by Tom Blair
From his blouse Mister Johnson pulled a crust of black bread. Broken in two, Nathan and I each given a scrap. Nathan tossed his in the sea. Like chickens to corn, the fish, all colors and sizes, churned the waters. Then my turn. They swam below, I above. What power. I the minister, they my flock. Not toss the bread, but held it right below. Circle. Circle again. Then, one in turn, slow to close, then to dart, as taking communion. Soon the bread gone, and back to the ship. But before the ship, another sight. A yell and gesture by an oarsman, to the port a large upside-down wash basin, with feet of fins and head barely seen. A sea tortoise we told. Fast it swam. But not swim fast enough. Later a bountiful stew there be.
That afternoon another amazement. Two small boats approached. Like none seen before, long and thin, the shape of half a green bean. But their cargo was most strange. People dark, dark like leather boots. All hair black. But clothing not much seen. Women, or young girls, only a scarf wrapped around the hips. Nathan much interest shown. The males, the same scarves. Against their dark faces white teeth in a constant smile. That night I lay in my cot and thought, since Mother joined Rebecca, the first day happiness visited. Perhaps this day was the beginning of the New World. It made me feel content.
One more day and night at anchor, then under the white sails. The day sky bright, moods are bright. Sailed north. The sun now rose on the starboard and bade farewell on the port. Ten or more days at sea, then to land. First Cape Henry. This be the lower lip of the mouth of the Chissiapiack Bay. A calm water, but not colors of Mevis. Trees to the water’s edge, no beaches, no clear waters, no green mountains wearing a fluffy white wig. Slowly we went, apprentices at the bow taking measure of the depth. Then up the river named for our king. Not a Kingley river I thought. From the river the first view, my new home, Jamestown. From a distance, only grays and browns were seen. Slowly closer, eyes straining to see. No white churches probed the sky. No bells rang. What seemed to be a high fence around the village. Made of logs. Fences are to keep animals contained. I wondered would cottages be built in the pasture of the cows and sheep.
Sails were furled. Two boats, each with strong oarsmen approached from an uneven pier at the river’s edge. Ropes were made fast and pulled us to the pier. Scores of faces had gathered, our arrival being much hoped for. Later learned not our arrival, but that of our stores. From our ship to the pier, a long, steep plank leaned. Passengers on deck, toward the aft. Captain and Mister Rountree at the ready, in uniforms not seen since London. Up the plank three men, dark and lean. I think dark from the sun. Conversation, all passengers straining to hear. Then the word, we would spend the night on the ship. Not to our new home till tomorrow. That evening food brought aboard. A meat I had never partook and a sea creature most ugly, but pleasant to the taste. In my cot that night another new creature. Not to be eaten, rather they dined on me. The night air still and hot. No breeze. A buzzing by my ear. Quick to be heard, quick to depart. Then the marks. Large welts felt on my skin where they had set their table. To hide, hands pulled under my blanket with scarf over my face, then sleep.
With the morning Father with other men off to Jamestown. Our home to find. While he gone Mister Johnson spoke to Nathan and me. To Nathan he gave the most dear present, his knife. With this a new belt he had fashioned with a leather pocket for the blade. For me, a comb of white. He said it was ivory from the most strange animal that swam like a dolphin, but could walk like a lumbering sow. In the smallest of small letters, on the comb he had etched my name. I knew not what to say. Nathan’s hand he shook, to me a gentle kiss above my eyes.
Before the plank descend, Mrs. Sandys speaks to me, and me alone. Together we sit on a cot, away from all. Smiles she does. Tells me all will be well. To Weyanoke she will go, not a far distance from Jamestown, a day’s journey west. If I am ever in harm, somehow to her I should go. Then a package handed me. Ribbon of white around brown paper. Opened slowly. Mrs. Sandys’s blue dress, worn by me when mine in the wash. Told to stand and hold it against me. She looked and smiled, said that she made it to fit. Her care in pinning the dress was not for one day worn, it was for alterations. We hugged. She was warm and soft. I think of Mother.
