Joachim's Magic, page 15
“I am cautious,” panted Joachim, his wild hair flying. “I do not seek the arrow, nor wish it to seek me.”
Together they helped prime the muskets, setting them up for the next round. One young harquebusier reminded Reis of Valentine Beale; he was about twenty-two with a thick thatch of brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked as the boy helped light the wick.
“Reis Courtney.”
“I thought you be his son,” and he nodded in Joachim’s direction.
“He’s my master and I, his apprentice. That be Master Gans, the best mineral man of the Queen.”
“He looks like a wild man,” laughed the soldier, “now back away,” and he aimed and fired the musket. The recoil made him stagger just a little. He peered through the cloud of blue smoke.
“Did you hit anything?”
“‘Course I did. I got one right smack in the head.”
Reis wondered if Pemisapan was already dead, caught in the crossfire of Lane’s men on the surrounding hills. But he had no time to dwell on it for Joachim was pushing him fast toward the protection of the trees.
“Don’t stand out in the open talking like a fool,” admonished his master. “Or shall an arrow seek you out?”
Lane was directing his men to advance upon the camp. Several soldiers volunteered to lead the others. Philip Amadas led one group and Lane the other. A third was called to scout to the left, with Edward Stafford at its command. Several harquebusiers remained behind in case the enemy crept up to catch them unaware. Joachim and Reis rested for a few moments. Nearby, Altschmer and Haring were busy priming some of the muskets.
“Go and assist them,” Joachim ordered. “I will help this man.”
Reis saw that the young harquebusier with the brilliant blue eyes had been wounded in the shoulder. It must have happened just after he’d fired his weapon, for the wound was bleeding profusely.
“Will he be all right?” Reis whispered. The young soldier’s face was pale.
“He will live, if that’s what you mean. But you can be no help here. Go now and see what you can do for the others. And keep your head low.”
The young musket man whose name, Reis learned later, was Will Needles, was propped up against a tree trunk, Joachim deftly removed the arrow head with his knife while Needles bit down on a piece of wood. Blood spurted, then quickly stopped. The shoulder was bound and he staggered to his feet.
“I’m ready,” he smiled wanly. “Bring on them bloody Savages,” and promptly fainted. Joachim propped him up against the tree again.
“He will rest for a while.”
Below them they could hear the cries of the enemy, the yells of soldiers, the “whoosh” of the arrows winging through the air, the sharp retort of the muskets. There were several moments when all was quiet and Reis wondered if the battle was ended and who had won. Master Altschmer came over. Reis saw that his head was bleeding from a scalp wound.
“You’re shot!”
“An arrow came und took a piece of my skin, that ist all. No matter, my head spins but I am still here.”
He made a face.
“Never ist var gut, for ve haf dead und they do, too.”
He pointed and Reis saw several bodies of young soldiers lying on the ground, arrows protruding from them. He wondered how many of Pemisapan’s warriors were also lying on the ground. Then they heard Ralph Lane shout, “Over here. I need some men. Come quickly!”
Without thinking Reis ran in the direction of the cry. Joachim followed, then Altschmer and some of the harquebusiers, including an Irish soldier called Edward Nugent. They saw Sir Ralph pointing into the woods and caught a faint movement.
“Was ist los?” Altschmer called out just as others arrived.
“Pemisapan,” Master Lane said, out of breath. “Just now he ran into the trees. I shot at him and would follow but I’m wounded.”
Reis saw that he had an arrow protruding from his thigh. Hariot strode up to him and said.
“I will pull it out, if you wish.”
“Do it.”
It was impossible to pull the arrow out cleanly for the barbed head tore flesh as it was tugged backwards. Master Lane cried out in anguish but the arrow was soon held aloft by Sir Thomas. They bound cloth around the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“That will have to be cauterized,” Joachim remarked.
“Later,” said Ralph Lane, struggling to stand. “We have unfinished business.”
A volley of shots was heard to the left and several of the soldiers ran to assist. There were only a few of them remaining.
“I’ll go,” said Hariot.
