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The Adventures of Pocahontas and John Rolfe	By : WhiteTigress Category: +M through R > Pocahontas (Disney) > Pocahontas (Disney) Views: 2806 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Pocahontas, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Blood Draw
- 2-A Pirate's Life is Not for Me
- 1
- 2
When Pocahontas was first handed the mop, she regarded it as she would her best friend. The perceived simplicity of the chore never did materialize, for she soon discovered that the blood on the planks refused to wash up entirely. It appeared to be soaked into the grain of the wood, and no matter how she scrubbed, a crimson tinge remained. Worse yet, it appeared the majority of the deck had been tainted. There was even blood on the railing and other hard-to-reach places.
The fear of performing inadequate work stung at her, driving her tirelessly on through the night, though she had had little sleep before the pirate attack. Poor Rolfe, on the other hand, had had none at all. Halfway through the night Flame’s newly appointed First Mate, Leonard Legless, had come to relieve the Captain from command. Every four or so hours she noticed as a crewman came to relieve the other riggers. The unfortunate Englishman was the only exception.
Pocahontas had a strong suspicion that Flame had specifically ordered the crew not to relieve Rolfe. She felt a spike of terror as she saw John rub his eyes, teetering in exhaustion high up on the main mast. He immediately grabbed a hold of the riggings, a look of sheer panic written all over his face. She wanted to call out to him to come down, or to hang a net over the quarterdeck below him at the very least. She calmed down a bit when he was able to move to a slightly safer location closer to the mast.
As she continued her work, Pocahontas became lost in her thoughts, though she always poised herself to keep Rolfe in her peripheral vision. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a painfully hard clap on her back, and turned to see Flame’s hideous but smiling face. “Whoa, there,” said the new Captain, chuckling. “Slow down, my boy. You’ll work yourself to death. When I said I wanted to see my reflection, I didn’t mean turn the whole deck into a mirror. Wouldn’t want the sun reflected in the riggers’ eyes, now would we?”
Pocahontas blinked in surprise and almost dropped her mop, then shook her head in response. She gritted her teeth when he clapped her again in the same sore spot and said, “Off to the sleeping quarters with you, laddie. Wouldn’t want to be stunting your growth for lack of shuteye,” he said in a chummy manner, waving her off.
She wanted to point to John to find out when he would be relieved, but she was afraid that if she let her concern show it could be used against them later. She nodded and walked away from Flame as he turned his attention to the swarthy Bosun. In the light of day he appeared to be a very, very dark shade of brown, rather than pure ebony as she had thought the night before. His features looked different, too. His hair, for instance, was hard to describe. It looked like a thin layer of black fuzz tacked to his skull, and his nose was flatter than most, and stretched out across his face. It was not an unattractive look, just different, and she wondered if she would ever see more people like him (though she hoped others might be nicer).
The disguised woman yawned deeply as she emptied the bucket over the side of the ship. She put the mop and bucket away in the storage room just below deck, and then re-emerged to check on Rolfe. It was clear that his energy level had entered a nosedive when his eyelids fluttered despite his precarious situation. He struggled to keep his eyes even halfway open, and his pull on the lines had weakened considerably. Pocahontas bit her lower lip as she watched in dread.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some movement, and turned to see Flame pointing up at Rolfe behind the Englishman’s back. Standing beside Flame, the Bosun grinned in amusement. The Captain laughed outright with a wicked look in his cold eyes.
Hatred welled up inside Pocahontas, but then she gave in to a sigh of melancholy. The last time she could remember feeling so helpless was when her father had first sentenced John Smith to execution, and that was almost five years ago.
Pocahontas chanted quietly to the wind spirits to keep Rolfe from falling. Her voice was carried away by the gale as she sorely began to miss the liberating feeling of a cool breeze in her long flowing hair. The wind whistled back in response to her chant, giving her some hope that the right spirits had heard her plea and were eager to assist.
She went to check on Meeko before retiring. He had stayed down in the brig with the others, though she was surprised to find that he was slightly more alert than before. He even started sniffing the bread she offered him—a treat that she had snagged from the galley on the way down.
Pocahontas ran a hand through his fur as he investigated the food item. “Don’t give up, Meeko. We’re going to be on the saltwater a little bit longer than expected, but don’t give up,” she murmured.
Meeko reacted with a small purr and started nibbling on the bread. Flit buzzed by and Pocahontas asked him to keep an eye on Meeko for her—to which the small bird responded with a nod. Pocahontas peered into the empty barrel to find Percy still curled up inside. He was fast asleep, so she left him some food and retreated to the sleeping quarters a few floors above.
Settling into a hammock in a room full of loudly snoring pirates bothered her little after what she had been through. She was so tired, but she found sleep elusive as her thoughts went to Rolfe. It was so unfair. Why was Flame picking on John so much and not her? She wanted to see the wicked man flayed alive for what he was doing. She stayed up another hour in hope that Rolfe would soon crawl into the empty hammock above hers. He never appeared, and at last her body gave into the overwhelming need for rest.
…
Pocahontas awoke with a start. What time of day it was, she could not be sure. As she rubbed her eyes clear, she got the impression that it was still daylight from the faint sunglow in the hall. Realization struck her and her eyes darted frantically around the room. Some of the hammocks contained different pirates than before, but none of them contained John. She twisted around to get her feet on the floor and ended up falling flat on her face with a grunt. Her fear numbed the pain and she scrambled up from the planks, bolting out the door.