Father back to gather us and our trunk of clothes and household goods. A trunk of memories, memories of Tewkesbury. So sad. A young apprentice directed to help us with our burden. I wished it had been David. Down the plank and into Jamestown Village. What I thought a fence to keep animals in was to keep savages out I was told. No paved streets. All but a few cottages one level. Thatched roofs, but not straw. Windows, but not glass. Only shutters. As we passed people turned their gaze to follow us, as if judging a heifer at a fair. Some smiled. Most did not. And all looked weary. Then our home, or half a home. We were given one room of a two-room cottage. This cottage being no longer than half the size of our home in Tewkesbury. One cot, one table, two chairs, one broken, and a hearth. A door to the outside, made of planks not well fitting. No door to the other room, separated by a wall of clay. One window, closed with shutters on hinges of rope. The floor of dirt, with one half covered with a rug of canvas, perhaps from a sail. Not pleased I think, my father. But no complaint.
To the center of town we went. A large building, one end open. Benches, stools, chairs, and tables. There were other passengers from our journey. Talked we did, some cottages better, others not. In a pit meat was roasted. Not certain what animal it be. A hard bread made by Indians, guinea wheat I told. Some drink was had, a tease of apple but not cider. A young frail girl I met, her name Martha. One year younger than Nathan. Over two years at Jamestown with mother and father. Her brother buried in the cemetery. Pleasant was she, a most nice smile. Then her mother I met, her face more of a man’s than a lady’s. Briefly we spoke, then asked to meet my mother. Father answered, I could not.
Back to our cottage in the dark. There Father lit a candle brought from Tewkesbury. Sat us down and spoke. But not as before. Always in Tewkesbury he was Father and we were children. Words were few, and came with no sauces or sweets. During our journey on the sea almost no words after Mother’s passing. But this night he spoke to us, and only us. In a voice low Father spoke of Tewkesbury and our pleasant cottage. He recounted memories of happiness. Then he spoke of the last year. A hard journey. Then of Mother and love for her. Then he said we were where we were this night, a cottage of dark and dust. He paused for several moments. Then said that we could not make this year better than last year, but we could make next year better than this year. And when we did, contentment and happiness would be ours.
That night, Father laid on the canvas, Nathan and I on the cot. Quickly, they both asleep. My father’s words I thought. Spoke not to us as children, but as those grown. He gave Nathan and me a message for life. Not words of a command, but words of wisdom so that we would know how to command our lives. With morning quickly up and tidying. I would make well our modest room. By nightfall our cottage half would not be as well as that in Tewkesbury, but it would be more pleasant than the night before, and for this I would feel contentment. Father was right.
Father to a gathering of some type. Only men. Gone for the morning, then returned. Spoke to Nathan and me. A counsel governed Jamestown, no king or mayor. Jobs assigned, with much hard work for all. Nathan to catch fish. I think we may be hungry. I was to tend the cottage, and domestics with other women. Also, women plant and harvest with the men. Father to work as carpenter, new structures to build, old to repair. Nathan and I were sent to a well for water. Nathan with one bucket in each hand. Passed some cottage and saw Indians, or savages they be. A man, two women, or two men and a woman, not certain. A mat, two strides by two strides, looked as heavy straw, with colors of shape. Tall was the man standing. Long black hair, but only on one side, the other shaved. Later I told side shaved so hair and bowstring not get caught. Britches worn, called leggings, with this a breechcloth. Women sitting, wearing something as a dress, more of a coat than a dress. Hair black, hair short. All clothes of deerskin, I think. Boots the same, more a
s slippers of leather than boots. But most strange the savage color. Skin of Indian not brown, but as brown. And the skin had a wet shine, looked as they just bathed, though in the dust they be. The man moved away, somewhere to go. Two others sitting on the mat busy with a task, I think baskets their labor. Nothing to say, nothing understood, on our way.
With water buckets full, back to the cottage. On the way, near the stockade I saw a sight to cause a pause. The Essex not nestled against the pier. A small ship it looked, down the river, to England. Sad, but not certain why. Thought of Mother. Somehow, and no sense to it, with the ship no more, Mother no more.
Next to us, in the half cottage not ours, Mrs. Dear and her son, Jonathan. She not a happy person. Her husband having passed many years before from the fever. Jonathan Nathan’s size, but much older. When first arrived in Jamestown, while building a structure of some type, a log fell from a height and broke his leg. Broken bone set and healed. Some muscle torn. Walked with two crutches and one leg dragging behind. Some not kind to Jonathan. He was called snake by many for the snakelike trail in the dirt he left when he walked.
