Serpent Never Sleeps (11 page)

"You'll get yourself killed," I said.

His eyes still glistened. He thrust out a stubborn chin. "Perhaps. Yet a man has to be loyal to his given word. If he isn't, he might as well be dead."

In the firelight I could see the face of John Calvin, gangling Calvin, the preacher.

The following afternoon we heard cannon fire, the signal for everyone to gather at the governor's camp. The admiral, Tom Barlow, and I were in the bay, working along a reef, fishing for supper. We had caught a boatload of bass and gray snapper to smoke. Also four tunny that must have weighed six hundred pounds between them.

Admiral Somers kept on fishing when the cannon went off. But Tom Barlow pulled in his line, took up the oars, and began to row toward the governor's camp. The admiral kept his line in the water and
acted as if the only thing on his mind was fishing. I knew better.

Close to dusk, after a hard row, two boats from our camp edged up on shore some distance from the governor's camp. The weapons Pearepoint had managed to bring were hidden under a blanket of palmetto leaves, and the boats were put in the charge of one of his men.

Governor Gates was waiting for us in front of the stocks he had ordered on the day we came to the island. In the stocks, his hands and his bushy head thrust out through the holes, languished Henry Paine. Paine, one of the stalwart young gentlemen, was the governor's trusted guard. But unknown to the governor he was in league with Francis Pearepoint. Apparently he had been in the stocks the previous night and kept awake since, for his eyes were red and half-closed.

The governor gave our party a searching glance to make sure, no doubt, that none of our men was armed. He then turned to Henry Paine.

"Is it true," he shouted, "that last night when called upon to take your watch, you hurled insults upon the captain of the guards, struck him on the head with your fist, and took yourself off, scoffing at the double watch I had ordered?"

Henry Paine opened his eyes but did not answer.

"Furthermore, when told that if word of your behavior ever reached my ears it might mean your life,
you brazenly replied, 'The governor has no authority to justify upon anyone an action of that nature. Therefore, let the governor kiss ...' 'kiss my ...' 'my foot.' Or some such insulting remark."

Henry Paine was obviously surprised at the governor's violent tone. "I don't recall such words. I never intended.... There must be a mistake."

"The mistake is yours, Mr. Paine. And for it you shall pay."

"But, sir, I have paid enough already," Paine said.

He glanced at Pearepoint. I was sure that the two had made a pact, that Paine had deliberately provoked a fight with the governor, and at this moment, armed with an excuse and according to plan, Pearepoint and his men were to attack Sir Thomas and set up their own government.

Pearepoint coldly returned his glance. He did not move. Why I am not sure. Was it because the governor, suspecting a plot, had placed two of his cannons and four of his cannoneers on either side of the stocks, and stood with a solid wall of cedar trees at his back? Surprised by this, had Pearepoint decided to put off his attack until a more favorable time? It seemed likely.

"You shall pay dearly," the governor said. "You shall pay with your life."

A cry went up from Mistress Horton and others, for Henry Paine was well liked in the camp. But the governor called for a ladder, which was set up under a tree.

Paine tried to squirm out of the holes that held
him. Failing this, he leveled his gaze upon Pearepoint, saw no hope there, and began to talk to the governor, admitting his guilt and asking for mercy.

The governor turned his back. He ordered a noose and saw that it was attended properly, with a double bend and a sailor's knot, to a stout branch.

Paine studied the noose, which was moving about in the evening wind, frowned, and said, "Since I am a gentleman, I own the privileges thereof and demand that I be shot instead of hanged like a commoner."

"Your demand is granted," the governor said. "And may God forgive you, as I willingly do."

The sun went down as these words were spoken. Our group left and climbed into the boats. We had not gone far when I heard two shots. Wisps of smoke drifted up through the palmetto trees.

Pearepoint shook a fist at tie camp, at the settlers who were now cheering the governor. "We'll return and soon," he said.

Admiral Somers was silent. He put out his fishing line and told Tom Barlow to row toward a reef where a school of yellowtails roiled the water. Tom bent his back and rowed hard. He kept glancing at me, trying to make out how I felt about the governor and what he had done.

Finally he said, "The governor has taken a lot from Paine and the rest. I don't blame him, do you?"

"I question what will happen at Jamestown. Will he shoot everyone who acts up or disagrees? Now that he's shot one, it may get to be a habit."

"We'll put a halter on him with obedience and love."

"You may do so, but not I."

"You'll change your mind once you gaze upon the wonders of the New World."

"No," I said. "It's idle to think so."

Tom set his jaw and rowed even harder toward the school of leaping fish.

No one in either of the two camps had expected Sir Thomas Gates to act so suddenly and with such cold fury. He had mildly punished other traitors by sending them off to another island. He had intended to hang Stephen Hopkins but had been persuaded not to.

The death of Henry Paine, therefore, came as a shock to everyone, to those who, though loyal to the governor, had accused him of being soft-hearted. And a lesson to Francis Pearepoint and his gentlemen, who had grandly thought to depose him.

It encouraged the loyalists to take a stand behind Sir Thomas. It cautioned the dissenters to mend their ways lest they, too, should join the late Henry Paine. And it spread calm upon troubled waters.

Hitherto Admiral Somers held prayers on Sunday morning, himself preaching a short sermon and Tom Barlow rendering a song or two in his resounding voice. Now we rowed to the main camp and listened to the Reverend Bucke while Sir Thomas stood by with a sharp eye, smiling kindly.

Months passed, and the coming of spring coincided
with some happy events. Elizabeth Persons, maid to Mistress Horton, was married to Thomas Powell, Sir George's cook. Elizabeth was tall and plain and Thomas was tall and handsome, which was not a good combination, as time would prove. I lent Elizabeth my pretty palmetto fan, adorned with pearls that Tom Barlow had gathered on the shore and given me. The wedding took place beneath a bower of pink roses, with wild bursts of musketry.

