1609, Winter of the Dead: A Novel of the Founding of Jamestown (11 page)

The men with the muskets came over cautiously and poked at Jehu with their shoes.

“He's dead,” said one.

“Brain fever of some sort,” said a third man. “He's best off dead than a danger to himself and the rest of us.”

But he might have recovered,
Nat thought.
If they had only disarmed him and put him in a cottage, he might have come through this in just a little while!

“You, boy,” said one man to Nat. “Help take this man into the fort. We'll give him a proper burial.”

Nat wanted to cry out at these men, to scold them for their haste, for now dead was a man who had no other thought over the past months than how he could help the settlement survive. But Nat could not cry out. He would not bring their wrath down on himself.

Nat took Jehu's arms and a soldier took his legs. They proceeded into the fortress, where he was laid in the chapel and Reverend Hunt bid all to attend a funeral service. The men gathered solemnly, helmets in hands, listening as the minister spoke of Jehu's generosity and wisdom.

Nat stood near the back beside the open doorway, between Nicholas Skot and Samuel Collier. Nicholas was clearly upset, and wiped his eyes with his hands as the reverend spoke. Samuel, for all his ingrained haughtiness, seemed distracted and dazed, staring down at his shoe tips and rolling his lips in and out between his teeth. It was hard to breathe inside the church, even though the building was not as crowded as it had been months ago with so many men dead. Nat's chest ached in what was more than just heat exhaustion. Something harsh and stinging pressed behind his eyes. He thought not only of Jehu, but of Richard—poor Richard, vanished among the Powhatans and never heard from again—and of his dead mother and of the dead boy James Brumfield, killed on the shore of Cape Henry, and of the dead boys he had once thieved with back in England.

If you cry, they will never again see you the way you want them to. You dare not cry, not now, not ever!

Nat clenched one fist in the other, and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. But the tears did not come.

Jehu was buried within the fort. Then everyone went back to their normal routines, the gentlemen preparing for the next gold search, the councilors making sure laborers wasted no time on the construction of more cottages within the fortress, the soldiers manning the cannons which faced the forest, and the others wearily raking the river bottom with wood rakes for clams and crabs and chasing animals from the gardens and grumbling that they wished they had the hunting skills of the cursed natives.

After Jehu's burial, Nat paced the fortress. He walked back and forth from the church, past the tents and cottages and storehouse to the gate and back again. From within some of the cottages he could hear the moans of those who were ill with fever and starvation. His nerves clawed the inside of his skin.

“Jehu, you moron,” he said to himself. “I told you not to try plants you didn't know!”

He picked up several stones and hurled them through the fence of the sheep's pen. It struck a ewe and her lamb, who squeaked and took several sideways, stumbling steps.

Then Nat stopped in front of Captain Smith's cottage. Smith was not there. Nat glanced around, then went inside.

The captain's home was neat. His wood and canvas cot had a wool blanket neatly folded at the end. On a wooden stool were writing utensils and a comb and knife. Several small crates were beneath the cot. Clothes, an extra shirt and vest and pairs of stockings, hung on nails driven into the wood framing.

Nat stooped down and pulled the crates from beneath the cot. He opened the first. In it were books and scrolls. Nat shut it and opened a second. Here were even more clothes, smelling of mildew, and an extra pair of shoes. Nat slammed it, too.

The third crate, smallest of them all, had a lock. Nat stood and kicked the lock solidly with the bottom of his shoe. The lock didn't break, but the lid of the crate cracked and Nat tossed the lock aside. He opened the box.

“Ah,” he said in a whisper.

Here were trinkets, the ones Smith used when coaxing the Powhatans into peace or food. There were small looking glasses and bits of smoothed metal and patches of silk fabric stitched into pouches with drawstrings. At the bottom, blue glass beads. They were smooth and cool. These seemed to be the most popular trade item. Back in July, three entire deer were given to James Towne in exchange for a single bead, which the
weroance
who had approved the gift immediately strung with deer sinew and put around his neck as a symbol of his status.

He scooped up six of the beads and shoved them into his pocket. They clacked softly against the pebbles from the bank of the Thames.

