“Many are pains of life, I need not stay to count them; there is no
one but hath felt some of them, though unequally they fall.”--UGO
BASSI’S SERMON.
Scarcely ten minutes had passed before the group of women and children
stood by a little opening which Howe had made in the palisade, through
which they were to escape into the forest. Howe stepped out first. Why
should the leaves rustle so? He fancied he heard a noise near. An arrow
might pierce him in a second, or one of those frightful yells might
announce their discovery.
But no arrow came, and one by one the little procession filed out
behind him into the dark forest. It was by no means easy work to keep
on. The underbrush crackled and scratched the children’s hands and feet
until they cried and had to be hushed. Only the baby Elizabeth would
not be silenced, though Mrs. Dare did all she could to soothe her.
“They will certainly hear her and find us. We’ll be all scalped if you
carry her any farther,” said one of the women.
But Mrs. Dare’s answer silenced her. “If either of the children is
making noise enough to endanger you all, we ought not to remain
together. I will keep behind till you are all safe.”
Mistress Wilkins was just behind, carrying little Martin Harvey. He
was a stout child, really too heavy a load for the poor old woman, yet
she had energy enough left to turn savagely on the first speaker. “You
ought to be a heathen savage with a red skin,” she said, “to talk of
leaving a poor motherless baby alone in the woods for the wild beasts.
I wonder the Lord don’t send some of them out to tear you to pieces.
You are no Christian woman.”
On, on they went, groping their way through the darkness, often
stumbling, sometimes falling, but keeping on bravely, carrying the
children, and helping the more frightened ones. Suddenly they came to a
clearing, and before them stretched the great ocean. They all gathered
close together under the old trees that shaded even the very edge of
the bank. Then Howe told them he must leave them while he went to bring
the boats. Most of the women began to cry, saying they surely would be
killed without a man to protect them, until Eleanor Dare said, in her
quiet, decided way, “Go, Howe, we are quite safe here among the trees
and bushes. The great danger will be when we are on the water.”
“You had better not talk, or even move; and be sure you do not answer
any call, or speak to any one, until the signal of a low whistle is
given,” Howe said warningly, as he disappeared into the forest.
It seemed a century since he left them; it was in fact only about
thirty minutes before they heard his whistle, and he appeared carrying
an end of one of the boats. Harvey was carrying the other end, and
behind them came two men carrying another. Hopeful Kent was one, and he
was grumbling about the weight.
The boats were soon launched, the women were getting in, Howe was
lifting in the little ones, when suddenly Hopeful Kent sprang into the
nearest boat and pushed it from the shore. “What are you doing?” cried
a dozen voices. He only pushed the harder, muttering, “I hear the red
scoundrels coming.” He was mistaken, however: no one came, but they
could not persuade him to come back. He said he had as big a load as
he was going to row, and was soon out of sight.
