Most of these characters belong to Disney. I don't own them. I'm just using them. That being said, enjoy.
Wave upon wave came down upon their tiny ship rising her up on crests like mountains then plunging her down to be swallowed by giant tongues of cold salt water; their enemies. The stomachs of her passengers rose and fell with the ship, twisting and tightening in sickening and uncontrollable fits of nausea. It was all the men could do to keep their grip on the task at hand: tying up the sails so the harsh winds were powerless to rip through them. Sopping clothes pulled them toward the deck and walls of water threatened to shatter their bones or sweep them into the sea, that endless stretch of icy death, yet they held firm.
The water, life sustaining, now ripped at their precious boat tearing chunks from her sides, snapping ropes. And the cannons began to slide! With the strong men in the sails, poor Thomas was the closest to the canons. Pushing with all his might he restored the heavy canon, but his muscles were not strong. His fingers worked with the ropes, quickly, clumsily, trying to make fast their hold upon the canon. He looped and pulled but gravity began to turn and he found himself sliding on the smooth, slick surface of the deck. Still he clung to the knot as the canon rebelled against its confinement, straining against the little man.
Then John was there. He held the canon steady and they began to tie it back, but the sea fought against them. She crashed through the ship again. A river surged across the deck seizing Thomas with her rapid fury. His hands, held fast to the canons just seconds before, were stretched out searching for refuge as he glided toward the sea. A crack and a pain in his back informed him of his situation as he broke through the side of the ship falling into the chaotic, spinning abyss that was the sea. His body twisted and flailed. Control gone. Which way was up? Which down? Was that another wave crashing hard against his helpless form or had he been smashed against the ship. Air. Not dry but there all the same: the surface. And there was the ship. "Help!" All was lost. The ship, their sanctuary in the raging hell, could not protect him now. A wave of terror and panic washed over him as he lost the surface once more. So this is how he would go. How careless he'd been to die in this stupid way. And yet how powerless.
Was he crying? Salt water washed to and from his eyes. Whether it was tears or ocean he could not be sure. And yet he had never felt more broken. He would die here in this perilous void. But death did not come. John did. Relief wrapped itself around him with strong arms and he was lifted from the sea. They were flying. This was his guardian angel here to take him to Heaven, he supposed. But he could still feel pain. The world spun around as the two men dangled by the rope, but Thomas could breathe. His chest felt light, free from the crushing pressure of the waves. His tongue tasted the salt in the air and let it fill him.
They hit the deck hard and Thomas coughed fiercely, unable to move, unable to seek refuge from the crashing waves. But the storm had calmed some. Waves still rocked them but no longer consumed them. It ended as quickly as it had begun. His coughing ceased and became a long sigh of relief. He had not died.
In the next few days, Thomas was unable to forget the helplessness the sea had shown him. John had been so sure, so strong. And he had not. He had been weak and had almost died. John had been the hero. It was insulting to his masculinity that he could never be the hero. He was never the one people went to for help, never the one people looked up to for purpose, and he would never be the one to save another man's life.
They were close. Land had not yet been seen but the air felt different, safer. The New World was the perfect place to start anew. A person's crimes were in the past, part of another life: the life of London. The threat of imprisonment or worse was over, gone. It was hard to believe, to accept. Running away had been the only option, and America the perfect choice for escape. Soon they would land. Soon the worries of the other world would melt away. Unless someone discovered her little secret.
Rebecca leaned over the railing, neglecting her mop and bucket, imagining she could see the land already, dreaming that she was already there. The wind wrapped around her in an innocent embrace and the salty ocean spray kissed her wistful face. Yet the knot was still present in her stomach. Surely she could not be free. All those months of living on the run, hiding from guards, sleeping in alleys… It had all been practice for the harsh life that lied ahead. Maintaining an identity as a man was easy when constantly on the move. The act was only played when necessary. But here… here it would be all the time. And here the punishment was just as bad if not worse. She would be hung if anyone ever figured it out.
