Free Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) by Angela Hunt, Angela Elwell Hunt Page B

viewpoint, had thus far preserved his life.
    Smith rubbed his beard and leaned on the ship’s rail, tasting his recollections of danger with pleasure. On account of his Protestant beliefs he had once been tossed overboard from a similar ship en route to Italy. Picked up by a passing skipper, he had joined a corps of Hungarians who lived solely to fight Turks, and while amongst them he had invented an incendiary bomb that effectively dislodged enemy positions. In a duel for his life, he beheaded three Turkish champions, but at the battle of Rotenthurn he was wounded and carried off by the Turks. He thought fortune had given him a wry smile when he was sold as a slave to an aristocratic woman, but she lent Smith to her bullying brother who delighted in humiliating servants. After killing the tyrant in self-defense, Smith escaped through Russia while wearing a slave’s iron collar about his neck.
    Virginia had seemed a logical choice for a willing adventurer, but there was no doubt that he and trouble could not be separated for long. Mayhap he had voiced his opinion too forcefully on an occasion or two aboard ship, but that cursed Captain Newport was touchy beyond reason! And a man shouldn’t be chained below deck simply for questioning the wisdom of lolling around in the ocean when there was work to be done. That pompous aristocrat Edward Wingfield, however, was more intent upon Smith’s demise than Newport. On the Caribbean island of Nevis, Wingfield had actually dared to construct a gallows with a noose intended for Smith’s neck. But Smith had faced his disgruntled accusers and blithely remarked that they were handsome gallows, but he could not be persuaded to use them.
    Oh, the frustration on Newport’s and Wingfield’s faces! Only the diplomacy of Reverend Robert Hunt could calm them enough to call the men aboard ship so the voyage could begin its final journey. And Smith had climbed the gangplank with poise, his hands still shackled behind him, his confidence unwavering.
    “To overcome,” Smith whispered at the ship’s rail, smiling as he watched the waves strive to reach the stars, “is to live.”
    Yea, throughout his twenty-and-seven years, only two things had moved John Smith: a mild interest in money and an unshakable passion for adventure.

Chapter Three
     
     
    Surrounded by animal sounds and the stirring of dark river waters, the children’s canoe drifted throughout the night. Fallon woke to see dawn brightening the sky above, and lifted a corner of the grass mat to peer out. Several Indian canoes lined a clearing on the riverbank ahead, and in the moist, chill air Fallon could smell cook fires. The delicious aroma made his stomach cramp with sudden hunger.
    Careful not to disturb the sleeping children, Fallon put his hands in the water and quietly guided the canoe to the shore. He slid noiselessly from the boat into the water, beached the canoe firmly in the sand, then flung the dew-heavy mat back over the sleeping children.
    Twenty feet downstream he saw a trail leading away from the water, and as he crouched down and crept nearer, the tall timbers of a palisade rose in the distance. He closed his eyes, trying to remember which Indian villages lay south on the Chowan River. Was this Tandaquomuc? Metackwem?
    His heart went into sudden shock when a painted warrior stepped out of the gloom, the tip of his spear gleaming white in the semi-darkness. Fallon uttered a quick greeting, knowing his life depended upon the ease with which he spoke in the Algonquin tongue, and the Indian indicated the trail with a jerk of his head. Fallon stepped forward, his heart in his throat, but he had no choice but to follow the path before him and face the village chief, the werowance.
    The warrior called to his fellows as he escorted Fallon into the village. A crowd followed in their wake, and the werowance came out of his hut to greet the visitor. They met near the center of the village, and Fallon could feel the eyes