It was neither. No, the attacker had been a mortal sickness that killed seven people. Roger Bailey and thirty-four healthy colonists had filled both shallops and sailed for Chesapeake, leaving behind those who were ill. Now there were fewer than thirty people at Fort Ralegh. One of them was the motherless child, Virginia Dare, for, to my sorrow and Ananias's inconsolable grief, Eleanor had been the latest casualty.

Chapter 34.

I, Manteo, Have a Dream from Ahone When I found the white men lost in the forests of Ossomocomuck and went with them across the sea, learned their tongue and let them make me a lord, how could I foresee that my promises to my new friends would one day lead me to kill Wanchese? He had been my companion on the voyage to London. His people and mine were once friends. His blood and mine, two rivers flowing through Ossomocomuck to the same sea.

Yet I did not regret my deed. Wanchese had mistreated Nantioc's neighbors and did not deserve to rule them. He had made himself an enemy of the English when he could have prospered by them. He would have forced Ladi-cate to marry him, although not even a weroance should take a woman against her will. Wanchese sought war and died by his own words: In war one must slay or be slain. In war one must slay or be slain.

When I thought of our fight, I was surprised at the strength I had found to defeat him. It did not feel like montoac from the G.o.ds but like something already burning within me. I had killed Wanchese to free Ladi-cate. Surely Algon would have done as much for his Moon Maiden. But when did I begin to think of Ladi-cate as mine? Was it when I first glimpsed her among the maids of Kwin-lissa-bet? When I saw her in the stream, holding the spear to protect herself? She had never fled from me but showed me respect, even when the others mistrusted me. Could she become mine not through deception or force, but by her choice? I had let Wanchese capture me, that I might free her, that she might then choose me.

Yet Ladi-cate did not appear grateful for my sacrifice. I wanted her to regard me as Jane-peers regarded Tameoc. But she hardly looked at me, nor did she attempt to speak to me. Did she consider me no better than Wanchese?

If Ladi-cate did not seem glad, the Englishmen were pleased that I had slain their enemy. They asked me to remain at the fort to aid them if Wanchese's allies attacked. I said I had to visit the peoples of Ossomocomuck to persuade them not to take revenge. To befriend the Croatoan and the English instead.

So I left Fort Ralegh. The colonists were still in some peril. No ships had come to their aid, and they had not even a pinnace to sail in. I could best serve them by seeking peace among their neighbors, so I spent the harvest months going from village to village, sometimes with Tameoc as my councilor. He spoke of the virtues of his wife, Jane-peers. Told how Ladi-cate had brought a white medicine woman to treat their sickness the winter before. Entertained them with stories in which the red-bearded soldier, Grem, became the trickster Fox. All to make them see that the English were like us in many ways.

To those who could not be persuaded to friendship, I offered this counsel: the English, being few, might soon die of hunger if left alone. Still they were suspicious, and in their mistrust I heard the echo of Wanchese's long-ago taunt: You are one of them now, are you? You are one of them now, are you? Had I betrayed the native peoples? Brought them harm? No, they had warred among themselves before the big ships came. But I had been mistaken about the montoac of the English. I thought it would bring us power and prosperity. Instead it had stirred up only trouble, which it was my purpose now to settle. Had I betrayed the native peoples? Brought them harm? No, they had warred among themselves before the big ships came. But I had been mistaken about the montoac of the English. I thought it would bring us power and prosperity. Instead it had stirred up only trouble, which it was my purpose now to settle.

As I returned to my mother's village for the winter, I reflected that my dreams of being a hero were like a copper trinket dimmed by foul weather. During the bitter months that followed, the leeward sh.o.r.es of Croataon froze as hard as stone. The lodges were half buried by snow. The air inside was rank and smoky. The hunters came back empty-handed, having killed nearly every deer in the forest. I considered how Ladi-cate must be suffering from cold and hunger and felt helpless to relieve her.

