“Little by little, sure and slow,
We fashion our future, of bliss or woe,
As the present passes away.
Our feet are climbing the stairway bright,
Or gliding downward into the night,
Little by little, day by day.”
In less than ten minutes they were passing the first log hut; how quiet
everything was! Most of the settlers were sleeping as sweetly as they
might have done in their own villages in dear old England. There was
not much doubt which of the huts was occupied by the Harvey family,
for the baby Elizabeth was crying as usual. No one seemed to trouble
himself in the least about the wee creature that sent forth constantly
so pitiful a little cry, that it said more plainly than volumes could
have done, how weary and hard she found this world.
She, the youngest creature, was the first to break the peace of that
quiet little Roanoke village, the first Christian people in this
heathen land. But the happy hours of peace in their rude little homes
were over; for in less than an hour every one’s heart echoed the sad
cry of that tiny baby: there were torches lighted here and there, and
little knots of men talking in anxious whispers, as if they feared
being overheard, even by the wind and trees; women standing together
outside their doors, with frightened children clinging to them. Every
one was thoroughly awake now. In one group stood Anthony Gage, an
elderly man who seemed to have authority, for the others were looking
at him and listening. He had been made a leader rather by circumstances
than by birth; and he looked frightened and bewildered now, as the
torch cast a lurid, flickering light over his handsome face.
“I think,” he was saying, “as long as Manteo is a powerful chief, we
had better go back with Ranteo; we will be as safe there as anywhere.
It was certainly good of him to offer us shelter, for it will mean war
with Wanchese for him. What say you, men?”
Hopeful Kent was in the group, and spoke up at once:--
“I fear we shall then be making slaves of ourselves. Manteo can do what
he likes with us when we are in his camp. Mayhap he has made all this
story up to get possession of us.”
The first speaker shook his head. “No,” he said, “Manteo is our friend;
an Indian is not treacherous to his friends. I have feared, ever since
Governor White left us, that we should have trouble with Wanchese; for
if an Indian is not one’s friend, he is his bitter enemy. I wish we
could have removed our village at once. The delay was unavoidable, as
you all know.”
Gage had one of those weak natures, to which it is almost impossible to
form a positive and quick decision. As he paced up and down at a short
distance from the others, the group was joined by several persons,
among whom was Barnes, more put out than he chose to acknowledge at the
turn things had taken. He had had no opportunity to fire on the Indian
as he had planned, and then, worst of all, a redskin had got the best
of him. Altogether, he was in a much worse humor than usual, if that
were possible.
Why did such unwholesome, unprincipled men come away from their own
land, where the laws could hold them in check?
Barnes was saying in a strong, fierce way, “I tell you what it is,
lads, it’s each man for himself. We haven’t any one over us. I, for
one, sha’n’t put my red scalp in the keeping of any Indian. I’d be for
taking the one that has come here and quartering him, and sending a
piece to his fine painted chief, and the rest to Wanchese. It’ll make
peace with him quicker than anything else we can do.”
The tall governor, Gage, had been absent hardly five minutes from the
group, when he returned, still undecided, to find the aspect of things
totally changed.
He began mildly, “I think, my dear fellows, we had better get our
things together, and start at daybreak. Ranteo will wait, I have no
doubt.”
A growl rather than a murmur ran through the little group; then Barnes
spoke out:--
“We’re not going, sir, one step with that rascal. He can wait till we
scalp him; it’s all he deserves; stealing in among us like a thief in
the night. We are going to be men, and fight for our homes, our women,
and children; aren’t we, lads?”
“Ay, ay,” was the reply. But one strong voice, from a man scarcely more
than a lad, who had just come up, said, “Do you call yourselves men?
It is cowards I should call you if you would touch one who has come
among us to save us from ruin, and who trusts us. For shame, fellows!
If you touch him, it must be over my dead body.”
“I shouldn’t mind that at all,” said Barnes dryly, drawing out his
hunting-knife.
