George Percy pushed back the door leading to the deck, paused
a moment to survey the sky, and pressed onward into the wind.
A year ago, he would have called the conditions he now
observed a storm, he thought to himself.
    That was before the last three and a half months at sea. Today,
he had to lower his head to walk into the stiff wind, but it seemed
gentle compared to the gales the Susan Constant had endured off and
on these past weeks.
    The sky hung heavy with billowing white clouds, a definite
improvement over the rain-soaked grey sky of only hours before. At
least he had a clear head, Percy thought to himself. Not too many
months ago, on a similar white cloud day, Percy had awakened sick to his stomach amid a drunken jumble of naked limbs. It was the morning after a party given by Queen Anne for her brother, Christian IV of Denmark.
    George grimaced, giving a dark look to the face for whom too many ladies of the court and of the evening pined even now, trying to remember enough of that oh-so-long-ago evening to remember to whom the lovely limbs belonged. Had it been Faith, Hope or Charity? Each of them at some point in the evening had tumbled drunkenly into the first arms which caught them. Those were not their real names, of course, simply the characters they played in the masque, a play put on by the Lords and Ladies for benefit of their King & Queen.

    Ah, yes, he remembered. The lovely redhead who had rested her head upon his chest was Hope. Hope was snoring, a sound which somehow even today cast a pall upon the memory. Hope, forgiving the pun, was something George had very little of this morning  -- and could not remember having much of while in England. On that morning, he had sat with his head hurting, looking about for something to help his hangover, remembering the many warnings given him by his older brother, the Earl of Northumberland, to stay clear of the Court's rowdiness or find himself cut off from the Percy inheritance upon which his lifestyle depended. It was at this point he had realized that His Majesty, James I, was sprawled on a mattress across the room. James had neither Faith nor Charity to comfort him, however. The king of England had slept with a pink-faced boy. Well, maybe not a boy. But a man young in years.
    That episode, only one in a series of what elder brother Henry referred to debaucheries, was probably the straw that broke the camel's back and sent me on this trip the new world, Percy thought wryly.
    He had repeated the episode to his older brother, Henry, while visiting him where he was jailed in the Tower of London, hoping to amuse Henry with the depraved antics of the king Henry so hated.
    Instead of amusement, George saw a flicker of fear cross his
brother's face. Or had he mistaken the look? Surely not fear. Henry
Percy did not know the meaning of the word.
    "Promise me you will not go to another court function," Henry
told George.
    George laughingly told his brother that was an impossible impossible promise to make.
    "I have but tasted Hope," he teased. "Surely I must have a chance to portake of the King's Charity."

    It was a play on words, favored so by the Tudor court that
several of Percy's cousins spent most of their waking hours composing lever puns and alliterations. Normally, Henry would be pleased by George's cleverness. He had not been that day, instead pacing the length of the stone room which had been given him on the second floor which ran the length of one of the Tower's sides.
    "Will you never grow up, George" he asked. "You are moving in dangerous circles and are unaware of the fact."
    "If you are onto that subject, I will leave," George announced. He had heard so many times that it bored him how much the new king hated Henry Percy.

    He had turned to leave, his elder brother sitting at his desk in
an uncharacteristically morose fashion.
    "George."
The somberness in Henry's tone stopped him.
    "Yes?"
"The Tudors had no love for the Percys. Neither do the Stuarts.
Never forget that. James is dangerous."
    Percy remembered the conversation as he scanned the seas seeking anything not familiar to his eye after months of such perusal.