“I dare not put another one in,” Harvey said to Howe, as the small
boat dipped to the water’s edge. Mrs. Dare, who had refused to get
in till all were settled, still stood holding the two babies, and by
her Patience and Mistress Wilkins. Howe looked at them helplessly
for a moment, then suddenly exclaimed, “I have an idea, Harvey! you
and Thompson see this boat safely to Croatoan. Tell them Mrs. Dare
is coming, and that it will be all right. If we do not come, you had
better come back and take the rest of the men. I am going to try to
steal two of the canoes, if I am seen and caught, they will have to
wait for you; be sure you come back.” The two men clasped hands for a
moment, and the boat slipped silently over the still water. Howe told
Mrs. Dare his plan; leaving his hat, shoes, and whatever else he did
not need, he scrambled along the bank just over the water. Very soon
he could see the palisade, and the torch-light showed the Indians’
ugly faces. He remembered Governor White’s directions about the name
of the place they should remove to, and as he reached the edge of the
little bay, he drew himself up to a tree, and taking out his knife
began to carve the word CRO-ATO-AN; but only three letters were done
when he noticed a commotion among the Indians, and fearing to be seen,
he slipped down into the water. It was strange that the Indians had
left the canoes unguarded, but they looked upon the pale-faces as a
stupid race, and they felt so sure that they were all enclosed behind
the palisade, they had left only one man to watch the boats. He was
more interested in the fight than in his duty, and hearing the unusual
commotion which was caused by a small portion of the palisade giving
way, he had gone up the bank to see how things were going on, thus
leaving the canoes unguarded, ready for Howe to take his choice. Howe
swam across the little bay; reaching a small tree, he drew himself up
by it, and lying flat on the ground pulled one of the light canoes
towards him, and pushed it into the water without a sound. Then came
the thought, if all the canoes were in the water their owners could
not possibly pursue save by land. It required only strength and
caution, both of which Howe possessed. Steadily he drew down first
one and then another, till all but one canoe, and the two largest and
lightest, which he had decided to take for Mrs. Dare, were floating
away silently on the smooth water; then he carefully brought to the
water his chosen two; the other lay among dry leaves on the bank, and
he decided not to run the risk of its rustling betraying him. Fastening
the two together, he stepped into one, and let the tide carry him far
out before he used the paddle; no one had seen him, or heard a sound.
The Indians always believed and declared that their canoes had been
floated away by the water spirit, who was angry with them, but spared
their medicine-man’s canoe, which was the one that lay among the
leaves. Howe was pretty well worn out when he reached the sheltered
spot where the anxious watchers waited for him. He told them of his
adventure, and that he felt very sure the palisade could hold out only
a little while longer, and that he was too worn out to paddle them to
Croatoan, but if they would wait only a few minutes more, he would go
to the palisade and send some one to them.
“And you, Howe,” Mrs. Dare asked, “what will become of you?”
“The men will soon need a place to hide or retreat to, then I will
bring them here. Thompson and Harvey will come back for us.” He had
hardly finished speaking before he was gone, and they sat quietly
waiting.
Who would come, and when? The moments rolled on like hours. The night
wind sighed in the pines till it seemed like a human moan. A great cry
suddenly pierced the stillness; it was from the Indians, and yet it was
not their war-whoop, rather a mournful cry. It sounded again and again,
and then died away.
“Either they have discovered the canoes are gone, or they have broken
down the palisade; you can rarely tell whether they are sorry or glad,”
Mrs. Dare said.
“If it is their canoes,” said Mistress Wilkins, “they will come along
the shore for them, and we shall surely be found.”
“Let us still hope and pray,” Mrs. Dare said feebly.
“Hark!” whispered Patience, “I am sure I hear some one coming.” The
twigs were cracking and the underbrush breaking. It was not Howe’s
decided step either. No, nor was it Howe’s voice that said, “Mrs.
Dare, your father left me in his place, to guide and govern his people.
As none of them wish me to do either at present, I am sure he would say
my duty was with you. Howe says we must go off at once.”
She thanked him as he helped Mistress Wilkins and Patience into one
canoe, and herself and the two babies into the other.
“The tide runs directly to Croatoan, so we can float most of the way
without paddling,” Gage said, as the canoes, fastened together, floated
quietly away from the shore into the stillness and darkness of night.
Howe, after leaving the little party on the shore, went back to the
palisade; he found the men fighting like true Englishmen, but he
managed to explain to Gage the condition of the women; and then, after
seeing him safely off, he went to work with a will: every one was
needed.