Surely she could not live her life that way. What was the point? But eventually more people were bound to arrive and then Benjamin could suddenly disappear and Rebecca take his place. It wouldn't matter. Anything was better than life on the run in England and certainly preferable to death or imprisonment. Her happy mood crumbled and her gaze fell. Sighing she drew away from the rail and resumed her mopping. Suddenly the idea of being ashore was not as appealing as it had been.
He had fought bravely. That, he knew. If war was an art form, Kocoum controlled all the colors of the wind. It was what his people expected, what they needed, and what he proudly provided for them. Soon he would fulfill another expectation, one of which he knew much less, one of which he was much less sure: he would marry a beautiful Indian woman and begin his own family. He gulped. The knot in his stomach only got tighter the more he tried to calm himself.
He had fought bravely. It was true. And he was to be honored this night upon their return home with a grand feast. That was simple enough. Feasts were traditions in which he had already taken part. But soon he would be honored in another, less familiar way: with the hand of the chief's daughter, Pocahontas. She was beautiful; probably one of the more beautiful women in their village, so he knew he would be happy. After all, what else could a man require? A beautiful wife. A sturdy home. Good food to eat. Perhaps children. And honor. So why did he feel like there was something more? Surely this life was not all there was. Sometimes he wondered if things were ever going to change. As if he were waiting for something to happen. As if something more were waiting for him… just … around…
The river bend. He could see it now. The village was just around that turn. The knot twisted in the pit of his stomach and his forehead creased with worry. What if Pocahontas did not accept his offer? Powhatan had agreed quickly and cheerfully, but that was not the hard part. Kocoum knew how to deal with men. Women were a completely different matter.
As they neared the bend he could feel a second knot growing in his throat. It was bad enough knowing that he would have to face her once she knew of his proposal, but for her to see him before, innocently unaware… it would be torture. What if she could see the fear behind his stoic countenance?
Horns sounded as the warriors drew near and Kocoum knew that the entire village would be gathering at the shore for their arrival. If he was lucky, Pocahontas would not notice him in the mayhem. Maybe he could sneak away before she had a chance to.
But Pocahontas was not there. And his fear grew. Was she not there because she had no interest in the warriors? Did she not care to see if he came back alive? Perhaps her thoughts were otherwise occupied and could not be bothered with something as trivial as his life; his future; her future.
Their chief Powhatan made his speech brief. But it was an eternity. Pocahontas had arrived and Kocoum could feel the faces of all the villagers (especially hers) upon him. The words of the chief were filled with praise for Kocoum, and he knew he should have felt honored, but he only felt nervous. It was all he could do to keep his expression serious and stoic to hide the anxiety he felt underneath.
She could feel the excitement, the fear. This was it. This was the new world. And it was beautiful. If she had to live a hundred years as a man it would be worth it to have seen this. The mountains, the trees, the rivers, even the dirt was beautiful to her. Of course, land itself was wonderful after so long at sea. Showing up back in London would have been a relief, at least at first. But this new world was amazing.
Rebecca had heard stories of the savages who lived in this strange land, but so far she hadn't seen any. Surely if any lived there they would have seen some houses or people or something. Maybe they had found a vacant land, though why the savages wouldn't have claimed this beautiful region she could only guess. It even smelled nice. London had never had a pleasant smell. All her life she had supposed that smell was just something to get used to. But here everything was better. Except… she had to stay dressed as a man wearing a thick coat to hide her breasts. For now that was fine, but when summer came, it was sure to be a pain. Perhaps she would have her own little house by then and could take off the coat in privacy.
Governor Ratcliff wanted gold and it was their job to find it. Thomas hoped they'd find it soon so he could stop digging. Shoveling wasn't hard, but hours of it was murder. Days of it was hell. Sweat poured from him like it would never stop. His weak body grew sore quickly and his work slowed. But the governor was a greedy man. Though he did no work himself, he expected laborious effort from the other men. This was slavery.
Their camp was an ugly, muddy mess and their tents were little comfort. Thomas didn't know what he had expected but this was not it. They should be building houses, not digging for gold. They were getting nowhere and he began to think that maybe there wasn't any gold in this area. But at least they hadn't had to fight any savages. Thomas had never been a very aggressive man. Plus, he wasn't very good with a gun.
