Haunted Cosmos - The Lost Colony, Part III

Episode Date: September 18, 2024

Please enjoy this eighth inter-season episode of our Patreon exclusive show, The Dusty Tome. In this episode, we finish talking about Roanoke!Love Haunted Cosmos? Get access to our exclusive show, The Dusty Tome, early ad-free access to main episodes, monthly AMA's, and livestreams with Ben and Brian by becoming a patron of the show: https://www.patreon.com/c/HauntedCosmosBuy the Haunted Cosmos book: https://www.newchristendompress.com/cosmos PS: It's also available as an audiobook!Want to keep nefarious fairy Bigfoots away and also avoid icky seed oils, preservatives, artificial colorants, and other nasties in your daily shower routine? Then check out the vast array of homemade soaps from our friends at Indigo Sundries Soap Co.! Go to indigosundriessoap.com to learn more—and as our gift to you, use code HAUNTEDCOSMOS for 10% off your whole order!This episode is sponsored by New Dominion Design Co. Visit their website here and learn more!This episode is sponsored by Backwards Planning Financial. Visit Joe's website here or give him a call (615-767-2555).This episode is sponsored by Squirrelly Joe's Coffee! Visit their website here to get your first bag free!  Share Coffee. Serve Humbly. Live faithfully.Finally, this episode is sponsored by Gray Toad Tallow. Visit their website here and use COSMOS15 at checkout for 15% off your order.Did you know that supporters of the show at our Sasquatch Photographer Tier and above (yes, that is its actual name) can listen to entire episodes early and ad free? That's right! And that's not all: Patrons at every level gain access to our patron-exclusive show, The Dusty Tome, with bonus stories, Q+A, and more.Support the show

to week eight of 10 of our off-season dusty tomes special releases to the public. It's been eight weeks, and I still have not come up with a smoother, more pithy way of saying that. But I think by now, you know what I mean. Counting this episode drop, we have three more weeks until the premiere of season four. We are absolutely stoked to get that to you guys. Can't wait for y'all to enjoy it and really see, I think, the fruits of some of our best work. So stay tuned, get psyched. And I hope, of course, that you enjoy these interseason releases of the Dusty Tome.

And if you do, and you haven't become a patron yet, you know, consider hop it on over to Patreon and becoming one. Of course, you can find the link for that in the description of this show. There's dozens and dozens, you know, over 75 episodes of the Dusty Tome backlogged. And I think that they've gotten better and better. I would like to think that, considering the fact that it's my job. And if they haven't, well, you can tell me, but know that you will risk hurting my feelings. I'm kidding.

This episode is brought to you by Indigo Sundry Soap Company, backwards planning financial, New Dominion Design Company, Gray Toe-Towelow, Squirley Joe's Coffee, and, like I just said, our supporters at patreon.com. Thank you for listening. The show is not possible without her listeners. We are exceedingly humbled by the fact that so many of you like this content and like the show enough to listen to it. and to tell your friends and family about it,

please continue doing that. It just helps us make the show better and better. And for this eighth week of our 10 weeks off, we're going to do something a little bit special. Normally for our main shows, we do some kind of giveaway, like a book, and I'm going to do that today as well. So if you sign up for Patreon,

the day that this episode drops, September 18th, 2024, sometime in the midst of your calendar saying those numbers, then you'll be entered for a chance win one of five copies that we're giving away of J.R.R.R. Tolkien's best ever work, the Silmarillion. So if that tickles your fancy at all, let that be an extra reason to try out Patreon. All right, everybody. Thank you. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

Mine is a rugged land, but good for raising sons. And I, myself, I know no sweeter sight on earth than a man's own native country. Odysseus speaking to the feations and book nine of Homer. Odyssey. Turin Turinbar walked through the snow and into the quieted streets of Dorloman, his homeland. After years of doomed wandering through the woods and morals of Belarion, the black sword and dragon helm of the north had returned to find his own people, but he found them not. He foundered and faltered. His already weakened spirit manifested itself in a bent back and a strong young body come near to breaking. He walked into the grand hall of the governor over what used to be his father's lands, Brada, the Easterling. Upon finding out that his

