The Captive Princess Read online

  Pocahontas slowed down. The reality of what she did had only just begun to sink in.

  “And even though you didn’t get killed, you had to face our father. That’s worse.” Matachanna never asked the obvious question—Why?

  “I know. I acted on impulse. I didn’t have time to think about all that.” Pocahontas didn’t know how to put into words why she acted. Her people’s god, Okeus, never spoke. She couldn’t remember one time that someone claimed to have heard from or even had a thought from Okeus. No, Okeus did things to them—gave them sun, withheld rain, caused the sturgeon to thrive, took someone’s baby in death. He certainly didn’t speak to her people in their spirits. Not even to the medicine man.

  No, this Spirit, Gitchee Manitou, the Great Spirit, was different from Okeus. She knew it. She wanted to listen for His voice again.

  “You are my older sister, the favorite of our great father, and I am supposed to serve you and respect you. But Pocahontas, you mustn’t be so heedless.” A catch in Matachanna’s voice gave away the depth of her concern. “I cannot imagine what I would do without you.”

  Pocahontas stopped and hugged this little sister. “Nor I you.” She put her playful face back. “So what are the people saying?”

  Matachanna laughed. “You would think about that, wouldn’t you?” They walked a little farther. Once the sun went down the air grew cold. On a night like tonight with the wind blowing, it felt colder than when it snowed. “If you must know, some are beginning to craft stories and songs about your bravery.”

  Pocahontas laughed. “And the others?”

  “I’m not going to say.”

  Pocahontas knew what Matachanna didn’t want to say. Some resented her position with her father and hated any interference. Others resisted change of any kind. They saw the English arrival on their shores as a dangerous threat to the Powhatan world. They probably would have seen the killing of John Smith as a useful warning to the tassantassuk.

  That night, as the girls crawled under their blankets and furs, Matachanna asked, “So now that you saved him, what are you going to do with him?”

  “He becomes our brother now. I will go to him tomorrow morning and learn everything I can about him and his people.”

  Matachanna laughed. “You are going to treat him just like Nantaquaus, aren’t you? You are going to bombard him with questions until he wishes he had been clubbed to death and put out of his misery.”

  Pocahontas woke long before dawn. She lay quietly so as not to wake her sister. She could watch her breath, even inside the lodge, snuggled next to Matachanna. How she wished she could tell if snow were coming like Powhatan could. She listened to the morning sounds. The rustling in the village always started early with the mothers building the fires and making their way to the river for water. She usually smelled corn cooking as she woke. This morning she woke before the mothers.

  She slipped out of her covers and put on her furs to walk out toward the marshes where she could find a bit of privacy. How she envied the English their little hut—didn’t they call it a privy?

  By the time she washed in the icy water and headed back toward the lodge, Matachanna’s mother was stirring the pot.

  “Will you take food to the captive when it has finished cooking?”

  “The captive? You mean John Smith?”

  “How many captives do we have in this village, little one?” The mother smiled at her. “I remember. When Nokomias came we had this same talk. You do not like the idea of captives.”

  “But he’s not a captive. He is an ally, now.”

  “We shall see what your father does before we know what to call the tassantassa.”

  Pocahontas helped put the food in a basket and carried it over to the lodge where they had put John Smith. As she got closer she saw him sitting outside.

  “So it is the princess,” he said, bowing his head.

  She was not familiar with this gesture.

  “I owe my life to you.” He patted his hand against his heart. She did know what that meant—it meant friend.

  She patted her own chest. “Are you well?”

  “Yes. I am well.”

  Pocahontas wished she could really talk to this man she felt she knew. She handed him the food and sat down nearby. “I watched you.”

  “Last night?” He looked puzzled. “While I slept?”

  She smiled for the first time. “No. I watched you at your village. My brother Nantaquaus and I came often to watch your people.”

  Now it was his turn to smile. “I thought you looked familiar. I think I saw you in the tall grass a time or two.” He used the oyster shell to scrape the last bits of corn out of the bowl. “What did you see?”

  She got up to take the gourd from him, leaving him the basket of berries. “I saw many strange things. I saw no women. Who does your work? Who plants food? Who gets water? Who cooks?”

  “We have no women with us, so we must do all those things.”

  “Why do you cut trees and slice them into boards and put them on your quintans—your ship?”

  John Smith seemed to hesitate, rubbing his hand along the hair on his face.

  “You may tell me truth,” Pocahontas said with a smile, “instead of the stories you told my father about the Espaniuks and repairs.”

  John Smith laughed. “You are nothing if not direct, are you not? And how will I know that you won’t carry every story I tell to your father?”

  “You ask just as many questions as me.” She almost turned a somersault. Had she not been bundled in fur she would have. It always made talking easier when she moved. “Have I told my father all the things I observed at your village? No.”

  “I want to learn more about your people, and I sense that you want to learn more about my people.” He patted the ground beside him, signaling to her to sit down.

  She sat, putting her hands one over the other signaling that she waited.

