Left in the Wind: A Novel of the Lost Colony: The Roanoke Journal of Emme Merrimoth

By Ed Gray

In 1587, the 118 men, women, and children of the "Lost Colony" were abandoned by their governor on what is now Roanoke Island, North Carolina, and never heard from again. In this fictional journal, Emme Merrimoth—one of the actual colonists of Roanoke—recounts the harrowing journey that brought the colonists to the New World. During the voyage, Emme becomes involved with Governor John White, who reassigns her to his household and then asks her to marry him. With no better prospects and happy to be free of her bland former employers, Emme agrees.Once on Roanoke, the colonist restore the village abandoned by former English settlers and realize, when faced with hostile natives, that they have been misled by White. White plots to return to England to avoid the hardship of the New World, and he and his supporters drive a hard bargain with the colonists: they will send back much-needed supplies from England if they allow White to flee without interference. Faced with little choice, the colonists agree, and are left to fare on their own.Emme, due to a scandalous past, is accused of witchcraft, shunned by the colonists, and enslaved by a nearby tribe. But throughout these dramatic turn of events, Emme commits herself to putting down on paper her every memory of the Lost Colony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pegasus Books
• Release date: May 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781681771748

Book preview

PREFACE

If a tree falls in a park and there is no-one to hand, it is silent and invisible and nameless. And if we were to vanish, there would be no tree at all; any meaning would vanish along with us.

—William Fossett, 1754

The journal you are about to read is a work of fiction. It does not exist, even in the imagined form you find here. On its last page you will discover why.

But first you should know some history. Emme Merrimoth was an actual person, as were the other ninety men, sixteen women, and eleven children of the Lost Colony, left on what is now Roanoke Island, North Carolina, in 1587 and never heard from again. Their names are part of recorded history, but little else is known of them.

They were left behind by their leader, Governor John White, who sailed back to England with several of his assistants and did not return for three years. When he did, the colonists had vanished, leaving behind the ruin of their fortified compound, the letters CRO carved in a tree, and the word CROATOAN carved into one of the posts of the palisade. Croatoan was the name, well known to White and his returning crew, of what is now Hatteras Island, a short sail to the south. But White and his crew did not go to Croatoan after reading its name carved in the ruins of Roanoke by the very people they had come looking for. Instead they sailed away, heading toward Hispaniola and then England, passing within sight of Croatoan but not stopping to see if the English colonists were there.

Why? No one knows. The answer, like the colony itself, is lost to history.

When White sailed away from his still-vibrant colony that first time, he carried with him a document signed by each of the adults he left behind, entreating him to return to England in spite of his own desire to stay at Roanoke, in order to secure relief supplies for the struggling colony. That document, along with other records kept in England, is how we know the names of all the lost colonists, including White’s own granddaughter, Virginia Dare, born to his daughter Eleanor and her husband, Ananias Dare, just nine days before White left the new world.

White finally returned in 1590 with three small ships that he did not command. On August 12, the ships anchored for one night off Croatoan. The next day they sailed north for Roanoke and arrived three days later. There, they saw smoke rising. Assuming they would find the colony still intact, White and several others went ashore, but found only the abandoned colony, those mysterious carved letters, and the remains of White’s own chest of belongings, including his maps and drawings, strewn about and ruined.

After searching Roanoke for several days, the group decided to sail back to Croatoan. A storm arose, driving them offshore to deeper, safer water. But when the storm abated, they didn’t sail back to Croatoan. They simply left. The captains of the three ships chose to leave for the West Indies and then to cross back to England. John White died in England three years later, and no European ever saw any of the lost colonists again.

We know all of this because White kept a journal. It tells his own version of the story—the only version known to history.

Which brings us to this, the Roanoke journal of Emme Merrimoth. Read it for what it is: fiction; a speculation; an imagination of how one colonist—Emme Merrimoth—might have recorded her own version of the story, and what she then did with the journal after she watched from Croatoan as the English ships sailed away, taking her last hope with them.

This is her story. But it’s also a question:

If a story gets told and no one hears it, is it still a story?

