by Tom Blair
Some more suppers with Mrs. Dear. Her half cottage with table and four chairs, Nathan, Jonathan, Mrs. Dear, and I could sit as one. Stores considered and a meal planned. Easier one meal for four than two for two. And her bake-kettle most grand. Some talk pleasant, other not. I speak of Tewkesbury, family, and happiness. She of unjust happenings. False promises brought families to the New World. She spoke of those who came with soft hands, no skills, much idleness. Gentlemen arrived, tradesmen, hunters and farmers needed. Mistakes made. Village built where Discovery, Godspeed, and Susan Constant dropped anchor, not where it should. Jamestown marshes with disease, fresh water not always, salt to the taste, fields for crops not near.
Father back and forth. Two days home, several gone. Martin’s Hundred he says is most content. Not the heat of Jamestown with its still water smells and bugs. One day a pleasant surprise. Mister Greene’s son visited our cottage. Indian bread he brought. His name was Charles. Much like Father, few words. We spoke briefly. Interest he showed in Nathan’s knife. From under his smock a hatchet he pulled. No iron. A rock of some kind, but not round, sharp on one end. This bound to a wooden shaft with narrow strips of leather. Most fearsome it looked.
Mrs. Dear visits, a bread baked with cloves brought. Talk of pleasant things. Most things well. Her Jonathan a new friend, the blacksmith. A trade he learn, strong arms needed, walking not much. Then the past, her face darkens. When first they here, Indians give food for not much. One mirrow to the Indians, three families eat for a fortnight. Later, when desperation closer, food more dear. One venison leg, five axes of iron. More given, less received, weaker settlers become. Then the truth. Massacred with the iron traded, heads, arms, and legs severed. These Indian savages, but cunning they are, patient they are, Mrs. Dear said.
Two ladies came to visit. A Mrs. Sing and a Mrs. Smyth. Both most kind. Asked me to tea on the morrow. That night, after prayers, I lay on my cot. A day different. Ladies came to see me, but not as a child. Morning light, up, food for Nathan then the wash. Then time for me. Face clean, hair combed, shoes no dust. Then to the trunk, for this day a hair braid. Only once worn, worn for Jack. Then off to a tea.
Mrs. Smyth cottage most nice. Curtains of blue, tied back with ribbons of blue. A rug, not canvas, but something of color. A gold, I recall. Chairs, a table, and hearth with a mantel on which large seashells perched. A project for Nathan, I thought. Tea was served. At the table a white porcelain teapot, covered in painted flowers. Hot water poured to cups, they being of tin. Between the stream from the pot and the cup, a strainer, filled with fragments of leaves. Tea. No sugar. Into each cup a large drop of honey, then stirred so slowly, with such care, with small silver spoons. Much ceremony. On a wooden plate, cakes, not sweet, more as small breads. Some square, some round. Then conversation. Much conversation. Asked if I knew why we lived in the cottage that we did. I did not. They did. Mrs. Dear was without husband. Wanted to England return, but she was given promises. Told that one half her cottage be given to the first strong man with no wife partner. Then after the passing of the cakes I was asked, did Father believe Mrs. Dear fair. No response.
Both Mrs. Sing and Mrs. Smyth told me their tales. Came to Jamestown with their husbands. Mrs. Sing’s husband strong and able. Mrs. Smyth’s the first winter succumbed. Now two families, one cottage. Much more conversation. Spoke of fabrics, food, and home. Nothing distressful muttered. Promises made, again would we meet. As I departed, a question by Mrs. Sing. How old I was and when did my mother pass. I responded. Then a question of confusion. Asked if I knew all that a woman must know. A pause, not sure the import of this question, nor its purpose, I smiled and answered yes.
That night, Nathan asleep, I considered the day. Some sugar, some salt. With women I sat, then perhaps a woman I be. But the question. They asked me if I knew what I did not know. What could this mean? But the most unsettling only I would know. In a cottage I sat this day, with a smile on my face, showing contentment. With me ladies. Fine ladies. But not my mother. And with these ladies, as we smiled, tea was poured. Poured from white porcelain, painted with flowers. Porcelain as the pitcher and bowl my dear sweet Mother and I washed our faces so long, long ago in a happy time together.
