Cate of the Lost Colony Read online

  At the top of a sandy cliff I paused and surveyed the empty strand below. The wind gusted, pushing me backward. Out to sea, slanted curtains of rain hung from distant clouds. Beyond the curve of the horizon lay England, only weeks away by ship, but years away in my memory. I tried to remember Sir Walter’s face, but his features blurred in my mind. I could not be certain of the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. What had he said to me in the library while he secretly put the handkerchief in my sleeve? Or the time we met in his garden? I could not remember. Nor could I recall a single line from all the letters and poems he had written to me. They were lost from my mind, as they had been stolen from my chest and used to betray me. The particulars of my past, once so sharp, had grown as hazy as the line where the gray blue sea met the gray blue sky.

  When I closed my eyes what filled my mind were the faces of the people I saw every day. What filled my ears were the shrill cries of seabirds, the burbling of frogs, Virginia’s laughter, and the drone of insects on a summer night. I smelled woodsmoke and bear grease, tasted roasted maize and salty air on my tongue. These were the particulars of my new life. What pleasures they provided—the wind on my bare arms, the warm furs I slept on, the medley of voices speaking English and Algonkian, Manteo’s dark eyes on me! A longing for everything filled me. Or was it the fullness itself I felt, and gratitude for it?

  I whispered a prayer to whatever gods or spirits surrounded me. “Please don’t let me lose what I have or be lost myself.”

  I sensed rather than heard someone nearby. I opened my eyes and turned, expecting to see Sir Walter standing there. But it was not the finely dressed courtier who had thrown his cloak in the mire for the queen to step on. Nor was it the pirate I had seen with John White. No, it was Manteo, watching me from a distance. I knew the stories of Algon and had come to understand that Manteo thought of me as a Moon Maiden he had brought to live with his own people. He felt responsible for me and so he followed me, remaining half a dozen swift strides from my side. I found his presence reassuring. It meant I had nothing to fear.

  I scrambled down the sandy cliff, grasping tufts of grass and shrubs to keep from falling, until I stood on the tide-soaked sand. The gulls cried out to each other, and brown pelicans dipped into the sea and came up with fish flapping in their throats. I waited for Sir Walter to find me.

  It was not long before I caught sight of the pirate, who began running toward me. My first thought was to flee, but remembering Manteo’s nearness I stood fast. As the pirate drew nearer, I saw by his curly brown hair, his sharp nose, and his long, well-shaped legs that it was none other than Sir Walter. If I had wanted to run I could not, for my feet seemed rooted to the shifting ground. He slowed his steps. He was breathing hard. When he was about twenty paces away I held up my hand for him to stop.

  “Lady Catherine!” he said. “I knew you at once. Do you not know me?”

  I nodded without speaking. A flush spread over my face and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  I had dreamed about this moment a hundred times. Now I could not remember a single word I had planned to say.

  “Words are worth so little,” I said, lifting my hand and letting it fall again. “I would be sparing with them.” I thought of all the poems and letters that had passed between us and were now lost and forgotten. What could be said that held any meaning for long?

  Sir Walter’s gaze traveled from my head to my feet.

  “Dark as an Ethiop you are, though more lovely by far,” he said as if he were beginning a poem. “All my senses are offended—yet stirred—by this transformation in you.”

  “I am the one offended,” I said.

  “I don’t mean you, but the others,” he hastened to explain.

  “What of your transformation?” I asked. “Have you turned pirate?”

  He laughed. “I am unchanged. This disguise merely permits me to travel in secret. I am always Sir Walter Ralegh, and you”—he made a gallant gesture with his arm, as if laying down a cloak in the wet sand—“you are always my Lady Catherine.”

  There was a time when I would have rejoiced to hear Sir Walter speak to me so. But to be flattered and called Lady Catherine while I stood barefoot, garbed in deerskins, and so much altered by my experiences did not please me.

  “You do not know me. I am Cate now.”

  He made another attempt. “Well, resume your usual clothing and manner and you will be Lady Catherine again.”

  “This is my usual clothing, and it pleases me,” I said.

