For the next month, Sam and Nate worked in field and fort. There was never a shortage of work. At least two men were needed to stand guard at each corner of the fort, day and night. Trees had to be felled, dragged to the fort, and split for firewood or building material. Hunters went out daily in search of game, and other settlers fished in the river. Every day, the sun beat down. There was little rain, and the wheat grew slowly, despite constant efforts to water it. The fort’s food supplies dwindled. All the pigs brought from England had been slaughtered and eaten. The chickens, which had been brought over as breeding stock, began to die off, so the colonists killed and ate them, too. Master Wingfield ordered the remaining food to be rationed. One small can of dried barley was allowed each day for every five men. Cooks soaked the barley in water from the James River and boiled it into a gruel. They added sturgeon or crab, when the colonists were lucky enough to catch them. Each man and boy got one bowlful of the gruel a day.
For drink, the settlers depended on the river, since the kegs of beer and water from island streams were long since used up. Sam thought the river water tasted terrible. It had a slightly salty flavor, but he quickly got used to that. It was the slime floating in it that disgusted him. But, like the other settlers, Sam drank a lot of the unpleasant water because the heat and the work made him constantly thirsty. He’d never experienced such hot and humid days in England, even in midsummer.
A few weeks after the ships had sailed, several colonists became ill. They clutched their bellies and groaned. They ran fevers and were unable to hold down even the little food allowed them. In spite of the heat, they lay shivering on the ground, clasping threadbare blankets.
Another week, and more took sick. Some of the ailing men were too weak to walk outside the fort to relieve themselves, so they soiled their clothes and the ground inside the fort. When Sam passed the sick men’s tents, he held his nose because the stink was so awful.
Sam and the other healthy settlers had to take over the work for those too weak to contribute. Each day, at first light, Sam and Nate were sent to tend the wheat field, to gather firewood in the thickets, or to catch fish at the river. Even though the boys had no experience with guns, they were assigned turns at guard duty.
John Smith showed the boys how to load and fire the guns. He taught them to drop a lead slug into the gun’s barrel, and then pour gunpowder into a little pan behind the slug. When the boys lit the black powder, it exploded and slammed the lead slug out the gun’s barrel.
Since the guards had to be ready to fire at any moment, they wore their ammunition. Each guard kept lead slugs in a bag tied to his waist, and he carried small wooden containers filled with gunpowder on a strip of leather across his shoulder. He hung a long rope, called a slow match, around his neck and kept both ends lit. When he wanted to shoot, he would touch the smoldering tip of his match to the powder in his gun. After every shot, he would have to reload.
“Lads, take care to keep this gunpowder away from your slow match,” Smith said, as he adjusted the strips of leather around the boys’ shoulders so their powder containers weren’t touching the burning tips of their matches. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll blow yourselves up!”
Sam was proud to be doing a man’s work, so he never complained about standing guard duty. But the guns were heavy and awkward to carry. They were also difficult to aim. On the few occasions when Sam actually practiced firing the gun, the force of the shot nearly knocked him off his feet. Sam practiced all the steps required to reload, but he still needed at least two minutes to complete the complicated process.
By late July, sickness had spread around the fort. Every day, more of the colonists and several members of the council fell ill. Captain Bartholomew Gosnold was sick, and so were John Martin and John Ratcliffe. When John Smith announced that he felt dizzy, Sam stayed close to their tent to help his master. Sam carried buckets of water from the river. He scooped up ladlefuls of water so Smith could sip. He soaked rags and laid them on Smith’s feverish forehead.
Since standing guard was the most crucial of the colonists’ responsibilities, Sam took both his own and his master’s turns. Sometimes, Sam stood guard for a night and a day and had only twenty-four hours before he stood guard again. He returned to the tent as often as he could to care for his sick master. In Lincolnshire, Father made me work long hours, Sam reflected. But then I had plenty to eat and enough time to sleep. Here in Virginia, I have to work just as hard, but I’m always hungry and always tired. The Virginia Company said this would be an easy place to get rich. But there’s nothing easy about life here!
