Things are moving rapidly towards a crisis now.

Note the addition of a little political skulduggery: I couldn't quite believe in Nakoma going straight to Kocoum about Pocahontas's shenanigans.

Note too that in my version John Smith rather than Grandmother Willow is the moral arbiter at this turning point for him and Pocahontas. It was time, I thought, for the much-maligned Europeans to contribute a pinch of wisdom, rather than representing mere greed, arrogance and (at best) technology, as they do in the movie. This way it's more symmetrical: while Pocahontas represents spirituality, Smith brings a sense of justice. Why would she love him if he was merely handsome and pushy?

Disclaimer: this is all down to Disney really. Even Thomas's feelings for John Smith. It's just too transparent!

CHAPTER 17

Thomas had had a weary night and day: his sore face had prevented him from sleeping much and, as he lay awake, he worried about what Harry Dean had said and the way the other men had taken it up. He felt as bare as a skinned rabbit. It seemed everyone had seen his secret and, simply by seeing it, had turned it into something shameful. The mere fact that John Smith existed and was near him seemed to Thomas like a golden light over his life. He had never wanted or expected any more: any favours, any intimacy… (he blushed to press his thoughts further). He had not realised that anyone else could notice his feelings, or that there could be any harm in them. Now it was too late. Everyone thought the worst, and would tear what he valued most to pieces if they could.

All morning he hung about, keeping his head down at unimportant tasks, dodging smartly out of the way of this man and that. He dreaded John Smith's return, as it might make him reveal himself even more unmistakably, and yet he longed for him to bring back the luck of the camp and some sense of protection from Ratcliffe, from the bullies, from the Indians, from hunger and confusion. But as the day went on, his anxiety for himself lessened and was replaced by an ever-growing anxiety on behalf of the captain. When John Smith returned and quarrelled with Ratcliffe, Thomas saw for the first time how great a risk he ran. There he was, conspicuous everywhere he went in the camp, and Thomas knew that Ratcliffe could not tolerate him, or even ignore him for a single moment.

Thomas did not know what he could do to help, but an unreasoning urge forbade him to let the captain out of his sight. When the muster was over, he returned by some instinct to where he had felt safe, the place where John Smith had been in command and Ratcliffe on sufferance: the ship. There were two men on guard in the bows, but they did not see him as he stealthily climbed on board. From the crow's nest he could keep the whole camp under his eye, without himself being noticed in the dark. He climbed up the mast effortlessly as he had learned to do during the voyage, and sat there, feeling the almost imperceptible movement of the tied ship in the current, so peaceful compared to her tossing and plunging at sea. It soothed his spirits; he felt he could watch all night. He gazed at the fading band of sunset light over the forest, but soon realised that it would spoil his eyes for the shadows of the camp, and looked only downwards.

The two men on guard, men he knew only slightly, passed under him, moving to the stern of the ship, talking quietly together.

'I reckon Angel Face is a faker,' said one, and Thomas felt a stab of outrage and renewed worry. 'Never there when there's trouble – who says he's such a great soldier anyway?'

'Governor would probably manage just as well on his own,' said the other, and then they moved out of earshot.

Thomas dug his nails into his palms. Fools, idiots, why couldn't they see – ? What was he going to do?

At that moment, he picked John Smith's shape out of the shadowy forms moving among the tents: he could no more have mistaken him for anyone else than he could have taken a horse for an ox. He saw John Smith go into Sir Richard's tent and, several minutes later, come out again, wearing different clothes and with his head covered, but to Thomas just as unmistakable. Then he saw him walk towards the boundary fence. In moments, Thomas had scrambled down the mast again and was edging across the rope net to the bank. He hurried to the palisade but, by the time he reached it, John Smith had vanished. Thomas held on to the last post of the fence to keep his balance on the edge of the steep bank, and peered around it, sure that the captain had left the camp that way only moments before, but unable to see him between the darkening trees. As he strained his eyes, he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and cried out softly in shock.

