The thinnest sliver of light crept through the slim opening in the folds of the tent in which John Smith was held captive, casting shadows on the cloth walls around him and allowing him to glimpse the dark shapes of the two formidable warriors who guarded him. His wrists were numb from the tightly tied leather thongs that bound him to the wooden pole, and his stomach ached from the lack of an evening meal. He supposed the natives felt it unnecessary to feed him when he would lose his life at sunrise anyway.
He’d been a prisoner for several hours, and all he could feel was hopelessness. There was no chance that he could reason with these people – he and his shipmates had invaded and devastated their land, and now it appeared that he had killed one of their own. His fate was already determined. There would be no mercy for him, even if he wept and begged.
Anguish and despair welled up in his heart, consuming him. He wished he could at least see Pocahontas one more time before his death, but Powhatan would never allow her to visit him. Pocahontas, of course, was not one to follow the rules set out for her, but John knew the vigilance of her people well enough to know that they would not abandon their position or lose concentration for long enough to permit her entrance.
So, this was it.
He was going to die, and he was never going to see his love again. How could life be so cruel, to take from him the soulmate that he had only just found? He felt so much pain at the thought of losing her that the bliss of Heaven itself would not be able to expel it.
And Pocahontas – it was unbearable to imagine the suffering that his death would bring her. Even worse was the fact that not only would he be the cause of her suffering, but he would be able to do nothing at all to help her.
He wondered if he could have avoided this situation somehow, if there was a way that he could have protected Thomas without sacrificing himself. Could he have done things differently so that the warrior would not have died in the first place?
One moment, he’d been kissing Pocahontas, lost in the euphoria of their intimacy. In the next, he had been tackled to the ground, where he found himself dodging the crudely made weapon repeatedly swinging at his head.
Running on adrenaline, he’d been able to do nothing but try to avoid the blows that threatened to crush his skull. He had been distantly aware of Pocahontas begging the warrior to stop, but the man had simply shoved her away, pushing her to the ground. Anger flared inside of him, his protective instinct taking hold but, before he’d even had time to intensify his struggles, a gunshot sounded. The savage had fallen away from him, his body landing with a splash in the creek, and then he lay still, unmoving – dead.
John had looked around wildly as he heard more savages approaching, and his gaze landed on Thomas, who was still standing wide-eyed, with a smoking rifle in his hands.
“J-John!” Thomas had stammered. “He was going to kill you!”
“Yes, I know, Thomas, just get out of here!” he’d yelled.
The young man looked at him fearfully. “I can’t leave y….”
“GO!”
Thankfully, Thomas had obeyed, taking a few hesitant steps backward before turning and running at full speed away from the scene.
In the next instant, a band of savages had burst into the clearing, and it was then that John had realized, sickly, that they would think him to be the murderer. But he’d had no time to dwell on it any further. Several strong pairs of hands grabbed him, throwing him to his knees. His hands had been wrenched behind him and tied tightly; then he was hauled back to his feet and dragged away, barely managing to stay afoot as they roughly directed him toward their village.
When they’d arrived, the Chief had immediately declared that John would die the next morning. Ever since then, he’d been a captive in this tent, sitting on his knees with his arms secured to the pole.
His concern for Pocahontas made him feel sick. She had seen him apprehended, knew exactly what fate awaited him. He’d even heard her trying to convince her father to spare his life. Yes, she knew just what was to happen and John wanted desperately to shed his bonds and run to her, to dispel the misery that he knew consumed her, just as it consumed him. But the knots enclosing his wrists remained tight, and the watchful eyes of his guards never wavered. He would die the next morning, and he would never see Pocahontas again.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the pole, trying to imagine her sitting beside him. Sleep would elude him; he knew that, but perhaps he could chase away this living nightmare if he held on to thoughts of the woman whose love had given his world new meaning.
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F&F Winter 2019: Disney