Unpublished prologue to my Historical, White Seed
In the spring of 1586, on the island of Roanoke, off the coast of what would someday be known as North Carolina, fifteen English men passed the night within the walls of Fort Raleigh. Some kept a watch, while most slept...
Captain William Morton, appointed Officer-in-Charge by Sir Richard Grenville, awoke and sat up in the blackness of the storehouse. The memory of the sound that had brought him from his sleep taunted him. Cursing silently, he rubbed his forehead slowly and it came to him -- the sound of the latch being lifted! His pulse quickened as he listened with all his being. There... the careful trod of bare feet on the straw-covered earthen floor. Morton reached over and touched Gilbert who was sleeping nearby. The other man began to say something and Morton clasped a hand over his mouth. Both men slowly got to their feet. Wordlessly, Morton directed Gilbert toward the back doors. Gilbert slowly slid his sword from his scabbard and walked off. Morton pulled the heavy wheel-lock pistol from his belt as he looked about in the darkness. Gasps, curses, and other sounds of struggle came from the back of the building, then silence. Morton crept stealthily in that direction and sensed someone just ahead of him. "Gilbert?" he called softly. Getting no response, he brought the wheel-lock up and pulled the trigger. The flash illuminated the savage's grotesquely-painted half-human, half-animal face as he was thrown backwards onto the floor, his life running out through a fist-sized hole in his guts. The thunder of the pistol reverberated through the building and a hellish screaming commenced outside as savages rushed from their hiding places towards the various buildings of the fort.
Morton found Gilbert's body. The man had no pulse. Morton left him and crept through the dark toward the front door. The shrieks and cries grew louder and he heard the calls of his own men mixed in with them. A musket boomed. Reaching the door, Morton quickly closed and bolted it, muting the chaos. Cursing the darkness, he knelt to charge the pistol with powder. A musket boomed, followed by more savage shrieking. Someone shook the front door violently, testing it. Footsteps ran off. He heard a scratching sound from the east side of the building. Were they trying to dig their way in through the wattle and daub walls? The sound stopped. As if on command, quiet spread through the dark like blood through a bandage. Morton listened intently, straining to hear his men's voices, wondering if they were still alive. How many savages had gotten inside? The scratching sound came again at the east wall. Was this a marauding band of four or five, or was a whole village attacking? He prayed to God that the latter was not the case. There would be no hope for them if it were.
Morton cursed himself for his laxity. He commanded here in Grenville's name and he had failed. They had seen no savages in the two months they had been here. And because of that he had recently reduced the guard. The men had evidently taken that as an excuse to become complacent and careless. Last night many of them had gotten drunk. And the savages had obviously noted all of this. Now his men were paying the price.
From outside a voice called, "Is anyone in there? Are you all right?" Morton was on the verge of responding, but something slightly exotic about the voice stopped him. He remembered the story of Wanchese, one of the savages that had been brought to England and taught English at Sir Walter Raleigh's estate. When Wanchese had been returned to this place, he had run off and become wild again, swearing vengeance on the English. A musket boomed as if in response to the question and a savage shrieked with fury. A minute passed and several muskets fired. The devilish chorus of shrieks and cries began anew. God in Heaven, Morton thought, there were dozens of savages! Could they last till daybreak?
Morton heard a soft rustling on the roof above and remembered the unfinished section of thatch. His eyes could barely make out the rafters as he pointed the wheel-lock upward. He wondered how much powder he had left. Outside, another musket boomed. The reports were decreasing in frequency. The rustling on the roof stopped. Had he imagined it? He could hear his own breathing and tried to still it. Looking back up, he located a lighter patch of black that marked the unfinished hole in the roof. A swath of stars shone there. Something dark eclipsed the tiny pinpoints of light and he fired. A heavy thing rolled quickly down and off the roof, thudding heavily onto the ground outside. Then silence. Morton knelt to recharge the pistol. As he worked it grew quiet again, no screaming, no musket fire. He had just placed a wad and ball in the muzzle when another rustle of sound came from above. Morton grabbed the rod to ram the ball home when a thud sounded not far away. Someone had dropped down onto the floor! He slid the pistol in his belt and drew his sword. His eyes picked up a large form in front of him. He was about to lunge when the faint starlight revealed a familiar bearded face.
