October, 1685

Amanda saw it all—from the first puffs of smoke drifting above the village, to the terrible sight that would haunt her forever. If it had not been for Lord Braden Hamilton turning her face against his ripped, bloodstained shirt, she would surely have fainted dead away. It was a soft Indian summer morning. Gentle breezes were tinged with melancholy, aware of summer’s passing and the certain approach of winter. Honeybees still buzzed around the hollyhocks lining the breezeway between the house and the summer kitchen. Overhead, the sky arched cerulean blue, and the air was as still and toasty warm as a lazy day in August. Beyond the fields, the James River sparkled in the sun’s tawny glow as it moved sluggishly toward its final destiny in Chesapeake Bay. On that benign morning, heavy with humid sunshine, eleven year old Mandy headed for the grove of oaks separating the river from the tobacco fields of Briarfield Plantation, her family’s home for two generations. In one hand, she carried a fishing rod, in the other, a cherry tart.

Because of Briarfield’s distance from the settlement at Jamestown, Mandy had few friends to play with and few diversions other than riding her pony and lessons at her mother’s knee. Her half-brother, Philip, was much too old to provide companionship. Now nineteen, he was a full-grown man and spent much of his time helping their father oversee the thirty thousand acre estate—that is, when he wasn’t away at the fledgling college in Williamsburg. She didn’t want her brother’s company anyway, she thought, settling into a shady spot on the riverbank. She pulled off her shoes and stockings and reclined in the tall grass. Though Philip was her only sibling, he had always made it quite clear he found her a nuisance and far beneath his interest. It was his habit to avoid her whenever possible, unless of course, he could use her as a scapegoat for his own frequent misdeeds. Now that she was excelling at reading and numbers, as well as horsemanship, he took every opportunity to disparage her efforts and belittle her in their parents’ eyes. “Just a silly girl,” he often said with a sneer. “A clumsy chit of no use till she’s breeding age,” he added with disdain. Philip’s mother had been their father’s first wife, a grand English lady who had died shortly after childbirth during her first year in Virginia. Amanda’s mother was a Jamestown girl of sturdy pioneer stock, descended from a middle-class family of Suffolk. Amanda deftly placed a wiggling worm on her hook. It was a feat she’d learned from one of the darkies and it gave her a pleasant sense of accomplishment. Philip would never have touched the squirmy thing, even had he been inclined to help her. No matter, she concluded, dropping the hook with a plop into the shimmering water. Briarfield Plantation was large enough for the two of them to occupy without stepping on each other’s toes. Her grandfather Sheffield’s first crude home on the river had been abandoned for the spacious brick house on the hill. With lush Virginia soil producing the finest tobacco in the world, the farm had prospered beyond the Virginia Company’s wildest expectations. Sitting there under the emerald green canopy dappled with swaying golden light from above, Amanda was completely content. She would live forever in this secure and gracious environment. If Philip was so anxious to marry her off so she could produce some stranger’s offspring in some far place, he was doomed to disappointment. When the time came, she would marry one of the boys she knew from Jamestown, one of those strapping youths attending school in the village. She would bring her husband to live at Briarfield, and he would be her partner in the work of the plantation. Together they would build their own house and be at peace with her brother. When Philip married—if any lady would have him—she would enjoy having a sister-in-law, and their children would play along this very riverbank.

Leaning back on her elbows, she breathed deeply of the moist, earthy fragrance. She bit into the juicy tart and let its pink sweetness cover her lips while crumbs fell unheeded to her cotton shift. With a sigh, she pushed one foot into the ooze along the streambed and squished the cool mud between her toes.

Dreamily, she allowed her thoughts to turn to the elegant young man who had arrived just yesterday on the ship from England. Why, he wasn’t much older than Philip, around twenty or so, she guessed. Her parents had fussed over him as if he were King William himself. Last evening, they had laid a feast in the dining room the likes of which she had never seen. Fresh trout had preceded succulent mutton chops; spoon bread and baked sweet potatoes had been followed by rich rum-cream pie and cherry tarts (the last of which she now enjoyed.) She, of course, had occupied a seat at the far end of the table, where she was expected to be seen and not heard. The mayor and his wife had been present as well as several town council members, along with Reverend Trask. But her attention had been focused on their guest—as indeed had that of all those present. The man was Lord Braden Hamilton, second son of the Earl of Wentworth, and she’d never encountered a more fascinating and wonderful man in all her days. A true English lord, a captain, at her very own table, and as handsome as a make-believe prince in her books of English legends and fairy tales. His eyes were as blue as a jay’s wing, and his skin sun-bronzed after his long sea voyage. His nose was straight and his chin clean-shaven with a slight depression in the center. His hair was dark, and curled thickly about his forehead and ears before being drawn back and tied at the nape of his neck. During the lengthy meal, she had studied his profile above his crisp ruffled white collar; it seemed to be masculine perfection. And he was tall—taller than Philip—taller even than her father. But best of all was his smile, which lacked any artifice and exuded warmth and a sense of humor, as if all life was an amusing game, one which he was enjoying very much. For one brief moment, his smile had included her. She had dropped her eyes at once to stare at her plate, but his look was etched in her memory.

Never had she dreamed such a man could exist in the real world. And how disappointing his visit would be so brief. Yesterday and today, he was inspecting the fields with her father and Philip. After all, Lord Braden was an officer of the Virginia Company, which sponsored so much that was happening in the colonies. It was his duty to make certain the company’s interests were being properly served. Tomorrow, he was off to that northern city of Boston, there to meet with her father’s brother, Hugh, another major stockholder in the Virginia Company. Too bad, she sighed. If she could have a noble husband like Lord Braden, she might even consider leaving Briarfield entirely to Philip.