Ed Gray

Lyme, New Hampshire

one

Tonight Richard Tomkins has been trying to play his fiddle. More and more he has been doing this, always at night, going alone down the beach to solace himself with unrecognizable music that none of the rest of us can avoid, not even the Indians in their darkened villages across the bay. He never was very good at it and now he seems to be getting worse, making up tuneless sequences of the only notes he knows. But none among us wants him to stop, for the strange new fiddle is the only instrument any of us brought here to the new world, and his playing of it does at least silence the faraway whoops and wails of the natives. Our men say the shouts come from Wanchese’s men, girding for another attack on us, but we Englishwomen think we know better. We think it comes from their women, lamenting so much of what has happened so far, fearing what might happen next.

How long have we been here? I no longer know precisely. Others still watch and mark their calendars, but I am not among them. It is late spring, May or possibly June; that much is plain without having to mark off the accumulation of days that have passed since we came here. And if it is June, then more than a year will have passed since we left our homes and came to the island of Roanoke in this new world—or, as we have all learned by now, to this very old one. It is a world not very different at all from the one we thought we had left forever behind us as we sailed away from Plymouth, each of us looking backward as the Isle of Wight slipped slowly below the horizon, taking with it all we knew of civilization—its comforting rewards, the blinding falsity of its promises.

None of that matters now. None of it has since the day we were left here, abandoned by the very men who had convinced us to come. What story they told upon their return to England, at the end of their despicable flight, none of us expects ever to know, but it could only have been a lie. For it was upon an even bigger falsehood that John White lured us here in the first place. What sort of man could have done such a thing, to his fellow countrymen, to their wives and their children? To his own daughter? And to her daughter, his own newborn granddaughter, born in this new world while he was still with us, while he could hold the infant in his own arms? Even among the savages who have finally turned against us, I have not seen such low character, such a base capitulation to fear and selfishness. Though the governor and his dismal accomplices have left us here to live or die on our own, without even the barest of necessities and surrounded by increasingly hostile Indians, we are, in my opinion, well rid of him and those who fled with him. But I always have been an optimist.

two

I had meant to keep a journal. Truly it had been my firm intention from the very beginning, starting in November of 1586 on the English calendar (by which some of the others still keep track of the days), when John White and his son-in-law, Ananias, had come by carriage from London to Chelmsford, seeking recruits for their new colony in Sir Walter Raleigh’s Virginia. But I haven’t kept the journal. I haven’t even started it. That I have had distractions, that from the beginning of the voyage itself I have found myself more an active participant than the passive observer I expected to be, is no longer important. That voyage is, like so much else now, long gone and far behind. What needs to be done now is the telling of the story of who we are, of what has become of us, and why. And so I have finally begun that journal, recorded here on the few sheaves of paper I hid from the assistants when they came to take my baby and penned with some of the red dye left here by Wanchese and his painted men, when they came after that.

three

Wenefrid Powell came by today to tell me that there is to be a council in two days at midday and I am invited. I said it was brave of her to come here to deliver the message, but she said that her husband, Edward, had ordered her to do it. He waited by their boat while she walked up the beach to my hut. Only the married women are allowed to speak to me, and not all of them are willing to do so. She said that she was afraid at first, but after she had come inside and seen for herself that I was still dressed as an Englishwoman and had not turned into a savage, she felt more at ease. Still, she seemed relieved when I thanked her for the message and told her to tell the others that I would be there. I think she must be among those not fully swayed by the fearful accusations of the others. But those must wait for their natural appearance in this journal, much as I would like to refute them here.

At the council I expect them to ask me many of the same questions they asked before, so I will need to remember everything, even the things I have already forgotten. Tonight, therefore, I will write down as much of it as I can, starting with the voyage from England.

four

The first time most of us heard about the proposed colony in the new world was when Governor John White and his business partners made the rounds of London and the nearby towns, recruiting people to populate it not only with their bodies and souls but with all their worldly possessions, as well. In my case the opportunity came indirectly, through the Tilers and Masons Guild of London, and through Dyonis and Margery Harvey, whom I served as live-in housekeeper. I never even saw John White until the week we departed.