Stumbling on the edge and finding his footing just in time, he turned round. Ratcliffe was standing behind him.

Thomas stared at him, his heart pounding. He could not see the governor's face well, but he seemed to wait for a few moments, expecting Thomas to speak. When Thomas stayed silent he began talking in a low, measured voice, as if continuing something he had already been saying.

'It may be time for you to put a little distance between yourself and Captain Smith, Thomas. Names like the captain's … favourite don't sound well, and you don't want your comrades' ill-will. You saw what happened to Harry Dean.'

Still Thomas said nothing, although he felt that his loathing of Ratcliffe must be almost audible.

'I want you to follow Captain Smith and find out where he's going,' went on Ratcliffe, crisply and yet with every word somehow oiled with pleasure. 'Do not be seen. If he meets with any Indians, come back and tell me at once. I want my orders obeyed from now on. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir,' said Thomas woodenly.

'In case you need to defend yourself, take this,' said Ratcliffe and held out a musket. 'Use it better than you did last time. I'm giving you one more chance, Thomas: don't disappoint me again.'

Keep your head down, Thomas: obey orders …

Thomas took the musket and slung it over his shoulder. Without another word he edged his way round the end of the fence and walked away, slowly and heavily, uphill under the trees. He could feel Ratcliffe looking after him, even when he was sure that the trees and the dusk were screening him from his sight.

After he had gone a hundred yards the prickling feeling in his back died away, and he wanted to slump to the ground in the shelter of a tree and give way to misery. In his mind he did, but his feet kept hurrying uphill towards the trail that he had taken when they visited the Indian village. He knew quite well that the captain must be heading there. What was he, Thomas, trying to do? Catch up with the captain and warn him? What would be the use? John Smith must already know his danger. Or obey Ratcliffe's orders? Could he be as craven as that? He only knew he could not bear to be mocked as Harry Dean had been, not for some petty breach of the rules, which would have been endurable, but for what truly lay closest to his heart. And he could not tell how he was going to save the captain. For some reason, Ratcliffe hated John Smith so much that he wanted him jeered to the gallows as a traitor, and, unless Thomas brought the proof of his treason, as a boy-lover as well. It had become more important to Ratcliffe than gold or victory or even all their lives. And Thomas did not see what he could do to stop him.

*****

In the longhouse, the decision had been taken, and it was passed out to the people just before sunset: war. The attack would take place at once, at dawn next day, before the foreigners expected it. Meanwhile, in the early part of the night, the warriors would rest; later they would dance, paint themselves and prepare. The women and children were to leave the village and camp in the woods until the outcome of the battle became clear.

Excitement was high. The Tapahannock warriors had told the villagers the story of their skirmish on the river, and it had lost nothing in the telling: it put everyone in the mood for battle.

Pocahontas bided her time. Her plan was to make each of two groups of women – her aunt's clan, and Nakoma and her family – think that she was going to be with the other, and then slip off to the willow-glade as it got dark. It seemed to work well. She lingered with Nakoma, helping to bundle her sister's little son onto his cradleboard and pack up their bedding. As they were about to leave, she announced that she would return to her aunt, and hurried to the opposite side of the village. There she hid behind a house, watched for her chance as dusk fell, and, when no one was looking, edged towards the opening in the newly built stockade. She slipped through and stood in its shadows. A pale haze on the eastern horizon showed where the moon would soon rise. A few warriors still called to one another on the fence and by the water's edge, but most were resting. Pocahontas tensed herself, measuring the distance between the stockade and the tall corn-stems on the slope, ready to run it in the shortest possible time when the moment came. Suddenly she heard a fierce whisper behind her.

'Pocahontas!'

She whirled around. 'Nakoma!'

Nakoma came close to her, her face wearing an expression, Pocahontas thought, of mixed fear and disgust.

'Don't go out there!' Nakoma hissed. 'I lied for you once. Don't ask me to do it again.'