mother and sister had taken the perilous road south to find peace in Doriath, Turin flew into a rage. He slaughtered Brada and the last spell anti-nobles of his house. He fled back into the snow, preferring the killing bite of his cold motherland to the warm hall of some usurping villain that turned his home into a foreign place. When a man loses his home, he loses a part of himself. Beware to any bystand or foolish enough to not see this truth. But what turns us to love the place we're in? Why do we care about place at all? Why would we call it a motherland? One could begin to answer this question by asking another one. Why do I feel such intense affection for my own children and for my own wife? Put up against every other person in the

world, I will prefer my wife and my children every time. I will protect them over all others, care for them over all others. I will forsake all other good and true loves, save the supreme love of the soul for God himself to see their good. But why? Well, though volumes could be said and have been written an answer to this, it is because they are a part of me. I see in them my own self, an extension of my heart and body and mind. My wife, is she not bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh? Is she not one that God has joined to me? And what God has joined together, let not man cast asunder. My children are they not the living and breathing and soul-filled manifestations of my wife and I's love? In a way that transcends rationality, they are me, but better. All of my will

turns towards them in all of my love, that redeemed love, that flows from the fountain of Christ, through the temple of my meek heart, belongs to them. I love them. I'm proud of them, and all that I have is theirs, even my very life. How could such small hands, such small hearts, comprehend such a love? Well, it is no accident that Christ demands we have a faith like theirs. They have received me, Only I am their dad. Only I am my wife's husband. And so in a way, not even purely spiritually or metaphorically, they are me. Is not one's native country a type of this same love?

When I get home and hear the pounding of little feet on the floor running to me with smiles and laughs, I'm not merely moved to pious duty to give them what they're owed from me. That would be a pity. No, I'm moved primarily by the fact that in my heart of hearts, I delight in them. I want to be spent for them. I'd rather be with them than anyone. I like them more than anyone. And this sentiment of overwhelming and sincere affection is always there. It doesn't flare up in special moments like when I come home from work, only to wither away right after as it's replaced by mere dutifulness. No, it's always there. And those special moments merely reveal its presence. The presence of a love so strong that were it to always be a At the forefront of life, it would make life nearly unlivable. My homeland is like this too. It too is not a place that is the recipient of my mere pious duty.

It is that, but it's more than that. My home is a recipient of my true and sincere love. After all, my loves live there. How could I not care deeply about the place where they are? I love my native country, specifically that native land of the American Southeast, not just for its familiarity, though familiarity is the seat of all classically complacent and beautiful love, but also because it is the land that formed me. It is the land that drank up my tears and my blood, that received my work to try and tame it, that raised up the fathers

that went before me, and now in Utah, that will serve as a chief tool in God's hand to raise up the sons who, Lord willing, will come after me. One cannot reduce love for people, in place to some binary and mechanical thing that is always strictly predictable and rational. Love for people in place is a force to be reckoned with. Why else would Christ care so much about how we order and act on those loves? Anyways, keep all this in mind. And now back to the stories. An oak colony had raised the wooden pylons around its grounds.

Before the mystery of that fickle word carved into the tree. Before the mystique of Virginia Dare, the first European born on the soil of the ground, the New World, gripped a nation and led so many into the strange American mytho history, there was the initial establishment of the English, around and about the shores of the eastern coast, that marked the beginning of the far west. And while the events of the first breaking of ground may not, on the surface at least, directly bear onto our story of Roanoke, it may nonetheless be critical intel in our mission to discover what really ever came of those people, our old kin. In 1585, the English fleet that had come to lay the roots of Roanoke found succor from the ebbing and flowing Atlantic

and the calmer saltwater byways of the outer banks. The rose-red fingers of dawn bathed them in the warm golden shower of March's morning, and they finally breathed the sigh of relief that they desperately needed. The journey to the stillness had already cost them the support of one ship in their fleet, and another one of the ships the tiger was barely limping along. It had gotten lost briefly in a storm and had sent its supply rations overboard in a full-hearty moment of overreaction. Thus, while the tiger was being repaired in safe waters, the captain of this whole transatlantic operation, a man named Greenville, organized an exploratory trip into the mainland to meet and look around some of the native villages.