A spear of excitement jabbed Nat's gut as he collected a helmet and left the fort. It was like being in London again, snatching a fish from the monger's barrow. He was a good thief. It was a talent he'd not practiced in quite some time. Now he would bury the beads where no one would find them and accuse him of theft, which would surely bring a noose to his neck. In time he might be able to use these beads to trade for food for himself.

The forest was more dense than it had been in the spring, with summer growth holding tight, the leaves of the tall trees linked together overhead in a solid canopy and the vines growing lush below. Nat carefully avoided one particular vine with tri-leaves which the men had discovered gave a dreadfully itchy rash where it touched.

This part of the woods was familiar. Nat had walked here enough to know the rise and fall of the land. He had even sketched a simple map from his memory, and the map was safely stored in his sack with his journal pages. He felt nearly as home here among the trees as he did back at the fort, although he knew to always walk softly and listen well. He'd not seen any sign of gold, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. It was probably just below the soil, and soon he would take time to dig.

Then he found a good spot. It was close to the river, although the water was hard to see because of the undergrowth. The ground was mushy and covered with pine needles. Nat clawed soil up with his fingernails and tossed it aside. He reached into his pocket for the beads. He would put them here, cover them with soil and leaves, and mark the place with stones.

Suddenly something slammed into Nat's back and sent him flying through the air. He struck the ground on his shoulder with a grunt. Instantly Nat rolled onto his back and jumped to his feet. He would fight, he would survive!

Standing there with a look of triumph on his face was the Powhatan boy he'd seen from the garden. The boy had his hands out before him, one empty and one holding a writhing, copper-colored snake. Nat stared, his knees shaking.

The boy pointed at Nat, then the snake. He made a wriggling motion with his free hand, indicating that the snake had been traveling along the ground. Then he made a jabbing motion as if showing the snake had wanted to bite Nat on the ankle.

Nat slowly nodded at the boy.
Thank you.
The boy nodded back.
You are welcome.
The boy laughed. Nervously Nat laughed, too.

The boy whirled the struggling snake in the air and slapped it hard against a tree trunk. The snake went limp. The boy smiled and pointed at the snake and then to his mouth. Did the boy mean that the snake could be eaten? The boy held the snake out to Nat. Nat took it. He stared at it. Then he remembered how much the Powhatan boy had enjoyed the imitation of Gabriel Archer. Nat dropped the dead snake on the ground and then hunched over and pretended to sneak up on it. Then he quickly snatched it up and struggled with it as if it were still alive.

“Ah!” shouted the Powhatan, thrilled with the act. He began to slap at the dead snake, too. Both Nat and the boy laughed. Nat threw the snake against a tree, wiped his brow dramatically, and put the snake into his pocket. The head hung out limply.

“Ahhhh!” the boy repeated, smiling. The boy stared at Nat expectantly. Nat stared at the boy.

Laughing Boy,
Nat thought.
It is what I will call him. But what does he want? He saved me from that serpent, surely. I suppose I should thank him for saving my life, but how do I do that?

Nat thought of the rocks in his pocket. Maybe a smooth stone from London would be a good gift. Nat pulled out a quartz and gestured for the boy to take it. The boy took the rock, turned it over, shook his head, and threw the rock to the ground.

Reluctantly Nat drew a glass bead from his pocket. The boy's eyes widened at this, and he took it with a whistle of admiration. He smiled at Nat, opened the leather pouch he wore tied to his waist, and dropped the bead inside. And then, as swiftly as before, he jumped off the path and was gone.

“He knows how to survive,” Nat thought, pulling the snake half out of his pocket and then cramming it back again. “I bet I could learn a lot if I spent time with him. And I bet he would help me search for gold. I wonder if we'll meet again.”

And the thought was funny, Nat realized as he finished burying the rest of the glass beads. For the first time he could remember, he was thinking that someone to help him might be all right. If only on occasion.

17

November 8, 1607

My excursions into the forests now often find me with a companion. Every ten days or so, as I work in the pitiful, dying gardens, harvesting the last of the crops and killing the late-season insects, I see familiar eyes by the boulder at the edge of the woods. It makes me glad, for I know I will have an adventure and will have some time away from the sickness and arguments of James Towne!

