Virginia Dare: A Romance of the Sixteenth Century

by E. A. B. Shackleford

But Mrs. Dare’s answer silenced her. “If either of the children is making noise enough to endanger you all, we ought not to remain together. I will keep behind till you are all safe.”

Mistress Wilkins was just behind, carrying little Martin Harvey. He was a stout child, really too heavy a load for the poor old woman, yet she had energy enough left to turn savagely on the first speaker. “You ought to be a heathen savage with a red skin,” she said, “to talk of leaving a poor motherless baby alone in the woods for the wild beasts. I wonder the Lord don’t send some of them out to tear you to pieces. You are no Christian woman.”

On, on they went, groping their way through the darkness, often stumbling, sometimes falling, but keeping on bravely, carrying the children, and helping the more frightened ones. Suddenly they came to a clearing, and before them stretched the great ocean. They all gathered close together under the old trees that shaded even the very edge of the bank. Then Howe told them he must leave them while he went to bring the boats. Most of the women began to cry, saying they surely would be killed without a man to protect them, until Eleanor Dare said, in her quiet, decided way, “Go, Howe, we are quite safe here among the trees and bushes. The great danger will be when we are on the water.”

“You had better not talk, or even move; and be sure you do not answer any call, or speak to any one, until the signal of a low whistle is given,” Howe said warningly, as he disappeared into the forest.

It seemed a century since he left them; it was in fact only about thirty minutes before they heard his whistle, and he appeared carrying an end of one of the boats. Harvey was carrying the other end, and behind them came two men carrying another. Hopeful Kent was one, and he was grumbling about the weight.

The boats were soon launched, the women were getting in, Howe was lifting in the little ones, when suddenly Hopeful Kent sprang into the nearest boat and pushed it from the shore. “What are you doing?” cried a dozen voices. He only pushed the harder, muttering, “I hear the red scoundrels coming.” He was mistaken, however: no one came, but they could not persuade him to come back. He said he had as big a load as he was going to row, and was soon out of sight.

“I dare not put another one in,” Harvey said to Howe, as the small boat dipped to the water’s edge. Mrs. Dare, who had refused to get in till all were settled, still stood holding the two babies, and by her Patience and Mistress Wilkins. Howe looked at them helplessly for a moment, then suddenly exclaimed, “I have an idea, Harvey! you and Thompson see this boat safely to Croatoan. Tell them Mrs. Dare is coming, and that it will be all right. If we do not come, you had better come back and take the rest of the men. I am going to try to steal two of the canoes, if I am seen and caught, they will have to wait for you; be sure you come back.” The two men clasped hands for a moment, and the boat slipped silently over the still water. Howe told Mrs. Dare his plan; leaving his hat, shoes, and whatever else he did not need, he scrambled along the bank just over the water. Very soon he could see the palisade, and the torch-light showed the Indians’ ugly faces. He remembered Governor White’s directions about the name of the place they should remove to, and as he reached the edge of the little bay, he drew himself up to a tree, and taking out his knife began to carve the word Cro-ato-an; but only three letters were done when he noticed a commotion among the Indians, and fearing to be seen, he slipped down into the water. It was strange that the Indians had left the canoes unguarded, but they looked upon the pale-faces as a stupid race, and they felt so sure that they were all enclosed behind the palisade, they had left only one man to watch the boats. He was more interested in the fight than in his duty, and hearing the unusual commotion which was caused by a small portion of the palisade giving way, he had gone up the bank to see how things were going on, thus leaving the canoes unguarded, ready for Howe to take his choice. Howe swam across the little bay; reaching a small tree, he drew himself up by it, and lying flat on the ground pulled one of the light canoes towards him, and pushed it into the water without a sound. Then came the thought, if all the canoes were in the water their owners could not possibly pursue save by land. It required only strength and caution, both of which Howe possessed. Steadily he drew down first one and then another, till all but one canoe, and the two largest and lightest, which he had decided to take for Mrs. Dare, were floating away silently on the smooth water; then he carefully brought to the water his chosen two; the other lay among dry leaves on the bank, and he decided not to run the risk of its rustling betraying him. Fastening the two together, he stepped into one, and let the tide carry him far out before he used the paddle; no one had seen him, or heard a sound. The Indians always believed and declared that their canoes had been floated away by the water spirit, who was angry with them, but spared their medicine-man’s canoe, which was the one that lay among the leaves. Howe was pretty well worn out when he reached the sheltered spot where the anxious watchers waited for him. He told them of his adventure, and that he felt very sure the palisade could hold out only a little while longer, and that he was too worn out to paddle them to Croatoan, but if they would wait only a few minutes more, he would go to the palisade and send some one to them.

“And you, Howe,” Mrs. Dare asked, “what will become of you?”

“The men will soon need a place to hide or retreat to, then I will bring them here. Thompson and Harvey will come back for us.” He had hardly finished speaking before he was gone, and they sat quietly waiting.

Who would come, and when? The moments rolled on like hours. The night wind sighed in the pines till it seemed like a human moan. A great cry suddenly pierced the stillness; it was from the Indians, and yet it was not their war-whoop, rather a mournful cry. It sounded again and again, and then died away.