  “I will tell you true and you must pledge to tell me true.” He also sat silently while he waited for her answer.

  “I observed you at your village. I know you are a wise man. You work even when others are idle. When you thought you were to die, you stayed silent; you did not beg for mercy.” She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I pledge.”

  “Then we are friends.” He repeated the word in English.

  “Friends.” She said the English word slowly and put her hand against her chest.

  The captors had not tethered John Smith, so he stood and stretched his legs. “It appears I’m free to move about the village. Will you go with me for a walk?”

  “Yes. I told my father, the great Powhatan, I would learn about your people and you will learn about my people. We’ll walk.” She scooped up the gourd and basket and they took those to the cooking pit outside her sleeping lodge.

  As she showed him some of her favorite places in the village, a group of boys and dogs began to follow. One boy reached out to touch John Smith’s sleeve. He stopped and the boy bolted.

  Pocahontas called out, “Maraowanchesso!” The boy reluctantly came back.

  “What does that word mean?” John Smith asked.

  Pocahontas pointed to the boy.

  “Is that his name?”

  “No.” She pointed to each boy, repeating the word.

  “Oh.” He drew the sound of the word out, nodding his head. “It means boy. They are all boys.”

  “Boy,” she repeated, clapping her hands.

  Each boy repeated the word as well. She could hear a chorus of “boy.” She knew they’d be hearing that word in the village until they grew sick of it.

  John Smith stooped down to let the boy feel the cloth of his shirt. Pocahontas felt it as well. It wasn’t like skin. When she looked closer she could see that it was made of the finest threads she’d ever seen. Her people used fibers for embroidery, but these fibers were like nothing they had. She smelled it. It didn’t smell as if it came from animals.

  “It’s a trifle dirty from the scuff
le in the river.”

  Pocahontas could tell that she embarrassed him by smelling it. “I smell not for cleanliness but to see what manner of animal.”

  “It’s not from an animal, it is good solid English linen.”

  “Linen.”

  The boys ran off with dogs following them. Pocahontas knew they had hoped for more excitement from this tassantassa.

  “It comes from a plant—from flax.” He paused. “How much English do you know?”

  “Ship. Sailing ship. England, pirates. King. Cannonshot. Friend—”

  “You have certainly learned a number of words.” He smiled. “Do you have any others?”

  She nodded. “Rat-cliff.”

  John Smith frowned. “I like you putting the emphasis on rat.”

  “Compass. Gold—”

  “Gold?” He stood up again. “Tell me what you know about gold. Where did you hear that word?”

  “You ask as many questions as I do.” Pocahontas laughed. She wondered what Nantaquaus would think of John Smith’s questions. Maybe it wasn’t just girls who asked questions.

  “Princess, tell me about gold.” John Smith started walking, lengthening his strides. Pocahontas had to skip to keep up with him.

  “Gold, gold, gold. When I watched your village, I heard that word more often than any other word.”

  They got to the edge of the river and John Smith pointed to the downed tree trunk. “Please, sit down.” He waited for her to sit and then he seated himself a distance from her. The water ran so clear, they could see shapes of fish moving silently through the water.

  “What does that word mean?”

  John Smith held out his hand and pointed to a ring on his finger. “This is made of gold. It is like mattassin—copper—only softer.”

  “I thought the word meant this.” Pocahontas reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt.

  “Dirt? Why would you think that?”

  “Because your men dig and dig in the dirt, the whole time talking about gold.”

  “Gold comes from the ground. They dig to find it.”

  “We do not have anything like that in our ground.” She touched his ring. “No, nothing like gold.”

  “I have begun to suspect that,” John Smith said, almost as if speaking to himself. “If you had gold, why would you not have necklaces made of it, like those people the Spanish encountered on their expeditions?”

  Pocahontas didn’t understand many of his words even though most of them were in her language.

  John Smith turned to look at her. “We said we would speak the truth to each other. You asked about the planks of lumber—the slices of trees you saw us loading onto the ships.”

  “Lumber,” she repeated.

  “The people who sent us from England are businessmen. They are in the business of trade.”

  Pocahontas understood trade. “You mean like exchanging tools for food?”

  “Yes. They sent us here to explore this new land—”

  Pocahontas laughed. “Our land is not new. It has been our home for as many moons as our stories recall.”

  Now John Smith laughed. “Yes, it’s different seeing it through your eyes.” He reached over and ran his hand in the cold water. “What I meant to say is that our people sent us to find gold and send back lumber. They want treasure in exchange for giving us food and supplies for this expedition.”

  “I don’t think they gave you enough food,” Pocahontas said quietly. She didn’t mean to criticize, but anyone with eyes could see that their village starved.

  “This is true,” he said. “And I think we did indeed find treasure, but it’s not to be the gold they seek.”

  “So what is the treasure?”

  “Look around you. Your land is the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen—rich with possibilities and—”

  Nantaquaus interrupted his words as he came running toward them. “John Smith, my father, the great Powhatan, wishes to speak to you.”

