Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (55 page)

Thomas and Chogan stepped forward to meet the chief, and the bustle of the village stilled. Shutters were silently and discreetly closed, the laughter of children abruptly ceased, and women hid themselves behind closed and barred doors.

Opechancanough made a speech, and Chogan listened intently, then turned to Thomas. “He is impressed by the size and strength of your village, and compliments you for your bravery. He says if you will point him to this large boat, he and his men will take it now.”

“Tell him I do not have the boat,” Thomas said, his arms thrust behind his back. “The storm destroyed it.”

Chogan translated, and the war chief nodded in mute acceptance, then proclaimed another declaration.

“Opechancanough says he will choose his prisoner, then,” Chogan translated, drawing himself up to his full height. He wrapped his fur mantle closer around him. “I will go, Reverend. ‘Twas my idea to offer the boat.”

“No, tell him I am his prisoner,” Thomas said, stepping forward. He walked to within five feet of the chief, then abruptly thrust his hands out in front of him, ready to be bound.

From inside their house, Jocelyn and Regina watched the scene in silent horror. Thomas had not told them what would happen if the savage chief did not receive the promised boat, but ‘twas all too clear by Thomas’ action what he intended.

“Father God, help us,” Jocelyn breathed, watching Thomas stand unarmed before the savage chief.

A sudden sound distracted her, and before Jocelyn could move, Regina had flung open the door. “Papa!” she cried, the sound tearing Jocelyn’s heart.

Regina skimmed lightly over the sand, then threw her arms around her father
’s waist and fell to her knees. “Don’t do this. Don’t let him take you! I won’t let you go!”

The floodgates of Jocelyn
’s memory opened and scenes from the past combined with the unearthly vision before her. “Don’t make me go, Papa,” she whimpered, then she began to moan.

Opechancanough had entered the village warily, awed by the strong palisade and the strange tall buildings. But he had not been impressed by the casual atmosphere of the few people he had startled with his presence, nor was he pleased when the tall man in black thrust his arms out in a gesture of surrender. No warrior surrendered willingly. This man would die a coward
’s death, meekly accepting his torture. It was not a fair trade.

His musings were interrupted by a heart-stopping scream and the sight of a young woman who rushed forward to cling to the dark, unsmiling man. Opechancanough
’s eyes narrowed in interest. The girl had shown more bravery than the man, and was a suitable trade for the captive girl.

Opechancanough gestured toward the sobbing blue-eyed girl and spoke to the Indian who served as interpreter: I will take her.

“What’s he saying?” Thomas asked, trying unsuccessfully to pry Regina from his ribs. “What’s he saying, Chogan?”

Chogan
’s dark eyes filled with compassion as he turned to Thomas. “He will take your daughter. A girl for a girl. ‘Tis an even trade.”

“No,” Thomas protested, pushing Regina away with all the force his arms could muster. She flew to the ground, crying, and Thomas stalked forward until he was within an inch of the warrior
’s face. “You will take me,” he said, thumping his chest and roaring as though the savage were deaf. “You cannot have her. Take me. My life is forfeit.”

Opechancanough showed no response, but gestured abruptly. Two of his warriors moved forward and lifted Regina from the ground. “No!” Thomas shouted, running to his daughter
’s side. He made an effort to dislodge one of the warrior’s arms, and without hesitation the warrior drew back his club and brought it down on Thomas’ skull.

He spun and fell in the sand. Dazed with pain, he tried to rise, but the earth heaved beneath him and sounds echoed crazily in his head: Regina screaming, Chogan whispering earnestly, Jocelyn wailing in the distance. Warm blood trickled from his ear and Thomas wearily swiped at it as he struggled unsuccessfully to rise .

Another voice protested fiercely, and through his cloud of pain Thomas saw William Wythers spill from the doorway of his uncle’s house and run toward the savages. He did not get far, though, because a group of village men sprang forward and held him tight. They carried him, kicking and screaming, back inside his uncle’s house.

