1609, Winter of the Dead: A Novel of the Founding of Jamestown (13 page)

“Where is God?” one man near Nat wondered aloud. “Why has He brought us here for this? We are not as pious as Job, so why must we be tested as severely?”

The Reverend Hunt preached for many hours. He raised his hands to heaven and sought God's help in enduring the difficulties of Virginia. He led the men in the singing of songs and reciting of Psalms, but most of the voices were now scratchy and faint with the ravages of smoke. Reverend Hunt thanked God for the lives and buildings that were spared in the fire. The minister's face and hands were black with ash, and his robe was scorched, yet his words were earnest and sincere.

“Our blessed Redeemer, give us courage to continue our mission here in the New World!”

Most of the men answered, “Amen.” Some said nothing.

Over the weeks that followed, the James Towne men worked to rebuild, but this time in wind cold enough to cut flesh. Chopping trees to replace the cottages and plastering frozen mud for walls made joints and muscles ache. At times Nat felt his hands would break off the ends of his arms like brittle icicles. The settlers had so little strength it took three times as long to build a cottage as it had in the summer. Everyone's faces—John Laydon, Samuel Collier, John Smith, Nicholas Skot, and all the others—seemed to have shrunken into skulls. Cheekbones protruded, eyes were hollow and dark, lips were dry, cracked, and often bloody.

I suppose I look as they do,
Nat wrote one night as he sat on his mattress after John Laydon had extinguished the lantern and the glow of the moon through the window was the only light available.
It is a good thing I am not wealthy enough to own a looking glass. What a fright I would have.

Laydon was in his silent prayers now, his eyes closed, his body trembling. Samuel lay on his own mattress, facing away from Nat. Nat hadn't heard Samuel utter more than a few words since the fire. He went to Smith's cottage when called, but other than that, was distant and withdrawn. Maybe he was sick, although Nat had not heard the rasping cough that the dying men had. Maybe he had just given up hope for a good life in Virginia. Maybe he just wanted to go home to England.

Nat looked back at his paper, and couldn't think of anything else to write. He covered the page with one of his remaining deerskins. Then he drew his knees up to his chest and forced himself to sleep.

He awoke when it was still dark, although he could feel the coming morning in the air. His stomach growled, still believing it could demand a meal. Beneath his sack was the sharpened stick Laughing Boy had given him to fish. If he went down to the river now, no one would question him. Even though fish were hard to find in the winter, perhaps he could stir up something in the frosty water.

Quietly he pulled on his stiff shoes and cloak, then went out of the cottage and through the center of the fort toward the gate. Men could be heard through the windows of their cottages, snoring, coughing, and moaning.
What are their dreams?
Nat wondered. The watch in the bulwarks were clearly sleeping; no one stirred as he moved the large wooden post from the latch of the gate and slipped outside.

The stars in the sky were beginning to grow fuzzy as the sun in the east found a fingerhold on the horizon. Pale gray sunlight crawled across the river and the distant trees. Nat knew it would bring no warmth, however. He reached his boulder and stood with the spear raised, staring into the water, watching for a splash.

There was rustling in the trees along the clearing. Nat spun around. Walking softly, sneaking toward the fort, was an entire band of natives.

Nat's mouth opened, but nothing came out. The spear fell from his hands. He took a deep breath and screamed, “Muskets! Quickly, muster now, for the savages are coming!”

His legs loosened and he dashed up the frozen path to the fort's gate. He knew arrows would be flying in just a moment; he knew he would be the first one dead when the natives drew their bows.

But Nat stumbled once, and as he righted himself he looked over his shoulder. The natives were still walking to the fort, but none had bows or other weapons readily at hand. Instead, their arms and shoulders were laden with turkeys, whole deer and some half carcasses, and baskets of dried vegetables, nuts, and corn.

Nat stopped and stared.

At the front of the line skipped a young girl, a bit younger than himself, wearing a deerskin dress decorated in shells and feathers. Her black hair was bound in leather thongs at the back of her neck. Around her neck was a single blue glass bead. She was smiling.

The remaining Powhatans were men, bearing the food. Their faces were solemn but not threatening. They seemed determined to do the job they had come to do. Deliver food.