Pocahontas ran up top and glanced all around the decks. There were plenty of men shuffling about, but none of them were John. She looked to all three masts—no John. Where was he? She ran to the stern of the ship and glanced out into the sea. There appeared to be no bodies floating out there, but the ship was moving pretty fast. Please, spirits, no… she pled as she watched the endless blue sea disappearing behind them under the setting sun.
Then she shook her head violently with determination. No. There were plenty of other places he could be. It was a big ship. She steeled her jaw and went back inside, determined to check every nook and cranny of the vessel. She searched every accessible room from bow to stern, pretending to be performing a chore whenever another pirate came along. At last she came to the hold. It was on the same level of the ship as the brig, but closer to the bow. She crept silently into the large space and peered around in the dim light provided by the lanterns in the hall.
She heard a soft sound and grabbed one of the lanterns, bringing more light into the darkened room. At last, and to her great relief, Pocahontas spotted him. Rolfe was passed out on his belly in a large pile of potatoes, all the way in the back. What the heck was he doing there? She bolted over to him and planted the lamp at the foot of the pile. “John! Wake up!” she cried. She was careful not to shake him in case he was injured. In fact, her first impulse was to pull the rim of his shirt out of his belt and check his back for lash marks. Perhaps that was why he had not come to the hammocks and was lying prone. She was thankful to discover that the skin was smooth and unblemished, at least for now.
As he did not respond to her prompt, she turned him over with a bit of effort and checked his breathing. He was alive, but out cold. There was a rare five o’clock shadow across his jaw, but even more boggling was the cherry-red color that marked his under-eyes, chin, and lower forehead. It could not have been from a slap, as it was not in the shape of a handprint at all, though the flesh appeared somewhat swollen. Bizarre was the only way she could think of to describe it. She still wondered what he was doing down in the hold, and on a pile of potatoes no less.
Finally she could take it no more and she shook him awake. He grunted in response. His reddened eyes could hardly focus at first, but he eventually came to and struggled to sit up. His stiff movements were worrisome to her. “Pocahontas?” he murmured, blinking his eyes repeatedly.
“John, what are you doing down here? Why aren’t you in the—” She paused. “And what happened to your face?”
“What do you mean, I—” Rolfe began, rubbing his eyes. He stopped immediately, gasping in pain. “Oh dear, I’ve got to find a new hat,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Pocahontas said. “Did someone hit you? What happened?”
Rolfe looked at her and blinked. “What? Oh, no. It’s called a sunburn, dear. Don’t worry. It will heal right up in a few days.”
Pocahontas raised an eyebrow in curiosity and was about to interrogate him further when Rolfe suddenly gasped in realization. “Oh, no! I fell asleep? I’m supposed to be peeling potatoes for the crew’s supper tonight. What time is it?” Rolfe cried, struggling to get up. “I’ve got to fill the pot before sundown,” he rasped.
Pocahontas spotted the medium-sized cauldron he was talking about in the nearby corner. It was less than a fourth full. Rolfe bit his lip and peered around frantically. “Now where on earth did my knife go?”
From what Pocahontas remembered from her search on the deck, the sun was getting dangerously close to the horizon. However, like all Powhatan women she was experienced with quick food preparation and could now use the skill to their benefit. She narrowed her eyes and pushed Rolfe down onto his back again, causing him to grunt slightly in pain. “Go to sleep,” she instructed, snatching the knife from the pot. He had somehow managed to drop it into the cauldron before passing out.
Just as he began to protest, she repeated the order, “Go. To. Sleep.” She gave him a look that implied there was to be no argument, the same one her father had given him when he had protested the plan to send Pocahontas to England. It silenced him instantly. Grabbing the first potato, she got to work.
The speed and skill at which she worked shocked Rolfe to the point that his jaw fell open as he watched. “How…?”
“SLEEP!” Pocahontas snapped, and he immediately closed his eyes and let his head fall back in a resting position. He shifted around uncomfortably for a few minutes until she started humming a song her mother sang to her long ago. He stopped moving and soon enough Pocahontas heard the soft sounds of a sleep-induced breathing pattern, and she smiled. She filled the cauldron up to the top in a very short time span. Though the pot was heavy with so many potatoes in it, she hefted it up with a good bit of effort and trekked out of the hold.
On one of the upper levels, she ran into Flame, who was on his way down—to check on Rolfe, no doubt. She suppressed the urge to grin wickedly at the shock in his eyes when he spotted the cauldron she was carrying. His jaw dropped slightly. “Mr. Rolfe give potatoes to me for the men, run off for more work. Where is the galley, Captain?” she innocently inquired in her practiced man-voice.
Without breaking his bewildered stare, Flame pointed down the hall. She nodded her head in a polite gesture of thanks and turned away from him, grinning wickedly when he could not see.
“Tomtom,” Flame suddenly said, causing her to stop in her tracks. She put her poker face back on and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Where did Mr. Rolfe go when he finished with the potatoes, lad?”
Pocahontas shot a glance at the ceiling. “Up,” she said. It was vague enough that he would not know she was lying, but it would also keep him out of the hold while John rested. She might be in a situation beyond her control, but she would be damned before letting a sadist find an excuse to torture someone she loved.
…
Pocahontas was starting to see what John meant by likening their situation to stage acting. Unlike at the Hunt Ball, she was beginning to enjoy the experience of pretending to be someone else. It was a delightful form of deceit. In fact, it reminded her of the childhood games she used to play in which she pretended to be a fox, an eagle, a chieftain, or any number of other things. The high stakes of the current situation only added to her fervor to perform well.