  Pocahontas felt her friend stiffen. He may trust me, but he still does not trust my father. She loved and respected her father, but John Smith had reason to fear. Who could ever know what her father would do?

  Royal Visit

  to Jamestown

  Pocahontas and Nantaquaus walked with John Smith. As they came to the ceremonial lodge, Pocahontas wondered what kind of thoughts went through her friend’s mind. Only yesterday, they all believed this would be the place of his death.

  Her father sat at his customary place. Pocahontas could tell that he respected John Smith. He wore his finest clothing and all of his necklaces and earrings. His advisors wore their finery as well.

  “Come, John Smith. Sit.” He pointed to the gallery nearest his throne. “I wish to speak to you.”

  John Smith sat down. Nantaquaus sat next to him while Pocahontas took her favorite spot near her father.

  “My daughter saved your life last night.” He said it in his plain way of speaking. “Do you know what that makes you?”

  John Smith did not answer. He leaned forward.

  “That makes you her brother. You have become my adopted son.”

  Pocahontas smiled. This was good. No one would harm John Smith if her father claimed him as a member of the tribe.

  “You shall be at home here in Werowocomoco. You may go anywhere you want to go.”

  “Thank you, great Powhatan. I am honored to be your son.”

  Powhatan nodded his head.

  “I am honored by your invitation to remain here, but I must go back to my own village. Captain Newport may be coming back with his ships any day, with news from our king.”

  “What is this king?”

  “He is the Mamanatowic of the English people. Just as you are the king of your people.” John Smith put out his hand palm up toward Powhatan. “Just as you sit on your throne and rule your people, our king rules our people.”

  “And who is this Captain Newport? Is he another weroance of your people?”

  Pocahontas watched her friend. She knew he was not a weroance, but she also knew that it was important he seem so to her father. She wondered if John Smith knew this.

  “Captain Newport is like … he’s like my father.”

  Pocahontas smiled. That kind of ceremonial connection could easily be understood.

  “Your father …” Powhatan turned to some of his advisors and they carried on a whispered conversation. “We know you want to travel back to your village. Opechancanough has your boat—the one you call a shallop.”

  Pocahontas’s uncle didn’t look too happy about having to return the shallop.

  “We know you will want to give your new family gifts.”

  John Smith smiled in agreement.

  “We wish for a grinding stone and two of your firesticks.”

  Pocahontas saw the color drain out of John Smith’s face, but he did not let on there was any trouble. She had watched the English long enough to know that the one thing they wouldn’t part with was their weapons. She understood their reticence. If her father had those firesticks, the world would no longer be a safe place for the Iroquois and maybe not for the English either.

  “I will do it,” John Smith said.

  Pocahontas looked from his face to her brother’s face. She saw the same surprise on her brother’s face that she felt.

  “But rather than give you these small broken firesticks, if your men follow me to my village I will give them our greatest guns to carry home along with our best grinding stone.”

  Her father’s advisors looked stunned at first, and then wide smiles broke out on their faces. Pocahontas could tell that each one was picturing himself with an English gun. Her father wore that bemused expression that told her he knew things were not as they seemed. There was nothing the great Powhatan liked better than a contest of wills. She figured he understood that John Smith had not really given in quite so easily.

  As they filed out of the lodge, her father appointed the men who would travel with John Smith. He look
ed at her and smiled. “You may go in Nantaquaus’s canoe and watch John Smith offer his gifts to me.”

  “Doesn’t it feel strange to be traveling to the English village out in the open?” Pocahontas had been so used to watching for her brother, making sure they wouldn’t be seen by the tassantassuk. Now here they were following the English shallop into the harbor by the place they called Jamestown.

  “I wish I knew why our father wanted us to observe the exchange of gifts. When he sent us, I sensed he had a definite reason for us to go.”

  As the shallop was tied up by the inlet, many of the English came down to the water’s edge to greet John Smith.

  “We have gifts to exchange with our friends,” he called out.

  The men sent by her father to bring back the gifts climbed out of the shallop and stood near John Smith.

  “Gifts?” One Englishman ran back to what they called the fort and came back with a basket filled with copper and beads.

  “No,” John Smith said. “They wish for guns and a grinding stone. I promised them our largest.”

  Pocahontas could see from their faces that they thought him crazy. The man called Rat-cliff stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips.

  “Bring the demiculverins,” John Smith shouted. “I promised our finest weaponry for the great Powhatan.” A group of Englishmen went into the fort. After a time the gate opened and they came into view, straining to pull great ropes attached to two gigantic cannons.

  Once they managed to get the cannons outside of the fort, John Smith said, “Show them how they fire.” He pointed to a tree encrusted with icicles—a beautiful natural ice sculpture. A man fired one of the cannons, jumping out of the way as it lurched backward.

  Pocahontas could feel the percussion in her chest. Her ears hurt with the sound. The stones that flew from the belly of the gun severed three tree limbs. The noise of the explosion and the sound of the crashing icicles sent her father’s men running for cover.

  John Smith laughed. “Come,” he said. “Get your guns and your grindstone.”