Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [50]
“We must land at Salinas Bay for livestock and salt,” said the captain, bursting from his cabin. “Or we will reach Roanoke without enough supplies to survive for long.”
Fernandes was at his heels. “At this time of year, the currents, the reefs! It is too great a risk to the ship.”
“This time of year,” said White, whirling around and stabbing his finger at the pilot’s nose, “you prefer to be on the high seas, for your own profit. But if you hasten this voyage and thus endanger my colonists, you will have Ralegh and the queen herself to answer to.”
Fernandes only laughed. “I tell you, we will find these goods in Hispaniola. I have a friend there.”
“I think your friends cannot be trusted,” White said, then strode to the ship’s rail and stood with his hands crossed over his chest.
It dismayed me to see our governor overmastered by his pilot. Our fortunes were dependent upon his. If he failed in his purpose, we would all be lost.
“You must speak to your father,” I said to Eleanor. “Fernandes considers his own interests. He does not care about the success of our colony.”
“I will,” whispered Eleanor. “When he is calmer.”
Soon we were sailing the northern coast of Hispaniola, which appeared like a distant tuft of moss, green and low. The ship did not go ashore as Fernandes promised. White did not order him to land, or if he did, the pilot ignored him. Thus we still lacked salt and livestock, and White remained grim. We encountered no Spanish vessels, and the islands disappeared from view on the sixth of July. Two weeks later, Hatorask, on the outer banks of Virginia, was sighted. Everyone scrambled to the decks, where there was great rejoicing. Eleanor and her husband embraced, the baby in her belly keeping them some distance apart. The hardiest soldiers wiped tears from their eyes.
Our voyage had been brought to a safe end. But our trials were only beginning.
Chapter 19
From the Papers of Sir Walter Ralegh
Memorandum
12 May 1587. The Lion has departed Plymouth and I have had no reply from the Lady Catherine. Perhaps she did not receive my letter? No, it must be that her reply was lost. I see the sodden pages adrift upon the furrowed sea. Alas, I shall never know her mind.
My heart beats with a passionate remorse. If only I had delivered the letter myself! But I was afraid to face her and now am punished for my cowardice.
24 May 1587. I live the dream of every man in England. Who does not desire to behold the virgin queen at the hour of her awakening, all the day long, and in the last moments before sleep? I see her in her shift, her bosom drooping like a withered bloom. I see her scalp beneath her white hair. I watch her grimace, limping on an ulcered leg, and feel compelled to offer her my arm. This is a husband’s intimate office, not mine.
I think I never will marry. Does every man fear to find his ardor cooled by the sight of frailty? By a beauty exposed as stark plainness?
There was nothing false or painted about C.A.’s beauty. Even now I see her lips and cheeks of a natural coral hue, her dark thick hair—all her own. Ah, in years hence it will show strands of silver, and lines will mark her face like tributaries on a map. The thought does not repulse me. Why? Because I will be old as well.
I cannot forget her, though an ocean widens between us. Does she sit in John White’s cabin and take her fill of stories from him, as from a father’s lips? Does she gaze upon the swarthy Fernandes and wish to sail with rovers and adventurers?
It was her lively imagination—so like my own—that I loved in her. And now it has wandered from me, to wonder new thoughts.
And I am, though never alone, lonelier than can be imagined.
Poem
I hope for what I have not,
I would come, but may not.
Of my wounds you care naught,
Because the pain you see not.
13 June 1587. At the banquet for the Dutch ambassador Her Majesty called me her second Sir Philip Sidney. It was the highest praise, for this soldier-poet lately slain in the Netherlands