As the summer passed, the cottage a home. New furniture made, more chairs, a fine cabinet for the plates and pots, work table, and a new cot. Cloth from the last ship from London become new shirts for Father and Nathan. Also I think Mother proud, cloth for curtains and cloth to cover our table. Most grand, on the last ship glass. One pane for our cottage. Father most carefully framed a window, we would have light in winter with no wind. Each day, but Sunday, chores attacked. Friends made, much conversation and laughter lightens our tasks. Mrs. Dear I know, a good woman she be. When Father and Nathan gone, we speak while laundering, gardening, sewing, and cooking. Her life has been hard with disappointments, but a friend to me.
In my cot, before I sleep, much I consider. Is Jamestown grander than Tewkesbury? I think not for certain. No church with bells tolling, no fine cottages with fenced gardens, no roads without mud, no long curving stone walls embracing the fields of crops, no wooden bridge across the river. Much to do before Jamestown be a Tewkesbury. But another difference. A difference as a heavy weight on the scale. In Tewkesbury people content. A fine village. Most days pleasant, most days the same. And then, each year the same. No satisfaction from sacrificing to make better. In Jamestown, everyone toiling to make life better.
Charles visited again. In a clay jar, honey was brought. Told me it best eaten soon. Together we each bread and honey ate. Then talk. No stories from Charles, only events. Came with his family in 1607 as a small boy. Both parents died. He lived with a minister, then the minister passed. Then it was with others, not friends or relatives, just others. I spoke much. Recounted most happy days in Tewkesbury. Family, foods, gardens, and friends. Charles pleasant, but not warm. No comments about my past happiness. Before he depart, I spoke of the first time we meet. I spoke of how kindly and happy the Indians be. He did not quickly respond. Silent he sat, then he spoke. Words only with time I understood. Charles said if an Indian be a dog, never would it bark before it bite.
Nathan back to our cottage with half a hind leg of venison. Roasted in Mrs. Dear’s bake-kettle, served with corn and bread, a fine meal. That evening at Mrs. Dear’s table we sat, Nathan and me with Mrs. Dear and Jonathan. Venison enjoyed, Nathan sat tall. Good food, good conversation. Then a casual remark by me, sorry that Charles not share dinner with us. Mrs. Dear flinch, then quiet. She spoke, her voice slow. She knows Charles. Years before many starved, he did not. With a group of men he lived. They survived, human flesh their meal. Said Charles was bound for hell. I said nothing. Then told Mrs. Dear that we would soon depart. This was not good, she say. Again, memories of hardships before. Tortures, burnings, starvation, again told. She thought all Englishmen should stay as one, more men to harvest, more strength to show savages. Perhaps she was right. But I thought she did not want us to leave because she did not want to be alone.
Father, while standing outside our cottage in the evening sun, told Nathan and me his decision, soon our journey to Martin’s Hundred. A fine cottage there. Only one long day of travel. Some furniture already. My tasks with a smile. Wash the clothes, Nathan’s hair cut, all things packed, all chores of contentment. Prepared us to leave when Father beckoned.
Then our last day in Jamestown. Many farewells. Promises to return. Father and Nathan with our trunk, down to the river’s edge. Then on to a shallop. Flat bottom, poles for oars. Two crew, neither the captain, much confusion. Down the river, at first no chore. Turn in a narrow stream, trees low, pushing back, then the shallows. Father and Nathan in the water, more pushing than poling. Nathan’s boot stolen by the mud. Much searching, then it reunited to its mate. Hours of labors, then to the firm, a path. Back to Jamestown the shallop, up the path Father, Nathan, I, and the trunk. Not a long trek, then voices, then the sight, the village. I was not rightly fearful. Martin’s Hundred a pla
ce of contentment. A cottage for us. Greater than Jamestown, smaller than Tewkesbury. The people cheerful. Color not gray. Families with children, one not a year of age. More than a score of cottages. No fence of logs to hold some out and some in. One side of the village a stream, fast moving, clear water for all. On two sides fields, well-tended fields. The fourth edge a backdrop to our village stage, the forest. Tall trees, no pine. Standing at the edge, peering between the wide-rising trunks, with no light from above, a chapel it be.
Our first day there, Mister Sullivan came to visit. Some words, then Father and he departed. As they left, passing through the door a lady appeared. Dark-blue dress, an apron wearing many meals. Round face, hair covered with a scarf. My size, sweet smile. Perhaps thirty years of age, Mrs. Clyde her name. With her presents. A large loaf of bread, not Indian. Dried fish and a small block of salt. Some talk. Most happy she to have another family near. Then she asked a question never heard before. How long was I married? A woman I must be.