Allen's eyes were big with fear.
"Where are the others?" Morton whispered.
"All gone but for Banks and Fagan. Banks had two arrows in 'im. We pulled 'em out but the points stayed in. He be ailin' bad."
Morton nodded. "Gilbert's dead in the back. Did the watch fall asleep?"
Allen shook his head guiltily. "Nay. No one saw anything from the ramparts, no one heard the buggers. All of a sudden dozens of them be jumpin' down from the walls..."
The scratching at the wall stopped. Morton held his hand for silence as he turned in that direction. They listened, but the scratching did not resume.
Morton turned back to Allen. "How did you and the others get out?"
Allen shook his head. "I know not about the others. I was with four men that caught a volley of arrows. Like bloody pincushions, they were, and they fell back on top of me and around me. The savages ran up to take a look. They thought I was dead and they ran on to attack and overturn the cannon."
Morton looked closely at Allen and saw that he was covered with blood. He had no sword. A musket boomed, followed by more screaming. Then silence.
"The shallop!" Morton whispered.
"What?" said Allen.
"We must get to the shallop. It is our only chance."
Allen nodded and looked around at the darkness. Quiet reigned.
Morton knelt and rammed the ball into the muzzle of the pistol. He got to his feet. "Where are the other two?"
Allen pointed toward the front door. "I told them to wait out there."
They went to the door and Morton looked at it suspiciously. He pulled his sword and handed it to Allen. Morton quietly lifted down the bolt and slowly pushed the door open as Allen held the sword at the ready. They crept out into the cold night air. A shape separated itself from the dark of the building. As it drew near, Morton identified Fagan, who had his arm around Banks to support him. Banks' eyes were half-closed and Morton figured he would soon die. A shriek came from the other side of the building and Morton poked his head about the corner. A small fire burned in the center of the common and many savages stood about in groups of two and three. Morton saw bodies on the ground, eight or nine of them. He cringed at the sight and sounds of a savage standing over one, clubbing the dead man's skull to bloody splinters.
Morton looked away in disgust. It was only a matter of minutes before they would be discovered. He motioned for the others to follow him. In a crouch, they made their way through the opened gate and toward the beach. Morton was surprised to find no savages near the shallop. He and his men would have to move quickly before their escape was discovered. While Banks sat on the sand to rest, Morton, Allen and Fagan tugged and pushed the heavy shallop into the water. Morton and Allen quickly pulled themselves aboard and shipped the mast. Fagan brought Banks over and Morton and Allen lifted him aboard. Then Fagan slid aboard and lay panting on the bottom. Morton and Allen hoisted the sail and if filled with a slap, pushing the little boat away from the island. Morton sat and took the tiller. A few minutes later they cleared the channel and hit the roll of the sea. As a steady wind drove the boat northward, Morton felt it was the hand of God, delivering them. "Bless us Lord, and deliver us," he said.
"Aye," said Allen.
"Amen," said Fagan.
Silently Morton prayed that Grenville would be as merciful with him for losing the fort -- if ever he saw the gentleman again.
Morton held the tiller steady as the boat sailed north through mild seas, making, he estimated, three or four knots. No one spoke until Banks called weakly for water. Allen stood and found the keg in the middle of the boat. He lifted it easily and shook it, cursing. "Empty," he spat.
"See if there is any food," said Morton.
Allen rummaged through the wooden boxes in the stern, cursing angrily. "Nothin'!"
"Well," said Morton half-heartedly, "we cannot blame the savages for that, can we?"
Allen said nothing and sat dejectedly.
Morton knew that there was one more guilty than the thief -- himself. Security and discipline were his charge and he had failed to provide them. "Likely the thief is back at the fort," he said, wishing as soon as the words left his lips, that he had never uttered them.
Neither Allen nor Fagan responded and Morton said nothing further. He looked at the dim outline of the empty water cask and silently cursed. Banks would have to do without his water. Morton turned to him. The man's head hung backward over the gunnels, his eyes reflecting starlight like two pools of stagnant water. "Banks is dead," he said to Allen. "Lay him out in the middle of the boat. We will do without water for as long as we can and put as much distance as possible between us and cursed Roanoke."