“And I, too,” said Altschmer. Edward Nugent went with them, his musket at the ready. Lane wished them good luck. Reis watched them walk cautiously toward the trees, then disappear into the woods.
“How many Savages are there?” Joachim asked.
“Only Pemisapan and one other that I saw. The rest are either dead or fighting on the far side.”
They waited for a long time. By now, dawn’s red was streaking the sky. Lines of blood snaked their way out from the horizon, with each succeeding minute growing lighter. Later came the gold. It was, Reis thought, a beautiful sunrise if one didn’t think of the dead and the dying. Sir Thomas and the other two had been gone a while. Then Joachim stood up and declared that he, too, would enter the woods to see what was happening.
“If you go, then I will go,” Reis blurted out.
“Nonsense,” snapped Master Lane. “‘Tis no place for a boy.”
“This boy,” said Joachim with his eyes flashing, “heard Greutter’s death cries and he will come with me.”
Lane stared at both of them.
“Hariot and the German are probably dead. I know not about the harquebusier, Nugent. What serves to have you go to your deaths as well?”
Joachim picked up Lane’s musket.
“Help me prime this,” he said to Reis.
Together they loaded powder into the firearm and Reis held the burning wick.
“Are you ready?”
“I am,” Reis said determinedly, wishing he felt as strong as the words he uttered. They began to walk toward the dark trees.
“You can turn back,” Joachim said, at one point stopping to look at Reis, who shook his head.
“You are a foolish boy.”
Reis felt his stomach begin to churn. Perhaps he was foolish, indeed, to follow his master into these dismal woods. Who knew what they would find? Who knew whether Pemisapan was waiting for the very next English to walk into his trap? He swallowed hard and followed his master for he couldn’t let Joachim go alone. Whatever they faced, it would be together. Deep in the woods’ blackest heart, he heard the witches and demons chuckling, clicking their bones against each other as they waited for him.
There was no sunlight, no dawn’s brilliant rays illuminating the darkness. The trees formed a canopy of black over their heads, the branches snapped against each other. He could barely see the shape of his master before him. But he could hear Joachim’s breathing and his own tremulous breaths. The ground was sodden and thus, it was easy to step quietly, making no sound. Reis noticed that few birds trilled in the trees. Were they just waking up themselves?
He carried the lighted wick carefully, shielding its diminutive flame. Joachim would need him quickly if he saw Pemisapan. Where was he? The Savage hiding in the forest, waiting, waiting, made him tremble. No doubt, if caught, the torture would be unbearable.
Joachim stopped so abruptly that Reis almost bumped into him. The mineral man turned with a sharp “shsss,” and Reis didn’t say a word. Something was moving in the trees ahead. Something was coming toward them. Something….
“What is this?” asked Hariot, striding forward out of the dark woods. “Are you come to save us?”
He smiled and behind him came Altschmer, his huge shape lumbering to keep up. Edward Nugent followed a short distance back.
“Ist possible? You vud fight bare-hand?”
Reis glanced down at his own hands, empty save for the lighted wick. Altschmer was right. The only weapon they had between them was the harquebuser, and that was good for one shot at a time. If they missed, or if Pemisapan went down and his companion came lunging from behind a tree, what would Joachim have done? What would he have done? Perhaps he was very foolish. And perhaps his master was equally foolish, with his mind only on prayer and quotes from the Talmud, certainly not on reality. He hung his head and reddened under their gaze.
But Joachim held his head high and stared directly at Master Altschmer. He handed him the musket.
“I knew it was not needed,” he said quietly.
“Ach,” replied the smelter, “ist gut thing.”
Both Hariot and Altschmer bore signs of a violent struggle. Their clothing was ripped and each had wounds. Altschmer’s head was gashed again and one of his eyes puffed and swollen shut. Hariot was clutching his arm, where red splayed out and trickled down to his wrist.
“No mind,” said Hariot, catching their gaze.“’Tis nothing but needs a good bandage and a poultice of Joachim’s medicinal herbs for my arm and my friend here.”
“Perchance a stitch or two,” murmured Joachim.