It seems his intentions were pure enough. He wanted to establish some kind of friendly relations with the Indians. and get a better sense of how the existing native economy and politic operated. He and a small team therefore pushed the small lifeboat up onto the sandy beaches of North Carolina and disembarked for a journey through the mist and humidity of America's marshland. They entered land through the ferryway of Pamlico Sound and found some Pamlico and Sukhotin villages after a short hike inland. The initial contact with the Indians went swimmingly. The soon-to-be governor of the new colony, a man named John White, was ecstatic at the opportunity

to meet and make connections with the natives that would hopefully accept him as their neighbor. The hope of establishing common ground between the groups of people that, in almost every measurable way, could not be more different, seemed to be being fulfilled right before their eyes, and even quicker than they had expected. with feelings of curiosity evolving into the first whispers of sincere affection that fills the bosoms of both groups, they parted. And while some say that distance makes the heart grow fonder, that is rarely true outside of romance between a man and a woman or the individual brotherhoods of male friends, the distance hurts us, others say. In this case, those others proved all too correct. The Englishmen remounted the wooden and echoing decks of their schooners, and during their informal debrief of the trip discovered that one of their silver cups, a chalice they had taken to show the Indians as an expression of their culture and craftsmanship was missing.

What damage to diplomacy a silver cup can do? In a scene resembling the wrath of Joseph towards Benjamin, though unlike for the Old Testament saint, this wrath was not feigned. the English stormed a detachment back through the forest to demand the return of the missing pert quicksilver. But whether false or true, the Sekatan tribesmen staunchly claimed that they did not take the cup and so could not return it. The stoic denial of the native was like a brick wall that the English rage crashed into. It needed somewhere else to go and it needed to find that way fast. So they burned the village down. Amadas, the man Greenville, had sent back to recapture the cup, was afraid to show anything

that could be twisted into weakness by the natives. So he stood, maybe unfeeling, maybe sorrowful, maybe, heaven forbid, gleeful, as the flaming glow grew to piercing his face with radiant light. The shadows cast on him from his mouth and nose and eyes gave him a sort of inhuman and otherworldly look. It was like in that moment as he stared at him. into the blaze and let the tortured screams of the fleeing natives dampened steadily in his ears. He forgot not only who he was, but what it was to be a man at all.

At any rate, no natives died, but all of them were relocated to other villages, some even to other tribes. Amidoss in Greenville then saw to the final construction of the little fort on Roanoke Island and left White and his settlers there to reap the fruits of the violent episode while they sailed back to England without a second thought. George Howe trudged through the shin deep water with his eyes peeled down towards his feet. The fine sand swept over and under and around his toes. He knew he would never get tired of that. The pearl white beaches sprinkled hither and yawn with gold were nothing like the cold beaches of England. These were what he always imagined a pristine paradise

would look like. On this morning, in much the same way as other mornings before, he wondered whether or not the stories of old St. Brendan weren't all true. What if the Voyager had really made it here? If he had so thought how, then he couldn't be blamed for thinking he had landed on Eden so long lost. He shook his head to uncloud his mind and refocused on the settling water beneath him. He was fishing for crabs, you see, and one needed to be still when looking for crabs. It was his favorite spot, and he was confident he would return home with a nice yield before long. The little alcove he stalked on the eastern tip of Albermaral sound had never failed him before and he was counting on it to come through for him yet again.

With furtive and careful steps he glided along in the water, hyper-focused through nature's mild tumult that sang around him. As his first spot proved fruitless and he glided slightly west, deeper into the sound, that mild tumult that surrounded him grew to a more steady ring of droning bugs, rustling leaves, babbling brooks and bird calls hailing in from the sea. He was sinking deeper into his focus now. He was surprised at how the added noise actually helped him stay free of mental distraction and turned his eyes somehow deeper into the water that swallowed him from the knee down.

