CHAPTER IV
“This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
The stern discipline of that evening was broken by one of the colonists, who, having earlier entered the town from the western wood, now reeled through the streets, crazed by inebriety and fear. As the gates were not yet closed, he was permitted once more to leave the enclosure, which he did by the eastern entrance. Beyond the palisade he paused for a moment, swaying heavily, and gazed down at the shore.
The moon, in its first quarter, was sinking behind a film of gray clouds. A few traders, Spanish and English, stood bargaining on the beach. The two vessels, without lights, lay motionless at anchor. A number of canoes were hauled up on the sand, their birch-bark sides shining like silver in the moonlight. The man, looking up and down the coast, recognized Vytal’s gaunt figure in the distance, and he realized hazily that the soldier was inspecting the coast-guard before returning to the town.
But the blear eyes wandered back to that line of silver craft, and now, with uncertain gait, the lonely man descended from the headland. Then, with a wave of his hand to the contemptuous traders, he stepped into one of the canoes, and, unsteadily seating himself, made his way along the coast with wavering sweeps of his paddle.
On coming at last to that part of the beach where Vytal was giving instructions to the arquebusiers, he paused, and, keeping his canoe several paces from shore, spoke quickly to the soldier. “I am going,” he said, pointing with his paddle to the eastward, “away, anywhere, far away.”
Vytal turned in surprise. “You’re mad.”
The other smiled absently, and, waving his wooden blade, held it out toward the forest. “Yes, delightfully mad. Devilish Winginas over there—saw them my own self when I started to go away to the mainland. Long line of red demons waiting—demons ’stremely like those Ralph Contempt described—all waiting to capture the town. You’d better have a care and come away. I’m going away—anywhere—any place whatever, out into the darkness—through the inlet—over the sea—away from it all, from all the danger and trouble, all the nightmares and remorse. I’ve spent my life retreating, now I’ll retreat once more—once more.” The moonlight, falling across his face, showed a look so despairing, haunted, and yet drunkenly cheerful, that for a moment Vytal stood transfixed, staring at him, as at an apparition of the night. The bloodshot eyes were wide open and wet with maudlin tears; the hair was dishevelled and damp with the sweat of terror. Yet even now there was a certain weird beauty in the face, a peculiar and exquisite refinement. But from behind the beauty a despicable soul looked out of the eyes, so that even Vytal shuddered as he saw their glance.
Courage stood face to face with naked Fear.
With a look of disgust, Vytal glanced about for another boat, but none was near them.
Slowly the canoe drifted from the shore, its occupant bidding farewell to Vytal with a laugh that died in a wail. “Return, or I shoot,” said the soldier, sternly.
But at this the paddle splashed frantically, and the canoe, now whirling about, now darting out to sea, went farther and farther from the land.
Vytal, for once, hesitated. To shoot was perhaps to kill the man, while to refrain from shooting was almost to countenance his suicide. As a compromise between these two alternatives the soldier took an arquebus from one of his men and fired in the air.
For a second the canoe paused in its outward course, then shot far seaward, and the man, wildly waving his paddle, either in triumph or expostulation, staggered to his feet. At this the frail craft so careened and trembled that before he could stand fully erect a torrent of water rushed in across the gunwale, and Vytal, aghast on the shore, just distinguished his figure, as, with a piercing cry, he tottered, fell sideways, and sank beneath the surface.
“He cannot swim,” said one of the arquebusiers, “any better than a gobbet of lead.”
Hastily Vytal waded into the water, and, although there were no traces of the unfortunate drunkard, would have struck out toward the upturned craft, had not a deep voice at this instant restrained him. Turning, he saw Hugh Rouse standing on the shore, beckoning to him apprehensively.
“Captain, a force of Winginas attacks the western palisado.”
Vytal turned to one of the musketeers. “Bring hither a canoe and search for his body. He is drowned in the swift undertow;” then, with a last searching glance across the silver water, Vytal retraced his steps to the beach.
“To the town, Hugh! I follow immediately.” He turned to the arquebusiers. “It rests with you,” he said, “to hold the Spaniards back from land. Ask no reinforcements. We cannot spare them. Nor yet seek to retreat within the enclosure. You will be refused admittance. Your post is here. Knowing that some of you are the men who would have mutinied on the fly-boat long ago, I give you this opportunity to retrieve yourselves,” and, leaving them, he made his way speedily to the town.