I was twenty-five years old, eleven years past girlhood and enjoying the fruits of my parents’ only legacies to me: rich blond hair, a comely smile, and fullness of body apparently irresistible to the attentions of men, and a cheerful willingness to return the favors. Married at fourteen and already twice widowed by my twentieth birthday, I had lost three babies by then, too, God rest their innocent souls—one to premature birth and the others, a boy and a girl, to fevers in the first year of their lives. After the death of good Thomas Merrimoth, a stonemason and my second husband (God rest him, too), I had not remarried, though not for lack of diligent suitors among the surviving members of his guild. I had instead come to the belated conclusion that my household services were better compensated when done for hire, and that men were considerably more attentive if delivery of my more personal favors was at my option, not theirs.

After making a series of poor selections, passing from the household of one guild member to another and serving as wet nurse, housekeeper, and sometimes both, I finally found an acceptable situation with the Harveys. Both were honorable and fastidious in their personal habits. Margery was moody and aloof, but not demanding in her requirements for my services. Neither, unfortunately, was Dyonis. Quite unlike his fellow guild members, he never so much as made eyes at me even when I tried to let him know I might be receptive, a turn of events that more than once sent me to a mirror to seek out signs of premature aging. But take the good with the less good, I always say. At least their house and garden were easy to keep.

Dyonis had a friend named Ananias Dare in the guild. Ananias was a brick maker and Dyonis a master stonemason. Together they had worked on the repair of St. Osyth Church in Essex County and held each other in high esteem. Ananias, whose wife, Elenora, was Governor White’s daughter, had been named an assistant to the new colony, the second rank behind the governor himself. There were to be only a dozen or so assistants among the 250 colonists, and Ananias wished Dyonis to be named to the same rank. But in order to facilitate that promotion with his father-in-law, Ananias told Dyonis that it would be best for him if Margery were to become with child before we embarked. The governor, he said, had indicated a great desire to increase the population of his colony and an expecting wife would go a great distance toward Dyonis being named assistant. I speak from experience, he added.

Elenora is expecting, then, said Dyonis.

The least I could do, replied Ananias. In the service of the colony, of course.

I was cleaning the Harveys’ kitchen while the two of them discussed the opportunity. I could see my master was deeply uncomfortable discussing such intimate matters in my presence.

Mrs. Merrimoth, he said, please leave us to discuss this matter in private.

Don’t mind me, sir, I said. I’m long past the blushing stage.

As we are both well aware, Mrs. Merrimoth. But please leave the room anyway.

Ananias smiled at me. We certainly knew each other by reputation, and a similar one at that. Prior to settling in with the Harveys, I had been viewed as a bit of prized guild property, and Ananias, a most handsome man, was well known to have sired more than one bastard child among his own housekeepers. I had already declined several of his discreet invitations to meet privately and discuss opportunities.

And of course, he said to Dyonis, with a wink toward me, as an assistant, you will be entitled to bring along a domestic.

I turned away. I had dearly loved my own babies but was in no hurry to have another, thank you very much, and certainly not one from a man already married. Nonetheless, as I left the kitchen I suspected that my future had just been settled.

I was right. By the end of the year, Margery was with child and we were all three enrolled in the colony. In addition to my duties as housekeeper to the new assistant and his lady, I was also to be midwife and wet nurse for the infant when it was born in the new world. I looked forward to that.

The next few months passed quickly as we packed up the Harveys’ household effects, dividing everything according to which things would come with us on the initial voyage and which would be stored for later passage once their new home was established in Virginia. Each colonist family was promised five hundred acres, and assistants would have first choice in the selection. Even I, as an unmarried female, would be entitled to an award of land, should I remarry once settled in the new world.

Finally, in April, we traveled by coach to Plymouth, where we were to board the vessels in which we would cross the ocean to Virginia. It was there that I finally laid eyes upon our leader, Governor John White, a tall and well-shaped man in his mid-forties with pale blue eyes and a well-trimmed beard that showed no gray.