On the sixth of August, both of the colony’s surgeons were called to see one of the sick men. The man’s hands and feet were swelling, and he could not swallow water. He started to spit up blood, then lost consciousness. The surgeons were not able to bring down the man’s fever or awaken him. Helpless, they watched him die. The next morning, the man was buried.
When Sam heard the news, an icy jab of fear hit him. Master Smith has to get well, Sam thought. Virginia is so far from Lincolnshire. What will happen to me if my master dies? Sam tended his patient even more carefully. He trickled water down John Smith’s throat every few minutes and kept the rag on his master’s forehead soaked in cool water. Sam coaxed Smith to swallow a spoonful of barley gruel whenever he woke from his feverish sleep.
As more men took sick, work in the settlement became disorganized. For days at a time, nobody watered the colony’s wheat field, and the plants began to shrivel up. Little progress was made in building permanent housing, even though the tents were so mildewed and tattered that they barely provided shelter. Sam knew all this work was urgent, but he couldn’t leave his master alone for long. Without water, Smith could slip into death in a few hours. When Sam had to stand guard duty, he asked Nate to look after Master Smith.
On August 9, a gentleman named George Flower died. The settlers held a short funeral for Flower and buried him that day. The next day, William Brewster died of a wound received during one of the Indian attacks. Sam and Nate were assigned the hot, depressing chore of digging Brewster’s grave.
To avoid the scorching sun, the boys began early in the morning. But Sam started to sweat as soon as he lifted the shovel. His head was throbbing, and the shovel felt unusually heavy.
“What’s the matter?” Nate asked.
“My head is spinning,” Sam said. He sat down, but his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Suddenly, Sam felt an awful cramp in his stomach. He leaned over and vomited.
Nate put his long arm around Sam’s shoulders to steady him. “Oh, Sam, you’ve got the sickness! Come on.” Holding Sam’s arm, Nate led him to John Smith’s tent.
Sam wanted to protest. He didn’t want Nate to have to dig the grave for Brewster all by himself. But he felt so weak. As soon as his head touched the blanket, Sam fell asleep.
In the days and nights that followed, Sam dozed in the ragged tent. He lay beside Smith on a scratchy blanket spread on the dirt. Sam’s head and belly ached. His arms and legs felt sore. Feverish, he tossed and turned, muttering in his sleep. Sometimes he opened his eyes under the glaring rays of the hot, merciless sun that pierced through gashes in the tent. Sometimes he woke shivering in inky black darkness. Whenever he awakened, he longed for the feel of cold water on his dry throat.
All around him, Sam heard the pitiful cries of ailing men. Their groans and the cramps in his stomach made him wish for the relief of sleep. But when he slept, he had disturbing, horrible dreams. They seemed so real that Sam had trouble deciding when his dreams stopped and real life started.
He dreamed of running through the forest behind his brother. Panting with excitement, the two boys scrambled up a tree, racing to reach the top. Finally, Sam struggled onto a short branch at the very top of the tree, and he stopped to rest.
The little branch began to tremble. It shook more violently, and Sam clasped it with both hands to keep from tumbling to the earth. He looked down, but his brother was gone. Terrif
ied, Sam watched as Richard Mutton grabbed the branch and shook it.
“Richard, stop that!” Sam screamed. “Let go. I’ll fall!”
Richard snickered as the branch rocked from side to side. “What’s the use of bringing a criminal into our new colony?” he jeered. “You’ll die in the New World, Samuel Collier. You’ll die before you’re a man!”
Laughing, Richard shook Sam’s branch so hard that it ripped off the tree. The branch plunged and heaved through the air, riding the gigantic ocean swells like the Susan Constant during the awful storm before the fleet reached Virginia.
Sam cried and begged, but Richard sneered and backed away in his canoe, which was full of Indians. As Sam lost his grip and plunged headlong toward the water, he could hear the Indians’ laughter. Sam slammed through the surface of the ocean and awoke, gasping. His throat burned from the terrible salt of the sea, and he whimpered for a taste of cool water.