After Banks had been laid out, Allen and Fagan sat, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Morton settled back against the gunnels. Unable to sleep, he steered the boat through the night while the other two men slept fitfully, muttering incoherently on occasion. Morton wondered what would become of them. If God willed it they might make it as far as the cod banks. But they would have to find food and water along the way. Morton turned to look at the dark mass of the land off the port. In a day or so they would have to put in. Perhaps they could make camp on the beach and signal a passing ship with their fires. And what if it were a Spaniard that spotted their light, a tiny voice asked him. As Morton pondered this a large shape passed beneath the boat, leaving behind a phosphorescent wake. Morton whistled softly to keep his spirits up. The big fish followed the boat for a long time, sometimes swimming past, then coming round again to follow. Once it passed so close that it's skin scraped the wooden hull. Morton prayed silently and finally the fish left them. Someone cried out in their sleep. Morton decided it was the lad. As day slowly dawned, the wind began to wane. Morton sat up stiffly, the sound he made waking the other two.
Allen looked at him. "How far do you reckon we got?"
"I know not," said Morton. "We had a good following wind most of the night, but it's been dropping for the last hour or so. I'd say fifteen or twenty miles."
Allen rubbed his hand along the gunnels as if stroking a horse's flanks. "She be a good girl, this boat."
Morton nodded. They owed their lives to the sturdy craft.
"There's somethin' to the south," said Fagan.
Morton turned and searched the horizon. He could see nothing but the morning's haze and the ripple of the sea.
"What is it?" said Allen. "Where?"
"There!" Fagan pointed. "See there?"
"Aye," said Allen, "I see it."
Morton turned again as he kept a steady hand on the tiller. He saw nothing and wondered if the lads were hallucinating.
"Is it a sail?" Morton asked.
"Nay," said Allen. "Could be a savage dugout."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Fagan exclaimed, "there is more'n one!"
"Aye," said Allen.
"How many?" Morton asked.
"Three," said Allen, "Maybe more."
Morton looked up at the mast. The sail hung slack, rippling slightly in a tepid breeze. "Allen," he barked angrily. "Grab an oar. We had better row." Morton put one of the oars in the lock and he and Allen began rowing as Fagan took the tiller. After an hour of it Morton could see the craft in the distance. They were still mere specs on the horizon, but he could count six of them. Fagan saw him staring and turned round.
"They be gaining," Fagan said. "Another hour, maybe two at best, and they will have us."
"Shut up and steer," Morton snapped, licking his dry lips. His arms, hands and back were afire but he dared not stop. He knew what their fate would be if the savages caught them. He would throw himself in the sea rather than let that happen. He looked up at the sky. The sun was high above now, beginning to burn off the morning's haze. They rowed as hard as they could for another hour as the dugouts steadily gained on them. Morton could see the savages in the lead craft standing as they dug their paddles deep into the sea. It would not be long.
"Blasted heathens!" Allen cried. Tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. "Heathen bastards!
Morton said nothing, his throat as dry as kindling.
"Ahead there!" Fagan called, "what is it?"
Morton turned to look but saw nothing. Perhaps the lad was so panicked he was losing his mind. Morton took another look and saw a whitish blur low on the water in the distance. It took a few moments for his feverish brain to realize what it was -- fog. Thick, white fog, like heaven itself come down to earth to save them!
Allen turned and saw it. "Thank God," he cried. He dug his oar in with renewed vigor and it was all Morton cold do to match him. Fagan became giddy with hope. "Pull hard!" he cried to them, "Pull!"
As the first cool, clammy tendrils of fog whipped by, Morton could hear the calls and talk of the savages in the lead dugout, and see their faces. He and Allen continued to pull and soon the whiteness enclosed them completely and the savages were lost to view. They rowed for another few minutes and Morton stopped and signaled Allen to do the same. Quietly shipping the oars, they floated on the swells, listening breathlessly. After a while they heard savages talking softly in their tongue. They waited breathlessly and slowly the talk faded. After a couple hours, Morton and Allen began rowing again, moving the boat slowly through the fog. Hours passed and it seemed that they had long lost their pursuers. Slowly Morton became aware of a sound -- distant waves breaking upon an invisible shore with a steady, dull rumble. Fagan heard it and stood in the prow to stare out into the milky whiteness. Morton's ears picked up a new sound -- the dull rumble of waves crashing onto rocks. Morton prayed. After all they had been through they must not allow the shallop to crash upon any rocks that might be lying in wait. God help them! Surely He had not taken them this far to let them drown like rats.
