Again, sorry to be distracting you guys in the middle of your finals, but perhaps a bit of light relief does no harm!

I promise you, Pocahontas and John will meet again – in the next chapter. There's this long and unwieldy one to plough through first, but I make no apologies. I'm having as many meetings between P and J as in the movie. Any more would make it completely implausible that these two energetic characters would NOT succeed in engineering a meeting between their leaders and making peace, or at least establishing the humanity of each side in the other's eyes, thus preventing the climax from happening. I feel I've had to put artificial difficulties in their way as it is. Meanwhile, enjoy a whole new problem that's emerging for John and Thomas in the English camp ...

Disclaimer: the usual.

CHAPTER 15

In the small hours of that night a summer thunderstorm broke, with deafening thunder and torrential rain. At Jamestown, the men were unable to stay dry in their tents, and the ground underfoot became a morass. The watch had to rout more men out to help keep the stores and the gunpowder dry, and they all stumbled around with flickering lanterns, shouting and cursing, fumbling with knots and slipping in the mud. When day came the storm had died away, but it was still raining steadily, and everyone was in the worst possible temper. At the muster, where they stood with the rain trickling down their necks, wishing to have done so that they could at least get moving if not dry, endless grumbles seemed unavoidable. Mate Dawkins insisted that the master carpenter must come away from building the fort and take care of some repairs on the ship that day, otherwise she would not be safe for a long voyage. Governor Ratcliffe said that they needed to finish the circuit of the fence that day, and the repairs could wait until the next: they had no immediate plans for a voyage anyway, had they? The quartermaster put in that they had not the supplies for a long voyage either. The governor carried his point with some soothing words, and the mate retired, fizzing with suppressed rage. The surgeon said that one of the men with fever seemed likely to die and that Will Kemp was no better. Three more men reported sick, and Ratcliffe and the surgeon argued for fifteen minutes over which of them should be admitted to the hospital and which sent back to work – the sick men standing shivering in the rain while Ratcliffe sat, sleek and dry, under a leather awning on the platform. Captain Smith intervened to suggest that the men should at least be allowed to go to the hospital to eat and rest until the day's tasks were arranged, and this was grudgingly agreed to. Then the men of one tent came forward and claimed that those in the next tent had taken some of their oilcloths while they were asleep, and, encouraged by this, another man said that his knife had been stolen the day before. Eventually Governor Ratcliffe cut these complaints short, whereupon the quartermaster stepped forward again to remind everyone to attend to their bodily functions in the latrines only, wet or no wet, otherwise they would all be falling sick.

John Smith looked around at the sullen faces and knew that there could be no searching for the Indians for him that day. The men had to be taken in hand, otherwise fights would break out before the day was over. He made sure everyone had some hot gruel, with stewed berries to take off some of the mouldy taste. Then he arranged for half the men to work on the building while the other half trained. He, Sir Richard Clovelly and the master gunner led three teams against each other in running, vaulting, and sword drill. The three shouted themselves hoarse, and eventually most of the men stopped slouching and began to compete in earnest. However, as most of them worked better, the poor showing of a small number became more noticeable. A knot of three or four men in one team, in particular, were leaving out parts of the course, deliberately kicking logs out of place and sniggering about it, and barging or tripping their rivals. These were men whom John had marked down as trouble-makers on the first few days aboard ship: Simon Hay, who had cheated Harry Dean at cards, George Drake, and a couple of others. One flogging and a few extra spells aloft imposed by Mate Dawkins had made them a good deal meeker. Now, it seemed, something had happened to revive their spirits. John separated them and made each of them run the whole course alone, with himself, Richard and Samuel Wright the master gunner running alongside shouting at them continuously and flicking birch rods. Then he harangued them at parade-ground pitch for another five minutes. After that, their swagger was considerably lessened, but they still caused trouble in the teams. Some of the men were positioning themselves as their toadies, others were avoiding them. Thus occupied, no one could train wholeheartedly. John was not unduly worried; immediate danger, when it came, tended to get rid of such difficulties; but he did not like it.

The other bad place on the training-ground was around Harry Dean. Harry was morose, standing and staring straight ahead of him all the time he was not taking his turn; even when he was, he made the least possible effort. John shouted at him, too, after which he exerted himself a little more, but not much. The men near him kept their distance, refusing – some ostentatiously – to touch him or speak to him. His clothes were plastered with mud, but so were everyone's by now. John decided that later he must find out the details of what had happened to him and, if necessary, confront Ratcliffe about it. Just then, however, he had to get on with the exercise.

He arranged practice fights with blunted swords, with three pairs of men at a time, passing from one pair to another to comment and demonstrate. It had stopped raining. The governor strolled by to watch, nodded, and then called John Smith aside.