    Though Henry Percy was confined in the Tower and would be for God only knew how many years, it was not an uncomfortable life. He could bring into the Tower any of the luxuries from various Percy estates which he desired. But confinement was punishment enough. He chaffed at the bit to leave his prison, to check on his holdings personally, to ride free from one side to the other of his vast Northumberland estate in North England. If truth be told, he had looked longingly more than once from his Tower windows to the Thames, where the three ships were being outfitted for the trip to America. The feel of salt spray in the face would be far more desirable than the slight breeze which found its way through tower windows.
    Henry Percy could not leave the Tower of London, much less leave England. But George could. George and Henry both were directors of the London Company. A scheme slowly came together in Henry's ming: George could go along on this first voyage to the new world to keep an eye on the leaders of the expedition, to make sure they were following instructions, that they were reporting accurately the prospects in he new world.
    This was the argument Henry Percy would make to his brother.
    It would not only entice George to freely join the voyage, he would bring quill and ink and empty journals and chronicle the settlement made by the Virginia Company.

    As carefree as he appeared to be, George did not need Henry
to tell him of the danger the new King James posed to any but sycophants. Crowned three years before, the king had already become known by such names as "the wisest fool in Christendom" and "God's silly vassal." There was very little in him of his mother, Mary, Queen of Scots.  James' court bowed in his presence and joked behind his back. He was a bandy-legged fool who as he drank dribbled beverages from the corner of his mouth down his straggly beard and onto his dirty waistcoat.
    England's nobility had endured two predominantly homosexual
kings since the Norman conquest, Edward II and James I. Three more
were purportedly inclined in that direction, William II, Richard I and
William III. Therefore there was precedence for James VI. The nobles, and the commons, could ignore what he did in private. They had to.
    In public, however, each side played roles. To avoid alienating the nation, James had to keep his sexual preferences a private as possible. This he had done by marrying Anne, the tall goldenªhaired Dane with the snow-white skin, and begetting children.
    His nobles, in return, had to pretend not be disgusted.
    It had not wholly been a successful charade and the years did little to soften or make the arrangement more palatable to king or to subjects. Gossip which had swirled only within the royal house three years ago now escaped the court and seeped out among the popuace, let loose as sewage thrown from upstairs balconys onto the streets of London. It enveloped James and his nobles. It was rumored he threatened open definance of the hetereosexual role he had been forced to play. Certainly, he allowed his eyes to openly lust toward the young men with well-turned legs who flocked to his court. It was rumored he had informed Queen Anne that with the birth of the Princess Sophia this last year, he would grace her royal bed no more. He had done his duty. He had sired a son and heir, young Henry, and even sired a second son as backup, Charles.