Unless it's a trick,
Nat thought.
Like the Trojan horse, perhaps they are hiding hatchets and clubs in those baskets, ready to kill us if we let them into the fort!

And then Nat saw someone near the rear of the procession, someone he knew. It was Laughing Boy. He carried a skin bundle filled with ears of dry corn. The boy nodded at Nat, barely, though, as if he didn't want the others to know that he and Nat were acquaintances.
Good,
thought Nat.
If the men of James Towne knew I spent time with a native, they would punish me severely.

It was only then that the watch came awake in the murky morning light, and began to scream, “Muskets! Muster quickly, we are under attack! All men, muster!”

The cannons on the bulwarks squeaked as they were positioned. Inside the walls, men could be heard shouting, “Attack! We are under attack! Hurry!”

But Nat cried, “They have brought food for us! Wait!”

A soldier at the cannon cried, “Shut up, boy!”

But Nat insisted. “Look, please! They've got food!”

The soldier straightened from the cannon and held up a hand. “Wait, the boy is right! Hold your muskets, men. We have a friendly visit!”

The fort gate swung open and John Smith came out, dressed already in his best uniform. Even his hat was placed carefully on his head and it seemed as if his beard had been combed. Nat had never known anyone who could look so dignified and so in command at such short notice. Surely the man had been sound asleep only a minute earlier.

“Pocahontas!” said Smith, sweeping his arms wide and welcoming the girl. “Welcome to James Towne, and to all those with you. Come in!”

He stood back, his cape flapping, and the natives entered the fort. Nat let them pass, glancing only once at Laughing Boy. As he did, Laughing Boy pointed to the hollow of his throat and tipped his head toward the front of the procession. Nat knew immediately what he was saying. Laughing Boy had given Pocahontas the blue bead. But why?

Everyone was up now, except the men too ill to leave their lodgings. John Smith gathered everyone around and waved his arms. “As I have told the council, because of my travels into the wilderness of Virginia and my visits to many Powhatan villages, we would someday have a time of peace between the natives and ourselves. That time has come. And the daughter of the great Chief Powhatan, Pocahontas, has initiated this feast before us. We are grateful to her for her generosity and pray our people will from this day forward share the land in tranquility.”

Pocahontas beamed as John Smith bowed to her. She spun her arms around as if in dance, then said something to the natives behind her. They placed the foods on the ground. Even the most distrustful of the settlers at last laid down their muskets and collected the baskets and the meats. Nat took a small deer, threw it over his shoulder, and followed the other Englishmen to the storehouse. The animals would be skinned and then smoked dry to be eaten over the rest of the winter. The other foods, already prepared, would be rationed out by the councilors until spring:

John Smith conversed with the princess, using those words he knew of her language and a series of gestures. Clearly he wanted Pocahontas to thank her father for sending the food. Nat let his gaze wander over to Laughing Boy, who stood with his arms crossed. Carefully, so not to attract anyone else's attention, Laughing Boy pointed toward the storehouse and then to his forehead. He then touched his neck, nodded at Pocahontas, and shook his head. At last he patted his stomach and pointed at Nat.

Nat understood. It wasn't Pocahontas who had decided to bring food to the settlers. It was Laughing Boy's idea. He knew the settlers were starving. But Laughing Boy had no status to make such a grand proposal. And so he had given Pocahontas the blue glass bead, a rare and wonderful gift, so she would make the arrangements. But for some reason, Laughing Boy didn't really mind that the girl got the thanks, not him.

After Pocahontas and the natives had gone and the sun was up fully, fires were struck to heat up a fine meal of corn and venison. Men sat about, rubbing their hands against the warmth and loudly chewing the meat from the animal bones.

“This is a blessing from God,” said Reverend Hunt to John Smith. “The Lord has seen fit to stir the hearts of the savages in order for us to live again.”

“Thank God and thank me,” said Smith, his mouth full of corn. “The Lord has given me the talent to ease the minds of the savages. I doubt any other settler would have had this effect on their dark hearts. And Pocahontas was so pleased with the appreciation we showed, she will come again.”

