
, begged to take his “weak and leak” ship back to England. He had lost too many hands to safely continue.

Cocke and White reluctantly agreed that the two ships should part company, and the
Moonlight
and the prospective colonists aboard her set sail for England. The
Hopewell
sailed southward for two days, but contrary winds kept her from making good time. On the twenty-eighth of August, Cocke decided to head northward to the Azores for water.

forty-two

J
ocelyn laughed as Regina toddled by holding Mukki’s hand. Her fair-skinned daughter stood out among the young ones of the Indians, but skin color apparently made no difference to the people of the Chawanoac tribe. They accepted Regina as easily as they had accepted Jocelyn, allowing her to work and live and laugh among them without criticism or comment.

‘
Tis such an easy, simple life,
she thought, watching the women take turns as they stirred the clay cooking pots and helped each other prepare meals.
Mayhap these savages are more like Christians than we English are
.
Is that why Thomas distrusts them so?

She imitated her hosts and squatted by the fire as she considered the notion.
‘Twas perfectly possible that Thomas was jealous of the Indians, for though he preached his gospel continually among the English, the community was still peppered with jealousy, covetousness, greed, and distrust. Here, though, where the people had only creation itself and the natural law of conscience to guide them, selflessness, sharing, and loyalty abounded.

True, they were lost, and she had heard enough stories to know that Indian brutality could be quick, severe, and senseless.
But peace reigned in quiet Ohanoak, and for the first time in months, Jocelyn’s conscience cleared, her bitterness eased, and she was able to lift her thoughts above the confusion and frustration she felt whenever she thought about her husband.

She left Regina with the older children and wandered into the quiet hut she shared with Hurit, Chogan, and Mukki.
The hearth fire in the center of the hut had been allowed to burn out; the sleeping mats lay neatly rolled in a corner of the house.

Jocelyn sat on a grass mat and placed her head on her knees.
“Father God,” she prayed, “you have said that if a man lacks wisdom, he should but ask. Shall the same hold true for a woman? If so, heavenly Father, I pray you to show me what I must do. Shall I remain here among the Indians? I could work here, Father, and show your love consistently, and mayhap win several to the gospel. In the English village I am nothing, only one women among several, a wife scorned by her husband who will certainly not want me to come back . . .”

She waited in silence.
Children laughed outside, women called to each other in the rapid Indian tongue, birds twittered overhead in the trees. She felt her eyes grow heavy in the stillness of the afternoon. She must not go to sleep, for there was work to be done . . .

Go back
.

Jocelyn jerked her head upright.
The voice had spoken in her ear, but she sat alone in the hut. The hairs on her arm lifted. Had God actually spoken?

“
Go back?” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one had slipped in while her eyes were closed. No one was there. She bowed her head again. “But Thomas will hate me for leaving; he will say I have humiliated him before the entire village.”

Go back.

She glanced over her other shoulder; she was still alone.
“I will go back, on the morrow—”

Go now.
I will give you strength when the time comes.

What time?
She shivered and swiveled to face the back of the hut. No human was in the room with her, but the place seemed to tremble visibly with an unseen presence, a power that could not be denied.
Go boldly, faithfully, successfully . . .

“
I’ll go,” she whispered, then stooped under the passageway to fetch Regina.

forty-three

W
hen Agnes Wood saw Jocelyn coming through the gates of the palisade, her broad face erupted into a toothy grin. “‘Pon my soul, I thought I’d never see the day ye would come back to us,” she said, clomping toward Jocelyn in man-sized shoes. “But I’m thanking God to see ye, I am. Miss Eleanor’s not well, Miss Jocelyn, and I’d like to take ye to see her—”

“
I’ll visit her as soon as I’m able,” Jocelyn said, placing Regina into Agnes’ outstretched arms. “But now I must see my husband.” She glanced around the village, where several other colonists peered up from their work to watch her. She lowered her voice. “Is all well here, Agnes?”

Agnes shrugged, and ran her heavy hand over Regina
’s curls. “As well as to be expected, I’m sure. There has been no news from Croatoan since the horror of the slaughter, and most folks are busy about their business. We’ve the harvest to get in, ye know—”

“
I know,” Jocelyn answered. She walked forward into the circle of houses, and the sight of her own small home made her pause. “Will you watch Regina for me?” Jocelyn asked, turning to Agnes. “I’d like to talk to Thomas.”

“
Aye, with pleasure,” Agnes answered, taking Regina to the house she shared with Eleanor and Ananias.

Jocelyn smoothed her hair, then lifted her chin and walked to her house.
You fool
, she thought,
he’s probably not even here. Since when has Thomas been home in the middle of the afternoon?
But the voice had been insistent, and she had hurried home.

She lifted the iron latch on the door and stepped inside.
The room was dark, since the shutters were closed, and it took a moment for Jocelyn’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. The board was laden with Thomas’ books, the bench strewn with his papers. A nauseating stench rose from the pot that lay atop the cold and blackened logs in the fire pit.

A groan shattered the stillness of the room, and Jocelyn drew the bed curtains. Drawn up into a dark knot, Thomas laid there, his long arms wrapped around his body and his knees drawn to his chest. “Thomas!” she whispered, drawing closer. “I’ve come home.”

He did not reply, and when she pressed his hand to his stubbled cheek, his skin burned with fever. “Thomas!” she said, shaking him. “Can you hear me?”

Trembling with fever, he groaned in reply.
Jocelyn sprinted back through the door for help.

After extracting a bowl of blood from his patient, Doctor Jones said the sickness was probably ague.
“These spells,” he said, pointing to Thomas’ fevered trembling, “are brought on by the ague cake. I can feel the swollen organ through the flesh of his abdomen. The disease is oft reported in the summer months in marshy lands.”

“
I’faith, I’m glad I came when I did,” Jocelyn whispered as she watched Thomas’ suffering. “What can I do to help him?”

The doctor pulled his mouth in at the corners.
“Ague has a hot stage, a cold stage, and sweating stage,” he said, slowly gathering the bloody tools of his trade into a leather pouch. “Make him as comfortable as possible in each condition.” He stared at Jocelyn in severe concentration. “The minister will doubtless be weak for many months. Are we to assume that you will take care of him, Mistress Colman, or are you planning to rejoin the savages?”

Jocelyn crossed her arms and met his granite gaze.
“I will not leave. This is my place.”

The doctor nodded abruptly.
“Good. Let me know if his condition worsens. The bleeding today should rid his body of whatever morbific matter is causing this trouble. I’ll come by tomorrow to see if purging will be necessary.”

“
Thank-you,” Jocelyn whispered, following the doctor to the door. She fastened the latch after he left and, leaning against the wall, she slowly slid to the floor and curled into a knot. She had managed to keep her wits about her as she ran for the doctor and even as he had drained much of her husband’s lifeblood, but now she allowed herself to bury her head in her hands and weep.

Over the next few days a steady stream of colonists made their way to the minister
’s house to offer their prayers for a quick recovery. Beth Glane, a vigilant and persistent presence, came each morning and sat praying in the corner of the room until Jocelyn asked her to leave at sunset.

Jocelyn had the feeling that Beth held an unshakable belief that she was more suited than Jocelyn to the role of a minister
’s wife. And because Jocelyn knew Beth had been among those quick to criticize her husband, she was amazed that in the helpless state of illness Thomas had achieved a status akin to sainthood in the pious woman’s eyes.

Though many of the maidservants had taken husbands from the single men, Beth devoutly refused to marry, choosing instead to render her service to Rose and Henry Payne, her master and mistress, and to God.
And part of her service to God, she informed Jocelyn one morning, was to minister to the Reverend Thomas Colman.