    Percy thought that much of the damage done to the king in the yes of his nobles had been instigated by the Queen at the celebration on Prince Charles' creation as Duke of York, when James had lost much of the slight esteem he had engendered. The queen and several of her ladies had dressed as blackamoors, wearing gowns that concealed so little of their breasts that even the most jaded of courtiers were
embarrassed. After the ceremony, the guests were so drunk they charged as a mob when the servants entered with food, collapsing the tables and trampling the delicacies.
    In reaction to this and other examples of wantoness, the faction known as Puritans was growing. They looked with revulsion at the court of James I.
    It was not only lords and ladies who thought so little of the
king. From the time King James had ridden into England to claim the throne of his dead aunt, Elizabeth the First, stories of his perversions had filtered from royal castles to the common folk. James had publicly fingered his codpiece and cringed at the sight of a sword. Poor James, Percy thought, his every dumb remark was repeated and embellished. Told that he needed leave his court more often to win the loyalty of the common folk, James VI had remarked, "Am I to pull
down my breeches and they shall also see my arse?"
    When the noble houses of England heard that James' first love affair was with his male cousin, Esme Stuart, duke of Lennox, when he was 13, they cringed and began thinking of ways to keep their young sons from his court.
    In the last three years, there had been more emphasis than usual on finding suitable occupations for young sons of noble families.
America was the number one choice, not only because of King James, of course, but for hopes of monetary gain.
    A cousin, Sir Edwin Sandys, in advocating the establishment of
the London Company had summed it up. Percy could not remember
exactly how he put it, but it went something like, "What else shall
become of gentlemen's younger sons, who cannot live by arms when
there are no wars and education is common to all? Nothing remains for them save only trade, unless they become servants."
    Percy walked to the rail of the ship and grasped it firmly,
wedging himself into a safe position next to the ship's lifeboats.
Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here. He
could have lived in one of his brother's houses; one more mouth wouldvhave hardly been noticed among the hundreds who daily came andvwent through the Northumberland portals.
    But for some reason not even he fully understood, he had
grabbed eagerly at the chance offered (pushed at?) him by his brother.
    America. What would it be like? Green rolling meadows with
lazy rivers teeming with trout? Heavy forests where the game sat waiting, anxious to present themselves for the supper table?
    What would it do to him? Would he be a leader, as his Percy
forebears had been for 600 years?
    Percy winced. He knew he was no leader. Poet, maybe. But he
had no desire to stand in front of an army and command. Maybe that
was why he was headed to America. In that land, there would be no
armies. There, maybe he could write.
    He had written before he left London, and he wrote a little every day, setting down for posterity the happenings of the trip. There were other writers in his family. His cousin the Earl of Southampton was the protegee of one of the brightest of new playrights, William Shakespeare. In their perfumed silks and laces, would his cousins laugh at the idea of a poet and writer appearing as Percy appeared had been shocked to see himself this morning, after three months of sea voyage?
    The thought had suddenly hit him, while shaving. Normally, he paid little attention to his face, hurrying his servant to finish that he might roam the decks, catching up on the sparse events which had occurred since he last saw his fellow gentlemen travelers the night before. That morning, when his servant held the mirror for him to approve, he had looked deeply into his own eyes and found a stranger. There were few traces remaining in his appearance of the young London gallant who had been known to upper and lower crust alike, who was no stranger either to royal palace or to common tavern. His face, cleanshave, was tanned and glowed with health. But his clothes would have given his female relatives heart attacks.
Saving his finer garments for the houses they would build in the new world, he wore garments caked with remnants of the debris which in storms had proved no respecter of person, clinging as stubbornly to his rumpled silk shirt as to a crewman's homespun. No horsehair brush would clean them; they awaited the care it would take when the laundries were set up.
   In short, he bore scant resemblance to the pampered party boy
who had set sail thinking the whole adventure a lark.
Right now, at this very moment, he thought to himself, I could
be lounging in any one of 54 magnificent rooms of Syon House, the Percy's ancestral home in London.
    Better yet, if he were at Syon House or at Northumberland,
servants would be drawing him a hot bath. Steaming, scalding hot
water. Wonderful smelling soap and soft linen sheets.
He was vaguely aware that someone had walked to his side, and
was standing next to him yelling over the wind.
    It was Capt. John Martin, a former artillery officer, one of the
few members of the expedition who had not lost their sanity amid the
squabbling confinement.
    Percy had assessed Martin as honest and dedicated.
    Unfortunately, Martin seemed also to be in poor health. He had remained in his bed for much of the voyage. It was good to see him on deck. What's that, John? I didn't hear you," he said, waiting for Martin to raise his voice enough to hear over the wind.
    Though he looked ancient to a 19-year-old, Martin with his
weathered face and greying beard was in the prime of middle-age. He had not been shocked to observe Percy's increasing disillusionment with the sailing life.
    A soldier for all of his life, Martin had learned never to be surprised at the venom which festered among normally decent men when they lived in such close quarters. They reverted to basic, primordial instincts. Not Percy. But many of his fellow voyagers.
    "I asked why you are smiling," Martin repeated in a louder voice. "It is pleasant to see and would be more pleasant to have reason to do so myself."
    Martin had not been thrilled when first told the earl's little brother would be aboard. He had been around the pampered younger sons of the nobility enough to give them a wide berth. With their selfish, spoiled ways, anyone who was close to them could get hurt when their powerful families looked for scapegoats for the mischief which surely followed them.

    However, Martin had grown fond of young Percy. The lad had an engaging personality. But more than that, he possessed in his youth an attribute most men went to their deaths without having learned; he minded his own business.