'This is good, but why do you not make them practise their shooting?' he asked.

'I don't want to stir up the Indians,' replied John in a low voice. 'If we fire, they may panic, and take it as a sign that we want to start a fight. I have ordered everyone not to shoot at any game, either.'

Ratcliffe stared and looked as if he were about to object, but then merely shrugged.

'We'll do some gun drill later, now that it's stopped raining,' John conceded, 'but this is no less important.'

Ratcliffe grunted, and John moved back to the scrimmaging swordsmen. Sir Richard Clovelly was hard at it with Ben Macquarie. 'Take that, you filthy heathen,' he bellowed, slashing at Ben's legs.

Ben gave a blood-curdling yell, and waggled the fingers of his left hand above his head like feathers, leaping out of range.

'Coward,' boomed Sir Richard. 'Dirty savage. Crawl away on your belly like the devil your master.'

Ben slipped in under his guard. Sir Richard gave a mock scream. The onlookers laughed and jostled. 'Go on, sir! Spit him!' Richard brought his sword down on Ben's helmet. Ben 'died' grotesquely, and everyone cheered.

As Ben and Sir Richard clapped each other on the back, John found he could not even manage a smile. Had it been only a few days before that he himself could have talked of Indians like this? 'Yes,' he said, as the noise died down, 'but it'll be no laughing matter if the Indians storm us. Then every man will have to show what he's made of in earnest. Let's get back to work.'

'But we're not going to wait for them to storm us, are we?' called Lon.

'I hope not, but we have to be prepared,' said John.

'But we're training to attack them, aren't we?' said someone else.

'Yes, if need be,' said John, non-commitally, knowing that Ratcliffe was listening. 'Now,' he said, 'who'll give me a fight?'

Lon stepped forward and the rest, with gibes and cheers, all formed one circle around them. John fought Lon, knocked the sword out of his hand, then stopped to show how it had been done, took Lon through the moves and got him to disarm John himself. Nick Gates went next; he was a more agile, practised fighter, and John had to work hard to outmatch him. John had always enjoyed this sport wholeheartedly, and a good sword-fight made him as happy as anything else he could do. Yet today he was only able to go on with an effort. The truth was that he was tired of the whole business: tired of whipping up comradeship and high spirits in men who were lonely exiles, far away from all that had bound them into life. Even the most trivial-minded among them, the ones who would be just as much fools and just as ignorant of their own folly in London or in Cathay, must know in their hearts that here their usual selves were matchwood floating on dark unknown seas. How many of them had a notion of what they were doing here strong enough to hold on to, and not to give way to delusion, or panic, or to be swayed in any direction Ratcliffe chose? Had he? Yes, he had, and his notion was to be with the Indian girl, among the tall trees, and had nothing to do with the men he was supposed to be leading.

He could not raise the spirit to single out one of the trouble-makers for a fight, although he knew that he should. Instead, at the end of the bout with Nick, he said:

'Now we'll do it differently. The Indians fight with axes, we saw. I want one man to keep his sword while the other takes an axe. The swordsman must try to think of ways to fend off the axeman's blows and get in under his guard.'

Someone fetched John an axe and he tied a piece of leather securely round the edge. 'Did they use their axes two-handed?' he asked Lon.

'Yes ... I think so,' said Lon. 'They didn't have shields, anyway.'

'It might be different when they're in battle, not scouting,' mused John. 'Well, these axes are really too heavy to use one-handed... Even if they do have shields, a steel sword-blade ought to make short work of them. They have no armour, don't forget, so a blow anywhere should do some damage. I'll use both hands, and you swipe at me with your sword, Nick; don't gut me, and I won't beat your head in. Ready?'

They soon found out that the swordsman had an overwhelming advantage, which was reassuring, but then of course they had no idea how to fight with axes; the Indians were doubtless better at it. John suspected the exercise had little value, but he made all the men take a turn. Governor Ratcliffe had long since cleared his throat sceptically and gone back to the building work. Towards the end of the line John came to Harry Dean. He was determined to rouse him, and not to treat him differently from the others.

'Harry, you take the axe,' John ordered. 'Who's your size?... Thomas, you come this side and take the sword.'

He was surprised at how slowly Thomas moved; the boy was not a bad fighter, and had improved greatly since they set out. But he was so good-hearted, perhaps he was reluctant to make Harry a loser again.

'Come on, Thomas!' John called, moving round as the two boys circled each other unwillingly. `Don't give him time, get your blow in first! Come on, Harry, get him before he gets you! It's not a game. Thomas, slash him! That's right!' Thomas had swung his sword with desperate energy and touched Harry's midriff. The blade glanced off the steel corslet Harry was wearing, but he recoiled, fell back a few steps and lowered his axe.