Just then as Edward Nugent came up, he produced from behind his back the head of the Great Chief, severed at the neck, its eyes still open and staring sightlessly at Reis. The Great Chief Pemisapan swung harmlessly in the young Irish soldier’s hand, blood still oozing.
“What a sight, eh?” he said with a smile and strode past Joachim and Reis, past Hariot, out of the trees and up the slope toward Sir Ralph who was hobbling down, dragging his leg behind him. They turned and followed him. From the deep dark woods behind him, Reis heard the demons and witches from Hell moaning and grumbling their disappointment. Dead bones, or maybe it was just dead branches, rattled and cracked against each other and the wind sighed restlessly.
“Too bad, too bad,” they cried. “But sleep not soundly. Our turn will come, just wait and see. Next time… next time….”
There was much rejoicing in Lane’s camp that night. They had declared an open victory, searched out the lesser chiefs and weroances, rounded up those still alive, along with the women, children and old men. With Hariot translating, they were warned of what would happen again if the English were attacked. Lane’s men ransacked whatever food they could from the remaining unburned storehouses and marched up the hill and down the far side, carrying the bodies of those who’d had the misfortune to be killed. Before they left, however, Master Altschmer walked up to Joachim and handed him something which glistened in the early light of morn.
“This ist for you,” the smelter said, thrusting it into Joachim’s hand. His master stared down at the Magen David. He rubbed the bloodstains off and held it up to the light for all to see. The thick silver amulet of the Jew caught a thin ray of sun and gleamed brightly.
“Ist gut thing, ja?”
Joachim slowly fastened the star around his neck. He brought it up to his lips and kissed the six points of light. Then Sir Thomas Hariot handed him the other gift, the worn and much-used Holy Book of Prayer, also taken from Pemisapan. Reis saw that Joachim’s eyes were shining with tears.
“Master…?” he began.
“Aber nein,” said Altschmer, pulling him away. “He saved my life und yours, now he hast back that vich he sacrificed. Come avay.”
CHAPTER 24
“TELL YOUR MASTER….”
ALTSCHMER’S ONLY REGRET was that they couldn’t find Master Greutter’s body to bury it. He searched the edges of the woods and deep into the trees, hoping he would stumble upon the corpse of his friend. But the scavengers had gotten there first and nothing remained. It was the first and only time Reis saw the big man weep; when he stumbled out of the trees his eyes were red. But he quickly brushed aside any concern and went about his job of helping the others gather up the dead.
Joachim cauterized Ralph Lane’s wound. It was a fearsome thing to see the red hot iron held against the raw flesh and listen to the cries of their leader as he was held down, watching the smoke rising from the blistered edges.
“Damnation, Yougham,” groaned Master Lane and promptly fainted. But it was the only way to prevent infection, Joachim said. Lane came around to find the Jew bandaging his leg. A makeshift stretcher was constructed and though he wanted to walk, he was laid upon it protesting mightily. The wounded were tended to as best they could, several arrow heads pulled, a knife wound closed, even a metal ball dug from someone’s shoulder, accidentally shot by one of their own men in spite of the white shirt tail showing. Altschmer shook his head at the offer of Joachim’s help, then relented and let him cleanse the wound and apply his herbs. The Irish soldier, Edward Nugent, was a hero to them all, having hacked off Pemisapan’s head, placing it on the ground before Master Lane.
“Na creacha an chogaidh,” he gave a hearty laugh. “The spoils of war.”
It took them several days to leave the territory of the Savages and feel confident enough to make camp. For two days and nights they rested while the wounded got stronger. Lane’s decision to bury the dead there was applauded by all. It had been arduous to carry the bodies of their fallen comrades. Graves were dug and each body carefully interred. A wooden cross was placed atop each fresh pile of earth and prayers for their souls were said.
Reis wondered if Joachim would say the prayers that he had recited over Jeremie to bring comfort, but no one asked. Not much had changed, he thought. The weary soldiers stayed by themselves; Haring and Altschmer talked together; Lane, Hariot, Amadas and Stafford further discussed strategies, while Joachim remained alone. He waved Reis away with a careless gesture when the boy ventured near. He slept farthest away from the camp fire and ate by himself. Even after Master Hariot called him over, he shook his head and stayed isolated. Reis couldn’t understand why he chose to remain so apart.