One night I dreamed that a white hare lost in the snowy woods stumbled into the den of a black bear, awakening it. The bear growled, angry at being disturbed, but the hare conquered its fear to ask for the bear's protection. Admiring the hare's bravery, the bear permitted it to live in the cave. In time the hare gave birth to a human child with a white face and a mane of black hair who grew up to be a weroance capable of great feats of strength. He lifted a canoe filled with many people and set it on a river that flowed into the sunset. When I woke up the bear skin I slept under had fallen to one side and I was shivering. The strange dream made me confused, as if I had a fever.

I thought I would forget the dream, but it did not leave me. It came back the next night, so lifelike I decided it must have come from Ahone, the creator. A man must not ignore such a dream but try to discern its truth. I thought about it for many hours, and after dreaming it a third night, I awoke with an understanding of Ahone's message.

He was demanding that I save Ladi-cate and her people.

Chapter 35.

From the Papers of Sir Walter Ralegh Memorandum 10 March 1589. Myrtle Grove, Youghal, Ireland. As storms blew the great Armada into the northern seas, Her Majesty now blows my feeble bark to Ireland. I am exiled because of a poem I wrote comparing her to Venus and Lord Ess.e.x to Cupid. (I thought she fancied herself in love with the boy.) Ess.e.x dared to box me on the head and I demanded a duel, the outcome of which I decline to describe.

Here at Myrtle Grove I lick my wounds and bay at the cold, unfeeling moon while Ess.e.x, the queen's lapdog, pants to be petted. None lament my absence, for everyone loves whom the queen favors and hates whom she disdains.

I find my castle at Lismore in disrepair, my agents careless, and the tenants unruly. With better management they might have yielded enough to fund a voyage to Roanoke this year. My melancholy deepens when I consider the perilous lives, many perhaps lost, of those hopeful, enterprising folk. Lady Catherine-she of the dancing gray eyes and sleek black hair-deserved better than what poor Sir Walter Ralegh has done. They all did.

Poem If all the world and love were young And truth in every courtier's tongue, Then hopes of pleasure might me move, To come to thee and claim thy love.

But flowers fade and wanton fields To winter's harsh reckoning yield, The fruit in hand has fall'n, forgotten; My folly is ripe; my reason rotten.

15 August 1589. I signed 150 new tenancy agreements, including one for Thomas Harriot, who has chosen to settle in Ireland. He is planting the root he brought back from the New World, "openauk," which he calls "potato," curious to see if it will grow in this climate and whether people will consent to eat it.

If Virginia were less remote, sea travel less perilous, and Her Majesty less thrifty, I might have had better success there. While it seems likely that Ireland, however wayward her inhabitants, may be brought to a civil state with far less trouble and expense.

3 September 1589. Visited the secretary to the queen's deputy, one Edmund Spenser, at Kilcolman Castle. He is writing an epic poem in praise of the queen that will comprise twelve books. I advised him to be very careful, for if he should write a single offensive couplet out of many thousand, Elizabeth would be sure to note it. He replied that his epic poem will be an allegory, in which the meaning is partly hidden. He read me a pa.s.sage in which Belphoebe, a beautiful virgin, takes pity upon a wounded squire and heals him with cordials and tobacco. This, he said, was meant to show my ill usage and move the queen to forgive me. I urged him to offer his work to the queen without delay. Because he is a stranger to her presence, I said I would write a sonnet to commend it.

12 December 1589. Spenser presented his Faerie Queene Faerie Queene to the delight of Her Majesty. She was not so pleased with his person, however, for he is a little man and almost forty years old, but she showed him respect, which is to be preferred over wanton affection. to the delight of Her Majesty. She was not so pleased with his person, however, for he is a little man and almost forty years old, but she showed him respect, which is to be preferred over wanton affection.

When Spenser had finished reading from his poem, I reminded her of my sonnet comparing her to Petrarch's Laura. She smiled, which I took for encouragement and offered her a pipe, a symbol of peace. "This is the most profitable plant in all of Virginia," I said.

"It turns to smoke, from what I can see," she said after sucking on the pipe. "What value is in that?"