    The "gentlemen" on board the Susan Constant had split very quickly into two bickering groups. Other than the ship's crew, Percy seemed the only one who managed to stand aloof, courted by both sides, joining neither.
    "I was thinking of a bath," Percy answered honestly, smiling.
Martin smiled also, throwing up his hands in pretended shock.
"And here I was thinking you had visions of some poor lonely
maid back in London."
    Percy winced inwardly for a split second, guilty at the image springing to mind so clearly he felt he could reach out and touch the long reddish brown hair which hung in curls, framing a face with laughing brown eyes. The image disappeared in the froth from the sea below.
    "You would have been right five minutes ago," he told Martin. "And you would be right five minutes from now. I have realized these past few months how much I took for granted."
    "It is a common insight at sea," Martin answered thoughtfully. "We all cherish what we have when we no longer have it."

    George Percy's answer was a truthful if not complete one.
He had indeed woken many lonely nights in that bed which
wouldn't be still, tossing from side to side with the waves, his loins
burning with memories of any one of a dozen bar maids whom he
mentally willed to ease his woe.
    These were harmless memories, not like the ones which rose
unbidden to his mind of Anne, sweet Anne.
    It was, he knew, the too familiar story of the childhood friend who all at once turns into the all too desirable young lady. It had been to Anne he ran when his conscience bothered him as a boy, to
Anne he poured out his frustrations. He remembered a thousand Annes and tried to banish them all from his mind. Anne standing in front of a yellow rose bush in her father's London garden. Anne dancing with his best friend. Anne kneeling in church, creamy skin set off against a deep blue velvet gown.
    Anne, however, would never be his wife. Not that he had asked.
He had no intention of settling down, he told himself. But he knew the real reason he did not ask was that he feared his proposal would not be accepted. Her family, while not as imposing as the ancient Percy name, was substantial enough and powerful enough that her father could pick and choose among her suitors. He certainly could do better than the younger brother of a duke so out of favor he languished even now in the Tower of London.
    Besides, he thought with the insight he had found in the months of sailing, if I had a daughter like Anne, the last I would want her to do would be to marry someone with my reputation.
    Maybe that was one reason he had come on this voyage. With
him out of sight, out of mind, Anne could marry someone who deserved her. It would not be difficult for Lady Anne Flood, granddaughter of Queen Elizabeth's Treasurer, to find a good husband.
    George resolved that he would forget about Anne.

    It was a resolution he made each night and revisited each morning.

    Percy spent long hours wondering if he had made the right
decision. His brother wanted him on the voyage both to get him away
from temptation in England and to enable him to look after the sizeable Percy investment in this new world project. In carrying out these instruction, George had fully expected to fill the first pages of his first journal with the excited plans of these noble-minded adventurers. Instead, from the first day the ships left the wharves on the Thames, his attention had been diverted from his writing by petty
bickering.