  Sir Walter stared at me as if I lacked the capacity of reason. “This cannot be happening,” he said. “I expected my colonists to bring the tenets of civil society and true religion to the savages. I expected to find the natives living like us, not … what I have seen.” Words failed him and he tugged at his beard, becoming distraught. “Manteo—who was made a lord and baptized—has returned to his savage life, and every one of you has regressed to a primitive state. How did this come about?”

  “It is a long story with many chapters,” I said. “I wrote much of it down, for I once hoped it would be published.”

  For a moment his eyes gleamed, then he shook his head. “It cannot be the story Her Majesty expects to hear or one that will bring me fame.”

  “Why did you come here then, if you could not bear the truth?” I said. “If fame is all you seek?”

  “I came for you, Catherine!” he cried out, extending his hands toward me. “The queen realizes she wronged you. I also am at fault for your plight and full of regret.”

  Those, too, were words I had longed to hear. But what meaning did they hold here in Virginia? “Does Elizabeth forgive me?” I asked. “Is she sorry she banished me?”

  Sir Walter beckoned. “Come, and you will hear it from her own lips.”

  I wondered, was the queen aboard his ship? Had she come with Sir Walter to see the New World, to find me? “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “What do these regrets mean now?”

  He replied with patient earnest, “Lady Catherine, I have come to make amends. I am taking you back to England with me. Her Majesty has promised you can be mine at last.”

  Mine at last! Desire for Sir Walter, long buried and almost forgotten, rose up in me again. It had been part of me for so many years, how could it ever go away? And what was to be done with it now? I turned my head to let the wind blow my hair out of my eyes. My thoughts, my hair, everything was tangled.

  A breaking wave rushed onto the shore and over my feet, then receded, pulling the sand from beneath me. I lost my balance and stumbled backward. Sir Walter stepped toward me. It was like a dance where the partners do not touch. At court Sir Walter and I had never danced. So much had been forbidden that would now be permitted. But could either of us truly live or love freely while we served England’s queen? My words and deeds would still be overseen and possibly censured. Again I thought of the letters stolen from my chest, like a heart from a body. Though I had forgotten what was in them, I now recalled clearly what had been missing.

  “Sir Walter, you never once said to me ‘I love you.’ ”

  His eyes widened. Light brown they were; I had forgotten. They flickered away from mine for an instant, then returned. “But of course I do! Even as you are now, despite everything,” he protested. “Haven’t I come for you at last?”

  I felt my eyes fill up with tears. They rolled down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. They were salty like the enormous, endless sea.

  Through the blur I saw Sir Walter take something from his pocket. It was a handkerchief edged with lace, once white but now worn and stained. At once I recognized that token of such conflicted sentiment.

  “Let me wipe your tears, my dear,” he said.

  I stood perfectly still while he came to within an arm’s length of me. His face was dark and lined from the sun. In place of his usual pearl, he wore a wide silver ring in one ear. The faint but familiar scent of civet tickled my nose. He
reached out with the handkerchief and wiped my left cheek, then my right. With his thumb he wiped another tear from my chin. The fingers seemed those of a well-meaning stranger, and their touch did not stir me. I turned my head aside.

  “Now live with me and be my love,” he said softly.

  These words were still no pledge of love. I heard a sweetly phrased demand that would tempt many a maid. But it did not move me. If Sir Walter had declared “I love you” on his knees and produced a priest to marry us, it would not have made a difference now. For I had made my decision, not on the spur of that moment, but over the course of many long months.

  Taking a deep breath, I looked into his eyes. “I will not come and live with you, Sir Walter, for I do not love you.”

  He froze. On his face was a look of pure astonishment, as if a deer or a bird had suddenly spoken to him. Slowly he withdrew his hand and dropped the handkerchief. It fell to the sand and neither of us stooped to pick it up.

  “And so, farewell,” I said with a faint smile, beginning to walk backward and away from him. The sand was wet but firm beneath my feet.

  “But I love you, Lady Catherine!”

  At last he had said it. Spoken out of sorrow, it was a forgiveable lie.

