Martin’s Hundred

James fucked the savage twice more, the savage on his back and James lying on him between his legs in the first taking and then taking him from the side the second time, with a rest between until, like the previous tryst, James was exhausted into sleep. And, once again, when he woke, he was alone.

He heard the wailing before he came in sight of Wolstenholme Towne and almost simultaneously saw the tongues of fire leaping over the treetops. Running for all he was worth, he came upon a site of devastation and massacre. All told, the Powhatan war party had murdered some fifty of the settlers, both men and women, more of the latter, as they were more defenseless against the attack. Most of the stockade walls were down and all of the buildings were aflame.

No one asked James where he’d been during the raid. No one cared. No one knew he hadn’t been there. All the shocked survivors knew was that it was the middle of the afternoon, they were now defenseless to a renewed attack, and there were some fifty of their fellows who needed to be put under the ground before they left seeking safety—most like in Jamestown, if it was not in the same condition.