George Howe, for such was the name of the speaker, was no coward; but
he realized that this was not the time for a quarrel among themselves,
when trouble and death threatened from outside. So he only said, “Put
up your knife, Barnes; if we kill each other, there will be one man
less, if not two, to guard the women and children. I am sure you would
be sorry to see this brave fellow killed. If Wanchese should come, and
you find all he tells us is true, Governor White would be very angry if
we should hurt an Indian without good cause.”
“I care much about his anger, or what he wishes,” grumbled Barnes;
while Hopeful Kent muttered, “I’m mighty sure the governor will never
be bothered with our doings; there will be none left to tell him. We’ll
all be in Kingdom Come long before he or any one else comes back. It’s
a lot any of them trouble themselves about us.” Once more Howe tried to
thwart the evil councils of the lawless men among whom he stood.
“Let’s put it to vote what we shall do,” Barnes said, coming up to the
group, after he had interviewed a number of the men, who still stood in
little knots talking anxiously. Howe and the present governor, Gage,
were standing together a little apart. Howe had made a suggestion, and
had almost succeeded in persuading his companion to adopt it, when
Barnes cried out in triumphant tones, “Let’s put it to vote, we are
free men.”
“If you let them,” muttered Howe, “it will be the ruin of us all, sir;
something, it must be the Evil One, I think, gives Barnes a strange
power over the men. Don’t put it to vote, sir, I beg; make them feel
your authority.”
“No doubt you are right, Howe,” replied Gage, as he stepped nearer to
Barnes and said, “Barnes, you have the interest of us all at heart,
and while I feel it is right to observe caution, in this case we have
no choice but to trust Manteo. Were we alone we might run risks, which
we have no right to do with the women and children depending on us. I
know you will trust my decision, which I am sorry to say differs from
your opinion.” He stopped, for Barnes had turned and walked away. He
only went a few steps, however; then turning with a gleam of triumph in
his eyes, as he saw the disturbed look he had caused in the face of
the man whom he ought to have obeyed, he cried furiously, “Don’t be too
sure of your good judgment; we came to this country free men, and as
a free man I am going to act now. I am not going to Croatoan. You may
if you choose. Who’ll fight the savages, and win lands and homes with
me? or run away like a baby to its mother when the first sound of fight
comes.”
Nearly all the men had gathered round, seeing their leader standing in
a weak, undecided way, looking helplessly and distractedly at Barnes,
whose strong, magnetic face they all felt; and they cried, almost with
one voice, “I, Barnes, I! I am no coward.” “I am an English lad,” or
“Here’s your man, Barnes.” Seeing that he held the men, he stepped
before the tall figure of Anthony Gage, who had authority and power
at that moment had he only had the strength to exert it, and began,
“If we are agreed to stay here and fight like men, the first thing we
can do to prove the strength of our resolution is to act upon it; to
put to death this lying Indian who has come among us to be a spy, to
make trouble, to get possession of us and our women and children, to
torture us, to put us to death. Do you not say with me that he should
be punished, to show those red dogs we mean real work, and no more
fooling? What do you say, fellows?”
Only a few voices replied; even they assented feebly. Howe walked away
in disgust. Barnes, feeling a little uncertain as to the wisdom of
his last suggestion, determined to excite his followers a little more
before Ranteo should be spoken of again. So he continued, “The red
villains will be on our track by morning, as soon as they find their
comrade doesn’t come back, so we must get to work and build a palisade.
If they once get hold of us they will show no mercy, though some of you
are foolish enough to be afraid of hurting this precious copper-colored
heathen. I confess I am not womanish enough for that.”
More than a score of voices cried out, “Nor I, nor I.” “They are an
ungodly lot.” “Clear them off the face of the earth; it’s a Christian
man’s duty.” Gage stood with bowed head, the very personification
of disgust, yet with not moral courage enough to right the wrong he
was so horrified at. He had tried to be a good man, and yet please
his fellow-men among whom he was thrown; strange to say, an aim
which is seldom realized, even when a whole life is given to its
accomplishment. The most truly popular lives are apart from, and
without thought of, self; lived for one’s fellow-men, with a brighter
and more perfect mainspring than mere humanitarianism. Such lives
become more than good, and without either knowing or realizing it, the
busy, flippant world stops in its rush to admire, if not to bow down in
adoration.