On the afternoon that we arrived in the port city of Plymouth, our governor gathered us colonists into a meeting hall where he introduced us to an Indian from Virginia.

His name was Manteo. He was extremely tall and dressed as an Englishman. His skin was dark but not black like a Moor, more the color of brick maker’s clay, and his eyes were almost jet black, as was his straight hair. He stood a full head above the governor and was by far the tallest man there. What struck me the most, however, was his ability to stand immobile, erect as a stone pillar and just as unmoving, a pose that he seemed able to hold indefinitely. I had not seen anything quite like it. Though he was dressed the same as any of our Englishmen, he was quite plainly another sort of man altogether. After being introduced, Manteo said nothing, just nodded his head and resumed his rigid stance behind the governor.

Three years before our departure for the new world, the men from one of the earlier expeditions had brought two Indians, Manteo and Wanchese, back to England with them. The two Indians learned to speak English, and the next year, they returned to the new world with the colony that preceded ours. Manteo remained friendly to the colonists, but Wanchese turned against them. When that colony failed and the colonists all came back to England, Manteo returned with them; Wanchese did not. By the time John White formed our replacement colony, Manteo, who now spoke fluent English and had adopted all the manners of an Englishman, had become his indispensable partner. In Virginia, he would be our staunchest friend. Wanchese would become our bitterest enemy.

There is much to tell about both Manteo and Wanchese, but if I am to try to write this chronicle in proper sequence, then I must put their stories aside for now. For the truth be known, their stories are now inseparable from my own.

The governor then went on to tell us something of the new world. I learned then that John White was not only governor, but a well-known artist, as well. On his earlier expeditions to the new world, he had painted many of the wild creatures and native peoples he had encountered, and on this day in Plymouth he had brought with him many of those paintings, set out on easels for us to examine. They were quite fascinating, especially his paintings of the Indians in their native costumes—or lack thereof. Most were near to naked and had painted various designs and emblems directly onto the skin of their exposed arms and legs, even the women, all of whom seemed thin and small-breasted, more like young girls than grown women. It occurred to me that this may have been because in every painting of an Englishwoman I had seen, the subject was fully attired in the several layers of garments that we all wore here. On the other hand, were John White to paint my own likeness in the state of undress enjoyed by his Indian women, no viewer would mistake this subject for an unblossomed child.

After we had looked at his paintings and he had taken some time to describe each one, Governor White then subjected all of us to the first of the weekly orations of which we were all to eventually grow weary.

Children, intoned the governor in his deep voice, hear me. We embark together on God’s work, not only to establish a lasting colony in the new world, but to bring Christ’s holy word to the innocent savages who live there. He went on in this vein for almost an hour.

His speech surprised me greatly, for I hadn’t heard any discussion that our new colony might in some way be a religious undertaking. And the good Lord knew my own widowhood was no one’s exemplar of His holy word in action. Truth be told, I was probably more in need of having redemption brought to me than were Manteo’s kith and kin across the ocean, if John White’s innocent likenesses of them were any indication.

After the oration, Governor White released us to begin stowing our possessions aboard the vessels. Though some in our company had been moved by the speech, I had my doubts. Men’s protestations of grand intentions I had heard in some quantity, and long ago I had decided that most were a mask to hide the speaker’s real purpose.

A week later—the first week of May 1587—we departed. As I watched England recede behind us, I knew that I would not grow homesick for London. I had no remaining kin, no others whom I would miss greatly, and some whom I would miss not at all. As I always say, every day is best viewed from the morning with anticipation, not from the evening with regret.

five

It must be nearing midnight as I write. Now the calling of an owl has made me long for the sound of church bells in an English village. I have been trying with some success to suppress such aching desires, but there are nights like this when I simply cannot. Audry Tappan told me just last week—or was it two weeks ago? Or a month? Time is losing its meaning for me—that Joyce Archard doesn’t long for church bells. She actually hears them, quite as plainly as if she were still at home. They come to her, Audry had said, from all the way across the great ocean, calling her to vespers, and it’s all they can do to keep her from walking into the water as she tries to answer