John had been dizzy with the scent of the smoke and the sudden warmth and darkness of the hut but suddenly he snapped awake, wide awake, as if someone had slapped his face. He strained his ears and his comprehension to grasp the quick exchange of advice, argument and information: the news of an isolated farmhouse here, a newly built fort with cannon further down the river. He realised with a sinking heart what he had known all along but had continually pushed to the back of his mind: that Opechancanough and the army of the Powhatan were going to fall upon the people of Jamestown, and upon every white settler everywhere in this country which they had called empty and then proceeded to fill. That if the Powhatan won there would not be a white man, woman or child left alive or out of slavery in Virginia. And if the Powhatan lost there would be a dreadful reckoning to pay.

‘And what does our brother, the Eagle, say?’ Opechancanough suddenly asked. His beaked harsh face turned towards John, where he sat at the back. The men before him melted away as if Opechancanough’s gaze was a spear-thrust pointed at his heart.

‘Nothing …’ John stammered, the Powhatan language sticking on his tongue. ‘Nothing … sir.’

‘Will they be ready for us? Do they know we have been waiting and planning?’

Miserably John shook his head.

‘Did they think us defeated and driven back, forced out of our forests and away from our game trails?’

‘I think so,’ John said. ‘But I have not been with the white men for a long time.’

‘You will advise us,’ Opechancanough ruled. ‘You will tell us how to avoid the guns and at what time of day we should attack. We will use your knowledge of them to come against them. You agree?’

John opened his mouth but no sound came. He was aware of Attone rising to his feet at his side.

‘He is struck dumb by the honour,’ Attone said smoothly. Out of sight he trod hard on John’s toes.

‘Indeed I am,’ John said numbly.

‘Your hands will be red with English blood,’ Opechancanough promised him. His face was serious enough but there was a spark of mischief, that irresistible Powhatan mischief, at the back of his eyes. ‘That will make you happy, Eagle.’

Spring 1644, England