I became the woman of our house. Responsibility I took, direction I gave. But my servant only being Nathan so my instruction was cloaked in challenges. “It be impossible to repair that chair with only a knife.” Our room began to appear not dreary. Smooth gray stones from the river were laid at the doorway as a path, to catch the dirt from boots and shoes. From a structure long fallen, planks were taken. Against them a measure was made and cuts applied. A wooden floor was ours. From our trunk an old scarf taken, made of the thinnest cloth. While hurtful, it was cut. Cut to cover the window opening. Then shutters were rehung. With one hinging up to make a canopy over the window. Then at night, even with rain, the shutters could be held open to allow for air while the scarf fenced the winged bugs.
Father became busy. Busy became contentment. A Mister Sullivan, of all the Jamestown persons I met, seemed most not dreary. When spoke to Father enthusiasm was there. Together, they saw a future not seen by others. In time, Father learned the history of Jamestown. This he learned from Mister Sullivan. I also learned a history, but mine from Mrs. Dear. Mister Sullivan to our cottage more days than not. No family in the New World. Came five years ago. In London read an article by a well-respected gentleman, Mister Harriot, “A Brief and True Report of Virginia.” The report was half correct, it was brief, he said, but not true. When arrived, much discontentment. No gold, no emeralds, no grand villages. Fever, hunger, and despair welcomed him. But he now content. Labored hard, grows a crop that he barters for food and fine things, more than needed.
Some nights when Mister Sullivan visited, I listened while he spoke to Father. This done while I busied myself with tasks. Talk of a new crop, tobacco, the leaves smoked. Some English gentlemen in Jamestown pay much for this crop. Lands around Jamestown rich with soil for a tobacco from Trinidad. Mister Sullivan and Father speak of growing this tobacco for others. A crop for money, but not eaten, a speculation, I thought.
Nathan more a mason than a fisherman he be. Along the river’s edge, where the stream curves in, rocks from the river gathered to make a stone fence. But this fence not in a field, and not high. It was across a portion of the river, then it turn upstream. This stone wall, conspiring with the river’s edge, made a bucket larger than a barn. Fish, in their journey with the stream, against a wall they swim, with the strong stream the lid of the bucket. From this pen Nathan scoops dashing village dinners.
Mrs. Dear visited me, brought a flax-wheel. Had told her that Grandmother taught me to spin the thread. Two baskets of flax also brought. Before she left, pointed to a candle. Burn these every night? My response of yes brought surprise. Candles too dear. Turns and leaves, in a minute back. An apron full of wooden coins, but not coins, slices of pine knots from the pitch pine. They be as good as candles, and made by God. That night our cottage bright. Pine candles never sparse.
More to me did my father speak, but not as a child. Sometimes after Nathan asleep. At first our conversations on the day’s events and the next day’s work. Later on, next year’s hopes. One night, after food and Nathan off, Father spoke of land called Martin’s Hundred, no more than a day’s journey from Jamestown, and a village there, a strange name, Wolstenholme Towne. Named for a man in England who sends money in hope of rich returns. This town, Father said, was a new village with much promise. Here fifty acres was Father’s if he tilled the land for tobacco. Mister Sullivan already was growing tobacco for a Mr. Rolfe. Father said he would journey to Martin’s Hundred, and there he would build a fine cottage for Nathan and me, and we would join him before winter. I only first spoke encouragement. Then a small question, should tobacco be our crop? Others must buy our crop, then we trade for food. But if we tilled for corn and wheat, others not of import, we eat. Father silent, then said that he had considered this. Tilling for food served us well in Tewkesbury, but tobacco becomes as water to many. Then a story of Sir Walter Raleigh, gentleman serving at the pleasure of Queen Elizabeth. After her death, Sir Raleigh fell from favor with our King James and ordered beheaded. Last act before head depart, to smoke his tobacco pipe. Tobacco, said Father, becomes a passion, not a choice. That be why a gentleman in London lay a shilling on a scale for equal weight tobacco. More paid for passion than food.
