“You have always been a lady.”
“You could come with us, Barnabas. You could come. Elizabeth the Queen is dead.
A man sits now upon the throne. The old suspicions would be forgot.”
But even as she spoke, we knew I would not go. I would never leave again for so
long the shadow of those mountains I had found at last.
“After this?” I swept my hand at the mountains, fields, rivers. “No, Abby, our
duties divide. Yours will take you to England with our daughter, mine will keep
me here.
“Perhaps the boys no longer need me, but they know I am here. I am an anchor, I
am a single, positive thing. I am a focal point, if no more. A balance wheel, a
hub about which they may revolve, and I will be here for them to come to if they
are hurt. I would not have them without that.
“They may never need me, but as long as I am here, they are not lost. If I can
be no more to them, I will be their Pole Star.”
“The Senecas will come again, Barnabas, and the Shawnees.”
“Of course … I know that. I would miss them if they failed to come, and they
would miss me if I was not here to greet them.”
I stood up, slowly. “Abby, we will arrange it. We will go down to the sea once
more, and we will find a ship, and you may go to England.
“When she has seen the world, when she has learned what it holds, then bring her
to me again and let me see what my daughter has become.
“At least … do not let her forget me.”
31
Yet suddenly there came news of such evil portent that new fears beset our
colony. On the 22nd of March, the Indians had raised up and killed several
hundreds of the colonists in the land called Virginia.
That particular colony was some distance from us and we had but little
knowledge.
From time to time we had word of them from Indians passing, or the observations
of Kin or Yance, and we knew of harsh times they had, with a shortage of food
and much illness. The site of the town they had formed, called Jamestown, was
not the best one and, as we had discovered to our cost, there was much fever on
the coast close to the swamps.
After some beginning trouble between Powhatan, of whom we often heard but knew
little, and these colonists, troubles between them had simmered down, largely to
the strong stand taken by a Captain John Smith, a man of Lincolnshire who had
fought in wars upon the continent.
The story as we heard it from the Catawbas was thus: A war captain called
Nemattanow, who was called by the colonists “Jack of the Feather,” because of
his feather adornment, had persuaded a man named Morgan to go into the woods
with him for trade or hunting or something of the kind. Nemattanow had often
been in Morgan’s house, and coveted many of the things he saw there. Later, in
the woods, he murdered Morgan and returned to the cabin wearing Morgan’s cap.
Morgan’s boys suspected what had happened and tried to entice the Indian to the
presence of a Master Thorpe.
An altercation developed and Nemattanow was shot and wounded. The boys put him
in a boat to take before the governor. Feeling his death was near, Nemattanow,
who the Indians believed could not be hurt by a bullet, pleaded with the boys
not to tell how he was killed, and to bury his body in the white man’s cemetery
so his death would not become known.
Oppecancanough, who was king of those Indians, was much angered when he heard of
the death of Nemattanow, but made great signs of love and peace to the colonists
so that no danger was felt, and due to the fact that no war had been entertained
for some time, few of the colonists were armed, there being few swords, and
fewer guns except for fowling pieces.
Yet Oppecancanough informed his people of what was planned, sending presents of
venison and fowl to various colonists with much evidence of good will, and
sometimes sitting to breakfast with them. Then, suddenly, on the 22nd of March
they arose and slaughtered three hundred and forty-seven men, women, and
children, striking so quickly that few knew what happened, killing them often
with their own tools, then hacking and defacing the bodies.
One Nathaniel Causie, who had come with John Smith, seized upon an axe when
attacked and clove the head of one of his attackers, whereby they fled, and he
escaped, though injured, for they hurt none who did stand to fight or were upon
their guard, killing only those they caught unawares and unarmed.
By this time the colonists were established for one hundred and forty miles
along the river, on both sides, and the Indians, because of their nature of
living off the country, must themselves be in groups of thirty, forty, or sixty.
Yet the whole plot had been so carefully arranged that each group of Indians was
aware, and many more than the three hundred and forty-seven might have been
killed had not one Indian, friendly to a man named Pace, informed him of the
plot. Pace had informed the governor, after rowing in haste down the river.
Six of the council were slain, George Thorpe, Nathaniel Powell, John Berkeley,
Samuel Macock, Michael Lapworth, and John Rolfe, this Rolfe having married an
Indian named Pocohontas.
The unrest occasioned by this disaster was sure to put many Indians to flight,
and there would be trouble along the paths.
Yet the news included more than the story of massacre and that was that several
ships had arrived, bringing more settlers. It was a chance that could not be
missed.
“We will go, Abby. Peter has two boats finished and a third well along in the
building. If we all pitch in to help, that boat should be ready for the river in
a few days. We will go down the river … the Cape Fear, I believe they call it
now … and go up the coast to Jamestown.
“Peter wishes to sell his boats, and there should be a market for them there. We
can carry our furs, robes, and grain.”
We were three large boats and one canoe when we started, with Kin, Brian, and
Yance in the canoe, Jeremy, Pim, and myself in the first boat with the women,
Kane O’Hara and Tom Watkins in the second, Jubal and Wa-ga-su in the last and
most heavily loaded.
We went up the coast from the rivermouth, staying inside the banks when
possible, and came finally to the Bay of Chesapeake and the Potomac River.
We came to the landing at Jamestown to see three ships in the river and much
busied they were with lowering cargo to boats—and one ship lying close in
alongside a dock, being a craft of such shallow draft.
A man of some presence watched us come close along and called out, “What have
you there?”
“Corn and hides,” I said, “and some furs. We be seeking out someone who would
buy.”
“Corn? You will be speaking to the governor of that. We have had losses here.”
“Aye,” I said, “we heard of that and came along to help. We ask but a fair
market price. As for that,” I added, “we would sell the boats, too.”
Climbing up on the dock, I was followed by Brian and Kane O’Hara. He glanced
from one to the other of us. “It is that you plan to settle here?”
“No. We’ve good places yon, and crops put in, but we heard your troubles and had
this grain put by.”
“If you sell your boats, how then will you get home?”
“Overland,” Brian said. He was a fine, handsome lad who spoke well, indeed.
“That is, some of us would, sir. My mother, sister, and I would ship for
England.”
“I am Captain Powell,” he said, “William Powell. We are on short rations here,
and the governor will be pleased to see you.”
He bade me come with him to meet the governor, Sir Francis Wyatt, an uncommonly
shrewd man, and intelligent enough to ask few questions. I spoke him fair, using
my own name, and hoping the years would have erased it from memory, as it seemed
to have done.
“We are obliged, Captain,” he said to me. “You could have come at no better
time. Now what are you asking per bushel?”
“As I told Captain Powell,” I said, “we came to help, not to profit by your
troubles. We will take the fair market price and no more.”
“Commendable,” Wyatt said dryly, “and unusual.” He turned to Powell. “Will you
see they are put up properly?” Then he smiled at me. “If you would wait outside?