Laughing Boy has taught me how to hunt the way the Powhatans do. He showed me that two hunters can more easily kill a deer by chasing the animal into an inlet of the river, where it struggles in the soft river bottom and cannot get out. This makes it an easy target for musket or arrow. The first time, however, it was I who fell into the river bottom and struggled there, while Laughing Boy howled at me with joy and had a great moment at my expense. But we tried again and again, and it was not long before I was feeling agile and prepared.

Three times now I have come back to the fort with a deer, but not before Laughing Boy and I have made fires with tinder and sharpened stones and cooked and ate a portion of the animal. The men at James Towne were impressed that I, simple comedian that I am, was able to single-handedly hunt a deer. Of course, they demanded that I share. And so I handed the animal over, with a story that a bear had chased me with the carcass, and ripped part off.

“All three times a bear chased you?” Samuel Collier asked me with a sneer as John Laydon took the deer through the fortress gate. “Who could believe such a story from a boy who not months ago was begging for scraps from the doorsteps of the fishwives of London?”

“Yes,” I told the little hot-bird in a whisper. “All three times. The bear thought the carcass was you.”

Laughing Boy has also taught me to climb trees and patiently watch for small animals instead of scaring them away with the sound of my footsteps. I've had a hard time handling bow and arrow, but we amuse each other, making fun of my clumsy attempts which often send an arrow flying straight up in the air or smacking down into the ground. But five times now, I've brought back to James Towne several of the ring-tailed creatures, but often as not, I hide one down the front of my shirt to cook and eat on my own at night.

I know I can survive Virginia! I shall outlive them all!

Several times I've tried to show Laughing Boy how to write. He likes to draw the animals he hunts and pictures of what I can only guess are his family. A father, three sisters, and a mother. A
weroance.

No man at James Towne could possibly understand my trust of Laughing Boy. But no matter. I have to do what I have to do, and the rest of the settlement can bloody well take care of themselves.

Just yesterday morning I sat down in the woods with Laughing Boy and tried to tell him about gold.

“It's like stone,” I said, holding up a gray pebble from beneath a tree. “Like this, but it is beautiful and bright. Yellow, like the sun.” I pointed to the sky, where through bare branches the sun could be seen. “It is what will make me a gentleman, and you, too, if you want.”

Laughing Boy crossed his legs and his arms and shook his head. Clearly it made no sense to him.

Then I pointed to the pouch at Laughing Boy's waist. He opened it. I pulled out the blue bead. “Like this,” I said. “It is valuable, and everyone wants it. Gold. Men kill and die for it.”

Laughing Boy chuckled, jumped to his feet, and ran off after a squirrel.

I realized then that gold-hunting would be something I would have to do alone. Damn it all. It would have been easier with two, especially a Powhatan!

18

December 25, 1607–January 1, 1608

“W
E CAN'T SURVIVE
with Wingfield as president,” said the bushy-haired gentleman Robert Fenton to the bald gentleman Thomas Sands as the men of James Towne exited the settlement's church on Christmas afternoon. Those who were well enough to attend the service did so, but there were a number who had had to celebrate the morn of Christ's birth from the darkness of their cabins, for their fevers had stolen their vitality. The ground was frozen from an early-morning sleet, the sky was gray, and the air was as cold and cruel as the blade of a sword. Reverend Hunt had spoken for hours on the glorious birth of Jesus and the saintliness of His mother and the love of God, and for hours the men had recited verses and had sung hymns, and Nat's back was tired.

“Hush,” said Thomas Sands. “Let us talk outside earshot of those who would disagree.” The two gentlemen walked slowly toward the West Bulwark of the fortress. Nat, a scarf torn from the remnants of a wool blanket tied around his ears, followed the men. He acted as though he had business in the pigs' pen, which was only several yards from the bulwark. When he reached the woven fence, he climbed over and proceeded to rearrange the buckets. He was reminded of the times he and Richard had pretended to still have rats to toss into the ocean so they could stay above board longer. There were only two pigs remaining from those brought in May. In the fall the pigs had been allowed to run in the forests to find their own food, but this remaining pair had been brought back to the fort. Many of the laborers suspected that Edward Maria Wingfield was planning a Yuletide feast for himself and some of his closest supporters like Archer and Kendall.