CHAPTER VI.

“Many are pains of life, I need not stay to count them; there is no one but hath felt some of them, though unequally they fall.”—Ugo Bassi’s Sermon.

Scarcely ten minutes had passed before the group of women and children stood by a little opening which Howe had made in the palisade, through which they were to escape into the forest. Howe stepped out first. Why should the leaves rustle so? He fancied he heard a noise near. An arrow might pierce him in a second, or one of those frightful yells might announce their discovery.

But no arrow came, and one by one the little procession filed out behind him into the dark forest. It was by no means easy work to keep on. The underbrush crackled and scratched the children’s hands and feet until they cried and had to be hushed. Only the baby Elizabeth would not be silenced, though Mrs. Dare did all she could to soothe her.

“They will certainly hear her and find us. We’ll be all scalped if you carry her any farther,” said one of the women.

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.

“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?”

“That’s more than we can tell,” was the reply. “It’s something on the shore, though; something makes them think their gods are angry, for they have stopped fighting, and are offering gifts and dancing dances to one of their spirits. It is a good thing for us, anyway.”

“Put any of the Indians that have been wounded or killed outside, then come back to me,” said Howe, “and I will tell you something.”

After half an hour the man came back, and three others with him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Howe, “it’s an arrow just above my shoulder, I think, but it is broken off.”

The men could feel the end of the arrow, and with great difficulty, and causing him much pain, they drew it out.

“How are our men?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.

“It’s hard to tell exactly, but they’re mostly all wounded more or less, and there are thirteen killed,” was the answer.

“We must not stay here: we cannot tell what those savages will do next; but first, we must hide Governor White’s boxes,” said Howe.

There was a little silence, then one of the men said, “We might as well tell you the worst, you have got to come to it. We’re all sorry, but it can’t be helped. There wasn’t one among ’em like my old woman, ’Ilda, though the ’eathen dogs have done away with every woman and child we ’ad.”

Howe almost laughed as he replied, “I was the heathen dog. I helped them to go to Croatoan, where we must go as soon as possible. That’s what happened to the Indians in the middle of fighting; they must have suddenly discovered that their canoes were gone, and, I dare say, thought some of their gods had spirited them away.”

“Thank ’eaven, thank ’eaven!” cried the first speaker, falling on his knees. “Thank ’eaven for my ’Ilda!”

They saw that Howe was exhausted, and left him resting on the ground while they went to work. An hour later Governor White’s trunks were buried, and all the little treasures they could carry were packed in bundles, and all was made ready to leave Roanoke.

Howe and Barnes were both too seriously wounded to walk; they were laid on rude biers and carried. The dead men had been buried; others, who were only slightly wounded, walked, though in more or less pain. The way through the forest was a rough one, but their courage kept them up. At last the bank was reached, and in a sheltered hiding-place they found Thomson and Harvey waiting with the largest boat; the other, they said, had not reached Croatoan when they left. They had also several of the floating canoes, which they had captured on their way back. As day dawned, they found all that remained of the English colony on the shores of Croatoan, waiting to see how the chief Manteo would treat them.