Pocahontas glanced right and left, possessed by only one purpose, afraid that she would lose her chance. She could not take Nakoma seriously. What did this girl understand about truth and lies?

'I have to do this,' she said, almost absent-mindedly.

'How can you? A foreigner! You touched him! What about your father? What about our people?'

Pocahontas took a deep breath. 'I'm trying to help our people,' she explained, as if to a small child.

'Pocahontas, no! Don't!'

But Pocahontas had skimmed away and, almost in a heartbeat, disappeared into the cornfield where only a very slight movement of the branching tips revealed her passage.

Nakoma walked in at the entrance again, not bothering to hide herself, hardly aware where she was putting her feet. Her thoughts darted between outrage, fear and wounded vanity. At one moment she could hardly stretch her mind round the enormity of Pocahontas, who had always been so indifferent to young men, actually running off at night to wanton in the woods – and not even with a proper man but with … that. At the next, she felt furious pique at the way she had been brushed aside. Her best friend had walked away from her without speaking, as if Nakoma counted for nothing. Then those thoughts were overtaken by vague unreasoning fear. You could always rely on Pocahontas, before. There must be some witchcraft at work. How else to explain how she had behaved but by her being possessed?

Nakoma turned without thinking to walk back to her family. Someone fell into step with her, and a stately voice said, 'Nakoma. I am glad to see you.'

It was the chief's sister, Nijlon. Nakoma made a little bob of respect. She was afraid of this woman, who was able to gather in all her privileges as first lady in the tribe as if sublimely unconscious of them. Pocahontas's irreverent stories about her had only served to discomfit Nakoma further.

'Do your family have everything they need for the night?' asked Nijlon graciously. 'And for a journey tomorrow, should it be needed?'

'Yes, thank you, my lady,' said Nakoma breathlessly.

'God send we defeat the foreigners tomorrow,' went on Nijlon, 'then we can begin to breathe freely again. I am sure your brother will do his part. He fought well against the Massowomecks.'

'Not as well as Kocoum, but very well,' said Nakoma modestly.

'Ah yes, Kocoum,' said the woman, with what Nakoma thought a strangely absent-minded look. 'But what I wanted to say was … I am anxious about Pocahontas, Nakoma. I was glad to see you because I hoped that you, as her friend, might be able to share your mind with me on what we can do to keep her out of danger. In some ways Pocahontas is more like a young man than a girl. She loves danger. But in the end, she is a girl. And she is too important to take such risks. Important to her father, and to me. What can we do to help her understand?'

'I don't know,' said Nakoma, worried. 'She doesn't seem to listen to me any more.'

'Headstrong,' sighed Nijlon. 'She always was. But good at heart. What I fear is that someone may be playing on her good feeling …'

Nakoma wondered if she had misjudged Nijlon. Pocahontas had always led her to believe that Nijlon was tyrannical and jealous. Now Nakoma wondered if this dignified woman was really only concerned to do what was best for the motherless girl, even if it was uncomfortable.

They were in sight of Nakoma's family, who were lifting their bundles on to their heads. 'Are you coming, Nakoma?' cried her mother.

'Nakoma is with me,' called back Nijlon. 'Is Pocahontas there?'

'I thought she was going with you,' returned Nakoma's mother, deferentially.

Nijlon stole a sharp look at Nakoma, who knew she had seen the consternation on her face.

'Forgive me for keeping you waiting,' she called with a considerate air. 'I would just like to speak another few words to Nakoma.'

'We'll go; she can catch us up,' said Nakoma's mother. The family party moved off to join others who were threading their way between the houses and up on to the terraced hillside, some with bowls of embers in their hands that cast faint, bobbing lights along the path.

Just inside the gate was a watch-fire that was dying away, but still gave a glow that brightened as the dusk grew deeper. Nijlon put her hand under Nakoma's elbow and guided her close to the fire. Then she gazed shrewdly and steadily into her face under finely arched, black brows.

