The New Path

Chapter Five

⋖~A „Friendly” Suggestion~⋗

8th June 1610

The thunder of the port cannons made him jump, he looked up from the wooden floor in his cabin aboard the Sea Venture letting his gaze fall on his travelling companion.

«Damn!» the latter exclaimed, then plunging to retrieve the sheets which, taken by surprise, he had stopped, and which had treacherously spread in an elegant chaos all around the room, «Now it will take a miracle to put them back in order!»
Rolfe watched him silently as he struggled to pick up the pieces of paper, as if enchanted by his quick and expert movements; John had watched him all the way — or at least a good part of it — and, since they had boarded the ship, he hadn't stopped writing not even for a second. He had sat down on the little makeshift cot, grabbed ink and inkwell and as soon as he had noticed his presence, he had begun to slide the quill on the light sheets, fast and precise, with the arrogance of a well-known writer. Moments later, when Rolfe had got up to sort out the few things he had, the enigmatic man had spoken to him, uttering three, single words: «Strachey. William Strachey.»
From that moment, they hadn't talked much. Not that he actually was in the mood for conversation, considering the time spent between annoying discussions with Adams and the constant squabble between George Percy — returned to Jamestown a few days before their departure — and Thomas Gates. Percy claimed that they had to go up the river, Gates suggested instead on trying to return to England, and in the end they had experienced an unpleasant back and forth on the waters of the James River: first they had gone West, then East, towards the ocean. Although he had sincerely begun to appreciate Sir Thomas Gates despite his little ability in making himself be respected, Rolfe didn't feel ready to get back on the water, not with the memories of the incident still vivid in his mind. And yet, he was perfectly aware that, even though he wanted toо, he couldn't stay in Jamestown, not with that awful drought and with the Indians still lurking in the forest — also because, in truth, he would never have survived to his feelings of guilt alone in a dead city.
Perhaps it was also for this reason that, in part, he had put his soul at peace.

He would have returned to England, and he would have lived with his brother Henry for some time — it surely wouldn't bother him, above all since he had moved to London, city for which John held contrasting feelings, but he knew he couldn't choose — and then, after the most difficult period, he would have moved back to Heacham, to his father's old estate. Surely Mrs Jenkins would have liked to see him again after so long. He turned to the cabin door, curious.

«Why did they shoot?» he wondered aloud, thoughtfully. He had begun to avoid the deck of the ship, he didn't feel at ease up there. Yes, they had left the day before and there were way too many tasks to do, but that place still made him think of words, of images he would have preferred to ignore, at least for a while. It was certainly better to escape that overwhelming feeling that crushed his chest, almost cutting off his breath as his sternum, pressed back by that ensemble of contrasting emotions, still seemed warm to him where Sarah had laid her head during the storm. The mere thought made his head spin, and he had to push his pelvis forward to hunch a little, so his pain could go away.

«Uch, they must have seen some Indian,» Strachey commented, still intent on collecting his precious notes, «You know how they do. They see a feather and start screaming like maidens.»
John Rolfe struggled to hold back a laugh at that sentence.

Indeed, Strachey wasn't entirely wrong: after the siege of Jamestown, even a too loud yawn was enough to make the whole ship go nuts, and yet he couldn't blame them. He had lived only the last few drops of the dripping that hunger and fear had been, but the feeling of anxiety and of being constantly in danger had infected him too — considering also the threat that the citizens themselves had become due to starvation. However, there was something in him that prevented him from dreading the Indians completely, and this hidden part of him came back from time to time to bother him in his thoughts. There had always been a slight sense of interest in him, but it had only bloomed the day before.
He had no idea if it had been a hallucination due to the gurgling of his stomach or if his eyes had really seen what was now a clear image in his memory, but, every so often, he thought of her. Of those deep, surprised, lost eyes. Her look, so worried and fearful, had tarnished a part of his beliefs, making him hesitate about what was right; the English, in fact, feared the Indians — thing that he found extremely legitimate after he had discovered what had actually happened to Ratcliffe, who was captured and skinned alive with sharp shells — as much as the Indians feared them, and they were totally unaware of it.