'What's the matter?' asked John.

'The padding's coming loose,' replied Harry, prodding at the axe.

'Let me look,' said John and started round the circle towards Harry. Thomas had his sword pointing to the ground, waiting. What followed happened so fast that John was unable to remember it exactly afterwards. Without a shout or a warning, Harry swung the axe in Thomas's face. Thomas gave a cry and flung his arms up, dropping the sword. John threw himself between the two boys and saw the chopping edge of the axe coming straight at him: the leather padding had been pulled off. He raised both arms to grab the handle, but the blade nicked his arm before he could get a hold and twist it out of Harry's hands.

There were various yells: 'Stop!' 'Get him!' 'The little…' John was left holding the axe as three other men pulled Harry away, twisting, biting and screaming: he seemed to have gone mad. Thomas was sitting on the ground rocking to and fro with both hands held over his face. John crouched beside him and caught him round the shoulders. What quarrel has Harry with him? he thought in bewilderment.

'Thomas,' he said urgently. 'It's all right. Take your hands away, I need to look.'

Thomas's hands came away reluctantly, very bloody. 'Run and get the surgeon', snapped John to the nearest man. He himself threw off his jerkin, ripped off part of his left shirt-sleeve and held it to the gash, trying to swab away enough blood to see exactly what the damage was. He soon realised that the blood dripping from his own right arm was interfering with his efforts. Folding the torn cloth into a pad, he simply held it still, pressing down hard, and kept his left arm round Thomas's shoulders.

'I'll hold this here and the bleeding will stop,' he said. 'You're still in one piece. Can you breathe all right?'

'Yes,' gasped Thomas.

'Is there any bleeding in your mouth?'

'I'm not sure.' He was very shaken, but was managing not to cry.

'Don't swallow it if there is.'

'That's right, look after your pet,' screamed Harry. 'You've no guts to fight the Indians, all you're good for is to coddle him. The little arse-licker. I wish I'd killed him. Can you hear me, Thomas Rowe? I'll get you next time.'

One of the men who were holding him smacked his face.

'That's right, hit me and hug him. You like his pretty face, don't you? Not so pretty now, is it?'

'What shall we do with him, sir?' asked someone in embarrassment.

'Just hold on to him,' said John, keeping down his anger and deliberately ignoring Harry. 'I'll deal with him in a minute. Sir Richard? Will you please take everyone else over there and go on with the practice. Josiah and John Gale haven't had a turn yet.'

'What's going on?' shouted a voice. A man had come over from the palisade to find out what the commotion was about.

'Only a brawl, nothing serious,' said John. 'If the governor wants to know, tell him I can handle it. Then get back to work.'

The man left and the surgeon came. Thomas's bleeding had slowed down. He had a deep cut across his cheek, but no bones or teeth were damaged. When the surgeon told him so, he smiled, and then said, 'Ow.'

'No, better not do that,' said the surgeon and raised him to his feet with an arm around his back.

'I'll come and see you later, Thomas,' called John.

He stood up and at last turned to Harry, looking him over in silence for some time. Harry tried to meet his eyes, but only for a moment. He had let out all his spite for the time being; it seemed gradually to dawn on him who he had to reckon with, and he was deflated.

'Have you got any more to say?' asked John softly.

'No, sir,' muttered Harry.

'All right, let go of him,' said John to the two men who were still holding him. They stepped away and Harry stood with his head hanging, stealthily rubbing one arm.

'Stand to attention when I'm talking to you,' said John. Harry started, and pulled himself straight.

'Have you lost your senses?' said John. 'Here we are in a state of war and you deliberately attack one of your fellows without provocation. What were you trying to do?'

'I was trying to teach him a lesson, sir,' mumbled Harry. 'He's not like you think he is, sir. He's a little sneak. He's pulled the wool over your eyes.'

So that's the story now, is it? thought John. 'What did Thomas do to you exactly?' he pursued.

'It's not what he did to me, sir, it's what he does to everybody. Sucking up to you and the surgeon so that he'll get better than what everyone else gets, begging favours, spying for the governor ...'

'I asked, what did he do to you?' said John crisply.

Harry shifted from foot to foot. 'He sneaked on me to Governor Ratcliffe, sir. He got me caught for taking eggs.'

'Oh,' said John. He did not believe it, but he wished he could have heard Thomas's side of the story first. It was in him to feel a little sorry for Harry Dean. 'And then what?' he said quite gently.

'They all believed him, and they ...' Harry could not say any more, but began to cry noiselessly. His nose was running, too, and he seemed to be afraid to put up his hand to wipe his face.

