August, 1590. Less than 10 miles off the middie's coast of America, a bright full moon,

the colour of bone, rises steadily into the sky. Down below, the towering hulks of

two ships en route from England to Hopewell and Moonlight, plow headlong through the waves

as they edge ever closer to the northern ridge of the outer bank, a 200 mile stretch of

barrier islands and spits located roughly 600 miles north of Florida. Between the bank

and the mainland, lay a body of water known as the Pamlico Sound, at the top of which was

the ship's target destination, an island named Roanoke. On the Hopewell's deck, Governor

John White, who has waited desperately for almost three years for this moment, strains his

eyes in the darkening twilight for any sign of his people coming from the island.

It was back in August 1587 that due to a series of calamitous events, White had been forced

to leave Roanoke and the colony of women, men and children he had been charged with establishing

there. There had been 117 of them in total, his own daughter and granddaughter among them,

and every day since leaving them he had been consumed with despair, not only out of fear for

their safety, but for his own future too. For all of it had been dependent on his successful

return to the island. Now finally he was on the brink of reuniting with them.

It is hard to articulate the sheer sense of relief that washed over Governor White that early

August evening, when, as he cast his eyes beyond the outer bank, he spotted the telltale

sign of campfire smoke rising high above Roanoke's trees. How his legs threatened to give way from

underneath him, but the thought of what it might signify, that somehow they had managed to survive

after all that time. The rest of those on board however were a little less enthused,

for no doubt they had heard all the stories about just what exactly looked beyond those distant

trees. For most of them who had only signed up to the trip for the chance to plunder treasure

...