'Nakoma, where is Pocahontas?'

'I don't know,' said Nakoma desperately.

'This can't go on, Nakoma. Her life may be in danger. I think that if you know anything, you should tell me.'

Nakoma said nothing.

'If there is anything happening that might harm her standing,' said Nijlon unhurriedly, 'the important thing is for us women to find out and put a stop to it before the men get to know. We can be discreet, can't we? What never becomes known, might as well not have been. I'm sure that something can be done, quietly.'

'I know where she goes … the place where she goes alone,' said Nakoma significantly, playing for time. 'She took me there when we were children. It's just at the foot of the rapids, on the near shore.'

'Well, that may be very useful to know, thank you, Nakoma, dear. Is there anything else?'

Nakoma suddenly felt something within her refuse to carry her burden any longer. Let someone else decide what to do with it. She put her hands to her face.

'I'm afraid she's … bewitched.'

'What makes you say so?'

'I think she's … gone to meet … one of the foreigners.'

Nakoma expected Nijlon to exclaim in outrage and disbelief, and when she did not, felt curiously steadied. She glanced into Nijlon's face and saw only a frowning look of consideration.

'She's bewitched, I'm sure: she must be under a spell,' repeated Nakoma.

'That does make things difficult. How are we going to get her out of this? If she once comes back, there is a drink I can give her … but those grey wolves may mean to kidnap her, or worse. Someone will have to go to look for her.'

'Please … is there anything you can do?'

Nijlon seemed to consider a little longer. Then, 'Yes,' she said. 'Don't fret, Nakoma. I'll send someone … with a story that will save her face. Her father won't need to know. Go along to your mother now. You did well by telling me.'

Nakoma went after her mother, but her heart, lighter at first, became even more sore and doubtful as she went on. In the end she told her mother that the chief's sister had given her a task to do back at the village, and walked back to wait. She dared not go after Pocahontas herself, but she had to see what would happen.

Nijlon, meanwhile, went back to her house, where her children were waiting with a young warrior in charge of them. She sent this man away to a distance, and then spoke to her eleven-year-old son:

'Go down to the longhouse, find Kocoum, and bring him back here to me.'

'But, Mother, the warriors are resting for battle now: he'll be angry.'

'Never you mind, my boy. Tell him I want him, alone and at once. If you want to be a chief, this is your first task.'

When the boy had gone, she sat down in front of the house with an air of graceful determination, settling her cloak and earrings on her shoulders.

'"I want Kocoum to be chief after me, with Pocahontas as his wife!" she murmured scornfully. 'We'll see about that.'

*****

In the beginnings of moonlight John Smith was able to find the willow glade again without getting bogged down or immovably tangled in undergrowth. It seemed a brooding place in the night. The river sucked and murmured quietly. Grey moths whirred through the air, and there was a stealthy scuttering of small creatures among the leaves. Knots and fissures stood out harsh black on the faint silver-grey of the gnarled branches. The presence that had seemed so full of goodwill in the bright sunlight, before disaster struck, now seemed menacing – or was it only his own anger and unbelief that made it seem so?

He had been there for a few minutes, with the light growing a little, before he noticed Pocahontas leaning motionless on the great tree-trunk. He started. How could she have been there without his sensing it? Was her shadowy shape in the darkness real? Had she anything to do with him?

'Pocahontas!'

She spun round quickly. 'John Smith,' she breathed.

She came close to him, a look of urgency on her face. 'We must be careful,' she conveyed to him, by words and signs. 'There are men near here: they beached their boats and some have stayed to guard them. We must be quiet.'

'Let us not wait, then. Let us go at once,' he replied.

She looked anxiously into his face. 'What happened this afternoon? When you returned? Was it bad?'

He did not trouble to keep the anger and apprehension out of his voice. 'One of my men has been killed by yours. And my chief forbade me to come and speak with your father. He wants war at once.'