“Chogan,” Thomas cried, crawling through the sand on his hands and knees, “you must convince them. Have them take me, not my little girl. They can have me, but they must not touch her.”

Chogan did not move, and, apparently satisfied that no others would be foolish enough to charge him, Opechancanough nodded and led his warriors out of the village as Regina’s cries echoed among the barren treetops.

“Why, God, why?” Thomas wailed, sprawled in the dust.

Looking down, Chogan’s eyes were wet with compassion. “Have you not said,” he asked gravely, “that all will be as God wills?”

fifty-three

A
group of men brought Thomas into the house. Doctor Jones examined the gash across Thomas’ scalp and pronounced that it was not serious, but that Thomas should go to bed. Beyond pain, Jocelyn watched the tableau unfold before her as she sat wordlessly by the fire in a devouring gulf of despair. She felt as though a section of her body had been torn away as Hurit and Chogan and Agnes Wood wiped their eyes and touched her shoulder and murmured comforting words without ever reaching Jocelyn’s soul.

Her baby lay in the hands of brutal
heathens, and she was powerless to help. Where was God when Opechancanough took Regina? Why had her Heavenly Father led Thomas from the village to exchange their daughter’s life for a savage’s?

When the outsiders had gone, Jocelyn looked at her husband. After fifteen years of loving him in silence, loneliness had carved a hollow inside her soul and she crawled inside it, feeling no love, no pity or compassion for Thomas. He lay in the bed, racked by sobs, and she wanted nothing more than to tell him to go to the devil. Such a spiritual giant! If he had been content with life in the village, he would not have felt compelled to go out and save the entire wilderness from hell. In his efforts, he had brought a demon of perdition to them all, for now Opechancanough knew the location of the town, he knew its strengths and weaknesses . . .

A rap sounded at the door and Jocelyn automatically rose to answer it. Every muscle of her body ached under the heavy load of grief she bore. But she bore it silently, unlike Thomas, who sobbed like a baby over losing the daughter he had never wanted in the first place.

Agnes Wood stood outside, her face lit by a sliver of December moon. “Miss Jocelyn, I thought I ought to tell ye,” she said, glancing
furtively about her in the darkness.

“What is it, Agnes?” Jocelyn asked.

“‘Tis William Wythers. His uncle knew William would go plumb crazy about Miss Regina, so they tied the boy’s hands and put him in the attic to sleep. But it appears he got loose and busted through the roof—anyway, they’re afraid he’s gone after those savages, Miss Jocelyn.” She paused to blow her nose into a handkerchief. “I thought ye ought to know.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” Jocelyn said, and felt the corners of her mouth lift in a habitual smile. By all that was holy, how could she smile when a rock had fallen through her heart? She closed the door and stared at her sobbing husband. At least William Wythers loved Regina enough to risk his life to find her.

Two days passed with no word from William or Regina. Thomas and Chogan had organized a search party the day after Regina’s abduction, but the trail left by Opechancanough’s warriors did not proceed in the direction of his village. After a while, Chogan and his scouts lost the trail and led Thomas home.

Jocelyn had never seen her husband so helpless. He did not read his Bible, kneel in prayer, or go to the church to fuss and fume. Instead he sat alone in the house with the shutters closed and pondered thoughts that he would not share.

On the third day Jocelyn came home from the storehouse and threw open a window. “Close the shutters, please,” Thomas said, his voice low and quiet in the room. He lay on the bed, fully dressed, his hands folded on his chest like a corpse, laid out and ready for burial.

“No,” Jocelyn said, gritting her teeth as she went about her work. “You talk of faith, Thomas, now
‘tis time to practice it.”

“I have lost my daughter. Have you no respect?”

“I have lost my daughter, too!” Jocelyn whirled around and sat on the bed, leaning over him so he could not move away. “Think you that I do not know what grief is? Think again, Thomas.”

“I was ready to go with them,” Thomas replied dully. “Why didn
’t they take me?”