Over the course of a few hours, she led the dreaded Flame all over the ship on a wild goose chase in pursuit of Rolfe. Fortunately his attention was often stolen by demands from the other crewmembers, so he could not engage in a fulltime search. Pocahontas had told Flame that every time she had spotted Rolfe, he was performing another important duty. In fact, she covered for him by performing all of those duties herself and crediting the completed work to him. Flame would have nothing to accuse the English gentleman of thanks to Pocahontas’s cleverness.
It was not until a few hours after dark that supper was announced. As it turned out, it was the busiest time for her. As the Cabin Boy, she was expected to run back and forth between the galley and mess hall to serve the whole crew. She really pushed herself in an effort to stay on everyone’s good side. The last thing she wanted was to make enemies of any of the pirates. So she forced herself to laugh at all the jokes she heard, no matter how unfunny or inappropriate. She feebly joined in the drunken idiotic songs of the crew, even providing entertainment with an impressive fire-spinning act learned from her tribe.
The only individual she did not earn a gold-toothed grin from was the Bosun. He appeared outwardly to be a mostly humorless man, and the way he stared at her always chilled her to the core. She worried about her inability to assess his motives. Could he see through her disguise? If so, why had he not exposed her yet? Fortunately, he did not keep his attention on her for long periods of time—else she likely would have fumbled during her performance.
At the end of the feast, she was pleased to discover that all the pirates were privileged to take as much food as they liked to keep themselves sustained throughout the day. The cook only prepared one large meal after dark, and there was plenty to be had. The rum rations she had heard mention of were on account of the rum supply being low, given the pirates were all heavy drinkers. But fortunately for her, John, Meeko, Percy, and Flit, rum was the only scarce resource aboard the pirating ship.
Starved from the day’s labor, Pocahontas stuffed herself full before going in search of something to carry food down to Rolfe in. She found an empty burlap sack in the galley and filled it with breads, cheeses, fruits, and other food items when her duties were finished. It had likely been at least twenty-four hours since John had eaten, she realized, so she snuck back down to the hold. Rolfe was still knocked out on the pile of potatoes, and she had to sprinkle some water on his face to rouse him.
He snapped awake with a start, breathing heavily as his eyes darted around in an attempt to assess his surroundings. “What’s happened? How long have I been asleep?” he cried.
Pocahontas hushed him and pressed a kiss to his lips to calm him down, which worked like magic. When she pulled away, and before he could say anything else, she stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. It took his brain barely a fraction of a second to analyze the foreign material before he ravenously tore a piece off the loaf and began to wolf it down.
“Chew, John. Don’t make yourself sick,” Pocahontas reprimanded, handing him with a skin full of fresh rainwater.
He took it readily and emptied half of it in the span of a few seconds. No matter, she had brought another in the sack. She showed him the contents and his eyes widened at the feast made available to him. He glanced up at her. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?” he blurted, casually interlacing his fingers.
“Mhmm,” Pocahontas replied, presenting him with a hunk of cheese. He took it gratefully and began to feast again, devouring both the bread and cheese in the span of a few short minutes.
“Is there any meat in there?” Rolfe suddenly inquired. When Pocahontas presented him with a leg of lamb, he thought he would die happy.
She heard him muttering a prayer of thanks just before he bit into the tender flesh. “There is wine available, too,” she added. “I was pleased to discover that there are no rations for food, only rum because it is scarce. Everyone is allowed to eat as much as they want.”
Rolfe swallowed the bite in his mouth and met her eyes. “That is an important discovery, Pocahontas. It should increase our chances significantly. In fact, I want you to make it a priority to eat as much as you possibly can during our time on this ship. We may or may not have to go without food for some time after we escape. The more weight you and I put on now, the better our chances of survival later. Understand?”
Pocahontas nodded. “Don’t worry. I stuffed myself, too. I’m so full right now that I fear I’ll burst if I bend the wrong way,” she replied, laughing.
“Perfect,” Rolfe said as she presented him with the skin of wine. He bit off another large hunk of the lamb leg and washed it down with the sweet beverage. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry in my entire life,” he suddenly stated, shifting the leg of lamb around to the meatier side. “It’s an odd feeling. Painful at first, but then immensely pleasurable.” He took another bite.
Despite the desperation of their situation, manners were not entirely lost on one in whom they had been so deeply ingrained. Rolfe made a point of keeping his face clean throughout the meal to the point Pocahontas almost wanted to roll her eyes. “So John, I’ve had to tell many lies, but I’ve led the scarred man to believe that you have been busy performing duties throughout the ship. I think it would not be unreasonable for you to ask him if you can retire now, and hopefully get more sleep. Thanks to your brilliant plan, he has been going easy on me. I can help take some of the pressure off of you, in turn,” she explained.
Rolfe’s mouth was full as he devoured his meal, though he gave her a nod to indicate he understood. She prompted him on the duties she had completed for him so he would know what to say to Flame if asked. When he was almost done eating, she added, “I think if we work together, we can keep the lash off your back until we have a chance to escape. But you need to be unafraid to rely on me for support, just as I have you.”
She was surprised to see Rolfe nod again, as she almost expected a bit of argument from him. He wiped his mouth and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You have proven to me many times that you are capable of far more than I thought you were. I will try not to underestimate you again, my dear,” he expressed, making her smile. After a short pause, he continued, “Now, have you checked on Meeko, Percy, and Flit? Are they alright?”
She nodded. “I brought them food, too. They seem to want to stay in the brig because they are afraid of the pirates.”
Rolfe snorted as he slowly and painfully rose to his feet. “Well, that makes five of us,” he added, followed by a hiss of pain. He carefully reached up to stretch his sore back and then let his arms fall to his side again, yawning. “Oh my, I must look absolutely dreadful,” he muttered to himself, scratching the rough, itchy stubble on his chin.
