"Since the beginning of time men have moved across the face of the world, and we like to believe this is a result of our individual will, our choice, and it may be so, but might it not be that we are moved by tides buried in our natures?
Tides we cannot resist?
"Whole nations and tribes have moved, suddenly, always with some kind of an excuse. But was not the excuse sometimes found afterward? How do we know we make these moves by our own decision?
"Men like to believe themselves free from nature, free of the drives that move animals and plants, but wherever there is open space men will come to occupy it.
"The Indian himself has moved, pushing out other Indians. I heard of this on my previous voyage ... it is inevitable."
Long after Lila went to sleep, I paced the deck, wandering from bow to stern, alert for any moving thing upon the dark water. At last I awakened one of the men, a Newfoundlander I knew only as Luke, and left him on lookout.
Yet sleep did not come for a fear was on me, a fear for what could have happened to my love, she who had given up all for me to come to this far, strange place.
How deep, how strange is the courage of women! Courage is expected of a man, he is conditioned to it from childhood, and we in our time grew up in a world of wars and pressgangs, of highwaymen and lords sometimes as high-handed as they.
We grew up to expect hardship and war. But a woman?
I'd seen them follow their men to war, seen them seeking over battlefields to find their lonely dead, or the wounded who would die but for them. I have seen a woman pick up a man and carry him off the field to a place where he might have care.
Abigail, for all her life aboard ship with her father, had given up all a girl might have for the hardship of life in a new, strange land, without comforts, without the chance of care if she came to a child-bearing time. At least, no care other than I could provide.
At last I slept, and it was full dawn before my eyes opened again, and when I came out upon deck we got under way, making our way past the tiny coves and inlets, the rivermouths and the bays.
No ship ... nothing.
Had not two colonies disappeared here? Had not the men Grenville left vanished?
Into what limbo? To what awful death?
The green and beautiful shores took on a horror with their blank, unyielding, unspeaking faces. We looked, and our eyes told us nothing, for we could not see beyond the leaves, beyond the vines.
My eyes sought the stream where lay the old hulk where once I'd taken shelter.
What brought that vessel to its end? Where were its crew? Where its cargo? To what mysterious end had it come at last, in this lonely place?
How lonely? How many eyes might peer from behind that screen of branches? How many might lie in wait for our coming ashore?
The fluyt was alone. No help would be forthcoming if grief came to our side.
There was no warship to come, no signal could bring help. Whatever might be done we must do.
"Blue," I said at last, "let's go south to the other sound. They might be awaiting us there."
"Aye," he said gloomily, and I loved him for his sadness.
All aboard were strangely silent No voice was raised in ribaldry or song, no loud hails were given out. Men walked quietly, understanding my worry and my doubt.
We edged again past Roanoke Island and into the larger sound. We saw no sail, no masthead beyond the trees. Two large rivers opened into the sound. Cautiously, we ventured into the nearest. Scarcely had we entered the mouth of this river that flowed from the west than another appeared, flowing down from the north. We held to the center of the river, taking soundings as we moved, and passed the point where the two rivers joined. We had gone past it only a short distance when suddenly, Blue, who was aloft, shouted.
"Cap'n? There's a wreck on the starb'rd beam! Burned ship, two points abaft the beam!"
I ran to the rail. It was there, lying on the western side of a small inlet or rivermouth. The current was not strong, yet there were mudbanks on either side.
"I'll go ashore," I told Blue, "and do you stay with the ship. Drop the anchor and wait, but keep a sharp lookout."
John Tilly came with me, and six good men, armed with musket and cutlass.
As the boat drew nearer we could see the ship's bow was firmly wedged into the mudbank. Either she had come in under some sail, driving hard on the mud, or else there had been a good deal of a pile-up after she struck.
Only the hulk remained, burned near to the waterline with the charred butt of a mast overside and some broken spars about Tilly pointed. "She was under fire, Captain. See the hole?"
There was a hole in the hull, right at the waterline, and I could see the top of another just below the water's edge. She had been hard hit, probably aflame before she struck.
"They drove her in a-purpose," Luke said suddenly. "They were wishful of getting ashore, I'm thinkin'."
Suddenly, I had a rush of hope. We edged in close and made fast to the hull, then Tilly, Luke, and I climbed over the wreckage to the shore. There had been a hard rain, and what tracks had been left, if any, had been washed away.
Slowly, we wandered about. Nothing ... no single sign of anything that might have lived beyond the wreck, beyond the fire. Yet, the fact remained. Somebody could have made it ashore. There had been a daring lot aboard. For fearlessness in the face of danger, for ingenuity at survival, for skill in hand-to-hand combat, I could have wished Abigail in no better hands than those who sailed with her ... if they had lived long enough to help.
"Go back to the boat, Tilly," I said. "We have come too late."
"It was your ship then?"
"Aye, and a fine lot of men aboard, and the girl who was to be my wife, and her father, a good man, a fine man. All gone."
"They might still live, Barnabas."
It was the only time he'd ever used my given name, and I looked up at him, seeing the sympathy in the man.
Luke had started back to the wreck. Now he called out, "Cap'n ... look!"
I turned at his outstretched arm and pointing finger.
They stood there, a small and haggard band, on the edge of the forest. Some were still within the trees, but Jeremy Ring was there, and Sakim, and Black Tom Watkins, and--
She came from the forest and walked through the small group and stood there, staring toward me, a shabby, soiled, woebegone little figure.
Abigail ...
Chapter 15
Her face was burned by the sun, her nose was peeling, she was scratched and torn, and her dress was in tatters. She stood quietly looking at me, surrounded by her ragged, half-naked band ... all armed.
"I knew you'd come," she said simply. "I told them you'd come."
I went to her then across the sand, and took her in my arms, and so we stood for several minutes while the others filed past us, not looking, not speaking.
How many there were or who they were I did not know until later. At that moment I could think only of Abigail. Yet one question I did ask, and feared for the answer.
"Your father?"
"He is dead. He was killed in the attack. He told me to run her aground, to get away, and to wait for you. He told me that you'd come. He had great faith in you, Barnabas."
"I should have been here before, but so much has happened."
"Was it so very bad ... in Newgate?"
"Nothing. Nothing to this, to what you have been through."
We turned then and walked to the boat, hand in hand.
For the first time I looked around. Pim was there, a wicked scar across his face now, and Sakim, looking no different than I saw him last, only a little thinner.
And there, too, was Jublain, the companion of my first venture from the fens.
"We shall go aboard now," I said.