2

"Be merry, my hearts, and call for your quarts,

And let no liquor be lacking,

We have gold in store, we purpose to roare,

Untill we set care a-packing.

There, Hostesse, make haste, and let no time waste,

Let every man have his due,

To save shooes and trouble, bring in the pots double,

For he that made one made two."(1)

Captain John Smith was joined by Ben and Lon at the The Pelican pub in nearby Wapping. Ben and Lon, merrily enjoying themselves, took their final swigs from their tankards, and clamored for more.

"'Tis good to be back in London, Smith," said Lon. That wreck in Bermuda with Captain Newport truly set us back. Speaking of Newport, I wonder where he is? Still at the dock, I suppose?"

"Ol' Newport'll take care of himself, Lon. That drunkard never misses an opportunity for an ale or lager," Ben chuckled. "I heard you have your own ship now, eh Smith? When's your next voyage?" But Smith wasn't listening. He'd been nonchalantly drinking from his tankard, not speaking much the entire evening. "Smith, are you well? You've been awfully quiet tonight."

"What's wrong Smith?" Lon spoke up. "You haven't been yourself."

Before he could answer them, he heard a familiar voice calling him. "'Sea Eyes'! O'er 'ere!"

There was only one man who referred to him by that name. Smith turned to a black-bearded male nearly twenty years his senior, with one good hand, walking toward his table. Captain Christopher Newport of the one hand, he recognized. "Newport," he stood up, surprised. "How've you been old friend?"

The senior asked the bartender for ale. "Ne'er been bet'r, if I could say so meself. I thought I'd ne'er get off that wretch'd Isle," chucked Newport.

"So I've been told. I hear you'll be taking another voyage over there?"

"Aye. 'Tis me one of me final ones b'fore I join the East India Company. I 'ear you 'ave yer own ship now. Any new 'ventures?"

"Not yet, but you'll certainly be one of the first to know."

"You should acc'mpany me to Jamestown then. Two ships would def'nitly be bet'r than one." Smith clanked his tankard in agreement. "Still quite the looker, Smith, I see." He slapped him on the rear with his good hand before they sat down. "I'd be mighty s'prised if you 'aven't a lassie in yer life." Speakin' of lassies, ano'er 'one was jus' lookin' for you."

"Not Molly Porter, Scarlet O'Hearn, nor Susan Wilkins, I hope?" Smith rolled his eyes, clearly less than amused.

"I didn't quite catch 'er name, but she was far more slend'r than "portly" Pork'r-eh Port'r, and 'twas certainly not Scarlet or Susan. No one can mistake those last two with their reputations." He chuckled before becoming serious again. "She was copp'r skinn'd, with long, ebony 'air...like no one I've e'er seen b'fore. Me men and I picked 'er up from the dock. She was shiv'rin' cold. She jump'd from ano'er ship."

"Pocahontas," Smith answered quietly. He hadn't realized she was still here, and went to that length to find him. He admired her courage. Still a free spirit, he thought. "Where did you say she was?"

"She was at the dock, but aft'r I told 'er where you lived, she ran off...Smith?" But Smith was already out the door. -

Trudging through the streets of London at this hour was no easy task. This was a time when vagrants asked for alms, and loose women would sell their "wares." Two such women wouldn't let Smith pass so easily.

"'Angel Eyes,'" hissed a hazel-eyed brunette, trying to grab his rear. "You must be awfully lonesome tonight. I would be obliged to keep you company for twelve-pence... ."

"Susan the Strumpet," mused Smith. "Must be an awfully slow evening, eh? I'm afraid I must be going."

"Come now, 'Goldilocks'," a green-eyed redhead cut in front of him, revealing her ample chest. "I can offer much more for less if what you see pleases you... ."

"Pray tell, what should I be seeing? A redheaded harlot by the name of Scarlet, who fails to comprehend the meaning of 'no'?'"

"Now Johnny, that is no manner in which to speak to a lady... ." Scarlet was always the most persistent.

"I was not aware there were 'ladies' here...but I'd be obliged to offer you sixpence apiece," tossing them each a coin, "for you wenches to entertain each other instead. You two can be ample company for one another...don't you think so? I'm much obliged, but I'm afraid I have other plans." He walked away with a smirk, leaving them with confused and angry glares. -

Smith took the short route home, through side streets and alleys. When he got to the building, he was surprised to find his lights on. He was even more surprised to find Thomas there, when he opened the door. "Thomas, you're here!" He greeted him warmly.

"'Tis good to be back."

"Are you staying awhile?"

"Actually, I came to visit my family, but I would've came by to see you anyhow. In any case, I'm here because a friend wanted to see you."

"Pocahontas?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"An old friend told me she was looking for me, and was directed here." It was then he noticed someone lying in his bed. There she laid; her ebony hair blowed with the wind from the window.

Thomas interrupted his thoughts. "Well, 'tis getting late. My mum, dad and sis are probably worried sick about me."

"Yes, you should probably be going," affirmed John, realizing the hour.

"Oh, I should also mention... ."

"What?"

"I accidentally told Mrs. Porter and the neighbors that she was your wife."

"You what?"

Thomas grew nervous, unsure if John was surprised or upset. "Well, Mrs. Porter, being curious and all, asked Pocahontas about her relationship to you, and "wife" slipped out of my mouth. The neighbors overheard. I'm sorry John, but perhaps her staying here would be more appropriate by being your wife."

John was unresponsive at first. He wasn't angry with Thomas. He was used to his mistakes by now; and this wasn't even a bad one... . But the thought of her being here warmed his soul. Finally, he turned to his friend. "Good night, Thomas." Thomas wished him the same, and left.

He walked back over to the bed. She rested so peacefully, as he always imagined...was he imagining it all? He gently stroked her hair, kissed her crown, and covered her with her father's throw that Powhatan gave him long ago, in case she grew cold. Smiling to himself, he slipped under the covers, and blew out the light. -

1) A Health to All Good Fellowes/ The Good Companion's Arithmaticke ; From Roxburghe Ballads " to the tune of " To drive the cold winter away." (Attributed to Martin Parker, circa 1560)