“Speak for yourself,” Pocahontas murmured sullenly, frowning down at the floorboards. She shifted uncomfortably in the tight corset. Her chest felt like a furnace and she desperately wished she could throw it off and cool down, but she could not risk discovery. The Great Spirit only knew how long she would have to wear the dreadful garment.
“Now Pocahontas, don’t be silly. You could be wearing nothing but mud and you’d still be the most ravishing thing I’d ever laid eyes upon,” Rolfe countered. She flushed slightly and gave him a half-grin as he turned to face her. He took her hand in his. “Now listen, darling. There’s something we need to discuss and I fear it may be an unpleasant subject, but one we must cover nonetheless.”
When her face fell slightly at the ill-boding statement, he wagged a finger at her. “Don’t be like that,” he admonished. “There’s a good chance that everything will be all right. But in case our luck takes a turn for the worst, I want us to be prepared. If something happens to me, I firmly believe you can still make it back home on your own.”
A gasp escaped her lips as Rolfe buried a hand in one of the pockets of his filthy breeches, pulling out a small coin purse. He placed it on her palm and closed her slim fingers around the item. “This should be just enough gold for you to barter passage back to Virginia once the ship arrives in Tortuga. Be on the lookout. Tortuga is a dangerous place populated by cutthroat fiends, but if you can successfully blend in and find a ship headed in the right direction, you could get yourself home. Also, in the spot below the brig floorboards, I also hid the necklace I gave you in London. It is quite valuable, so if these coins aren’t enough, you could use that as added leverage. This is assuming you aren’t given a share of the plunder if and when we attack a Spanish ship. All in all, I believe your chances are quite good, love. Just don’t lose hope.” He finished his short speech by planting a kiss on the back of her hand.
Pocahontas’s bottom lip began to quiver and she tried to shove the coin purse back at him. “No, John! I can’t accept this. You’re going to be fine. We’ll get home together. I know we—”
Rolfe silenced her by placing a finger on her lips and he shoved the purse in the pocket of her trousers. “This is not up for discussion, Pocahontas. I’m not saying anything is going to happen, but if it does, I want to ensure your safety as much as possible. I have every intention of getting you safely back to your father, or I will die trying. However if you promise me that you won’t give up even if I do die, you will greatly increase my chances of survival. That is a certainty. If there’s any resource I’m scarcest on at the moment, it is peace of mind.”
Pocahontas felt her nose start to run and her vision went blurry, but she forced herself to nod through the tears. Rolfe wrapped his arms around her as she buried her face in his chest, clinging hopelessly to his shirt with her hands. She breathed heavily.
Rolfe flinched when a familiar little bird showed up in his line of vision. Pocahontas noticed the sudden movement and turned around, meeting Flit’s eyes as he squeaked in melancholy. Her animal friends never did like seeing her upset.
“Hello, Flit,” Rolfe greeted as he rubbed the small of Pocahontas’s back. “Are you and the others holding up alright?” The hummingbird seemed to shrug in response. “Oh, well, at least there haven’t been any disasters, right?” he replied, weary.
Pocahontas dried her eyes. “Come on, John. Let’s make an appearance before anyone gets suspicious,” she said. Rolfe smiled at her. She grabbed the dim lantern on the floor and led the way out the door to the hall.
…
Contrary to expectations, things did start to get slightly easier after the first few hellish days. Thanks to Pocahontas’s constant support, Rolfe was able to avoid the lash, although they had a few close calls every now and again. The Englishman began to put on more muscle to the point that his clothes tightened around his frame. Pocahontas managed to find him a hat with a string, allowing him to bind it to his head against the harsh winds up in the masts. He was fortunate to suffer no more sunburns after that.
As much as Rolfe hated itchy facial hair, he felt compelled to let a short beard grow out to give him a rougher, more pirate-like appearance. Short of cutting off a hand and replacing it with a hook, he did everything he could to make himself less of an easy target to Flame and the others.
As part of his developing escape plan, he made an effort to befriend one of the ship’s navigators to gain access to the ship’s land map. The task proved to be much easier said than done. For his calm and intellectual manner, Rolfe did not find it easy to be liked amongst the pirates. It was a hard learning experience for him, as he had always made friends easily in high English society. On the pirate ship however, he got punched a few times for his cordial efforts.
Pocahontas fretted over him quite a bit when he would show up with a black eye or any number of other new cuts and bruises. However by the end of week one, Rolfe actually felt he was making progress with some of the curs, as far as peaceful relations go. He had to make multiple adjustments to all his practiced social behaviors to achieve even the tiniest results, though.
What was most worrisome to Pocahontas was the fact that the Bosun never seemed to lose interest in Rolfe. She often spotted the large man watching him from a prominent position on the ship’s quarterdeck. The look in his dark eyes was unreadable. From what they had seen the first day after the attack, the Bosun was also the man who bore the cat ‘o nine tails against offending crewmembers.
Fortunately, Pocahontas had been able to duck into a privy in the belly of the ship and cover her ears when the beating of the clumsy blond pirate had taken place. From what she had heard, it had been quite brutal indeed. She had not seen the man again and later learned that he was recovering in the medical bay. The pirates considered three lashes a light punishment, but judging by the size and strength of the whip-bearer, it had the potential to kill. The brutality present in these men’s lives was unimaginable to her, and it kept Pocahontas on her toes throughout the southbound voyage.