While Father gone, Nathan and I often took our dinner meal with Mrs. Dear and Jonathan. Sometimes food was sparse, conversation never. Many stories. None good. She spoke not kindly of Mister Dear. A fine home in a village near London. Told of veins of gold in Virginia, her husband sold their cottage and shop for promised riches. A long sea journey of forty passengers, twenty-eight arrived. No promised gold. Only recounting of the worst miseries. Savages, they hacked, they burnt. Their contentment the slow torture of the English. The Indians’ partner was starvation. A stockade fence built to keep the savages out became the prison to keep the English from fields where crops be grown and game be tracked. She told stories of starvation and worse tales that should not be retold.
A fortnight from his leaving, Father returned. Back to the Hundred he would go again after two days. First evening back, after Nathan asleep, we spoke. Recounted stories told by Mrs. Dear. He turned toward the pine knots’ glow, then turned back to me. All true he said. But that was then, and now is a better time. At first the Indians greeted the English, but misdeeds and misunderstandings brought distrust. And, Father said, people distrustful will find cause to be offended. Now Indians and English work and live together. Told how he and Mister Sullivan traded with them and he had seen their villages, with happy children and contentment. Told me not to be sad, that Mrs. Dear was not a happy soul and her happiness was to bring unhappiness to others. This, he said, was not right. But we should show her kindness because much suffering she had.
With next day’s morn, Father asked that I join him for a journey not far. Not toward the river we walked, as always my course, but toward the dark of the forest. In we went, a small path, across a wide creek, then to the top of a rise. Along this rise, then down to a field. A field with a crop I had not seen before. Then past the field, voices heard. Strange, but not harsh. Some laughter also. First the smoke seen, then the village. A village of Indians. On level ground their cottages. More like huts, each looking as a large loaf of bread, rectangular with a rounded roof. An opening on the narrow end for an entrance, no wooden door, a skin. Openings for windows, but no glass. Smoke raised from most, a fire within. By many huts gardens, not flowers, but of things to eat. At one place no huts, no garden, just a space, a circle. In the center a pit for fire. I thought this where they meet together. More than a hundred Indians were seen this day. All with some clothes, all dark in color. Hair black, no beards, and mostly smiles. Busy all, skinning, cooking, growing, caring.
At the edge of the village, near a tree long without leaves, was a hut different from the others. From its curved roof a pole stood. From this pole a cloth flew, the colors of England. Not a flag, but the colors of our
flag, patched somehow together. Father approached, calling for a Mister Greene. A man appeared, an Englishman. Greetings to Father, they knew each other from labors together at Martin’s Hundred. Pleasantries, then in his hut we went. There we met wife and son. This I did not understand. Wife be an Indian, dark skin, black hair, moccasins, deerskin dress and many necklaces of beads, mostly brown. Son an Englishman, perhaps eighteen or so in age. Mister Greene spoke to his wife in a language I did not know. Her words in English, and most kind to us, a drink being offered. After some talk, Father stood and we bade good-bye. Off to Jamestown by the path taken. Who was this man, who was this Indian woman and boy? I asked. The man, Mister Greene, came to Jamestown many years before, I was told. Married an Indian lady only last year, with much contentment he lived. Their son was of neither, an orphan taken in by him long ago.
In my cot that night I considered the day. Mrs. Dear was wrong. No savages these people. As us, homes, children, work, and smiles. A question was brought by the day. I thought and then decided. The next morn, while Nathan drawing water from the well, I asked Father, would he marry an Indian woman? He was silent. I should not have shown an interest. Why offend, why question? Then he smiled. He never smiled. No, he said. My mother was his wife. His wife before, now, and forever.
Father off to Martin’s Hundred. I the lady of the home. Clothes no longer fit. Nathan’s britches high on his legs. The pearl buttons on my blouse pulling. Nothing in the trunk to replace. Mrs. Dear had no britches for Nathan, all trousers for her son. Told me of Mrs. Wright, with a young daughter, no husband. Her home also her store. Clothes she had. But only for trade. To her home I went, longer trousers for Nathan, also a dress of a woman’s size. Not exchanged for coins, something else needed. That night I considered. Nathan’s knife a fine trade, but too dear. Also, in the trunk hidden away, the special hair clip. But this was a gift to me from Mother, I think. Then the answer came. Next morn off to Mrs. Wright with Nathan. Make certain trousers fit, they did. Then for me a well-used lady’s dress. Body fine, somewhat long. Easily made right. An exchange was struck, in trade one of my worn dresses and Mantha for Mrs. Wright’s daughter.