CHAPTER XVIII
“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.