“What shall I call thee? brother?”
—MARLOWE, in _Tamburlaine_.
The voyage of the fly-boat proceeded thenceforward more uneventfully. The
men who had been planning insubordination, now that their ringleader had
been so summarily disposed of, changed their front and avowed themselves
genuinely the followers of Vytal and the captain. For this transition
Roger Prat, winning them with his humor and good-fellowship, was largely
responsible, and after his own humbly boastful manner took no care to
conceal the fact from Rouse, whom he loved in a railing, mocking fashion.
Vytal and Marlowe were much together, the dull days affording them
the chance for many conversations, by the aid of which their intimacy
grew and deepened into a strong friendship. There was that in the poet
which appealed to Vytal—the facility of expression, the fervor and the
impetuosity, all of which his own nature had lost in the grim realities
of war and privation. Also, there was sometimes a profundity in Marlowe’s
thought which touched his silent depths.
Neither of the two saw Eleanor Dare again while on the voyage, save for
an occasional glimpse of her, when, with her maid-servant, who was the
wife of Dyonis Harvie, she came upon the deck for a breath of air.
Ananias approached the two men now and then with whispered protestations
of his innocence, that grew more calm and earnest in his sober moments.
Finally, however, he vaguely confessed a slight complicity, to Vytal
only, and followed the acknowledgment with a convincing assurance that at
heart he had ever been loyal to his father-in-law, Governor White, and to
Sir Walter Raleigh. Vytal, hiding his contempt, received this assertion
with a promise to leave the matter as it stood so long as there were no
signs of further culpability, and gave the assistant his hand with a
strong effort. He then instructed his men to preserve a like secrecy.
For many weeks the ship pursued her solitary course without once sighting
the _Admiral_. It was feared by many that Ferdinando’s vessel had met
some misfortune, and foul play was suggested by but a few of the most
suspicious voyagers.
Only one incident in all these weeks seems worthy of record.
Vytal was standing alone at mid-day, down on the orlop deck, examining
the ship’s cables and spare rigging, when a light footstep, almost
inaudible, approached him from behind. Turning, he saw the Indian,
Manteo, who, it will be remembered, was returning to Virginia after a
stay of several years in England. He held a finger to his lips and looked
about him cautiously. “We are betrayed,” he said, in a low voice, “by the
son of a warlike country. Ferdinando leaves his children to perish. The
great ship seeks us not, but would make her way to my land alone.”
Vytal scrutinized the impassive face for the first time with a deep
interest. He had seen the Indian’s tall figure, now and again, standing
silently aloof in the bow, his dark eyes always gazing off to the
westward. But until now he had not seen those eyes alert and troubled,
the supple form prescient with meaning.
“What brings you this suspicion, Manteo?”
“I know it as birds know that winter comes, as vultures that a warrior is
dead.”
There was a marked similarity in the bearing of the two men. They were
both tall, dignified, and slow to speak, both evidently perceptive,
strong, and masterful, both almost childlike in their direct simplicity.
Perhaps each realized the likeness, for into the eyes of both there came
a look of understanding that gave promise of a bond between them stronger
than the stout cables the one had been examining, stronger even than the
other’s ties of blood.
“My brother,” said Manteo, at length, “you, too, know the truth, but in
a different way. I came to thy country as Master Barlow’s interpreter,
many moons ago. I return to my people, but I have learned among thine to
interpret more than words. Thus, and by my own heart, I know that we are
left behind. I have spoken.”
“You have spoken no lie.”
“I am Manteo, and lie not.”
“My brother,” rejoined Vytal, “listen.” And he told the chief the tale
succinctly, omitting only the complicity of Ananias Dare. “An you learn
more,” he said, in conclusion, “you will tell me, I trust, and none
other.”
“Only to thee have I spoken, or shall speak. For thou art a chief, as I
am, among men.”
There remains no more to be told concerning life on the fly-boat. As
to the voyage of the _Admiral_, it is recorded on accessible pages of
history. An excerpt from these may not be inadmissible as a record of
bare fact. In the journal of John White, the colony’s governor, we find
the following true description of the voyage:
MAY.
The sixteenth, Simon Ferdinando, Master of our _Admiral_,
lewdly forsook our fly-boat, leaving her distressed in the bay
of Portugal.
JUNE.
The nineteenth we fell with Dominica, and the same evening we
sailed between it and Guadaloupe.
…
The twenty-eighth we weighed anchor at Cottea and presently
came to St. John’s in Mosquito’s Bay, where we spent three days
unprofitable in taking in fresh water, spending in the mean
time more beer than the quantity of water came unto.
JULY.
…
About the sixteenth of July we fell with the main of Virginia,
which Simon Ferdinando took to be the Island of Croatan, where
we came to anchor and rode there two or three days: but finding
himself deceived, he weighed, and bore along the coast.
The two-and-twentieth of July we arrived safe at Hatarask.…
The twenty-fifth our fly-boat and the rest of our
planters arrived all safe at Hatarask, to the great joy
and comfort of the whole company: but the Master of our
_Admiral_—Ferdinando—grieved greatly at their safe-coming: for
he purposely left them in the bay of Portugal, and stole away
from them in the night, hoping that the Master thereof … would
hardly find the place, or else being left in so dangerous a
place as that was, by means of so many men-of-war, as at that
time were abroad, they should surely be taken or slain, but God
disappointed his wicked pretences.
Here the account of the days at sea ends. Thus the fly-boat, thanks to
the watchfulness and care of Dyonis Harvie, came at last to her haven.