'All right, stand easy,' said John and turned half away for a minute.

How many more times does this have to happen? he thought. John Smith, the man with the box of salve for bruises given by Ratcliffe. But this boy deserved what he got, at least partly. And he has done damage: he's harmed Thomas, and harmed me too. His mud will stick. I can't afford to be soft with him.

'So, you tried to kill Thomas,' he said conversationally.

'I never, sir,' said Harry uneasily, sniffing. 'I just wanted to scare him.'

'You wounded him severely, and you said you intended to kill him.'

'Did I say that, sir?'

'You did, and a dozen men can swear to it,' said John. 'By law you ought to be hanged.'

There was a silence. Harry eventually looked into John's face, with growing fear and sheer astonishment in his own.

'Yes, hanged,' said John. 'There are laws against stealing and murder, and when you break them there are consequences. Did you think no one would notice? Or that your master would pay for your damage?'

'Master Hales, sir?' asked Harry in bewilderment. 'He wouldn't stand up for me ... Please, sir,' he stammered, now thoroughly scared, 'don't tell Governor Ratcliffe I said I'd kill him. I'm only a boy, sir.'

'You're more than a boy,' said John. 'But you're only a lackey, until you realise that your real master is Harry Dean. At present I don't think he's up to the job.'

'You won't hang me, will you?' cried Harry.

'That's as may be,' said John. 'Now listen. Will you go, at once, to your master's tent and not move from there. I'm going to find him and tell him that from now on he must answer for you, day and night, and if you put a foot wrong we'll send him back to England in irons on the next ship, and, as God's my witness, we will hang you. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Then get out of my sight.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Harry slunk off. John stood and watched him disappear among the tents. Grateful, him? Not likely, he thought. He will probably despise me for letting him off, and be ready to cause more trouble as soon as he's over his fright. Men like that are hopeless. The only answer is not to have them with you in the first place. I hope at least that Ratcliffe stays out of this ... John became aware of the stiffness in his arm and gingerly rolled up his blood-soaked sleeve to have a look. It was nothing of any moment; it had just about stopped bleeding. He supposed he had better get it washed and bound up, and see if he could beg a shirt from Sir Richard.

At the hospital he found the surgeon putting the finishing touches to bandaging Thomas. Thomas started to his feet when he saw John, and the surgeon gently pushed him down on his stool again. Thomas sat on it heavily, clearly feeling faint.

'Thomas,' said John, going up to him and taking his hand. 'It was my fault this happened. I'm truly sorry to have made you fight Harry. I wouldn't have done it if I had known there was a quarrel between you.'

'It's all right, sir,' muttered Thomas, trying to pull his hand away. 'It wasn't your fault.'

'Not altogether, because you didn't tell me,' said John. 'If anything of the kind ever happens again, you're to tell me right away, before things go this far. Is that clear?'

'But, sir,' said Thomas, stung, 'I need to stand up for myself; I can't just come running to you, or everyone will think ... ' He broke off short and looked at the ground.

'Yes, you can come running to me,' said John. 'And so can anyone else. It's not just you, Thomas. You don't want to pay any heed to what that little devil said. You're a useful soldier and a good citizen of Virginia, and I'm going to back you up, the same as I would anyone else of your quality. Why should I drop you like a hot ladle just because of Harry Dean? Everyone knows the worth of what he says.'

Brave words. But what he's said can't be unsaid.

'Have you finished with Thomas?' John asked the surgeon.

'Yes,' was the answer. 'He'll be all right now as long as he keeps quiet for a while. He was lucky to get off so lightly. He'll have a scar, I'm afraid.'

'I don't mind that,' said Thomas shakily.

John slapped him lightly on the shoulder. 'Maybe you could have a look at this for me,' he said to the surgeon.

The surgeon looked at his arm and nodded reservedly. 'Did Dean do this as well?'

'Yes, but not on purpose. Now, Thomas, you stay here in the hospital. Perhaps the surgeon can find you a job or two to do. I have to go and see about a few things, and then I'll come back and give you something to do for the rest of the day.'

'But, sir, I have to get back to work on the building.'

'Not you.'

'But ...'

'Not another word. You had better be here when I get back.'

With his arm bandaged, he went out and arranged for the men who had been training to change places with the workers. While they were changing over, he took occasion to speak to Squire Hales.

'Your boy Harry is in serious trouble,' he said. 'Yesterday he was caught stealing and just now he has badly hurt Thomas Rowe. From now on I'm going to make you answerable for him. If he offends again you will be sent back to England.'

Hales looked at him sourly. 'The governor has already told me about Dean,' he said, clearly just restraining himself from adding, 'Why should I take it from you?'