    For six weeks the Susan Constant, the Godspeed and their sister ship had tossed at anchor in the Downs, the jump off point into the English Channel, waiting for winter gales to subsist enough to set sail.
    The first ruckus had been between Capt. John Smith and Capt.
John Radcliff. Radcliff was the opposite of Smith in looks and
demeanor. He was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes and turned the
eyes of any woman in any crowd.
    The two men had very little in common. Smith was a rover, an
adventurer who had only two years before returned to England from
Russia after unbelievable-sounding adventures in foreign lands.
Bold and unencumbered by shyness, Smith had unhesitatingly
renewed an old acquaintanceship with the Prince of Wales, and through Henry had become friends with the forward-thinking Dutch navigator Richard Hakluyt.
    Spending his nights drinking with them in taverns and his days
visiting Sir Walter Ralegh in prison in the Tower of London (It had been to Ralegh that Elizabeth I gave the patent to colonize the new world) Smith quickly zeroed in on the upcoming Virginia voyage as his means to glory. He invested the huge sum of 500 pounds of his own money. This interest was a reflection of the fervor of London
merchants for exploration and settlement.
    It was Ralegh's cousins, Sir Francis Drake and his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who engendered the first widespread interest when they set off with the queen's blessing in the 1570s to explore the Caribbean.
Queen Elizabeth knew the brothers through their aunt, her
lady-in-waiting and confidant, Margaret Champernoune ..... They won her respect with their daring exploits conducted under the noses of the Spanish in the New World.
    English interest had not waned since that time, but the treasury had been depleted after the huge expense in 1588 to build ships to defeat the Spanish armada.
Only two years before her death, Elizabeth had eagerly
authorized Sir Thomas Smith and fellow merchants to form the East
India Company. Had she lived, she would have supported the London Company wholeheartedly, as compared to the half-hearted support given by James I.
    As it was, London was awakening to the profit in store for
those who invested in such jaunts as those sponsored by the East India Company.
    The Directors of the London Company had been delighted that
Smith was sailing on their voyage. He was an experienced soldier and sailor and had proven his worth prior to departure when he personally accompanied the captains to buy food and supplies. Checking on each purchase, he lectured the men, warning them that merchants would cheat them, would sell them rotting canvas and spoiled food.
    Cabin mates Archer and Smith each shared what would prove to be a disastrous belief, however. Each felt he should be the sole leader of the expedition. Soon they were bitter enemies.
    Edward-Maria Wingfield was an earnest, austere, dedicated old gentleman. A patrician and patriotic, this endeared him to the directors. But he also carried the faults of that class, among which belief in one's one ability was foremost, leading to what others could conceive of as a narrow-minded and self-righteous outlook.
    Three ships had been purchased for the expedition.The Godspeed was captained by an older man, Anthony Gosnold. The Discovery was a small, 20-ton pinnace captained by Capt. Radcliff, which was an alias. Unease was created among the crew when it was whispered before the sailing that Radcliff's real name was Sicklemore, under which he had served a prison sentence.

   
    This was silly to argue about it, Percy knew, because the decision had been made in London by the men paying for the exploration -- directors of the London Company. They had dictated that it would be a secret as to who would be president, and who would assist him as council members, until they landed. At that time, Capt.
Newport would open the sealed chest which contained that information along with specific instructions which carried the weight of law as to how and where they were to settle in the new world. This was the procedure, Percy knew as a director, to ensure that Newport possessed the authority they knew was needed for what could be a difficult ocean crossing.

    When the first discord on the trip surfaced, no one realized it was merely the first battle in a three-year war hit suddenly. It was a fight between Smith and Radcliff; a fight regardless of the fact that no blows were exchanged, George knew. It grew out of the same basic conflict as would all other disagreements. It revolved around the question of who should be in authority once the ships landed.

    It took place one afternoon when the Susan Constant lay at anchor, waiting for weather which would allow her to sail.