  I shook my head, still backing away. “No, Sir Walter, you do not love me. You love your queen.” I had to shout to raise my small voice over the crying of gulls and the crash of waves. “You love favor, wealth, and glory. May they be yours! You love success.”

  “And you—,” he cried, something between a protest and a question.

  “And I?” My next words spilled out without a moment’s forethought. “I love Manteo!”

  I clapped my hands over my mouth, then threw my arms open. “I love you, Manteo!” I cried again, laughing to hear those words dancing in the air. This was the truth I sought. I turned and began to run just out of reach of the waves, until I came to the base of the sandy cliff.

  Manteo had always taken the hero’s way, regardless of its dangers. Had he not crossed the sea four times? Borne the hatred and distrust of colonists and Indians alike, yet sought to reconcile them because he promised friendship to the English? Sir Walter had let others chance their lives and fortunes for his colony, while Manteo let himself be taken captive and risked his life to free us. And when we were perishing for lack of the aid Sir Walter promised, Manteo offered refuge. The pieces fell together in my mind like a broken pot mended. I saw how many of Manteo’s actions were motivated by his regard for me. I realized his demeanor toward me signified a love not accustomed to poetic phrases and outward passion. I decided I would be Manteo’s, if he would have me. But I would not be like the Moon Maiden, hungering for a lost homeland. Not a minute longer.

  The roaring sea and far-off England lay behind me. I had a new home now. It was not paradise, but it was more interesting by far. I thought about our first mother, Eve, sent from Eden for eating an apple, her eyes opened to suffering but also knowing hope. Beyond Croatoan lay an unknown continent, wide as an ocean itself and surely full of unimaginable wonders. The sun crossed it every day in its journey from east to west. How much of it might I see in the rest of my life?

  I climbed the cliff, unhindered by the sands shifting beneath my feet, fairly leaping with sudden strength. Before I reached the top, he was there with his hand outstretched. Manteo! The wind blew his hair back from his forehead, and his whole face, even his black eyes, were lit up by a smile. I grasped his hand with both of mine, and he pulled me to him. We tumbled backward onto the sand and lay beside each other.

  “I love you, too, Ladi-cate,” he said.

  I touched my fingers to his lips as I had longed to do since the night we danced together. They were smooth and warm and still parted in a smile. Gently Manteo kissed my fingers, then nudged them aside and with his hands tangled in my hair, brought me close and pressed his lips to mine. Mine at last. All my insides stirred and shivered, and I felt I would faint with happiness. Manteo tasted like salt, like tears, like the sea, like the very air that sustained my life.

  In him I was lost; in him I found myself.

  Epilogue

  From the Papers of Sir Walter Ralegh

  The Conclusion of the Narrative of a Voyage to Virginia

  Returning to the Croatoan village, I informed John White I had found the Lady Catherine in a primitive state, not amenable to reason. We departed from the island that evening.

  How appalling it was to see my countrymen living like savages! How humiliating to be refused and rebuked by one who has so forgotten her own nature that she fancies herself in love with Manteo. For his part, White bore his griefs like one of the ancients, satisfied merely to know the fate of his colonists, shameful though it was.

  When we returned to the ship, I told the captain we had found no Englishmen on the island and no sign of their recent habitation. I decided we would give the same report to the queen, reasoning that because the colonists would not return to England, they should be considered as lost.

  “They do not wish to be found. That is not the same as being lost,” White said. He maintained Her Majesty would want to know the fate of her colonists; that was the reason she permitted the voyage.

  “How, then, will I explain why they were not brought to justice for abandoning Fort Ralegh?” I asked. “She will hold me accountable and send me back to hang them all. No, I will give no one cause to seek them. I am done with this Virginia enterprise.”

  Finally White agreed that to save ourselves and his colonists further trouble, we would say we found no English settlers on the island. Moreover, due to the loss of the anchor, we could not risk a further search of the mainland or sail for Chesapeake.

  Alas, Lady Catherine is right: I love success and hate my failures. It is bad enough there is no city of Ralegh to boast of. I will not have Her Majesty discover that her subjects have chosen to live like heathens under a foreign queen. No one must ever know that she whom I sought as my reward has rejected me for a tawny-skinned Indian. This would make me the laughingstock of all England.