She had just finished the last of the tart and was sucking the juice from her fingers when she saw the pillars of smoke in the distance. Not the usual white plumes from cooking fires, but swirling black towers.

She dropped her pole and stood on tiptoe, straining her eyes toward the northwestern horizon. This was no small fire.

The sound of distant clanging reached her ears: the alarm—the bell from the church steeple by Jamestown Commons.

Quickly, she pulled on her stockings and shoes and ran toward home. She plunged through the tobacco fields and crossed the wooden footbridge over the ditch which brought water from the river.

She neared the house at a run, then stopped in her tracks and gaped in horror.

Indians. Dozens of them. They were swarming through the fenced enclosure around the main house and dashing into the servants’ huts and smoke sheds. Their war whoops erupted as they urged each other to the attack. Some carried hatchets and spears, but many were armed with English pistols. Where was her father? Where was Philip? Where were the men from the fields?

Suddenly, she saw one of the painted savages drag her mother onto the porch of the house. She heard her mother’s frantic screams as the Indians’ knife blades flashed in the sun. She covered her ears but couldn’t tear her eyes from the horrible sight. When the screams stopped, the Indians tossed aside the body and ran from the porch.

Amanda sank to her knees in the dirt. She watched in shock, her eyes wide, her heart pounding, her stomach sending bile into her throat. It was a scene from some hideous nightmare. What had turned the normally peaceful Powhatans into killers?

Shots filled the air. Several field hands were firing from inside the huts, but these cottages were quickly torched, and the fleeing men and their families were cut down without mercy. It was a massacre.

From across the pasture, a single, white-shirted rider approached at a gallop: He fired a brace of pistols into the howling savages, then brandished his sword.

The Indians began an organized retreat. Apparently, they had accomplished all they had planned and had their booty. One waved a silver candlestick, another whirled a black satin cape, a third held high the scalp of the mistress of Briarfield Plantation. Their victory cries pierced the quiet afternoon as they ran toward the woods.

The white-shirted rider rode in pursuit. One last shot rang out. The man was thrown back in his saddle and came close to falling. Then he recovered and reined in his frantic stallion.

Amanda jumped up and ran to him. “Lord...Lord Braden!” she shouted. “My mother—oh, please help!” Another rider approached at a fast clip, jerked his horse to a halt and dismounted.

“Philip!” Amanda screamed. “Mother...on the porch!”

Amanda reached the front steps simultaneously with her brother and Braden Hamilton.
Philip turned to Lord Braden. “My father’s dead. Mother, too. Oh, my God.” He pressed a hand to his head.

She heard these words but was frozen in place at the sight of her mother’s bloody, half-naked corpse stretched on the porch near the open front door. Oddly, she also saw the colorful nodding heads of hollyhocks near the body—hollyhocks her mother had tended so lovingly during the Virginia summer. From that moment, Amanda would always despise hollyhocks.

“No, don’t look,” came a commanding voice from above her. Strong hands turned her away from the sight, forcing her to bury her head in a broad, damp chest. She was gasping, fear jolting through her, shaking her, engulfing her in spasms of sobbing. She clung to the man, trying desperately to erase the nightmarish vision from her eyes.

“I’ll take the girl inside,” Philip said. “You’re hurt, Hamilton. We’ll send for the physician from the village…if he’s been spared. There’s…nothing to be done for my parents…Holy Jesus,” he croaked.

Amanda felt faint, her head spinning, as she was torn from the comforting arms and half dragged past her mother’s corpse and into the house. Philip hauled her up the stairs and thrust her into her room.

“Stay there, girl,” he ordered. “Don’t come out until I give you permission. You can count your blessings you weren’t scalped like your mother.”

After he left, she sank onto her bed and stared at the closed door. The wind outside in the cottonwoods lulled her into a trancelike state—beyond fear, beyond coherent thought, beyond feeling. After what seemed an eternity, she lay across the bedspread and covered her eyes. Then the tears came, slowly at first and then a fit of weeping. Hours passed and she slipped into a state of semi-consciousness, finally waking after dark, shivering with shock and uncertainty. Apparently Philip had forgotten all about her.

She dozed fitfully until shortly after dawn. Her door eased open and the wife of Reverend Trask entered carrying a bowl of steaming porridge.

“Poor baby,” the lady crooned. “I daresay you haven’t had a bite since before...the awful massacre.”

Amanda sat up. Her head ached horribly and the thought of food was nauseating. “I...can’t,” she began.

“Now, child, you must eat. You’re the lady of the house now, and must find strength in food and in God.”

“But...Mother…Father...”

“Gone, dear…as you know. They’ll be buried today, along with twenty other poor souls from the village.”

“What…what happened to Father?” she asked just above a whisper.

“Shot off his horse. It was a miracle your brother and Lord Braden escaped. It was a renegade band. The Powhatan chief assures us they’ll be punished.”

Mandy forced a few bites of the gruel down her tight throat. Then feeling a bit stronger, she asked, “Is Lord Braden all right? He tried to help.”

“He was wounded, but not too seriously. He left on the ship for Boston late yesterday.”

Mandy replaced the spoon in the bowl and stared into space. Her grief was overwhelming and a new sense of loneliness added to her misery. Philip was all she had left and he cared nothing for her. What would she do…how would she manage? To grow up without her parents, with only her indifferent, if not completely hostile half-brother as her guardian, was a frightening thought. She would have to avoid him as much as possible, otherwise he would surely use his authority to dominate her life and destroy all her dreams. Taking a deep breath, she summoned all her courage. She would somehow survive the next few days, and then bide her time until she was old enough to make her own decisions. She would learn to depend only on herself. Philip might now own Briarfield…but he would never own Mary Amanda Sheffield.