If he has already been threatened by Ratcliffe, well and good, thought John, and left it at that.

John and Sir Richard did not train the second group of men as hard as the first; they were already tired from their work. John made that and his bad arm an excuse not to engage in any more fights himself. He was sure that the story of the axe-attack and what Harry had said must be all round the camp already, but no one had much time to mull it over just then. In less than an hour Ratcliffe came and ordered everyone to turn to building: they would all have to work their hardest to finish the walls by nightfall. The day had turned very warm and humid, the ground steaming from the rain; flies were out, buzzing around the men's heads and drinking their sweat, until they were exhausted and tormented to distraction.

John himself set to work as hard as he could to hearten them; so, he was glad to note, did Sir Richard. After another hour, however, he thought he must go and see about Thomas. He found him sitting restlessly with nothing to do, looking sick and slightly feverish.

'Now, Thomas,' he said, 'here's a useful job for you. Go and get your writing things, and then come to the chaplain's tent – it has a table. I'll tell him you'll be there.'

Thomas obeyed. John was waiting for him.

'I know your father's a chart-maker and you want to make maps,' he said. 'You may as well start right now. Here are the notes and bearings I took yesterday and the day before, of the land around here and the Indian village. Can you make sense of them and draw out a rough map? If I'm killed or captured, or if we all have to run away, then at least there'll be something left.'

Thomas was delighted. John spread his tablets out and began explaining what was needed. Thomas listened with concentration and asked intelligent questions. Within a few minutes, far more quickly than he expected, John was intoxicated with the pleasure of being understood, of discovering what someone was really good at and bringing it out of them.

'You see,' he said, 'these are the hills, with the trail we took yesterday. Up here is a tributary river, the…' He bit his lip; he had felt so much at ease that he had come within a breath of saying 'the Chickahominy'. 'The one that has the Indian village on its near bank,' he corrected himself. 'We might call it the James River. It flows out of these hills, and there's a gorge.'

John left him to it; he watched at the tent-flap for a moment as Thomas moved the ruler into place and took up a pair of compasses, with the steady concentrated movements of someone who has no need to prove that he knows his trade. That's the best cure for him, he thought, and it'll be one thing well done, at least.

It was a long, hot, weary afternoon. If it had really been possible for everyone to work at full strength all the time, some of them would have collapsed – but of course there were delays, confusion and mistakes, and most men spent a substantial time waiting to find out what they were supposed to be doing next. Just before sunset they found nothing more could be done until the carpenters finished nailing together the last few sections of the fence; there were unaccountably no nails left in camp and someone had to fetch another barrel of them from the ship, while the master carpenter and Mate Dawkins argued about the waste of nails and the possibility of using wooden pegs instead. Meanwhile the men, forbidden to leave their workplaces, sat around in a bad-tempered daze. John Smith slipped away. There was one thing he needed to find out if he was to go in search of the Indians the next day: was the camp still being watched? If the only way in which he could come at the Indians was to be hauled to their village a prisoner, then so be it, but he would rather get there in his own way, and best of all would be to find Pocahontas first.

He went unobtrusively through the gap in the fence, crept through the undergrowth at the edge of the river for twenty yards, then made his way up the hill towards the trail. As soon as he reckoned he was out of earshot of the camp – given the noise they were making there – he put both hands to his mouth and shouted.

The answer was not long in coming. In moments there was a sharp whiz and a tock like the stroke of a woodpecker in a tree trunk just beside him. He looked: an arrow was stuck there, its feather vibrating.

He jumped behind the tree and looked around, but of course there was no one to be seen. In any case, he had found out what he wanted to know. Back to camp, then, at once: how he was going to get away next day was a problem for later. He ran back downhill like a rabbit, doubling and dodging among the tree trunks. He heard two more arrows, and shouts answering each other from up the slope. He had time to wonder if he had been a complete fool, and what all his men were to do if he were shot dead at this moment, before he plunged into the thick bushes and wormed his way through safely to a point a few yards from the fence.

He waited to get his breath back before sauntering back in through the gap – which, of course, had become no narrower while he was gone. He did not like to imagine the panic if the whole company discovered how near the Indian warriors were. He was certainly not going to tell them. Maybe Ratcliffe guessed, and that was why he was so insistent on getting the fence finished. It was no bad thing to have it done, John had to admit.

The last few sections were raised by the light of the rising moon; quite a few of the men had taken advantage of the darkness to skulk away and rest, and those who were left were too drunk with weariness to take notice. John expected Ratcliffe to call off the muster and let the men rest for a long night, now that they were safe behind their walls. But no sooner was the fence pronounced finished, and the men who had finished it given a muted cheer and then slumped down where they stood, or walked slowly away towards the tents, then the bugler blew a blast and Ratcliffe announced that the muster would follow at once.