His eyes closing again, Sam thrashed from side to side in the burning rays of the cruel sun. He reached up and tore at the opening of his shirt, trying to get away from the heat. Dozing at last, his hand closed around a firm stick whose point was stuck in his neck. Sam tugged at the arrow, screaming. The burning in his throat was terrible, and he knew he was going to die.
He heard Richard’s voice again.
Sam edged away from him, whimpering, “Please, Richard. Please don’t roll my blanket so tight around me!” He struggled to free his arms. “I don’t want to be buried under Virginia’s soil!”
“Wake up, Sam! It’s me … Nate. Open your eyes. I’ve brought you some water.”
Sam squinted and saw Nate kneeling over him in the tent. Confused, Sam stopped struggling and let Nate cradle his head in his arm. Nate trickled water through Sam’s chapped lips.
As the blessed water bathed his throat, Sam heard the voice of John Smith beside him. His master was muttering: “Take apart the gallows! Dismantle that cursed thing before the Turks arrive. Quick, lads!”
Gently, Nate lowered Sam’s head onto the blanket. He lifted John Smith’s head and trickled water down the man’s parched throat. “Can you eat some porridge, Sam?” Nate asked. “How about you, Master Smith?”
Sam mumbled, drifting back into a dreamless sleep. Time passed. Sam thought he heard John Smith crawling out of the tent. Maybe others came and went. Sam wasn’t sure. He lost track of time and place. One day, Sam opened his eyes and watched Master Smith scoop some water out of the bucket. Sam propped himself on an elbow and sipped as Smith held the ladle.
“Are you well now, Master Smith?” Sam asked.
“I’m much recovered, Sam,” Smith said gently, “and I think your fever is beginning to break. You’ll feel better soon. You’re a strong lad. But the sickness has taken a heavy toll among the men.” Smith paused. “Master Calthrop has taken sick. That’s why Nate hasn’t been coming to see you, Sam. I don’t know if Stephen will make it.”
Sam couldn’t hold himself up any longer. He flopped back down on the blanket.
“I have to go now, Sam. I’m on duty tonight.” Smith shook his head. “So many are sick. We can barely find enough men to guard the fort. I’ll send one of the surgeons to look in on you.”
When Sam awoke again, Nate was beside him. Nate lifted Sam’s head to give him a sip of water, and Sam gulped it gratefully. The gentle light of early morning filtered through holes in the tent.
Sam felt wet. He touched his shirt and ran his hand over his blanket. “Has it rained?”
“No, Sam. You’re wet from sweat,” Nate said. “Your fever broke during the night. You’ll get strong again now.”
Sam thought he heard a choking sound in Nate’s voice. He looked closely at Nate’s face and smiled. “Don’t worry, Nate,” Sam whispered. “I’m not going to die.” Sam closed his eyes.
That sound again. Now Sam was sure his friend was crying.
Sam opened his eyes and squinted at Nate. “What’s wrong, Nate?”
Nate’s face crumpled. “I … I’ll tell you later, Sam. When you’re well. Not now,” he stammered, fighting back tears.
“You can tell me, Nate. What happened?”
Nate wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s Master Calthrop. He’s dead.”
Sam was astonished. He thought he must be dreaming again. Master Calthrop? Sam vaguely remembered hearing that Calthrop was ill. But Master Calthrop was a young gentleman. He was strong and healthy!
Sam looked around the tent. He touched his shirt, damp and cool against his fingertips. Then he peered at his friend. Nate’s shoulders heaved up and down, and he covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Nate,” Sam whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s dead, Sam! My master is dead. I never left his side, I swear I didn’t. But he died, anyway.” Nate hung his head. “He’ll be buried today.”
Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. He just watched his friend’s shoulders move up and down. Nate’s sobs seemed far away. Sam tried to think, but his mind kept fluttering away. He pictured James Brumfield lying beneath Virginia’s soil. He wished it would rain, so the dirt above his little friend would spring to life with fresh, green plants.
Dead, a voice inside Sam’s head seemed to say. So many are dead. Now Master Calthrop is dead, too. How long until all of us are dead? Sam looked at Nate, and a great wave of sadness swept over him. Poor Nate! He’s all alone. An orphan here in the wilderness.
