Land of Hope

It had been only fourteen days ago.

Dear God, he thought. How could fourteen days seem like such an eternity. The Colony of Roanoke had still been alive then. Alive and almost flourishing. Full of happiness, determination, faith...and hope.

James’ life had still had meaning then also, on that morning two weeks ago, June 2nd, in the year of Our Lord, 1589, when he had left with friends John Hardy and Thomas Durning to go hunting.

He could still remember the smile on Mary’s face, and the sparkle in little Billy’s eyes, as he had launched the canoe into the clear blue waters of the sound.

Mary had always had that smile on her face. It had seemed to belong there, between the dimpled cheeks, accentuated by the long, dark, flowing hair. It had often helped them both through the long, hard, trying times that were a natural part of a pioneer family’s life, trying to carve a home out of a wilderness when only the unspoken promise to themselves that they could do it had kept them going.

The smile had kept them going also...that, and the spark in little Billy’s eyes.

And now they were gone.

He had felt it. No, he had known it with cruel certainty when, two days later, they had first seen the clouds of black smoke billowing from the direction of the settlement, still miles away across the sound.

The attack must have been quick and ruthless. There had not even been much sign of resistance amidst the bloody, ruined remains of Roanoke Island.

Dennis shivered violently, chilled to the bone. The sight would leave him scarred, forever.

They had found nine survivors, if you could call them survivors. June Donovan and Elizabeth Ashly had hidden with six children in the extra room beyond the school area. They had still been hidden, in various stages of semi-hysteria, when James had found them.

Jacob Skelley had been wounded, partially scalped, and left for dead.

Dennis and his friends had performed the gruesome task of burying the dead. They had then collected what provisions they could find and prepared to leave. There was nothing left for them at Roanoke, and the indians had a way of always returning, as if to admire their work. They had decided to go to a nearby island, Croatoan, for the time being.

The next morning as they had started to depart, Dennis had remembered to row back and leave the agreed upon message of the Colony’s fate for White, their long overdue Governor, to find, when and if he ever returned.

He had begun to carve the message on a tree, but quickly realized that a doorpost was more suitable. CROATOAN, he had started the message. As he had reached to add the cross above the letters, signifying a departure under duress, he had felt a sudden tug at his shoulder, and an instantaneous loud thud as an arrow splintered into the wood beside him.

There had only been one brave, and a young one at that, too eager to test his prowess at hand to hand combat when the first arrow missed.

Two things Dennis had always been, were strong and agile, and as the bitter grief and rage of the previous twenty-four hours came pouring out of him it had taken little time or effort to dispatch his antagonist.

He had known it was only a matter of time before others came looking for the lone brave, if they were not already on their way. He had quickly joined the others, and they had been traveling, almost continuously, ever since, just stopping briefly to care for Skelley and the children whenever need dictated. They had reversed their direction and made for the mainland, figuring Croatoan Island would no longer be safe if the indians knew survivors existed, and were bent on revenging the dead brave.

To Dennis, the days had all seemed to blur together. They had canoed across the sound and up the river, and then set out on foot in a generally southwesterly direction, with no real purpose in mind. The going was easier in that direction, and it was the way Dennis and his companions had just returned from on their hunting trip. It seemed almost as if they were inexplicably drawn in that direction, as if by reflex action, as if by some unknown force.

While they traveled, they had been spurred on by the certain knowledge that the indians could, and would, trail them. They had the uncanny ability to track anything anywhere, even under the most adverse conditions.

The storm clouds had started to gather during the early afternoon and, as it quickly became evident that the storm would be sizable, they had begun looking for some form of shelter. The huge, somewhat rounded and sparsely wooded, mountain of granite which had been steadily rising off the horizon in front of them, seemed the most likely source. John had gone to investigate it and stumbled upon the cave. Now, Dennis wondered vaguely if the indians would still be able to pick up their trail after the rain.

Thomas’s light touch upon his arm roused him from his thoughts.

"The cave seems to go on forever, Dennis," he said. "We followed it quite a distance. If we mark our way as we go we should have no trouble returning whenever we want to."

"Let’s go, then," Dennis responded. "If we block up the entrance to hide the opening, that and the rain may be our only chance to elude the indians."

Dennis realized that the children, and especially, Jacob, could not go on much further. This probably was their only choice.

It took thirty minutes of quick work to effectively fill the opening with small cobbles and boulders and remove all signs of recent occupation from the large chamber behind the opening.

As they exited the chamber, and entered the darker recesses beyond, Dennis instinctively looked back. He could not help wondering. A single question was burning in his mind.

"God," he beseeched silently to himself. "All we asked of You was for a land we could live in, in peace and happiness, without the constant pain of fear and hatred. Was that really asking for so much? Was that really so hard?"

He quickly turned and left...as if afraid to hear an answer.