He could at least have let them eat, thought John indignantly. True, most of them were so tired that they would hardly notice their hunger. And that was just as well, because there was less food than the day before. Lon's snare had stayed empty. Only two men had been sent to go fishing and they had not caught much. As for shellfish, the rocks and beds near the camp had already been stripped bare. There were thin times ahead, thought John, if they could not get food from the Indians.

As people began to gather in front of the platform, John heard raised voices a little way off, and, immediately afterwards, a couple of men brushed past him at a run, heading for a shadowy knot of bodies that was quickly forming between two tents. John ran that way himself and came to backs set solidly together, their owners waving fists in the air and shouting. It had seemed reasonable to assume they'd be too tired to fight, he thought grimly, and seized a shoulder in each hand to force his way through. Inside the ring of onlookers he found Robert Treluswell and one of the slackers at exercise, Simon Hay, locked together in a wrestlers' hold and staggering to and fro.

Christopher Dawkins arrived at the same moment. He took hold of Simon Hay and John took hold of Robert, and they dragged them apart.

As soon as he was out of range, Hay broke into a snigger. 'Caught by your captain!' he shouted at Treluswell. 'You'll get the irons again.'

Treluswell pulled away from John so fiercely that it was all John could do to hold him. 'You piece of dung! Come here and I'll break your back!'

'Leave him,' said John sharply in his ear. 'It isn't worth it.' He was glad to see the mate put an arm-lock on Simon Hay that made him wince.

'All you men get to the muster! Now!' bellowed Dawkins. 'Shame on you all, brawling at a time like this.'

'Another brawl?' cut in Ratcliffe's chilly, unhurried voice. 'Come to the platform at once, and we shall see what needs to be done to cool your heads.'

Everyone began to shuffle off. 'What happened?' John asked Robert Treluswell in a low voice.

'That useless, bragging ...' Robert choked with rage. 'I was walking over to my tent and he shouts out, "You look as if you've got a ball and chain on your feet now." So I said he looked as if he had all day, the amount of work he'd done, and he goes…' He did not say what Simon Hay had said, but went on, 'Just wait until that swine gets into battle. The Indians'll go through him like butter. Or if they don't, I will.'

'Calm down,' John advised him. 'You'd better not let the governor hear you talking like that.'

'The governor?' Treluswell fell into a morose silence, but after a few moments said unexpectedly, 'You know what it was? It was the governor letting them do what they liked to that boy Dean yesterday. That was what gave him and his gang swelled heads. Before that they knew their place. Now they think they're God Almighty. And I hope he tells them different, quick.'

'Hmm,' said John.

They arrived at the foot of the platform. Ratcliffe began by congratulating the men on their work in finishing the palisade. Then he announced that the next day they would continue their training for a possible attack, while Captain Smith tried to find the Indians and make them understand what was good for them. He kept his speech mercifully brief. Finally, he set the watches for the night's guard, and called Robert Treluswell and Simon Hay in front of him.

'As you two still seem to have enough strength to spare for fighting,' he said, 'you can take an extra watch. You are on duty from now until an hour past midnight, and you had better not let me catch you napping.'

With that he dismissed them, and John, who had had his fists clenched waiting to step in, even in front of the men, if Ratcliffe tried to impose any cruel punishment on Treluswell, remained unwillingly silent. It was a sane, if unfair, punishment, and the farmer seemed to accept it resignedly. Hay, on the other hand, was smirking to his friends as he climbed down from the platform. John vowed to make sure he did his share.

First, however, he had to speak to Ratcliffe. When the muster had broken up, and the men had gone to get their food and to sleep as best they could in their still-damp clothes, he mounted the platform and stepped straight in front of the governor, ahead of the small knot of men who were still waiting to speak to him.

'Well, Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe. 'Were you going to report to me on that affair between Dean and Rowe this morning?'

'I was not going to trouble you about anything so foolish, sir,' said John in annoyance. 'It seems you already know the facts. Harry Dean attacked Thomas and wounded him. I told both Harry Dean and Squire Hales that the squire will have to answer for the boy from now on, otherwise he will be sent back to England. That is all.'

'And Dean also hurt you, I see, and used insulting language to you?' said Ratcliffe a little maliciously.

'Yes,' said John tightly, 'but that's no hanging matter. He's a fool.'

'You had no business telling Squire Hales what you did without my authority,' said Ratcliffe coolly. There were men in earshot; John was angry. 'Fortunately I had already arrived at much the same decision myself, so I will let it pass.'