They rested yet another day then continued their journey south. Ralph Lane refused the stretcher and forced himself to walk, though he was stiff and his leg pained him greatly. He and Hariot conferred constantly on their situation and what would happen next. According to Lane, their supplies back at the main camp were dangerously low. The Savages, upon hearing the news of their battle with Pemisapan, had withdrawn and there was no sight of any who inhabited the areas through which they were traveling.
“Ist not gut?” Altschmer asked Sir Thomas. The great astronomer shook his head.
“It is both good and bad. Good that they don’t confront us. Bad that they are now wary to the point that should we need provisions, we will fare badly without their help.”
Reis remembered that when they’d first arrived, some of Manteo’s people had come from their island far to the south with offers of food. And even Pemisapan, while he still called himself Wingina and was friendly toward them, had shown them how to construct the weirs and plant vegetables. Now their food was almost depleted and the Savages showed no inclination to share further. Sir Richard Grenville had left for England in August, promising a speedy return with supplies. Winter crossings were harsh and hazardous. There had been no sign of any ships.
For some strange reason, Reis was eager to see young Hugh Salter. The boy had not been on his mind these many months but with Jeremie’s death, he found himself more alone, wishing for companionship. Joachim had shut him out again; the wall built by the Jew was as high as ever. Hoping to please his master, he tried to anticipate his needs and only succeeded in angering him. Reis thought of Hugh at the southern camp under the harsh tirade of Master Snelling and almost envied him. At least Hugh hadn’t seen what he’d seen, nor heard the cries of a man tortured and begging for mercy. He wondered if Hugh would notice whether he’d changed much. He had changed, he knew it, as surely as the seasons changed from summer to autumn, to winter, to spring. It was not so much physical, though his shirt was tighter and his trousers shorter, but it was in his mind that the changes lay. Life, which had once seemed so simple, was now a complicated matter. Master Greutter’s death hung heavy upon him.
He thought he knew Death well until the Savages dragged the miner off into the trees. Death became even more personal when he saw Jeremie’s thin body lying on the ground, and the bodies of the young soldiers buried in wilderness earth. Death, the eager visitor who rubbed His bony hands together, the specter from the past, now peered over his shoulder and followed his footsteps.
Life was more complicated in other ways, too. Altschmer had become more withdrawn, much like his own master. The two rarely spoke, though they had worked side by side at Pemisapan’s camp. Altschmer had given Joachim the Magen David, whereas he could have left it lying on the blood-soaked earth. Joachim had taken it with a slight nod of his head.
This, and working together at the enemy’s makeshift furnace should have brought them closer somehow, but they were not. If anything, Altschmer kept as far away from Joachim as possible and he, from the smelter. Reis couldn’t understand why.
He liked the smelter more than before, perhaps for his few acts of kindness and for showing the weakness of tears. As for Joachim, for whom his admiration knew no bounds, he emulated him still and wanted to learn more about the mystical Hebrew religion. Joachim was always quoting sayings from the Talmud and each story enforced Reis’s belief that the Jews, far from being Christ killers and drinkers of human blood as history had so painted them, were as one with The Creator and all living things, men of peace and prayer.
‘Perhaps I have become the sieve after all,’ Reis thought, ‘learning what is most important and letting the grains of uselessness wash away.’
It was a poetic image and Reis, never thinking himself a poet by nature or station, was fascinated by the concept.
They reached the main camp within three weeks, for they couldn’t move as fast as they’d have liked. One young soldier, thankfully not Will Needles, died of his wound’s infection along the way and they buried him and marked the grave with yet another cross.
The soldiers and craftsmen left behind crowded around upon their return, questioning about their explorations and learning quickly enough of Pemisapan’s death. A sober Hugh Salter approached Reis and inquired after Jeremie. Reis felt a choking in his throat when he told what had happened. Hugh Salter paled at the news.