At Martin’s Hundred many Indians. Jamestown only a few. Many speak words of the Englishman. Many villagers knew their words. I watched, I learned. Indians different, Indians just the same. All emotions and chores are ours, but things done not the same. Crops sowed and harvested, but not by men, Indian women and children tend the fields. Hunting, as English, for the men. No muskets, they bows and snares. As fields become less fertile and game less plenty, Indian village moved. Everything to the next site. This be the reason for no stone structures. All Indian cottages vaulted frameworks of saplings, these covered with skins or mats. Fires in their cottage for cooking and warmth, but no chimney. In the summer smoke kept out mosquitoes.
Most all Indian clothing deerskin. Tanned for color and fringed for style. Both men and women jewelry worn, the most beautiful strings of pearls from river mussels. Copper also for jewelry, and rings of copper for money. Often the Indians skin colored with dyes from the plants, mixed with walnut oil and bear’s grease. This what made their skin look as wet when first seen in Jamestown. Most favorite color is that of red from pokeberry, often shoulders and head this red.
Marriage they have, some men more than one wife. Love their children, but not the same. Babies each day in cold water washed. Young not fed until chores done and skills practiced. With death, much grieving. Departed covered in ash from a fire. Mourner also made dark with ash. Shallow grave dug, deceased possessions placed within, then the body. Much wailing, much lamenting, then covered with earth. Comfort given the departed’s family by others. Religion not ours. As Greeks and Romans, many gods. Some for war, some for crops, others for disease and sickness. Males be their priests with skins more elaborate than others. Like the Church of England, I think.
But most important, parents smile at children, and Indian children laugh and play. We the same. But, Father and others not think them our equal. Do the Indians think we greater than them, I think not. Do they think we be equal, I hope this be. If they think less we be, fearful I be.
The skills and chores of Jamestown the same needed for a content home in Martin’s Hundred. Nathan was now a farmer, a farmer of tobacco. When at the dinner meal, he spoke of problems and solutions. Has begun to sing Father’s song, tobacco is wondrous and happiness it will bring. His day was no longer a lark with work being cajoled, toiling in the fields was a race to rewards. For me, no different than Jamestown it be. Domestics each day, meals each evening. Pleasant talk with women. Most things understood, some not. Life not hard, life not easy.
Father to leave with Mister Sullivan, to Weyanoke they go with a Mister John Rolfe. After Nathan asleep one evening, Father spoke of Mister Rolfe. A gentleman from London that first to Jamestown in 1609, a most hard journey. With wife and children shipwrecked on Bermuda. From there to Jamestown, his wife and child soon died. Rolfe struggled but did not fail, took a path different from others. Not a hunter or a farmer of food eaten. Rather he grew tobacco, because it was more dear than food in London marts, a greater coin paid for a bushel of tobacco than corn or wheat. If done right, not a plow drawn, others tend the fields, paid a wage of consideration. With monies from tobacco Mister Rolfe and others purchased all foods and fine domestics for their cottages. But then the story turned sad. A beautiful Indian, Pocahontas, daughter of the Chief Powhatan, was most striking, most kind to all that knew her ways. Married in Jamestown to Mister Rolfe, a contented married life, a fine cottage with a son born, Thomas. Then in 1617 they journey to London. There she was greeted by fine ladies and gentlemen. Much attention, much intrigue. All amazed her beauty, her carriage. Then she became sick and died. Some say from London’s cold mists. Buried in England she was, Thomas stayed in England with his uncle, Rolfe back to Virginia alone. At night when all chores done, I thought. So many died in Jamestown, the fever’s revenge. An Indian princess to London, and she died. People are people, all the same. What difference where their cottage be. New World or Old World. Then I think. Fish are fish. But fish in a stream cannot in an ocean live, and an ocean fish not be in a flowing stream.
