“We have been so weakened in numbers,” said Ananias, “that there is but one chance left. It is true the Spanish ship has not reappeared, but who shall say that a force far more powerful may not at any time return against us? The Admiral and fly-boat go back, as you know, to England, necessarily in charge of Captain Pomp, who alone is fitted to command them, and of several mariners. This, however, is not enough. Let us all return.”
The governor looked from the face of his son-in-law to the many others, and, with dismay, found only agreement in their expressions. “What mean you?” he asked, helplessly. “Cannot all the planters and chartered officers wait yet longer? Others will come, I doubt not, from England without our seeking. To return as the earlier settlers did will cast discredit not only on us, but upon this great land of which a part is now our country’s.” He paused, seeking vainly for looks of acquiescence.
“Nay, we can return anon,” said Ananias, “with more husbandmen to superintend the raising of our crops; with more soldiers to defend us, and artificers to enlarge our town; with additional supplies, of which we are in so sore a need—” he broke off suddenly, his wife appearing at an open window near the door. The child was in her arms. There was a long silence, but at last the governor spoke again.
“Some must, of a surety, stay. This dominion is a charge not to be forsaken utterly. Who, then, must needs depart?”
Ananias hesitated, seeing the question repeated in Eleanor’s eyes. For a time, as the governor searched their faces, no man gave answer, a few because the plan really pained them, more merely realizing that it would wound another. Moreover, they felt a certain shame born of the prearranged suggestion. At this moment Christopher Marlowe and Roger Prat, having left Vytal in the fortress, joined the group, curious to learn what was going forward.
At length Ananias summoned up his courage. “We must go,” he said, in a voice that strove to hide eagerness beneath a tone suggesting sacrifice. “You and Eleanor, I, and as many others as choose to accompany us.”
The governor’s kindly eyes grew moist. “I go?” he asked, falteringly—“I?” He questioned them with a sorrowful look that embraced the whole gathering; but the men nodded their heads gravely. “Who, then, would remain to govern and foster you? I should be the stigma and laughing-stock of England. Our charter is in my name and in the names of my twelve assistants. Who, I ask you, has the right to become governor in my stead?”
To this the voice of all gave response, with one accord: “John Vytal.”
“Yes,” echoed Ananias, “John Vytal. He is best fitted for it; you for the request at court. Your influence, your—” but he was suddenly interrupted.
A clear, feminine voice spoke from the window, and Eleanor handed her child to Margery Harvie, who stood within the room. “It shall not be! Leave our colony, our home? Leave that which we have bought with so much blood and suffering? Desert our sacred trust? Cancel by cowardice the debt we owe to God and the queen? Oh, my friends, we came not hither for this. I beseech you, I command you, consider, and fling not your honor thus away!” Her eyes were flashing now, their first cold scorn of Ananias lost in love for the people, yet in burning indignation at their unforeseen demand. One hand was on the sill, the other on the casement at her side. Her cheeks, first pale with contempt for the spokesman, were flushed now with deep crimson; her voice was all the more eloquent of its tremor. “Can you not look beyond the present? Can you not see that, as my father says, many more will follow us from England? Sir Walter Raleigh hath promised that new expeditions and increased numbers shall share our home if we succeed. If we succeed! Can there be an ‘if’ before that word ‘succeed’? Was there an ‘if’ in your hearts when you fought against our Spanish foe? Nay, nay, my brothers. Failure must not be within our ken. Have you no care for the great future? Is it no joy to think that by our own efforts a vast nation may build upon the cornerstone we lay? Who knows? Are we not perchance sowing that England and all the world may reap some unimaginable benefit thereby? The land is fair—you know better than I its bounteous offerings and boundless scope—and, being fair, shall we then desecrate it with the smirch of cowardice? Oh, my friends, I pray you reconsider!” Her voice sank lower in the final plea.