Oh, she was clever but I was no lackwit. "I'll wager that I can weigh the smoke and prove to you that it is not nothing."

She said she would grant me 25 if I succeeded. So I called for a scale, a sheaf of tobacco leaves, and a metal basin. I weighed the leaves, then set them aflame in the basin. When the leaves had burned and pungent smoke filled the air, I weighed the ashes.

"Subtracting the weight of the ashes from that of the leaves, the difference must be the weight of the smoke," I said, showing my smile that used to please her so.

Elizabeth folded her hands and pressed her forefingers to her lips. I could not tell whether she appreciated my wit or was displeased at losing the wager.

"I have heard of gold turning into smoke"-was she rebuking me for failing to find precious metals in Virginia?-"but you are the first to turn smoke into gold."

Then turning to Lord Burghley, she bade him give me 25.

She leaned close and spoke in my ear. "Your sonnet did please me, Sir Warter."

My heart sprang up like a young boy's. I gambled everything, saying, "I will write a whole volume of sonnets, Your Majesty, if you will but send a ship to relieve my colonists in Virginia."

Suddenly the queen frowned. "Once again you have presumed too far," she said loudly enough to draw attention to us.

I bowed so she would not see my angry humiliation, whereupon she murmured in my ear, "Attend me in my chamber at nine o'clock tonight." Then she struck me with her fan. "Away!"

14 December 1589. I will endure a thousand blows with whatever instrument she chooses, if she remains true to her word!

At the appointed hour I went to my royal mistress. Her erratic mood had gone, and she came at once to the heart of the matter.

"I do not forgive presumption, but I admire persistence," she said. "How many times now have you tried to send your ships to Virginia despite the embargo? And John White has covered my desk with his pet.i.tions." She paused. "Do you think my colonists are still alive?"

I affirmed the land contained everything needful for their well-being. I was afraid to say more, as my words so often displeased her.

"John White failed to govern them well. Surely they have now fallen into factions."

I recalled Catherine's letter concerning that very matter. "Men cannot govern themselves if they are all equals," was all I said.

"I must also know if the Spanish have located the colony," she said. "Our spies report that King Philip has sent out a fleet to look for it."

This was what I dreaded most: that Spanish mariners, informed by spies in the West Indies, had captured the fort and now controlled Virginia. Had they slain all the colonists? Or were they taken captive, and Catherine forced into the arms of a swarthy Spaniard?

The queen was peering at me. "You loved her, did you not?" she asked.

"Your ... Majesty?" I said in some confusion.

"You know whom I mean." Her voice was not unkind. "You gave this to her."

She held up a handkerchief with her initials in the corner. It was the very one she had given me, the one I then gave to Catherine when she visited my library. Had I loved her? The real question was, did I have the courage that Catherine had, to admit my love?

I chose my words with care. "Your Majesty, I have loved-"

She held up her hand, interrupting me. "Never mind. Do not answer me. That was long ago." Then she pressed the handkerchief into my hand. "Take it and give it to her again."

She spoke as if Lady Catherine were in the next room. I looked into her eyes for signs of debility, but those bright lights, enfolded now in tiny wrinkles, showed no signs of an aged mind.

"Now you jest with me, Your Grace. Truly I deserve your reproof and even your scorn, but-"

"I do not jest." Her voice was sharp. "I give you the opportunity-nay, I command you-to right a wrong that I regret." She turned away from me. "I banished her for nothing more than loving you."

I stood motionless, amazed by this confession.

When Elizabeth glanced back at me, her eyes were moist. "Which was no great wrong, or if it was, the greatest have been guilty of it, too."

Was she admitting her love for me as well as her sorrow for injuring Catherine? Oh, what did it even matter? Like a gift were the words that fell from her lips.

"I cannot let those brave people perish. Sir Walter, I will release your ships, and you may use them to supply my colonists."

I sank to my knees and with choice words declared her graciousness. Then the thought of my nemesis gave me pause. "Walsingham will try to stop me," I said.