    George was writing when he heard furious voices raised above him. He hastily set aside his quill and journal and ran on the deck. Here he found Capt. Smith, red-faced and puffy-cheeked, standing on his tip toes to glare eye-to-eye to Capt. Radcliff.
    "Far be it from me to inquire how you got here," Smith was
saying. "But I insist on being the one who escorts your lying carcass
from this ship personally."
    Radcliff was a tall man. He was now an angry one.
"It will take more than the likes of a scrawny little blowhard to
get me off the Susan Constant," he said.
    Capt. Newport arrived just in time to assert his authority as
captain, send Radcliff back to his duties and upbraid Smith for
assuming liberties with the crew.
    "I did the hiring, Capt. Smith," Newport said coldly, his anger
betrayed only by a pulsing vein which stood out from his neck. "If there is any firing to do, I will be the one to do it. Is that clear?"
    Smith made no effort to pretend he took the defeat gracefully.
"Sooner or later, sir, you will have to answer for your decisions,"
Smith said, stalking off like an angry bantam rooster.
    Newport, seeing Percy standing at the edge of the crowd,
directed everyone to return to their jobs or cabins. He motioned Percy to his cabin.
    "Do you know how this rumor spread, Mr. Percy?" he asked.
George had to admit he did not know of what the captain
spoke. Newport started, as though he did not believe Percy. He then
stared at the youth for a moment and shook his head incredulously.
"I don't believe you do, son," he said. "Good. If at least one man
on this ship will keep a straight mind about him, we might can reach
land eventually."
    Percy waited for a moment for an explanation, but the captain
had forgotten about him, his attention diverted by the arrival from
shore of extra provisions.
    It had been Martin who later filled George in on the cause for the
standoff. Someone had spread the rumor that Radcliff was an imposter, not born a Radcliff. He had assumed the name to conceal a prison sentence.
    "What did he do?" Percy asked, astonished to be for the first
time in his sheltered life in known personal contact with a base felon.
Martin shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The sea is a harsh master.
A seaman sometimes has the choice of breaking the law or losing his
life. It's not a difficult choice at the time."
    Percy was not further enlightened on Radcliff's alleged past
offence. In what would become the standard of life in the new country
to which he traveled, Radcliff's past was shuffled off as unimportant, a topic of conversation only when oldtimers gathered around fireplaces on winter's eve to tell tales.
    Radcliff's future would be determined only by how he conducted himself in the future.
    No one owne up to spreading the rumor, either. Radcliff
believed it was Smith, but Percy thought not. If Smith was the culprit,
he would have informed the directors of the London Company and
insisted Radcliff be discharged before the ships sailed. Smith had
frequently been seen at the Whitefriars Tavern with the duke of Norfolk. It would have been easy to do.
No, not Smith. Percy came to believe the man responsible was
Gabriel Archer, roommate of Capt. Smith. If this assumption was true, Percy knew Archer was a man to watch, that he was even smarter than he appeared.

    Archer was obviously an intelligent man, able to manipulate people. He made it known that he felt he should be leader
of the expedition. Smith naturally felt that he, Smith,  was the natural choice.
    From the beginning of the voyage, however, the two roomates got along, as if they had agreed there was no race between them, that it would be a decision made by the majority.
    Most of those on board the Susan Constant had more or less acquiesced to Smith's contention that he was the leader. He regaled the group with stories of his adventures in Spain and Russia and repeated tales of America told to him by Sir Walter Raleigh during trips to visit the explorer in the Tower of London the previous year.
    Smith's vivid stories (Percy suspected Smith padded truth
liberally with his colorful imagination) might have unified the
adventurers, ignited them with purpose. But it was impossible to listen to Smith for long without chaffing at his arrogance. He was the hero of every tale. He fought six men at once. He escaped from the deepest darkest of dungeons and fair damsels threw themselves at his feet.
    As days stretched into weeks, tempers shortened as supplies for
the trip decreased. Smith found it more and more difficult to hold
audiences with his self-important stories. Smith and Archer's disagreements grew in proportion. It was only a matter of time until they were bitter enemies.
    If Archer planted the rumor about Radcliff, it was probably because he correctly anticipated Smith's reaction to the news: Smith had demanded Radcliff be put off the boat.
    Though Newport prevailed in quieting the affair, the damage
was done. The jovial band of explorers had been turned into two armed camps. On one side there was Archer, supported by Radcliff. It was not difficult for them to line up Edward-Maria Wingfield on their side. Smith had made no secret of the fact that he regarded Wingfield as an incompetent fool. Born to a silver spoon, Wingfield's pride was hurt. He demanded respect as his birthright and deeply resented Smith's efforts to leave him out of decision-making.
    Among Smith's supporters, curiously, was the Rev. Robert
Hunt, who had been ill during the six weeks wait for the weather to
change. Newport had pressed Hunt to return to shore, but Hunt had
stubbornly insisted on remaining as part of the voyage. Smith had
successfully backed Hunt and therefore earned his loyalty.
    All in all, it had been a three-month nightmare for George
Percy's life, begged constantly to side with people fighting about who
would get to make decisions which did not need yet to be made. He found the easiest way to enjoy any of the voyage at all was to retreat to his journals and the books he had brought.
    "My brother believes North America is a narrow strip of land,
that we will find a river which cuts through to the Pacific," he told
Martin one clear evening, watching what must be millions of stars.
    "That's what the entire London Company believes," Martin said.
"Some sailors I know think otherwise."