They had pale skin and hair on their faces like dogs. They were strange; like nothing any of them had ever seen. Kocoum wanted to attack immediately and destroy the threat before it had a chance to grow. But Powhatan was wise and Kocoum knew his words to be true. They must first know their enemy before they could have a chance of defeating them.
Observing the strange men at their camp, Kocoum was intrigued by just how different they were. They dug holes in the ground night and day and cut down all the trees in a large area. Clearly they planned to stay. Why they would want to dig into the ground was beyond him, but perhaps they lived underground. That would explain their pale bodies. They carried strange weapons (what must have been weapons for they were carried with the dignity and frequency of a weapon): long grey sticks with no pointed ends. He was sure they were weapons but could not decide how they must be used.
There was a scream and a shout of some foreign word. They had been seen. Thunderous noises and shouts began to emit from the camp of the white men and the Indians began to shoot their arrows at them. The violence quickly ended when one Indian man fell over in pain. He'd been hit. Kocoum carried him on his shoulders as they made a hasty retreat.
There was no arrow in the man's leg. The wound was strange. No man had been near him and yet there was no arrow. How could the men have sent a hole into his leg without an arrow? It was impossible. It was monstrous. It was… savage.
Yep. She was going to die out here. There was no way around it. Just the simple truth. What if the Indians had come at night? She slept alone in her tent. They could easily have come into it and killed her without even waking the others. They might do it tonight. The thought terrified her. Maybe there was some place she could hide, where she would be safe. But there wasn't. There was only a group of tents and the forest beyond. The tents were the better option, and that was not saying much. Perhaps she could go back to the ship. But the savages must have seen the ship. Who could miss a huge boat out in the open sea? But would they think to look there? Was it worth the chance.
Rebecca sat leaning against a tree. She couldn't move. The savages were gone yet she still couldn't breathe. It was as if they had never gone. They were still back there shooting at her and if she moved one centimeter she would be shot. There were not that many men in their little camp. Only about 100 maybe a little more. That certainly wasn't enough to ward off armies of savages. There could be thousands of them. She shivered. There was no hope.
Later that day, the men began to erect tree trunks around the camp to create a massive wall. Rebecca sighed with relief but remained uneasy. She had never seen real violence before. It made her queasy and lightheaded. Maybe all of this was a bad idea.
That night the men gathered around a big fire as usual. Most nights it was easy to tune out the conversations around her and sometimes Rebecca actually enjoyed the talk of the men. Tonight was not one of those nights.
"You know what I miss the most?" One man sighed heavily, regretfully. Then he laughed a little "you know what I miss the most." The other men laughed too. Rebecca was confused. Had she missed something?
"Only so long you can go without a woman 'fore you start to get real lonesome." Another man observed.
"Old Ratcliff doesn't seem bothered much. Course he's got that Wiggins." The men roared with laughter. Understanding rushed to Rebecca with the blood that flooded her cheeks. Men never talked like this in front of her. Not when she was a woman, anyway.
"You think we could capture a few Indian squaws?" Rebecca felt sick.
"Sure Earl why don't you just walk on down to that Indian camp and pick out a few. I'm sure they wouldn't mind sharing with us." The men laughed. Earl scowled.
"Man what I'd give for a nice blonde." Rebecca had never felt self conscious about her dark hair. She never really realized that mattered.
"Hehe yeah. Earl, when you're picking out those squaws, be sure to pick a few blondes for us." The men roared with laughter. Then it was quiet for a while.
"God. What I'd give to have some pretty little thing under me tonight." Rebecca almost gagged. She had known these men for a while, but had never heard them talk like this. It made her sick. She could only imagine what they must be seeing in their mind's eye. A sudden realization came to her then. It made her shiver and almost retch. If the men found out she was a woman, they probably wouldn't hang her. She wrapped her arms around her torso as if to hide her breasts. What if they suspected? What if they saw her when she went off alone for some privacy? Could they just have their way with her? Would they? Her head was spinning and though the conversation had ended, she felt the need to get away.