He did not hear the silent men tracking him from the foliage that blanketed the shore. All at once cries rang out in the darkness of his quieted mind. The rustling leaves went under the tidal wave of man's own rage, as if the wind had stopped at their onslaught. The birds flew far away. The river held back its water at the behest of promised blood to be spilled, and of course the bugs went silent, to watch with eager eyes as their namers fought with each other. The group of Sekatan men sprinted with whooping shouts through the water, kicking up foamy spray and salty drops as they charged breakneck on. Hal turned in time to see his doom closing in. He could, he could,

could do little more than close his eyes and resign himself to the hammer's drop, but he chose in that moment not to go quietly into death's waiting halls. The aged father and grandfather growled and pounded his chest with a winging prayer and appeal to heaven. Time slowed and how observed, with swelling courage a single drop of the salty and uninterested sea, fly up and off the clubbed heel of the first man. It radiated, refracted sunbeams like, a diamond rainbow as it flew gracefully through the air, a little miracle of God right before his eyes in the living water of Poseidon's lost cause. He marveled at the thought of how many tiny little things lived in that single flying drop. He wondered how many of those tiny things the

murderous native had just killed. His anger peaked as he watched the drop of God's glory crash into nothing against the youthful and tanned thigh of the fighter running just behind the first. How, eager for a fight. But the fight never came. The whirling club spun through the air. Howe had been distracted by the drop of slow motion and surreal water. Thrown with deft skill by that first man, the charging stone lashed to the wood, struck Howe in the temple. Blood pooled in his eyes as his skull cracked under the punctuated pressure and inhuman hatred. The rock pushed in to infect the brain matter, before grabbing on to the frontal lobe with little hands of earth. only to keep spinning and rip out what it had grabbed.

The light that filled the eyes of Howe, the love for what lay behind him that filled his heart, passed now into some other place, some ethereal and unknown world that we will all someday come to know. He was found later and carried back to Roanoke Island. Tears accompanied the dropping shoulders of all. He was laid to rest deep in the earth

with a small tombstone marking his tenement home before the first sunrise comes to strike him on the first morning of forevermore. He was made of dust, to dust he returned. The disappearance of the Roanoke colony was, it seems, precipitated by at least some kind of violent threat from neighbors who did not like them and who they did not like. Roanoke was never and has never been found. Plenty of plausible theories have been put forth

to explain the complete lack of any colonists remaining after the fateful day wherein Croatowan was carved for white to later see, but no definitive explanation has come. Reports of white-skinned citizens of certain native tribes and shabby European clothing circulated for many years in the rumor mill of English and Indian relations. This, of course, makes sense. There is even the story of Virginia Dare, Eleanor and Ananias' first American daughter,

becoming an Indian princess far inland, before being rescued by a Spanish prince that took her to live out her days in love under the cold spires of the Dolomites. But we don't actually know. Could Roanoke have split into subgroups that ran here and there, even up to the Appalachian foothills of our strange country, until they found succor or death? Of course.

Could they have all perished in a twist of fate, natural or more than that, that erased all trace of their lives completely? Of course. Could they have wondered off course and made some humble existence in some forest river valley far removed from anywhere they should have been only to die off naturally in a few generations? Of course. Could they have done that last thing but survived? Forming the subgroup of pseudo-Americans that became the feral men of Appalachia.

Well, of course, that's just it. And forgive me for belaboring the point. We don't know. What we do know is that they were there, thriving for all intents and purposes until they weren't, and then they weren't anymore, only three years later. We know that they left a ghost town and two graves behind them next to a single word carved into a post, a single word that had such an obvious meaning. Croatohan Island was only 50 miles away, and it was filled with friendly neighbors.

And yet, we know that exploration into this obvious message only led to the world. fruitless and tired trials with absolutely no success at all. We know what it all should mean and where it all should lead, so why doesn't it mean that? Why doesn't it lead there? And of course, we know that that word, perhaps it is cursed, has gone to mark the vanishing act of many others through the years. Eventually, one has to ask, is it all some trick of the evil one. Let us not forget the theology of the many settlers who came to these lands at the first. They knew Christ was Lord, but they also knew that his lordship had perhaps not yet been proclaimed everywhere. Though the devil was done and dusted by the crushing weight of the hero's heel,

the desperate animal is often the most dangerous. Maybe the newcomers were subject to some of that danger. Only maybe. Who knows? Brian, I got bad news. The other day I was using one of the biggest, box soap products to wash myself. And I got this weird urge to go buy a Stanley cup and fill it with iced coffee. And it started to feel a little cold in the house. I just wanted to wrap myself up in like a heavy wool blanket. And then also, I started Googling ticket prices to Taylor Swift concerts. Ben, what are you doing? Don't you know that these big box soap companies just jam all their soaps full of hormone disrupting chemicals? They're probably turning you into a girl.