    "Who? Do they really know?"
    "Well, Henry Hudson thinks there is a passage to the East
Indies and he has convinced Richard Hakluyt and his friends. That's
why they formed the Muscovy Company last year, to send Henry out
looking for it. I guess no one really knows for sure what lays out there,vbeyond 50 miles or so inland, Martin said. "Capt. Gosnold comes closer to knowing than anyone I know. I know they say he is young and impetuous. But he has sailed several times looking for a passage to the West Indies. Five years ago, he claimed for us a spot north of where we are headed, New England he called it. "
    "Will we set off exploring the moment we get settled?" George asked. He would have known more if he had paid attention at more of the London Company meetings.
    "I doubt it," Martin said. "The Company has given us too much
to do. They want us to set up colonies and then send explorers out. No insult meant to you and your brother, Mr. Percy, but the gentleman
making these decisions don't know what they are asking. They have
lived in castles owned by their families for hundreds of years, with
servants to raise food for them and servants to clear ground for them.
They may think we can land in Virginia one month and go off
exploring the next, but I think it will take longer."
    Martin looked hard at Percy.
    "You ever chop down a tree?"
    Percy looked at him in astonishment.
    "Of course not," he said. "But I've shot game."
    "Ay, and you'll be needed for that," Martin said. "But someone
has to clear acres and acres of ground for farming. Who will do that?"
    "Why, the workers we brought," Percy stammered. He had not really thought about it, not in the overall context. He knew he had servants to take care of him.
    "We'll be leaving 144 people in Virginia. You gentlemen account
for 30 of them, your footmen for another 30. That leaves, by my count,v84," he said.
    "Surely that's enough," Percy said.
    "I have my doubts," Martin said. "But one thing is for certain.
We will find out."
    By February, rot had infested not only the mutton but the
people on board. The ships set sail for the Canary Islands, where theyvtook on fresh water and supplies.

    There was no remedy for the bad tempers of the passengers,
however.vAmid the boredom and close quarters, remarks which would have been ignored in England took on major significance.
It seemed to Percy, who with Martin were the only members
of the company who remained friendly with Smith, that Archer and
Kendal ganged up on Smith. Doubtless they thought he provoked it.
On one occasion, voices increased so in pitch and in anger and
in foul language that Capt. Newport rushed to the deck to intervene.
    Smith, reacting to being cursed, had drawn his sword.
    Percy, knowing Newport would handle it and having no desire
to get involved, continued writing. He thought the matter had ended.
Both sides would cool off.
    On the next day, however, Wingfield came to his door.
    "We are convening a court of inquiry, Mr. Percy. Your presence
is requested."

    Percy was startled.
    "For what reason? And who is we?" he asked.
    "Capt. Smith drew a sword against Mr. Archer. That type of
behavior cannot be tolerated. We will determine what Capt. Smith's
punishment will be."
    Percy would have brushed the matter off as play-acting he
knew neither Wingfield nor anyone else on board had any authority
except Capt. Newport but he realized from Wingfield's demeanor
that the old gentleman considered the "trial" deadly serious.
    "I really don't think I should get involved," Percy said. "I have
no ill feelings toward either you or Mr. Archer or Capt. Smith."
    Wingfield nodded. It was what he had come to expect from
Percy.
    "I did not figure you would," he said. "But it was the
gentlemanly thing to do to ask you."
    "Thank you," Percy said. "But will you convey to other - uh-
officers of the court my offer to mediate if there is any possibility the uh-incident can be resolved."
    "I am appreciative of the offer," Wingfield said stiffly. "But the
matter can only be resolved by official action."
    When Wingfield left, Percy made an unusual trip to the bridge
to talk with Capt. Newport.
    Newport was unperturbed.
    "You don't think things have gotten out of hand?" Percy asked.
    "I certainly do," Newport said. "They've been out of hand since
we sailed. But I can't do anything about it."

