“His looks do measure heaven and dare the gods:
His fiery eyes are fixed upon the earth.”
—MARLOWE, in _Tamburlaine_.
Oftentimes the necessity for mere physical exertion alleviates the dull
pain of hopelessness and induces men to forget themselves. The renewed
activity may be long delayed and unsought, but when at last it comes the
change is everywhere apparent. For months the colony had been subject to
a kind of lethargy, a spirit of retrospection and dark foreboding, which
even the endeavors of Vytal and his men could not dispel. But on the day
of exodus there was not even an attempt at prophecy. The tangible present
became paramount. Each man, with a few exceptions, acted for himself,
and thus for all. Even selfishness, if it be positive, may result in a
benefit widespread beyond its own intent.
The sun, rising slowly, seemed at last to pause and balance itself on the
edge of the flaming sea, like an oven’s red-hot lid for a moment lifted
from its hole. The sky, papery, blue, and shallow—a ceiling painted azure
in clumsy imitation of the heavens—seemed so low as to shut out air. One
might almost have expected to see strips of the blue peel off in places,
cracked by the consuming heat. The bosom of the sea lay motionless, as
if the breath of life had gone forever; and the corpse of the earth was
carrion for the sun.
But the toilers persisted. The emigration had begun.
For hours and hours the boats proceeded on their way until day was nearly
gone, and at last, as if Fate would deride the colony, a cloud, for which
all had prayed so long, crept up over the horizon. A low, muffled roar
came across the water, and, in the distance, rain fell.
Ananias Dare, who, with Vytal, Marlowe, and Manteo, stood in the bow
of the pinnace, suggested that all should immediately return. But
Vytal refused. “It would be months,” he affirmed, “even under the most
favorable conditions, before our planters could replenish the storehouse.”
At this moment a louder roar than hitherto proclaimed the cloud’s
approach, and a pall of darkness covered the sea. The effect was
memorable. A second picture graved itself on observant minds. To the
east, stretching out interminably on one side, lay the sea, chopping
and black as ink. To the west, the land, sun-clad, extended broad and
limitless. Hope and Despair, Life and Death, were keeping tryst at the
brink of ocean. But not for long. Suddenly a jagged light gashed the
heavens, and, with a terrific detonation, a ball of fire fell to earth.
A great oak on the margin of the forest crashed and lurched forward, its
huge branches splashing in the sea. The spray, as it fell, leaped up and
wetted the pinnace, a few cold drops sprinkling the face of Ananias Dare.
With a groan the assistant sank down, cowering, to the deck. Again and
again the lightning flashed on every side, jaggedly tearing the sky as
though against its weave. Yet, as the sea had not responded with a burst
of wrath, but only writhed slowly, as if in pain too great for utterance,
the barges forged ahead with steady progress toward their goal.
Fortunately, there was but little wind. Merely a summer thunder-storm had
broken over them, the like of which they had never seen in England.
The rowers persisted stubbornly in their cumbrous crafts, while Dyonis
gripped the pinnace’s helm with phlegmatic pertinacity and looked only
toward Croatan. Near Dyonis, in the stern, sat Eleanor, her protecting
arm and cloak around Virginia, who, curiously enough, peered out at the
storm with not a trace of childish fear. Vytal, Marlowe, and Manteo
still stood in the bow, the former now and again calling orders to their
steersman, while Ananias, crouching, looked landward over the gunwale.
Still the long line of boats pushed on like a school of whales, Hugh
Rouse and Prat bringing up the rear with a barge-load of ordnance.
“There it goes, there it goes again,” said Roger, rowing for dear life.
“’Tis worse than a Spanish bombardment. I’ faith, midget, I am tempted to
shoot back. What say you?” and his heavy panting drowned the sound of a
low chuckle.
“Madman, row!” roared Hugh, “row, an you want not a watery grave this
minute!”
“Watery?” said Prat. “Damnable fiery, I call it. Our well-merited
brimstone boils early.” He broke off, puffing, and looked over his
shoulder down into the bow with much difficulty, owing to the shortness
of his neck. “O your Majesty, ’tis an unfortunate hap, yet I pray you,
sire, rest easy.” The bear, crouching in the bow, poked his snout forward
under Roger’s arm. “_He_ is not forever setting me to work,” muttered
Prat.
“Nay, nor me on edge by fleering raillery.”
“On edge!” cried Roger. “’Tis timely spoke. On edge, eh? Body o’ me! look
sharp, manikin! ’Tis the barge we set on edge; see there!”
His warning came just in time, for, owing to the sudden shifting of the
bear, a small stream of water poured in over the gunwale. Rouse and Prat
moved quickly to the other side, and the barge righted itself. King Lud
rolled over, growling angrily.
Then, as if to drown his voice, the thunder itself growled in a final
fit of rage and retreated, with low mutterings, toward the setting sun.
At last a ray of light shone faintly through a rift in the cloud and a
long shaft of gold glanced obliquely to the earth, beside which the now
distant gleam of forked and unsymmetric lightning seemed like a sign
of chaos fading before the advance of order. The rain, which for a few
moments had fallen in torrents, passed on, while only a shower of sunshot
drops, falling like diadems from the woodland’s crown, echoed the harsh
patter of a moment before.
“It is over,” said Marlowe, and, turning, he looked long at Eleanor, then
went down into the stern and spoke to her. A momentary flash like the
lightning shone in his eyes. “Thus would my love,” he declared, “consume
its object.”
She returned his glance meditatively. “Nay, that is not love.”
“’Twould, indeed, be mine.” He gazed off to the western sky in deep
abstraction, adding slowly: “Yet, ’tis not love I see before me; it is
death. Alas! I like not the stealth of death as it creeps seemingly
nearer and very near.” He paused, still looking away toward the sun,
which in another moment sank behind the forest of the mainland. And
Eleanor made no answer, but instinctively turned to glance at Gyll
Croyden in the boat behind them. Then, realizing that Marlowe was
following her gaze, she looked up at him again quickly. The spirit of
premonition had suddenly left his eyes; the moment of transcendency had
passed. He was smiling at Mistress Croyden.
But the little Virginia, peering up at Christopher from under her
mother’s cloak, whispered, “Death,” and again, with a bright smile,
slowly, questioningly, “Death?” as though striving to grasp the meaning
of a new and pretty word.
The treble voice, however, was suddenly drowned by a loud cheer from many
throats, the sound of which caused Virginia to look about like a white
rabbit from its hole and to pout at the rude interruption of her childish
reverie. But soon she darted out from the cloak and added her prattle to
the prolonged huzzah, for her bright eyes told her that once more she
could run about in chase of birds and quest of flowers.
The colonists had arrived at Croatan.