Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (41 page)

Finally alone, he dropped onto the wet sand and hid his head in his hands. “Oh God,” he murmured, but then he recalled that God had had nothing to do with this afternoon. He had fallen prey to the most basic instinct of man, unable to restrain himself even in the heat of the day. And he had loved being with her! For a few moments he had felt himself fully a man, complete and whole, both a conqueror and blissfully conquered.

But the others would not let him rest. If he and Jocelyn were on an island, mayhap alone on a ship, then their love would be free, but God had placed him in a colony of both righteous and sinful colonists, and both groups expected him to live as the moral and spiritual example of the community. And God, once again, had tested his resolution and found him woefully lacking.

Something gleamed through the sand at his side. After scraping the sand away, he picked up a tiny shell much like those in Jocelyn’s necklace. He clenched it until the sharp edge bit into his palm. Was it for righteousness’ sake that he had demanded she remove the necklace, or had he acted out of prideful jealousy? For months he had been working alongside the savages, but nary a gift had he received. He had seen the women welcome Jocelyn with open arms and wide smiles, albeit he was merely tolerated. Worse still, too frequently Thomas had the impression that the savages laughed behind his back.

‘
Twas no matter. He would put this day behind him.

Thomas stepped from his clothing and splashed into the frigid waters of the river, swimming until his skin shriveled and his teeth chattered. Such discipline would keep his conscience clear and banish thoughts of his wife from his mind. God was a hard taskmaster, but Thomas Colman could and would prove worthy to his task. He would not let himself be distracted from his work again.

Crazily furious and confused by her husband’s behavior, Jocelyn asked Eleanor to listen for Regina’s crying, then she slipped toward the house of John and Alice Chapman. Though he said little of his former life now that he and his wife had made their home in the City of Raleigh, Jocelyn knew that John Chapman had been the rector of a church in Suffolk, and therefore could give her advice on how to deal with the confounded minister who was her husband.

She found John Chapman under a spray of golden-orange oak leaves at the back of his house. He sat on a stool, whittling, and did not seem surprised to see her, nor did he raise an eyebrow when she began to unburden her heart. He merely kept whittling, nodding occasionally, and when she had finished airing her grievances he slipped the knife into a leather sheath and folded his hands as if for prayer. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” he said, his face bearing the wrinkles of his age with serenity. “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.”

He looked up at her as if he expected a reply, and Jocelyn waved in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Can’t you help me?”

“All the help you need is to be found in those blessed words,” Chapman answered, taking the knife again from its sheath. “There is treasure there, if you will seek it, Mistress Colman.”

“But the church—Thomas’ harshness will drive people away. Surely you can do something, mayhap meet with those who find Thomas too hard—”

“No.” He squinted up at her and in his eyes she saw a gentle rebuke. “Thomas Colman is God
’s man for this hour in this place, and God has called me to be a peacemaker, not a shepherd.” He began whittling again, and after a moment, he smiled and wished her a good day.

Finding no help in John Chapman
’s words, Jocelyn left the village and followed one of the Indian trails through the woods. When she was certain that no one had followed her, she crept into a thicket of greenery and put her head on her knees.

“Father God, I have made a mistake,” she whispered, her heart overflowing with remorse. “I thought I could win my husband
’s love and instead I have become a—strumpet! He does not love me, respect my ideas, or hear my pleas. I should have refused his proposal, for ‘twould be better to be unmarried in this place than married to him. I thought a diamond lay underneath the coal, but mayhap I should have married one of the other men, any one of whom would be more kind than this hard-hearted minister . . .”

Her words ran together after a while, but still she prayed, pouring out her heart and cries to God until her plea had been diluted to a simple, “I cry you mercy, God. Change my husband
’s heart or kill the love I bear for him, for I cannot love him and live with this pain much longer.”

She did not know how long she wept and prayed, but the sun had begun to set in the west when she finally stirred from her hiding place. If she did not leave soon, the men of the village would search for her, and
‘twas dangerous for them to carry muskets in the dark when they were lief to shoot each other.

Stiffly, she moved out to the trail and made her way home. God had not spoken, nothing had changed, but Jocelyn knew in her heart that she could not wait forever. In time, if God did not answer her prayer, she would leave Thomas Colman.

“If Thomas so wants to be alone, mayhap he should be,” she muttered grimly.

Thirty-eight

F
ive months later, on the twentieth of March, 1590, John White stood at the bow of the
Hopewell
, a flagship of one hundred fifty tons, twenty-four guns, and eighty-four able seamen. In her hold the ship carried artillery for the fortification of a post on Chesapeake Bay, and her captain was the experienced Abraham Cocke. The
Hopewell
’s consorts were the
Little John
, a ship of over one hundred tons, loaded with one hundred seamen and nineteen guns; and a pinnace, the
John Evangelist
. White had learned well the dangers of traveling with a poorly armed convoy. These three ships would bravely stand and fire against any who might accost them on the open sea.

Though his original plans had been thwarted, as always, White still had high hopes for this venture. Originally, White had planned to bring nearly a hundred new colonists aboard the
Hopewell
, many of them women. But in February, when White and his intending settlers came down to the docks where the ships were about to sail from the Thames, Abraham Cocke had refused to accept the settlers and their equipment. He agreed to give White passage, doubtless thinking that ‘twould be advantageous to have a Virginian colony’s governor on board, but he told the colonists to wait for passage on the
Moonlight,
a ship captained by White’s friend, Edward Spicer, which was scheduled to sail in May.