At the beginning of the second week the winds evened out, meaning the sails could be left in one position for longer without the ship losing speed. This relieved most of the riggers to partake in other duties, and occasionally even a bit of leisurely activities such as gambling in the mess hall and fencing up on the deck. It was at this time that Rolfe asked Flame permission to begin teaching ‘Tomtom’ the art of sword fighting. Surprised to discover that the boy was a complete beginner, the Captain consented to the training straightaway.
Rolfe selected two wooden practice swords from the armory down in the hold and began teaching Pocahontas the basic fencing poses on the quarterdeck in the early mornings and late evenings. She learned much faster than expected and was soon able to move onto basic moves, followed by more advanced maneuvers.
When Flame had come to observe that Rolfe was as good as his word in terms of the work he was willing and able to do, his malicious attentions toward the Englishman eased up somewhat. Still, the Bosun’s constant lurking attentions on John unnerved Pocahontas to the point that she finally pulled Rolfe inside the empty storage room and warned him to watch his back when the large man was around.
When Rolfe peered at the big man out of the window and gulped in apprehension, it did not make Pocahontas feel any better. “Well thanks, Pocahontas. I’d been so busy, I had not really noticed. I really must learn to become more observant if we’re ever to get out of here in one piece,” he replied, turning from the window. He placed a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand in a gesture of appreciation.
She gave him a half-smile, suddenly reminded of just how much she missed being treated like a real woman. It was a privilege she had taken for granted her whole life up until now. She wanted this nightmare to end, and she wanted it to end soon, but she knew she would have to keep holding on tight for the ride.
Pocahontas sighed and wiped away a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her hat. “To think, if this had never happened, we’d be home by now,” she lamented, sitting down on the top of a small barrel. She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her palms. A moment later, she felt Rolfe’s warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder, and it seemed to do the trick and brought her back into the present.
Thereafter whenever Pocahontas spoke in a manner tinged with despair, Rolfe had been there to remind her that all things happen for a reason. Perhaps the powers that be were testing them, seeing what they were made of for some divine purpose. Perhaps many years later, they would look back at all this craziness and laugh. They could only keep hoping and planning, spying and observing—waiting for their chance to make a clean getaway. Through it all, Rolfe was there to keep her grounded, and she him.
…
One night near the end of the second week, Pocahontas was attending to her usual Cabin Boy duties in the mess hall. Most of the crewmen had finished their meals already and left to either sleep, gamble, or drink their rum ration up on the deck. Very few were on duty. With the winds relatively stable, all they needed were a few night watchmen and a navigator.
Only a tight clique of about five pirates remained in the far corner of the mess hall after hours. Even so, Pocahontas was expected to remain in case they required service. The posse sat around a medium-sized circular table with only one lantern in the center to provide lighting. When Pocahontas was called over to deliver a mug of ale, she observed that the men were playing some kind of game with rectangular pieces of stiff paper. All the rectangles were decorated with intricate patterns. She had glanced such a game in London on occasion, but had never thought to ask what it was about.
Pocahontas was slightly curious, but too tired to inquire. However she managed to get pulled into the action anyway when she barely overheard something whispered by one of the men that caught her interest. “…enraged deities of the…ride the wind…favor attacking on the Spanish…” From his tone of voice, it sounded like he was recounting some deep, dark secret tale to the other men.
Pocahontas quietly shuffled out into the hall and ran to the wall between her and the pirates. There were a few small holes in the wood, so she stuck her ear up against one. Now she could listen in with more clarity. She just had to keep an eye on the stairwell ahead to make sure no one caught her eavesdropping.
“Aye, tis’ true, men,” another pirate confirmed. This was a baldheaded man with a burn scar in the shape of a spider on his skull. “Some of the wenches in Tortuga were sold to the brothels by the Spaniards. They are the survivors. Cortez ravaged the Aztec tribes for the gold, plundering and pillaging village after village. They say the death god could no longer contain all the lost souls in the afterlife. He tried to stretch it further into the black expanse, but it ruptured and released tens of thousands of murdered souls back into the living land. Some got caught up in the wind, others the ocean currents. The mindless spirits of the dead seek only one thing—revenge.”
“Sounds like a load of crock,” another man retorted, rolling his eyes at the storyteller. “How stupid can you—”
“NO!” countered the bald cur, slamming a fist down on the table. The whole room seemed to rattle with the impact. “There is proof. Look around you, fool. Why do you think the winds have been so strong and even over a week straight? They know we hunt the Spaniards and they want to help us. Why do you think the Draw could ride through the pall of that storm two weeks back like a bird on a breeze when this ship could not? They wanted us to take the ship, have the advantage. They control the elements. There have been reports of Spanish ships sucked into the belly of the ocean for no apparent reason. Have you not heard?”
“What are you doing, boy?” came a fearsome deep voice from behind. Pocahontas thought her heart would pop out of her chest in that instant. Fortunately over the course of the last two weeks, she had learned how to suppress the impulse to yelp when startled. Instead, she simply jolted and spun around, coming face to face with a towering dark figure.
The Bosun wore his usual vacant expression. He did not appear angry, per se—but neither did he appear amused. Pocahontas knew she would have to think fast on her feet to get out of this one. Then again, how incriminating was eavesdropping aboard a pirate ship anyway?
“I am sorry,” Pocahontas began, tempted to remove her hat and place it on her chest as she had seen Rolfe do many times in a gesture of humble submission. “In village, there was much storytelling. I was missing to listen to story. Did not want to bother the men. I am sorry. It is childish…” she weakly explained, fighting the urge to shuffle her feet.