Back from his travel, Father content. Mister Sullivan with him and stayed the night. I prepared the meal and table set. With them a bottle of ale brought. Father and he drank, pleasant talk, then loud talk. Tobacco grown by Mister Sullivan and Father sold for a high price, greater than a fair measure. Father’s portion conveyed as another drink taken. In the morn, after Mister Sullivan take his leave, Father spoke. A good summer and winter, the spring will be better. Tomorrow, back to Jamestown, there necessities bought. Nathan and I pleased. Father pleased we are pleased. After Nathan left for his day’s tasks, Father came to me by the wash. “Know what month this be?” “Yes,” I say, “March.” “No,” he said, “not March, this the month of your birth, you be fifteen soon. In Jamestown something new for you.” Then he turned and was gone. Can this be, I thought, Father both my shoes and socks.
To Jamestown we all went. No trunk to burden us on our journey, no need for a shallop. Walked the paths. Some streams crossed, narrow and not deep. No leaves, but weather more of spring than winter. Some buds seen. A walk of contentment. At the end of the journey not an unknown as other journeys taken, people we knew will greet us. Paused in our trek, rested and took some bread and dried meat, with a cup of cider. Two Indians pass. Indians seen every day. But these are different. Most glanced and smiled, these glanced and looked away. Off to Jamestown before the light is no more. Smoke first seen, then familiar sights. In the village we walked, Father tall in his gray coat. To the counsel, then told where to bed, Mrs. Dear’s cottage if we wished, she had returned to England. Not much left in her cottage. Two candles from the cottage next door, a bucket from another, we have enough. We visited others and spoke and heard stories, all good. Winter mild, stores of food ample, ships have arrived, Indians trading and helping. After a dinner Nathan and I to rest, Father to the cottage later.
Before light, a commotion. Father up, people yelling. Father ran from the cottage. Nathan and I peered through the window, much movement, much running, no direction. Then Father returned. Events told quickly, a Mister Pace rowed to Jamestown Island with an alarm. A horrible story he carried. An Indian boy living with him, and now a Christian, visited by his brother of the Pamunkey. This brother told him that all English soon would die and he should slay his master, Martin Pace. Much confused, the Christian Indian told his master what he was told to do. With fear for others, Mister Pace sped to Jamestown.
More we learned of the savages’ attack. Much thought, much patience before the blows struck. Four years ago the chief of the Indians, Powhatan, joined his ancestors. This chief being the father of Pocahontas, who had married the tobacco grower John Rolfe and died in England. Powhatan’s brother became the chief, soon displaced by Opechancanough. We were told that he hated the English, but he was smart. Claiming that heavens would fall before an Englishman he would kill. Opechancanough traded with the English and in all manner was our friend, all this time planning the attack on Jamestown and twenty villages and plantations. On
ly Mister Pace’s quick call of alarm spared Jamestown.
Father and other men to the stockade walls this night. Nathan and I by the cottage window. Nothing to see, little to hear. In the dark of night, with no glow of flames, I pondered. Summer, fall, and winter good. Why not spring and forever? Why would Indians wish us harm? We intend no harm. Then slowly light, then suddenly reports of muskets. With the dawn four boats of Indian warriors, muskets fire from the stockade, retreat to the boats, no more danger. During the day, slowly news from other villages. Massacres. Women, children are killed, but not quickly without pain. Homes burnt, crops burnt, supplies burnt.
We could not leave Jamestown. As before I made the cottage in Jamestown our home. Borrowed this, borrowed that. Nathan became a fisherman again, but Father not a carpenter, a soldier he became. No one out the stockade by themselves at first. Only groups of men, men with muskets. Then to each village a group of men went, to see what fate they have. Some villages no harm, others most dreadful. Farthest up the river, at Henricus, twenty murdered, at Weyanoke, over thirty murdered, but most fearful to hear, our village in Martin’s Hundred over seventy souls gone. Friends hacked and burned. When I first heard of a village where Indians murdered Englishmen, I felt a grief and anger. Then with each new recounting of murders no more grief, just more anger. Anger at savage Indians.
In Jamestown, days become weeks then months. Some new friends made. Old friends made again. Same chores, easier though. No mistakes of not knowing. Nathan no longer Nathan. Taller, new britches, new shirt to fit. His coat no longer to his wrists, traded with other in consideration for tan deerskin jacket. His voice became deeper also, and from his mouth fewer words of merriment and more of life events. Nathan washed his face and brushed his hair each day, never before. Martha the reason. They met first night in Jamestown, her mother asked to speak to my mother. A pleasant girl, but nothing special, plain to the eye. Her best quality for Nathan, I think, she not a boy.