  If I had gone to Virginia at the very outset and ruled the colonists myself, would my city now be flourishing? Or would my decisions have brought more suffering and a worse fate for everyone?

  If I had said “I love you” to Lady Catherine even once, would she have consented to be mine?

  Vain are all regrets, for they change not the truth: I have lost what I most desired to possess.

  Hopewell. The very name of this ship mocks me.

  On the 24th of August we made our rendezvous with the Moonlight and El Buen Jesus by the inlet south of Croatoan Island. Thereafter the weather turned foul, forcing us to alter course for the Azores. On the 19th of September we came upon several of the queen’s ships and private men-of-war. Capt. Cooke lingered, hoping to waylay the Spanish fleet. I had no heart for prize taking, so I was not dismayed when we missed the fleet. Cooke resumed course for England, and without further misadventure we came safely to Plymouth harbor on the 24th of October.

  I have had enough of the sea, and I forswear love. For now. My papers from this voyage, the evidence of my failure, must be destroyed. Shall I throw them into the sea or burn them and commit the ashes of my ambition to the cold ground?

  Alas, I am brought low, but not quite to despair. For there are willing maids galore, and new rumors of gold in far Guiana. And there is always England, and my queen, and poetry.

  Poem

  Sir W. R. to himself:

  Away my thoughts; give no more rein to mem’ry;

  Be silent, voice of woe and sorrow’s sound!

  Complaints cure not, and tears do but allay

  Griefs for a time, which after more abound.

  Cate’s gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair!

  Sorrow draws naught, where love draws not too.

  Woe’s cries sound nothing in her closed ear.

  Do then by leaving, what loving cannot do.

  Behold her standing on that distant stran
d

  My thoughts, and nobler mercy take your part;

  Sorrow, complaints, griefs—thee I reprimand:

  Mar not what true love seeks: her content heart.

  Author’s Note

  The fate of the 117 men, women, and children who landed on Roanoke Island in 1587 is perhaps the greatest unsolved mystery in American history. Before Plymouth, before Jamestown, was Roanoke Island, now known as the “Lost Colony.” It takes up a few paragraphs in history books, but stays in the imagination long after school lets out. Stories about the struggle to survive in a hostile and unfamiliar wilderness deeply appeal to us, a nation of immigrants and pioneers. Witness the popularity of shows like Lost and Survivor. The Roanoke colony was our first reality show. But it was real. And no one knows what happened to its inhabitants.

  Cate of the Lost Colony is fiction intertwined with history. With a few exceptions I follow the historical record, as far as it goes. No records survive from the colony itself. The voyages of 1584, 1585, 1587, and 1590 are extensively chronicled, and there is even a list of those who made the voyage in 1587. All my characters who go to Virginia are given the names of actual colonists, but their backgrounds are wholly invented. My protagonist is an exception, for Elizabeth never had a maid named Catherine Archer, nor did any of the colonists bear that name.

  If you like your history to come alive, visit Roanoke Island, which is now part of North Carolina. There you can see a performance of an outdoor pageant, The Lost Colony, written by Paul Green in 1937. It sacrifices historical nuance for high drama but is still fun. Go to Festival Park and see the replica of the sixteenth-century ship and the settlement site. There I met Dr. Jack Jones, in the role of Darby the Irish seaman, and Lindsay Kitchen, who answered all my questions and gave me new ones to pursue. Sarah Downing and Tama Creef of the Outer Banks History Center pulled books off their shelves I couldn’t find anywhere else. Alicia McGraw of the National Park Service, whom I found with Oberg’s book in her hands, was a fount of information about Fort Raleigh. And closer to home, Clare Simmons helped me get titles and forms of address right. Archaeologist Paul Gardner shared his knowledge of native culture and helped me to think about the practical details of life on Roanoke Island. A visit to Jamestown is also a must, for its Powhatan village, the museum, and especially the ships; the Susan Constant is the same size as the Lion that bore my Catherine to Roanoke Island. No wonder everyone was seasick!