The Bosun placed a hand on his chin seemingly as he considered her words. Finally he walked past her and waved a hand in the direction he was going. “Come, boy. I have many stories from my homeland. Where I come from, there is nothing ‘childish’ about stories,” he replied in the strangest accent she had ever heard. She realized it was the first time she had heard him speak loud and clear.
While Pocahontas was relieved she would not be punished for eavesdropping, fear of following the large man welled up inside her. On the other hand, she began to feel an intense sense of curiosity. What would she learn from this man if she dared listen? After a moment’s hesitation, she decided the risk was worth it. Rolfe had instructed her to glean any information from the crew whenever she could. Perhaps she would discover why the Bosun was inclined to watch John so intensely, though she feared the answer.
Pocahontas nodded and began to follow. “I would like that, sir,” she mumbled. He said nothing more as he led her to the end of the hall. She held her eyes down until they reached their destination. To her great surprise, it turned out the Bosun was occupying Rolfe’s former cabin.
Pocahontas felt her heart lurch at the realization that he might have found some document in Rolfe’s room indicating their real identities. However, the fear was mostly squelched when she crept inside at the Bosun’s invite. It appeared Rolfe had hurriedly purged his cabin of any and all incriminating evidence, most likely through the window hatch on the far wall. It was still open to allow a calm breeze to enter. The Englishman was smart. Of course he would not have left any loose ends that could endanger the woman he loved.
“Sit anywhere you like,” the Bosun instructed as he plopped down heavily into the silk-cushioned desk chair that once belonged to Rolfe. He put his large feet up on the fine oak desk without even kicking off his heavy black boots, and leaned back in the chair.
Pocahontas glanced around and spotted a similar chair in the corner. She pulled it closer and sat down in it. While she would normally have preferred the floor, the man’s presence was towering enough without her being so far below him. She tensed as the man pulled out a knife from his belt. When he casually took the blade to a small wooden carving piece pulled out of his pocket, she relaxed a bit. He was only whittling.
“You have a name, sir?” Pocahontas inquired in a voice more timid than she would have liked. “Other than Bosun…?”
He stilled his carving, and glanced up at her with a dark expression. She gulped. The Bosun gently bit his lower lip as his gaze fell again, perhaps in thought. Finally he replied. “No. I have no name, boy.”
Pocahontas blinked in confusion. The Bosun paused, and then sighed. “I had one once,” he added, lifting his chin to look at her. “Long, long ago. But it was stolen.” He met her eyes. “Guard yours with your life.” He deftly spun the knife in his hand and rammed the blade tip into the oaken desktop without breaking eye contact.
Pocahontas blinked. Stolen…? How could a name be stolen? As enigmatic as the Bosun’s words were to her, she felt bizarrely compelled to learn more. Fearing to offend him, she hesitated until she found the right wording for her next question. “Where are you from? I have not seen men like you. Never before,” she explained.
Unexpectedly, the Bosun grinned at her. He pulled his knife out of the oak and returned to carving. “We are not so different, in fact,” he replied, peeling a narrow grain of wood from the carving and chucking it behind him. Glancing under his chair, she noticed a growing pile of woodcarvings on the floor by the desk.
Pocahontas raised her eyebrows in surprise as he continued, “At least, neither of us are white.” He abruptly pulled his feet off the desktop and faced her fully. “I feel I can trust you, boy. Your blood is not tainted like the others. We are the only two purebloods onboard, I believe,” he said, flicking a finger back and forth between the two of them. He shook his head and sighed. “It is a pity we are forced to communicate in the tongue of the enemy.”
Pocahontas widened her eyes in surprise. This man… this large, mysterious man from an unknown land was confiding in her? She felt put in an awkward position, but then she considered the possibilities this new development might hold for her and John. Perhaps she could learn something of use to them, to aid in their survival. She nodded, encouraging the Bosun to continue.
“Let me ask you a question before I begin the first story, boy. Is your name really Tomtom, or were you forced to shorten it for the tongue-twisted pale men?” the Bosun unexpectedly inquired.
Pocahontas raised an eyebrow at the odd question. “There is a long version, but short was used in village before the white men came. For ceremony,” she explained, “it is Timtomitloctl.” She had known a Tomtom from another village when she was a child, as she recalled. For some reason, his was the first face she thought of when John told her to pick a man’s name from her culture.
The Bosun chuckled. “Of course, no white man could pronounce such a beautiful name as yours, boy. They are like children, needing short names. More than three beats and they get confused. I had a beautiful name once too, long as the trunk of the jimjumjea tree.”
The grin fell from his face. Pocahontas could not quite place the look in his eyes in that instant. He no longer seemed present in the room. He had to be reminiscing on some distant time and place. Though what his thoughts consisted of precisely, she could not even hope to guess.
A few delayed seconds later, the Bosun shook his head and returned from his brief trance. “All that matters now is retribution. The land of my people was a paradise of balance. The balance has been lost, but the chaos did not stop there. It spread much further. The first story I have to tell you, boy, is of the Coming of the White Devil.” The tone in his voice had taken a downward turn at the end and the look in his eyes darkened.
“Like you, I am of royalty. My father was a great chief who presided over many villages throughout the jungle,” he began, stopping when he saw her raise an eyebrow.
“What is jungle?” Pocahontas inquired. “Is that word in your tongue?”
The Bosun shook his head. “It is an English word. Jungle is a dense forest. Very hot and very wet all year long. There is no snow, ever. Jungles are common in the land of Affrika, far south of the pale man’s homeland. The word for jungle in my tongue was swiliwatsuana. But my tongue is gone. It was stolen, like my name.”