As he passed within the main portal it was closed and barricaded, Rouse and a score of the ablest soldiers being left to defend it.
He stopped at the fortress, before which Dyonis Harvie stood on guard, heavily armed. Eleanor was in the doorway. Seeing Vytal, she came out into the square and spoke to him. “Is it well?”
“An hour will show,” he answered, quietly.
“Then you fear treachery?”
“No, I do not fear it.”
“But you suspect it?”
“Nay, madam, I am fully aware that a general attack is intended. A force of Winginas already threatens our western wall.”
She hesitated, seeming loath to speak her mind, yet compelled by a certain distrust to make known her anxiety. “I hope,” she said, as though half to herself, “that none of the colonists will seek to leave by the Madre de Dios until the issue is certain.” Her voice faltered. “It is my duty to tell you that Ananias plans—”
But Vytal shook his head gravely. “Mistress Eleanor, Ananias Dare is dead!”
“Dead!” she gasped, in a vague, incredulous bewilderment. “Dead!”
“Yes; drowned.”
A high flush of crimson came to her cheeks and suffused itself quickly about her temples; then as suddenly died, leaving her wan and pallid.
Vytal, averting his face, while in silence she re-entered the fortress, went slowly to Dyonis Harvie. “Is the prisoner well guarded?”
“Ay, most carefully—in a cell below the fort.”
“Your main duties are to protect the women and keep him there;” with which Vytal turned quickly away toward the western palisade.
Save for the light of the stars and of a wavering flambeau here and there, the town was in darkness. And but for the occasional reports of muskets, as the inland pickets fired into the forest at an unseen foe, no unusual sound broke the silence of night.
Yet each minute of that night, winged or halt, slow or quick-fleeting, was to every man big with import and terrible endeavor. The very air that filled their lungs seemed impregnated with suspense.
Here was no camp-fire and lounging throng in the main square, but only gloom and solitude, for the colony, broken up into small commands, stood in alert attitudes, with straining eyes, at every entrance.
The armistice was apparently at an end, yet some few consoled themselves with the fond delusion that the Winginas’ intermittent attack had not been inspired by the Spaniards. One or two of these sought Manteo to question him concerning the numbers of his hereditary foemen, but Manteo was not in the town. And, furthermore, not one of his tribe could be found save a few of the women. The Hatteras Indians had disappeared, men and boys, mysteriously.
“They have deserted us,” said some of the colonists, despairingly; but the leaders knew that, by Vytal’s command, Manteo held his men in waiting far within the western forest. Thus at a signal the friendly tribesmen could be called upon to fall on the Winginas’ rear and decimate them from an ambush.
Yet Vytal rightly conjectured that this attack of the hostile savages was a Spanish feint to draw off his soldiers from the coast; and even now, as he concentrated the pickets in a body to meet a concerted onrush from the woods, a great clamor of arquebuses and heavy pieces arose from the shore.
The Spaniards were landing. A general assault had begun from land and sea. The sound of cannonading, continual and deafening, came from the water, while from the woods the whir and whistle of arrows proclaimed a more insidious attempt.
Vytal returned to the main entrance. It was already besieged. The coast-guard had been overwhelmed. Despite their first stubborn stand, they had gone down like corn-stalks before a hurricane. There was no resisting the stampede. But the gateway, defended by Rouse and his unflinching score, still remained a barrier. Through innumerable loop-holes the defenders had thrust their fire-arms; and now an incessant volley of lead poured out from behind the palisade like a torrent of hail driven sideways by the wind. Still more effective, however, were the culverins on two high flankers that stretched out on both sides of the entrance. These cumbrous weapons, incessantly vomiting huge missiles, so enfiladed the aggressors that a sortie was deemed expedient.
Rouse let the gate swing back quickly, and Vytal, leading a dozen men, sought, by the sheer vigor and unexpectedness of his attack, to press the enemy back over the cliff which they had scaled. This seemed his only chance. By so bold a move he intended to convey the impression that large numbers within the town only awaited a signal to reinforce him. For, although Frazer, disguised as the bear, had overheard Prat’s observation concerning the colony’s weakness, there had been, Vytal believed, no possible means of communication between him and the Spaniards.
The one chance, then, seemed to lie in the exaggeration of Roanoke’s forces, by manœuvres implying fearlessness and strength.