The palisade was fast giving away, several large holes were plainly to
be seen; the Indians were fighting with all the power of their wild,
savage nature. If they once got through the palisade, every white man
must die; then he thought of the women and children, and wondered
if Manteo would receive them kindly, or if he would resent Ranteo’s
treatment. As he fought and tried to encourage the men, his thoughts
ran on quickly. He thought of the future, and Governor White’s return;
who would tell him where to find what was left of the little colony?
surely the three letters on the tree over the little bay would not. He
slipped down from his place, having just thrown over his adversary whom
he was fighting with hand to hand. Opening his pocket-knife, he found a
large tree that would be easily seen, stripped the bark off about five
feet from the ground, and on the smooth surface he carved in clear,
old English characters, CROATOAN. He had just finished the “n,” when
a sudden pain made him lose his hold on the branch. He tried to raise
himself to put the cross over the word, as the governor had said to
do if in danger or distress, but he could not move. He could only lie
there listening to the cries and war-whoops, and now and then a groan
from a dying or wounded man. Above all, he could hear the sad call of
the night heron; he could see that the Indians had broken away the
palisade and were rushing in. How many seconds before they would find
him, he wondered. The vision of a gray stone church across the sea came
before him, where he had learned from his very babyhood the truths and
lessons which had made him a blessing and a credit to his country, and
enabled him to lie there now facing death without a fear. He thought of
the dear old face of his rector, remembered his last words at parting,
and the promise of his prayers. “Such prayers must be heard on high,”
he muttered. “I have forgotten many of his holy teachings, but the dear
Lord will be merciful and forgiving. He will, he will.”
An Indian was coming very near; but what was that cry? It came from the
Indians that were outside the palisade. Those who had forced their way
in seemed to be retreating. He longed to ask, but there was no one near
enough. Presently all became still, except for the low, sad wail that
came from the outside. The white men were evidently astonished, but
were taking advantage of the lull to patch up the palisade.
Presently a man came near, and asked, “Who are you?” Howe answered,
asking at the same time, “What has stopped the fight?”
“That’s more than we can tell,” was the reply. “It’s something on the
shore, though; something makes them think their gods are angry, for
they have stopped fighting, and are offering gifts and dancing dances
to one of their spirits. It is a good thing for us, anyway.”
“Put any of the Indians that have been wounded or killed outside, then
come back to me,” said Howe, “and I will tell you something.”
After half an hour the man came back, and three others with him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Howe, “it’s an arrow just above my shoulder, I think, but
it is broken off.”
The men could feel the end of the arrow, and with great difficulty, and
causing him much pain, they drew it out.
“How are our men?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.
“It’s hard to tell exactly, but they’re mostly all wounded more or
less, and there are thirteen killed,” was the answer.
“We must not stay here: we cannot tell what those savages will do next;
but first, we must hide Governor White’s boxes,” said Howe.
There was a little silence, then one of the men said, “We might as well
tell you the worst, you have got to come to it. We’re all sorry, but it
can’t be helped. There wasn’t one among ’em like my old woman, ’Ilda,
though the ’eathen dogs have done away with every woman and child we
’ad.”
Howe almost laughed as he replied, “I was the heathen dog. I helped
them to go to Croatoan, where we must go as soon as possible. That’s
what happened to the Indians in the middle of fighting; they must have
suddenly discovered that their canoes were gone, and, I dare say,
thought some of their gods had spirited them away.”
“Thank ’eaven, thank ’eaven!” cried the first speaker, falling on his
knees. “Thank ’eaven for my ’Ilda!”
They saw that Howe was exhausted, and left him resting on the ground
while they went to work. An hour later Governor White’s trunks were
buried, and all the little treasures they could carry were packed in
bundles, and all was made ready to leave Roanoke.
Howe and Barnes were both too seriously wounded to walk; they were laid
on rude biers and carried. The dead men had been buried; others, who
were only slightly wounded, walked, though in more or less pain. The
way through the forest was a rough one, but their courage kept them
up. At last the bank was reached, and in a sheltered hiding-place they
found Thomson and Harvey waiting with the largest boat; the other, they
said, had not reached Croatoan when they left. They had also several
of the floating canoes, which they had captured on their way back. As
day dawned, they found all that remained of the English colony on the
shores of Croatoan, waiting to see how the chief Manteo would treat
them.