Pocahontas found herself frowning. Could she actually be feeling sympathy for this wicked man? Could the circumstances of his life truly be responsible for his cruel nature? She had to learn more, so she watched him attentively.
He continued, “The people of my tribe did not wear clothes. Only jewelry of many, many beads made from painted stones, fired clay, and seashells. The land was rich and we were a prosperous people, successful at expelling our enemies whenever they came of threat. My parents were warriors, both, tall and strong. Our staple food was jimumbaia porridge, made from the pulp of the jimjumjea tree, but the local diet was diverse. We gorged ourselves on fruits, roots, bee honey, clams, and ox meat and blood when the rains came each year in an enormous celebration. The coming of the heavy rains was considered the time when the land was reborn, as the sodden sky breathed new life into the earth, like a mother nursing her newborn child.”
Pocahontas found herself becoming absorbed in the tale, his intricate descriptions bringing her into a new world her eyes had never had the privilege to see. She wondered if John Smith had seen such a place, and regretted never having the opportunity to talk with the blue-eyed sailor in depth about his travels. As Pocahontas peered into the Bosun’s eyes, he almost seemed to be in another time long past as he recounted the story. She thought she spotted a glimmer of remembered happiness—stolen, of course, like all the things this man once knew.
“I was about your age, boy, when the world as I knew it changed, perhaps a little older. I was considered seventeen by the white man’s calculations. My people measured time in seasons, of which there were two per year—the wet season and the dry season. I was precisely thirty-five seasons old at the time my older brother spotted strange clouds off the coast of our jungle.”
Pocahontas gasped, and the Bosun raised a brow. “I… I saw the strange clouds over the trees, too. I had heard the spirits whisper of them,” she blurted. When she realized what she had said, she almost wanted to clap a hand over her mouth. It would not be wise for her to confide as well. This man could not be trusted, after all. She mentally kicked herself and resolved to watch her tongue thereafter.
To her surprise, the Bosun simply nodded. “It is a tale I have heard from many such as us, child. It was a jimjumjea spirit that told my brother. The white man sailed to your shores for gold, did he not?” the man inquired.
Pocahontas gave an affirmative head bob and said, “He found none.”
The Bosun nodded softly, indicating his understanding. “You were lucky. Although it did you little good as the pale King has declared war on your people anyway. They will not survive. You know this to be true. In my land, the pale men came looking for hard rocks called diamonds. They were worthless to us beyond use as simple tools, but the white men hungered for them as lions for zebra flesh.”
His blunt statement showed little sympathy for her people’s supposed impending demise, but Pocahontas figured he had been ruthlessly hardened by the experiences he was about to detail. She frowned at the bleakness of it all, but allowed him to continue.
“The white men on our shores pretended to be friendly at first. They showed an interest in learning our tongue and some of our ways. They were few in number, and we did not see them as a threat. Though their weapons were powerful, they never used them to threaten us. We believed their thunder-sticks were for hunting only. As our land was abundant, we were naïve enough to give them what they asked for. In our negotiations with them, we set only two rules—they were to stay away from our women, and our holy burial mounds. That was all. We were willing to share food, water, beads, anything else of value that they wished of us, because we had so much.”
As he paused, he seemed to shake his head in sorrow. Pocahontas’s gaze fell as she bit her bottom lip in a dejected manner. “Their leader was a young white man with hair the color of the sun at midday,” he said after a short silence.
This statement caught Pocahontas’s attention and she looked up as he added, “And eyes the color of the sky. In my tribe, a boy is considered a man at twenty-four seasons of age, and may take his first wife. The ordinary man is allowed a new wife every two seasons, until he reaches the limit he can provide for. Most men reached their limit with somewhere between three and five women. As a prince, I was very wealthy, and could support a great many wives with my bounty. When the white men arrived, I had already collected well over thirty wives and nearly as many children.”
He paused and seemed to contemplate something just before he looked up at Pocahontas again. “Have you had the chance to be with a woman yet, boy?” he unexpectedly asked.
The sudden inquisition confounded Pocahontas and she blinked in surprise. She felt her face flush as she shook her head. What a bizarre thought… she realized, but threw off the absurd notion.
The Bosun just shrugged. “I fear the pirating life does not accommodate maidens well, but if you desire, we can set you up with a wench in Tortuga. I know it is not ideal, but better than going without.” He winked at her, and continued, “Anyway, I was about to take another wife, in fact—my favorite. Her name was Shanqilshatsuq. She was a beauty to rival the starlit night itself. In fact, her beauty is difficult to describe. The wretched white man’s tongue could never do her justice,” he explained, shaking his head in suppressed anger. He met Pocahontas’s eyes. “The people of her village were so enamored of her grace, in fact, that there was a song about her that travelled the land. It was how I first learned of her. Would you like to hear it?”
Pocahontas nodded, never breaking eye contact. With that, the Bosun began. Despite the gruffness of his speaking voice, his melodic range was more colorful and varied than the wind. Pocahontas closed her eyes as she listened, letting the music wash upon her like a gentle surf.
“Shanqilshatsuq sinsqatsuan gana gei prusutan
Leia leia Shanqilshatsuq estpece tea tintantuan
Beia beia Shanqilshatsuq estpece tea lestitqintan
Shanqilshatsuq, e, Shanqilshatsuq pece seqinsan
Jinjinjinjin jabequan Shanqilshatsuq, suequetan.”