Well, I know that now, but what am I supposed to do about it? Ben, you ignorant normie, all you've needed to do is go to indigo sundry soap.com and support a great Christian family business that's making all sorts of soaps that are completely free of hormone-disrupting chemicals and other nasties. Okay, I am literally going to indigo sundry soap.com right now. Tell me what to buy. Ben, what I would recommend doing is clicking on bundles and then selecting the best one for you. You could get the men six-pack. You could get my favorite, the clay bundle. Ooh, I like the pipe and jug bundle.

That seems cool. Or a men's six-pack, because that'll make me feel like I have something that I actually don't. So true, King. And you know what else I heard? Because they're such good friends of the show, Indigo Sundry's soap company is offering 10% off your order if you just use all caps. Discount code, Haunted Cosmos, no spaces. Wait, Brian, you're going way too fast. I didn't get all that.

Is that information in the show description? Ben, you ignorant normie, it's always in the show description. Okay, so I'm going to go to Indigo Sundry. Soap.com, I'm going to pick the men's six-pack bundle, and I'm going to use code Haunted Cosmos at checkout, all caps, no spaces. And if I forgot all that, it's in the description of the show. Of course, Ben. And if you just do that, then you will stop wanting to do all of those girly things and maybe you'll, I don't know, maybe want to buy a classic car to restore or something dignified. We are living in the beginning of a new Reformation. Christian content is being produced at a rapid rate.

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If you're ready to build, New Dominion Design Co is ready to work with you. Visit New Dominion Designco.com. That's new dominiondesignco.com and reach out to Jenkins for all your graphic needs. And as always, that link will be in the description. If you have a young family like me, then you work hard every day to ensure that you care properly for them. Providing for a young family is challenging with rising costs, and it doesn't look like things are going to change in the near future. Maybe you've thought like I have that I wish I had started investing years ago. Maybe then my family would be in a better financial position.

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slash Haunted Cosmos. That's Squirrelyjo's.com slash haunted cosmos to claim your free bag of coffee. Let's flip and go. Link in the description below. I'm a poet. Didn't even know it. On December 8th, 1920,

the Carol A. Deering set cell from the Virginia Capes bound for port in Rio de Janeiro. It was loaded down. down with tons upon tons of coal and was helmed by the 66-year-old Willis Wormwell, a veteran sea captain that replaced the Deering's normal captain, William Merritt, when the latter became sick. While the trip down to Rio was done without incident, it was not done without drama or tension. It became clear very early that Wormwell, this interim captain of sorts, was not at all fond of the crew that Merritt had scrounged together, even though Wormwell had gotten to handpick

his first mate, a man named McClellan. Once they had made their port of call, Wormwell gave his crew some leave, and went himself to meet an old friend for a few drinks in town. While there, he spoke openly of how much he hated the Scandinavian crew that he was being forced to work with. There was, however, one man that the salty captain said he trusted, an engineer named Bates, who he had sailed with before. The friend he had met also knew Bates and agreed that he was a trustworthy man and a dang talented engineer at sea. They drank and talked and reminisced on old stories that they exaggerated far beyond any reasonable boundaries. It was a wonderful night for Wormwell, but the peace did not last long for him. The Deering was set to return to America before the end of the year, and so they waved goodbye to Rio on December 2nd.

Something sank in Wormwell as he stood on the bridge, watching the beach. bustling city veil itself behind the misty sea. And as if in a blur the next thing the captain knew, he and his men were calling to port in Barbados to resupply on food and fuel for the final leg of the return journey. At a barbadoes, first mate McClellan drank with a captain friend of his from years back, a fellow named Norton who captained a ship christened snow. McClellan complained, without much pause given for volume or tone, that Wormwell was made. making it nigh impossible for him to do his job. According to the first mate, the captain constantly interfered any time he tried to discipline in the crew. It was like the captain scorned his duties

in order to micromanage the man that he had picked to keep his crew in line. He hated it further because of the effect it was having on the other men. Much like when children can sense that mom and dad are not on the same page in some heated moment of rebellion, all hands smelled blood in the water, and the disorderly conduct on board became more frequent and more disrespectful. On top of that, Wormwell's navigational incompetence meant that they were going to be late getting home. Norton listened patiently and let the inferior rank vent a little bit, but he always remembered how genuinely upset his friend seemed that day.