As Vytal surprised the foremost body of attackers by his sudden sortie, the flanker culverins necessarily became silent, while the men at the palisade loop-holes likewise ceased from firing.
Now on the headland there was a general mêlée, and to distinguish Englishmen from Spaniards was impossible. Only the lofty figure of Vytal, towering above all the combatants, kept the anxious watchers from despair. Sable forms, spirits of the night, met and fell, while, above all, coruscant swords and pike-blades flashed in the calm light of stars; and here and there a face, anguished or triumphant, being lighted up by fitful cressets, seemed not a human countenance, but only, as it were, an expression, bodiless, the mere look of a ghost haunted by reality.
Suddenly, a new glare, high and lurid, broke the gloom. The tree-trunks of the western palisade were now themselves flambeaus, ignited by stealthy Winginas, who, having overcome the outposts, had gained the town.
With a loud cry, Hugh Rouse warned Vytal, whereat the captain fell back to the main entrance. “Quick!” he said to Rouse. “Give the signal to Manteo,” and Hugh started toward the western wall.
In another instant the savage enemy would have been surrounded by Manteo’s men, according to the preconceived arrangement, but Rouse was unexpectedly delayed.
From the small gateway which led to Vytal’s cabin a soldier rushed out to meet him with drawn sword. Even in the faint starlight there was no mistaking that scarred face, with its indrawn eye and yellow teeth, as the lips parted in a smile. The man was Sir Walter St. Magil.
Without a word they met, and their swords crossed, to kill, immediately. But Rouse, taken by surprise, found himself on the defensive, and, before he could swing his heavy weapon effectually, the other’s point pried into his sword-hilt, which, being wet and slippery from the moisture of his fingers, slid from his grasp, and fell with a thud beside him.
Nothing daunted, the giant closed in, unarmed, upon his antagonist with so impetuous a rush that St. Magil could not thrust again before a huge pair of arms encircled him completely. His own arms, benumbed by the sudden pressure, hung lifeless, while at one side his sword dangled uselessly.
Their faces touched, their chests, thighs, and legs were locked together as though with iron bonds. And St. Magil’s breath came in short, quick gasps, hot on the other’s mouth. But at last, gradually, the herculean arms closed tighter and yet tighter about their prey, until suddenly Rouse, hearing a low, cracking sound, knew that his adversary’s arms and perhaps a rib or two were broken.
Then, and then only, Hugh released his grasp, and, leaving St. Magil groaning on the ground, rushed away to give Manteo the signal for a counter-attack.
That moment’s delay, however, was fatal. For even now a great cry went up from the fortress, and a large force of Spaniards who had effected a landing far to the south surrounded it on every side. They had come through the southern gate, by which Eleanor long ago had gone in search of herbs for Virginia.
The fort became like a thing alive. From its ramparts a volley of musket-balls rained on the steel headpieces below, while from every aperture long streaks of flame shot out venomously, and in the middle of every streak a ball.
The defenders, under Dyonis Harvie, were offering a brave resistance. The Spaniards hung back behind a natural breastwork of hillocks.
But suddenly a small man, unnoticed, crept close to the fort’s rear and from one side surveyed the muzzle of a culverin inquisitively. The gun roared, and then, quick as thought, before it could be recharged, the watcher whistled thrice. Instantly the aggressors sprang up from their cover and assaulted the rear entrance.
But the man who had first crept forward was not content with open onslaught.
In a few minutes the entire rear wall of the fort was enveloped in flames that curled up over the ramparts, and Simon Ferdinando, the incendiary, was groping in a subterranean vault. “Make haste,” said a boyishly excited voice. “I am here,” and in a moment Frazer, having been liberated by Simon, had entered the main armory.
The fortress no longer belonged to England.
Frazer glanced about the mess-room with a quick, searching scrutiny. It was half filled with a coarse crew of his own arquebusiers, who, bridling their ribald tongues half mockingly as he entered, awaited his commands. A number of women were cowering in one corner. Before them lay the last of their immediate defenders, lifeless or mortally wounded, Dyonis Harvie prone in the foremost line, his wife, on her knees beside him, imploring him to live.
As Frazer looked at the women he bowed to two, about whom the others were gathered in despair. “The king is come, Mistress Dare, according as he promised years ago. He claims his queen.”
He turned to the soldiers. “Bear these two to the hovel in which Vytal lived. Do with the others as you will. The town is ours.”