“Either they have discovered the canoes are gone, or they have broken down the palisade; you can rarely tell whether they are sorry or glad,” Mrs. Dare said.
“If it is their canoes,” said Mistress Wilkins, “they will come along the shore for them, and we shall surely be found.”
“Let us still hope and pray,” Mrs. Dare said feebly.
“Hark!” whispered Patience, “I am sure I hear some one coming.” The twigs were cracking and the underbrush breaking. It was not Howe’s decided step either. No, nor was it Howe’s voice that said, “Mrs. Dare, your father left me in his place, to guide and govern his people. As none of them wish me to do either at present, I am sure he would say my duty was with you. Howe says we must go off at once.”
She thanked him as he helped Mistress Wilkins and Patience into one canoe, and herself and the two babies into the other.
“The tide runs directly to Croatoan, so we can float most of the way without paddling,” Gage said, as the canoes, fastened together, floated quietly away from the shore into the stillness and darkness of night.
Howe, after leaving the little party on the shore, went back to the palisade; he found the men fighting like true Englishmen, but he managed to explain to Gage the condition of the women; and then, after seeing him safely off, he went to work with a will: every one was needed.
The palisade was fast giving away, several large holes were plainly to be seen; the Indians were fighting with all the power of their wild, savage nature. If they once got through the palisade, every white man must die; then he thought of the women and children, and wondered if Manteo would receive them kindly, or if he would resent Ranteo’s treatment. As he fought and tried to encourage the men, his thoughts ran on quickly. He thought of the future, and Governor White’s return; who would tell him where to find what was left of the little colony? surely the three letters on the tree over the little bay would not. He slipped down from his place, having just thrown over his adversary whom he was fighting with hand to hand. Opening his pocket-knife, he found a large tree that would be easily seen, stripped the bark off about five feet from the ground, and on the smooth surface he carved in clear, old English characters, Croatoan. He had just finished the “n,” when a sudden pain made him lose his hold on the branch. He tried to raise himself to put the cross over the word, as the governor had said to do if in danger or distress, but he could not move. He could only lie there listening to the cries and war-whoops, and now and then a groan from a dying or wounded man. Above all, he could hear the sad call of the night heron; he could see that the Indians had broken away the palisade and were rushing in. How many seconds before they would find him, he wondered. The vision of a gray stone church across the sea came before him, where he had learned from his very babyhood the truths and lessons which had made him a blessing and a credit to his country, and enabled him to lie there now facing death without a fear. He thought of the dear old face of his rector, remembered his last words at parting, and the promise of his prayers. “Such prayers must be heard on high,” he muttered. “I have forgotten many of his holy teachings, but the dear Lord will be merciful and forgiving. He will, he will.”
An Indian was coming very near; but what was that cry? It came from the Indians that were outside the palisade. Those who had forced their way in seemed to be retreating. He longed to ask, but there was no one near enough. Presently all became still, except for the low, sad wail that came from the outside. The white men were evidently astonished, but were taking advantage of the lull to patch up the palisade.
Presently a man came near, and asked, “Who are you?” Howe answered, asking at the same time, “What has stopped the fight?”