It was not so much the meaning of the specific words that came to her consciousness as images of what they described, in the flesh. She entered a trance-like state of the time the Bosun had first laid eyes upon Shanqilshatsuq. As the woman of impeccable proportions and features approached, the sun rose red in the background, soon to be splattered by blood across the alien landscape. Pocahontas awoke with a start, looking shaken.
“Are you all right, boy?” the Bosun asked, raising a brow. He observed that she was breathing rather heavily and kept his gaze on her as realization dawned. “You saw it, didn’t you?” he murmured.
Pocahontas said not a word, but nodded fiercely. The Bosun looked impressed. “In my land, the men and women with your powers are called spirit-eyes. I am one, too, as were my brother and mother. It is a pity, there are so few of us left now that the White Plague has spread so far over the earth.”
Pocahontas glanced downward for a second, and then met the Bosun’s eyes again. She was almost afraid to voice her next question. “…So what happened to Shanqilshatsuq?” she murmured in a timid tone. She noted a flash of pain in the Bosun’s eyes, and immediately regretted her words. “I am sorry, I did not mean—” she began, but he put up a hand to silence her.
“It’s fine, boy. I was going to get to that anyway. It is part of the story. In a word, Shanqilshatsuq betrayed me… for the sun-haired man. The pompous woman believed her beauty entitled her to something beyond a mere ‘prince.’ In her youthful naivety, she wrongly believed the man to be a god. I did not know for a while, in fact. I had a suspicion on the night of our wedding, for she did not break as a proper maiden should. But I was so enamored of her perfection that I ignored my better judgment. I blinded myself to her deception, because I wanted her so. In retrospect, I realize I did not wish to know the truth. It was not until over a season later that the truth fell screaming from her loins, the spawn of a fair-skinned demon. Never did I think so hideous a monstrosity could come from one so elegant as Shanqilshatsuq. It defies reason, boy!” the Bosun decried with great intensity.
Pocahontas’s jaw fell open. Was this man referring to a hybrid child as a ‘monstrosity’? It was not the child’s fault it had been born. The Bosun’s outburst did not sit right with Pocahontas. If she got her way, her own future children would be of two peoples as well. The young woman felt her hands shaking slightly. The story had gone far enough at this point, and she feared hearing the rest of it.
But the Bosun continued regardless. “When caught, she confessed. As you can imagine, Shanqilshatsuq’s crime had to be punished according to our ways. Mere infidelity is put to rest with a painful death, but Shanqilshatsuq’s case was extreme. Because she had chosen to lie with the devil, her demise was long and slow, and it began with the burning of the squalling demon spawn before her eyes.” Pocahontas’s body went numb in an instant. She could not process what he had said.
After all they had discussed, after she had thought she had come to understand him, her fear of this enormous man returned with a vengeance. She could scarcely stop her body from trembling as he continued his tale, blind to her horrified demeanor. The ringing in her ears took on a heightened trill when she heard a chuckle escape his lips.
The Bosun was smiling. “At dawn the morning after, we ambushed the demon’s settlement with well over a thousand warriors. Their guns killed many of our men, but the sacrifice turned out to be well worth it when the sun-haired man was captured. Do you know what we do with demons in our land?” he asked her with a vengeful gleam in his eye. Pocahontas gulped and shook her head slowly.
“We take three or four hooks about the size of my fist,” the Bosun explained, showing her his large fist for reference. “Then we stab them through the skin along the demon’s shoulders until the points stick through, just the skin—not the muscle or the bones. The ends of the hooks are tied to heavy rope. We used the rope to hang the demon from a tree, but that was only the beginning…”
Pocahontas suddenly felt her stomach lurch, and knew it was about time to find a way to slip off. The relief at discovering the sun-haired man in the tale could not have been John Smith did nothing to assuage her horror. Thinking fast, she feigned a yawn. “Your story is wonderful, sir. I have been up very long. Can continue later?” she timidly inquired.
The Bosun blinked, but then nodded. “Of course, a growing boy needs his sleep. Run along, child. There are many more stories to tell and plenty of time for the telling,” he said, rising to his feet. He trod over to the door and opened it for her departure.
Pocahontas stood up, but just when she was about to go, the Bosun suddenly said, “Oh, but one more thing before you retire, boy. It is a very important thing that I have been meaning to warn you about. I know you are still a child and would not know better, so it would be wise to heed my advice.”
Pocahontas stopped in her tracks and raised a brow in curiosity, so he continued, “We destroyed all the men in the settlement that day, but there were still some on the ship. They left and returned with an armada, and you can guess what happened afterwards. White men cannot be trusted, boy. Do not trust your white friend, the one with the ivory-pale skin. You know whom I am talking about. He may have helped you in London, but that is all part of their deceit. He wants something from you. Be on the lookout,” he warned. “And never underestimate the white man’s wit. It is his most dangerous weapon.”
With that, he allowed her to leave and shut the door behind her to retire himself. Pocahontas was extremely shaken at that point, so she suddenly found herself bolting through the halls and up the stairwell to the crew’s sleeping quarters. She found Rolfe in one of the hammocks, but he was so exhausted from the day’s work that he was impossible to rouse. She desperately wanted him to comfort her, but she knew she would have to wait. Not wanting to rob him of much-needed sleep, she resolved to address the issue the following day.
Pocahontas curled up in the hammock below his. Despite her suspicion that sleep would be elusive after listening to such a horrifying tale, she found that she did feel slightly better being close to Rolfe, even if he was fast asleep. She briefly glanced around the room to make sure all the sleeping pirates were facing away before she reached up and held his dangling hand. That small bit of warmth was enough to calm her nerves, and she eventually fell to troubled dreams.
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The Adventures of Pocahontas and John Rolfe