Pocahontas's response astonished him. Her face closed in an expression of resignation and grief. She at once moved away to the water's edge and stood still, facing him. 'It is all over, then,' she said. 'I am glad you told me.' And as he stood silent in surprise, she said 'An-na,' and made the formal gesture of farewell she had shown him at their first meeting.

'No … Pocahontas,' he said, urgently, beginning to see how she had misunderstood him. 'I still want to speak to your father. I still want to try to make peace. We must.'

*****

Pocahontas groped for meaning, bewildered. This man was a warrior and his people were in battle order. His chief had given him a command. (Almost she had felt relief at what that command was: it left her desolate, but it made things so much simpler.) And he was proposing to disobey that command, and implying she should not be surprised. Surely only the most worthless of men would do such a thing. Did he think she expected him to throw away his honour, betray his own people?

He looked different from before: he was dressed differently, more finely, but it was his strained and worn face that made him look like a stranger: the look of an outcast, it seemed to her. Had she been mistaken in him all along?

'You would turn your back on your chief … why?' she asked, slowly, with dread in her heart.

He passed his hand over his face, tugging at his hair.

'Because he is wrong,' he began, struggling to explain in cumbersome words and gestures. 'Because our people are few and hungry and weak … we cannot defeat you, although he thinks we can … we are lonely and far from home, and it makes the men mad: I mean, they do not see what is really there. I do not want them all to die. But …' he started to speak afresh as if it were the beginning of what he really wanted to say – 'even if none of that were true I would do the same, Pocahontas. Because … I love you, and I love your people in you. I want to know them better.'

He gestured 'love' by putting his arms together before him in an embrace, and Pocahontas felt her heart leap violently. Had they not both known this from the beginning? But to speak the word – what terrible danger would they have to face all at once, now that it was spoken? To say a thing aloud was to prepare to act on it.

But then he said something more, taking a pace forward: 'To kill them would not be right.'

As he said that word 'right' in his foreign language a look like summer lightning flickered over his face. It was clearly a word of power, and Pocahontas wondered what its exact meaning might be. She knew what was good, fit, proper. She knew of duty, law, piety, truth. It was plainly something like those, but more. It looked, in his face, like a command greater than any of them. It could somehow exist outside the bonds of god and kin. It might force a man to die alone and disgraced and still sustain him. She both reached towards it and shrank from it, but she understood why she had trusted John Smith from the beginning: because of right, something in him that pointed the way unfailingly, that balanced the gentleness and strength she saw in him.

'Then let us go and speak to my father,' she said, triumphantly and gaily, and threw her arms around him.

At first the touch, warm, pliant and quicksilver-light, startled him like a burn, or like the twist of a snake in the grasp of someone who thought they had seized a branch. He stepped back and looked at her, astonished: she still held him by the arms and looked into his face with shining eyes. Her pride and self-possession had seemed untouchable; and the distance between himself and her people, a distance of hundreds of years and thousands of miles, could not be lightly crossed, however greatly they loved each other. Simple courtesy forbade it. As he looked at her, he saw she understood this, had given up none of her pride, but still would not let him go. Admiration for her courage rose in him like the great wing-beat of an eagle, and he gave way: he took her in his arms.

For a moment it was as if they wrestled together as he drew her close and she tried to grasp him entire, to bury her fingers in his hair, to measure his whole height and breadth with a hand across his shoulders. Mine, mine … He knew that what he had sensed the first time they met, and what he had felt earlier beside the willow-tree, was now upon him. He had made his choice, and found his home. His burden was laid down once and for all, the barrier between himself and the world was broken, he was swept along drowning in the water of life, unresisting. As he kissed her he felt his parched soul drinking in great draughts. It was comfort and ease beyond telling, and yet ecstasy and challenge, as if it were living fire he were drinking and not just water. What could be difficult, after this? What could they not do, together, now that they had braved the gulf between them and found that it was life-giving?