Roanoke: The Price of Power

The Chillhouse

Arnold navigated between the cottages, making his salutations and waves to passersby and wondering absently what sort of business the Doc was off to. For a colony in a grand new world, Roanoke offered a good deal more routine than it did adventure, and any hint of unusual activity was liable to provoke Arnold into a fit of curiosity.

He resolved to inquire sometime later in the day. For now, he had a thirst. The chillhouse was near and beer was close at hand.

The temperature on Roanoke had proven unkind to the brewing of beer. And even if there had been regular ship traffic to bring supplies, which there hadn't been for years, no captain would waste the space required in their hold to bring casks (especially knowing that beer often turned and soured during the voyage, rendering it undrinkable.)

As such, the colonists had resorted to collecting rainwater for drinking during the first years of their stay. A grim solution in a place which was seeing so little rain. When rainwater was short, drink had to be drawn from still ponds. Regardless of the source, the situation proved what the English had known for decades: water is terribly unsafe for men to drink. Colonists were falling ill, growing weak and dying from drinking the awful liquid.

When the Doc first arrived, his ship brought with it the supplies to brew large quantities of beer. More importantly, the Doc orchestrated the immediate construction of what he called "the chillhouse."

Much of the structure was dug into the cool earth, and what remained above-ground was packed beneath dirt. Although there was the constant problem of water seeping through the walls of the underground brewery, the temperature within the large room made the brewing process more reliable and sustainable.

The Doc had brought a large shipment of barley with him to supplement the small amount grown on the island, but even when such became scarce, they'd discovered months ago how to brew using Indian corn. As long as one or the other held out, Roanoke would have safe drink, and that made life in the colony infinitely more bearable.

The chillhouse was connected to a small cottage, above ground as the others were, where the beer was dispensed. That is the part of the brewery-cum-dispensary that Arnold pushed his way into.

"Good morrow!" called John Bright as Arnold entered the cool shade of the structure.

"Morning, John. A pint, if you would be so kind."

"I would be," the man smiled, pulling a stream of the liquid into a wooden mug. "Here goes it."

Arnold swallowed it down heartily, the drink warm and fresh.

I must remember to thank Doc again. Can't thank him enough.

Arnold had been one of the luckiest of the otherwise unfortunate during the years prior to the chillhouse, when beer was scarce or worse. The Roanoke water had overtaken his constitution, and he'd vacated himself from both ends quite violently. After three days of as much, he'd turned green and felt Death sitting on his guts.

By the grace of God, he'd lived through it in the end. Not everyone had been so blessed.

"Hear about Swift?" asked John.

"Not a word. What of him?"

"Been gone since yesterday morning, off to trade with the Indians on the west shore. No one's seen him since."

Arnold finished off his pint and handed over his wineskin so John could fill it. His curiosity concerning Doctor Richard's business dropped away. Someone probably found Swift seriously hurt, maybe dead, and had called for the Doc.

The pieces fit.

"Indians did him in, you think?" Arnold asked, just to keep the words moving.

"Who knows. He probably just got twice."

"Pardon?"

"Got twice. Got drunk and got lost."

Arnold smiled, "you're the dispenser. How many skins did you fill for him?"

"Only the one. But you know the Indians sometimes have hard spirits. Could have traded for it, drank it down and stumbled off into the wilds. Some of that Indian medicine is rough. Like drinking fire. Had any?"

"Can't say I have," said Arnold.

The natives didn't make spirits very often, at least that he was aware of. From what Arnold knew, the Indians were more fond of making tea from herbs and flowers.

"Anyone go looking for him?" asked Arnold.

"Yeah," John said, handing back the filled skin, "Dare himself went. He's a good man, I say. When he didn't turn up anything, he came back and sent for the Doctor to come help him out. Guess he figured if anyone was sitting around with nothing to do, it'd be the Doc."

Arnold smirked. No, he thought, that wasn't the case at all.