The queen pressed her lips tightly together. "Walsingham is not the king! I am sovereign here, and I declare his unreasoning envy shall no longer hinder your enterprise. I will give out that I have sent you back to Ireland because you displeased me. But in fact you will sail to Virginia secretly. There you will ensure it is duly governed and return with a report. John White may accompany you. No one will know about the voyage but the three of us."

For a moment I was stunned that the queen would act without the knowledge and approval of her ministers. And yet I saw the wisdom of it. If they learned of the voyage, she could disavow any knowledge of it and claim I stole away against her wishes.

"When you return with the news that the colony thrives and the Indians have been civilized and converted to the true religion, even Walsingham will hail you as a hero."

What a tantalizing thought! "And the Lady Catherine?" I ventured to ask. "After I give her the handkerchief, what shall I do?"

I saw my mistress hesitate. Her long hands fluttered. Then they rested and she fixed me with her clear, bright stare.

"Bring her home, and she can be yours."

Chapter 36.

Orphaned In Nantioc I had dreamed of returning to the familiar comforts of Fort Ralegh. I planned to make peace with Eleanor and never again let a foolish disagreement threaten our relationship. Had we not become almost like sisters? I imagined the rejoicing that would greet our safe return, the stories we would have to tell. All those dreams evaporated like dew from the gra.s.s when we walked into the half-abandoned village where despair and the smell of death hung in the air.

Ananias was overcome by the loss of Eleanor. He hid his face and wept, his whole body shaking. Alice Chapman's keening rent the air when she learned her husband had been killed. To my own grief was added guilt, for I had failed to keep my promise to John White to watch over his daughter.

Though Ananias urged him to stay, Manteo left Fort Ralegh to rebuild alliances among the native peoples. This, he said, would benefit us. But I think it pained him to see how desperate we had become, how fallen from our first hopes. I watched him go, regretting that I had not properly thanked him for rescuing us. I was afraid he would rebuke me, for in my heart I felt our late misfortunes had all sprung from my foolish insistence on going to Dasemunkepeuc.

In his absence, I found I missed Manteo. I felt as if new dangers were imminent and I was unprotected. Betty and I were the objects of much curiosity, but I did not want to discuss my sojourn in Nantioc. I could not boast about how well we had been treated while our fellow colonists had been sick and dying, abandoned by those who fled to Chesapeake. Nor could I make them understand why Jane had decided to stay with Tameoc. Even Alice Chapman was horrified by that.

With the departure of Roger Bailey and his party to Chesapeake, we were like a body cut in half. There were only eighteen men left in the village, plus three boys barely able to grow a beard. To them fell the task of defending us all. Day and night Georgie Howe patrolled the towers like a lumbering ghost.

"They will come back someday and take Georgie with them. Did they go where my papa went? All of them into the cold ground? George is cold out here," he said over and over.

Thus as our second year on Roanoke Island began, misery settled in like a grim lodger. Not since my father's death had I felt so hopeless. The weeks spent in the Tower, the long sea crossing, even the captivity in Nantioc were like child's games compared to the hardships we would face if another winter pa.s.sed without ships bringing relief. It was men that we needed most-to work and to protect the fort, then women for their companionship, and finally animals to raise for meat.

October threw its brazen cloak over the landscape; the leaves drifted from the branches like a million lost hopes scattered on the ground. Corn and pumpkins and sunflower seeds had to be picked, openauk dug from the ground. The abundance mocked us, so few in number. We stored the harvest in a cellar dug beneath the armory, precious as the few firearms that remained, since Bailey took most of them to Chesapeake. He had promised to return for the rest of the colonists, but as the months pa.s.sed that promise began to look like a lie. One day I admitted to Betty I hoped they had all perished.

"Perhaps they have, and it was G.o.d's will. But take heart, for we have been preserved," she said.

"Our preservation was Manteo's doing, not G.o.d's. I think G.o.d and England both have abandoned us," I said.