When Howe left the little company, he walked carelessly away, but only
while in sight did he go with slow steps and bowed head. Once out of
sight, and sure he was not watched, he ran as fast as he could under
the shadow of the trees. Going behind each hut, he looked inquiringly
at the inmates, but he reached the very end before he felt satisfied.
It was indeed a pretty sight he saw there; the rude room with its few
articles of rough furniture, and a few little decorations which gave
the place a refined, home-like air; at one side swung a cradle, in
which lay the baby Virginia. By the cradle stood the beautiful young
mother, looking proudly and lovingly down on her child. The rush torch
which she held threw a bright light on the little creature, on the
mother herself, and on a tall figure that knelt by, watching the child
with almost reverent awe, only venturing to touch the tiny hand with
the tip of his long finger. The baby watched him with her pretty blue
eyes, cooing as the long feathers waved back and forth as he moved his
head.
“The child comes from the Great Spirit,” the Indian said.
Mrs. Dare replied quietly, “Truly, Ranteo, the Great Spirit sent her.
She is his, but he has given her to us for a while. You will be her
friend always, won’t you? If anything should happen to me, I tremble to
think what would become of my baby.”
Ranteo did not speak, but he took the baby’s wee hand and laid it
against his forehead, then pressed it to his lips, and made a vow which
he never forgot. Nor did he forget those words, “She is His.”
Howe had been weighing several plans in his mind. At last he was
resolved, and stepped in, saying, “Ranteo, come with me.”
“Ranteo’s work will be to carry the white lady and the Great Spirit’s
baby to Manteo’s wigwam,” was the reply.
“Thank you, Ranteo, we will be very glad to have you, both baby and
I,” Mrs. Dare said in her sweet way; but glancing at Howe’s face she
stopped suddenly and asked, “What is wrong, do tell me.”
“I might as well,” replied Howe. “Barnes has made himself governor, and
decrees that all Indians shall die, and the white men shall not go to
Croatoan.”
Mrs. Dare clasped her hands in horror, but the Indian showed no sign of
surprise or fear, and Howe continued, “There is no time to lose; come,
Ranteo, and don’t lay up all these shameful things against our whole
race.”
Without a word, Ranteo took from his belt the small soft skin of a
white rabbit, and laid it on the cradle, then followed Howe. Long
before Barnes and his men had finished their discussion, Ranteo had
slipped off in the stillness of the night, wondering in a stupid sort
of a way why white men were so unlike each other, that a child had
risked her life to save him from being shot when carrying a warning of
danger and an offer of hospitality, and that after delivering both,
his life was still so unsafe that he had to be smuggled away quietly.
As his canoe glided quietly over the dark water, he was glad the
pale-faces were far behind, but he wished that sweet, blue-eyed papoose
had a red skin.
After seeing Ranteo’s canoe safely out of sight, Howe turned back
toward the line of moving torches, which showed where the huts were.
As he saw them moving he decided the council must be over, and work
of some kind begun. “God only knows what those villains will be up to
next. Barnes hates me. It will be better for him not to know that I had
anything to do with Ranteo’s escape. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind taking
me in his place, and I shall be needed by the women and children. It’s
little consideration they’ll have while that brute is self-imposed
governor of the colony,” he said as he hurried on.
Mrs. Dare was holding the baby, and she looked up as he entered. “Did
he get off, Howe?” she asked.
“Yes; he’s far across the water by this time, and the villains are just
beginning to look for him. I fancy I see the torches coming this way,”
he replied.
“Thank God,” she said; “it would have been a disgrace to our people.
Oh, if my father were only here! What is to become of us all?”
“You will hear soon enough,” was the reply. “Here comes our gallant
new governor; it is best to be ignorant about Ranteo.”