‹ Prequel: A Good Run
Status: 2 of 7 volumes. Active.
The White Doe
Fifteen
August 18, 1590.
It had been with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation that John White had finally returned to Roanoke. The trip, as seemingly every sea voyage he had undertaken with regard to the colony, had been wretched and fraught with near disaster. He had fought steadily for permission to bring ships back to Virginia and after three long years, he was fhnally honoring his promise to return.
The day before yesterday, they had wasted precious time exploring a fire on the mainland, which had turned out to have been sparked by lightning, not by man. Yesterday, the expedition had gotten off to a very late start and the weather had been horrible. The violent waves nearly sank White's small vessel and though there was no loss of life abroad, food, furniture and gunpowder were swept overboard.
Captain Spicer's vessel fared more tragically. Seven men, including the captain himself and the surgeon who had come to join the colony, drowned.
It had taken every ounce of persuation White possessed to entice the disheartened men to put ashore.
They headed for a second fire. They called aloud, sang English songs and blew trumpets.
Nothing.
They had been duped a second time by nature into thinking the fire man-made.
Finally, the party came to the site where the colony had been. On the beach was a tree that bore the letters CRO.
White smiled to himself. 'They remembered.' Then the smile faded. 'Why was the word not completed?'
As they made for the fort White's eager footsteps slowed. All the houses had been taken down and there were charred remains of what had once had been a wooden palisade.
Again, there was something carved on one of the remaining posts: CROATOAN.
He felt a wave of relief. There was no cross, no sign that they had left for any reason other than their own free will.
The Slayer was safe.
Further exploration located White's personal item, buried but since dug up and their contents ruined. His books were torn from the covers, the maps rotten and spoiled with rain.
"My armor," He sighed, gazing at the once-beautiful breastplate now nearly eaten through with rust. 'Ah, well. If my family is safe with Manteo's people, it is little enough to pay.' Tomorrow, he would see them at Croatoan.
But evening brought more foul weather, such that they barely made it to the Hopewell. The storm raged through the night and into the next day.
While Captain Cocke could make it to Croatoan, landing was near impossible. Cocke made his decision. They would not land at all.
Despite White's pleas and protests, Cocke turned the fleet toward Puerto Rico. Yes, of course, they would return in the spring, he assured White. But even as he looked on Cocke's face, White knew the truth and it was a bitter draft.
He could and would, continue to try to get a relief fleet to the colonists. But in his heart, he knew that, despite his efforts, he would never see his family again.
It had been with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation that John White had finally returned to Roanoke. The trip, as seemingly every sea voyage he had undertaken with regard to the colony, had been wretched and fraught with near disaster. He had fought steadily for permission to bring ships back to Virginia and after three long years, he was fhnally honoring his promise to return.
The day before yesterday, they had wasted precious time exploring a fire on the mainland, which had turned out to have been sparked by lightning, not by man. Yesterday, the expedition had gotten off to a very late start and the weather had been horrible. The violent waves nearly sank White's small vessel and though there was no loss of life abroad, food, furniture and gunpowder were swept overboard.
Captain Spicer's vessel fared more tragically. Seven men, including the captain himself and the surgeon who had come to join the colony, drowned.
It had taken every ounce of persuation White possessed to entice the disheartened men to put ashore.
They headed for a second fire. They called aloud, sang English songs and blew trumpets.
Nothing.
They had been duped a second time by nature into thinking the fire man-made.
Finally, the party came to the site where the colony had been. On the beach was a tree that bore the letters CRO.
White smiled to himself. 'They remembered.' Then the smile faded. 'Why was the word not completed?'
As they made for the fort White's eager footsteps slowed. All the houses had been taken down and there were charred remains of what had once had been a wooden palisade.
Again, there was something carved on one of the remaining posts: CROATOAN.
He felt a wave of relief. There was no cross, no sign that they had left for any reason other than their own free will.
The Slayer was safe.
Further exploration located White's personal item, buried but since dug up and their contents ruined. His books were torn from the covers, the maps rotten and spoiled with rain.
"My armor," He sighed, gazing at the once-beautiful breastplate now nearly eaten through with rust. 'Ah, well. If my family is safe with Manteo's people, it is little enough to pay.' Tomorrow, he would see them at Croatoan.
But evening brought more foul weather, such that they barely made it to the Hopewell. The storm raged through the night and into the next day.
While Captain Cocke could make it to Croatoan, landing was near impossible. Cocke made his decision. They would not land at all.
Despite White's pleas and protests, Cocke turned the fleet toward Puerto Rico. Yes, of course, they would return in the spring, he assured White. But even as he looked on Cocke's face, White knew the truth and it was a bitter draft.
He could and would, continue to try to get a relief fleet to the colonists. But in his heart, he knew that, despite his efforts, he would never see his family again.