'In my opinion, Governor,' said John, raising his voice slightly, 'the mischief was done when you turned Harry Dean over to the men yesterday. Whatever they did to him, he is good for nothing now. All you did was encourage the worst men in the company, men like Simon Hay. You encourage them, and you punish a man like Robert Treluswell.'

'What is Robert Treluswell to you?' asked Ratcliffe.

'To me?' echoed John angrily. 'One of the best men we have with us. Didn't you see how he worked today? He is almost too tired to stand. It was unjust to give him the same punishment as Simon Hay.'

'Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe, 'you will leave such decisions entirely to me. If I find Simon Hay useful, I will use him. If I find Robert Treluswell insubordinate, I'll punish him, and the same goes for anyone else. I know you have to start early tomorrow, Captain Smith. Unless you have more to say, you have my leave to go.'

'I have one other thing to say,' said John. 'I shall set out before dawn and probably be gone all day. When you train the men, get them to practise with their firearms, standing in ranks, loading, and aiming, but do not let anyone fire. The same as today. Our lives may depend on it.'

'Yes, Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe with assumed patience.

'And no one is to leave camp,' went on John. 'I know that they need to get food; they can take the boats and go a little way up and down the river, fishing, but that is all. Will you give me your word of honour, Governor, that no one will set foot outside camp tomorrow, whether to go hunting or raiding or for any other reason?'

'Captain Smith, this is not necessary. Who knows ...'

'With respect, it is necessary, Governor. I must have your word that no one will leave camp or fire a gun tomorrow.'

'You are presumptuous,' snapped Ratcliffe. 'I cannot give you my word without conditions. We do not know what may happen tomorrow. I am in charge of the men and cannot have my hands tied.'

'Give me your word, then,' said John, 'that you will keep them all to camp unless there is some unforeseen need.'

'Very well, I give you my word,' said Ratcliffe, and at once turned away to the master gunner, who was the next man waiting to speak to him. John walked slowly away, his stomach knotted with anger.

What was the good of that? he wondered. His word given like that is worthless. If he wants to ignore my orders, he'll invent a reason; look at what happened yesterday. All I've done is make myself look foolish in front of the others. Why keep trying?

He walked away towards the hospital tent, trying to swallow his anger and think calmly about what lay beneath his antagonism to Ratcliffe. It's clear, he thought, that what he really wants is his attack. I wish he could have said so openly right away, and better still before we ever sailed; then I should never have come. If he wants a John Smith attack in a place where John Smith wouldn't attack, then he wants a different captain. But perhaps I should give him his attack and have done with it... His mind started working at it, almost automatically. It would have to be done with thirty or forty men at the most, the daredevils who would answer for themselves. First the feint to distract the attention of the advance guards, then the encircling movement, the musket fire to create a panic ... It could be done, mad though it was. Perhaps he should do it. After all, his duty was to his commander and to the success of the enterprise. That was the only thing about this whole affair that was clear-cut, plain to the outside world. He had been hired as a fighter and he ought to fight. Then he would get home as soon as he decently could and remember, next time, to take only a job where he could make the decisions himself.

Then he grinned wryly at this prevarication. When you have the chance to choose to act rightly or wrongly, are you going to refuse it, to put it off until next time when it'll be easier? Of course next time is always going to be easy. But what you have to deal with is this time. To hell with his attack. If you are such a loyal Englishman, why stop there? Why not lure that young Indian woman into a trap and take her hostage; better still, get her to bring some of her menfolk along and catch or kill the lot of them? Just think of the chances Ratcliffe would see if he knew! But it stinks, and you know it. Stay with what you know.

John suddenly found himself face to face with Thomas.

'Ah!' he said absent-mindedly. 'I was hoping to see you. Did you get that map done?'

'Yes, sir,' said Thomas. 'I was just coming to show you – after you'd finished with Governor Ratcliffe ...' He broke off short, and hurried to take a folded paper from inside his coat. John took it and walked sideways towards a lantern which hung from a pole nearby, spreading the paper out under the light.

'That's a beautiful piece of work,' he said, after taking in all the features of the map. 'I wasn't thinking of anything so fine, only a useable sketch ... This is splendid.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Thomas shyly.

'I hope you didn't wear yourself out. Have you any fever?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Are you all right in your tent? Do you want to go to the hospital?'

'No, sir, I'm all right. I'll stay with Lon and Ben.'

The boy's right. They'll look after him, thought John and wished Thomas good night, then stood folding the map carefully and watched him walk off. When he was about twenty yards away, a voice called: 'Given him your love-letter, then?'