Then Mistress and John Rolfe's daughter was baptized and given a name. Mistress Horton, who, next to Emma Swinton, had the prevailing voice among our women, suggested three names for the baby—Mary, Celeste, and Ruth. But none of these was chosen. Governor Gates liked the name Bermuda, so this was the name she was called.

Sir George and Sir Thomas met often and discussed the barks they were building separately. After a spring storm tossed
Deliverance
about on her beam-ends and the governor decided to put up a bulkhead to protect her, the admiral sent men into the hills to bring rocks and timber.

When
Deliverance,
the big ship built to carry most of the people, and
Patience,
the small pinnace built for the rest, were launched, both camps turned out and happily feasted upon palmetto hearts, mussels, clams and lobster, turtle stew and roast pig. Tom Barlow played his viola and sang.

During the following two weeks everyone helped to gather food. Terns were not so plentiful as they
had been the day we came to the island, but we managed to fill a barrel with their eggs. Turtles were coming ashore, scooping out deep holes and laying their eggs—as many as five hundred at a time—and covering them with sand for the sun to hatch. Of these, over six thousand were gathered and set down in brine. Fish of all kinds still swarmed the blue waters. Admiral Somers, Tom Barlow, and I caught more than a ton one afternoon, which were smoked and stored away for the voyage.

Deliverance
and
Patience
rode at anchor five days, waiting for a westerly wind to take them through the narrow channel into the sea. On the tenth of May the wind shifted from the east. Admiral Somers and Captain Newport went off to buoy the way, the only way we could sail.

Governor Gates set up in the admiral's garden a
mnemosynon,
a fair memorial of our experience on the island of Bermuda. It was made from the timber of our ruined ship in the figure of a cross and was fastened to a mighty cedar. In the center of the cross the governor placed a silver twelvepence, which bore the picture of King James.

The Reverend Bucke spoke a short prayer, drums beat, horns blew, from the
Deliverance
came two loud cannon shots. But not everyone was glad to be sailing off to Jamestown. I dare say that if a vote had been taken, more than half of the settlers would have voted to remain among the palmetto trees and the blue waters.

By ten o'clock the next morning everyone was aboard. Tom Barlow and I were on the
Patience
with Admiral Somers and all of the gentlemen. The rest were aboard
Deliverance.

The wind was light now, and the big ship had to be towed with a longboat. Even then, the channel was so narrow and twisting that she struck on the starboard side, fortunately not hard enough to split her planking. With shallow water on one side and jagged rocks on the other, we followed in her wake under a single sail into the open sea.

The wind served us well that day, so easily that, unlike my departure from Plymouth, I never felt a seasick moment. It held fair, though sometimes scarce and often contrary, during which we twice lost sight of the
Deliverance.

Shortly after dawn on the seventeenth of May, Admiral Somers spied a change in the sea and said we were not far from land. Dead trees and rubbish floated past from time to time.

That night he took soundings with the dipsey lead and found that we were sailing in thirty-seven fathoms of water. On the twentieth, near midnight, a marvelously sweet smell, sweet beyond belief, engulfed us.

Next daybreak a sailor in the foretop of
Deliverance
descried land. We had no cannon on
Patience,
but Tom Barlow fired his musket, and we all cheered, even Pearepoint and his men, who no doubt felt that the sooner they reached Jamestown the sooner
they could return to Bermuda and their search for gold.

The following day we entered a broad expanse of water. Admiral Somers called it the Chesapeake and said, "It's a fairer bay than any I have ever seen."

Later we came upon a bluff some two miles distant, where a fort that sat at the entrance to the James River was located. Its captain discharged a warning shot at us, thinking we might be Spaniards. Governor Gates went off in a longboat to assure him we were friends and English. When he returned, he signaled to Admiral Somers and we moved up to where
Deliverance
lay anchored.

Sir Thomas was standing at the rail, dressed in light armor, hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked grim and didn't speak until aroused.

"What did you find?" Somers asked him. "Did our fleet reach Jamestown safely?"

"Safe all six, save the pinnace
Catch,
which was set adrift."

"What of Captain Ravens and the longboat?"

"Not seen, not seen, of course," Sir Thomas said. "Lost, as well we know, long ago on that day the debris washed in." He gave me a gentle look. "It is good to know the truth, is it not? And not to live your life and die a little each day."

I did not answer. In the cloudy sky high above us, gray birds were screaming. I let their wild, sad cries answer for me.

Jamestown, Virginia

Tides and shifting winds held us for a day. Then a gentle breeze carried us up the James to a point of land and Jamestown. Below the settlement, tall trees overhung the riverbank. Sailors tied the two ships to the trees, quietly, as if they were tying a pair of horses. Sir Thomas Gates shouted for everyone to line up in orderly fashion and not to move until he gave the order.

Deliverance
fired her cannon. Muskets roared. Bugles sounded. Everyone cheered. Sir Thomas shouted for quiet.

Signaling us to follow, he strode ashore and took a path that led upward to a huddled settlement atop a hillock. He held his sword aloft. His scarlet cloak fluttered in the wind and showed a glint of gold braid. Beside him, right and left, drummers beat upon their drums. We followed, singing a sprightly tune. It was a fine display, meant to hearten all the citizens of Jamestown.

But tramping along behind Sir Thomas, I thought
it curious that the path we followed was overgrown with weeds and doubly curious that no one from the settlement had come to greet us.

Above me, at the end of the weed-grown path, I caught a glimpse of a stockade with most of the stakes missing, the sagging roof of what was once a fort, a row of ruined huts. Had the settlers left? Had Jamestown been abandoned? If so, Sir Thomas surely would have been told when he talked to those at Fort Comfort.