But Betty's faith, despite her ordeal, was unshaken. "The Bible says not even a sparrow falls without His knowledge, yet man is more precious to Him than a sparrow."

Her complacency irked me. "Our lives were lately held rather cheap, exchanged for a single musket each," I reminded her. "The food stored in the armory and guarded day and night is more valuable than any one of us. I am worth less than a handful of empty sh.e.l.ls." I thought sadly of Eleanor lying in the cold ground.

"But you are alive! Therefore, thank the Lord."

Betty tried to encourage me, but hope was hard to come by. November brought cold, sharp rain and two more deaths. The men were so few and so weakened by illness that many tasks went neglected. Ananias was too despondent to lead us. By December the firewood was all depleted and Ambrose Vickers sent out men to cut more. Some of the houses leaked and needed repairs. Alice and her baby came to live in the governor's house for the sake of thrift. We tried to keep one another from becoming fearful or dispirited.

There was reason to be afraid, for Indians had been spotted lurking in the underbrush nearby. In small bands of three or four, they shot arrows over the palisade, but fortunately these fell harmless to the ground. They ran away when the soldiers fired their muskets. It was Thomas Graham who realized their intention was to provoke us to waste our ammunition. So he ordered the guards not to fire unless the Indians came too near, and he had all the gra.s.s and shrubs cut down within thirty feet of the palisade, giving them nowhere to hide. We carried buckets of water from the bay and kept them beside our doors, in the event the Indians aimed burning arrows at the thatched roofs. I wished Manteo were with us, for he might be able to persuade them to stop troubling us.

One December night I was roused by the squawking of hens, and my heart pounded with the certainty that we were being attacked. I listened, dreading to hear whooping and the crackling of flames on the roof. But the intruder was only a wolf that had found a gap in the palisade and slunk into the henhouse. Graham shot the wolf and the dogs quickly devoured the carca.s.s. But a dozen chickens were dead. And before the hole could be repaired-a difficult task, for the blacksmith had gone to Chesapeake and taken all the nails-three pigs escaped and only one could be recovered. Then rats got into the seed corn and ruined half of it. Like lifeblood seeping from a sick patient, our means of survival were trickling away.

Then in the deep of winter, on a night so cold that Alice and I slept in a single bed with her baby and Virginia between us, Indians did attack. Ananias heard them first and woke us, then ran out to raise the alarm. We hid under the bed, and I nearly smothered Virginia in my attempt to keep her from crying out. The skirmish was brief, the gunshots and screeching soon fading to silence. Running outside without regard for the cold, I learned the intruders had scaled the palisade and entered the fort undetected, where they pillaged the armory for food. Two of the guards had been asleep, leaving Georgie Howe to fight them alone. He took an arrow in the leg. By the laws of the colony, the two guards should have been charged with a crime. But there was no one to administer justice, for Ananias Dare, the last of John White's a.s.sistants, had been killed by a single arrow that pierced his throat.

Virginia Dare, the first English child born in this New World only sixteen months ago, was now an orphan. She could barely say "Mama" when her mother died, and now "Papa" was gone, too. Soon she would remember neither of them. I knew, for the memories of my father were already growing faint, and those of my mother were even dimmer.

The child, as if sensing her loss, toddled over to Alice and plucked at her bodice.

Alice shook her head sadly. "You have been weaned, little one. I have no more milk for you."

"Come here, Virginia," I said, and held open my arms.

With a chubby fist thrust into her mouth, the trusting child came to me and put her head in my lap. I parted her tangled curls with my fingers. I had promised John White I would care for Eleanor, and I had failed. I would not fail his grandchild. My chest hurt with love for little Virginia and fear for her uncertain future.

"You will be mine now," I said. "You must call me 'Mama Cate.' " With those words, my melancholy began to fade and a fierce determination took its place. My life might be cheap, but this child was worth more than all the food and weapons and copper and pearls in the New World. Come what may, I would put her life before anything.

And that meant that I, too, must be a survivor.

Chapter 37.