Two men emerged from between the tents and jostled Thomas. The other one said something, too, drowned by Thomas's shout of 'Get out of my way!' As he tried to barge past one man, the other neatly tripped him from behind and he fell over.

John was just drawing in his breath to call out when, from the far end of the row of tents, there came a roar from Mate Dawkins. 'You louts leave the boy alone and get inside!'

'Ah, it was only in fun!' said one of the men self-righteously. But they walked away to their own tents without delay, while Dawkins stood rigidly at the end of the row watching until Thomas had picked himself up and the others disappeared.

John went on towards Dawkins and they both entered their tent.

'Thank you, Christopher,' said John matter-of-factly.

The mate grunted and made a movement with one hand as if to toss something over his shoulder. 'Those good-for-nothings. If it was up to me I'd flog them till they couldn't stand.'

John smiled and nodded, but he was embarrassed and worried. Although Dawkins's leathery face revealed nothing, John knew that he was both ashamed on John's behalf, and reproachful of John for giving even the shadow of a foundation to the things that were being said. There did not seem to be much for them to say to one another.

'At least they worked well today,' said John. 'You should get your repairs done tomorrow without any trouble.'

'And about time, too ... They're cooking the fish over at the fireplace; if you want any we'd better get over there.'

John put the map away in his chest and they both went back to the middle of the camp and stood around with the other men waiting to be handed small, bony, smoky-tasting fish, burning hot from the embers. John was too tired to be very alert to the mood of the company; so, of course, were most of the other men. They sat or stood in a daze, speaking little and slowly; faces passed before their eyes almost unrecognised. Yet John thought he saw quite a number of men looking at him over their shoulders as they passed, or letting their eyes follow him as he moved. None of the looks was openly scornful, a few were speculative, but most seemed wistful. It was the way sailors look at a patch of clear sky left on the horizon when storm-clouds are quickly filling the sky overhead.

How has my stock fallen so low? thought John. I didn't meet the Indians or get the food, and now there is this foolery about Thomas ... none of it would matter if Ratcliffe would back me up. But he won't, and every one of them knows it. They are afraid of him and they know I can do nothing.

He thought he began to see what Ratcliffe was about. When he had first joined the company, he had taken him for a hard, unlikeable, but level-headed leader. Afterwards for a while he had been tempted to think of him as a dangerous buffoon. But now he was not sure. He had heard of leaders like him, even some who had succeeded in seemingly desperate situations. They brought their men into hostile country, risked disease and starvation, terrorised and humiliated them and then managed to turn their hatred and resentment outwards onto the enemy, whom they fought with the fierceness of men with nothing left to lose. It could work. But it was not going to work for Ratcliffe with John Smith around. It was not in John to lend himself to that kind of leadership, even if he wanted to. He had never needed to use punishments or terror to get men to do what he wanted – and for a moment, absurdly, he wondered why. Then he cursed himself for an idiot. It was as if he saw for the first time how it must be for Ratcliffe to have him, John Smith, in his company. One might almost ask: with John Smith there, what sort of leader was it open to Ratcliffe to be? What was left for him? John had a strong impulse to hunch his shoulders, screw up his face, go down to the riverbank and plaster mud in that unmistakable yellow hair: anything to rid himself of the unfair advantage which looked as if it would rebound on him so disastrously. But of course he could not.

The truth of it struck him with blunt force: Ratcliffe could not be doing with him, and would not rest until he had somehow got him out of the way. Then he reasoned with himself: he has to put up with me, as I do with him. These extremes always come to mind at night when one is very tired. There is truth in them, but by day we all have to trim our sails and get along as we can. I had better go to bed and get ready to do my work tomorrow. Ratcliffe'll thank me yet. Tomorrow I'll find her. I know I can.

At the thought of finding Pocahontas, knowing that that was the next day's proper work, a rush of happiness came over him. All the day's quarrels, shifts and discontents faded before the prospect. To venture out again into this fair new world, to find his way back into the deep trust that had arisen between the two of them, to learn more of life from her: it was all that he could desire. But would she want anything to do with him this time? Now that her people had declared themselves against meeting the English, would loyalty hold her back? Well, if it did, he would accept it, and do his task without her as well as he might. He would still try to force the settlers to keep the peace with the Indians by any means he could, for her sake, because what she had shown him was reality. Not adventure, not comradeship, not the thirst for knowledge, none of these was firm ground to plant one's feet on. The understanding, the being at one, which he had begun to learn with her: that was. Some lines came into his mind:

'O Love, they wrong thee much

That say thy sweet is bitter ...'

He could not remember any more of it except the end:

'I know thee what thou art,

I serve thee with my heart

And bow before thee.'

I know thee what thou art ... He smiled at himself for these fancies, but he went to sleep happy.