Morton listened to the distant rumbling and wondered what God had planned for them. He thought of Gilbert lying back in the storehouse at Roanoke, his head crushed by a savage's club. At least they had avoided that sad fate.
The sound of the surf grew louder and threatening as they slowly rowed toward it. The sea grew agitated and the shallop bounced and rolled. "Mother Mary protect us," Fagan cried. Morton prayed silently. One small, hidden rock could smash the shallop to splinters and toss them into the cold sea. Suddenly a wave lifted the shallop like a huge hand. Morton and Allen gripped the gunnels tightly as they were swept smoothly forward and set gently down upon the shore.
"Mother Mary!" Fagan cried. His reddened face beamed with joy. "'Tis a miracle!"
Morton was awed by their deliverance and for a few moments he and Allen simply sat in the shallop, staring about. The light was muted and gray, the fog swirling thickly around them. Morton shook from the cold as he climbed out into the ankle-deep water. They dragged the shallop further up the incline of the beach. Morton took out the mallet and began driving a rod into the sand to tie her up.
The other two men stared silently into the shifting patches of thick fog, listening warily. Morton finished securing the boat and turned to Allen. "Get the cask and come with me."
Fagan called out. "We should all go together."
Morton shook his head. "Stay with the boat, lad. We will return soon."
"But I have no weapon," said Fagan, "only a little knife."
Morton pulled the heavy pistol from his belt and handed it to him. "Take this and be quiet."
Allen shouldered the cask and Morton pulled his sword. They walked up the beach, disappearing into the fog. After they had gone a short distance Morton paused and turned to Allen. "Search north about five hundred paces and I will go south. We will meet back here." He pointed to the deep tracks their booted feet had made in the sand and Allen nodded in understanding.
Morton watched Allen disappear into the mist before he turned and walked south. He hadn't gone far when he found what he was looking for -- a small stream about the width of a man and a couple inches deep, cutting through the sand. He followed it inland to where it had cut through a sand bank. He stopped and knelt to it, slaking his thirst. Standing, he decided to go back and get Allen. The wind gusted suddenly, parting the fog, and Morton froze. Twenty paces away, a savage stood looking in the other direction toward the mainland. Despite the cold, the man was naked from the waist up. Heavily muscled, he wore a fringed skirt of sorts. He held a bow, resting one end of it in the sand by his naked foot. A quiver of arrows hung about his waist and, incredibly, what looked like a tousled lion's tail dangled from his hind quarters down between his legs to his ankles. Morton's heart began pounding. The fog closed in again and the man disappeared from view.
Morton gripped his sword tightly as he silently crept back the way he had come. Reaching the place where he and Allen had parted, he followed the other man's tracks. They came to an end atop a small grassy dune. Thick blood adhered to a nearby clump of scrub grass, but there was no sign of Allen. Morton walked twenty paces in the direction of the shallop and came across the big man's body. Two arrows protruded from him.
Morton continued toward the shallop. The light was growing brighter. In the east a golden glow suffused the horizon. The fog was beginning to break up! He heard a commotion ahead. The fog parted slightly and he saw four of them around the shallop. Fagan was alive where he lay upon the sand, trussed up like a hog bound for market. Several savages were inspecting the pistol. Another had climbed into the shallop and was haranguing his fellows authoritatively. As Morton moved backward into the whiteness, Fagan's eyes met his, imploring him. Morton shook his head as he backed away and Fagan was lost to view. Morton ran south along the beach. Panting, he squatted down upon his haunches to rest and turned to look in the direction from which he had come. His boot prints boldly proclaimed his path across the virgin beach. Cursing, he ran into the surf and pushed as quickly as he could through the surging water. Exhaustion overtook him and he was forced to go back up onto the beach where he collapsed. Somewhere above a gull cried in alarm. Morton turned to see three of the savages racing down the dune at him. He ran back into the surf. The sea tugged at him, slowing him, and something hit him hard in the back. He turned to see and another arrow buried itself deep in his throat. He fell facedown and the receding surge of white water pulled him quickly past the breakers to where he joined the stream of seaweed, sticks and other flotsam floating swiftly south.