President Edward Maria Wingfield sat near enough to Nat to be overheard saying, “Smith thanks God for the glory of being Smith. Those savages are never to be trusted.” He cracked open the leg bone of a deer and began to suck the marrow from within. “I could see the treachery in their eyes even as they were handing us this food.”

Gabriel Archer said, “True. Smith is so bloated with his own sense of worth he would pop if he ran into a thorn.” Archer patted the dagger on his belt. “He best watch out for my thorn.”

Wingfield nodded seriously and John Ratcliffe put his hand to his mouth to stifle a chuckle. Nat stared at the portion of deer leg in his hands. He pretended not to hear the councilors' discussion.

21

February 16, 1608

The new boy Thomas Savage is gone from us, traded to Powhatan as a hostage just a month after his arrival at James Towne. Smith and Newport ushered Thomas and his chest of clothing from us, and far up the river. They returned with a savage to live with us and learn our language. I did not know Thomas well, but that he was a tall boy for thirteen, and silent and respectful to gentlemen. So I do not think I shall miss him, but a cold chill ran down me when, again, I saw how easily a boy is gotten rid of. The savage who came to James Towne with Smith is a little older than I, but not much. His name is Namontack. He spends his time with the carpenters and with Reverend Hunt, learning how we build, how we speak, and how we pray. Newport plans to take him back to England. I will have nothing to do with him, not knowing how to trust him or if I should even want to.

Perhaps Thomas will find Richard and Richard will not be so alone in the wilderness. Perhaps, if Richard is still living.

Perhaps.

The New World is full of perhaps.

22

April 30, 1608

Pocahontas comes to our fort several times a week, bringing food and taking messages from John Smith to her father, the great Powhatan. The girl is haughty, bold, but I have a respect for her that I did not have earlier. She does indeed face danger when she comes to our fort. How can she know we won't act abruptly as her people sometimes do? Englishmen can be savage, though most would not admit it.

We are growing stronger with the victuals and the warmer weather. Our moods are a bit improved, though the damage from the fire is not totally repaired yet, and there are still many graves around the settlement.

Sometimes Laughing Boy comes with the delivery of food, sometimes not. I've often wondered how I could ask him about Richard, if he's seen him, if he is still alive. But our communication is still so limited, I doubt I will ever be able to convey my concerns. And I don't really know if I want to know the truth. What if Richard has been tortured to death, burned or gored?

We have begun planting our gardens once more. It is not long until we celebrate our first anniversary in James Towne. Celebrate. Not quite the word I should use. But this year could be better. The natives have given us some seeds to help us with our farming.

Amazingly, Thomas Savage was not slaughtered by the Powhatans, but has learned enough of their language to act as liaison at some of the trading expeditions Smith has taken over the past two months. I suppose, then, that he is faring well. Or as well as a child can in the face of everything strange and wild. God knows, I do not envy him. How the world, how circumstance, can turn in but a moment.

The
Susan Constant
sailed twenty days ago, back to England, talking some wood to the Company and collecting some more supplies for us. We've got no gold yet. I doubt wood will please the Company much.

We've got men making glass now, fancy, delicate green vessels for candles and beer. The sand along the riverside is melted down to create these wares.

But no gold.

Not a bit of gold.

23

September 28–October 12, 1608

I
T WAS WITH
mixed feelings that the men of James Towne had greeted the arrival of more settlers on September 20. There were supplies of food and tools and crates of pigs and goats, for which everyone was thrilled. But like the 120 who had come to James Towne in April of this year, the new men who arrived in September were no more knowledgeable of the way of the wilds than were the first settlers to arrive on the
Susan Constant,
the
Godspeed,
and the
Discovery
over a year ago. The Virginia Company had been angry that no gold had been sent from the New World to England, and they were determined to make sure gold was forthcoming. Instead of carpenters and farmers, which James Towne needed greatly, the Company sent gold refiners and more glassmakers. The new council president, John Ratcliffe, seemed at a loss as to how to manage so many people. He shouted orders, whipped those laborers he felt were disrespectful or had them tossed into the fort's tiny, thatched jail, and stomped around with his head held high as if he were in control, but he was not. John Smith was. Men moved more quickly for Smith than Ratcliffe, a fact not lost on the council president.