After that day, Sam grew stronger. As soon as he could, he returned to his duties. But he couldn’t work as hard as he used Death was never far from Sam’s thoughts. Hardly a day passed without another man dying in the fort. Scores of colonists were ill, groaning on filthy blankets inside the tents. Gentlemen died—a lifetime of comfort and plenty in England did not protect them against Virginia’s sickness. Common workers also died—a lifetime of hard work in England, building strong muscles and calloused hands, did not protect them against these fevers.
John Smith told Sam: “This is an ordeal that we must survive to plant a new colony, Sam. Some of us will be strong enough to live through it. Think of it as our seasoning period.”
Sam nodded, but he didn’t really understand what Smith meant. What does it matter? he thought. I’ll probably die here in Virginia.
Nate moved into the tent with Sam and Smith. Whenever Sam looked at his friend’s sad, bony face, it reminded Sam of how hopeless their situation was. It will be a miracle if anybody lives through our seasoning to greet the supply ship from England.
8
Salvation
to. After an hour, he was exhausted.
By mid-August, Sam lost count of the men who had died. The intense heat drained the energy from the survivors. Even at night, the air felt hot and sticky. Flies and mosquitoes tormented the colonists and woke them from their sleep.
The fort’s food supply was almost used up, and Sam’s belly grumbled constantly. Sometimes his hunger pangs hurt so much that he thought he was coming down with the sickness again. Each day, his bowl of gruel tasted more and more like warm, salty water. Sam was as hungry when he finished eating as when he began.
With so little food, each of the survivors watched his neighbor jealously to see that no man took more than his fair share. Rumors of plots and treason spread as quickly as sickness through the fort.
“I tell you, lad, some of these gents ain’t what they seem,” a laborer whispered to Sam over the cooking fire one evening. “They sound like proper Englishmen, and they dress like proper Englishmen. But if you could look deep into their hearts, you’d see Spaniards!”
The man raised his eyebrows to indicate that he was talking about Master George Kendall, who was walking by. The laborer leaned closer to Sam and hissed, “Watch what you say to that one. He’s a spy!”
There were rumors that Spain had placed a spy among the passengers to find out everything he could about Virginia, then abandon James Fort to set up a Spanish colony. Many men swore that Kendall was this spy, and that he’d tried to pe
rsuade them to leave with him. Sam even heard a rumor that Master Kendall had made a deal with the Indians to ignore James Fort and trade with the Spaniards instead!
Sam didn’t know what to believe. Kendall had urged the colonists to hang Smith for mutiny and had refused to do any work he considered beneath him. But that doesn’t make him a spy, Sam thought. With our food supply so low, the men are desperate. They’re turning on each other and making all kinds of wild accusations.
The council members were preoccupied with their own illness and suffering, so they were unable to calm the colonists’ suspicions. Of the six, only President Wingfield and George Kendall had not been ill. John Smith had recovered from the sickness, and John Martin was feeling a little better. But John Ratcliffe was still too weak to walk. On August 22, Bartholomew Gosnold died. Since he had been the captain of the Godspeed, the colonists gave him a state funeral and fired the cannons in his honor. His death left the council short by one man.
One morning, Smith told Sam the council was meeting to hear some very serious business. “I expect it will take quite a while. So you and Nate should see about the wheat before the sun gets too strong. Then try to dig out some mussels or crabs.”
“Serious business?” Sam asked, as he scraped caked dirt off his master’s shoes.
“Very serious. Accusations that we have an agent from Spain in our colony,” Smith said.
That day, the council meeting was the topic of every conversation in James Fort. Various colonists were called to tell what they knew about the Spanish spy incident. The meeting wasn’t over until late in the afternoon.
Sam and Nate were working by the riverbank when a group of men came out of the fort. George Kendall was in the midst of them, his wrists bound. As Sam and Nate watched, Kendall was led to the edge of the river and marched aboard the Discovery. An armed guard climbed aboard after the prisoner. Richard Mutton skulked behind, his eyes on the ground.
Surviving Jamestown Page 9