    "All authority is vested in you," Percy pointed out needlessly.
"Until we land," Newport said. "If I stopped them now, they
would merely wait until we land to reconvene their court. This way,
maybe their hostilities will be vented in this sham court they hold."
    Percy learned of the proceedings from Smith, who refused to
take it seriously. "So then they took a vote, if you can believe it, Archer and Wingfield and Kendal, and pronounced me guilty."
    "That's all?" Percy said, relieved.
    "Except for the sentence," Smith said. "They sentenced me to be
hanged by the neck until dead when we land."
    In his wildest imagination, Percy had not expected this. He
breathed deeply, frowning.
    "What did you say?"
    "Say? I didn't say anything," Smith said. "I laughed."
    It was soon all over the ship, all over the three ships, as a
matter of fact, though how word passed Percy did not know.
Wingfield and companions were the laughing stock. Over and
over, Smith retold the story, embellishing it, laughing with his audience at its ending.
    Wingfield, Archer and Kendal, meanwhile, kept much to
themselves, their faces serious, their eyes dark.
On March 24, they ships anchored at the island of Hispaniola
in Caribbean. Wingfield's group went straight to work building a gallows, incongruous at the lush paradise. Wen they finished, they returned to the ship to take Smith to his fate.
    Smith, however, was prepared.
    He was wearing light armor and a helmet and was bristling
with weapons his scimitar, a sharp small sword and dueling pistol.
Much chagrined, the three retreated without attempting to take
him prisoner.
    That had been a month before. There had been peace, more or
less, since the incident. Percy was thankful.
    Today, April 25, Percy was more concerned with the weather than
with whatever plots were being hatched on board the Susan Constant.
The month had been filled with one gale after another. He was
beginning to wonder if they had somehow strayed from course, if they
would never see land again. He knew he was not alone in these
thoughts.
The day began with another gale. The wind slowly died, with
Percy standing on deck to appreciate the fact.
Suddenly, a sailor in the crow's nest shouted what had to be
the most beautiful word George Percy had ever heard.
    "Land," the sailor yelled. "Land."
The cry was taken up unconsciously by Percy and every other
man on deck. It spread below. Soon, all the weary passengers had
crowded on board, waiting, praying.
A few hours later, the Susan Constant, the Godspeed and the
Discovery sailed into Chesapeake Bay.
    Percy could hardly wait to step on shore; he was one of the first to take in the glorious sight of pleasant rolling meadows where spring
wild flowers waved in the breeze, of gentle brooks in which sparkling clear water trickled over smooth sandy beds, of tall trees budding with a thousand shades of green.
    He thought of his brother imprisoned in the Tower of London.
    He thought of the grimy London streets and the hungry soot-cheeked children who wore rags and begged for foot.
    In front of him wild strawberries grew with sprawling abandon.
He dug into rich dark soil, waiting for seeds, glanced at the friendly
blue skies dotted with fleecy white clouds.
    He was amazed, knowing that Anne would in a breathless
excited way cry if she were here, "It's a paradise."
The thought of Anne made him pause for a moment. Anne was
in London, he reminded himself. By the time he returned to London,
she would have married someone else and forgotten him.
From his moment, he would refuse to think of Anne.
His sole thoughts would be directed toward learning all he could
of this glorious land and writing this knowledge in his journal.
George Percy, younger son, would make a name for himself.