And then later that day, in the night, McClellan would be arrested for public drunkenness and indecency. Before the cops were actually called, he had made bold and hateful claims about the remainder of their trip to the Outer Banks. He swore up and down that, quote, I'll get that Captain before we get to Norfolk, I will. Norton remembered that, too. Surprisingly, the obvious bad blood between the two men did not stop Captain Wormwell from posting McClellan's bail the next day, and the deering was soon back at sea, heading for the Hampton Roads Waterway that would lead them safely to Norfolk. But between its leaving Barbados and its hugging the North Carolina shore off Cape Lookout, something happened to the Deering.

Maybe it was an unforecasted storm that crashed on them in the witching hours of night. Maybe it was a storm set against them alone for its lack of affecting any other vessels. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Whatever it was, the next time the Deering was seen was by the keeper of a light ship, off of Cape Lookout. He wandered to the bridge upon being hailed by the Deering from afar, and spotted a very tall and very thin man with reddish hair. He waved his whole arm as he raised a megaphone up to his face, half covered by the wind-whipped bleeding locks. The man holding the megaphone told the Light Shipkeeper that the Deering had lost its anchors in a storm near Cape Fear. He asked the shipkeeper to notify the owners of the Deering so that repairs might be arranged for when they got to port.

Unfortunately, the light ship's radio was out and the keeper wasn't able to report it. He went back to walk the deck and try to inform the deering of his inability to fulfill their wish and what he saw unsettled him. Crewmen walked like zombies, slow and hunched over and without turning their heads to either side along the quarter-deck railing of the ship, which was a place the crew was normally never allowed to be. They soon passed out of view and the lightship was forced to. to do nothing about it, seeing as how the radio continued in its dysfunction.

The next day, in the high sun of the early afternoon, another crew spotted the Deering, taking a course bound directly for the treacherous Diamond Shoals. They saw a single man standing atop the deck and assumed all was well. They didn't attempt to hail the schooner. Some days later, the Deering was spotted washed up against the rocks of Diamond Shoals by one C.P. Brandy from the Coast Guard station at Cape Hound. Hatteras, about 30 miles south of Old Roanoke Island. The sails were unfurled, and the schooner was being tossed about by the constant crashing waves

above and about her, and the grinding stones just beneath the surface. Rescue ships were sent to her, but all had to turn back due to the changing and worsening weather. All of the world seemed dead set against the salvation of the Carol Deering. Finally, five days after it was spotted in its desperate losing battle, and it was, it was desperate losing battle, a rescue party boarded the vessel. They found it completely empty, devoid of all signs of life at all, a ghost town. The crew, whatever had happened to them, were not there. And their whereabouts were a complete mystery, even to this day. None of them

were ever seen again. Cryptic clues started to pop up that provided things tantalizingly close to answers as the months wore on. A message in a bottle was found on shore that spoke of oil pirates boarding the deering, handcuffing and trapping the crew, and setting the vessel on the crash course. But if this is right, where did the crew go? And why did the bottle take so long to surface? Ultimately, none of the clues turned up offer any hard evidence to answer any of the hard questions. But one clue remained that truly baffled investigators. and sent searchers spiraling into a mania of puzzlement and tinges of latent fear. There, just 30 miles away from where White's colony was lost,

and all of these weird events began, they found the logbook of the Deering kept by Captain Wormwell. They flipped to the final days of the trip, but were disappointed to find only one entry, dated just a day before the ship must have run aground. It was just one word, Croatollan. more Haunted Cosmos, then make your way over to Patreon, where you can get early access to our content,

as well as exclusive content, in regular dusty tomes and monthly live streams with Brian and myself. So go to patreon.com slash hauntedcosmos and sign up now.