Fighting another wave of bitter disappointment, John White settled into his quarters on the
Hopewell
and considered that he was finally about to fulfill his promises and return to the colony. Though the privateering of Abraham Cocke would certainly try his patience, he would wait and hope to see the colony by July.

Thirty-nine

I
n the heat of early July 1590, Ananias called for volunteers to visit the men on Croatoan Island and Thomas Colman was among the first to sign on for the journey. Jocelyn knew her husband wanted not only to check on the spiritual health of the men, but to escape her. The strained situation between them had continued for months, and the brief passion they had shared seemed only to reinforce Thomas’ belief that she was a dangerous temptation and a threat to his ministry.

There had been talk of rotating the thirty men on Croatoan home to the City of Raleigh and selecting another twenty men to hold the outpost on Croatoan, but
‘twas difficult to imagine the integration of thirty new men into what had become a tightly-knit community. Besides, Ananias argued before the council and assembly, the men on Croatoan had grown fond of their home there, and many had spoken of taking wives from the neighboring Indian village.

“Surely
‘tis better to let them marry than to turn a blind eye to the temptation of immorality,” John Sampson pointed out. “I say we should allow these marriages.”

Ananias shook his head. “But if the governor returns with more colonists—”

“John White has tarried for nearly three years,” Roger Prat pointed out. “What if, perchance, his ship never made it back to England? We could wait forever for ships that will not come.”

Suddenly Eleanor stood up in the assembly. She lifted her head and folded her arms tight as a gate. “My father is alive,” she said, looking around with something very fragile in her eyes. “I
’d know it in my heart if he were dead. He’s alive, I tell you! And he’s coming back for us!”

The assembly of colonists craned their necks as if to measure the level of Eleanor
’s distress until Agnes pulled her back into her seat.

“Of course, Mistress Dare,” Ananias said, soothing his wife. “We know the governor will be back. But until then—” he shrugged. “What could be the harm in allowing our men on Croatoan to marry Indian women?”

“I’ll tell you the harm,” Thomas said, standing. Jocelyn lowered her eyes and lifted her hand to cover her face. ‘Twas not time for a sermon, yet she knew they were going to get one.

“The Indians are a heathen people,” he began, but Roger Prat raised his hand at the council table.

“Many of the Croatoan have converted,” he said. “Manteo and Towaye were able to explain the gospel in a way they could understand. Many have already been baptized.”

The comment was an indirect slap to Thomas
’ methods and teachings, for during his many months of work, the minister had not baptized a single Indian convert. Jocelyn saw the back of her husband’s neck redden, but he did not hesitate to continue. “Even if they convert,” he said, lifting his Bible from the empty bench next to him, “Doth not the Word of God tell us to refrain from intermarriage with strange peoples?”

He flipped through the pages: “In Genesis: Thou shalt not take a wife unto my son of the daughters of the Canaanites.”

“‘Pon my soul,” John Sampson said loudly, looking at Ananias. “When did the Indians become Canaanites?”

A light snickering fluttered through the crowd, but Thomas merely flipped through the pages of his Bible again. “Deuteronomy:
‘Neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son.”

“To whom do the Scriptures refer in that passage?” Roger Bailie asked, squinting up at Thomas.

“The foreigners in the promised land,” Thomas answered. “And in the book of Joshua, the Lord God said, ‘Else if ye do in any wise go back, and cleave unto the remnant of these nations, even these that remain among you, and shall make marriages with them, and go in unto them, and they to you: know for a certainty that the Lord your God will no more drive out any of these nations from before you; but they shall be snares and traps unto you, and scourges in your sides, and thorns in your eyes, until ye perish from off this good land which the Lord your God has given you.’“

No one snickered at these words. Thomas had often preached that Virginia was like the promised land, and the analogy seemed to fit. The English needed God to drive out the unfriendly enemies who would certainly stand in the way, and the danger of perishing in the land was all too real.

Jocelyn felt rebellion stir in her soul. By all that was holy, was her husband determined to strangle love wherever he found it? What gave him the right to defile the happiness of lonely men on Croatoan Island? She rose, only dimly aware of the ripple of consternation that passed over the assembly as she stood.

“Have you anything to add to your husband
’s words, Mistress Colman?” Ananias asked, arching his brows into triangles.

“Not to add—to refute,” Jocelyn said, clenching her hands at her side. “If our men cannot marry whom they choose, should we then consign them to a life of loneliness? Surely if the English marry Christian Indian women, there is no harm.”

“Mistress Colman—” Thomas interrupted, dark flames in his eyes.

“Where is the harm?” she demanded, raising her hands as she faced him. “Tell me, if you can. If the women have converted, why should they not marry and find happiness? We have scores of unmarried men in Virginia, Thomas, and if we are to make a place here, we must have marriages, and families, and children—”

“Sit down!” Thomas commanded, his voice rumbling like thunder through the room. Stunned into silence, Jocelyn obeyed.

Thomas left the bench where he had been sitting and walked to the front of the church. “We must not intermarry with infidels,” he said, glaring at Jocelyn as if, in that minute, she had proved to be one. “We must have faith that God will send John White and additional colonists. He who comes to God must come in faith, believing that he is—”