“You
wanted
to go with them,” Jocelyn answered, lowering her head until her nose was a scant inch from his. “You’ve been trying to kill yourself ever since we landed here. In hunting parties, search parties, on expeditions. ‘Take me, God, I’m not happy here,’ isn’t that what you’ve been saying for these many years?”

He did not answer, and Jocelyn shook her head. “How thick-headed can you be, Reverend? God doesn
’t want you! He wants us to have you, but you won’t let your wife love you, you fought the love of your daughter for years, even the church people and the Indians must measure up to your inviolate standards before you will accept them. Well, you placed yourself on the altar one time too many, Thomas, and God threw you back. ‘Tis no sacrifice to give what you don’t want yourself.”

He seemed to cower before her words, and Jocelyn took a deep breath to calm herself. “You may not care for yourself, Thomas, but I once did,” she whispered, sitting upright. “For years I
’ve wanted you to be a husband and father, but you kept yourself from me. And if you wanted to sacrifice something for God, well, now you’ve done it. You’ve lost your beloved daughter, and I hope God thanks you mightily for it.”

His head bowed as her words poured over him, and when she had finished, she heard his broken sobs again. Frustrated beyond tears, she climbed into Regina
’s attic room and curled up in her daughter’s bed, pulling the tattered blanket over her as if it could protect her from the overwhelming loneliness of their house.

Rowtag led a handful of warriors silently through the forest, following the movements of Opechancanough
’s men easily. ‘Twas as he suspected. Opechancanough did not intend to carry the captive English girl back to his own village, but moved instead toward the town of the great chief Powhatan, Opechancanough’s brother.

As elusive as shadows in the forest, the warriors dogged the enemy party as Rowtag considered his strategy. He knew that Chogan had taken the minister on a purposely futile hunt for the trail. The man of God was weak and frightened, and would prove to be a liability should a battle arise. But William Wythers, who had burst out of the village in a blaze of insane fury, had found Rowtag
’s party. The Indian had tried to convince the young man to return home and wait, but William had refused. In an effort to save time and the girl’s life, Rowtag had reluctantly allowed him to accompany his scouts.

On the trail, Rowtag stopped abruptly and his men froze behind him. In the distance, he could see that Opechancanough
’s party had circled around a temporary camp, probably of hunters from Powhatan’s village. They would feast together, then light a campfire and relax as evening wore on.

Rowtag turned to his men and motioned for them to get down. Catching a glimpse of the impassioned fury in young William
’s eyes, Rowtag shook his head. “We must wait until dark,” he said firmly.

Clutching their spears, Rowtag and his scouts crawled forward on their bellies until they lay just outside the enemy camp. Three temporary structures had been set up at the north end of the circle, but most of the warriors sat around the fire smoking and eating in pleasant relaxation. Five or six women had been present when Opechancanough first arrived, but they had disappeared into one of the huts. Rowtag could not see the
English girl.

Someone pulled on the sleeve of his garment, and Rowtag jerked around, his hand on his dagger. “Please,” William Wythers begged, desperation shining in his brown eyes. “Can you see Regina? Why can
’t we go in there and get her?”

“We are six,” Rowtag whispered, turning to stare again at the camp. “They are sixty. Are you ready to die?” William did not answer, and when Rowtag turned again, the boy had crept back to his hiding place.

The ground grew cold underneath Rowtag’s belly as the sun sank lower in the west, but at sunset the women appeared in the circle, leading the English girl by leather straps wound around her wrists. Regina’s long brown hair had been plaited in the Indian fashion, and her face and arms had been painted in bright strokes of yellow and blue.

Rowtag drew in his breath. This was no ceremony of torture. The women twittered nervously as the English girl blinked in fear, then a tall brave stepped from another hut across the circle. His arms were folded across his chest, his hair long and free in the wind, and despite the cold of December he wore only a breechcloth and leather boots. Rowtag raised an eyebrow when he recognized the brave: Kitchi, son of the mighty chief Powhatan.