He hadn't moved an inch in hours, just staring up at the ceiling. It was late but he wasn't tired. He was worried. Pocahontas had not accepted his offer yet. He had thought she would do it right away. Then the nervousness would be over. Then he would feel brave again. But she hadn't. And why not? Why would she need to wait? It was simple. She was the daughter of the chief. He was an honored war hero. They were meant to be.
There was that feeling again. That feeling that it wasn't quite right. Sensing that there was something more he was missing. Maybe marrying Pocahontas would fill in the void and he wouldn't have to worry anymore. Maybe he would be happy settling down and starting a family. He tried to picture the two of them together. Him fishing. Her cooking. He could see himself coming home to her smile. Smiling came so easily to her. She was a free spirit. Somehow he just couldn't imagine her waiting at home for him every day.
But he could imagine the nights. That was easy. She was truly a beautiful woman and the Great Spirit had blessed her with a beautiful body. He closed his eyes and pictured her lips on his. This thought calmed his nerves a bit and he dove into his fantasy hoping to erase his doubts. He could feel the warmth of her skin on his, the softness of her breasts, the curve of her hips. He could feel her underneath him as he pressed his weight against her. He could feel her moving with him. But he couldn't see it. He just couldn't see Pocahontas being that way with him.
Not a man? That's what Ratcliff had said to him. He wasn't a man if he couldn't shoot. And he couldn't shoot. At least not very well. As if his masculinity hadn't been attacked enough. Not only was he no hero like Smith, he was also no man. Someday he would find a way to prove his manliness. He would be a hero. He would learn to shoot. And damnit he would be a man.
Thomas had been sitting against a log. It was early morning and most of the men were still asleep. They would probably be waking soon but until then Thomas was content to rest against the fallen tree. He had thought he was the only one up until he saw one young man, Ben tiptoeing toward the opening in their tree-trunk wall. The lad slipped out quietly, thinking no one saw and Thomas' brow crinkled with curiosity.
Rebecca inhaled the beautiful fragrance of the new world. Their camp no longer maintained the fresh aroma of the wilderness and she craved the beauty of the forest. Looking around intently, Rebecca decided that there were no Indians around. The forest was not very thick here and she could see for a ways. There was no reason for them to be hiding out there waiting. She decided to chance it for a nice walk through the woods. Her mood quickly improved as she wandered through the new land, practically skipping. She had seen John Smith leaving alone several times so surely it wasn't so dangerous.
After a while the sound of running water came to her attention. The idea of bathing and ridding her skin of the ever-present dirt that hovered around the camp overwhelmed her and she ran toward the sound. The water was beautiful and clear and inviting. She eagerly shed her clothes and stepped in. The icy chill of the stream shocked her at first but she gradually made her way deeper until it was to her waist. She let down her hair so that it fell to her waist. It was her treasure. Cutting it was the only precaution she couldn't allow herself to take. Pinning it up had never been a problem.
Rebecca scrubbed herself and watched the water around her darken and float away. It felt so good to have clean skin again, to be rid of that layer of grime that covered the men at camp. How did they stand it? she wondered.
Kocoum walked slowly through the woods, his head deep in thought. What if Pocahontas said no? What then? He would be shamed. But then what? Find another woman? That was the logical approach. But what other woman? Any woman should be glad to marry a warrior as brave as himself. And as handsome. It was an arrogant thought but it was well grounded. He was handsome. Even before he became a great warrior he had been popular with the women in the village. He liked the attention, but didn't prefer one woman over another. Some were more beautiful than others but other than that, there was no reason for him to prefer one over another. None of them really stood out to him.
Hopefully none of that would matter because Pocahontas would accept his offer. And what then? Then he would marry her. And continue on doing what he was doing. What was he doing? Eating, sleeping, fishing, fighting, maybe a few other things in between. Was that all that life was? What did he have to live for?
God it felt so good to be clean. And the water was so refreshing. She didn't want to return to the hard labor of the camp. To those disgusting, dirty, perverted men. And what would she tell them if they asked her why she was so clean? They wouldn't notice. Men never notice such things. Suddenly a twig broke behind her and she spun around. Screaming would seem the obvious approach but her throat would only allow a shallow gasp.